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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Spinners, by Eden Phillpotts

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Title: The Spinners

Author: Eden Phillpotts

Release Date: March 20, 2005 [EBook #15416]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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                              THE SPINNERS

                           BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS

            Author of "Old Delabole," "Brunel's Tower," etc.

                                  1918




CONTENTS


BOOK I

I      THE FUNERAL
II     AT 'THE TIGER'
III    THE HACKLER
IV     CHAINS FOR RAYMOND
V      IN THE MILL
VI     'THE SEVEN STARS'
VII    A WALK
VIII   THE LECTURE
IX     THE PARTY
X      WORK
XI     THE OLD STORE-HOUSE
XII    CREDIT
XIII   IN THE FOREMAN'S GARDEN
XIV    THE CONCERT
XV     A VISIT TO MISS IRONSYDE
XVI    AT CHILCOMBE
XVII   CONFUSION
XVIII  THE LOVERS' GROVE
XIX    JOB LEGG'S AMBITION
XX     A CONFERENCE
XXI    THE WARPING MILL
XXII   THE TELEGRAM
XXIII  A LETTER FOR SABINA
XXIV   MRS. NORTHOVER DECIDES
XXV    THE WOMAN'S DARKNESS
XXVI   OF HUMAN NATURE
XXVII  THE MASTER OF THE MILL
XXVIII CLASH OF OPINIONS
XXIX   THE BUNCH OF GRAPES
XXX    A TRIUMPH OF REASON
XXXI   THE OFFER DECLINED


BOOK II

I      THE FLYING YEARS
II     THE SEA GARDEN
III    A TWIST FRAME
IV     THE RED HAND
V      AN ACCIDENT
VI     THE GATHERING PROBLEM
VII    THE WALK HOME
VIII   EPITAPH
IX     THE FUTURE OF ABEL
X      THE ADVERTISEMENT
XI     THE HEMP BREAKER
XII    THE PICNIC
XIII   THE RUNAWAY
XIV    THE MOTOR CAR
XV     CRITICISM
XVI    THE OFFER OF MARRIAGE
XVII   SABINA AND ABEL
XVIII  SWAN SONG
XIX    NEW WORK FOR ABEL
XX     IDEALS
XXI    ATROPOS
XXII   THE HIDING-PLACE




BOOK I

SABINA




CHAPTER I

THE FUNERAL


The people were coming to church and one had thought it Sunday, but for
two circumstances. The ring of bells at St. Mary's did not peal, and the
women were dressed in black as the men.

Through the winding lanes of Bridetown a throng converged, drawn to the
grey tower by a tolling bell; and while the sun shone and a riot of many
flowers made hedgerows and cottage gardens gay; while the spirit of the
hour was inspired by June and a sun at the zenith unclouded, the folk of
the hamlet drew their faces to sadness and mothers chid the children,
who could not pretend, but echoed the noontide hour in their hearts.

All were not attired for a funeral. A small crowd of women, with one or
two men among them, stood together where a sycamore threw a patch of
shade on a triangular space of grass near the church. There were fifty
of these people--ancient women, others in their prime, and many young
maidens. Some communion linked them and the few men who stood with them.
All wore a black band upon their left arms. Drab or grey was their
attire, but sun-bonnets nodded bright as butterflies among them, and even
their dull raiment was more cheerful than the gathering company in black
who now began to mass their numbers and crane their heads along the
highway.

Bridetown lies near the sea in a valley under a range of grassy downs.
It is the centre of a network of little lanes with cottages dotted upon
them, or set back behind small gardens. The dwellings stood under
thatch, or weathered tile, and their faces at this season were radiant
with roses and honeysuckles, jasmine and clematis. Pinks, lilies,
columbines made the garden patches gay, and, as though so many flowers
were not enough, the windows, too, shone with geraniums and the scarlet
tassels of great cactus, that lifted their exotic, thorny bodies behind
the window panes. Not a wall but flaunted red valerian and snapdragon.
Indeed Bridetown was decked with blooms.

Here and there in the midst stood better houses, with some expanse of
lawn before them and flat shrubs that throve in that snug vale. Good
walnut trees and mulberries threw their shadows on grass plat and house
front, while the murmur of bees came from many bright borders.

South the land rose again to the sea cliffs, for the spirits of ocean
and the west wind have left their mark upon Bride Vale. The white gulls
float aloft; the village elms are moulded by Zephyr with sure and steady
breath. Of forestal size and unstunted, yet they turn their backs, as it
were, upon the west and, yielding to that unsleeping pressure, incline
landward. The trees stray not far. They congregate in an oasis about
Bridetown, then wend away through valley meadows, but leave the green
hills bare. The high ground rolls upward to a gentle skyline and the
hillsides, denuded by water springs, or scratched by man, reveal the
silver whiteness of the chalk where they are wounded.

Bride river winds in the midst, and her bright waters throw a loop round
the eastern frontier of the hamlet, pass under the highway, bring life
to the cottage gardens and turn more wheels than one. Bloom of apple
and pear are mirrored on her face and fruit falls into her lap at autumn
time. Then westward she flows through the water meadows, and so slips
uneventfully away to sea, where the cliffs break and there stretches a
little strand. To the last she is crowned with flowers, and the
meadowsweets and violets that decked her cradle give place to sea
poppies, sea hollies, and stones encrusted with lichens of red gold,
where Bride flows to one great pool, sinks into the sand and glides
unseen to her lover.

"They're coming!" said one of the crowd; but it was a false alarm. A
flock of breeding lambs of the Dorset horned sheep pattered through the
village on their way to pasture. The young, healthy creatures, with
amber-coloured horns and yellow eyes, trotted contentedly along together
and left an ovine reek in the air. Behind them came the shepherd--a
high-coloured, middle-aged man with a sharp nose and mild, grey eyes. He
could give news of the funeral, which was on the way behind him.

An iron seat stood under the sycamore on the triangular patch of grass,
and a big woman sat upon it. She was of vast dimensions, broad and beamy
as a Dutch sloop. Her bulk was clad in dun colour, and on her black
bonnet appeared a layer of yellow dust. She spoke to others of the
little crowd who surrounded her. They came from Bridetown Spinning Mill,
for work was suspended because Henry Ironsyde, the mill owner, had died
and now approached his grave.

"The Ironsydes bury here, but they don't live here," said Sally Groves.
"They lived here once, at North Hill House; but that's when I first came
to the Mill as a bit of a girl."

The big woman fanned herself with a handkerchief, then spoke a grey man
with a full beard, small head, and discontented eyes. He was Levi Baggs,
the hackler.

"We shall have those two blessed boys over us now, no doubt," he said.
"But what know they? Things will be as they were, and time and wages the
same as before."

"They'll be sure to do what their father wished, and there was a murmur
of changes before he died," said Sally Groves; but Levi shook his head.

"Daniel Ironsyde is built like his father, to let well alone. Raymond
Ironsyde don't count. He'll only want his money."

"Have you ever seen Mr. Raymond?" asked a girl. She was Nancy Buckler,
a spinner--hard-featured, sharp-voiced, and wiry. Nancy might have been
any age between twenty-five and forty. She owned to thirty.

"He don't come to Bridetown, and if you want to see him, you must go to
'The Tiger,' at Bridport," declared another girl. Her name was Sarah
Northover.

"My Aunt Nelly keeps 'The Seven Stars,' in Barrack Street," she
explained, "and that's just alongside 'The Tiger,' and my Aunt Nelly's
very friendly with Mr. Gurd, of 'The Tiger,' and he's told her that
Mr. Raymond is there half his time. He's all for sport and such like, and
'The Tiger's' a very sporting house."

"He won't be no good to the mills if he's that sort," prophesied Sally
Groves.

"I saw him once, with another young fellow called Motyer," answered
Sarah Northover. "He's very good-looking--fair and curly--quite
different from Mr. Daniel."

"Light or dark, they're Henry Ironsyde's sons and be brought up in his
pattern no doubt," declared Mr. Baggs.

People continued to appear, and among them walked an elderly man, a
woman and a girl. They were Mr. Ernest Churchouse, of 'The Magnolias,'
with his widowed housekeeper, Mary Dinnett, and her daughter, Sabina.
The girl was nineteen, dark and handsome, and very skilled in her
labour. None disputed her right to be called first spinner at the mills.
She was an impulsive, ambitious maiden, and Mr. Best, foreman at the
works, claimed for her that she brought genius as well as understanding
to her task. Sabina joined her friend, Nancy Buckler; Mrs. Dinnett, who
had been a mill hand in her youth, took a seat beside Sally Groves, and
Mr. Churchouse paced alone. He was a round-faced, clean-shaven man with
mild, grey eyes and iron grey hair. He looked gentle and genial. His
shoulders were high, and his legs short. Walking irked him, for a
sedentary life and hearty appetite had made him stout.

The fall of Henry Ironsyde served somewhat to waken Ernest Churchouse
from the placid dream in which he lived, shake him from his normal
quietude, and remind him of the flight of time. He and the dead man were
of an age and had been boys together. Their fathers founded the
Bridetown Spinning Mill, and when the elder men passed away, it was
Henry Ironsyde who took over the enterprise and gradually bought out
Ernest Churchouse. But while Ironsyde left Bridetown and lived
henceforth at Bridport, that he might develop further interests in the
spinning trade, Ernest had been well content to remain there, enjoy his
regular income and live at 'The Magnolias,' his father's old-world
house, beside the river. His tastes were antiquarian and literary. He
wrote when in the mood, and sometimes read papers at the Mechanics'
Institute of Bridport. But he was constitutionally averse from real work
of any sort, lacked ambition, and found all the fame he needed in the
village community with which his life had been passed. He was a
childless widower. Mr. Churchouse strolled now into the churchyard to
look at the grave. It opened beside that of Henry Ironsyde's parents and
his wife. She had been dead for fifteen years. A little crowd peered
down into the green-clad pit, for the sides, under the direction of John
Best, had been lined with cypress and bay. The grass was rank, but it
had been mown down for this occasion round the tombs of the Ironsydes,
though elsewhere darnel rose knee deep and many venerable stones slanted
out of it. Immediately south of the churchyard wall stood the Mill, and
Benny Cogle, engineman at the works, who now greeted Mr. Churchouse,
dwelt on the fact.

"Morning, sir," he said, "a brave day for the funeral, sure enough."

"Good morning, Benny," answered the other. His voice was weak and
gentle.

"When I think how near the church and Mill do lie together, I have
thoughts," continued Benny. He was a florid man of thirty, with
tow-coloured hair and blue eyes.

"Naturally. You work and pray here all inside a space of fifty yards.
But for my part, Benny Cogle, I am inclined to think that working is the
best form of praying."

Mr. Churchouse always praised work for others and, indeed, was under the
impression that he did his share.

"Same here," replied the engineman, "especially while you're young.
Anyway, if I had to choose between 'em, I'd sooner work. 'Tis better for
the mind and appetite. And I lay if Mr. Ironsyde, when he lies down
there, could tell the truth, he'd rather be hearing the Mill going six
days a week and feeling his grave throbbing to my engines, than list to
the sound of the church organ on the seventh."

"Not so," reproved Mr. Churchouse. "We must not go so far as that. Henry
Ironsyde was a God-fearing man and respected the Sabbath as we all
should, and most of us do."

"The weaker vessels come to church, I grant," said Benny, "but the men
be after more manly things than church-going of a Sunday nowadays."

"So much the worse for them," declared Mr. Churchouse. "Here," he
continued, "there are naturally more women than men. Since my father and
Henry Ironsyde's father established these mills, which are now justly
famous in the county, the natural result has happened and women have
come here in considerable numbers. Women preponderate in spinning
places, because the work of spinning yarn has always been in their hands
from time immemorial. And they tend our modern machinery as deftly as of
old they twirled the distaff and worked the spinning-wheel; and as
steadily as they used to trudge the rope walks and spin, like spiders,
from the masses of flax or hemp at their waists."

"The females want religion without a doubt," said Benny. "I'm tokened to
Mercy Gale, for instance; she looks after the warping wheels, and if
that girl didn't say her prayers some fine morning, she'd be as useless
as if she hadn't eat her breakfast. 'Tis the feminine nature that craves
for support."

A very old man stood and peered into the grave. He was the father of
Levi Baggs, the hackler, and people said he was never seen except on the
occasion of a funeral. The ancient had been reduced to a mere wisp by
the attrition of time.

He put his hand on the arm of Mr. Churchouse and regarded the grave with
a nodding head.

"Ah, my dear soul," he said. "Life, how short--eternity, how long!"

"True, most true, William."

"And I ask myself, as each corpse goes in, how many more pits will open
afore mine."

"'Tis hid with your Maker, William."

"Thank God I'm a good old man and ripe and ready," said Mr. Baggs.
"Not," he added, "that there's any credit to me; for you can't be
anything much but good at ninety-two."

"While the brain is spared we can think evil, William."

"Not a brain like mine, I do assure 'e."

A little girl ran into the churchyard--a pretty, fair child, whose
bright hair contrasted with the black she wore.

"They have come and father sent me to tell you, Mr. Churchouse," she
said.

"Thank you, Estelle," he answered, and they returned to the open space
together. The child then joined her father, and Mr. Churchouse, saluting
the dead, walked to the first mourning coach and opened the door.

It was a heavy and solid funeral of Victorian fashion proper to the
time. The hearse had been drawn by four black horses with black
trappings, and over the invisible coffin nodded a gloomy harvest of
black ostrich plumes. There were no flowers, and some children, who
crept forward with a little wreath of wild roses, were pushed back.

The men from the Mill helped to carry their master into the church; but
there were not enough of them to support the massive oak that held a
massive man, and John Best, Levi Baggs, Benny Cogle and Nicholas Roberts
were assisted by the undertakers.

From the first coach descended an elderly woman and a youth. The lady
was Miss Jenny Ironsyde, sister of the dead, and with her came her
nephew Daniel, the new mill-owner. He was five-and-twenty--a sallow,
strong-faced young fellow, broad in the shoulder and straight in the
back. His eyes were brown and steady, his mouth and nose indicated
decision; the funeral had not changed his cast of countenance, which was
always solemn; for, as his father before him, he lacked a sense of
humour.

Mr. Churchouse shook hands and peered into the coach.

"Where's Raymond?" he asked.

"Not come," answered Miss Ironsyde. She was a sturdy woman of
five-and-fifty, with a pleasant face and kindly eyes. But they were
clouded now and she showed agitation.

"Not come!" exclaimed Ernest with very genuine consternation.

Daniel Ironsyde answered. His voice was slow, but he had a natural
instinct for clarity and spoke more to the point than is customary with
youth.

"My brother has not come because my father has left him out of his will,
Mr. Churchouse."

"Altogether?"

"Absolutely. Will you take my aunt's arm and follow next after me,
please?"

Two clergymen met the coffin at the lich-gate, and behind the chief
mourners came certain servants and dependents, followed by the women of
the Mill. Then a dozen business men walked together. A few of his
co-workers had sent their carriages; but most came themselves, to do the
last honour to one greatly respected.

Mr. Churchouse paid little attention to the obsequies.

"Not at his father's funeral!" he kept thinking to himself. His simple
mind was thrown into a large confusion by such an incident. The fact
persisted rather than the reason for it. He longed to learn more, but
could not until the funeral was ended.

When the coffin came to the grave, Mary Dinnett stole home to look after
the midday dinner. It had weighed on her mind since she awoke, for Miss
Ironsyde and Daniel were coming to 'The Magnolias' to partake of a meal
before returning home. There were no relations from afar to be
considered, and no need for funeral baked meats in the dead man's house.

When all was ended and only old William Baggs stood by the grave and
watched the sextons fill it, a small company walked together up the hill
north of Bridetown. Daniel went first with Mr. Churchouse, and behind
them followed Miss Jenny Ironsyde with a man and a child. The man rented
North Hill House. Arthur Waldron was a widower, who lived now for two
things: his little daughter, Estelle, and sport. No other considerations
challenged his mind. He was rich and good-hearted. He knew that his
little girl had brains, and he dealt fairly with her in the matter of
education.

Of the Ironsyde brothers, Raymond was his personal friend, and Mr.
Waldron now permitted himself some vague expression of regret that the
young man should have been absent on such an occasion.

"Yes," said Miss Ironsyde, to whom he spoke, "if there's any excuse for
convention it's at a funeral. No doubt people will magnify the incident
into a scandal--for their own amusement and the amusement of their
friends. If Raymond had enjoyed time to reflect, I feel sure he would
have come; but there was no time. His father has made no provision for
him, and he is rather upset. It is not unnatural that he should be, for
dear Henry, while always very impatient of Raymond's sporting tastes and
so on, never threatened anything like this."

"No doubt Mr. Ironsyde would have made a difference if he had not died
so suddenly."

"I think so too," she answered.

Then Waldron and his daughter went homewards; while the others, turning
down a lane to the right, reached 'The Magnolias'--a small, ancient
house whose face was covered with green things and whose lawn spread to
the river bank.

Mrs. Dinnett had prepared a special meal of a sort associated with the
mournful business of the day; for a funeral feast has its own character;
the dishes should be cold and the wine should be white or brown.

Mr. Churchouse was concerned to know what Daniel meant to do for
Raymond; but he found the heir by no means inclined to emotional
generosity.

Daniel spoke in a steady voice, though he showed a spark of feeling
presently. The fire, however, was for his dead father, not his living
brother.

"I'm very sorry that Raymond could have been so small as to keep away
from the funeral," he said. "It was petty. But, as Aunt Jenny says, he's
built like that, and no doubt the shock of being ignored knocked him off
his balance."

"He has the defects of his qualities, my dear. The same people can often
rise to great heights and sink to great depths. They can do worse
things--and better things--than we humdrum folk, who jog along the
middle of the road. We must forgive such people for doing things we
wouldn't do, and remember their power to do things we couldn't do."

The young man was frankly puzzled by this speech, which came from his
aunt. He shrugged his shoulders.

"I've got to think of father first and Raymond afterwards," he said. "I
owe my first duty to my father, who trusted me and honoured me, and knew
very well that I should obey his wishes and carry on with my life as he
would have liked to see me. He has made a very definite and clear
statement, and I should be disloyal to him--dishonest to him--if I did
anything contrary to the spirit of it."

"Who would wish you to?" asked Ernest Churchouse. "But a brother is a
brother," he continued, "and since there is nothing definite about
Raymond in the will, you should, I think, argue like this. You should
say to yourself, 'my father was disappointed with my brother and did not
know what to do about him; but, having a high opinion of me and my good
sense and honesty, he left my brother to my care. He regarded me, in
fact, as my brother's keeper, and hoped that I would help Raymond to
justify his existence.' Don't you feel like that?"

"I feel that my father was very long-suffering with Raymond, and his
will tells me that he had a great deal more to put up with from Raymond
than anybody ever knew, except my brother himself."

"You needn't take up the cudgels for your father, Dan," interposed Miss
Ironsyde. "Be sure that your dear father, from the peace which now he
enjoys, would not like to see you make his quarrel with Raymond your
quarrel. I'm not extenuating Raymond's selfish and unthinking conduct as
a son. His own conscience will exact the payment for wrong done beyond
repair. He'll come to that some day. He won't escape it. He's not built
to escape it. But he's your brother, not your son; and you must ask
yourself, whether as a brother, you've fairly got any quarrel with him."

Daniel considered a moment, then he spoke.

"I have not," he said--"except the general quarrel that he's a waster
and not justifying his existence. We have had practically nothing to do
with each other since we left school."

"Well," declared Mr. Churchouse, "now you must have something to do with
each other. It is an admirable thought of your Aunt Jenny's that your
father has honoured your judgment by leaving the destiny of Raymond more
or less in your hands."

"I didn't say that; you said it," interrupted the lady. "Raymond's
destiny is in his own hands. But I do feel, of course, that Daniel can't
ignore him. The moment has come when a strong effort must be made to
turn Raymond into a useful member of society."

"What allowance did dear Henry make him?" asked Mr. Churchouse.

"Father gave him two hundred a year, and father paid all his debts
before his twenty-first birthday; but he didn't pay them again. Raymond
has told Aunt Jenny that he's owing two hundred pounds at this moment."

"And nothing to show for it--we may be sure of that. Well, it might have
been worse. Is the allowance to be continued?"

"No," said Miss Ironsyde. "That's the point. It is to cease. Henry
expressly directs that it is to cease; and to me that is very
significant."

"Of course, for it shows that he leaves Raymond in his brother's hands."

"I have heard Henry say that Raymond beat him," continued Miss Ironsyde.
"He was a good father and a forgiving father, but temperamentally he was
not built to understand Raymond. Some people develop slowly and remain
children much longer than other people. Raymond is one of those. Daniel,
like my dear brother before him, has developed quickly and come to man's
estate and understanding."

"His father could trust his eldest son," declared Mr. Churchouse, "and,
as I happen to know, Daniel, you always spoke with patience and reason
about Raymond--your father has told me so. It was natural and wise,
therefore, that my late dear friend should have left Raymond to you."

"I only want to do my duty," said the young man. "By stopping away
to-day Raymond hasn't made me feel any kinder to him, and if he were not
so stupid in some ways, he must have known it would be so; but I am not
going to let that weigh against him. How do you read the fact that my
father directs Raymond's allowance to cease, Uncle Ernest?"

Mr. Churchouse bore no real connection to the Ironsydes; but his
relations had always been close and cordial after he relinquished his
share in the business of the mills, and the younger generation was
brought up to call him 'uncle.'

"I read it like this," answered the elder. "It means that Raymond is to
look to you in future, and that henceforth you may justly demand that he
should not live in idleness. There is nothing more demoralising for
youth than to live upon money it doesn't earn. I should say--subject to
your aunt's opinion, to which I attach the greatest importance--that it
is your place to give your brother an interest in life and to show him,
what you know already, the value and dignity of work."

"I entirely agree," said Jenny Ironsyde. "I can go further and declare
from personal knowledge that my brother had shadowed the idea in his
mind."

They both regarded Daniel.

"Then leave it there," he bade them, "leave it there and I'll think it
out. My father was the fairest man I ever met, and I'll try and be as
fair. It's up to Raymond more than me."

"You can bring a horse to the water, though you can't make him drink,"
admitted Mr. Churchouse. "But if you bring your horse to the water,
you've done all that reason and sense may ask you to do."

Miss Ironsyde, from larger knowledge of the circumstances, felt disposed
to carry the question another step. She opened her mouth and drew in her
breath to speak--making that little preliminary sound only audible when
nothing follows it. But she did not speak.

"Come into the garden and see Magnolia grandiflora," said Mr.
Churchouse. "There are twelve magnificent blossoms open this morning,
and I should have picked every one of them for my dear friend's grave,
only the direction was clear, that there were to be no flowers."

"Henry disliked any attempt to soften the edges at such a time,"
explained the dead man's sister. "He held that death was the skeleton at
the feast of life--a wholesome and stark reminder to the thoughtless
living that the grave is the end of our mortal days. He liked a funeral
to be a funeral--black--black. He did not want the skeleton at the feast
to be decked in roses and lilies."

"An opinion worthy of all respect," declared Mr. Churchouse.

Then he asked after the health of his guest and expressed sympathy for
her sorrow and great loss.

"He'd been so much better lately that it was a shock," she said, "but he
died as he wanted to die--as all Ironsydes do die--without an illness.
It is a tradition that never seems to fail. That reconciled us in a way.
And you--how are you? You seldom come to Bridport nowadays."

Mr. Churchouse rarely talked about himself.

"True. I have been immersed in literary work and getting on with my
_magnum opus_: 'The Church Bells of Dorset.' You see one does not obtain
much help here--no encouragement. Not that I expect it. We men of
letters have to choose between being hermits, or humbugs."

"I always thought a hermit was a humbug," said Jenny, smiling for the
first time.

"Not always. When I say 'hermit,' I mean 'recluse.' With all the will to
be a social success and identify myself with the welfare of the place in
which I dwell, my powers are circumscribed. Do not think I put myself
above the people, or pretend any intellectual superiority, or any
nonsense of that sort. No, it is merely a question of time and energy.
My antiquarian work demands both, and so I am deprived by duty from
mixing in the social life as much as I wish. This is not, perhaps,
understood, and so I get a character for aloofness, which is not wholly
deserved."

"Don't worry," said Miss Ironsyde. "Everybody cares for you. People
don't think about us and our doings half as much as we are prone to
fancy. I liked your last article in the _Bridport Gazette_. Only I
seemed to have read most of it before."

"Probably you have. The facts, of course, were common property. My task
is to collect data and retail them in a luminous and illuminating way."

"So you do--so you do."

He looked away, where Daniel stood by himself with his hands in his
pockets and his eyes on the river.

"A great responsibility for one so young; but he will rise to it."

"D'you mean his brother, or the Mill?"

"Both," answered Ernest Churchouse. "Both."

Mrs. Dinnett came down the garden.

"The mourning coach is at the door," she said.

"Daniel insisted that we went home in a mourning coach," explained Miss
Ironsyde. "He felt the funeral was not ended until we returned home.
That shows imagination, so you can't say he hasn't got any."

"You can never say anybody hasn't got anything," declared Mr.
Churchouse. "Human nature defeats all calculations. The wisest only
generalise about it."




CHAPTER II

AT 'THE TIGER'


The municipal borough of Bridport stretches itself luxuriously from east
to west beneath a wooded hill. Southward the land slopes to broad
water-meadows where rivers meet and Brit and Asker wind to the sea.
Evidences of the great local industry are not immediately apparent; but
streamers and wisps of steam scattered above the red-tiled roofs tell of
work, and westward, where the land falls, there stand shoulder to
shoulder the busy mills.

From single yarn that a child could break, to hawsers strong enough to
hold a battleship, Bridport meets every need. Her twines and cords and
nets are famous the world over; her ropes, cables, cablets and canvas
rigged the fleet that scattered the Spanish Armada.

The broad streets with deep, unusual side-walks are a sign of Bridport's
past, for they tell of the days when men and women span yarn before
their doors, and rope-walks ran their amber and silver threads of hemp
and flax along the pavements. But steel and steam have taken the place
of the hand-spinners, though their industry has left its sign-manual
upon the township. For the great, open side-walks make for distinction
and spaciousness, and there shall be found in all Dorset, no brighter,
cheerfuller place than this. Bridport's very workhouse, south-facing and
bowered in green, blinks half a hundred windows amiably at the noonday
sun and helps to soften the life-failure of those who dwell therein. Off
Barrack Street it stands, and at the time of the terror, when Napoleon
threatened, soldiers hived here and gave the way its name.

Not far from the workhouse two inns face each other in Barrack
Street--'The Tiger' upon one side of the way, 'The Seven Stars' upon the
other; and at the moment when Henry Ironsyde's dust was reaching the
bottom of his grave at Bridetown, a young man of somewhat inane
countenance, clad in garments that displayed devotion to sport and
indifference to taste, entered 'The Tiger's' private bar.

Behind the counter stood Richard Gurd, a middle-aged, broad-shouldered
publican with a large and clean-shaven face, heavy-jaw, rather sulky
eyes and mighty hands.

"The usual," said the visitor. "Ray been here?"

Mr. Gurd shook his head.

"No, Mr. Ned--nor likely to. They're burying his father this morning."

The publican poured out a glass of cherry brandy as he spoke and Mr.
Neddy Motyer rolled a cigarette.

"Ray ain't going," said the customer.

"Not going to his father's funeral!"

"For a very good reason, too; he's cut off with a shilling."

"Dear, dear," said Mr. Gurd. "That's bad news, though perhaps not much
of a surprise to Mr. Raymond."

"It's a devil of a lesson to the rising generation," declared the youth.
"To think our own fathers can do such blackguard things, just because
they don't happen to like our way of life. What would become of England
if every man was made in the pattern of his father? Don't education and
all that count? If my father was to do such a thing--but he won't; he's
too fond of the open air and sport and that."

"Young men don't study their fathers enough in this generation,
however," argued the innkeeper, "nor yet do young women study their
mothers enough."

"We've got to go out in the world and play our parts," declared Neddy.
"'Tis for them to study us--not us them. You must have progress. The
thing for parents to do is to know they're back numbers and act
according."

"They do--most of them," answered Mr. Gurd. "A back number is a back
number and behaves as such. I speak impartial being a bachelor, and I
forgive the young men their nonsense and pardon their opinions, because
I know I was young myself once, and as big a fool as anybody, and put
just the same strain on my parents, no doubt, though they lived to see
me a responsible man and done with childish things. The point for
parents is not to forget what it feels like to be young. That I never
have, and you young gentlemen would very soon remind me if I did. But
the late Mr. Henry Ironsyde found no time for all-round wisdom. He
poured his brains into hemp and jute and such like. Why, he didn't even
make a minute to court and wed till he was forty-five year old. And the
result of that was that when his brace of boys was over twenty, he stood
in sight of seventy and could only see life at that angle. And what made
it worse was, that his eldest, Mister Daniel, was cut just in his own
pattern. So the late gentleman never could forgive Mr. Raymond for being
cut in another pattern. But if what you say is right and Mister Raymond
has been left out in the cold, then I think he's been badly used."

"So he has--it's a damned shame," said Mr. Motyer, "and I hope Ray will
do something about it."

"There's very little we can do against the writing of the dead,"
answered Mr. Gurd. Then he saluted a man who bustled into the bar.

"Morning, Job. What's the trouble?"

Job Legg was very tall and thin. He dropped at the middle, but showed
vitality and energy in his small face and rodent features. His hair was
black, and his thin mouth and chin clean-shaven. His eyes were small and
very shrewd; his manner was humble. He had a monotonous inflection and
rather chanted in a minor key than spoke.

"Mrs. Northover's compliments and might we have the big fish kettle
till to-morrow? A party have been sprung on us, and five-and-twenty sit
down to lunch in the pleasure gardens at two o'clock."

"And welcome, Job. Go round to the kitchen, will 'e?"

Job disappeared and Mr. Gurd explained.

"My good neighbour at 'The Seven Stars'--her with the fine pleasure
gardens and swings and so on. And Job Legg's her potman. Her husband's
right hand while he lived, and now hers. I have the use of their
stable-yard market days, for their custom is different from mine. A
woman's house and famous for her meat teas and luncheons. She does very
well and deserves to."

"That old lady with the yellow wig?"

Mr. Gurd pursed his lips.

"To you she might seem old, I suppose. That's the spirit that puts a bit
of a strain on the middle-aged and makes such men as me bring home to
ourselves what we said and thought when we were young. 'Tis just the
natural, thoughtless insolence of youth to say Nelly Northover's an old
woman--her being perhaps eight-and-forty. And to call her hair a wig,
because she's fortified it with home-grown what's fallen out over a
period of twenty years, is again only the insolence of youth. One can
only say 'forgive 'em, for they know not what they do.'"

"Well, get me another brandy anyway."

Then entered Raymond Ironsyde, and Mr. Gurd for once felt genuinely
sorry to see his customer.

The young man was handsome with large, luminous, grey eyes, curly, brown
hair and a beautiful mouth, clean cut, full, firm and finely modelled in
the lips. His nose was straight, high in the nostril and sensitive. He
resembled his brother, Daniel, but stood three inches taller, and his
brow was fuller and loftier. His expression in repose appeared frank and
receptive; but to-day his face wore a look half anxious, half ferocious.
He was clad in tweed knickerbockers and a Norfolk jacket, of different
pattern but similar material. His tie was light blue and fastened with
a gold pin modelled in the shape of a hunting-horn. He bore no mark of
mourning whatever.

"Whiskey and soda, Gurd. Morning, Neddy."

He spoke defiantly, as though knowing his entrance was a challenge. Then
he flung himself down on a cushioned seat in the bow window of the
bar-room and took a pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket.

Mr. Gurd brought the drink round to Raymond. He spoke upon some general
subject and pretended to no astonishment that the young man should be
here on this day. But the customer cut him short. There was only one
subject for discussion in his mind.

"I suppose you thought I should go to my father's funeral? No doubt,
you'll say, with everybody else, that it's a disgrace I haven't."

"I shall mind my own business and say nothing, Mister Raymond. It's your
affair, not ours."

"I'd have done the same, Ray, if I'd been treated the same," said Neddy
Motyer.

"It's a protest," explained Raymond Ironsyde. "To have gone, after being
publicly outraged like this in my father's will, was impossible to
anybody but a cur. He ignored me as his son, and so I ignore him as my
father; and who wouldn't?"

"I suppose Daniel will come up to the scratch all right?" hazarded
Motyer.

"He'll make some stuffy suggestion, no doubt. He can't see me in the
gutter very well."

"You must get to work, Mr. Raymond; and I can tell you, as one who
knows, that work's only dreaded by them who have never done any. You'll
soon find that there's nothing better for the nerves and temper than
steady work."

Neddy chaffed Mr. Gurd's sentiments and Raymond said nothing. He was
looking in front of him, his mind occupied with personal problems.

Neddy Motyer made another encouraging suggestion.

"There's your aunt, Miss Ironsyde," he said. "She's got plenty of cash,
I've heard people say, and she gives tons away in charity. How do you
stand with her?"

"Mind your own business, Ned."

"Sorry," answered the other promptly. "Only wanted to buck you up."

"I'm not in need of any bucking up, thanks. If I've got to work, I'm
quite equal to it. I've got more brains than Daniel, anyway. I'm quite
conscious of that."

"You've got tons more mind than him," declared Neddy.

"And if that's the case, I could do more good, if I chose, than ever
Daniel will."

"Or more harm," warned Mr. Gurd. "Always remember that, Mister Raymond.
The bigger the intellects, the more power for wrong as well as right."

"He'll ask me to go into the works, I expect. And I may, or I may not."

"I should," advised Neddy. "Bridetown is a very sporting place and you'd
be alongside your pal, Arthur Waldron."

"Don't go to Bridetown with an idea of sport, however--don't do that,
Mister Raymond," warned Richard Gurd. "If you go, you put your back into
the work and master the business of the Mill."

The young men wasted an hour in futile talk and needless drinking while
Gurd attended to other customers. Then Raymond Ironsyde accepted an
invitation to return home with Motyer, who lived at Eype, a mile away.

"I'm going to give my people a rest to-day," said Raymond as he
departed. "I shall come in here for dinner, Dick."

"Very good, sir," answered Mr. Gurd; but he shook his head when the
young men had gone.

Others in the bar hummed on the subject of young Ironsyde after his back
was turned. A few stood up for him and held that he had been too
severely dealt with; but the majority and those who knew most about him
thought that his ill-fortune was deserved.

"For look at it," said a tradesman, who knew the facts. "If he'd been
left money, he'd have only wasted the lot in sporting and been worse off
after than before; but now he's up against work, and work may be the
saving of him. And if he won't work, let him die the death and get off
the earth and make room for a better man."

None denied the honourable obligation to work for every responsible
human being.




CHAPTER III

THE HACKLER


The warehouse of Bridetown Mill adjoined the churchyard wall and its
northern windows looked down upon the burying ground. The store came
first and then the foreman's home, a thatched dwelling bowered in red
and white roses, with the mill yard in front and a garden behind. From
these the works were separated by the river. Bride came by a mill race
to do her share, and a water wheel, conserving her strength, took it to
the machinery. For Benny Cogle's engine was reinforced by the river.
Then, speeding forward, Bride returned to her native bed, which wound
through the valley south of the works.

A bridge crossed the river from the yard and communicated with the
mills--a heterogeneous pile of dim, dun colours and irregular roofs
huddled together with silver-bright excrescences of corrugated iron. A
steady hum and drone as of some gigantic beehive ascended from the
mills, and their combined steam and water power produced a tremor of
earth and a steady roar in the air; while a faint dust storm often
flickered about the entrance ways.

The store-house reeked with that fat, heavy odour peculiar to hemp and
flax. It was a lofty building of wide doors and few windows. Here in the
gloom lay bales and stacks of raw material. Italy, Russia, India, had
sent their scutched hemp and tow to Bridetown. Some was in the rough;
the dressed line had already been hackled and waited in bundles of long
hemp composed of wisps, or 'stricks' like horses' tails. The silver and
amber of the material made flashes of brightness in the dark storerooms
and drew the light to their shining surfaces. Tall, brown posts
supported the rafters, and in the twilight that reigned here, a man
moved among the bales piled roof-high around him. He was gathering rough
tow from a broken bale of Russian hemp and had stripped the Archangel
matting from the mass.

Levi Baggs, the hackler, proceeded presently to weigh his material and
was taking it over the bridge to the hackling shop when he met John
Best, the foreman. They stopped to speak, and Levi set down the barrow
that bore his load.

"I see you with him, yesterday. Did you get any ideas out of the man?"

Baggs referred to the new master and John Best understood.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," he said. "Nothing definite, of course.
It's too soon to talk of changes, even if Mister Daniel means them.
He'll carry on as before for the present, and think twice and again
before he does anything different from his father."

"'Tis just Bridetown luck if he's the sort to keep at a dead parent's
apron-strings," grumbled the other. "Nowadays, what with education and
so on, the rising generation is generally ahead of the last and moves
according."

"You can move two ways--backward as well as forward," answered Best.
"Better he should go on as we've been going, than go back."

"He daren't go back--the times won't let him. The welfare of the workers
is the first demand on capital nowadays. If it weren't, labour would
very soon know the reason why."

Mr. Best regarded Levi without admiration.

"You are a grumbler born," he said, "and so fond of it that you squeal
before you're hurt, just for the pleasure of squealing. One thing I can
tell you, for Mister Daniel said it in so many words: he's the same in
politics as his father; and that's Liberal; and since the Liberals of
yesterday are the Radicals of to-morrow, we have every reason to
suppose he'll move with the times."

"We all know what that means," answered Mr. Baggs. "It means getting new
machinery and increasing the output of the works for the benefit of the
owners, not them that run the show. I don't set no store on a man being
a Radical nowadays. You can't trust nobody under a Socialist."

Mr. Best laughed.

"You wait till they've got the power, and you'll find that the whip will
fall just as heavy from their hands as the masters of to-day. Better to
get small money and be free, than get more and go a slave in state
clothes, on state food, in a state house, with a state slave-driver to
see you earn your state keep and take your state holidays when the state
wills, and work as much or as little as the state pleases. What you
chaps call 'liberty' you'll find is something quite different, Baggs,
for it means good-bye to privacy in the home and independence outside
it."

"That's a false and wicked idea of progress, John Best, and well you
know it," answered Levi. "You're one of the sort content to work on a
chain and bring up your children likewise; but you can't stand between
the human race and freedom--no more can Daniel Ironsyde, or any other
man."

"Well, meantime, till the world's put right by your friends, you get on
with your hackling, my old bird, else you'll have the spreaders
grumbling," answered Mr. Best. Then he went into his home and Levi
trundled the wheelbarrow to a building with a tar-pitched, penthouse
roof, which stuck out from the side of the mill, like a fungus on a tree
stem.

Within, before a long, low window, stood the hand dresser's tools--two
upturned boards set with a mass of steel pins. The larger board had tall
teeth disposed openly; upon the smaller, the teeth were shorter and as
dense as a hair brush. In front of them opened a grating and above ran
an endless band. Behind this grille was an exhaust, which sucked away
the dust and countless atoms of vegetable matter scattered by Levi's
activities, and the running band from above worked it. For the
authorities, he despised, considered the operations of Mr. Baggs and
ordained that they should be conducted under healthy conditions.

He took his seat now before the rougher's hackle, turned up his shirt
sleeves over a pair of sinewy arms and powerful wrists and set to work.

From the mass of hemp tow he drew hanks and beat the pins with them
industriously, wrenched the mass through the steel teeth again and again
and separated the short fibre from the long. Presently in his hand
emerged a wisp of bright fibre, and now flogging the finer hackling
board, he extracted still more short stalks and rubbish till the
finished strick came clean and shining as a lock of woman's hair. From
the hanks of long tow he seemed to bring out the tresses like magic. In
his swift hand each strick flashed out from the rough hank with great
rapidity, and every crafty, final touch on the teeth made it brighter.
Giving a last flick or two over the small pins, Mr. Baggs set down his
strick and soon a pile of these shining locks grew beside him, while the
exhaust sucked away the rubbish and fragments, and the mass of short
fibre which he had combed out, also accumulated for future treatment.

He worked with the swiftness and surety of a master craftsman, scourged
his tow and snorted sometimes as he struggled with it. He was exerting a
tremendous pressure, regulated and applied with skill, and he always
exulted in the thought that he, at least, of all the workers performed
hand labour far more perfectly than any machine. But still it was not
the least of his many grievances that Government showed too little
concern for his comfort. He was always demanding increased precautions
for purifying the air he breathed. From first to last, indeed, the hemp
and tow are shedding superfluities, and a layman is astonished to see
how the broad strips and ribbons running through the machines and torn
by innumerable systems of sharp teeth in transit, emerge at the last
gasp of attenuation to trickle down the spindles and turn into the glory
of yarn.

From Mr. Baggs, the long fibre and the short which he had combed out of
it, proceeded to the spinning mill; and now a girl came for the stricks
he had just created.

Their future under the new master was still on every tongue at Bridetown
Mill, and the women turned to the few men who worked among them for
information on this paramount subject.

"No, I ain't heard no more, Sarah," answered the hackler to Miss
Northover's question. "You may be sure that those it concerns most will
be the last to hear of any changes; and you may also be sure that the
changes, when made, will not favour us."

"You can't tell that," answered Sarah, gathering the stricks. "Old Mrs.
Chick, our spreader minder, says the young have always got bigger hearts
than the old, and she'd sooner trust them than--"

Mr. Baggs tore a hank through the comb with such vigour that its steel
teeth trembled and the dust flew.

"Tell Granny Chick not to be a bigger fool than God made her," he said.
"The young have got harder hearts than the old, and education, though it
may make the head bigger for all I know, makes the heart smaller. He'll
be hard--hard--and I lay a week's wages that he'll get out of his
responsibilities by shovelling 'em on his dead father."

"How can he?" asked Sarah.

"By letting things be as they are. By saying his father knew best."

"Young men never think that," answered she. "'Tis well known that no
young man ever thought his father knew better than himself."

"Then he'll pretend to for his own convenience."

"What about all that talk of changes for the better before Mister
Ironsyde died then?"

"Talk of dead men won't go far. We'll hear no more of that."

Sarah frowned and went her way. At the door, however, she turned.

"I might get to hear something about it next Sunday very like," she
said. "I'm going into Bridport to my Aunt Nelly at 'The Seven Stars';
and she's a great friend of Richard Gurd at 'The Tiger'; and 'tis there
Mister Raymond spends half his time, they say. So Mr. Gurd may have
learned a bit about it."

"No doubt he'll hear a lot of words, and as for Raymond Ironsyde, his
father knew him for a man with a bit of a heart in him and didn't trust
him accordingly. But you can take it from me--"

A bell rang and its note struck Mr. Baggs dumb. He ceased both to speak
and work, dropped his hank, turned down his shirt sleeves and put on his
coat. Sarah at the stroke of the bell also manifested no further
interest in Levi's forebodings but left him abruptly. For it was noon
and the dinner-hour had come.




CHAPTER IV

CHAINS FOR RAYMOND


Raymond Ironsyde had spent his life thus far in a healthy and selfish
manner. He owned no objection to hard work of a physical nature, for as
a sportsman and athlete he had achieved fame and was jealous to increase
it. He preserved the perspective of a boy into manhood; while his father
waited, not without exasperation, for him to reach adult estate in mind
as well as body. Henry Ironsyde was still waiting when he died and left
Raymond to the mercy of Daniel.

Now the brothers had met to thresh out the situation; and a day came
when Raymond lunched with his friend and fellow sportsman, Arthur
Waldron, of North Hill House, and furnished him with particulars.

In time past, Raymond's grandfather had bought a thousand acres of land
on the side of North Hill. Here he destroyed one old farmhouse and
converted another into the country-seat of his family. He lived and died
there; but his son, Henry, cared not for it, and the place had been let
to successive tenants for many years.

Waldron was the last of these, and Raymond's ambition had always been
some day to return to North Hill House and dwell in his grandfather's
home.

At luncheon the party of three sat at a round table on a polished floor
of oak. Estelle played hostess and gazed with frank admiration at the
chattering visitor. He brought a proposition that made her feel very
excited to learn what her father would think of it.

Mr. Waldron was tall and thin. He lived out of doors and appeared to be
made of iron, for nothing wearied him as yet. He had high cheek-bones,
and a clean-shaved, agreeable face. He took sport most seriously, was
jealous for its rights and observant of its rituals even in the smallest
matters. Upon the etiquette of all field sports he regarded himself, and
was regarded, as an arbiter.

"Tell me how it went," he said. "I hope your brother was sporting?"

Mr. Waldron used this adjective in the widest possible sense. It
embraced all reputable action and covered virtue. If conduct were
'sporting,' he demanded no more from any man; while, conversely,
'unsporting' deeds condemned the doer in all relations of life and
rendered him untrustworthy from every standpoint.

"Depends what you call 'sporting,'" answered Raymond, whose estimate of
the word was not so comprehensive. "You'd think it would have been
rather a case for generosity, but Dan didn't seem to see that. It's
unlucky for me in a way he's not larger-minded. He's content with
justice--what he calls justice. But justice depends on the mind that's
got to do it. There's no finality about it, and what Daniel calls
justice, I call beastly peddling, if not actual bullying."

"And what did he call justice?"

"Well, his first idea was to be just to my father, who was wickedly
unjust to me. That wasn't too good for a start, for if you are going to
punish the living, because the dead wanted them to be punished, what
price your justice anyway? But Daniel had a sort of beastly fairness
too, for he recognised that my father's very sudden death must be taken
into account. My Aunt Jenny supported me there; and she was sure he
would have altered his will if he had had time. Daniel granted that, and
I began to hope I was going to come well out of it; but I counted my
chickens before they were hatched. Some people have a sort of diseased
idea of the value of work and seem to think if you don't put ten hours a
day into an office, you're not justifying your existence. Unfortunately
for me Daniel is one of those people. If you don't work, you oughtn't
to eat--he actually thinks that."

"The fallacy is that what seems to be play to a mind like Daniel's, is
really seen to be work by a larger mind," explained Arthur Waldron.
"Sport, for instance, which is the backbone of British character, is a
thousand times more important to the nation than spinning yarn; and we,
who keep up the great tradition of British sport on the highest possible
plane, are doing a great deal more valuable work--unpaid, mark you--than
mere merchants and people of that kind who toil after money."

"Of course; but I never yet met a merchant who would see it--certainly
not Daniel. In fact I've got to work--in his way."

"D'you mean he's stopping the allowance?"

"Yes. At least he's not renewing it. He's offering me a salary if I'll
work. A jolly good salary, I grant. I can be just to him, though he
can't to me. But, if I'm going to draw the salary, I've got to learn the
business and, in fact, go into it and become a spinner. Then, at the end
of five years, if I shine and really get keen about it and help the
show, he'll take me into partnership. That's his offer; and first I told
him to go to the devil, and then I changed my mind and, after my aunt
had sounded Daniel and found that was his ultimatum, I climbed down."

"What are you to do? Surely he won't chain an open-air man like you to a
wretched desk all your time?"

"So I thought; but he didn't worry about that. I wanted to go abroad,
and combine business with pleasure, and buy the raw material in Russia
and India and Italy and so on. That might have been good enough; but in
his rather cold-blooded way, he pointed out that to buy raw material,
you wanted to know something about raw material. He asked me if I knew
hemp from flax, and of course I had to say I did not. So that put the
lid on that. I've got to begin where Daniel began ten years ago--at the
beginning--with this difference, that I get three hundred quid a year.
In fact there's such a mixture of fairness and unfairness in Daniel's
idea that you don't know where to have him."

"What shall you do about it?"

"I tell you I've agreed. I must live, obviously, and I'd always meant
to do something some day. But naturally my ideas were open air, and I
thought when I got things going and took a scheme to my father--for
horse-breeding or some useful enterprise--he would have seen I meant
business and come round and planked down. But Daniel has got no use for
horse-breeding, so I must be a spinner--for the time anyway."

Estelle ventured to speak.

"But only girls spin," she said. "You'd never be able to spin, Ray."

Raymond laughed.

"Everybody's got to spin, it seems," he answered.

"Except the lilies," declared Estelle gravely. "'They toil not, neither
do they spin,' you know."

Mr. Waldron regarded his daughter with respect.

"Just imagine," he said, "at her age. They've made her a member of the
Field Botanists' Club. Only eleven years old and invited to join a
grown-up club!"

Raymond was somewhat impressed.

"Fancy a kid like you knowing anything about botany," he said.

"I don't," answered the child. "I'm only just beginning. Why, I haven't
mastered the grasses yet. The flowers are easy, of course, but the
grasses are ever so difficult."

They returned to Ironsyde's plans.

"And when d'you weigh in?" queried his friend.

"That's the point. That's why I invited myself to lunch. Daniel doesn't
want me in the office at Bridport; he wants me here--at Bridetown--so
that I can mess about in the works and see a lot of John Best, the
foreman, and learn all the practical side of the business. It seems
rather footling work for a man, but he did it; and he says the first
thing is to get a personal understanding of the processes and all that.
Of course I've always been keen on machinery."

"Good, then we shall see something of each other."

"That's what I want--more than you do, very likely. The idea was that
I went to Uncle Ernest, who is willing to let me have a room at 'The
Magnolias' and live with him for a year, which is the time Daniel wants
me to be here; but I couldn't stick Churchouse for a year."

"Naturally."

"So what do you say? Are you game for a paying guest? You've got tons of
room and I shouldn't be in the way."

"How lovely!" cried Estelle. "Do come!"

Arthur Waldron was quietly gratified.

"I'm sure I should be delighted to have a pal in the house--a kindred
spirit, who understands sport. By all means come," he said.

"You're sure? I should be out most of my time at the blessed works, you
know. Could I bring my horse?"

"Certainly bring your horse."

"That reminds me of one reasonable thing Dan's going to do," ran on
the other. "He's going to clear me. I told Aunt Jenny it was no good
beginning a new life with a millstone of debts round my neck--in fact we
came down to that. I said it was a vital condition. Aunt Jenny had
rather a lively time between us. She sympathises with me tremendously,
however, and finally got Daniel to promise he would pay off every penny
I owed--a paltry two hundred or so."

"A very sporting arrangement. Make the coffee, Estelle, then we'll take
a walk on the downs."

"I'm going to Uncle Ernest to tea," explained Raymond. "I shall tell him
then that I'm not coming to him, thanks to your great kindness."

"He will be disappointed," declared Estelle. "It seems rather hard of
us to take you away from him, I'm afraid."

"Don't you worry, kiddy. He'll get over it. In fact he'll be jolly
thankful, poor old bird. He only did it because he thought he ought to.
It's the old, traditional attitude of the Churchouses to the Ironsydes."

"He's very wise about church bells, but he's rather vague about
flowers," replied Estelle. "He's only interested in dead things,
I think; and things that happened long, long ago."

"In a weird sort of way, a hobby is a man's substitute for sport, I
believe," said Estelle's father. "Many have no feeling for sport; it's
left out of them and they seem to be able to live comfortably without
it. Instead they develop an instinct for something else. Generally it's
deadly from the sportsman's point of view; but it seems to take the
place of sport to the sportless. How old ruins, or church bells, can
supersede a vital, living thing, like the sport of a nation, of course
you and I can't explain; but so it is with some minds."

"It depends how they were brought up," suggested Raymond.

"No--take you; you weren't brought up to sport. But your own natural,
good instinct took you to it. Same with me. The moment I saw a ball, I'm
told that I shrieked till they gave it to me--at the age of one that
was. And from that time forward they had no trouble with me. A ball
always calmed me. Why? Because a ball, you may say, is the emblem of
England's greatness. I was thinking over it not long ago. There is not a
single game of the first importance that does not depend on a ball. If
one had brains, one could write a book on the inner meaning of that
fact. I believe that the ball has a lot to do with the greatness of the
Empire."

"A jolly good idea. I'll try it on Uncle Ernest," promised Raymond.

He was cheerful and depressed in turn. His company made him happy and
the thought that he would come to live at North Hill House also pleased
him well; but from time to time the drastic change in his life swept his
thoughts like a cloud. The picture of regular work--unloved work that
would enable him to live--struck distastefully upon his mind.

They strolled over North Hill after luncheon and Estelle ran hither and
thither, busy with two quests. Her sharp eyes were in the herbage for
the flowers and grasses; but she also sought the feathers of the rooks
and crows who assembled here in companies.

"The wing feathers are the best for father's pipes," she explained; "but
the tail feathers are also very good. Sometimes I get splendid luck and
find a dozen or two in a morning, and sometimes the birds don't seem to
have parted with a single feather. The place to find them is round the
furze clumps, because they catch there when the wind blows them."

The great hogged ridge of North Hill keeps Bridetown snug in winter
time, and bursts the snow clouds on its bosom. To-day the breezes blew
and shadows raced above the rolling green expanses. The downs were
broken by dry-built walls and spattered with thickets of furze and
white-thorn, black-thorn and elder. Blue milkwort, buttercups and
daisies adorned them, with eye-bright and the lesser, quaking grass that
danced over the green. Rabbits twinkled into the furzes where Waldron's
three fox terriers ran before the party; and now and then a brave buck
coney would stand upon the nibbled knoll above his burrow and drum
danger before he darted in. It was a haunt of the cuckoo and peewit, the
bunting and carrion crow.

"Here we killed on the seventeenth of January last," said Raymond's
host. "A fine finish to a grand run. We rolled him over on this very
spot after forty-five minutes of the best. It is always good to remember
great moments in the past."

On the southern slope of North Hill there stood a ruined lime-kiln
whose walls were full of fern and coated with mother o' thyme. A bank of
brier and nettles lay before the mouth. They hid the foot of the kiln
and made a snug and secluded spot. Bridetown clustered in its elms far
below; then the land rose again to protect the hamlet from the south;
and beyond stretched the blue line of the Channel.

The men sat here and smoked, while Estelle hunted for flowers and
feathers.

She came back to them presently with a bee orchis. "For you," she said,
and gave it to Raymond. "What the dickens is it?" he asked, and she told
him. "They're rather rare, but they live happily on the down in some
places. I know where." He thanked her very much.

"Never seen one before," he said. "A funny little pink and black devil,
isn't it?"

"It isn't a devil," she assured him; "if anything, it's an angel. But
really it's more like a small bumble-bee than anything. Perhaps you've
never seen a bumble-bee either?"

"Oh, yes, I have--they don't sting." Estelle laughed.

"I thought that once. A boy in the village told me that bumble-bees have
'got no spears.' And I believed him and tried to help one out of the
window once. And I very soon found that he had got a spear."

"That reminds me I must take a wasps' nest to-night," said her father.
"I've not decided which way to take it yet. There are seven different
ways to take a wasps' nest--all good."

They strolled homeward presently and parted at the lodge of North Hill
House.

"You must come down and choose your room soon," said Estelle. "It must
be one that gets the sun in it, and the moon. People always want the
sun, but they never seem to want the moon."

"Don't they, Estelle! I know lots of people who want the moon,"
declared Raymond. "Perhaps I do."

"You can have your choice of four stalls for the horse," said Arthur
Waldron. "I always ride before breakfast myself, wet or fine. Only frost
stops me. I hope you will too--before you go to the works."

Raymond was soon at 'The Magnolias,' and found Mr. Churchouse expecting
him in the garden. They had not met since Henry Ironsyde's death, but
the elder, familiar with the situation, did not speak of Raymond's
father.

He was anxious to learn the young man's decision, and proved too
ingenuous to conceal his relief when the visitor explained his plans.

"I felt it my duty to offer you a temporary home," he said, "and we
should have done our best to make you comfortable, but one gets into
one's routine and I won't disguise from you that I am glad you go to
North Hill House, Raymond."

"You couldn't disguise it if you tried, Uncle Ernest. You're
thankful--naturally. You don't want youth in this dignified abode of
wisdom. Besides, you've got no place for a horse--you know you haven't."

"I've no objection to youth, my dear boy, but I can't pretend that the
manners and customs of youth are agreeable to me. Tobacco, for example,
causes me the most acute uneasiness. Then the robustness and general
exaggeration of the youthful mind and body! It rises beyond fatigue,
above the middle-aged desire for calm and comfort. It kicks up its heels
for sheer joy of living; it is ever in extremes; it lacks imagination,
with the result that it is ruthless. All these characteristics may go
with a delightful personality--as in your case, Raymond--but let youth
cleave to youth. Youth understands youth. You will in fact be much
happier with Waldron."

"And you will be happier without me."

"It may be selfish to say so, but I certainly shall."

"Well, you've had the virtue of making the self-denial and I think it
was awfully good of you to do so."

"I am always here and always very happy and willing to befriend the
grandson of my father's partner," declared Mr. Churchouse. "It is
excellent news that you are going into the business."

"Remains to be seen."

The dining room at 'The Magnolias' was also the master's study. There
were innocent little affectations in it and the room was arranged to
create an atmosphere of philosophy and art. Books thronged in lofty
book-shelves with glass doors. These were surmounted by plaster busts of
Homer and Minerva, toned to mellowness by time. In the window was the
writing desk of Mr. Churchouse, upon which stood a photograph of Goethe.

Tea was laid and a girl brought in the hot water when Mr. Churchouse
rang for it. After she had gone Raymond praised her enthusiastically.

"By Jove, what a pretty housemaid!" he exclaimed.

"Pretty, yes; a housemaid, no," explained Mr. Churchouse. "She is the
daughter of my housekeeper, Mrs. Dinnett. Mrs. Dinnett has been called
to Chilcombe, to see her old mother who is, I fear, going to die, and so
Sabina, with her usual kindness, has spent her half-holiday at home to
look after me. Sabina lives here. She is Mrs. Dinnett's daughter and one
of the spinners at the mill. In fact, Mr. Best tells me she is his most
accomplished spinner and has genius for the work. In her leisure she
does braiding at home, as many of the girls do."

"She's jolly handsome," declared Raymond. "She's chucked away in a place
like this."

"D'you mean 'The Magnolias'?" asked the elder mildly.

"No, not 'The Magnolias' particularly, but Bridetown in general."

"And why should Bridetown be denied the privilege of numbering a
beautiful girl amongst its population?"

"Oh--why--she's lost, don't you see. Working in a stuffy mill, she's
lost. If she was on the stage, then thousands would see her. A beautiful
thing oughtn't to be hidden away."

"God Almighty hides away a great many beautiful things," answered Mr.
Churchouse. "There are many beautiful things in our literature and our
flora and fauna that are never admired."

"So much the worse. When our fauna blossoms out in the shape of a lovely
girl, it ought to be seen and give pleasure to thousands."

Ernest smiled.

"I don't think Sabina has any ambition to give pleasure to thousands.
She is a young woman of very fine temper, with a dignified sense of her
own situation and an honest pride in her own dexterity."

"Engaged to be married, of course?"

"I think not. She and her mother are my very good friends. Had any
betrothal taken place, I feel sure I should have heard of it."

"Do ring for her, Mr. Churchouse, and let me look at her again. Does she
know how good-looking she is?"

"Youth! Youth! Yes, not being a fool, she knows she is
well-favoured--much as you do, no doubt. I mean that you cannot shave
yourself every morning without being conscious that you are in the Greek
mould. I could show you the engraving of a statue by Praxiteles which is
absurdly like you. But this accident of nature has not made you vain."

"Me! Good Lord!"

Raymond laughed long.

"Do not be puffed up," continued Mr. Churchouse, "for, with charm, you
combine to a certain extent the Greek vacuity. There are no lines upon
your brow. You don't think enough."

"Don't I, by Jove! I've been thinking a great deal too much lately. I've
had a headache once."

"Lack of practice, my dear boy. Sabina, being a woman of observation
and intelligence, is no doubt aware of the fact that she is unusually
personable. But she has brains and knows exactly what importance to
attach to such an accident. If you want to learn what spinning means,
she will be able to teach you."

"Every cloud has a silver lining, apparently," said Raymond, and when
Sabina returned, Ernest introduced him.

The girl was clad in black with a white apron. She wore no cap.

"This is Mr. Raymond Ironsyde, Sabina, and he's coming to learn all
about the Mill before long."

Raymond began to rattle away and Sabina, without self-consciousness,
listened to him, laughed at his jests and answered his questions.

Mr. Churchouse gazed at them benevolently through his glasses. He came
unconsciously under the influence of their joy of life.

Their conversation also pleased him, for it struck a right note--the
note which he considered was seemly between employer and employed. He
did not know that youth always modifies its tone in the presence of age,
and that those of ripe years never hear the real truth concerning the
opinions of the younger generation.

When Raymond left for home and Mr. Churchouse walked out to the gate
with him, Sabina peeped out of the kitchen window which commanded the
entrance, and her face was lighted with very genuine animation and
interest.

Mrs. Dinnett returned at midnight tearful, for the ancient woman at
Chilcombe had died in her arms--"at five after five," as she said.

Mary Dinnett was an excitable and pessimistic person. She always leapt
to meet trouble half way and invariably lost her nerve upon the least
opportunity to do so. The peace of 'The Magnolias' had long offered her
a fitting sanctum, for here life moved with the utmost simplicity and
regularity; but, though as old as he was, Mary looked ahead to the time
when Mr. Churchouse might fall, and could always win an ample misery
from the reflection that she must then be at the mercy of an unfriendly
world.

Sabina heard the full story of her grandmother's decease with every
detail of the passing, but it was the face of a young man, not the
countenance of an old woman, that flitted through her thoughts as she
went to sleep that night.




CHAPTER V

IN THE MILL


John Best was taking Raymond Ironsyde round the spinning mill, but the
foreman had his own theory and proposed to initiate the young man by
easy stages.

"You've seen the storehouses and the hacklers," he said. "Now if you
just look into the works and get a general idea of the scheme of things,
that's enough for one day."

In the great building two sounds deafened an unfamiliar ear: a steady
roar, deep and persistent, and through it, like a staccato pulse, a
louder, more painful, more penetrating din. The bass to this harsh
treble arose from humming belts and running wheels; the crash that
punctuated their deep-mouthed riot broke from the drawing heads of the
machines.

A lofty, open roof, full of large sky-lights, covered the operating
room, and in its uplifted dome supports and struts leapt this way and
that, while, at the height of the walls, ran rods supporting rows of
silver-bright wheels from which the power descended, through endless
bands, to the machinery beneath. The floor was of stone, and upon it
were disposed the various machine systems--the Card and Spreader, the
Drawing Frames, Roving Frames, Gill Spinners and Spinning Frames.

The general blurred effect in Raymond's mind was one of disagreeable
sound, which made speech almost impossible. The din drove at him from
above and below; and it was accompanied by a thousand unfamiliar
movements of flying bands and wheels and squat masses of machinery that
convulsed and heaved and palpitated round him. From nearly all the
machines there streamed away continuous bright ribbons of hemp or flax,
that caught the light and shone. This was the 'sliver,' the wrought,
textile material passing through its many changes before it came to the
spinners. The amber and lint-white coils of the winding sliver made a
brightness among the duns and drabs around them and their colour was
caught again aloft where whisps of material hung irregularly--lumps of
waste from the ends of the bobbins--and there were also colour notes of
warmth in the wooden wheels on many of the machines. These struck a
genial tone into the chill greys and flash of polished steel on every
side.

After the mechanical activity, movement came from the irregular actions
of the workers. Forty women and girls laboured here, and while some old
people only sat on stools by the spouting sliver and wound it away into
the tall cans that received it, other younger folk were more intensively
engaged. The massive figure of Sally Groves lumbered at her ministry,
where she fed the Carding Machine. She was subdued to the colour of the
hemp tow with which she plied it. Elsewhere Sarah Northover flashed the
tresses of long lines over her head and seemed to perform a rhythmic
dance with her hands, as she tore each strick into three and laid the
shining locks on her spread board. Others tended the drawers and rovers,
while Sabina Dinnett, Nancy Buckler and Alice Chick, whose high task it
was to spin, seemed to twinkle here, there and everywhere in a
corybantic measure as they served the shouting and insatiable monsters
that turned hemp and flax to yarn.

They, indeed, specially attracted Raymond, by the activity of their work
and the charm of their swift, supple figures, where, never still, they
danced about, with a thousand, strenuous activities of hand and foot and
eye. Their work dazed him and he wanted to stop here and ask Sabina many
questions. She looked much more beautiful while spinning than in her
black dress and white apron--so the young man thought. Her work
displayed her neat, slim shape as she twirled round, stooped, leapt up
again, twisted and stood on tip-toe in a thousand fascinating
attitudes. Never a dancer in the limelight had revealed so much beauty.
She was rayed in a brown gown with a short skirt, and on her head she
wore a grey woollen cap.

But Mr. Best forbade interest in the spinners.

"You'll not get to them for a week yet," he said. "I'll ask you to just
take in the general hang of it, Mister Raymond, please. Power comes from
the water-wheel and the steam engine and it's brought down to each
machine. Just throw your eyes round. You ain't here to look at the
girls, if you'll excuse my saying so. You're here to learn."

"You can learn more from the girls than all these noisy things put
together," laughed Raymond; while Mr. Best shook his head and proceeded
with his instructions.

"Those exhausts above each system suck away the dust and small rubbish,"
he explained. "We shouldn't be able to breathe without them."

The other looked up and saw great leaden-coloured tubes, like organ
pipes, above him. Mr. Best droned on and strove to lay a foundation for
future knowledge. He was skilled in every branch of the work, and a past
master of all spinning mysteries. His lucid and simple exposition had
very well served to introduce an attentive stranger to the complex
operations going on around him, but Raymond was not attentive. He failed
to concentrate and missed fundamental essentials from the desire to
examine more advanced and obviously interesting operations.

He apologised to John Best before the dinner-hour.

"This is only a preliminary canter," he said. "It's all Greek to me and
it will take time to get the thing clear. It looks quite different to me
from what it must to you. I'll get the general scheme into my head first
and then work out the details. A man's mind can't make order out of this
chaos in a minute."

He stood and tried to appreciate the trend of events. He enjoyed the
adventure, but at present made no effort to do more than enjoy it. He
would start to work later. He began to like the din and the dusty light
and the glitter and shine of polished metal and bright sliver eternally
winding into the cans. Round it hovered or sat the women like dull
moths. They wound the stream of hemp or flax away and snapped it when a
can was full. There was no pause or slackening, nothing but the whirl of
living hands and arms and bodies, dead wheels and teeth and pulleys and
pins operating on the inert tow. The mediators, animate and inanimate,
laboured together for its manufacture; while the masses of mingled wood
and steel, leather and brass and iron, moved in controlled obedience to
the giant forces liberated from steam and water that drove all. The
selfsame power, gleaned from sunshine and moisture and sublimated to
human flesh and blood through bread, plied in the fingers and muscles
and countless, complex mental directions of the men and women who
controlled. From sun-light and air, earth and water had also sprung the
fields of hemp and flax in far-off lands and yielded up their loveliness
to foreign scutchers. The dried death of countless beautiful herbs now
represented the textile fabric on which all this immense energy was
applied.

Thus far, along an obvious line of thought, Raymond's reflections took
him, but there his slight mental effort ended, and even this much tired
him. The time for dinner came; Mr. Best now turned certain hand-wheels
and moved certain levers. They shut off the power and gradually the din
lessened, the pulsing and throbbing slowed until the whole great
complexity came to a stand-still. The drone of the overhead wheels
ceased, the crash of the draw-heads stopped. A startling silence seemed
to grow out of the noise and quell it, while a new activity manifested
itself among the workers. As a bell rang they were changed in a
twinkling and, amid chatter and laughter, like breaking chrysalids, they
flung off their basset aprons and dun overalls, to emerge in brighter
colours. Blouses of pink and blue and red flashed out, straw hats and
sun-bonnets appeared, and all streamed away like magic to their
neighbouring houses. It was as though its soul had passed and left a
dead mill behind it.

Raymond, released for a moment from the attentions of the foreman,
strolled among the machines of the minders and spinners. Then his eyes
were held by an intimate and personal circumstance that linked these
women to this place. He found that on the whitewashed walls beside their
working corners, the girls had impressed themselves--their names, their
interests, their hopes. With little picture galleries were the walls
brightened, and with sentiments and ideas. The names of the workers were
printed up in old stamps--green and pink--and beside them one might
read, in verses, or photographs, or pictures taken from the journals,
something of the history, taste and personal life of those who set them
there. Serious girls had written favourite hymns beside their working
places; the flippant scribbled jokes and riddles; the sentimental copied
love songs that ran to many verses. Often the photograph of a maiden's
lover accompanied them, and there were also portraits of mothers and
sisters, babies and brothers. Some of the girls had hung up
fashion-plates and decorated their workshop with ugly and mean designs
for clothing that they would never wear.

Raymond found that picture postcards were a great feature of these
galleries, and they contained also, of course, many private jests and
allusions lost upon the visitor. Character was revealed in the
collections; for the most part they showed desire for joy, and
aspiration to deck the working-place with objects and words that should
breed happy thoughts and draw the mind where its treasure harboured.
Each heart it seemed was holding, or seeking, a romance; each heart was
settled about some stalwart figure presented in the picture gallery, or
still finding temporary substance for dreams in love poetry, in
representations of happy lovers at stiles, in partings of soldier and
sailor lads from their sweethearts. Beside some of the old workers the
walls were blank. They had nothing left to set down, or hang up.

Raymond was arrested by a little rhyme round which a black border had
been pasted. It was original:

"I am coiling, coiling, coiling
  Into the can,
And thinking, thinking, thinking,
  Of my dear man.

"He is toiling, toiling, toiling
  Out on the sea,
And thinking, thinking, thinking
  Only of me.

"F.H."

Mr. Best joined Ironsyde.

"These walls!" he said. "It's about time we had a coat of whitewash.
Mister Daniel thinks so too."

"Why--good lord--this is the most interesting part of the whole show.
This is alive! Who's F.H.?"

"The girls will keep that. They like it, though I tell them it would be
better rubbed out. Poor Flossy Hackett wrote that. She was going to
marry a sailor-man, but he changed his mind, and she broke her heart and
drowned herself--that's all there is to it."

"The damned rascal. I hope he got what he deserved."

Mr. Best allowed his mind to peep from the shell that usually concealed
it.

"If he did, he was one man in a thousand. He married a Weymouth woman
and Flossy went into the river--in the deep pool beyond the works. A
clever sort of girl, but a dreamer you might say."

"I'd like to have had the handling of that devil!"

"You never know. She may have had what's better than a wedding ring--in
happy dreams. Reality's not the best of life. People do change their
minds. He was honest and all that. Only he found somebody else he liked
better."

At this moment Daniel Ironsyde came into the works, and while John Best
hastened to him, Raymond pursued his amusement and studied the wall by
the spinning frame where Sabina Dinnett worked. He found a photograph of
her mother and a quotation from Shakespeare torn off a calendar for the
date of August the third. He guessed that might be Sabina's birthday.
The quotation ran:--

              "To thine own self be true;
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man."

There was no male in Sabina's picture gallery--indeed, no other picture
but that of a girl--her fellow spinner, Nancy Buckler.

His brother approached Raymond.

"You've made a start, Ray?"

"Rather. It's jolly interesting. Best is wonderful, but he can't fathom
my ignorance yet."

"It's all very simple and straightforward. Do you like your office?"

"Yes," declared the younger. "Couldn't beat it. When I want something to
do, I can fling a line out of the window and fish in the river."

"You have plenty to do besides fish out of the window I should hope. Let
us lunch. I'm stopping here this afternoon. Aunt Jenny wanted to know
whether you'd come to Bridport to dinner on Sunday."

Daniel was entirely friendly now and he designed--if the future should
justify the step--to take Raymond into partnership. But only in the
event of very material changes in his brother's life would he do so.
Their aunt felt sanguine that Raymond must soon recognise his
responsibilities, settle to the business of justifying his existence and
put away childish things; Daniel was less hopeful, but trusted that she
might be right. Her imagination worked for Raymond and warned her nephew
not to be too exacting at first. She pointed out that it was very
improbable Daniel's brother would become a model in a moment, or settle
down to the business of fixed hours and clerical work without a few
lapses from the narrow and arduous path. So the elder was prepared to
see his brother kick against the pricks and even warned John Best that
it might be so. Brief acquaintance with Raymond had already convinced
the foreman of this probability, and he found himself liking Daniel's
brother from the first. The dangers, however, were not hid from him; but
while he perceived the youthful instability of the newcomer and his
impatience of detail, he presently discovered an interest in mechanical
contrivances, a spark of originality, and a feeling for new things that
might lead to results, if only the necessary application were
forthcoming and the vital interest aroused.

Mr. Best had a simple formula.

"The successful spinner," he often remarked, "is the man who can turn
out the best yarn from a given sample of the raw. Hand identical stuff
to ten manufacturers and you'll soon see where the best yarn comes
from."

He knew of better yarns than came from the Ironsyde mill, and regretted
the fact. That a time might arrive when Raymond would see with him
seemed exceedingly improbable; yet he felt the dim possibility by
occasional flashes in the young man, and it was a quality of Mr. Best's
mind to be hopeful and credit other men with his own aspirations, if any
excuse existed for so doing.




CHAPTER VI

'THE SEVEN STARS'


On a Saturday in August, Sarah Northover, one of those who minded the
'spreader' at Bridetown Mill, came to see her aunt--the mistress of 'The
Seven Stars,' in Barrack Street, Bridport.

She had walked three miles through the hot and dusty lanes and found the
shady streets of Bridport cool by comparison, but there was work for her
at 'The Seven Stars,' and Mrs. Northover proved very busy. A holiday
party of five-and-twenty guests was arriving at five o'clock for tea,
and Sarah, perceiving that her own tea would be a matter for the future,
lent her aunt a hand.

Her tea gardens and pleasure grounds were the pride of Nelly Northover's
heart. Three quarters of an acre extended here behind the inn, and she
had erected swings for the children and laid a croquet lawn for those
who enjoyed that pastime. Lawn tennis she would not permit, out of
respect for her herbaceous border which surrounded the place of
entertainment. At one corner was a large summer-house in which her
famous teas were generally taken. The charge was one shilling, and being
of generous disposition, Mrs. Northover provided for that figure a
handsome meal.

She was a large, high-bosomed woman, powerfully built, and inclined to
stoutness. Her complexion was sanguine, and her prominent eyes were very
blue. Of a fair-minded and honest spirit, she suffered from an excitable
temper and rather sharp tongue. But her moods were understood by her
staff, and if her emotional quality did injustice, an innate sense of
what was reasonable ultimately righted the wrong.

Sarah helped Job Legg and others to prepare for the coming party, while
Mrs. Northover roamed the herbaceous border and cut flowers to decorate
the table. While she pursued this work there bustled in Richard Gurd
from 'The Tiger.' He was in his shirt-sleeves and evidently pushed for
time.

"Wonders never cease," said Nelly, smiling upon him. "It's a month of
Sundays since you was in my gardens. I'll lay you've come for some
flowers for your dining table."

Reciprocity was practised between these best of friends, and while Mr.
Gurd often sent customers to Mrs. Northover, since tea parties were not
a branch of business he cared about, she returned his good service with
gifts from the herbaceous border and free permission to use her spacious
inn yard and stables.

"I'm always coming to have a look round at your wonderful flower-bed,"
said Richard, "and some Sunday morning, during church hours, I will do
so; but you know how busy we all are in August. And I don't want no
flowers; but I want the run of your four-stall stable. There's a 'beano'
coming over from Lyme and I'm full up already."

"Never no need to ask," she answered. "I'll tell Job to set a man on to
it."

He thanked her very heartily and she gave him a rose. Then he admired
the grass, knowing that she prided herself upon it.

"Never seen such grass anywhere else in Bridport," he assured her.
"There's lots try to grow grass like yours; but none can come near
this."

"'Tis Job's work," she told him. "He's a Northerner and had the charge
of a bowling-green at his uncle's public; and what he don't know about
grass ain't worth knowing."

"He's a sheet-anchor, that man," confessed Richard; "a sheet-anchor and
a tower of strength, as you might say."

"I don't deny it," admitted Nelly. "Sometimes, in a calm moment, I run
my mind over Job Legg, and I'm almost ashamed to think how much I owe
him."

"It ain't all one way, however. He's got a snug place, and no potman in
Dorset draws more money, though there's some who draws more beer."

"There's no potman in Dorset with his head," she answered. "He's got a
brain and it's very seldom indeed you find such an honest chap with such
a lot of intellects. The clever ones are mostly the downy ones; but
Job's single thought is the welfare of the house, and he pushes honesty
to extremes."

"If you can say that, he must be a wonder, certainly, for none knows
what honesty means better than you," said Mr. Gurd. He had put Nelly's
rose into his coat.

"He's more than a potman, chiefly along of being such a good friend to
my late husband. Almost the last sensible thing my poor dear said to me
before he died was never to get rid of Job. And no doubt I never shall.
I'm going to put up his money at Michaelmas."

"Well, don't make the man a god, and don't you spoil him. Job's a very
fine chap and can carry corn as well as most of 'em--in fact far better;
but a man is terrible quick to trade on the good opinion of his fellow
man, and if you let him imagine you can't do without him, you may put
false and fantastic ideas into his head."

"I'm not at all sure if I could do without him," she answered, "though,
even if he knew it, he's far too fine a character to take advantage. A
most modest creature and undervalued accordingly."

Then a boy ran in for Richard and he hastened away, while Nelly took a
sheaf of flowers to the summer-house and made the table bright with
them.

She praised her niece's activities.

"'Tis a shame to ring you in on your half-holiday," she said. "But
you're one of the sensible sort, and you won't regret being a good girl
to me in the time to come."

Then she turned to Job.

"Gurd's got a char-a-bank and a party on the way from Lyme, and he's
full up and wants the four-horse stable," she told him. It was part of
Job's genius never to be put about, or driven from placidity by
anything.

"Then there's no time to lose," he said. "We're ready here, and now if
Sarah will lend a hand at the table over there in the shade for the
party of six--"

"Lord! I'd forgotten them."

"I hadn't," he answered. "They're cutting in the kitchen now and the
party's due at four. So you'll have them very near off your hands before
the big lot comes. I'll see to the stable and get in a bit of fresh
straw and shake down some hay. Then I'll take the bar and let Miss
Denman come to help with the tea."

He went his way and Sarah sat down a moment while her aunt arranged the
flowers.

"There's no tea-tables like yours," she said.

"I pride myself on 'em. A lot goes to a tea beside the good food, in my
opinion. Some human pigs don't notice my touches and only want to stuff;
but the bettermost have an eye for everything sweet and clean about 'em.
Such nicer characters don't like poultry messing round and common things
in sight while they eat and drink. I know what I feel myself about a
clean cloth and a bunch of fine flowers on the table, and many people
are quite as particular as me. I train the girls up to take a pride in
such things, and now and again a visitor will thank me for it."

"I could have brought a bunch of flowers from our little garden," said
Sarah.

"It would be coals to Newcastle, my dear. We make a feature of 'em. Job
Legg understands the ways of 'em, and you see the result. You can pick
all day from my herbaceous border and not miss what you take."

"Nobody grows sweet peas like yours."

"Job again. He's mastered the sweet pea in a manner given to few. He'll
bring out four on a stalk, and think nothing of it."

"Mister Best, our foreman, is wonderful in a garden, too," answered
Sarah. "And a great fruit grower also."

"That reminds me. I've got a fine dish of greengages for this party. In
the season I fling in a bit of fruit sometimes. It always comes as a
pleasant surprise to tea people that they ain't called to pay extra for
fruit."

She went her way and Sarah turned to a lesser entertainment under
preparation in a shady corner of the garden.

A girl of the house was already busy there, and the guests had arrived.
They were hot and thirsty. Some sat on the grass and fanned themselves.
A young man did juggling feats with the croquet balls for the amusement
of two young women.

Not until half-past six came any pause, but after that hour the tea
drinkers thinned off; the big party had come and gone; the smaller
groups were all attended to and tea was served in Mrs. Northover's
private sitting-room behind the bar for herself, Sarah and the barmaid.
Being refreshed and rested, Mrs. Northover turned to the affairs of her
niece. At the same moment Mr. Legg came in.

"Sit down and have some tea," said Mrs. Northover.

"I've took a hasty cup," he answered, "but could very well do with
another."

"And how's Mister Roberts, Sarah?" asked her aunt.

"Fine. He's playing in a cricket match to-day--Bridetown against
Chilcombe. They've asked him to play for Bridport since Mister Raymond
saw him bowl. He's very pleased about it."

"Teetotal, isn't he?" asked Mr. Job.

"Yes, Mister Legg. Nick have never once touched a drop in all his life
and never means to."

"A pity there ain't more of the same way of thinking," said Mrs.
Northover. "And I say that, though a publican and the wife of a
publican; and so do you, don't you, Job?"

"Most steadfast," he replied. "When I took on barman as a profession, I
never lifted pot or glass again to my own lips, and have stood between
many a young man and the last half pint. I tell you this to your face,
Missis Northover. Not an hour ago I was at 'The Tiger,' to let Richard
Gurd know the stable was ready, and in the private bar there were six
young men, all drinking for the pleasure of drinking. If the younger
generation only lapped when 'twas thirsty, half the drinking-places
would shut, and there wouldn't be no more brewers in the peerage."

He shook his head and drank his tea.

Mrs. Northover changed the subject.

"How's the works?" she asked. "Do the people like the new master?"

"Just the same--same hours, same money--everything. And Mister Daniel's
brother, Mister Raymond's, come to it to learn the business. He is a
cure!"

"He's over there now," said Job, waving his hand in the direction of
'The Tiger.' "Drinking port wine he is with that young sport, Motyer,
and others like him. I don't like Motyer's face. He's a shifty chap, and
a thorn in his family's side by all accounts. But Mister Raymond have a
very open countenance and ought to have a good heart."

"What do you mean when you say he's a 'cure,' Sarah?" asked her aunt.

"He's that friendly with us girls," she answered. "He's supposed to be
learning all there is to spinning, but he plays about half his time and
you can't help laughing. He's so friendly as if he was one of us; but
Sabina Dinnett is his pet. Wants to make her smoke cigarettes! But
there's no harm to him if you understand."

"There's always harm to a chap that plays about and don't look after his
own business," declared Job. "I understand his brother's been very
proper about him, and now it's up to him; and he ain't at the Mill to
offer the girls cigarettes."

"He's got his own room and Mister Best wishes he'd bide in it,"
explained Sarah, "but he says he must learn, and so he's always
wandering around. But everybody likes him, except Levi Baggs. He don't
like anybody. He'd like to draw us all over his hackling frames if he
could."

They chattered awhile, then worked again; but Sarah stayed to supper,
and it was not until half-past ten o'clock that she started for home.

Another Bridetown girl--Alice Chick, the spinner--had been spending her
half holiday in Bridport. Now she met Sarah, by appointment, at the top
of South Street and the two returned together.




CHAPTER VII

A WALK


The Carding Machine was a squat and noisy monster. Mr. Best confessed
that it had put him in mind of a passage from Holy Writ, for it seemed
to be all eyes, behind and before. The eyes were wheels, and beneath,
the mass of the carder opened its mouth--a thin and hungry slit into
which wound an endless band. Spread upon this leathern roller was the
hemp tow--that mass of short material which Levi Baggs, the hackler,
pruned away from his long strides. As for the minder, Sally Groves, she
seemed built and born to tend a Carding Machine. She moved with dignity
despite her great size, and although covered in tow dust from head to
foot and powdered with a layer of pale amber fluff, she stood as well as
another for the solemnity of toil, laboured steadfastly, was neither
elated, nor cast down, and presented to younger women a spectacle of
skill, resolution and good sense. The great woman ennobled her work;
through the dust and din, with placid and amiable features, she peered,
and ceased not hour after hour, to spread the tow truly and evenly upon
the rolling board. One of less experience might have needed to weigh her
material, but Sally never weighed; by long practice and good judgment,
she produced sliver of even texture.

The carder panted, crashed and shook with its energies. It glimmered all
over with the bright, hairy gossamer of the tow, which wound thinly
through systems of fast and slow wheels. Between them the material was
lashed and pricked, divided and sub-divided, torn and lacerated by
thousands of pins, that separated strand from strand and shook the
stuff to its integral fibres before building it up again. Despite the
thunder and the suggestion of immense forces exerted upon the frail
material, utmost delicacy marked the operations of the card. Any real
strain must have torn to atoms the fine amber coils in which it ejected
the strips of shining sliver. Enormous waste marked the operation.
Beneath the machine rose mounds of dust and dirt, and fluff, light as
thistledown; while as much was sucked away into the air by the exhaust
above.

In a lion-coloured overall and under a hat tied beneath her chin with a
yellow handkerchief, Sally Groves pursued her task. Then came to her
Sabina Dinnett and, ceasing not to spread her tow the while, Sally spoke
serious words.

"I asked Nancy Buckler to send you along when your machine stopped a
minute. You won't be vexed with me if I say something, will you?"

"Vexed with you, Sally? Who ever was vexed with you?"

"I'm old enough to be your mother, and 'tis her work if anybody's to
speak to you," explained Sally; "but she's not here, and she don't see
what I can't help seeing."

"What have you seen then?"

"I've seen a very good-looking young man by the name of Raymond Ironsyde
wasting a deuce of a lot of his time by your spinning frame; and wasting
your time, too."

Sabina changed colour.

"Fancy you saying that!" she exclaimed. "He's got to learn the
business--the practical side, Sally. And he wants to master it carefully
and grasp the whole thing."

Miss Groves smiled.

"Ah. He didn't take long mastering the carder," she said. "Just two
minutes was all he gave me, and I don't think he was very long at the
drawing heads neither; and I ain't heard Sarah Northover say he spent
much of his time at the spreader. It all depends on the minder whether
Mister Raymond wants to know much about the work!"

"But the spinning is the hardest to understand, Sally."

"Granted, but he don't ask many questions of Alice Chick or Nancy
Buckler, do he? I'm not blaming him, Lord knows, nor yet you, but for
friendship I'm whispering to you to be sensible. He's a very
kind-hearted young gentleman, and if he had a memory as big as his
promises, he'd soon ruin himself. But, like a lot of other nice chaps
full of generous ideas, he forgets 'em when the accident that woke 'em
is out of his mind. And all I say, Sabina, is to be careful. He may be
as good as gold, and I dare say he is, but he's gone on you--head
over heels--he can't hide it. He don't even try to. And he's a gentleman
and you're a spinner. So don't you be silly, and don't think the worse
of me for speaking."

Sabina entertained the opinions concerning middle-age common to youth,
but she was fond of Sally and set her heart at rest.

"You needn't be frightened," she answered. "He's a gentleman, as you
say; and you know I'm not the sort to be a fool. I can't help him
coming; and I can't be rude to the young man. For that matter I
wouldn't. I won't forget what you've said all the same."

She hurried away and started her machine; but while her mind
concentrated on spinning, some subconscious instincts worked at another
matter and she found that Sally had cast a cloud upon a coming event
which promised nothing but sunshine.

She had agreed to go for a walk with Raymond Ironsyde on the following
Sunday, and he had named their meeting-place: a bridge that crossed the
Bride in the vale two miles from the village. She meant to go, for the
understanding between her and Raymond had advanced far beyond any point
dreamed of by Sally Groves. Sabina's mind was in fact exceedingly full
of Raymond, and his mind was full of her. Temperament had conspired to
this state of things, for while the youth found himself in love for the
first time in his life, and pursued the quest with that ardour and
enthusiasm until now reserved for sport, Sabina, who had otherwise been
much more cautious, was not only in love, but actually felt that shadowy
ambitions from the past began to promise realisation. She was not vain,
but she knew herself a finer thing in mind and body than most of the
girls with whom she worked. She had read a great deal and learned much
from Mr. Churchouse, who delighted to teach her, and from Mr. Best, with
whom she was a prime favourite. She had refused several offers of
marriage and preserved a steady determination not to wed until there
came a man who could lift her above work and give her a home that would
embrace comfort and leisure. She waited, confident that this would
happen, for she knew that she could charm men. As yet none had come who
awakened any emotion of love in Sabina; and she told herself that real
love might alter her values and send her to a poor man's home after all.
If that happened, she was willing; but she thought it improbable;
because, in her experience, poor men were ignorant, and she felt very
sure no ignorant man would ever make her love him.

Then came into her life one very much beyond her dreams, and from an
attitude of utmost caution before a physical beauty that fascinated her,
she woke into tremendous excitation of mind at the discovery that he,
too, was interested. To her it seemed that he had plenty of brains. His
ideas were human and beautiful. He declared the conditions of the
workers to be not sufficiently considered. He was full of nebulous
theories for the amelioration of such conditions. The spectacle of women
working for a living caused Raymond both uneasiness and indignation. To
Sabina, it seemed that he was a chivalric knight of romance--a being
from a fairy story. She had heard of such men, but never met with one
outside a novel. She glorified Raymond into something altogether
sublime--as soon as she found that he liked her. He filled her head,
and while her common-sense vainly tried to talk as Sally Groves had
talked, each meeting with the young man threw her back upon the
tremendous fact that he was deeply interested in her and did not care
who knew it. Common-sense could not modify that; nor would she listen to
common-sense, when it suggested that Raymond's record was uninspiring,
and pointed to no great difference between him and other young men. She
told herself that he was misunderstood; she whispered to herself that
she understood him. It must be so, for he had declared it. He had said
that he was an idealist. As a matter of fact he did not himself know the
meaning of the word half as well as Sabina.

He filled her thoughts, and believing him to be honourable, in the
everyday acceptation of the word, she knew she was safe and need not
fear him. This fact added to the joy and excitement of a situation that
was merely thrilling, not difficult. For she had to be receptive only,
and that was easy: the vital matter rested with him. She did not do
anything to encourage him, or take any step that her friends could call
"forward." She just left it to him and knew not how far he meant to go,
yet felt, in sanguine moments, that he would go all the way, sooner or
later, and offer to marry her. Her friends declared it would be so. They
were mightily interested, but not jealous, for the girls recognised
Sabina's advantages.

When, therefore, he asked her to take a walk on a certain Sunday
afternoon, she agreed to do so. There was no plotting or planning about
it. He named a familiar place of meeting and proposed to go thence to
the cliffs--a ramble that might bring them face to face with a dozen
people who knew them. She felt the happier for that. Nor could Sally
Groves and her warning cast her down for long. The hint that Raymond was
a gentleman and Sabina a spinner touched a point in their friendship
long past. The girl knew that well enough; but she also knew what Sally
did not, and told herself that Raymond was a great deal more than a
gentleman, just as she--Sabina--was something more than a spinner. That,
however, was the precious knowledge peculiar to the young people
themselves. She could not expect Sally, or anybody else, to know it yet.

As for the young man, life had cut away from him most of his former
interests and amusements. He was keeping regular hours and working
steadily. He regarded himself as a martyr, yet could get none to take
that view. To him, then, came his love affair as a very present help in
time of trouble. The emotions awakened by Sabina were real, and he fully
believed that she was going to be essential to his life's happiness and
completion. He knew nothing about women, for his athletic pursuits and
ambitions to excel physically produced an indifference to them. But with
the change in his existence, and the void thereby created, came love,
and he had leisure to welcome it. He magnified Sabina, and since her
intellect was as good as his own and her education better, he assured
himself that she was in every respect superior to her position and
worthy of any man's admiration.

He did not analyse his feelings or look ahead very far. He did not
bother to ask himself what he wanted. He was only concerned to make
Sabina 'a chum,' as he said, to himself. He knew this to be nonsense,
even while he said it, but in the excitement of the quest, chose to
ignore rational lines of thought.

They met by the little bridge over Bride, then walked southerly up a
hill to a hamlet, and so on to the heights. Beneath the sponge-coloured
cliffs eastward swept the grand scythe of Chesil Bank; but an east wind
had brought its garment of grey-blue haze and the extremity of the Bank,
with Portland Bill beyond, was hidden. The cliffs gave presently and
green slopes sank to the beaches. They reached a place where, separated
from the sea by great pebble-ridges, there lay a little mere. Two swans
swam together upon it, and round about the grey stone banks were washed
with silver pink, where the thrift prospered.

Sabina had not talked much, though she proved a good listener; but
Raymond spoke fitfully, too, at first. He was new to this sort of thing
and told her so.

"I don't believe I've ever been for a walk with a girl in my life
before," he said.

"I can't walk fast enough for you, I'm afraid."

"Oh yes, you can; you're a very good walker."

At last he began to tell her about himself, in the usual fashion of the
male, who knows by instinct that subject is most interesting to both. He
dwelt on his sporting triumphs of the past, and explained his trials and
tribulations in the present. He represented that he was mewed up like an
eagle. He described how the tragic call to work for a living had sounded
in his ear when he anticipated no such painful experience. Before this
narrative Sabina affected a deeper sympathy than she felt, yet honestly
perceived that to such a man, his present life of regular hours must be
dreary and desolate.

"It's terrible dull for you, I'm sure," she said.

"It was," he confessed, "but I'm getting broken in, or perhaps it's
because you're so jolly friendly. You're the only person I know in the
whole world who has got the mind and imagination to see what a frightful
jar it was for an open-air man like me to be dropped into this. People
think it is the most unnatural thing on earth that I should suddenly
begin to work. But it's just as unnatural really as if my brother
suddenly began to play. Even my great friend, Arthur Waldron, talks
rubbish about everybody having to work sooner or later--not that he ever
did. But you were quick enough to see in a moment. You're tremendously
clever, really."

"I wish I was; but I saw, of course, that you were rather contemptuous
of it all."

"So I was at first," he confessed. "At first I felt that it was a
woman's show, and that what women can do well is no work for men. But
I soon saw I was wrong. It increased my respect for women in a way. To
find, for instance, that you could do what you do single-handed and make
light of it; that was rather an eye-opener. Whenever any pal of mine
talks twaddle about what women can't do, I shall bring him to see you at
work."

"I could do something better than spin if I got the chance," she said,
and he applauded the sentiment highly.

"Of course you could, and I'm glad you've got the pluck to say so. I
knew that from the first. You're a lot too clever for spinning, really.
You'd shine anywhere. Let's sit here under this thorn bush. I must get
some rabbiting over this scrub. The place swarms with them. You don't
mind if I smoke?"

They rested, and he ventured to make a personal remark after Sabina had
taken off her gloves to cool her hands.

"You've hurt yourself," he said, noting what seemed to be an injury. But
she made light of it.

"It's only a corn from stopping the spindles. Every spinner's hands are
like that. Alice Chick has chilblains in winter, then she gets a cruel,
bad hand."

The slight deformity made Raymond uncomfortable. He could not bear to
think of a woman suffering such a stigma in her tender flesh.

"They ought to invent something to prevent you being hurt," he said, and
Sabina laughed.

"Why, there are very few manual trades don't leave their mark," she
answered, "and a woman's lucky to get nothing worse than a scarred
hand."

"Would it come right," he ventured to ask, "if you gave up spinning?"

"Yes, in no time. There are worse things happen to you in the mills than
that--and more painful. Sometimes the wind from the reels numbs your
fingers till you can't feel 'em and they go red, and then blue. And
there's always grumbling about the temperature, because what suits hemp
and flax don't suit humans. If some clever man could solve these
difficulties, it would be more comfortable for us. Not that I'm
grumbling. Our mill is about as perfect as any mill can be, and we've
got the blessing of living in the country, too--that's worth a lot."

"You're fond of the country."

"Couldn't live out of it," she said. "Thanks to Mr. Churchouse, I know
more about things than some girls."

"I should think you did."

"He's very wise and kind and lends me books."

"A very nice old bird. I nearly went to live with him when I came to
Bridetown. Sorry I didn't, now."

She smiled and did not pretend to miss the compliment.

"As to the Mill," he went on; "don't think I'm the sort of chap that
just drifts and is contented to let things be as they were in the time
of his father and grandfather."

"Wouldn't you?"

"Certainly not. No doubt it's safer and easier and the line of least
resistance and all that sort of thing. But when I've once mastered the
business, you'll see. I didn't want to come in, but now I'm in, I'm
going to the roots of it, and I shall have a pretty big say in things,
too, later on."

"Fancy!" said Sabina.

"Oh yes. You mustn't suppose my brother and I see alike all round. We
don't. He wants to be a copy of my father, and I've no ambition to be
anything of the kind. My father wasn't at all sporting to me, Sabina,
and it doesn't alter the fact because he's dead. The first thing is the
workers, and whatever I am, I'm clever enough to know that if we don't
do a good many things for the workers pretty soon, they'll do those
things for themselves. But it will be a great deal more proper and breed
a lot more goodwill between labour and capital, if capital takes the
first step and improves the conditions and raises the wages all round.
D'you know what I would do if I had my way? I'd go one better than the
Trade Unions! I'd cut the ground from under their feet! I'd say to
Capital 'instead of whining about the Trades Unions, get to work and
make them needless.'"

But these gigantic ideas, uttered on the spur of the moment by one who
knew less than nothing of his subject, did not interest Sabina as much
as he expected. The reason, however, he did not know. It was that he
had called her by her name for the first time. It slipped out without
intention, though he was conscious of it as he spoke it; but he had no
idea that it had greatly startled her and awoke mingled feelings of
delight and doubt. She was delighted, because it meant her name must
have been often in his thoughts, she was doubtful, because its argued
perhaps a measure less of that respect he had always paid her. But, on
the whole, she felt glad. He waited for her to speak and did not know
that she had heard little, but was wondering at that moment if he would
go back to the formal 'Miss Dinnett' again, or always call her 'Sabina'
in future.

After a pause Raymond spoke.

"Now tell me about yourself," he said. "I'm sure you've heard enough
about me."

"There's nothing to tell."

"How did you happen to be a spinner?"

"Mother was, so I went into it as a matter of course."

"I should have thought old Churchouse would have seen you're a genius,
and educated you and adopted you."

"Nothing of a genius about me. I'm like most other girls."

"I never saw another girl like you," he said.

"You'd spoil anybody with your compliments."

"Never paid a compliment in my life," he declared.

Their conversation became desultory, and presently Sabina said she must
be going home.

"Mother will be wondering."

On the way back they met another familiar pair and Sabina speculated as
to what Raymond thought; but he showed no emotion and took off his hat
to Sarah Northover and Nicholas Roberts, the lathe worker, as they
passed by. Sarah smiled, and Nicholas, a thin, good-looking man, took
off his hat also.

"I must go and study the lathes," said Raymond after they had passed.
"That's a branch of the work I haven't looked at yet. Roberts seems a
good chap, and he's a very useful bowler, I find."

"He's engaged to Sarah; they're going to be married when he can get a
house."

"That's another thing that must be looked to. There are scores of
cottages that want pulling down here. I shall point that out to the Lord
of the Manor when I get a chance."

"You're all for changes and improvements, Mister Ironsyde."

"Call me Raymond, Sabina."

"I couldn't do that."

"Why not? I want you to. By the way, may I call you Sabina?"

"Yes, if you care to."

They parted at the entrance gate of 'The Magnolias,' and Raymond thanked
her very heartily for her company.

"I've looked forward to this," he said. "And now I shall look forward to
the next time. It's very sporting of you to come and I'm tremendously
grateful and--good-bye, Sabina--till to-morrow."

He went on up the road to North Hill House and felt the evening had
grown tasteless without her. He counted the hours to when he would see
her again. She went to work at seven o'clock, but he never appeared at
the Mill until ten, or later.

He began to see that this was the most serious thing within his
experience. He supposed that it must be enduring and tend to alter the
whole tenor of his life. Marriage was one of the stock jokes in his
circle, yet, having regard for Sabina, this meant marriage or nothing.
He felt ill at ease, for love had not yet taken the bit and run away
with him. Other interests cried out to him--interests that he would have
to give up. He tried to treat the matter as a joke with himself, but he
could not. He felt melancholy, and that night at supper Waldron asked
what was wrong, while Estelle told him he must be ill, because he was
so dull.

"I don't believe the spinning works are good for you," she said.

"Ask for a holiday and distract your mind with other things," suggested
Waldron. "If you'd come out in the mornings and ride for a couple of
hours before breakfast, as I do, you'd be all right."

"I will," promised Raymond. "I want bucking up."

He pictured Sabina on horseback.

"I wish to God I was rich instead of being a pauper!" he exclaimed.

"My advice is that you stick it out for a year or more, till you've
convinced your brother you'll never be any good at spinning," said
Arthur Waldron. "Then, after he knows you're not frightened of work,
but, of course, can't excel at work that isn't congenial, he'll put
money into your hands for a higher purpose, and you will go into
breeding stock, or some such thing, to help keep up the sporting
instincts of the country."

With that bright picture still before him Raymond retired. But he was
not hopeful and even vague suggestions on Waldron's part that his friend
should become his bailiff and study agriculture did not serve to win
from the sufferer more than thanks. The truth he did not mention,
knowing that neither Waldron, nor anybody else, would offer palatable
counsel in connection with that.




CHAPTER VIII

THE LECTURE


Daniel Ironsyde sat with his Aunt Jenny after dinner and voiced
discontent. But it was not with himself and his personal progress that
he felt out of tune. All went well at the Mill save in one particular,
and he found no fault either with the heads of the offices at Bridport,
or with John Best, who entirely controlled the manufacture at Bridetown.
His brother caused the tribulation of his mind.

Miss Ironsyde sympathised, but argued for Raymond.

"He has an immense respect for you and would not willingly do anything
to annoy you, I'm sure of that. You must remember that Raymond was not
schooled to this. It takes a boy of his temperament a long time to find
the yoke easy. You were naturally studious, and wise enough to get into
harness after you left school; Raymond, with his extraordinary physical
powers, found the fascination of sport over-mastering. He has had to give
up what to your better understanding is trivial and unimportant, but it
really meant something to him."

"He hasn't given up as much as you might think," answered Daniel. "He's
always taking holidays now for cricket matches, and he rides often with
Waldron. It was a mistake his going there. Waldron is a person with one
idea, and a foolish idea at that. He only thinks a man is a man when
he's tearing about after foxes, or killing something, or playing with a
ball of some sort. He's a bad influence for Raymond. But it's not that.
It's not so much what Raymond doesn't do as what he does do. He's
foolish with the spinners and minders at the Mill."

"He might be," said Jenny Ironsyde, "but he's a gentleman."

"He's an idiot. I believe he'd wreck the whole business if he had the
power. Best tells me he talks to the girls about what he's going to do
presently, and tells them he will raise all their wages. He suggests to
perfectly satisfied people that they are not getting enough money! Well,
it's only human nature for them to agree with him, and you can easily
see what the result of that would be. Instead of having the hands
willing and contented, they'll grow unsettled and grumble, and then work
will suffer and a bad spirit appear in the Mill. It is simply insane."

"I quite agree," answered his aunt. "There's no excuse whatever for
nonsense of that sort, and if Raymond minded his own business, as he
should, it couldn't happen. Surely his own work doesn't throw him into
the company of the girls?"

"Of course it doesn't. It's simply a silly excuse to waste his time and
hear his own voice. He ought to have learned all about the mechanical
part weeks ago."

"Well, I can only advise patience," said Miss Ironsyde. "I don't suppose
a woman would carry much weight with him, an old one I mean--myself in
fact. But failing others I will do what I can. You say Mr. Waldron's no
good. Then try Uncle Ernest. I think he might touch Raymond. He's
gentle, but he's wise. And failing that, you must tackle him yourself,
Daniel. It's your duty. I know you hate preaching and all that sort of
thing, but there's nobody else."

"I suppose there isn't. It can't go on anyway, because he'll do harm. I
believe asses like Raymond make more trouble than right down wicked
people, Aunt Jenny."

"Don't tell him he's an ass. Be patient--you're wonderfully patient
always for such a young man, so be patient with your brother. But try
Uncle Ernest first. He might ask Raymond to lunch, or tea, and give him
a serious talking to. He'll know what to say."

"He's too mild and easy. It will go in at one ear and come out of the
other," prophesied Daniel.

But none the less he called on Mr. Churchouse when next at Bridetown.

The old man had just received a parcel by post and was elated.

"A most interesting work sent to me from 'A Well Wisher,'" he said. "It
is an old perambulation of Dorsetshire, which I have long desired to
possess."

"People like your writings in the _Bridport Gazette_," declared Daniel.
"Can you give me a few minutes, Uncle Ernest? I won't keep you."

"My time is always at the service of Henry Ironsyde's boys," answered
the other, "and nothing that I can do for you, or Raymond, is a
trouble."

"Thank you. I'm grateful. It is about Raymond, as a matter of fact."

"Ah, I'm not altogether surprised. Come into the study."

Mr. Churchouse, carrying his new book, led the way and soon he heard of
the younger man's anxieties. But the bookworm increased rather than
allayed them.

"Do you see anything of Raymond?" began Daniel.

"A great deal of him. He often comes to supper. But I will be frank. He
does not patronise my simple board for what he can get there, nor does
he find my company very exciting. He wouldn't. The attraction, I'm
afraid, is my housekeeper's daughter, Sabina. Sabina, I may tell you, is
a very attractive girl, Daniel. It has been my pleasure during her youth
to assist at her education, and she is well informed and naturally
clever. She is inclined to be excitable, as many clever people are, but
she is of a charming disposition and has great natural ability. I had
thought she would very likely become a schoolmistress; but in this place
the call of the mills is paramount and, as you know, the young women
generally follow their mothers. So Sabina found the thought of the
spinning attractive and is now, Mr. Best tells me, an amazingly clever
spinner--his very first in fact. And it cannot be denied that Raymond
sees a good deal of her. This is probably not wise, because friendship,
at their tender ages, will often run into emotion, and, naturally
flattered by his ingenuous attentions, Sabina might permit herself to
spin dreams and so lessen her activities as a spinner of yarn. I say she
might. These things mean more to a girl than a boy."

"What can I do about it? I was going to ask you to talk sense to
Raymond."

"With all the will, I am not the man, I fear. Sense varies so much from
the standpoint of the observer, my dear Daniel. You, for example, having
an old head on young shoulders, would find yourself in agreement with my
sentiments; Raymond, having a young and rather empty head on his
magnificent shoulders, would not. I take the situation to be this.
Raymond's life has been suddenly changed and his prodigious physical
activities reduced. He bursts with life. He is more alive than any youth
I have ever known. Now all this exuberance of nature must have an
outlet, and what more natural than that, in the presence of such an
attractive young woman, the sex instinct should begin to assert itself?"

"You don't mean he is in love, or anything like that?"

"That is just exactly what I do mean," answered Mr. Churchouse.

"I thought he probably liked to chatter to them all, and hear his own
voice, and talk rubbish about what he'll do for them in the future."

"He has nebulous ideas about wages and so on; but women are quicker than
men, and probably they understand perfectly well that he doesn't know
what he's talking about so far as that goes. How would it be if you took
him into the office at Bridport, where he would be more under your eye?"

"He must learn the business first and nobody can teach him like Best."

"Then I advise that you talk to him yourself. Don't let the fact that
you are only a year and three months older than Raymond make you too
tolerant. You are really ten, or twenty, years older than he is in
certain directions, and you must lecture him accordingly. Be firm; be
decisive. Explain to him that life is real and that he must approach it
with the same degree of earnestness and self-discipline as he devotes to
running and playing games and the like. I feel sure you will carry great
weight. He is far from being a fool. In fact he is a very intelligent
young man with excellent brains, and if he would devote them to the
business, you would soon find him your right hand. The machinery does
honestly interest him. But you must make it a personal thing. He must
study political economy and the value of labour and its relations to
capital and the market value of dry spun yarns. These vague ideas to
better the lot of the working classes are wholly admirable and speak of
a good heart. But you must get him to listen to reason and the laws of
supply and demand and so forth."

"What shall I say about the girls?"

"It is not so much the girls as the girl. If he had manifested a general
interest in them, you need have said nothing; but, with the purest good
will to Raymond and a great personal affection for Sabina, I do feel
that this friendship is not desirable. Don't think I am cynical and
worldly and take too low a view of human nature--far from it, my dear
boy. Nothing would ever make me take a low view of human nature. But one
has not lived for sixty years with one's eyes shut. Unhappy things occur
and Nature is especially dangerous when you find her busy with such
natural creatures as your brother and Sabina. A word to the wise. I
would speak, but you will do so with far greater weight."

"I hate preaching and making Raymond think I'm a prig and all that sort
of thing. It only hardens him against me."

"He knows better. At any rate try persuasion. He has a remarkably good
temper and a child could lead him. In fact a child sometimes does. He'd
do anything for Waldron's little girl. Just say you admire and share his
ambitions for the welfare of the workers. Hint at supply and demand;
then explain that all must go according to fixed laws, and amelioration
is a question of time and combination, and so on. Then tackle him
fearlessly about Sabina and appeal to his highest instincts. I, too, in
my diplomatic way will approach him with modern instances. Unfortunately
it is only too easy to find modern instances of what romance may end in.
And to say that modern instances are exceedingly like ancient ones, is
merely to say, that human nature doesn't change."

Fired by this advice, Daniel went straight to the works, and it was
about eleven o'clock in the day when he entered his brother's office
above the Mill--to find it empty.

Descending to the main shop, he discovered Raymond showing a visitor
round the machines. Little Estelle Waldron was paying her first visit to
the spinners and, delighted at the distraction, Raymond, on whose
invitation she had come, displayed all the operation of turning flax and
hemp into yarn. He aired his knowledge, but it was incomplete and he
referred constantly to the operators from stage to stage.

Round-eyed and attentive, Estelle poured her whole heart and soul into
the business. She showed a quick perception and asked questions that
interested the girls. Some, indeed, they could not answer. Estelle's
mind approached their work from a new angle and saw in it mysteries and
points calling for solution that had never challenged them. Neither had
her problems much struck Raymond, but he saw their force when she raised
them and pronounced them most important.

"Why, that's fundamental, really," he said, "and yet, be shot, if I
ever thought of it! Only Best will know and I shouldn't be surprised if
he doesn't."

They stood at the First Drawing Frame when Daniel appeared. They had
followed the flat ribbon of sliver from the Carding Machine. At the
Drawing Frame six ribbons from the Carder were all brought together into
one ribbon and so gained in quality, while losing more impurities during
a second severe process of combing out.

"And even now it's not ready for spinning," explained Raymond. "Now it
goes on to the Second Drawing Frame, and four of these ribbons from the
First Drawer are brought together into one ribbon again. So you see that
no less than twenty-four ribbons from the Carder are brought together to
make stuff good enough to spin."

"What do the Drawing Frames do to it?" asked Estelle; "it looks just the
same."

"Blessed if I know," confessed Raymond. "What do they do to it, Mrs.
Chick?"

A venerable old woman, whose simple task was to wind away the flowing
sliver into cans, made answer. She was clad in a dun overall and had a
dim scarlet cap of worsted drawn over her white hair. The remains of
beauty homed in her brown and wrinkled face; her grey eyes were gentle,
and her expression wistful and kindly.

"The Drawing Heads level the 'sliver,' and true it, and make it good,"
she said. "All the rubbish is dragged out on the teeth and now, though
it seems thinner and weaker, it isn't really. Now it goes to the Roving
Frame and that makes it still better and ready for the spinners."

Then came Daniel, and Raymond, leaving Estelle with Mrs. Chick, departed
at his brother's wish. The younger anticipated trouble and began to
excuse himself.

"Waldron's so jolly friendly that I thought you wouldn't mind if I
showed his little girl round the works. She's tremendously clever and
intelligent."

"Of course I don't mind. That's nothing, but I want to speak to you on
the general question. I do wish, Raymond, you'd be more dignified."

"Dignified! Me? Good Lord!"

"Well, if you don't like that word, say 'self-respecting.' You might
take longer views and look ahead."

"You may bet your boots I do that, Dan. This life isn't so delightful
that I am content to live in the present hour, I assure you. I look
ahead all right."

"I mean look ahead for the sake of the business, not for your own sake.
I don't want to preach, or any nonsense of that kind; but there's nobody
else to speak, so I must. The point is that you don't see in the least
what you are doing here. In the future my idea was--and yours, too, I
suppose--that you came into the business as joint partner with me in
everything."

"Jolly sporting of you, Dan."

"But that being so, can't you see you ought to support me in
everything?"

"I do."

"No, you don't. You're not taking the right line in the least, and
what's more, I believe you know it yourself. Don't think I'm selfish
and careless about our people, or indifferent to their needs and rights.
I'm quite as keen about their welfare as you are; but one can't do
everything in a moment. And you're not helping them and only hindering
me by talking a lot of rubbish to them."

"It isn't rubbish, Dan. I had all the facts from Levi Baggs, the
hackler. He understands the claims of capital and what labour is
entitled to, and all the rest of it."

"Baggs is a sour, one-sided man and will only give you a biased and
wrong view. If you want to know the truth, you can come into Bridport
and study it. Then you'll see exactly what things are worth, and what we
get paid in open market for our goods. All you do by listening to Levi
is to waste your time and waste his. And then you wander about among the
women talking nonsense. And remember this: they know it's nonsense.
They understand the question very much better than you do, and instead
of respecting you, as they ought to respect a future master, they only
laugh at you behind your back. And what will the result be? Why, when
you come to have a voice in the thing, they'll remind you of all your
big talk. And then you've got to climb down and they'll not respect you,
or take you seriously."

"All right, old chap--enough said. Only you needn't think the people
wouldn't respect me. I get on jolly well with them as a matter of fact.
And I do look ahead--perhaps further than you do. I certainly wouldn't
promise anything I wouldn't try to perform. In fact, I'm very keen about
them. And I believe if we scrapped all the machinery and got new--"

"When you've mastered the present machinery, it will be time to talk
about scrapping it," answered Daniel. "People are always shouting out
for new things, and when they get them--and sacrifice a year's profits
very likely in doing so--often the first thing they hear from the
operatives is, that the old machinery was much better. Our father always
liked to see other firms make the experiments."

"That's the way to get left, if you ask me."

"I don't ask you," answered the master. "I'm telling you, Raymond; and
you ought to remember that I very well know what I'm talking about and
you don't. You must give me some credit. To question me is to question
our father, for I learned everything from him."

"But times change. You don't want to be left high and dry in the march
of progress, my dear chap."

"No--you needn't fear that. If you're young, you're a part of progress;
you belong to it. But you must get a general knowledge of the present
situation in our trade before you can do anything rational in the shape
of progress. I've been left a very fine business with a very honoured
name to keep up, and if I begin trying to run before I can walk, I
should very soon fall down. You must see that."

Raymond nodded.

"Yes, that's all right. I'm a learner and I know you can teach me a
lot."

"If you'd come to me instead of to the mill people."

"You don't know their side."

"Much better than you do. I've talked with our father often and often
about it. He was no tyrant and nobody could ever accuse him of
injustice."

Raymond flashed; but he kept his mouth shut on that theme. The only
bitter quarrels between the brothers had been on the subject of their
father, and the younger knew that the ground was dangerous. At this
moment the last thing he desired was any difference with Daniel.

"I'll keep it all in mind, Dan. I don't want to do anything to annoy
you, God knows. Is there any more? I must go and look after young
Estelle."

"Only one thing; and this is purely personal, and so I hope you'll
excuse me. I've just been seeing Uncle Ernest, and nobody wished us
better fortune than he does."

"He's a good old boy. I've learned a lot about spinning from him."

"I know. But--look here, Raymond, I do beg of you--I implore of you not
to be too friendly with Sabina Dinnett. You can't think how I should
hate anything like that. It isn't fair--it isn't fair to the woman, or
to me, or to the family. You must see yourself that sort of thing isn't
right. She's a very good girl--our champion spinner Best says; and if
you go distracting her and taking her out of her station, you are doing
her a very cruel turn and upsetting her peace of mind. And the others
will be jealous, of course, and so it will go on. It isn't playing the
game--it really isn't. That's all. I know you're a sportsman and all
that; so I do beg you'll be a sportsman in business too, and take a
proper line and remember your obligations. And if I've said a harsh, or
unfair word, I'm sorry for it; but you know I haven't."

Seeing that Sabina Dinnett was now in paramount and triumphant
possession of Raymond's mind, he felt thankful that his brother, by
running on over this subject and concluding upon the whole question, had
saved him the necessity for any direct reply. Whether he would have lied
or no concerning Sabina, Raymond did not stop to consider. There is
little doubt that he would. But the need was escaped; and so thankful
did he feel, that he responded to the admonishment in a tone more
complete and with promises more comprehensive than Daniel expected.

"You're dead right. Of course I know it! I've been a silly fool all
round. But I won't open my mouth so wide in future, Dan. And don't think
I'm wasting my time. I'm working like the devil, really, and learning
everything from the beginning. Best will tell you that's true. He's a
splendid teacher and I'll see more of him in future. And I'll read all
about yarn and get the hang of the markets, and so on."

"Thank you--you can't say more. And you might come into Bridport
oftener, I think. Aunt Jenny was saying she never sees you now."

"I will," promised Raymond. "I'm going to dine with you both on my
birthday. I believe she'll be good for fifty quid this year. Father left
her a legacy of a thousand."

They parted, and Raymond returned to Estelle, who was now watching the
warping, while Daniel went into his foreman's office.

Estelle was radiant. She had fallen in love with the works.

"The girls are all so kind and clever," she said.

"Rather so. I expect you know all about everything now."

"Hardly anything yet. But you must let me come again. I do want to know
all about it. It is splendidly interesting."

"Of course, come and go when you like, kiddy."

"And I'm going to ask some of them to tea with me," declared Estelle.
"They all love flowers, and I'm going to show them our garden and my
pets. I've asked seven of them and two men."

"Ask me, too."

She brought out a piece of paper and showed him that she had written
down nine names.

"And if they like it, they'll tell the others and I shall ask them too,"
she said. "Father is always wanting me to spend money, so now I'll spend
some on a beautiful tea."

Raymond saw the name of Sabina Dinnett.

"I'll be there to help you," he promised.

"Nicholas Roberts is the lover of Miss Northover," explained Estelle,
"and Benny Cogle is the lover of Miss Gale. That's why I asked them. I
very nearly went back and asked Mister Baggs to come, because he seems a
silent, sad man; but I was rather frightened of him."

"Don't ask him; he's an old bear," declared Raymond.

Thus, forgetting his brother as though Daniel had ceased to exist, he
threw himself into Estelle's enterprise and planned an entertainment
that must at least have rendered the master uneasy.




CHAPTER IX

THE PARTY


Arthur Waldron did more than love his daughter. He bore to her almost a
superstitious reverence, as for one made of superior flesh and blood. He
held her in some sort a reincarnation of his wife and took no credit for
her cleverness himself. Yet he did not spoil her, for her nature was
proof against that.

Estelle, though old for her age, could not be called a prig. She
developed an abstract interest in life as her intellect unfolded to
accept its wonders and mysteries, yet she remained young in mind as well
as body, and was always very glad to meet others of her own age. The
mill girls were indeed older than she, but Mr. Waldron's daughter found
their minds as young as her own in such subjects as interested her,
though there were many things hidden from her that life had taught them.

Her father never doubted Estelle's judgment or crossed her wishes.
Therefore he approved of the proposed party and did his best to make it
a success. Others also were glad to aid Estelle and, to her delight,
Ernest Churchouse, with whom she was in favour, yielded to entreaty and
joined the company on the lawn of North Hill House. Tea was served out
of doors, and to it there came nine workers from the mill, and two of
Mr. Best's own girls, who were friends of Estelle. Nicholas Roberts
arrived with his future wife, Sarah Northover; Sabina Dinnett came with
Nancy Buckler and Sally Groves from the Carding Machine, while Alice
Chick brought old Mrs. Chick; Mercy Gale came too--a fair, florid girl,
who warped the yarn when it was spun.

Mr. Waldron was not a ladies' man, and after helping with the tea,
served under a big mulberry tree in the garden, he turned his attention
to Mr. Roberts, already known favourably to him as a cricketer, and
Benny Cogle, the engine man. They departed to look at a litter of
puppies and the others perambulated the gardens. Estelle had a plot of
her own, where grew roses, and here, presently, each with a rose at her
breast, the girls sat about on an old stone seat and listened to Mr.
Churchouse discourse on the lore of their trade.

Some, indeed, were bored by the subject and stole away to play beside a
fountain and lily pond, where the gold fish were tame and crowded to
their hands for food; but others listened and learned surprising facts
that set the thoughtful girls wondering.

"You mustn't think, you spinners, that you are the last word in
spinning," he said; "no, Alice and Nancy and Sabina, you're not; no more
are those at other mills, who spin in choicer materials than flax and
hemp--I mean the workers in cotton and silk. For the law of things in
general, called evolution, seems to stand still when machinery comes to
increase output and confuse our ideas of quality and quantity. Missis
Chick here will tell you, when she was a spinner and the old rope walks
were not things of the past, that she spun quite as good yarn from the
bundle of tow at her waist as you do from the regulation spinners."

"And better," said Mrs. Chick.

"I believe you," declared Ernest, "and before your time the yarn was
better still. For, though some of the best brains in men's heads have
been devoted to the subject, we go backwards instead of forwards, and
things have been done in spinning that I believe will never be done
again. In fact, the further you go back, the better the yarn seems to
have been, and I'm sure I don't know how the laws of evolution can
explain that. The secret is this: machinery, for all its marvellous
improvements, lags far behind the human hand, and the record yarns were
spun in the East, while our forefathers still went about in wolf-skins
and painted their faces blue. You may laugh, but it is so."

"Tell us about them, Mister Churchouse," begged Estelle.

"For the moment we needn't go back so far," he said. "I'll remind you
what a girl thirteen years old did in Ireland a hundred years ago. Only
thirteen was Catherine Woods--mark that, Sabina and Alice--but she was a
genius who lived in Dunmore, County Down, and she spun a hank of linen
yarn of such tenuity that it would have taken seven hundred such hanks
to make a pound of yarn."

He turned to Estelle.

"Sabina and the other spinners will appreciate this," he said, "but to
explain the marvel of such spider-like spinning, Estelle, I may tell you
that seventeen and a half pounds of Catherine's yarn would have sufficed
to stretch round the equator of the earth. No machine-spun yarn has ever
come within measurable distance of this astounding feat, and I have
never heard of any spinner in Europe or America equalling it; yet even
this has been beaten when we were painting our noses blue."

"Where?" asked Estelle breathlessly.

"In the land of all wonders: Egypt. Herodotus tells us of a linen
corselet, presented to the Lacedemonians by King Amasis, each thread of
which commanded admiration, for though very fine, each was twisted of
three hundred and sixty others! And if you decline to believe this--"

"Oh, Mister Churchouse, we quite believe it I'm sure, sir, if you say
so," interrupted Mrs. Chick.

"Well, a later authority, Sir Gardiner Wilkinson, tells us of equal
wonders. The linen which he unwound from Egyptian mummies has proved as
delicate as silk, and equal, if not superior, to our best cambrics. Five
hundred and forty threads went to the warp and a hundred and ten to the
weft; and I'm sure a modern weaver would wonder how they could produce
quills fine enough for weaving such yarn through."

"There's nothing new under the sun, seemingly," said old Mrs. Chick.

"Indeed there isn't, my dear, and so, perhaps, in the time to come, we
shall spin again as well as the Egyptians five or six thousand years
ago," declared Ernest.

"And even then the spiders will always beat us I expect," said Estelle.

"True--true, child; nor has man learned the secret, of the caterpillar's
silken spinning. Talking of caterpillars, you may, or may not, have
observed--"

It was at this point that Raymond, behind the speaker's back, beckoned
Sabina, and presently, as Mr. Churchouse began to expatiate on Nature's
spinning, she slipped away. The garden was large and held many winding
paths and secluded nooks. Thus the lovers were able to hide themselves
from other eyes and amuse themselves with their own conversation.

Sabina praised Estelle.

"She's a dear little lady and ever so clever, I'm sure."

"So she is, and yet she loses a lot. Though her father's such a great
sportsman, she doesn't care a button about it. Wouldn't ride on a pony
even."

"I can very well understand that. Nor would I if I had the chance."

"You're different, Sabina. You've not been brought up in a sporting
family. All the same you'd ride jolly well, because you've got nerve
enough for anything and a perfect figure for riding. You'd look fairly
lovely on horseback."

"Whatever will you say next?"

"I often wonder myself," he answered. "This much I'll say any way: it's
meat and drink to me to be walking here with you. I only wish I was
clever and could really amuse you and make you want to see me,
sometimes. But the things I understand, of course, bore you to tears."

"You know very well that isn't so," she said. "You've told me heaps of
things well worth knowing--things I should never have heard of but for
you. And--and I'm sure I'm very proud of your friendship."

"Good Lord! It's the other way about. Thanks to Mister Churchouse and
your own wits, you are fearfully well read, and your cleverness fairly
staggers me. Just to hear you talk is all I want--at least that isn't
all. Of course, it is a great score for an everyday sort of chap like me
to have interested you."

Sabina did not answer and after a silence which drew out into
awkwardness, she made some remark on the flowers. But Raymond was not
interested about the flowers. He had looked forward to this occasion as
an opportunity of exceptional value and now strove to improve the
shining hour.

"You know I'm a most unlucky beggar really, Sabina. You mightn't think
it, but I am. You see me cheerful, and joking and trying to make things
pleasant for us all at the works; but sometimes, if you could see me
tramping alone over North Hill, or walking on the beach and looking at
the seagulls, you'd be sorry for me."

"Of course, I'd be sorry for you--if there was anything to be sorry
for."

"Look at it. An open-air man brought up to think my father would leave
me all right, and then cut off with nothing and forced to come here and
stew and toil and wear myself out struggling with a most difficult
business--difficult to me, any way."

"I'm sure you're mastering it as quickly as possible."

"But the effort. And my muscles are shrinking and I'm losing weight.
But, of course, that's nothing to anybody but myself. And then, another
side: I want to think of you people first and raise your salaries and
so on--especially yours, for you ought to have pounds where you have
shillings. And my wishes to do proper things, in the line of modern
progress and all that, are turned down by my brother. Here am I thinking
about you and worrying and knowing it's all wrong--and there's nobody on
my side--not a damned person. And it makes me fairly mad."

"I'm sure it's splendid of you to look at the Mill in such a high-minded
way," declared Sabina. "And now you've told me, I shall understand
what's in your mind. I'm sure I thank you for the thought at any rate."

"If you'd only be my friend," he said.

"It would be a great honour for a girl--just a spinner--to be that."

"The honour is for me. You've got such tons of mind, Sabina. You
understand all the economical side, and so on."

"A thing is only worth what it will fetch, I'm afraid."

"That's the point. If you would help me, we would go into it and
presently, when I'm a partner, we could bring out a scheme; and then
you'd know you'd been instrumental in raising the tone of the whole
works. And probably, if we set a good example, other works would raise
their tone, too, and gradually the workers would find the whole scheme
of things changing, to their advantage."

Sabina regarded this majestic vision with due reverence. She praised his
ideals and honestly believed him a hero.

They discussed the subject while the dusk came down and he prophesied
great things.

"We shall live to see it," he assured her, "and it may be largely thanks
to you. And when you have a home of your own and--and--"

It was then that she became conscious of his very near presence and the
dying light.

"They'll all have gone, and so must I," she said, "and I hope you'll
thank Miss Waldron dearly for her nice party."

"This is only the first; she'll give dozens more now that this has been
such a success. She loves the Mill. If you come this way I can let you
out by the bottom gate--by the bamboo garden. You've bucked me up like
anything--you always do. You're the best thing in my life, Sabina. Oh,
if I was anything to you--if--but of course it's all one way."

His voice shook a little. He burned to put his arms round her, and
Nature shouted so loud in his humming ears that he hardly heard her
answer. For she echoed his emotion.

"What can I say to that? You're so kind--you don't know how kind. You
can't guess what such friendship means to a girl like me. It's something
that doesn't come into our lives very often. I'm only wondering what the
world will be like when you've gone again."

"I shan't go--I'm never going. Never, Sabina. I--I couldn't live without
you. Kiss me, for God's sake. I must kiss you--I must--or I shall go
mad."

His arms were round her and he felt her hot cheek against his. They were
young in love and dared not look into each other's eyes. But she kissed
him back, and then, as he released her, she ran away, slipped through
the wicket, where they stood and hastened off by the lane to Bridetown.
He glowed at her touch and panted at his triumph. She had not rebuked
him, but let him see that she loved him and kissed him for his kiss. He
did not attempt to follow her then but turned full of glory. Here was a
thing that dwarfed every interest of life and made life itself a
triviality by comparison. She loved him; he had won her; nothing else
that would be, or had been, in the whole world mattered beside such a
triumph. His head had touched the stars.

And he felt amazingly grateful to her. His thoughts for the moment were
full of chivalry. Her life must be translated to higher terms and new
values. She should have the best that the world could offer, and he
would win it for her. Her trust was so pathetic and beautiful. To be
trusted by her made him feel a finer thing and more important to the
cosmic scheme.

In itself this was a notable sensation and an addition of power, for
nobody had ever trusted him until now. And here was a radiant creature,
the most beautiful in the world, who trusted him with herself. His love
brought a sense of splendour; her love brought a sense of strength.

He swung back to the house feeling in him such mastery as might bend the
whole earth to his purposes, take Leviathan with a hook, and hang the
constellations in new signs upon the void of heaven.




CHAPTER X

WORK


Sarah Northover and another young woman were tending the Spread Board.
To this came the 'long line' from the hackler--those strides of amber
hemp and lint-white flax that Mr. Baggs prepared in the hackler's shop.
The Spread Board worked upon the long line as the Carder on the tow.
Over its endless leathern platform, or spreading carriage, the long
fibre was drawn into the toothed gills of the machine and converted into
sliver for the Drawing Frames.

With swift and rhythmic flinging apart of her arms over her head, Sarah
separated the stricks into three and laid them overlapping on the
carriage. The ribbon thus created was never-ending and wound away into
the torture chambers of wheels and teeth within, while from the rear of
the Spreader trickled out the new-created sliver. Great scales hung
beside Sarah and from time to time she weighed fresh loads of long line
and recorded the amount.

Her arms flashed upwards, the divided stricks came down to be laid in
rotation on the running carriage, and ceaselessly she and her fellow
worker chattered despite the din around them.

"My Aunt Nelly's coming to see me this morning," said Sarah. "She's
driving over to talk to Mister Waldron about his apple orchard and have
a look round. Last year she bought the whole orchard for cider; and if
she thinks well of it, she'll do the same this year."

"I wonder you stop here," answered the other girl, "when you might go to
your aunt and work in her public-house. I'd a long sight sooner be there
than here."

"You wouldn't if you was engaged to Mister Roberts," answered Sarah.
"Of course seeing him every day makes all the difference. And as to
work, there's nothing in it, for everybody's got to work at 'The Seven
Stars,' I can tell you, and the work's never done there."

"It's the company I should like," declared the other. "I'd give a lot to
see new people every day. In a public they come and go, before you've
got time to be sick of the sight of 'em. But here, you see the same
people and hear the same voices every day of your blessed life; and
sometimes it makes me feel right down wicked."

"It's narrowing to the mind I dare say, unless you've got a man like
Mister Roberts with a lot of general ideas," admitted Sarah. "But you
know very well for that matter you could have a man to-morrow. Benny
Cogle's mate is daft for you."

The other sniffed.

"It's very certain he ain't got no general ideas, beyond the steam
engine. He can only talk about the water wheel to-day and the boilers
to-morrow. When I find a chap, he'll have to know a powerful lot more
about life than that chap--and shave himself oftener also."

"He'd shave every day if you took him, same as Mister Roberts does,"
said Sarah.

Elsewhere Mr. Best was starting a run of the Gill Spinner, a machine
which took sliver straight from the Drawing Frames and spun it into a
large coarse yarn. A novice watched him get the great machine to work,
make all ready and then, at a touch, connect it with the power and set
it crashing and roaring. Its voice was distinctive and might be heard by
a practised ear above the prevailing thunder.

Then came Mrs. Nelly Northover to this unfamiliar scene, peeped in at a
door or two and failed to see Sarah, who laboured at the other end of
the Mill. But the hostess of 'The Seven Stars' knew Sabina Dinnett and
now shook hands with her and then stood and watched in bewildered
admiration before a big frame of a hundred spindles.

Sabina was spinning with a heart very full of happiness. On the previous
evening she had promised to wed Raymond Ironsyde, and her thoughts
to-day were winged with over-mastering joy. For life had turned into a
glorious triumph; the man who had asked her to marry him was not only a
gentleman, but far above the power of any wrong-doing. She knew in the
very secret places of her soul, that he could never act away from his
honest and noble character; that he was a knight above reproach,
incapable of wronging any living thing. There was an element of risk for
most girls who fell in love with those better born than themselves; but
none for her. Other men might deceive and abuse, and suffer outer
influences to chill their love, when the secret of it became known; but
not this man. His rare nature had been revealed to her; he desired the
welfare of all people; he was moved with nothing but the purest
principles and loftiest feeling. He would not willingly have brought
sorrow to a child. And she had won this unique spirit! He loved her with
the love that only such a man was great enough to show; and she echoed
it and knew that such a passion must be unchanging, everlasting, built
not only to make their united lives unspeakably happy and gloriously
content, but to run over also into the lives of others, less blessed,
and leave the sad world happier for their happiness. There was not a
cloud in the sky of her romance and she shared with him for the moment
the joy of secrecy. But that would not be long. They had determined to
hug their delicious knowledge for a little while and then proclaim the
great tidings to the world.

So she followed the old road, along which her sisters had tramped from
immemorial time, and would still tramp through the generations to come,
when her journey was ended and the wonderful country of man's love
explored--its oases visited, its antres endured.

Now Sabina played priestess to the Spinning Machine--a monster reared
above her, stupendous and insatiable.

Along the summit of the Spinning Frame, just within reach of tall
Sabina's uplifted hand, there perched a row of reels from which the
finished material descended through series of rollers. The retaining
roller aloft gave it to the steel delivery roller which drew the thin,
sad-looking stuff with increased speed downward. And here at its moment
of most shivering tenuity, when the perfected and purified material
seemed reduced to an extremity of weakness, came the magic change.
Unseen in the whirring complexity of the spinner, it received the
momentous gift that translates fibre to yarn. In a moment it changed
from stuff a baby's finger could break to thread capable of supporting
fifteen pounds of pressure. For now came the twist--that word of mighty
significance--and the tiny thread of new-born yarn descended to the
spindle, vanished in the whirl of the flier and reappeared, an
accomplished miracle, winding on the bobbin beneath.

Upon the spindle revolved the flier--a fork of steel with guide eye at
one leg of the fork--and through the guide eye came the twisted yarn to
wind on the bobbin below. There, as the bobbin frame rose and fell, the
thread was perfectly delivered to the reel and coiled off layer by layer
upon it.

Mrs. Northover stared to see the nature of a Spinner's duties and the
ease with which she controlled the great, pulsing, roaring frame of a
hundred spindles. Sabina's eyes were everywhere; her hands were never
still; her feet seemed to dance a measure to the thunder of the Frame.
Now she marked a roving reel aloft that was running out, and in a moment
she had broken the sliver, swept away the empty reel and hung up a full
one. Then she drew the new sliver down to the point of the break and, in
a moment, the two merged and the thread ran on. Now her fingers touched
the spindles, as a musician touches the keys, and at a moment's pressure
the machine obeyed and the yarn flew on its way obedient. Now she
cleared a snarl, or catch, where a spindle appeared to have run amuck or
created hopeless confusion; now she readjusted the weights that kept a
drag on the humming bobbins. Her twinkling hands touched and calmed and
fed the monster. She knew its whims, corrected its errors, brought to
her insensate machine the complement of brain that made it trustworthy.
And when the bobbins were all full, she hastened along the Frame, turned
off the driving power and silenced the huge activity in a moment. Then,
like lightning, she cut her hundred threads and lifted the bobbins from
their spindles until she had a pile upon her shoulder. In a marvellously
short time she had doffed the bobbins and set up a hundred empty ones.
Then the cut threads were readjusted, the power turned on and all was
motion again.

Sabina had never calculated her labours, until Raymond took the trouble
to do so; then she learned a fact that astonished her. He found that it
took a hundred and fifty minutes to spin one thousand and fifty yards;
and as each spindle spun two and a half miles in ten hours, her daily
accomplishment was two hundred and fifty miles of yarn.

"You spin from seventy to eighty thousand miles of single yarn a year,"
he told her, and the fact expressed in these terms amazed her and her
sister spinners.

Now Nelly Northover praised the performance.

"To think that you slips of girls can do anything so wonderful!" she
said. "We talk of the spinners of Bridport as if they were nobodies; but
upon my conscience, Sabina, I never will again. I've always thought I
was a pretty busy woman; but I'd drop to the earth I'm sure after an
hour of your job, let alone ten hours."

Sabina laughed.

"It's use, Mrs. Northover. Some take to it like a duck to water. I did
for one. But some never do. If you come to the Frame frightened, you
never make a spinner. They're like humans, the Spinning Frames; if they
think you're afraid of them, they'll always bully you, but if you show
them you're mistress, it's all right. They have their moods and whims,
just as we have. They vary, and you never know how the day will go.
Sometimes everything runs smoothly; sometimes nothing does. Some days
you're as fresh at the end as the beginning; some days you're dog-tired
and worn out after a proper fight."

"There's something hungry and cruel and wicked about 'em to my eye,"
declared Mrs. Northover.

"We're oftener in fault than the Frames, however. Sometimes the
spinner's to blame herself--she may be out of sorts and heavy-handed and
slow on her feet and can't put up her ends right, or do anything right;
and often it's the fault of the other girls and the 'rove' comes to the
spinner rough; and often, again, it's just luck--good or bad. If the
machine always ran perfect, there'd be nothing to do. But you've got
to use your wits from the time it starts to the time it stops."

"The creature would best me every time," said the visitor, regarding
Sabina's machine with suspicion and something akin to dislike.

The spinner stopped a fouled spindle and rubbed her hand.

"Sometimes the yarn's always snarling and your drag weights are always
burning off and the stuff is full of kinks and the sliver's badly pieced
up--that's the drawing minder's fault--and a bad drawing minder means
work for me. Your niece, Sarah, is a very good drawing minder, Mrs.
Northover. Then you'll get ballooning, when the thread flies round above
the flier, and that means too little strain on the jamb and the bobbin
has got to be tempered. And often it's too hot, or else too cold, for
hemp and flax must have their proper temperature. But to-day my machine
is as good and kind as a nice child, that only asks to be fed and won't
quarrel with anybody."

Mrs. Northover, however, saw nothing to praise, for Sabina's speech had
been broken a dozen times.

"If that's what you call working kindly, I'd like to see the wretch in a
nasty mood," she said. "I lay you want to slap it sometimes."

Sabina was mending a drag that had burned off. The drags were heavy
weights hanging from strings that pressed upon the side of the bobbins
and controlled their speed. The friction often burned these cords
through and the weights had to be lifted and retied again and again.

"We want a clever invention to put this right," she said. "A lot of good
time's wasted with the weights. Nobody's thought upon the right thing
yet."

"I'm properly dazed," confessed Nelly Northover. "You live and learn
without a doubt--nothing's so true as that."

Her niece had seen her and approached, as the machinery began to still
for the dinner-hour.

"Morning, Sarah. Can you do such wonders as Miss Dinnett?" she asked.

"No, Aunt Nelly. I'm a spreader minder. But I'll be a spinner some day,
if Mr. Roberts likes for me to stop, here after I'm married."

"Sarah would soon learn to spin," declared Sabina.

Then she turned to bid Raymond Ironsyde good morning. His brother was
away from Bridport on a tour with one of his travellers, that he might
become acquainted with many of his more important customers. Raymond,
therefore, felt safe and was wasting a good deal of his time. He had
brought a basket of fruit from North Hill House--a present from
Estelle--and he began to dispense plums and pears as the women streamed
away to dinner.

They knew him very well now and treated him with varying degrees of
familiarity. Early doubts had vanished, and they took him as a good
natured, rather 'soft' young man, who meant well and was friendly and
harmless. The ill-educated are always suspicious, and Levi Baggs
declared from the first that Raymond was nothing better than his
brother's spy, placed here for a time to inquire into the ambitions and
ideas of the workers and so help the firm to combat the lawful demands
of those whom they employed; but this theory was long exploded save in
the mind of Mr. Baggs himself. The people of Bridetown Mill held Raymond
on their side, and all were secretly interested to know what would
spring of his frank friendship with Sabina.

In serious moments Raymond felt uneasy at the relations he had
established with the workers, and Mr. Best did not hesitate to warn
him again and again that discipline was ill served by such easy terms
between employer and employed; but his moments of perspicuity were rare,
for now his mind and soul were poured into one thought and one only. He
was riotously happy in his love affair and could not pretend to his
fellow creatures anything he did not feel. Always amiable and
accessible, his romance made him still more so, and he was
constitutionally unable at this moment to take a serious view of
anything or anybody.

One ray of hope, however, Mr. Best recognised: Raymond did show an
honest and genuine interest in the machines. He had told the foreman
that he believed the great problem lay there, and where machinery was
concerned he could be exceedingly intelligent and rational. This trait
in him had a bearing on the future and, in time to come, John Best
remembered its inception and perceived how it had developed.

Now, his fruit dispensed, Raymond talked with Sabina about the Spinning
Frame and instructed Mrs. Northover, who was an acquaintance of his, in
its mysteries.

"These are old-fashioned frames," he declared, "and I shan't rest till
I've turned them out of the works and got the latest and best. I'm all
for the new things, because they help the workers and give good results.
In fact, I tell my brother that he's behind the times. That's the
advantage of coming to a subject fresh, with your mind unprejudiced.
Daniel's all bound up in the past and, of course, everything my father
did must be right; but I know better. You have to move with the times,
and if you don't you'll get left."

"That's true enough, Mr. Ironsyde, whatever your business may be,"
answered Mrs. Northover.

"Of course--look at 'The Seven Stars.' You're always up to date, and why
should my spinners--I call them mine--why should they have to spin on
machines that come out of the ark, when, by spending a few thousand,
they could have the latest?"

"You've got to balance cost against value," answered the innkeeper. "It
don't do to dash at things. One likes for the new to be tried on its
merits first, and then, if it proves all that's claimed for it, you go
in and keep abreast of the times according; but the old will often be
found as good as the new; and so Mr. Daniel no doubt looks before he
leaps."

"That's cowardly in my opinion," replied Raymond. "You must take the
chances. Of course if you're frightened to back your judgment, then that
shows you're a second class man with a second class sort of mind; but if
you believe in yourself, as everybody does who is any good, then you go
ahead, and if you come a purler now and again, that's nothing, because
you get it back in other ways. I'm not frightened to chance my luck, am
I, Sabina?"

"Never was such a brave one, I'm sure," she said, conscious of their
secret.

"If you haven't got nerve, you're no good," summed up the young man;
"and if you have got nerve, then use it and break out of the beaten
track and welcome your luck and court a few adventures for your soul's
sake."

"All very well for you men," said Mrs. Northover. "You can have
adventures and no great harm done; but us women, if we try for
adventures, we come to a bad end."

"Nobody's more adventurous than you," answered Raymond. "Look at your
gardens and your teas for a bob ahead. Wasn't that an adventure--to give
a better tea than anybody in Bridport?"

"I believe women have quite as many adventures as men," declared Sarah
Northover, who was waiting for her aunt, "only we're quieter about 'em."

"We've got to be," answered Mrs. Northover. "Now come on to your
mother's, Sarah. There's Mr. Roberts waiting for us outside."

In the silent and empty mill Raymond dawdled for a few minutes with
Sabina, talked love and won a caress. Then she put on her sunbonnet and
he walked with her to the door of her home, left her at 'The Magnolias'
and went his way with Estelle's fruit basket.

A great expedition had been planned by the lovers for a forthcoming
public holiday. They were going to rise in the dawn, before the rest of
the world was awake, and tramp out through West Haven to Golden Cap--the
supreme eminence of the south coast, that towers with bright,
sponge-coloured precipices above the sea, nigh Lyme.




CHAPTER XI

THE OLD STORE-HOUSE


Through a misty morning, made silver bright by the risen sun, Sabina and
Raymond started for their August holiday. They left Bridetown, passed
through a white fog on the water-meadows and presently climbed to the
cliffs and pursued their way westward. Now the sun was over the sea and
the Channel gleamed and flashed under a wakening, westerly breeze.

To West Haven they came, where the cliffs break and the rivers from
Bridport flow through sluices into the little harbour.

Among the ancient, weather-worn buildings standing here with their feet
in the sand drifts, was one specially picturesque. A long and lofty mass
it presented, and a hundred years of storm and salt-laden winds had
toned it to rich colour and fretted its roof and walls with countless
stains. It was a store, three stories high, used of old time for
merchandise, but now sunk to rougher uses. In its great open court,
facing north, were piled thousands of tons of winnowed sand; its vaults
were barred and empty; its glass windows were shattered; rust had eaten
away its metal work and rot reduced its doors and sashes to powder. Rich
red and auburn was its face, with worn courses of brickwork like wounds
gashed upon it. A staircase of stone rose against one outer wall, and
aloft, in the chambers approached thereby, was laid up a load of sweet
smelling, deal planks brought by a Norway schooner. Here too, were all
manner of strange little chambers, some full of old nettings, others
littered with the marine stores of the fishermen, who used the ruin for
their gear. The place was rat-haunted and full of strange holes and
corners. Even by day, with the frank sunshine breaking through boarded
windows and broken roof, it spoke of incident and adventure; by night it
was eloquent of the past--of smugglers, of lawless deeds, of Napoleonic
spies.

Raymond and Sabina stood and admired the old store. To her it was
something new, for her activities never brought her to West Haven; but
he had been familiar with it from childhood, when, with his brother, he
had spent school holidays at West Haven, caught prawns from the pier,
gone sailing with the fisher folk, and spent many a wet day in the old
store-house.

He smiled upon it now, told her of his childish adventures and took her
in to see an ancient chamber where he and Daniel had often played their
games.

"Our nurse used to call it a 'cubby hole,'" he said. "And she was
always; jolly thankful when she could pilot us in here from the dangers
of the cliffs and the old pier, or the boats in the harbour. The place
is just the same--only shrunk. The plaster from the walls is all
mouldering away, or you might see the pictures we used to draw upon them
with paint from the fishermen's paint pots. Down below they bring the
sand and grade it for the builders. They've carted away millions of tons
of sand from the foreshore in the last fifty years and will cart away
millions more, no doubt, for the sea always renews it."

She wandered with him and listened half-dreaming. The air for them was
electric with their love and they yearned for each other.

"I wish we could spend the whole blessed day in this little den
together," he said suddenly putting his arms round her; and that brought
her to some sense of reality, but none of danger. Not a tremor of peril
in his company had she ever felt, for did not perfect love cast out
fear, and why should a woman hesitate to trust herself with one, to
her, the most precious in the world?

He suggested dawdling awhile; but she would not.

"We are to eat our breakfast at Eype Beach," she reminded him, "and
that's a mile or two yet."

So they went on their way again, breasted the grassy cliffs westward of
the haven, admired the fog bank touched with gold that hung over the
river flats, praised Bridport wakening under its leafy woods, marked the
herons on the river mud in the valley and the sparrow-hawk poised aloft
above the downs. She took his arm up the hill and, like birds
themselves, they went lightly together, strong, lissome, radiant in
health and youth and the joy of a shared worship that made all things
sweet.

They talked of the great day when the world was to know their secret.
The secret itself proved so attractive to both that they agreed to keep
it a little longer. Their shared knowledge proved amusing and each told
the other of the warnings and advice and fears imparted by careful
friends of both sexes, who knew not the splendid truth.

How small the wisdom of the wise appeared--how peddling and foolish and
mean--contrasted with their superb trust. How sordid were the ways of
the world, its fears and suspicions, from the vantage point to which
they had climbed. Material things even suggested this thought to
Raymond, and when before noon, they stood on the green crown of Golden
Cap, with the earth and sea spread out around them in mighty harmonies
of blue and green, he told Sabina so.

"We ought to be perched on a place like this," he said, "because we are
to the rest of the world, in mind and in happiness, as we are here in
body too."

"Only the sea gulls can go higher, and I always feel they're more like
spirits than birds," she answered.

"I've got no use for spirits," he told her. "The splendid thing about us
is that we're flesh and blood and spirit too. That's the really
magnificent combination for happy creatures. A spirit at best can only
be an unfinished thing. People make such a fuss about escaping from the
flesh. What the deuce do you want to escape from your flesh for, if it's
healthy and tough and fine?"

"When they get old, they feel like that."

"Let the old comfort the old then," he said. "I'm proud of my flesh and
bones, and so are you, and so we ought to be; and if I had to give them
up and die, I should hate it. And if I found myself in another world, a
poor shivering idea and nothing else, without flesh and bones to cover
me, or clothes to cover them, I should feel ashamed of myself. And they
might call it Paradise as much as they liked, but it would be Hades to
me. Of course many of the ghosts would pretend that they liked it; but I
bet none would really--so jolly undignified to be nothing but an idea."

She laughed.

"That's just what I feel too; and of course it's utterly wrong of us,"
she said. "It shows we have got a lot to learn. We only feel like this
because we're young. Perhaps young ghosts begin like that; but I expect
they soon get past it."

"I should never want to get past it," he said.

He rolled over on the grass and played with her hand.

"How could you love and cuddle a ghost?"

"No doubt you could love it. I don't suppose you could cuddle it. You
wouldn't want to."

"No--that's true, Sabina. If this cliff carried away this moment, and we
were both smashed to pulp and arrived together in another world without
any clothes and both horribly down on our luck--but it's too ghastly a
picture. I should howl all through eternity--to think what I'd missed."

They talked nonsense, played with their thoughts and came nearer and
nearer together. One tremendous and masterful impulse drew them on--a
raging hunger and thirst on his part and something not widely different
on hers. Again and again they caught themselves in each other's arms,
then broke off, grew serious and strove to steady the trend of their
desires.

Golden Cap was a lonely spot and few visited it that day. Once a
middle-aged man and woman surprised them where they sat behind a rock
near the edge of the great precipices. The man had grown warm and mopped
his face and let the wind cool it.

He was ugly, clumsily built, and displayed large calves in
knickerbockers and a hot, bald head.

"How hideous human beings can be," said Raymond after they had gone.

"He wasn't hideous in his wife's eyes, I expect."

"Middle-age is mercifully blind no doubt to its own horrors," he said.
"You can respect and even admire old age, like other ruins, if it's
picturesque, but middle-age is deadly always."

He smoked and they dawdled the hours away until Sabina declared it was
tea time. Then they sought a little inn at Chidcock and spent an hour
there.

The weather changed as the sun went westerly; the wind sank to a sigh
and brought with it rain clouds. But they were unconscious of such
accidents. Sabina longed for the cliffs again, so they turned homeward
by Seaton and Thorncombe Beacon and Eype Mouth. Their talk ran upon
marriage and Raymond swore that he could not wait long, while she urged
the importance to him of so doing.

"'Twould shake your brother badly if you wed yet awhile, be sure of
that," she said. "He would say that you weren't thinking of the work,
and it might tempt him to change his mind about making you a partner."

"Oh damn him. Don't talk about him--or work either. I shall never want
to work again, or think of work, or anything else on earth
till--till--What does he matter anyway--or his ideas? It's a free
country and a man has the right to plan his life his own way. If he
wants to get the best out of me, he'd better give me five hundred a
year to-morrow and tell me to marry you."

"We don't want five hundred. That's a fortune. I'm a good manager and
know very well how far money can go. With your money and mine."

"Yours? You won't have any--except mine. You'll stop work then and
live--not at Bridetown anyway."

"I was forgetting. It will be funny not to spin."

"You'll spin my happiness and my life and my fate and my children.
You'll have plenty of spinning. I'll spin for you and you'll spin for
me."

"You darling boy! I know you'll spin for me."

"Work! What's the good of working for yourself?" he asked. "Who the
devil cares about himself? It's because I don't care a button for myself
that I haven't bothered about the Mill. But when it comes to you--!
You're worth working for! I haven't begun to work yet. I'll surprise
Daniel presently and everybody else, when I fairly get into my stride. I
didn't ask for it and I didn't want it; but as I've got to work, I will
work--for you. And you'll live to see that my brother and his ways and
plans and small outlook are all nothing to the way I shall grasp the
business. And he'll see, too, when I get the lead by sheer better
understanding. And that won't be my work, Sabina. It will be yours.
Nothing's worth too much toil for you. And if you couldn't inspire a man
to wonderful things, then no woman could."

This fit of exaltation passed and the craving for her dominated him
again and took psychological shape. He grew moody and abstracted. His
voice had a new note in it to her ear. He was fighting with himself and
did not guess what was in her mind, or how unconsciously it echoed to
his.

At dusk the rain came and they ran before a sudden storm down the green
hills back to West Haven. The place already sank into night and a lamp
or two twinkled through the grey. It was past eight o'clock and Raymond
decided for dinner.

"We'll go to the 'Brit Arms,'" he said, "and feed and get dry. The rain
won't last."

"I told mother I should be home by nine."

"Well, you told her wrong. D'you think I'm going to chuck away an hour
of this day for a thousand mothers?"

When they sauntered out into the night again at ten o'clock, the Haven
had nearly gone to sleep and the rain was past. In the silence they
heard the river rushing through the sluices to the sea; and then they
set their faces homeward.

But they had to pass the old store-house. It loomed a black, amorphous
pile heaved up against the stars, and the man's footsteps dragged as he
came to the gaping gates and silent court.

He stopped and she stopped.

His voice was gruff and queer and half-choked.

"Come," he said, "I'm in hell, and you've got to turn it to heaven."

She murmured something, but he put his arm round her and they vanished
into the mass of silent darkness.

It was past midnight when they parted at the door of Sabina's home and
he gave her the cool kiss of afterwards.

"Now we are one, body and soul, for ever," she whispered to him.

"By God, yes," he said.




CHAPTER XII

CREDIT


The mind of Raymond Ironsyde was now driven and tossed by winds of
passion which, blowing against the tides of his own nature, created
unrest and storm. A strain of chivalry belonged to him and at first this
conquered. He felt the magnitude of Sabina's sacrifice and his
obligation to a love so absolute. In this spirit he remained for a time,
during which their relations were of the closest. They spoke of
marriage; they even appointed the day on which the announcement of their
betrothal should be made. And though he had gone thus far at her
entreaty, always recognising when with her the reasonableness of her
wish, after she was gone, the cross seas of his own character, created a
different impression and swept the pattern of Sabina's will away.

For a time the intrigue of meeting her, the planning and the plotting
amused him. He imagined the world was blind and that none knew, or
guessed, the truth. But Bridetown, having eyes as many and sharp as any
other hamlet, had long been familiar with the facts. The transparent
veil of their imagined secrecy was already rent, though the lovers did
not guess it.

Then Raymond's chivalry wore thinner. Ruling passions, obscured for a
season by the tremendous experience of his first love and its success,
began by slow degrees to rise again, solid and challenging, through the
rosy clouds. His love, while he shouted to himself that it increased
rather than diminished, none the less assumed a change of colour and
contour. The bright vapours still shone and Sabina could always kindle
ineffable glow to the fabric; but she away, they shrank a little and
grew less radiant. The truth of himself and his ambitions showed
through. At such times he dinned on the ears of his heart that Sabina
was his life. At other times when the fading fire astonished him by
waking a shiver, he blamed fate, told himself that but for the lack of
means, he would make a perfect home for Sabina; worship and cherish her;
fill her life with happiness; pander to her every whim; devote a large
portion of his own time to her; do all that wit and love could devise
for her pleasure--all but one thing.

He did not want to marry her. With that deed demanding to be done, the
necessity for it began to be questioned sharply. He was not a marrying
man and, in any case, too young to commit himself and his prospects to
such a course. He assured himself that he had never contemplated
immediate marriage; he had never suggested it to Sabina. She herself had
not suggested it; for what advantage could be gained by such a step?
While a thousand disasters might spring therefrom, not the least being a
quarrel with his brother, there was nothing to be said for it. He began
to suspect that he could do little less likely to assure Sabina's
future. He clung to his strand of chivalry at this time, like a drowning
man to a straw; but other ingredients of his nature dragged him away.
Selfishness is the parent of sophistry, and Raymond found himself
dismissing old rules of morality and inherited instincts of religion and
justice for more practical and worldly values. He told himself it was as
much for Sabina's sake as for his own that he must now respect the
dictates of common-sense.

There came a day in October, when the young man sat in his office at the
mills, smoking and absorbed with his own affairs. The river Bride was
broken above the works, and while her way ran south of them, the
mill-race came north. Its labour on the wheel accomplished, the current
turned quickly back to the river bed again. From Raymond's window he
could see the main stream, under a clay bank, where the martins built
their nests in spring, and where rush and sedge and an over-hanging
sallow marked her windings. The sunshine found the stickles, and where
Bride skirted the works lay a pool in which trout moved. Water
buttercups shone silver white in this back-water at spring-time and the
water-voles had their haunts in the bank side.

Beyond stretched meadow-lands and over the hill that rose behind them
climbed the road to the cliffs. Hounds had ascended this road two hours
before and their music came faintly from afar to Raymond's ear, then
ceased. Already his relations with Sabina had lessened his will to
pleasure in other directions. His money had gone in gifts to her,
leaving no spare cash for the old amusements; but the distractions, that
for a time had seemed so tame contrasted with the girl, cried louder and
reminded how necessary and healthy they were.

Life seemed reduced to the naked question of cash. He was sorry for
himself. It looked hard, outrageous, wrong, that tastes so sane and
simple as his own, could not be gratified. A horseman descended the hill
and Raymond recognised him. It was Neddy Motyer. His horse was lame and
he walked beside it. Raymond smiled to himself, for Neddy, though a
zealous follower of hounds, lacked judgment and often met with disaster.

Ten minutes later Neddy himself appeared.

"Come to grief," he said. "Horse put his foot into a rabbit hole and cut
his knee on a flint. I've just taken him to the vet, here to be
bandaged, so I thought I'd look you up. Why weren't you out?"

"I've got more important things to think about for the minute."

Neddy helped himself to a cigarette.

"Growing quite the man of business," he said. "What will power you've
got! A few of us bet five to one you wouldn't stick it a month; but here
you are. Only I can tell you this, Ray: you're wilting under it. You're
not half the man you were. You're getting beastly thin--looking a worm
in fact."

Raymond laughed.

"I'm all right. Plenty of time to make up for lost time."

"It's metal more attractive, I believe," hazarded Motyer. "A little
bird's been telling us things in Bridport. Keep clear of the petticoats,
old chap--the game's never worth the candle. I speak from experience."

"Do you? I shouldn't think any girl would have much use for you."

"Oh yes, they have--plenty of them. But once bit, twice shy. I had an
adventure last year."

"I don't want to hear it."

Neddy showed concern.

"You're all over the shop, Ray. These blessed works are knocking the
stuffing out of you and spoiling your temper. Are you coming to the
'smoker' at 'The Tiger' next month?"

"No."

"Well, do. You want bucking. It'll be a bit out of the common. Jack
Buckler's training at 'The Tiger' for his match with Solly Blades. You
know--eliminating round for middle-weight championship. And he's going
to spar three rounds with our boy from the tannery--Tim Chick."

"I heard about it from one of our girls here--a cousin of Tim's. But I'm
off that sort of thing."

"Since when?"

"You can't understand, Ned; but life's too short for everything. Perhaps
you'll have to turn to work someday. Then you'll know."

"You don't work from eight o'clock at night till eleven anyway. Take my
tip and come to the show and make a night of it. Waldron's going to be
there. He's hunting this morning."

"I know."

The dinner bell had rung and now there came a knock at Raymond's door.
Then Sabina entered and was departing again, but her lover bade her
stay.

"Don't go, Sabina. This is my friend, Mr. Motyer--Miss Dinnett."

Motyer, remembering Raymond's recent snub, was exceedingly charming to
Sabina. He stopped and chatted another five minutes, then mentioned the
smoking concert again and so took his departure. Raymond spoke
slightingly of him when he had gone.

"He's no good, really," he said. "An utter waster and only a hanger-on
of sport--can't do anything himself but talk. Now he'll tell everybody
in Bridport about you coming up here in the dinner-hour. Come and cheer
me up. I'm bothered to death."

He kissed her and put his arms round her, but she would not stop.

"I can't stay here," she said. "I want to walk up the hill with you. If
you're bothered, so am I, my darling."

He put on his hat and they went out together.

"I've had a nasty jar," she told him. "People are beginning to say
things, Raymond--things that you wouldn't like to think are being said."

"I thought we rose superior to the rest of the world, and what it said
and what it thought."

"We do and we always have. We're not moral cowards either of us. But
there are some things. You don't want me to be insulted. You don't want
either of us to lose the respect of people."

"We can't have our cake and eat it too, I suppose," he said rather
carelessly. "Personally I don't care a straw whether people respect me,
or despise me, as long as I respect myself. The people that matter to me
respect me all right."

"Well, the people that matter to me, don't," she answered with a flash
of colour. "We'll leave you out, Raymond, since you're satisfied; but
I'm not satisfied. It isn't right, or fair, that I should begin to get
sour looks from the women here, where I used to have smiles; and looks
from the men--hateful looks--looks that no decent woman ought to suffer.
And my mother has heard a lot of lies and is very miserable. So I think
it's high time we let everybody know we're engaged. And you must think
so, too, after what I've told you, Ray dear."

"Certainly," he answered, "not a shadow of doubt about it. And if I saw
any man insult you, I should delight to thrash him on the spot--or a
dozen of them. How the devil do people find out about one? I thought
we'd been more than clever enough to hoodwink a dead alive place like
this."

"Will you let me tell mother, to-day? And Sally Groves, and one or two
of my best friends at the Mill? Do, Raymond--it's only fair to me now."

Had she left unspoken her last sentence, he might have agreed; but it
struck a wrong note on his ear. It sounded selfish; it suggested that
Sabina was concerned with herself and indifferent to the complications
she had brought into his life. For a moment he was minded to answer
hastily; but he controlled himself.

"It's natural you should feel like that; so do I, of course. We must
settle a date for letting it out. I'll think about it. I'd say this
minute, and you know I'm looking forward quite as much as you are to
letting the world know my luck; but unfortunately you've just raised the
question at an impossible moment, Sabina."

"Why? Surely nothing can make it impossible to clear my good name,
Raymond?"

"I've got a good name, too. At least, I imagine so."

"Our names are one, or should be."

"Not yet, exactly. I wanted to spare you bothers. I do spare you all the
bothers I can; but, of course, I've got my own, too, like everybody
else. You see it's rather vital to your future, which you're naturally
so keen about, Sabina, that I keep in with my brother. You'll admit
that much. Well, for the moment I'm having the deuce of a row with him.
You know what an exacting beggar he is. He will have his pound of flesh,
and he has no sympathy for anything on two legs but himself. I asked him
for a fortnight's holiday."

"A fortnight's holiday, Raymond!"

"Yes--that's not very wonderful, is it? But, of course, you can't
understand what this work is to me, because you look at it from a
different angle. Anyway I want a holiday--to get right away and consider
things; and he won't let me have it. And finding that, I lost my temper.
And if, at the present moment, Daniel hears that we're engaged to be
married, Sabina, it's about fifty to one that he'd chuck me altogether
and stop my dirty little allowance also."

They had reached the gate of 'The Magnolias,' and Sabina did a startling
thing. She turned from him and went down the path to the back entrance
without another word. But this he could not stand. His heart smote him
and he called her with such emotion that she also was sorrowful and came
back to the gate.

"Good God! you frightened me," he said. "This is a quarrel, Sabina--our
first and last, I hope. Never, never let anything come between us.
That's unthinkable and I won't have it. You must give and take, my
precious girl. And so must I. But look at it. What on earth happens to
us if Daniel fires me out of the Mill?"

"He's a just man," she answered. "Dislike him as we may, he's a just man
and you need not fear him, or anybody else, if you do the right thing."

"You oppose your will to mine, then, Sabina?"

"I don't know your will. I thought I did; I thought I understood you so
well by now and was learning better and better how to please you. But
now I tell you I am being wronged, and you say nothing can be done."

"I never said so. I'm not a blackguard, Sabina, and you ought to know
that as well as the rest of the world. I'm poor, unfortunately, and the
poor have got to be politic. Daniel may be just, but it's a
narrow-minded, hypocritical justice, and if I tell him I'm engaged to
you, he'll sack me. That's the plain English of it."

"I don't believe he would."

"Well, I know he would; and you must at least allow me to know more
about him than you do. And so I ask you whether it is common-sense to
tell him what's going to happen, for the sake of a few clod-hoppers, who
matter to nobody, or--"

"But, but, how long is it to go on? Why do you shrink from doing now
what you wanted to do at first?"

"I don't shrink from it at all. I only intend to choose the proper time
and not give the show away at a moment when to do so will be to ruin
me."

"'Give the show away,'" she quoted bitterly. "You can look me in the
face and say a thing like that! It's only 'a show' to you; but it's my
life to me."

"I'm sorry I used the expression. Words aren't anything. It's my life to
me, too. And I've got to think for both of us. In a week, or ten days,
I'll eat humble pie and climb down and grovel to Daniel. Then, when I'm
pardoned, we'll tell everybody. It won't kill you to wait another
fortnight anyway. And in the meantime we'd better see less of each
other, since you're getting so worried about what your friends say about
us."

Now he had said too much. Sabina would have agreed to the suggestion of
a fortnight's waiting, but the proposal that they should see less of
each other both hurt and angered her. The quarrel culminated.

"Caution seems to me rather a cowardly thing, Raymond, from you to me. I
tell you that your wife's good name is at stake. For, since you've
called me your wife so often, I suppose I may do the same. And if you're
so careless for my credit, then I must be jealous for it myself."

"And my credit can go to the devil, I suppose?"

Then she flamed, struck to the root of the matter and left him.

"If the fact that you're engaged to me, by every sacred tie of honour,
ruins your credit--then tell yourself what you are," she said, and her
voice rose to a note he had never heard before.

This time he did not call her back, but went his own way up the hill.




CHAPTER XIII

IN THE FOREMAN'S GARDEN


Mr. Best was a good gardener and cultivated fruit and flowers to
perfection. His rambling patch of ground ran beside the river and some
of his apple trees bent over it. Pear trees also he grew, and a medlar
and a quince. But flowers he specially loved. His house was bowered in
roses to the thatched roof, and in the garden grew lilies and lupins, a
hundred roses and many bright tracts of shining, scented blossoms. Now,
however, they had vanished and on a Saturday afternoon John Best was
tidying up, tending a bonfire and digging potatoes.

He was generous of his treasures and the girls never hesitated to ask
him for a rose in June. Ancient Mrs. Chick, too, won an annual gift from
the foreman. Down one side of his garden ranged great elder bushes, and
Mrs. Chick made of the blooth in summer time, a decoction very precious
for throat troubles.

Now Best stood for a moment and regarded a waste corner where grew
nettles. Somebody approached him in this act of contemplation and he
spoke.

"I often wonder if it would be worth while making an experiment with
stinging nettles," he said to Ernest Churchouse, who was the visitor.

"They have a spinnable fibre, John, without a doubt."

"They have, Mister Churchouse, and they scutch well and can be wrought
into textiles. But there's no temptation to make trial. I'm only
thinking in a scientific spirit."

He swept up the fallen nettles for his bonfire.

"I've come for a few balls of the rough twine," said Mr. Churchouse.

"And welcome."

An unusual air of gloom sat on Mr. Best and the other was quick to
observe it.

"All well, I hope?" he said.

"Not exactly. I'm rather under the weather; but I dare say it's my own
fault."

"It often is," admitted Ernest; "but in my experience that doesn't make
it any better. In fact, the most disagreeable sort of depression is that
which we know we are responsible for ourselves. When other people annoy
us, we have the tonic effect of righteous indignation; but not when we
annoy ourselves and know ourselves to blame."

"I wouldn't go so far as to say it's all my own fault, however,"
answered Mr. Best. "It is and it isn't my fault. To be a father of
children is your own fault in a manner of speaking; and yet to be a
father is not any wrong, other things being as they should."

"On the contrary, it's part of the whole duty of man--other things being
equal, as you say."

"We look to see ourselves reflected in our offspring, yet how often do
we?" asked the foreman.

"Perhaps we might oftener, if we didn't suffer from constitutional
inability to recognise ourselves, John. I've thought of this problem,
let me tell you, for you are one of many who feel the same. So far as I
can see, parents worry about what their children look like to them; but
never about what they look like to their children."

"You speak as a childless widower," answered the other. "Believe me,
Mister Churchouse, children nowadays never hesitate to tell us what we
look like to them--or what they think of us either. Even my sailor boy
will do it."

"It's the result of education," said Ernest. "There is no doubt that
education has altered the outlook of the child on the parent. The old
relation has disappeared and the fifth commandment does not make its old
appeal. Children are better educated than their parents."

"And what's the result? They'd kill the home goose that lays the golden
eggs to-morrow, if they could. In fact, they're doing it. Those that
remain reasonable and obedient to their fathers and mothers feel
themselves martyrs. That's the best sort; but it ain't much fun having a
house full of martyrs whether or no; and it ain't much fun to know that
your offspring are merely enduring you, as a necessary affliction. As
for the other sort, who can't stick home life and old-fashioned ideas,
they just break loose and escape as quick as ever they know how--and no
loss either."

"A gloomy picture," admitted Mr. Churchouse; "but, like every other
picture, it has two sides. I think time may be trusted to put it right.
After the young have left the nest, and hopped out into the world, and
been sharply pecked now and again, they begin to see home in its true
perspective and find that there is nothing like the affection of a
mother and father."

"They don't want anything of that," declared John. "If you stand for
sense and experience and try to learn them, they think you're a fossil
and out of sight of reality; and if you attempt to be young and interest
yourself in their wretched little affairs and pay the boy with the boys
and the girl with the girls, they think you're a fool."

"No doubt they see through any effort on the part of the middle-aged to
be one with them," admitted Ernest. "And for my part I deprecate such
attempts. Let us grow old like gentlemen, John, and if they cannot
perceive the rightness and stateliness of age, so much the worse for
them. Some of us, however, err very gravely in this matter. There are
men who have not the imagination to see themselves growing old; they
only feel it. And they try to hide their feelings and think they are
also hiding the fact. Such men, of course, become the laughing-stocks of
the rising generation and the shame of their own."

"All the young are alike, so I needn't grumble at my own family for that
matter," confessed Mr. Best. "Their generation is all equally headstrong
and opinionated--high and low, the same. If I've hinted to Raymond
Ironsyde once, I've hinted a thousand times, that he's not going about
his business in a proper spirit."

"He is at present obviously in love, John, and must not therefore be
judged. But I share your uneasiness."

"It's wrong, and he knows it, and she ought to know it, too. Sabina, I
mean. I should have given her credit for more sense myself. I thought
she had plenty of self-respect and brains too."

"Things are coming to a crisis in that quarter," prophesied Ernest. "It
is a quality of love that it doesn't stand still, John; and something is
going to happen very shortly. Either it will be given out that they are
betrothed, or else the thing will fade away. Sabina has very fine
instincts; and on his side, he would, I am sure, do nothing unbecoming
his family."

"He has--plenty," declared Mr. Best.

"Nothing about which there would not be two opinions, believe me. The
fact that he has let it go so far makes me think they are engaged. The
young will go their own way about things."

"If it was all right, Sabina Dinnett wouldn't be so miserable," argued
John Best. "She was used to be as cheerful as a bird on a bough; and now
she is not."

"Merely showing that the climax is at hand. I have seen myself lately
that Sabina was unhappy and even taxed her with it; but she denied it.
Her mother, however, knows that she is a good deal perturbed. We must
hope for the best."

"And what is the best?" asked John.

"There is not the slightest difficulty about that; the best is what will
happen," replied Mr. Churchouse. "As a good Christian you know it
perfectly well."

But the other shook his head.

"That won't do," he answered, "that's only evasion, Mister Ernest.
There's lots and lots of things happen, and the better the Christian
you are, the better you know they ought not to happen. And whether they
are engaged to be married, or whether they quarrel, trouble must come of
it. If people do wrong, it's no good for Christians to say the issue
must be right. That's simply weak-minded. You might as well argue
nothing wrong ever does happen, since nothing can happen without the
will of God."

"In a sense that's true," admitted Ernest. "So true, in fact, that we'd
better change the subject, John. We thinking and religious men know
there's a good deal of thin ice in Christianity, where we've got to walk
with caution and not venture without a guide. One needs professional
theologians to skate over these dangerous places safely. But, for my
part, I have my reason well under control, as every religious person
should. I can perfectly accept the fact that evil happens, and yet that
nothing happens without the sanction of an all powerful and all good
God."

"You'd better come and get your string then," said Mr. Best. "And long
may your fine faith flourish. You're a great lesson to us people cursed
with too much common-sense, I'm sure."

"Where our religion is concerned, we should be too proud to submit it to
common-sense," declared Ernest. "Common-sense is all very well in
everyday affairs; in fact, this world would not prosper without it; but
I strongly deprecate common-sense as applied to the next world, John.
The next world, from what one glimpses of it in prophecy and revelation,
is outside the category of common-sense altogether."

"I stand corrected," said Mr. Best. "But it's a startler--to leave
common-sense out of what matters most to thinking men."

"We shall be altered in the twinkling of an eye," explained Ernest, "and
so, doubtless, will be our humble, earthly intelligence, our reliance on
reason and other mundane virtues. From the heavenly standpoint, earth
will seem a very sordid business altogether, I suspect, and even our
good qualities appear very peddling. In fact, we may find, John, that we
were in the habit of putting up statues to the wrong persons, and
discover the most unexpected people at the right hand of the Throne."

"I dare say we shall," admitted Mr. Best; "for if common-sense is going
by the board and the virtues all to be scrapped also, then we that think
we stand had better take heed lest we fall--you and me included, Mister
Churchouse. However, I'm glad to say I'm not with you there. The Book
tells us very clear what's good and what's evil; and whatever else
Heaven will do, it won't go back on the Book. I suppose you'll grant
that much?"

"Most certainly," said the elder. "Most certainly and surely, John.
That, at least, we can rely upon. Our stronghold lies in the fact that
we know good from evil, and though we don't know what 'infinite'
goodness is, we do know that it is still goodness. Therefore, though God
is infinitely good, He is still good; the difference between His
goodness and ours is one of degree, not kind. So metaphysics and
quibbling leave us quite safe, which is all that really matters."

"I hope you're right," answered Best. "Life puts sharp questions to
religion, and I can't pretend my religion's always clever enough to
answer them."

Ernest took his twine and departed; but the subject of Raymond and
Sabina was not destined to slumber, for now he met Raymond on his way to
North Hill House.

He asked him to come into tea and, to his surprise, the young man
refused.

"That means Sabina isn't at home then," said Mr. Churchouse blandly.

"I don't know where she is."

At this challenge Ernest spoke and struck into the matter very directly.
He blamed Raymond and feared that his course of action was not that of a
gentleman.

"You would be the very first to protest and criticise unfavourably, my
dear boy, if you saw anybody else treating a girl in this fashion," he
concluded.

"I'm going to clear it up," answered the culprit. "Don't you worry.
These things can't be done in a minute. This infernal place is always so
quick to think evil, apparently, and judges decent people by its own
dirty opinions. I've asked Daniel to give me a holiday, so that I may go
away and think over life in general. And he won't give me a holiday.
It's very clear to me, Uncle Ernest, that no self-respecting man would
be able to work under Daniel for long. Things are coming to a climax. I
doubt if I shall be able to keep on here."

"You evade the subject, which is your friendship with Sabina, Raymond.
As to Daniel, there ought to be no difficulty whatever, and you know it
very well in your heart and head. Your protest deceives nobody. But
Sabina?"

Here the conversation ceased abruptly, for Raymond committed an unique
offence. He told Mr. Churchouse to go to the devil, and left him,
standing transfixed with amazement, at the outer gate of 'The
Magnolias.'

With the insult to himself Ernest was not much concerned. His regretful
astonishment centred in the spectacle of Raymond's downfall.

"To what confusion and disorder must his mind have been reduced, before
he could permit himself such a lapse," reflected Mr. Churchouse.




CHAPTER XIV

THE CONCERT


The effect of Raymond's attitude on Sabina's mind proved very serious.
It awoke in her first anger and then dismay. She was a woman of fine
feeling and quick perception. Love and ambition had pointed the same
road, and the hero, being, as it seemed, without guile, had convinced
her that she might believe every word that he spoke and trust everything
that he did. She had never contemplated any sacrifice before marriage,
and, indeed, when it came, the consummation of their worship proved no
sacrifice to her, but an added joy. Less than many a married woman had
she mourned the surrender, for in her eyes it made all things complete
between them and bound them inseparably with the golden links of love
and honour.

When, therefore, upon this perfect union, sinister light from without
had broken, she felt it no great thing to ask Raymond that their
betrothal should be known. Reason and justice demanded it. She did not
for an instant suppose that he would hesitate, but rather expected him
to blame his own blindness in delay. But finding he desired further
postponement, she was struck with consternation that rose to wrath; and
when he persisted, she became alarmed and now only considered what best
she might do for her own sake. Her work suffered and her friends
perceived that all was not well with her. With the shortening days and
bad weather, the meetings with Raymond became more difficult to pursue
and she saw less of him. They had patched their quarrel and were
friendly enough, but the perfect understanding had departed. They
preserved a common ground and she did not mention subjects likely to
annoy him. He appeared to be working steadily, seldom came into the
shops and was more reserved to everybody in the Mill.

Sabina had not yet spoken to her mother, though many times tempted to do
so. Her loyalty proved strong in the time of trial; but the greater the
strain on herself, the greater the strain on her love for the man. She
told herself that no such cruel imposition should have been placed upon
her; and she could not fail closely to question the need for it. Why did
Raymond demand continued silence even in the face of offences put upon
her by her neighbours? How could he endure to hear that people had been
rude to her, and uttered coarse jests in her hearing aimed only at her
ear? Would a man who loved her, as she deserved to be loved, suffer
this? Then fear grew. With her he was always kind--kind and considerate
in every matter but the vital matter. Yet there were differences. The
future, in which he had delighted to revel, bored him now, and when she
spoke of it, he let the matter drop. He was on good terms with his
brother for the moment, and appeared to be winning an increasing
interest in his business to the exclusion of other affairs. He would
become animated on the subject of Sabina's work, rather than the subject
of Sabina. He stabbed her unconsciously with many little shafts of
speech, yet knew not that he was doing so. He grew more grave and
self-controlled in their relations. Her personal touch began to lose
power and waken his answering fire less often. It was then that she
found herself with child, and knowing that despite much to cause
concern, Raymond was still himself, she rejoiced, since this fact must
terminate his wavering and establish her future. Here at least was an
event beyond his power to evade. He loved her and had promised to wed
her. He was a man who might be weak, but had never explicitly behaved in
a manner to make her tremble for such a situation as the present.
Procrastination ceased to be possible. What now had happened must
demand instant recognition of her rights, and that given, she assured
herself the future held no terrors. Now he must marry her, or contradict
his own record as a gentleman and a man of honour.

Yet she told him with a tremor and, until the last moment, could not
banish from her heart the shadow of fear. He had never spoken of this
possibility, or taken it into account, and she felt, seeing his silence,
that it would be a shock.

The news came to him as they walked from the Mill on a Saturday when the
works closed at noon. He was on his way to Bridport and she went beside
him for a mile through the lanes.

For a moment he said nothing, then, seeing the road empty, he put his
arms round her and kissed her.

"You clever girl!" he said.

"Don't tell me you're sorry, for God's sake, or I shall go and drown
myself," she answered. Her face was anxious and she looked haggard in
the cold light of a sunless, winter day. But a genuine, generous emotion
had touched him, and with it woke pangs of remorse and contrition. He
knew very well what she had been suffering mentally on his account, and
he knew that the frightened voice in which she told him the news and the
trembling mouth and the tear in her eyes ought not to have been there.
Every fine feeling in the man and every honest instinct was aroused. For
the moment he felt glad that no further delay was possible. His
self-respect had already suffered; but now life offered him swift means
to regain it. He did not, however, think of himself while his arms were
round her; he thought of her and her only, while they remained together.

"'Sorry'?" he said. "Can you think I'm sorry? I'm only sorry that I
didn't do something sooner and marry you before this happened, Sabina.
Good Lord--it throws a lot of light. I swear it does. I'm glad--I'm
honestly glad--and you must be glad and proud and happy and all the
rest of it. We'll be married in a month. And you must tell your mother
we're engaged to-day; and I'll tell my people. Don't you worry. Damn me,
I've been worrying you a lot lately; but it was only because I couldn't
see straight. Now I do and I'll soon atone."

She wept with thankful heart and begged him to turn with her and tell
Mrs. Dinnett himself. But that he would not do.

"It will save time if I go on to Bridport and let Aunt Jenny hear about
it. Of course the youngster is our affair and nobody need know about
that. But we must be married in a jiffey and--you must give notice at
the mill to-day. Go back now and tell Best."

"How wonderful you are!" she said. "And yet I feared you might be savage
about it."

"More shame to me that you should have feared it," he answered; "for
that means that I haven't been sporting. But you shall never be
frightened of me again, Sabina. To see you frightened hurts me like
hell. If ever you are again, it will be your fault, not mine."

She left him very happy and a great cloud seemed to fall off her life as
she returned to the village. She blamed herself for ever doubting him.
Her love rose from its smothered fires. She soared to great heights and
dreamed of doing mighty things for Raymond. Straight home to her mother
she went and told Mrs. Dinnett of her engagement and swiftly approaching
marriage. The light had broken on her darkness at last and she welcomed
the child as a blessed forerunner of good. The coming life had already
made her love it.

Meantime Raymond preserved his cheerful spirit for a season. But
existence never looked the same out of Sabina's presence and before he
had reached Bridport, his mood changed. He recognised very acutely his
duty and not a thought stirred in him to escape it; but what for a
little while had appeared more than duty and promised to end mean doubts
and fears for ever, began now to present itself under other aspects.
The joy of a child and a wife and a home faded. For what sort of a home
could he establish? He leaned to the hope that Daniel might prove
generous under the circumstances and believed that his aunt might throw
her weight on his side and urge his brother to make adequate provision;
but these reflections galled him unspeakably, for they were sordid. They
argued weakness in him. He must come as a beggar and eat humble pie; he
must for ever sacrifice his independence and, with it, everything that
had made life worth living. The more he thought upon it, the more he
began to hate the necessity of taking this story to his relations.
Better men than he had lived in poverty and risen from humble
beginnings. It struck him that if he went his own way, redoubled his
official energies and asked for nothing more on the strength of his
marriage, his own self-respect would be preserved as well as the respect
of his aunt and brother. He pictured himself as a hero, yet knew that
what he contemplated was merely the conduct of an honest man.

The thought of approaching anybody with his intentions grew more
distasteful, and by the time he reached Bridport, he had determined not
to mention the matter, at any rate until the following day. So great a
thing demanded more consideration than he could give it for the moment,
because his whole future depended on the manner in which he broke it to
his people. It was true that the circumstances admitted of no serious
delay; Sabina must, of course, be considered before everything; but
twenty-four hours would make no difference to her, while it might make
all the difference to him.

He reduced the courses of action to two. Either he would announce that
he was going to be married immediately as a fact accomplished; or he
would invite his aunt's sympathies, use diplomacy and win her to his
side with a view to approaching Daniel. Daniel appeared the danger,
because it was quite certain that he would strongly disapprove of
Raymond's marriage. This certainty induced another element of doubt.
For suppose, far from seeking to help Raymond with his new
responsibilities, Daniel took the opposite course and threatened to
punish him for any such stupidity? Suppose that his brother, from a
personal standpoint, objected and backed his objection with a definite
assurance that Raymond must leave the mill if he took this step? The
only way out of that would be to tell Daniel that he was compromised and
must wed Sabina for honour. But Raymond felt that he would rather die
than make any such confession. His whole soul rose with loathing at the
thought of telling the truth to one so frozen and unsympathetic.
Moreover there was not only himself to be considered, but Sabina. What
chance would she have of ever winning Daniel to acknowledge and respect
her if the facts came to his ears?

Raymond thought himself into a tangle and found a spirit of great
depression settling upon him. But, at last, he decided to sleep on the
situation. He did not go home, but turned his steps to 'The Tiger,' ate
his luncheon and drank heartily with it.

Then he went to see a boxer, who was training with Mr. Gurd, and
presently when Neddy Motyer appeared, he turned into the billiard room
and there killed some hours before the time of the smoking concert.

He imbibed the intensely male atmosphere of 'The Tiger' with a good deal
of satisfaction; but surging up into the forefront of his mind came
every moment the truth concerning himself and his future. It made him
bitter. For some reason he could not guess, he found himself playing
billiards very much above his form. Neddy was full of admiration.

"By Jove, you've come on thirty in a hundred," he said. "If you only
gave a fair amount of time to it, you'd soon beat anybody here but
Waldron."

"My sporting days are practically over," answered Raymond. "I've got to
face real life now, and as soon as you begin to do that, you find sport
sinks under the horizon a bit. I thought I should miss it a lot, but I
shan't."

"If anybody else said that, I should think it was the fox who had lost
his brush talking," replied Neddy; "but I suppose you mean it. Only
you'll find, if you chuck sport, you'll soon be no good. Even as it is,
going into the works has put you back a lot. I doubt if you could do a
hundred in eleven seconds now."

"There are more important things than doing a hundred in eleven
seconds--or even time, either, for that matter."

"You won't chuck football, anyway? You'll be fast enough for outside
right for year's yet if you watch yourself."

"Damned easy to say 'watch yourself.' Yes, I shall play footer a bit
longer if they want me, I suppose."

Arthur Waldron dropped in a few minutes later.

He was glad to see Raymond.

"Good," he said. "I thought you were putting in a blameless evening with
your people."

"No, I'm putting in a blameless evening here."

"He's playing enormous billiards, Waldron," declared Motyer. "I suppose
you've been keeping him at it. He's come on miles."

"He didn't learn with me, anyway. It's not once in a blue moon that he
plays at North Hill. But if he's come on, so much the better."

They played, but Raymond's form had deserted him. Waldron was much
better than the average amateur and now he gave Raymond fifty in two
hundred and beat him by as much. They dined together presently, and Job
Legg, who often lent a hand at 'The Tiger' on moments of extra pressure,
waited upon them.

"How's your uncle, Job?" asked Arthur Waldron, who was familiar with Mr.
Legg, and not seldom visited 'The Seven Stars,' when Estelle came with
him to Bridport.

"He's a goner, sir. I'm off to the funeral on Monday."

"Hope the will was all right?"

"Quite all right, sir, thank you, sir."

"Then you'll leave, no doubt, and what will Missis Northover do then?"

Legg smiled.

"It's hid in the future, sir," he answered.

A comedian, who was going to perform at the smoking concert, came in
with Mr. Gurd, and the innkeeper introduced him to Neddy and Raymond. He
joined them and added an element of great hilarity to the meal. He
abounded in good stories, and understood horse-racing as well as Neddy
Motyer himself. Neddy now called himself a 'gentleman backer,' but
admitted that, so far, it had not proved a lucrative profession.

Their talk ranged over sport and athletics. They buzzed one against the
other, and not even the humour of the comic man was proof against the
seriousness of Arthur Waldron, who demonstrated, as always, that
England's greatness had sprung from the pursuit of masculine pastimes.
The breed of horses and the breed of men alike depended upon sport. The
Empire, in Mr. Waldron's judgment, had arisen from this sublime
foundation.

"It reaches from the highest to the lowest," he declared. "The puppy
that plays most is the one that always turns into the best dog."

The smoking concert, held in Mr. Gurd's large dining-room, went the way
of such things with complete success. The boxing was of the best, and
the local lad, Tim Chick, performed with credit against his experienced
antagonist. All the comic man's songs aimed at the folly of marriage and
the horrors of domesticity. He seemed to be singing at Raymond, who
roared with the rest and hated the humourist all the time. The young man
grew uneasy and morose before the finish, drank too much whiskey, and
felt glad to get into the cold night air when all was over.

And then there happened to him a challenge very unexpected, for Waldron,
as they walked back together through the night-hidden lanes, chose the
opportunity to speak of Raymond's private affairs.

"You can't accuse me of wanting to stick my nose into other people's
business, can you, Ray? And you can't fairly say that you've ever found
me taking too much upon myself or anything of that sort."

"No; you're unique in that respect."

"Well, then, you mustn't be savage if I'm personal. You know me jolly
well and you know that you're about the closest friend I've got. And if
you weren't a friend and a great deal to me, I shouldn't speak."

"Go ahead--I can guess. There's only one topic in Bridetown, apparently.
No doubt you've seen me in the company of Sabina Dinnett?"

"I haven't, I can honestly say. But Estelle is very keen about the mill
girls. She wants to do all sorts of fine things for them; and she's
specially friendly with Missis Dinnett's daughter. And she's heard
things that puzzled her young ears naturally, and she told me that some
people say you're being too kind to Sabina and other people say you're
treating her hardly. Of course, that puzzled Estelle, clever though she
is; but, as a man of the world, I saw what it meant and that kindness
may really be cruelty in the long run. You'll forgive me, won't you?"

"Of course, my dear chap. If one lives in a hole like Bridetown, one
must expect one's affairs to be common property."

"And if they are, what does it matter as long as they are all
straightforward? I never care a button what anybody says about me,
because I know they can't say anything true that is up against me; and
as to lies, they don't matter."

"And d'you think I care what they say about me?"

"Rather not. Only if a girl is involved, then the case is altered. I'm
not a saint; but--"

"When anybody says they're not a saint, you know they're going to begin
to preach, Arthur."

Waldron did not answer for a minute. He stopped and lighted his pipe. To
Raymond, Sabina appeared unmeasurably distant at this midnight hour.
His volatile mind was quick to take colour from the last experience, and
in the aura of the smoking concert, woman looked a slight and inferior
thing; marriage, a folly; domestic life, a jest.

Waldron spoke again.

"You won't catch me preaching. I only venture to say that in a little
place like this, it's a mistake to be identified with a girl beneath you
in every way. It won't hurt you, and if she was a common girl and given
to playing about, it wouldn't hurt her; but the Dinnetts are different.
However, you know a great deal more about her than I do, and if you tell
me she's not all she seems and you're not the first and won't be the
last, then, of course I'm wrong and enough said. But if she's all right
and all she's thought to be, and all Estelle thinks her--for Estelle's a
jolly good student of character--then, frankly, I don't think it's
sporting of you to do what you're doing."

The word 'sporting' summed the situation from Waldron's point of view
and he said no more.

Raymond grew milder.

"She's all Estelle thinks her. I have a great admiration for her. She's
amazingly clever and refined. In fact, I never saw any girl a patch on
her in my life."

"Well then, what follows? Surely she ought to be respected in every
way."

"I do respect her."

"Then it's up to you to treat her as you'd treat anybody of your own
class, and take care that nothing you do throws any shadow on her. And,
of course, you know it. I'm not suggesting for a second you don't. I'm
only suggesting that what would be quite all right with a girl in your
own set, isn't exactly fair to Sabina--her position in the world being
what it is."

It was on Raymond's tongue to declare his engagement; but he did not. He
had banished Sabina for that night and the subject irked him. The
justice of Waldron's criticism also irked him; but he acknowledged it.

"Thank you," he answered. "It's jolly good of you to say these things,
Arthur, because they're not in your line, and I know you hate them. But
you're dead right. I dare say I'll tell you something that will astonish
you before long. But I'm not doing anything to be ashamed of. I haven't
made any mistake; and if I had, I shouldn't shirk the payment."

"You can't, my dear chap. A mistake has always got to be paid for in
full--often with interest added. As a sportsman you know that, and it
holds all through life in my experience."

"I shan't make one. But if I do, I'm quite prepared to pay the cost."

"We all say that till the bill comes along. Better avoid the mistake,
and I'm glad you're going to."

Far away from the scrub on North Hill came a sharp, weird sound.

"Hark!" said Waldron. "That's a dog fox! I hope the beggar's caught a
rabbit."




CHAPTER XV

A VISIT TO MISS IRONSYDE


On the following day Raymond did not appear at breakfast, and Estelle
wondered at so strange an event.

"He's going for a long walk with me this afternoon," she told her
father. "It's a promise; we're going all the way to Chilcombe, for me to
show him that dear little chapel and the wonderful curiosity in it."

"Not much in his line, but if he said he'll go, he'll go, no doubt,"
answered her father.

They went to church together presently, for Waldron observed Sunday. He
held no definite religious opinions; but inclined to a vague idea that
it was seemly to go, because it set a good example and increased your
authority. He believed that church-going was a source of good to the
proletariat, and though he did not himself accept the doctrine of
eternal punishment, since it violated all sporting tenets, he was
inclined to think that acceptation of the threat kept ignorant people
straight and made them better members of society. He held that the
parson and squire must combine in this matter and continue to claim and
enforce, as far as possible, a beneficent autocracy in thorpe and
hamlet; and he perceived that religion was the only remaining force
which upheld their sway. That supernatural control was crumbling under
the influences of education he also recognised; but did his best to stem
the tide, and trusted that the old dispensation would at least last out
his time.

On returning from worship they found Raymond in the garden, and when
Estelle reminded him of his promise, he agreed and declared that he
looked forward to the tramp. He was cheerful and apparently welcomed
Estelle's programme, but there happened that which threatened to
interfere with it.

Waldron had retired to his study and a new book on 'The Fox Terrier,'
which he reserved for Sabbath reading, and Estelle and Raymond were just
setting out for Chilcombe when there came Sabina. She had called to see
her lover and entered the garden in time to stop him. She had never
openly asked to see him in this manner before, and Raymond was quick to
mark the significance of the change. It annoyed him, while inwardly he
recognised its reasonableness. He turned and shook hands with her, and
Estelle did the same.

"We're just starting for Chilcombe," she said.

Sabina looked her surprise. She had been expecting Raymond all the
morning, to bring the great news to Ernest Churchouse, and was puzzled
to know why he had not come. She could not wait longer, and while her
mother advised delay, found herself unable to delay.

Now she perceived that Raymond had made plans independently of her.

"I was coming in this evening," he said, in answer to her eyes.

"May I speak to you a moment before you start with Miss Waldron?" she
asked, and together they strolled into Estelle's rose garden where still
a poor blossom or two crowned naked sprays.

"I don't understand," began the girl. "Surely--surely after yesterday?"

"I'd promised to go for this walk with her."

"What then? Wasn't there all the morning? My mother and I didn't go to
church--expecting you every minute."

"You must keep your nerve, Sabina--both of us must. You mustn't be
hysterical about it."

She perceived how mightily his mood had changed since their leave-taking
of the day before.

"What's the matter?" she asked. "I suppose your people have not taken
this well."

"They don't know yet--nobody does."

"You didn't tell them?"

"Things prevented it. We must choose the right moment to spring this.
It's bound to knock them over for a minute. I'm thinking it all out.
Probably you don't quite realise, Sabina, what this means from their
point of view. The first thing is to get my aunt on my side; Daniel's
hopeless, of course."

She stared at him.

"What in God's name has come over you? You talk as though you hadn't a
drop of blood in your veins. Were you deaf yesterday? Didn't you hear me
tell you I was with child by you? 'Their point of view'! What about my
point of view?"

"Don't get excited, my dear girl. Do give me credit for some sense. This
is a very ticklish business, and the whole of our future--yours, of
course, quite as much as mine--will depend on what I do during the next
few days. Do try to realise that. If I make a mistake now, we may repent
it for fifty years."

"What d'you call making a mistake? What choice of action have you got if
you're a gentleman? It kills me--kills me to hear you talking about
making a mistake; and your hard voice means that you think you've made
one. What have I done but love you with all my heart and soul? What have
I ever done to make you put other people's points of view before mine?"

"I'm not--I'm not, Sabina."

"You are. You used to understand me so well and know what was in my mind
before I spoke, and now--now before this--the greatest thing in the
world for me--you--"

"Talk quietly, for goodness' sake. You don't want all Bridetown to hear
us."

"You can say that? And you go out walking with a child and--"

"Look here, Sabina, you must pull yourself together, or else you stand a
very good chance of bitching up our show altogether," he answered
calmly. "This thing has got to be carried out by me, not you; and if you
are not going to let me do it my own way, then so much the worse for
both of us. I won't be dictated to by you, or anybody, and if you're not
contented to believe in me, then I can only say you're making a big
mistake and you'll very soon find it out."

"What are you going to do, then?" she asked, "and when are you going to
do it? I've a right to know that, I suppose?"

"To think you can talk in that tone of voice to me--to me of all
people!"

"To think you can force me to! And now you'll say you've seen things in
me you never thought were there, and turn it over in your mind--and--and
oh, it's cowardly--it's cruel. And you call yourself an honourable man
and could tell me and swear to me only yesterday that I was more to you
than anything else in the world!"

"D'you know what you're doing?" he asked. "D'you want to make
me--there--I won't speak it--I won't come down to your level and forget
myself and say things that I'd break my heart to think of afterwards. I
must go now, or that girl will be wondering what the deuce has happened.
She's told her father already that you weren't happy or something; so I
suppose you must have been talking. I'll come in this evening. You'd
better go home now as quick as you can."

He left her abruptly and she sat down shaking on a stone seat, to
prevent herself from falling. Grief and terror shared her spirit. She
watched him hurry away and, after he was gone, arose to find her legs
trembling under her. She went home slowly; then thoughts came to her
which restored her physical strength. Her anger gave place to fear and
her fear beckoned her to confide in somebody with greater power over
Raymond than her own.

She returned to her mother, described her repulse and then declared her
intention of going immediately to see Miss Ironsyde. She concentrated
her thoughts on the lady, of whom Raymond had often spoken with
admiration and respect. She argued with herself that his aunt would only
have to hear her story to take her side; she told herself and her mother
that since Raymond had feared to approach his aunt, Sabina might most
reasonably do so. She grew calm and convinced herself that not only
might she do this, but that when Raymond heard of it, he would very
possibly be glad that the necessity of confession was escaped. His Aunt
Jenny was very fond of him, and would forgive him and help him to do
right. Sabina found herself stronger than Raymond, and that did not
astonish her, for she had suspected it before.

Her mother, now in tears, agreed with her and she started on foot for
Bridport, walked quickly, and within an hour, reached the dwelling of
the Ironsydes--a large house standing hidden in the trees above the
town.

Miss Ironsyde was reading and looking forward to her tea when Sabina
arrived. She had heard of the girl through Ernest Churchouse, but she
had never met her and did not connect her in any way with Raymond. Jenny
received her and was impressed with her beauty, for Sabina, albeit
anxious and nervous, looked handsome after her quick walk.

"I've heard of you from your mother and Mr. Churchouse," said Miss
Ironsyde, shaking hands. "You come from him, I expect. I hope he is
well? Sit down by the fire."

Her kindly manner and gentle face set the younger at ease.

"He's quite well, thank you, miss. But I'm here for myself, not him. I'm
in a great deal of terrible anxiety, and you'll excuse me for coming, I
do hope, when I explain why I've come. It was understood between me and
Mr. Raymond Ironsyde very clearly yesterday that he was going to tell
you about it. He left me yesterday to do so. But I've seen him to-day
and I find he never came, so I thought I might venture to come even
though it was Sunday."

"The better the day, the better the deed. Something is troubling you.
Why did not my nephew come, if he started to come?"

"I don't know. Indeed, he should have come."

"I'm afraid he starts to do a great many things he doesn't carry
through," said Jenny, and the words, lightly spoken, fell sinister on
Sabina's ear.

"There are some things a man must carry through if he starts to do
them," she said quietly, and her tone threw light for Raymond's aunt.
She grew serious.

"Tell me," she said. "I know my nephew very well and have his interests
greatly at heart. He is somewhat undisciplined still and has had to face
certain difficulties and problems, not much in themselves, but much to
one with his temperament."

Then Sabina, who felt that she might be fighting for her life, set out
to tell her story. She proved at her best and spoke well. She kept her
temper and chose her words. The things that she had thought to speak,
indeed, escaped her, but her artless and direct narrative did not fail
to convince the listener.

"You're more to him than anybody in the world, but me," she said; "but
I'm first, Miss Ironsyde. I must be first now. Even if to-day he had
been different--but what seemed so near yesterday is far off to-day. He
was harsh to-day. He terrified me, and I felt you'd think no worse of me
than you must, if I ventured to come. I don't ask you to believe
anything I say until you have seen him; but I'm not going to tell you
anything but the sacred truth. Thanks to Mr. Churchouse I was well
educated, and he took kind pains to teach me when I was young and
helped me to get fond of books. So when Mr. Raymond came to the Mill, he
found I was intelligent and well mannered. And he fell in love with me
and asked me to marry him. And I loved him very dearly, because I had
never seen or known a man with such a beautiful face and mind. And I
promised to marry him. He wished it kept secret and we loved in secret
and had great joy of each other for a long time. Then people began to
talk and I begged him to let it be known we were engaged; but he would
not. And then I told him--yesterday--that it must be known and that he
must marry me as quickly as he could, for right and honour. And he
seemed very glad--almost thankful I thought. He rejoiced about it and
said it was splendid news. Then he left me to come straight to you and I
was happy and thankful. But to-day I went to see him and he had changed
and was rough to me and said he must choose his own time! This to me,
who am going to be mother of his child next year! I nearly fainted when
he said that. He told me to go; and I went. But I could not sit down
under the shock; I had to do something and thought of you. So I came to
implore you to be on my side--not only for my sake, but his. It's a very
fearful thing--only I know how fearful, because I know all he's said and
promised; and well I know he meant every word while he was saying it.
And I do humbly beg you, miss, for love of him, to reason with him and
hear what he's got to say. And if he says a word that contradicts what
I've said, then I'll be content for you to believe him and I'll trouble
you no more. But he won't. He'll tell you everything I've told you. He
couldn't say different, for he's truthful and straight. And if it was
anything less than the whole of my future life I wouldn't have come. But
I feel there are things hidden in his mind I can't fathom--else after
what I told him yesterday, he never, never could have been cruel to me,
or changed his mind about coming to see you. And please forgive me for
taking up your time. Only knowing that you cared for him so much made
me come to you."

Miss Ironsyde did not answer immediately. Her intuition inclined her to
believe every word at its face value; but her very readiness to do so
made her cautious. The story was one of every day and bore no marks of
improbability; yet among Raymond's faults she could not remember any
unreasonable relations with the other sex. It had always been one bright
spot in his dead father's opinion that the young man did not care about
drink or women, and was not intemperate, save in his passion for
athletic exercises and his abomination of work. It required no great
perception to see that Sabina was not the type that entangles men. She
had a beautiful face and a comely figure, but she belonged not to the
illusive, distracting type. She was obvious and lacked the quality which
attracts men far more than open features, regular modelling and steady
eyes. It was, in fact, such a face as Raymond might have admired, and
Sabina was such a girl as he might have loved--when he did fall in love.
She was apparently his prototype and complement in directness and
simplicity of outlook; that Miss Ironsyde perceived, and the more she
reflected the less she felt inclined to doubt.

Sabina readily guessed the complex thoughts which kept the listener
silent after she had finished, and sat quietly without more speech until
Jenny chose to answer her. That no direct antagonism appeared was a
source of comfort. Unconsciously Sabina felt happier for the presence of
the other, though as yet she had heard no consoling word. Miss Ironsyde
regarded her thoughtfully; then she rose and rang the bell. Sabina's
heart sank for she supposed that she was to be immediately dismissed,
and that meant defeat in a quarter very dangerous. But her mind was set
at rest, for Jenny saw the fear in her eyes.

"I'm ringing for tea," she said. "I will ask you to stop and drink a cup
with me. You've had a long walk."

Then came tears; but Sabina felt such weakness did not become her and
smothered them.

"Thank you, gratefully, Miss Ironsyde," she said.

Tea was a silent matter, for Jenny had very little to say. Her speech
was just and kind, however. It satisfied Sabina, whose only concern was
justice now. She had spoken first.

"I think--I'm sure it's only some hitch in Mr. Raymond's mind. He's been
so wonderful to me--so tender and thoughtful--and he's such a gentleman
in all he does and says, that I'm sure he never could dream of going
back on his sacred word. He wants to marry me. He'll never tell you
different from that. But he cannot realise, perhaps, the need--and yet I
won't say that neither, for, of course, he must realise."

"Say nothing more at all," answered Jenny. "You have said everything
there was to say and I'm glad you have come to me and told me about it.
But I'm not going to say anything myself until I've seen my nephew. You
are satisfied that he will tell me the truth?"

"Yes, I am. Don't think I don't trust him. Only if there's something
hidden from me, he might explain to you what it is, and what I've done
to anger him."

Miss Ironsyde did not lack experience of men and could have thrown light
on Sabina's problem; but she had not the heart. She began to suspect it
was the girl's own compliance and his easy victory that had made Raymond
weary before the reckoning. There is nothing more tasteless than paying
after possession, unless the factors combine to make the payment a
pleasure and possession an undying delight. Miss Ironsyde indeed guessed
at the truth more accurately than she knew; but her sympathies were
entirely with Sabina and it was certain that if Raymond, when the time
came, could offer no respectable and sufficient excuse for a change of
mind, he would find little support from her.

Of her intentions, however, she said nothing, nor indeed while Sabina
drank a cup of tea had Miss Ironsyde anything to say. She was not
unsympathetic, but she was guarded.

"I will see Raymond to-morrow without fail," she said when Sabina
departed. "I share your belief, Miss Dinnett, that he is a truthful and
straightforward man. At least I have always found him so. And I feel
very sure that you are truthful and straightforward too. This will come
right. I will give you one word of advice, if I may, and ask one
question. Does anybody know of your engagement except my nephew and
myself?"

"Only my mother. Yesterday he told me to go straight home and tell her.
And I did. Whether he's told anybody, I don't know."

"Be sure he has not. He would tell nobody before me, I think. My advice,
then, is to say nothing more until you hear from him, or me."

"I shouldn't, of course, Miss Ironsyde."

"Good-bye," said the other kindly. "Be of good heart and be patient for
a few hours longer. It's hard to ask you to be, but you'll understand
the wisdom."

When Sabina had gone, Miss Ironsyde nibbled a hot cake and reflected
deeply on an interview full of pain. The story--so fresh and terrific to
the teller--was older than the hills and presented no novel feature
whatever to her who listened. But in theory, Jenny Ironsyde entertained
very positive views concerning the trite situation. Whether she would be
able to sustain them before her nephew remained to be seen. She already
began to fear. She saw the dangers and traversed the arguments. Though
free from class prejudice, she recognised its weight in such a
situation. A break must mean Sabina's social ruin; but would union mean
ruin to Raymond? And if the problem was reduced to that, what became of
her theories? She decided that since her theories were based in
righteousness and justice, she must prefer his downfall to the woman's.
For if, indeed, he fell as the result of a mistaken marriage, he would
owe the fall to himself and his attitude after the event. He need not
fall. A tendency to judge him hardly, however, drew Jenny up. He had yet
to be heard.

She went to her writing-desk and wrote him a letter directing him to see
her on the following day without fail. "It is exceedingly important, my
dear boy," she said, "and I shall expect you not later than ten o'clock
to-morrow morning."




CHAPTER XVI

AT CHILCOMBE


Meantime Raymond had kept his promise and devoted some hours to
Estelle's pleasure. The girl was proud of such an event, anticipated it
for many days and won great delight from it when it came. She perceived,
as they started, that her friend was perturbed and wondered dimly a
moment as to what Sabina could have said to annoy him; but he appeared
to recover quickly and was calm, cheerful and attentive to her chatter
after they had gone a mile.

"To think you've never been to Chilcombe, Ray," she said. "You and
father go galloping after foxes, or shooting the poor pheasants and
partridges and don't care a bit for the wonderful tiny church at
Chilcombe--the tiniest in England almost, I do believe. And then there's
a beautiful thing in it--a splendid treasure; and many people think it
was a piece of one of the ships of the Spanish Armada, that was wrecked
on the Chesil Bank; and I dare say it is."

"You must tell me about it."

"I'm going to."

"Not walking too fast for you?"

"Not yet, but still you might go a little slower, or else I shall get
out of breath and shan't be able to tell you about things."

He obeyed.

"There are no flowers for you to show me now," he said.

"No, but there are interesting things. For instance, away there to the
right is a wonderful field. And the old story is that everything that is
ever planted in it comes up red--red."

"What nonsense."

"Yes, it is, but it's creepy, nice nonsense. Because of the story. Once
there were two murderers at Swire village, and one turned upon the other
and told the secret of the murder and got his friend caught and hanged.
And the bad murderer was paid a great deal of money for telling the
Government about the other murderer; and that was blood-money, you see.
Then the bad murderer bought a field, and because he bought it with
blood-money, everything he planted came up red. I wish it was true; but,
of course, I know it can't be, though a good many things would come up
red, like sanfoin and scarlet clover and beetroots."

"A jolly good yarn," declared Raymond.

They tramped along through a network of winding lanes, and presently
Estelle pointed to a lofty hillock that rose above the high lands on
which they walked.

"That's Shipton Hill," she said, pointing to the domelike mound. "And I
believe it's called so, because from one point it looks exactly like a
ship upside down."

"I'll bet it is, and a very good name for it."

The diminutive chapel of Chilcombe stood in a farmyard beside a lofty
knoll of trees. It was a stout little place of early English
architecture, lifted high above the surrounding country and having a
free horizon of sea and land. It consisted of a chancel, nave and south
porch. Its bell cote held one bell; and within was a Norman font, a
trefoil headed piscina, and sitting room for thirty-four people.

"Isn't it a darling little church?" asked Estelle, her voice sunk to a
whisper; and Raymond nodded and said that it was 'ripping.'

Then they examined the medieval treasure of the reredos--a panel of
cedar wood, some ten feet in length, that surmounted the altar. It was
set in a deep oaken frame, and displayed two circular drawings with an
oblong picture in the midst. In the left circle was the scourging of
Christ; in the right, the Redeemer rose from the tomb; while between
them the crucifixion had been depicted, with armies of mail-clad
soldiers about the cross. The winged symbols of the evangelists appeared
in other portions of the panel with various separate figures, and there
were indications that the work was unfinished.

Estelle, who had often studied every line of it, gave her explanations
and ideas to Raymond, while he listened with great attention. Then they
went to the ancient manor house now converted into a farm; and there the
girl had friends who provided them with tea. She made no attempt to hide
her pride at her companion, for she was a lonely little person and the
expedition with Raymond had been a great event in her life.

Exceedingly happy and contented, she walked beside him homeward in the
fading light and ceased not to utter her budding thoughts and
reflections. He proved a good listener and encouraged her, for she
amused him and really interested him. In common with her father, Raymond
was often struck by the fact that a child would consider subjects which
had never entered his head; but so it was, since Estelle's mind had been
wrought in a larger plan and compassed heights and depths, even in its
present immaturity, to which neither Waldron's nor Raymond's had
aspired. Yet the things she said were challenging, though often absurd.
Facts which he knew, though Estelle as yet did not, served to block her
ideals and explain her mysteries, yet he recognised the girl's simple
dreams, unvexed by practical considerations, or the 'nay' that real life
must make to them, were beautiful.

She spoke a good deal about the Mill, where now her chief interest
centred; and Raymond spoke about it too. And presently, after brisk
interchange of ideas, she pointed out a fact that had not struck him.

"It's a funny thing, Ray," she said, "but what you love best about the
works is the machinery; and what I love best about them is the people.
Yet I don't see how a machine can be as interesting as a girl."

"Perhaps you're wrong, Estelle. Perhaps I wish you were right. If I
hadn't found a girl more interesting--" He broke off and turned from the
road she had innocently opened into his own thoughts.

"Of course the people are more interesting, really. But because I'm keen
about the machines, you mustn't think I'm not keener still about the
people. You see the better the machines, the better time the people will
have, and the less hard and difficult and tiring for them will be their
work."

She considered this and suddenly beamed.

"How splendid! Of course I see. You _are_ clever, Ray. And it's really
the people you think of all the time."

She gave him a look of admiration.

"I expect presently they'll all see that; and gradually you'll get them
more and more beautiful machines, till their work is just pleasure and
nothing else. And do invent something to prevent Sabina and Nancy and
Alice hurting their hands. They have to stop the spindles so often, and
it wounds them, and Nancy gets chilblains in the winter, so it's simply
horrid for her."

"That's right. It's one of the problems. I'm not forgetting these
things."

"And if I think of anything may I tell you?"

"I hope you will, Estelle."

She talked him into a pleasant humour, and it took a practical form
unknown to Estelle, for before they had reached home again, there passed
through Raymond's mind a wave of contrition. The contrast between
Estelle's steadfast and unconscious altruism and his own irresolution
and selfishness struck into him. She made him think more kindly of
Sabina, and when he considered the events of that day from Sabina's
standpoint, he felt ashamed of himself. For it was not she who had done
anything unreasonable. The blame was his. He had practically lied to her
the day before, and to-day he had been harsh and cruel. She had a
right--the best possible right--to come and see him; she had good
reason to be angry on learning that he had not kept his word.

He determined to see Sabina as quickly as possible, and about seven
o'clock in the evening after the return from the walk, he went down to
'The Magnolias' and rang the bell. Mrs. Dinnett came to the door, and
said something that hardened the young man's heart again very rapidly.

Sabina's mother was unfriendly. Since her daughter returned, she had
learned all there was to know, and for the moment felt very
antagonistic. She had already announced the betrothal to certain of her
friends, and the facts that day had discovered made her both anxious and
angry. She was a woman of intermittent courage, but her paroxysms of
pluck soon passed and between them she was craven and easily cast down.
For the moment, however, she felt no fear and echoed the mood in which
Sabina had returned from Bridport an hour earlier.

"Sabina can't be seen to-night," she said. "You wouldn't have anything
to do with her this afternoon, Mr. Ironsyde, and treated her like a
stranger; and now she won't see you."

"Why not, Missis Dinnett?"

"She's got her pride, and you've wounded it--and worse. And I may tell
you we're not the people to be treated like this. It's a very
ill-convenient business altogether, and if you're a gentleman and a man
of honour--"

He cut her short.

"Is she going to see me, or isn't she?"

"She is not. She's very much distressed, and every reason to be, God
knows; and she's not going to see you to-night."

Raymond took it quietly and his restraint instantly alarmed Mrs.
Dinnett.

"It's not my fault, Mr. Ironsyde. But seeing how things are between you,
she was cruel put about this afternoon, and she's got to think of
herself if you can do things like that at such a moment."

"She must try and keep her nerve better. There was no reason why I
should break promises. She ought to have waited for me to come to her."

Mary Dinnett flamed again.

"You can say that! And didn't she wait all the morning to see if you'd
come to her--and me? And as to promises--it don't trouble you to break
promises, else you'd have seen your family yesterday, as you told Sabina
you were going to do."

"Is she going to the mill to-morrow?" he asked, ignoring the attack.

"No, she ain't going to the mill. It isn't a right and fitting thing
that the woman you're going to marry and the mother of your future child
should be working in a spinning mill; and if you don't know it, others
do."

"She told you then--against my wishes?"

"And what are your wishes alongside of your acts? You're behaving very
wickedly, Mr. Ironsyde, and driving my daughter frantic; and if she
can't tell her mother her sorrows, who should know?"

"She has disobeyed me and done a wrong thing," he said quietly. "This
may alter the whole situation, and you can tell her so."

"For God's sake don't talk like that. Would you ruin the pair of us?"

"What am I to do if I can't trust her?" he asked, and then went abruptly
away before Mary could answer.

She was terribly frightened and soon drowned in tears, for when she
returned to Sabina and related the conversation, her daughter became
passionate and blamed her with a shower of bitter words.

"I only told you, because I thought you had sense enough to keep your
mouth shut about it," she cried. "Now he'll think it's common news and
hate me--hate me for telling. You've ruined me--that's what you've
done, and I may as well go and make a hole in the water as not, for
he'll never marry me now."

"You told Miss Ironsyde," sobbed the mother.

"That was different. She'll keep it to herself, and I had to tell her to
show how serious it was for me. For anything less than that, she'd have
taken his side against me. And now he'll find I've been to her, and that
may--oh, my God, why didn't I keep quiet a little longer, and trust
him?"

"You had every right to speak, when you found he was telling lies," said
Mrs. Dinnett.

And while they quarrelled, Raymond returned to North Hill in a mood that
could not keep silence. He and Arthur Waldron smoked after supper, and
when Estelle had gone to bed, the younger spoke and took up the
conversation of the preceding night where he had dropped it. The speech
that now passed, however, proceeded on a false foundation, for Raymond
only told Arthur what he pleased and garbled the facts by withholding
what was paramount.

"You were talking of Sabina Dinnett last night," he said. "What would
you think if I told you I was going to marry her, Waldron?"

"A big 'if.' But you're not going to tell me so. You would surely have
told me yesterday if you had meant that."

"Why shouldn't I if I want to?"

"I always keep out of personal things--even with pals. I strained a
point with you last night for friendship, Ray. Is the deed done, or
isn't it? If it is, there is nothing left but to congratulate you and
wish you both luck."

"If it isn't?"

Mr. Waldron was cautious.

"You're not going to draw me till I know as much as you know, old chap.
Either you're engaged, or you're not."

"Say it's an open question--then what?"

"How can I say it's an open question after this? I'm not going to say a
word about it."

"Well, I thought we were engaged; but it seems there's a bit of doubt in
the air still."

"Then you'd better clear that doubt, before you mention the subject
again. Until you and she agree about it, naturally it's nobody else's
business."

"And yet everybody makes it their business, including you. Why did you
advise me to look out what I was doing last night?"

"Because you're young, boy, and I thought you might make a mistake and
do an unsporting thing. That was nothing to do with your marrying her.
How was I to know such an idea was in your mind? Naturally nobody
supposed any question of that sort had arisen."

"Why not?"

Waldron felt a little impatient.

"You know as well as I do. Men in your position don't as a rule
contemplate marriage with women, however charming and clever, who--. But
this is nonsense. I'm not going to answer your stupid questions."

"Then you'd say--?"

"No, I wouldn't. I'll say nothing about it. You're wanting to get
something for nothing now, and presently I daresay you'd remind me of
something I had said. We can go back to the beginning if you like, but
you're not going to play lawyer with me, Ray. It's in a nutshell, I
suppose. You're going to marry Miss Dinnett, or else you're not. Of
course, you know which. And if you won't tell me which, then don't ask
me to talk about it."

"I've not decided."

"Then drop it till you have."

"You're savage now."

"I'm never savage--you know that very well. Or, if I am, it's only with
men who are unsporting."

"Let's generalise, then. I suppose you'd say a man was a fool to marry
out of his own class."

"As a rule, yes. Because marriage is difficult enough at best without
complicating it like that. But there are exceptions. You can't find any
rule without exceptions."

"I'll tell you the truth then, Arthur. I meant to marry Sabina. I
believed that she was the only being in the world worth living for. But
things have happened and now I'm doubtful whether it would be the best
possible."

"And what about her? Is she doubtful too?"

"I don't know. Anyway I've just been down to see her and she wouldn't
see me."

"See her to-morrow then and clear it up. If there's a doubt, give
yourselves the benefit of the doubt. She's tremendously clever, Estelle
says, and she may be clever enough to believe it wouldn't do. And if she
feels like that, you'll be a fool to press it."

They talked on and Waldron, despite his caution, was too ingenuous to
hide his real opinions. He made it very clear to Raymond that any such
match, in his judgment, would be attended by failure. But he spoke in
ignorance of the truth.

The younger went to bed sick of himself. His instincts of right and
honour fought with his desires to be free. His heart sank now at the
prospect of matrimony. He assured himself that he loved Sabina as
steadfastly as ever he had loved her; but that there might yet be a
shared life of happiness for them without the matrimonial chains. He
considered whether it would be possible to influence Sabina in that
direction; he even went so far as to speculate on what would be his
future feelings for her if she insisted upon the sanctity of his
promises.




CHAPTER XVII

CONFUSION


Mr. Churchouse was standing in his porch, when a postman brought him a
parcel. It was a book, and Ernest displayed mild interest.

"What should that be, I wonder?" he said. Then he asked a question.

"Have you seen Bert, the newspaper boy? For the second morning he
disappoints me."

But Bert himself appeared at the same moment and the postman went his
way.

"No newspaper on Saturday--how was that?" asked Mr. Churchouse.

"I was dreadful ill and my mother wouldn't let me go outdoors,"
explained the boy. "I asked Neddy Prichard to go down to the baker's and
get it for you; but he wouldn't."

"Then I say no more, except to hope you're better."

"It's my froat," explained Bert, a sturdy, flaxen youngster of ten.

"One more point I should like to raise while you are here. Have you
noticed that garden chair in the porch?"

"Yes, I have, and wondered why 'twas left there."

"Wonder no more, Bert. It is there that you may put the paper upon it,
rather than fling the news on a dirty door-mat."

"Fancy!" said Bert. "I never!"

"Bear it in mind henceforth, and, if you will delay a moment, I will
give you some black currant lozenges for your throat."

A big black cat stood by his master listening to this conversation and
Bert now referred to him.

"Would thicky cat sclow me?" he asked.

"No, Bert--have no fear of Peter Grim," answered Mr. Churchouse. "His
looks belie him. He has a forbidding face but a friendly heart."

"He looks cruel fierce."

"He does, but though a great sportsman, he has a most amiable nature."

Having ministered to Bert, Mr. Churchouse retired with his book and
paper. Then came Mary Dinnett, red-eyed and in some agitation. But for a
moment he did not observe her trouble. He had opened his parcel and
revealed a volume bound in withered calf and bearing signs of age and
harsh treatment.

"A work I have long coveted--it is again 'a well-wisher,' Missis
Dinnett, who has sent it to me. There is much kindness in the world
still."

But Mrs. Dinnett was too preoccupied with her own affairs to feel
interest in Ernest's pleasant little experience. By nature pessimistic,
original doubts, when she heard of Sabina's engagement, were now
confirmed and she felt certain that her daughter would never become
young Ironsyde's wife. Regardless of the girl's injunction to silence,
and feeling that both for herself and Sabina this disaster might alter
the course of their lives and bring her own hairs with sorrow to the
grave, Mary now took the first opportunity to relate the facts to Mr.
Churchouse. They created in him emotions of such deep concern that
neither his book nor his newspaper were opened on the day of the
announcement.

Mrs. Dinnett rambled through her disastrous recital, declared that for
her own part, she had already accepted the horror of it and was prepared
to face the worst that could happen, and went so far as to predict what
Ernest himself would probably do, now that the scandal had reached his
ears. She was distraught and for the moment appeared almost to revel in
the accumulated horrors of the situation.

She told the story of promise and betrayal and summed up with one
agonised prophecy.

"And now you'll cast her out--you'll turn upon us and throw us out--I
know you will."

"'Cast her out'? Good God of Mercy! Who am I to cast anybody out, Missis
Dinnett? Shall an elderly and faulty fellow creature rise in judgment at
the weakness of youth? What have I done in the past to lead you to any
such conclusion? I feel very certain, indeed, that you are permitting
yourself a debauch of misery--wallowing in it, Mary Dinnett--as
misguided wretches often wallow in drink out of an unmanly despair at
their own human weakness. Fortify yourself! Approach the question on a
higher plane. Remember no sparrow falls to the ground without the
cognisance of its Creator! As for Sabina, I love her and have devoted
many hours to her education. I also love Raymond Ironsyde--for his own
sake as well as his family's. I am perfectly certain that you exaggerate
the facts. Such a thing is quite incredible. Shall I quarrel with a
gracious flower because a wandering bee has set a seed? He may be an
inconsiderate and greedy bee--but--"

Mr. Churchouse broke off, conscious that his simile would land him in
difficulties.

"No," he said, "we must not pursue this subject on a pagan or poetical
basis. We are dealing with two young Christians, Missis Dinnett--a man
and a woman of good nurture and high principle. I will never
believe--not if he said it himself--that Raymond Ironsyde would commit
any such unheard-of outrage. You say that he has promised to marry her.
That is enough for me. The son of Henry Ironsyde will keep his promise.
Be sure of that. For the moment leave the rest in my hands. Exercise
discretion, and pray, pray keep silence about it. I do trust that nobody
has heard anything. Publicity might complicate the situation seriously."

As a matter of fact Mrs. Dinnett had told everything to her bosom
friend--a woman who dwelt in a cottage one hundred yards from 'The
Magnolias.' She did not mention this, however.

"If you say there's hope, I'll try to believe it," she answered. "The
man came here last night and Sabina wouldn't see him, and God knows
what'll be the next thing."

"Leave the next thing to me."

"She's given notice at the works. He told her to."

"Of course--quite properly. Now calm down and fetch me my walking
boots."

In half an hour Ernest was on his way to Bridport. As Sabina, before
him, his instinct led to Miss Ironsyde and he felt that the facts might
best be imparted to her. If anybody had influence with Raymond, it was
she. His tone of confidence before Mrs. Dinnett had been partly assumed,
however. His sympathies were chiefly with Sabina, for she was no
ordinary mill hand; she had enjoyed his tuition and possessed native
gifts worthy of admiration. But she was as excitable as her mother, and
if this vital matter went awry, there could be no doubt that her life
must be spoiled.

Mr. Churchouse managed to get a lift on his way from a friendly farmer,
and he arrived at Bridport Town Hall soon after ten o'clock. While
driving he put the matter from his mind for a time, and his acquaintance
started other trains of thought. One of them, more agreeable to a man of
his temperament than the matter in hand, still occupied his mind when he
stood before Jenny Ironsyde.

"You!" she said. "I had an idea you never came into the world till
afternoon."

"Seldom--seldom. I drove a good part of the way with Farmer Gate, and he
made a curious remark. He said that a certain person might as well be
dead for all the good he was. Now what constitutes life? I've been
asking myself that."

"It's certainly difficult to decide about some people, whether they're
alive or dead. Some make you doubt if they ever were alive."

"A good many certainly don't know they're born; and plenty don't know
they're dead," he declared.

"To be in your grave is not necessarily to be dead, and to be in your
shop, or office, needn't mean that you're alive," admitted the lady.

"Quite so. Who doesn't know dead people personally, and go to tea with
them, and hear their bones rattle? And whose spirit doesn't meet in
their thoughts, or works, the dead who are still living?"

"Most true, I'm sure; but you didn't come to tell me that?"

"No; yet it has set me wondering whether, perhaps, I am dead--at any
rate deader than I need be."

"We are probably all deader than we need be."

"But to-day there has burst into my life a very wakening thing. It may
have been sent. For mystery is everywhere, and what's looking
exceedingly bad for those involved, may be good for me. And yet, one can
hardly claim to win goodness out of the threatened misfortunes to those
who are dear to one."

"What's the matter? Something's happened, or you wouldn't come to see me
so early."

"Something has happened," he answered, "and one turns to you in times of
stress, just as one used to turn to your dear brother, Henry. You have
character, shrewdness and decision."

Miss Ironsyde saw light.

"You've come for Raymond," she said.

"Now how did you divine that? But, as a matter of fact, I've come for
somebody else. A very serious thing has happened and if we older
heads--"

"Who told you about it?"

"This morning, an hour ago, it was broken to me by Sabina's mother."

"Tell me just what she told you, Ernest."

He obeyed and described the interview exactly.

"I cannot understand that, for Sabina saw me last night and explained
the situation. I impressed upon her the importance of keeping the matter
as secret as possible for the present."

"Nevertheless Mary Dinnett told me. She is a very impulsive person--so
is Sabina; but in Sabina's case there is brain power to control impulse;
in her mother's case there is none."

"I'm much annoyed," declared Miss Ironsyde--"not of course, that you
should know, but that there should be talking. Please go home and tell
them both to be quiet. This chattering is most dangerous and may defeat
everything. Last night I wrote to Raymond directing him to come and see
me immediately. I did not tell him why; but I told him it was urgent. I
made the strongest appeal possible. When you arrived, I thought it was
he. He should have been here an hour ago."

"If he is coming, I will go," answered Ernest. "I don't wish to meet him
at present. He has done very wrongly--wickedly, in fact. The question is
whether marriage with Sabina--"

"There is no question about that in my opinion," declared the lady. "I
am a student of character, and had she been a different sort of girl--.
But even as it is I suspend judgment until I have seen Raymond. It is
quite impossible, however, after hearing her, to see what excuse he can
offer."

"She is a very superior girl indeed, and very clever and refined. I
always hoped she would marry a schoolmaster, or somebody with cultured
tastes. But her great and unusual beauty doubtless attracted Raymond."

"I think you'd better go home, Ernest. I'll write to you after I've seen
the boy. Do command silence from both of them. I'm very angry and very
distressed, but really nothing can be done till we hear him. My
sympathy is entirely with Sabina. Let her go on with her life for a day
or two and--"

"She's changed her life and left the Mill. I understand Raymond told her
to do so."

"That is a good sign, I suppose. If she's done that, the whole affair
must soon be known. But we talk in the dark."

Mr. Churchouse departed, forgot his anxieties in a second-hand book shop
and presently returned home.

But he saw nothing of Raymond on the way; and Miss Ironsyde waited in
vain for her nephew's arrival. He did not come, and her letter, instead
of bringing him immediately as she expected, led to a very different
course of action on his part.

For, taken with Sabina's refusal to see him, he guessed correctly at
what had inspired it. Sabina had threatened more than once in the past
to visit Miss Ironsyde and he had forbidden her to do so. Now he knew
from her mother why she had gone, and while not surprised, he clutched
at the incident and very quickly worked it into a tremendous grievance
against the unlucky girl. His intelligence told him that he could not
fairly resent her attempt to win a powerful friend at this crisis in her
fortunes; but his own inclinations and growing passion for liberty
fastened on it and made him see a possible vantage point. He worked
himself up into a false indignation. He knew it was false, yet he
persevered in it, as though it were real, and acted as though it were
real.

He tore up his aunt's letter and ignored it.

Instead of going to Bridport, he went to his office and worked as usual.

At dinner time he expected Sabina, but she did not come and he heard
from Mr. Best that she was not at the works.

"She came in here and gave notice on Saturday afternoon," said the
foreman, shortly, and turned away from Raymond even as he spoke.

Then the young man remembered that he had bade Sabina do this. His
anger increased, for now everybody must soon hear of what had happened.

In a sort of subconscious way he felt glad, despite his irritation, at
the turn of events, for they might reconcile him with his conscience and
help to save the situation in the long run.




CHAPTER XVIII

THE LOVERS' GROVE


A little matter now kindled a great fire, and a woman's reasonable
irritation, which he had himself created, produced for Raymond Ironsyde
a very complete catastrophe.

His aunt, indeed, was not prone to irritation. Few women preserved a
more level mind, or exhibited that self-control which is a prime product
of common-sense; but, for once, it must be confessed that Jenny broke
down and did that which she had been the first to censure in another.
The spark fell on sufficient fuel and the face of the earth was changed
for Raymond before he slept that night.

For his failure to answer her urgent appeal, his contemptuous disregard
of the strongest letter she had ever written, annoyed her exceedingly.
It argued a callous indifference to her own wishes and a spirit of
extraordinary unkindness. She had been a generous aunt to him all his
life; he had very much for which to thank her; and yet before this
pressing petition he could remain dumb. That his mind was disordered she
doubted not; but nothing excused silence at such a moment.

After lunch on this day Daniel spent some little while with his aunt,
and then when a post which might have brought some word from Raymond
failed to do so, Jenny's gust of temper spoke. It was the familiar case
of a stab at one who has annoyed us; but to point such stabs, the ear of
a third person is necessary, and before she had quite realised what she
was doing, Miss Ironsyde sharply blamed her nephew to his brother.

"The most inconsiderate, selfish person on earth is Raymond," she said
as a servant brought her two letters, neither from the sinner. "I asked
him--and prayed him--to see me to-day about a subject of the gravest
importance to him and to us all; and he neither comes nor takes the
least notice of my letter. He is hopeless."

"What's he done now?"

"I don't know exactly--at least--never mind. Leave it for the minute.
Sorry, I was cross. You'll know what there is to know soon enough. If
there's trouble in store, we must put a bold face on it and think of
him."

"I rather hoped things were going smoother. He seems to be getting more
steady and industrious."

"Perhaps he reserved his industry for the works and leaves none for
anything else, then," she answered; "but don't worry before you need."

"You'll tell me if there's anything I ought to know, Aunt Jenny."

"He'll tell you himself, I should hope. And if he doesn't, no doubt
there will be plenty of other people to do so. But don't meet trouble
half way. Shall you be back to tea?"

"Probably not. I'm going to Bridetown this afternoon. I have an
appointment with Best. He was to see some machinery that sounded all
right; but he's very conservative and I can always trust him to be on
the safe side. One doesn't mean to be left behind, of course."

"Always ask yourself what your father would have thought, Daniel. And
then you'll not make any mistakes."

He nodded.

"I ask myself that often enough, you may be sure."

       *       *       *       *       *

An hour later the young man had driven his trap to the Mill and listened
to John Best on the subject of immediate interest. The foreman decided
against any innovation for the present and Daniel was glad. Then he
asked for his brother.

"Is Mister Raymond here?"

"He was this morning; but he's not down this afternoon. At least he
wasn't when I went to his office just before you came."

"Everything's all right, I suppose?"

Mr. Best looked uncomfortable.

"I'm afraid not, sir; but I hate talking. You'd better hear it from
him."

Daniel's heart sank.

"Tell me," he said. "You're one of us, John--my father's right hand for
twenty years--and our good is your good. If you know of trouble, tell me
the truth. It may be better for him in the long run. Miss Ironsyde was
bothered about him, to-day."

"If it's better for him, then I'll speak," answered Best. "He's a very
clever young man and learning fast now. He's buckling to and getting on
with it. But--Sabina Dinnett, our first spinner, gave notice on
Saturday. She's not here to-day."

"What does that mean?"

"You'd better ask them that know. I've heard a lot of rumours, and they
may be true or not, and I hope they're not. But if they are, I suppose
it means the old story where men get mixed up with girls."

Daniel was silent, but his face flushed.

"Don't jump to the conclusion it's true," urged the foreman. "Hear both
sides before you do anything about it."

"I know it's true."

Mr. Best did not answer.

"And you know it's true," continued the younger.

"What everybody says nobody should believe," ventured Best. "What
happened was this--Sabina came in on Saturday afternoon, when I was
working in my garden, and gave notice. Not a month, but to go right
away. Of course I asked her why, but she wouldn't tell me. She was as
happy as a lark about it, and what she said was that I'd know the reason
very soon and be the first to congratulate her. Of course, I thought she
was going to be married. And still I hope she is. That's all you can
take for truth. The rest is rumour. You can guess how a place like this
will roll it over their tongues."

"I'll go and see Mister Churchouse."

"Do, sir. You can trust him to be charitable."

Daniel departed; but he did not see Ernest Churchouse. The antiquary was
not at home and, instead, he heard Mrs. Dinnett, who poured the
approximate truth into his ears with many tears. His brother had
promised to marry Sabina, but on hearing the girl was with child, had
apparently refused to keep his engagement.

Then it was Daniel Ironsyde's turn to lose his temper. He drove straight
to North Hill House, found his brother in the garden with Estelle
Waldron, took him aside and discharged him from the Mill.

Raymond had been considering the position and growing a little calmer.
With a return of more even temper, he had written to Miss Ironsyde and
promised to be with her on the following evening without fail. He had
begged her to keep an open mind so far as he was concerned and he hoped
that when the time came, he might be able to trust to her lifelong
friendship. What he was going to say, he did not yet know; but he
welcomed the brief respite and was in a good temper when his brother
challenged him.

The attack was direct, blunt and even brutal. It burst like a
thunder-bolt on Raymond's head, staggered him, and then, of course,
enraged him.

"I won't keep you," said Daniel. "I only want to know one thing. Sabina
Dinnett's going to have a baby. Are you the father of it, or aren't
you?"

"What the devil business is that of yours?"

"As one of my mill hands, I consider it is my business. One thinks of
them as human beings as well as machines--machines for work, or
amusement--according to the point of view. So answer me."

"You cold-blooded cur! What are you but a machine?"

"Answer my question, please."

"Go to hell."

"You blackguard! You do a dirty, cowardly thing like this, despite my
warnings and entreaties; you foul our name and drag it in the gutter and
then aren't man enough to acknowledge it."

The younger trembled with passion.

"Shut your mouth, or I'll smash your face in!" he cried.

His sudden fury calmed his brother.

"You refuse to answer, and that can only mean one thing, Raymond. Then
I've done with you. You've dragged us all through the mud--made us a
shame and a scandal--proud people. You can go--the further off, the
better. I dismiss you and I never want to see your face again."

"Don't worry--you never shall. God's my judge, I'd sooner sweep a
crossing than come to you for anything. I know you well enough. You
always meant to do this. You saved your face when my father robbed me
from the grave and left me a pauper--you saved your face by putting me
into the works; but you never meant me to stop there. You only waited
your chance to sack me and keep the lot for yourself. And you've jumped
at this and were glad to hear of this--damned glad, I'll bet!"

Daniel did not answer, but turned his back on his brother, and a minute
or two later was driving away. When he had gone, the panting Raymond
went to his room and flung himself on his bed. Under his cooling anger
again obtruded the old satisfaction--amorphous, vile, not to be
named--that he had felt before. This brought ultimate freedom a step
nearer. If ostracism and punishment were to be his portion, then let him
earn them. If the world--his world--was to turn against him, let the
reversal be for something. Poverty would be a fair price for liberty,
and those who now seemed so ready to hound him out of his present life
and crush his future prospects, should live to see their error. For a
time he felt savagely glad that this had happened. He regretted his
letter to his aunt; he thought of packing his portmanteau on the instant
and vanishing for ever; yet time and reflection abated his dreams. He
began to grow a little alarmed. He even regretted his harsh words to his
brother before the twilight fell.

Then his mind was occupied with Sabina; but Sabina had wounded him to
the quick, for it was clear she and her mother had shamelessly published
the truth. Sabina, then, had courted ruin. She deserved it. He soon
argued that the disaster of the day was Sabina's work, and he dismissed
her with an oath from his thoughts. Then he turned to Miss Ironsyde and
found keen curiosity waken to know what she was thinking and feeling
about him. Did she know that Daniel had dismissed him? Could she have
listened to so grave a determination on Daniel's part and taken no step
to prevent it?

He found himself deeply concerned at being flung out of his brother's
business. The more he weighed all that this must mean and its effect
upon his future, the more overwhelmed he began to be. He had worked very
hard of late and put all his energy and wits into spinning. He was
beginning to understand its infinite possibilities and to see how,
Daniel's trust once won, he might have advanced their common welfare.

From this point he ceased to regret his letter to Miss Ironsyde, but was
glad that he had written it. He now only felt concerned that the
communication was not penned with some trace of apology for his past
indifference to her wishes. He began to see that his sole hope now lay
with his aunt, and the supreme point of interest centred in her attitude
to the situation.

He despatched a second letter, confirming the first, and expressing
some contrition at his behaviour to her. But this rudeness he declared
to have been the result of peculiarly distressing circumstances; and he
assured her, that when the facts came to her ears, she would find no
difficulty in forgiving him.

Their meeting was fixed for the following evening, and until it had
taken place, Raymond told nobody of what had happened to him. He went to
work next morning, to learn indirectly whether Best had heard of his
dismissal; but it seemed the foreman had not. The circumstance cheered
Raymond; he began to hope that his brother had changed his mind, and the
possibility put him into a sanguine mood at once. He found himself full
of good resolutions; he believed that this might prove the turning
point; he expected that Daniel would arrive at any moment and he was
prepared frankly to express deep regret for his conduct if he did so.
But Daniel did not come.

Sabina constantly crossed Raymond's mind, to be as constantly dismissed
from it. He was aware that something definite must be done; but he
determined not even to consider the situation until he had seen his
aunt. A hopeful mood, for which no cause existed, somehow possessed him
upon this day. For no reason and spun of nothing in the least tangible,
there grew around him an ambient intuition that he was going to get out
of this fix with the help of Jenny Ironsyde. The impression created a
wave of generosity to Sabina. He felt a large magnanimity. He was
prepared to do everything right and reasonable. He felt that his aunt
would approve the line he purposed to take. She was practical, and he
assured himself that she would not consent to pronounce the doom of
marriage upon him.

In this sanguine spirit Raymond went to Bridport and dined at 'The
Tiger' before going to see his aunt at the appointed time. And here
there happened events to upset the level optimism that had ruled him all
day. Raymond had the little back-parlour to himself and Richard Gurd
waited upon him. They spoke of general subjects and then the older man
became personal.

"If you'll excuse me, Mister Raymond," he said, "if you'll excuse me, as
one who's known you ever since you went out of knickers, sir, I'd
venture to warn you as a good friend, against a lot that's being said in
Bridetown and Bridport, too. You know how rumours fly about. But a good
deal more's being said behind your back than ought to be said; and
you'll do well to clear it up. And by the same token, Mister Motyer's
opening his mouth the widest. As for me, I got it from Job Legg over the
way at 'The Seven Stars'; and he got it from a young woman at Bridetown
Mills, niece of Missis Northover. So these things fly about."

Raymond was aware that Richard Gurd held no puritan opinions. He
possessed tolerance and charity for all sorts and conditions, and left
morals alone.

"And what did you do, Dick? I should think you'd learned by this time to
let the gossip of a public-house go in at one ear and out of the other."

"Yes--for certain. I learned to do that before you were born; but when
things are said up against those I value and respect, it's different.
I've told three men they were liars, to-day, and I may have to tell
thirty so, to-morrow."

Raymond felt his heart go slower.

"What the deuce is the matter?"

"Just this: they say you promised to marry a mill girl at Bridetown
and--the usual sort of thing--and, knowing you, I told them it was a
lie."

The young man uttered a scornful ejaculation.

"Tell them to mind their own business," he said. "Good heavens--what a
storm in a teacup it is! They couldn't bleat louder if I'd committed a
murder."

"There's more to it than to most of these stories," explained Richard.
"You see it sounds a very disgraceful sort of thing, you being your
brother's right hand at the works."

"I'm not that, anyway."

"Well, you're an Ironsyde, Mister Raymond, and to have a story of this
sort told about an Ironsyde is meat and drink for the baser sort. So I
hope you'll authorise me to contradict it."

"Good God--is there no peace, even here?" burst out Raymond. "Can even a
man I thought large-minded and broad-minded and all the rest of it, go
on twaddling about this as if he was an old washer-woman? Here--get me
my bill--I've finished. And if you're going to begin preaching to people
who come here for their food and drink, you'd better chuck a pub and
start a chapel."

Mr. Gurd was stricken dumb. A thousand ghosts from the grave had not
startled him so much as this rebuke. Indeed, in a measure, he felt the
rebuke deserved, and it was only because he held the rumour of Raymond's
achievements an evil lie, that he had cautioned the young man, and with
the best motives, desired to put him on his guard. But that the story
should be true--or based on truth--as now appeared from Raymond's anger,
had never occurred to Richard. Had he suspected such a thing, he must
have deplored it, but he certainly would not have mentioned it.

He went out now without a word and held it the wisest policy not to see
his angry customer again that night. He sent Raymond's account in by a
maid, and the young man paid it and went out to keep his appointment
with Miss Ironsyde.

But again his mood was changed. Gurd had hit him very hard. Indeed, no
such severe blow had been struck as this unconscious thrust of
Richard's. For it meant that an incident that Raymond was striving to
reconcile with the ways of youth--a sowing of wild oats not destined to
damage future crops--had appeared to the easy-going publican as a thing
to be stoutly contradicted--an act quite incompatible with Raymond's
record and credit. Coming from Gurd this attitude signified a great
deal; for if the keeper of a sporting inn took such a line about the
situation, what sort of line were others likely to take? Above all, what
sort of line would his Aunt Jenny take? His nebulous hopes dwindled. He
began to fear that she would find the honour of the family depended not
on his freeing himself from Sabina, but the contrary.

And he was right. Miss Ironsyde welcomed him kindly, but left no shadow
of doubt as to her opinion; and the fact that the situation had been
complicated by publicity, which in the last resort he argued, by no
means turned her from her ultimatum.

"Sit down and smoke and listen to me, Raymond," she began, after kissing
him. "I forgive you, once for all, that you could be so rude to me and
fail to see me despite my very pressing letter. No doubt some whim or
suspicion inspired you to be unkind. But that doesn't matter now. That's
a trifle. We've got to thresh out something that isn't a trifle,
however, for your honour and good name are both involved--and with
yours, ours."

"I argue that a great deal too much is being made of this, Aunt Jenny."

"I hope so--I hope everything has been exaggerated through a
misunderstanding. Delay in these cases is often simply fatal, Raymond,
because it gives a lie a start. And if you give a lie a start, it's
terribly hard to catch. Sabina Dinnett came to see me on Sunday
afternoon and I trust with all my heart she told me what wasn't true."

He felt a sudden gleam of hope and she saw it.

"Don't let any cheerful feeling betray you; this is far from a cheerful
subject for any of us. But again, I say, I hope that Sabina Dinnett has
come to wrong conclusions. What she said was this. Trust me to be
accurate, and when I have done, correct her statement if it is false.
Frankly, I thought her a highly intelligent young woman, with grace of
mind and fine feeling. She was fighting for her future and she did it
like a gentlewoman."

Miss Ironsyde then related her conversation with Sabina and Raymond knew
it to be faithful in every particular.

"Is that true, or isn't it?" she concluded.

"Yes, it's perfectly true, save in her assumption that I had changed my
mind," he said. "What I may have done since, doesn't matter; but when I
left her, I had not changed my mind in the least; if she had waited for
me to act in my own time, and come to see you, and so on, as I meant to
do, and broken it to Daniel myself, instead of hearing him break it to
me and dismiss me as though I were a drunken groom, then I should have
kept my word to her. But these things, and her action, and the fact that
she and her fool of a mother have bleated the story all over the
county--these things have decided me it would be a terrible mistake to
marry Sabina now. She's not what I thought. Her true character is not
trustworthy--in fact--well, you must see for yourself that they don't
trust me and are holding a pistol to my head. And no man is going to
stand that. We could never be married now, because she hates me. There's
another reason too--a practical one."

"What?"

"Why, the best. I'm a pauper. Daniel has chucked me out of the works."

Miss Ironsyde showed very great distress.

"Do you honestly mean that you could look the world in the face if you
ruin this woman?"

"Why use words like that? She's not ruined, any more than thousands of
other women."

"I'm ashamed of you, Raymond. I hope to God you've never said a thing so
base as that to anybody but me. And if I thought you meant it, I think
it would break my heart. But you don't mean it. You loved the girl and
you are an honourable man without a shadow on your good name so far.
You loved Sabina, and you do love her, and if you said you didn't a
thousand times, I should not believe it. You're chivalrous and generous,
and that's the precious point about you. Granted that she made a
mistake, is her mistake to wreck her whole life? Just think how she
felt--what a shock you gave her. You part with her on Saturday the real
Raymond, fully conscious that you must marry her at once--for her own
honour and yours. Then on Sunday, you are harsh and cruel--for no
visible reason. You frighten her; you raise up horrible fears and
dangers in her young, nervous spirit. She is in a condition prone to
terrors and doubts, and upon this condition you came in a surly mood and
imply that you yourself are changed. What wonder she lost her head? Yet
I do not think that it was to lose her head to come to me. She had often
heard you speak of me. She knew that I loved you well and faithfully.
She felt that if anybody could put this dreadful fear to rest, I should
be the one. Don't say she wasn't right."

He listened attentively and began to feel something of his aunt's view.

"Forgive her first for coming to me. If mistaken, admit at least it was
largely your own fault that she came. She has nothing but love and
devotion for you. She told nothing but the truth."

He asked a question, which seemed far from the point, but none the less
indicated a coming change of attitude. At any rate Jenny so regarded it.

"What d'you think of her?"

"I think she's a woman of naturally fine character. She has brains and
plenty of sense and if she had not loved you unspeakably and been very
emotional, I do not think this could have happened to her."

She talked on quietly, but with the unconscious force of one who feels
her subject to the heart. The man began to yield--not for love of
Sabina, but for love of himself. For Miss Ironsyde continued to make
him see his own position must be unbearable if he persisted, while first
she implied and finally declared, that only through marriage with Sabina
could his own position be longer retained.

But he put forward his dismissal as an argument against marriage.

"Whatever I feel, it's too late now," he explained. "Daniel heard some
distorted version of the truth in Bridetown, and, of course, believed
it, and came to me white with rage and sacked me. Well, you must see
that alters the case if nothing else does. Granted, for the sake of
argument, that I can overlook the foolish, clumsy way she and her mother
have behaved and go on as we were going, how am I to live and keep a
wife on nothing?"

"That is a small matter," she answered. "You need not worry about it in
the least. And you know in your heart, my dear, you need not. I have had
plenty of time to think over this, and I have thought over it. And I am
very ready and willing to come between you and any temporal trouble of
that sort. As to Daniel, when he hears that you are going to marry and
always meant to do so, it must entirely change his view of the
situation. He is just and reasonable. None can deny that."

"You needn't build on Daniel, however. I'd rather break stones than go
back to the Mill after what he said to me."

"Leave him, then. Leave him out of your calculation and come to me. As I
tell you, I've thought about it a great deal, and first I think Sabina
is well suited to be a good wife to you. With time and application she
will become a woman that any man might be proud to marry. I say that
without prejudice, because I honestly think it. She is adaptable, and, I
believe, would very quickly develop into a woman in every way worthy of
your real self. And I am prepared to give you five hundred a year,
Raymond. After all, why not? All that I have is yours and your
brother's, some day. And since you need it now, you shall have it now."

At another time he had been moved by this generosity; to-night, knowing
what it embraced, he was not so grateful as he might have been. His
instinct was to protest that he would not marry Sabina; but shame
prevented him from speaking, since he could advance no decent reason for
such a change of mind. He felt vaguely, dimly at the bottom of his soul
that, despite events, he ought not to marry her. He believed, apart from
his own intense aversion from so doing now, that marriage with him would
not in the long run conduce to Sabina's happiness. But where were the
words capable of lending any conviction to such a sentiment? Certainly
he could think of none that would change his aunt's opinion.

Sullenly he accepted her view with outward acknowledgment and inward
resentment. Then she said a thing that nearly made him rebel, since it
struck at his pride, indicated that Miss Ironsyde was sure of her
ground, showed that she had assumed the outcome of their meeting before
the event.

First, however, he thanked her.

"Of course, it is amazingly good and kind. I don't like to accept it.
But I suppose it would hurt you more if I didn't than if I do. It's a
condition naturally that I marry Sabina--I quite understand that. Well,
I must then. I might have been a better friend to her if I hadn't
married; and might love her better and love her longer for that matter.
But, of course, I can't expect you to understand that. I only want to be
sporting, and a man's idea of being sporting isn't the same--"

"Now, now--you're forgetting and talking nonsense, Raymond. You really
are forgetting. A man's idea of being 'sporting' does not mean telling
stories to a trusting and loving girl, does it? I don't want anybody to
judge you but yourself. I am perfectly content to leave it to your own
conscience. And very sure I am that if you ask yourself the question,
you'll answer it as it should be answered. So sure, indeed, that I have
done a definite thing about it, which I will tell you in a moment. For
the rest you must find a house where you please and be married as soon
as you can. And when Daniel understands what a right and proper thing
you're doing, I think you'll very soon find all will be satisfactory
again in that quarter."

"Thank you, I'm sure. But don't speak to him yet. I won't ask for
favours nor let you, Aunt Jenny. If he comes to me, well and good--I
certainly won't go to him. As to Sabina, we'll clear out and get married
in a day or two."

"Not before a Registrar," pleaded Miss Ironsyde.

"Before the Devil I should think," he said, preparing to leave her.

She chid him and then mentioned certain preparations made for this
particular evening.

"Don't be cross any more, and let me see you value my good will and
love, Ray, by doing what I'm going to ask you to do, now. So sure was I
that, when the little details were cleared up, you would feel with me,
and welcome your liberty from constraint, and return to Sabina with the
good news, that I asked her to meet you to-night--this very night, my
dear, so that you might go home with her and make her happy. She had tea
with me--I made her come, and then she went to friends, and she will be
in the Lovers' Grove waiting for you at ten o'clock--half an hour from
now."

His impulse was to protest, but he recognised the futility for so doing.
He felt baffled and cowed and weary. He hated himself because, weakened
by poverty, an old woman had been too much for him. He clutched at a
hope. Perhaps by doing as his aunt desired and going through with this
thing, he would find his peace of mind return and a consciousness that,
after all, to keep his promise was the only thing which would renew his
self-respect. It might prove the line of least resistance to take this
course. He felt not sorry at the immediate prospect of meeting Sabina.
In his present mood that might be a good thing to happen. Annoyance
passed, and when he did take leave it was with more expressions of
gratitude.

"I don't know why you are so extraordinarily good to me," he said. "I
certainly don't deserve it. But the least I can do is throw up the
sponge and do as you will, and trust your judgment. I don't say I agree
with you, but I'm going to do it; and if it's a failure, I shan't blame
you, Aunt Jenny."

"It won't be a failure. I'm as sure as I'm sure of anything that it will
be a splendid success, Raymond. Come again, very soon, and tell me what
you decide about a house. And remember one thing--don't fly away and
take a house goodness knows where. Always reckon with the possibility--I
think certainty--that Daniel will soon be friendly, when he hears you're
going to be married."

He left her very exhausted, and if her spirits sank a little after his
departure, Raymond's tended to rise. The night air and moonlight brisked
him up; he felt a reaction towards Sabina and perceived that she must
have suffered a good deal. He threw the blame on her mother. Once out of
Bridetown things would settle down; and if his brother came to his
senses and asked him to return, he would make it a condition that he
worked henceforth at Bridport. A feeling of hatred for Bridetown
mastered him.

He descended West Street until the town lay behind him, then turned to
the left through a wicket, crossed some meadows and reached a popular
local tryst and sanctity: the Lovers' Grove. A certain crudity in the
ideas of Miss Ironsyde struck Raymond. How simple and primitive she was
after all. Could such an unworldly and inexperienced woman be right? He
doubted it. But he went on through the avenue of lime and sycamore trees
which made the traditional grove. Beneath them ran pavement of rough
stones, that lifted the pathway above possible inundation, and,
to-night, the pattern of the naked boughs above was thrown down upon the
stones in a black lace work by the moon. The place was very still, but
half a mile distant there dreamed great woods, whence came the hooting
of an owl.

Raymond stood to listen, and when the bird was silent, he heard a
footfall ring on the paving-stones and saw Sabina coming to him. At
heart she had been fearful that he would not appear; but this she did
not whisper now. Instead she pretended confidence and said, "I knew
you'd come!"

He responded with fair ardour and tried to banish his grievances against
her. He assured her that all her alarm and tribulation were not his
fault, but her own; and her responsive agreement and servile tact, by
its self-evidence defeated its own object and fretted the man's nerves,
despite his kindly feelings. For Sabina, in her unspeakable thankfulness
at the turn of events, sank from herself and was obsequious. When they
met he kissed her and presently, holding his hand, she kissed it. She
heaped blame upon herself and praised his magnanimity; she presented the
ordinary phenomena of a happy release from affliction and fear; but her
intense humility was far from agreeable to Raymond, since its very
accentuation served to show his own recent actions in painful colours.

He told her what his aunt was going to do; and where a subtler mind had
held its peace, Sabina erred again and praised Miss Ironsyde. In truth,
she was not at her best to-night and her excitement acted unfavourably
on Raymond. He fought against his own emotions, and listened to her
high-strung chatter and plans for the future. A torrent of blame had
better suited the contrite mood in which she met him; but she took the
blame on her own shoulders, and in her relief said things sycophantic
and untrue.

He told her almost roughly to stop.

"For God's sake don't blackguard yourself any more," he said. "Give me a
chance. It's for me to apologise to you, surely. I knew perfectly well
you meant nothing, and I ought to have had more imagination and not
given you any cause to be nervous. I frightened you, and if a woman's
frightened, of course, she's not to be blamed for what she does, any
more than a man's to be blamed for what he does when he's drunk."

This, however, she would not allow.

"If I had trusted you, and known you could not do wrong, and remembered
what you said when I told you about the child--then all this would have
been escaped. And God knows I did trust you at the bottom of my heart
all the time."

She talked on and the man tired of it and, looking far ahead, perceived
that his life must be shared for ever with a nature only now about to be
revealed to him. He had seen the best of her; but he had never seen the
whole truth of her. He knew she was excitable and passionate; but the
excitation and passion had all been displayed for him till now. How
different when she approached other affairs of life than love, and
brought her emotional characteristics to bear upon them! A sensation of
unutterable flatness overtook Raymond. She began talking of finding a
house, and was not aware that his brother had dismissed him.

He snatched an evil pleasure from telling her so. It silenced her and
made her the more oppressively submissive. But through this announcement
he won temporary release. There came a longing to leave her, to go back
to Bridport and see other faces, hear other voices and speak of other
things. They had walked homeward through the valley of the river and, at
West Haven, Raymond announced that she must go the remainder of the way
alone. He salved the unexpected shock of this with a cheerful promise.

"I sleep at Bridport, to-night," he said, "and I'll leave you here,
Sabina; but be quite happy. I dare say Daniel will be all right. He's a
pious blade and all that sort of thing and doesn't understand real life.
And as some fool broke our bit of real life rather roughly on his ear,
it was too much for his weak nerves. I shan't take you very far off
anyway. We'll have a look round soon. I'll go to a house agent or
somebody in a day or two."

"You must choose," she said.

"No, no--that's up to you, and you mustn't have small ideas about it
either. You're going to live in a jolly good house, I promise you."

This sweetened the parting. He kissed her and turned his face to
Bridport, while she followed the road homeward. It took her past the old
store--black as the night under a roof silvered by the moon. A strange
shiver ran through her as she passed it. She could have prayed for time
to turn back.

"Oh, my God, if I was a maiden again!" she said in a low voice to
herself.

Then, growing calmer and musing of the past rather than the future, she
asked herself whether in that case she would still be caring for
Raymond; but she turned from such a thought and smothered the secret
indignation still lying red-hot and hidden under the smoke of the things
she had said to him that night.

On his way to Bridport, the man also reflected, but of the future, not
the past.

"I must be cruel to be kind," he told himself. What he exactly meant by
the assurance, he hardly knew. But, in some way, it assisted
self-respect and promised a course of action likely to justify his
coming life.




CHAPTER XIX

JOB LEGG'S AMBITION


A disquieting and wholly unexpected event now broke into the strenuous
days of the mistress of 'The Seven Stars.' It followed another, which
was now a thing of the past; but Mrs. Northover had scarcely finished
being thankful that the old order was restored again, when that occurred
to prove the old order could never be restored.

Job Legg had been called away to the deathbed of an aged uncle. For a
fortnight he was absent, and during that time Nelly Northover found
herself the victim of a revelation. She perceived, indeed, startling
truths until then hidden from her, and found the absence of Job created
undreamed-of complications. At every turn she missed the man and
discovered, very much to her own surprise, that this most unassuming
person appeared vital to the success of her famous house. On every hand
she heard the same words; all progress was suspended; nothing could
advance until the return of Mr. Legg. 'The Seven Stars' were arrested in
their courses while he continued absent.

Thus his temporary disappearance affected the system and proved that
around the sun of Job Legg, quite as much as his mistress, the galaxy
revolved; but something more than this remained to be discovered by Mrs.
Northover herself. She found that not only had she undervalued his
significance and importance in her scheme of things; but that she
entertained a personal regard for the man, unsuspected until he was
absent. She missed him at every turn; and when he came back to her, after
burying his uncle, Mrs. Northover could have kissed him.

This she did not do; but she was honest; she related the suspension of
many great affairs for need of Job; she described to him the dislocation
that his departure had occasioned and declared her hearty thankfulness
that her right hand had returned to her.

"You was uppermost in my mind a thousand times a day, Job; and when it
came to doing the fifty thousand things you do, I began to see what
there is to you," said Nelly Northover. "And this I'll say: you haven't
been getting enough money along with me."

He was pleased and smiled and thanked her.

"I've missed 'The Stars,'" he said, "and am very glad to be back."

Then when things were settled down and Mrs. Northover happy and content
once more, Mr. Legg cast her into much doubt and uncertainty. Indeed his
attitude so unexpected, awoke a measure of dismay. Life, that Nelly
hoped was becoming static and comfortable again, suddenly grew highly
dynamic. Changes stared her in the face and that was done which nothing
could undo.

On the night that Raymond Ironsyde left Sabina at West Haven and
returned to Bridport, Mr. Legg, the day's work done, drank a glass of
sloe gin in Mrs. Northover's little parlour and uttered a startling
proposition--the last to have been expected.

The landlady herself unconsciously opened the way to it, for she touched
the matter of his wages and announced her purpose to increase them by
five shillings a week. Then he spoke.

"Before we talk about that, hear me," he said. "You were too nice-minded
to ask me if I got anything by the death of my old man; but I may tell
you, that I got everything. And there was a great deal more than anybody
knew. In short he's left me a shade over two hundred pounds per annum,
and that with my own savings--for I've saved since I was thirteen years
old--brings my income somewhere near the two hundred and fifty mark--not
counting wages."

"Good powers, Job! But I am glad. Never none on earth deserved a bit
better than you do."

"And yet," he said, "I only ask myself if all this lifts me high enough
to say what I want to say. You know me for a modest man, Mrs.
Northover."

"None more so, Job."

"And therefore I've thought a good deal about it and come to it by the
way of reason as well as inclination. In fact I began to think about
what I'm going to say now, many years ago after your husband died. And I
just let the idea go on till the appointed time, if ever it should come;
and when my uncle died and left a bit over four thousand pounds to me, I
felt the hour had struck!"

Nelly's heart sank.

"You're going?" she said. "All this means that you are going into
business on your own, Legg."

"Let me finish. But be sure of one thing; I'm not going if I can stay
with peace and honour. If I can't, then, of course, I must go. To go
would be a terrible sad thing for me, for I've grown into this place and
feel as much a part of it as the beer engine, or the herbaceous border.
But I had to weigh the chances, and I may say my cautious bent of mind
showed very clearly what they were. And, so, first, I'll tell what a
flight I've took and what a thought I've dared, and then I'll ask you,
being a woman with a quick mind and tongue, to answer nothing for the
moment, and say no word that you may wish to recall after."

"All very wise and proper, I'm sure."

"If it ain't, God forgive me, seeing I've been working it out in my mind
for very near twenty years. And I say this, that being now a man of
capital, and a healthy and respectable man, and well thought of, I
believe, and nothing against me to my knowledge, I offer to marry you,
Nelly Northover. The idea, of course, comes upon you like a bolt from
the blue, as I can see by your face; but before you answer 'No,' I must
say I've loved you in a respectful manner for many years, and though I
knew my place too well to say so, I let it appear by faithful service
and very sharp eyes always on your interests--day and night you may
say."

"That is true," she said. "I didn't know my luck."

"I don't say that. Any honourable man would have done so much, very
likely; but perhaps--however, I'm not here to praise myself but to
praise you; and I may add I never in a large experience saw the
woman--maid, wife or widow--to hold a candle to you for brains and
energy and far-reaching fine qualities in general. And therefore I never
could be worthy of you, and I don't pretend to it, and the man who did
would be a very vain and windy fool; but such is my high opinion and
great desire to be your husband that I risk, you may say, everything by
offering myself."

"This is a very great surprise, Job."

"So great that you must do me one good turn and not answer without
letting it sink in, if you please. I have a right to beg that. Of course
I know on the spur of the moment the really nice-minded woman always
turns down the adventurous male. 'Tis their delicate instinct so to do.
But you won't do that--for fairness to me. And there's more to it yet,
because we've got to think of fairness to you also. I wouldn't have you
buy a pig in a poke and take a man of means without knowing where you
stood. So I may say that if you presently felt the same as I do about
it, I should spend a bit of my capital on 'The Seven Stars,' which, in
my judgment, is now crying for capital expenditure."

"It is," admitted Mrs. Northover, "I grant you that."

"Very well, then. It would be my pride--"

He was interrupted, for the bell of the inn rang and a moment later
Raymond Ironsyde appeared in the hall. He had come for supper and bed.

"Good evening, Mrs. Northover," he said. "I'm belated and starving into
the bargain. Have you got a room?"

"For that matter, yes," she answered not very enthusiastically. "But
surely 'The Tiger's' your house, sir?"

"I'm not bound to 'The Tiger,' and very likely shall never go there
again. Gurd is getting too big for his shoes and seems to think he's
called upon to preach sermons to his customers, besides doing his duty
as a publican. If I want sermons I can go to church for them, not to an
inn. Give me some supper and a bottle of your best claret. I'm tired and
bothered."

A customer was a customer and Mrs. Northover had far too much experience
to take up the cudgels for her friend over the way. She guessed pretty
accurately at the subject of Richard Gurd's discourse, yet wondered that
he should have spoken. For her own part, while quite as indignant as
others and more sorry than many that this cloud should have darkened a
famous local name, she held it no personal business of hers.

"I'll see what cold meat we've got. Would you like a chicken, sir?"

"No--beef, and plenty of it. And let me have a room."

Job Legg, concealing the mighty matters in his own bosom, soon waited
upon Raymond and found him in a sulky humour. The claret was not to his
liking and he ordered spirits. He began to smoke and drink, and from an
unamiable mood soon thawed and became talkative. He bade Job stay and
listen to him.

"I've got a hell of a lot on my mind," he said, "and it's a relief to
talk to a sensible man. There aren't many knocking about so far as I can
see."

He rambled on touching indirectly, as he imagined, at his own affairs,
but making it clear to the listener that a very considerable tumult
raged in Raymond's own mind. Then came Mrs. Northover, told the guest
that it was nearer two o'clock than one, and hoped he was soon going to
bed.

He promised to do so and she departed; but the faithful Job, himself not
sleepy, kept Raymond company. Unavailingly he urged the desirability of
sleep, but young Ironsyde sat on until he was very drunk. Then Mr. Legg
helped him upstairs and assisted him to his bed.

It was after three o'clock before he retired himself and found his mind
at liberty to speculate upon the issue of his own great adventure.




CHAPTER XX

A CONFERENCE


Jenny Ironsyde came to see Ernest Churchouse upon the matter of the
marriage. She found him pensive and a little weary. According to his
custom he indulged in ideas before approaching the subject just then
uppermost in all minds in Bridetown.

"I have been suffering from rather a severe dose of the actual," he
said; "at present, in the minds of those about me, there is no room for
any abstraction. We are confronted with facts--painful facts--a most
depressing condition for such a mind as mine. There are three orders of
intelligence, Jenny. The lowest never reaches higher than the discussion
of persons; the second talks about places, which is certainly better;
the third soars into the region of ideas; and when one finds a person
indulge in ideas, then court their friendship, for ideas are the only
sound basis of intellectual interchanges. It is so strange to see an
educated person, who might be discussing the deepest mysteries and
noblest problems of life, preferring to relate the errors of a domestic
servant, or deplore the price of sprats."

"All very well for you," declared Miss Ironsyde; "from your isolated
situation, above material cares and anxieties, you can affect this
superiority; but what about Mrs. Dinnett? You would very soon be
grumbling if Mrs. Dinnett put the deepest mysteries and noblest problems
of life before the price of sprats. It is true that man cannot live by
bread alone; and it is equally true that he cannot live without it. The
highest flights are impossible without cooking, and cooking would be
impossible if all aspired to the highest flights."

"As a matter of fact, Mrs. Dinnett is my present source of depression,"
he said. "All is going as it should go, I suppose. The young people are
reconciled, and I have arranged that Sabina should be married from here
a fortnight hence. Thus, as it were, I shield and protect her and
support her against back-biting and evil tongues."

"It is splendid of you."

"Far from it. I am only doing the obvious. I care much for the girl. But
Mary Dinnett, despite the need to be sanguine and expeditious, permits
herself an amount of obstinate melancholy which is most ill-judged and
quite unjustified by the situation. Nothing will satisfy her. She scorns
hope. She declines to take a cheerful view. She even confesses to a
premonition they are not going to be married after all. She says that
her grandmother had second sight and believes that the doubtful gift has
been handed down to her."

"This is very bad for Sabina."

"Of course it is. I impress that upon her mother. The girl has been
through a great deal. She is highly strung at all times, and these
affairs have wrought havoc with her intelligence for the moment. Her one
thought and feverish longing is to be married, and her mother's fatuous
prophecies that she never will be are causing serious nervous trouble to
Sabina. I feel sure of it. They may even be doing permanent harm."

"You should suppress Mary."

"I endeavour to do so. I put much serving upon her; but her frame of
mind is such that her energy is equal to anything. You had better see
her and caution her. From another woman, words of wisdom would carry
more weight than mine. As to Sabina, I have warned her against her
mother--a strong thing to do, but I felt it to be my duty."

They saw Mary Dinnett then, and Miss Ironsyde quickly realised that
there were subtle tribulations and shades of doubt in the mother's mind
beyond Mr. Churchouse's power to appreciate. Indeed, Mrs. Dinnett,
encouraged so to do by the sympathetic presence of Jenny Ironsyde,
strove to give reasons for her continued gloom.

"You must be more hopeful and put a brighter face on it, Mary, if only
for the sake of the young people," declared the visitor. "You're not
approaching the marriage from the right point of view. We must forget
the past and keep our minds on the future and proceed with this affair
just as though it were an ordinary marriage without any disquieting
features. We have to remember that they love each other and really are
well suited. The future is chequered by certain differences between my
nephews, which have not yet been smoothed out; but I am sure that they
will be; and meantime you need feel no fear of any inconvenience for
Sabina. I am responsible."

"I know all that," said Mrs. Dinnett, "and your name is in my prayers
when I rise up and when I go to bed. But while there's a lot other
people can do for 'em, there's also a deal they can only do for
themselves; and, in my opinion, they are not doing it. It's no good us
playacting and forgetting the past and pretending everything is just as
it should be, if they won't."

"But they have."

"Sabina has. I doubt if he has. I don't know how you find him, but when
I see him he's not in a nice temper and not taking the situation in the
spirit of a happy bridegroom--very far from it. And my second-sight,
which I get from my grandmother, points to one thing: that there won't
be no wedding."

"This is preposterous," declared Miss Ironsyde. "The day is fixed and
every preparation far advanced."

"That's nought to a wayward mind like his. He's got in a state now when
I wouldn't trust him a yard. And I hope to God you'll hold the reins
tight, miss, and not slacken till they're man and wife. Once let him see
his way clear to bolt, and bolt he will."

Mr. Churchouse protested, while Jenny only sighed. Sabina's mother was
echoing her own secret uneasiness, but she lamented that others had
marked it as well as herself.

"He is in a very moody state, but never speaks of any change of mind to
me."

"Because he well knows you hold the purse," said Mrs. Dinnett. "I don't
want to say anything uncharitable against the man, though I might; but I
will say that there's danger and that I do well to be a miserable woman
till the danger's past. You tell me to cheer up, and I promise to cheer
up quick enough when there's reason to do so. Mr. Churchouse here is the
best gentleman on God's earth; but he don't understand a mother's
heart--how should he? and he don't know what a lot women have got to
hide from men--for their own self-respect, and because men as a body are
such clumsy-minded fools--speaking generally, of course."

To see even Mrs. Dinnett dealing thus in ideas excited Ernest and filled
him with interest. He forgot everything but the principle she asserted
and would have discussed it for an hour; but Mary, having thus hit back
effectively, departed, and Miss Ironsyde brought the master of 'The
Magnolias' back to their subject.

"There's a lot of truth in what she says and it shows how trouble
quickens the wits," she declared; "and I can say to you, what I wouldn't
to her, that Raymond is not taking this in a good spirit, or as I hoped
and expected. I feel for him, too, while being absolutely firm with him.
Stupid things were done and the secret of his folly made public. He has
a grudge against them and, of course, that is rather a threatening fact,
because a grudge against anybody is a deadly thing to get into one's
mind. It poisons character and ruins your steady outlook, if it is deep
seated enough."

"Would you say that he bore Sabina a grudge?"

"I'm afraid so; but I do my best to dispel it by pointing out what she
thought herself faced with. And I tell him what is true, that Sabina in
her moments of greatest fear and exasperation, always behaved like a
lady. But in your ear only, Ernest, I confess to a new sensation--a
sickly sensation of doubt. It comes over my religious certainty
sometimes, like a fog. It's cold and shivery. Of course from every
standpoint of religion and honour and justice, they ought to be married.
But--"

He stopped her.

"Having named religion and honour and justice, there is no room for
'but.' Indeed, Jenny, there is not."

"Let me speak, all the same. Other people can have intuitions besides
Mrs. Dinnett. It's an intuition--not second sight--but it is alive.
Supposing this marriage doesn't really make for the happiness of either
of them?"

"If they put religion and honour and justice first, it must," he
repeated. "You cannot, I venture to say, have happiness without religion
and honour and justice; and if Raymond were to go back on his word now,
he would be the most miserable man in the country."

"I wonder."

"Don't wonder. Be sure of it. Granted he finds himself miserable--that
is because he has committed a fault. Will it make him less miserable to
go on and commit a greater? Sorrow is a fair price to pay for wisdom,
Jenny. He is a great deal wiser now than he was six months ago, and to
shirk his responsibilities and break his word will not mend matters.
Besides, there is another consideration, which you forget. These young
people are no longer free. Even if they both desired to remain single,
honour, justice and religion actually demand marriage. There was a doubt
in my own mind once, too, whether their happiness would be assured by
union. Now there is no doubt. A child is coming into the world. Need I
say more?"

"I stand corrected," she answered. "There is really nothing more to be
said. For the child's sake, if for no other reason, marry they must. We
know too well the fate of the child born out of wedlock in this
country."

"It is a shameful and cruel fate; and while the Church of England
cowardly suffers the State to impose it, and selfish men care not, we,
with some enthusiasm for the unborn and some indignation to see their
disabilities, must do what lies in our power for them."

He rambled off into generalities inspired by this grave theme.

"'Suffer the little children to come unto Me,' said Christ; and we make
it almost impossible for fifty thousand little children to come unto Him
every year; and those who stand for Him, the ministers of His Church,
lift not a finger. The little children of nobody they are. They grow up
conscious of their handicap; they come into the world to trust and hope
and find themselves pariahs. Is that conducive to a religious trust in
God, or a rational trust in man for these outlawed thousands?"

She brought him back again to Raymond and Sabina.

"Apart from the necessity and justice," she said, "and taking it for
granted that the thing must happen, what is your opinion of the future?
You know Sabina well and ought to be in a position to say if you think
she will have the wit and sense to make it a happy marriage."

"I should wish to think so. They are a gracious pair--at least they
were. I liked both boy and girl exceedingly and I happened to be the one
who introduced them to each other. It was after Henry's death. Sabina
came in with our tea and one could almost see an understanding spring up
and come to life under one's eyes. They've been wicked, Jenny; but such
is my hopelessly open mind in the matter of goodness and wickedness,
that I often find it harder to forgive some people for doing their duty
than others for being wicked. In fact, some do their duty in a way that
is perfectly unforgivable, while others fail in such an affecting and
attractive manner that they make you all the fonder of them."

"I feel so, too, sometimes," she admitted, "but I never dared to
confess it. Once married, I think Raymond would steady down and realise
his responsibilities. We must both do what we can to bring the brothers
together again. It will take a long time to make Daniel forgive this
business."

"It is just the Daniel type who would take it most seriously, even if we
are able soon to say 'all's well that ends well.' For that reason, one
regrets he heard particulars. However, we must trust and believe the
future will set all right and reinstate Raymond at the works. For my own
part I feel very sure that will happen."

"Well, I always like to see hope triumphing over experience," she said,
"and one need never look further than you for that."

"Thank yourself," he answered. "Your steadfast optimism always awakes an
echo in me. If we make up our minds that this is going to be all right,
that will at least help on the good cause. We can't do much to make it
all right, but we can do something. They are in Bridport house-hunting
this morning, I hear."

"They are; and that reminds me they come to lunch and, I hope, to report
progress. Of course anything Raymond likes, Sabina approves; but he
isn't easily satisfied. However, they may have found something. Daniel,
rather fortunately, is from home just now, in the North."

"If we could get him to the wedding, it would be a great thing."

"I'm afraid we mustn't hope for that; but we can both urge him to come.
He may."

"I will compose a very special letter to him," said Mr. Churchouse.
"How's your rheumatism?"

"Better, if anything."




CHAPTER XXI

THE WARPING MILL


In the warping shed Mercy Gale plied her work. It was a separate
building adjoining the stores at Bridetown Mill and, like them,
impregnated with the distinctive, fat smell of flax and hemp. Under
dusty rafters and on a floor of stone the huge warping reels stood. They
were light, open frameworks that rose from floor to ceiling and turned
upon steel rods. Hither came the full bobbins from the spinning machines
to be wound off. Two dozen of the bobbins hung together on a flat frame
or 'creel' and through eyes and slots the yarn ran through a 'hake,'
which deftly crossed the strands so that they ran smoothly and freely.
The bake box rose and fell and lapped the yarn in perfect spirals round
the warping reels as they revolved. The length of a reel of twine varies
in different places and countries; but at Bridetown, a Dorset reel was
always measured, and it represented twenty-one thousand, six hundred
yards.

Mercy Gale was chaining the warp off the reels in great massive coils
which would presently depart to be polished and finished at Bridport.
All its multiple forms sprang from the simple yarn. It would turn into
shop and parcel twines; fishing twines for deep sea lines and nets; and
by processes of reduplication, swell to cords and shroud laid ropes,
hawsers and mighty cables.

A little figure filled the door of the shed and Estelle Waldron
appeared. She shook hands and greeted the worker with friendship, for
Estelle was now free of the Mill and greatly prided herself on
personally knowing everybody within them.

"Good morning, Mercy," she said. "I've come to see Nancy Buckler."

"Good morning, miss. I know. She's going to run in at dinner time to
sing you her song."

"It's a wonderful song, I believe," declared Estelle, "and very, very
old. Her grandfather taught it to her before he died, and I want to
write it down. Do you like poetry, Mercy?"

"Can't say as I do," confessed the warper. She was a fair, tall girl. "I
like novels," she added. "I love stories, but I haven't got much use for
rhymes."

"Stories about what?" asked Estelle. "I have a sort of an idea to start
a library, if I can persuade my father to let me. I believe I could get
some books from friends to make a beginning."

"Stories about adventure," declared Mercy. "Most of the girls like love
stories; but I don't care so much about them. I like stories where big
things happen in history."

"So do I; and then you know you're reading about what really did happen
and about great people who really lived. I think I can lend you some
stories like that."

Mercy thanked her and Estelle fell silent considering which book from
her limited collection would best meet the other's demand. Herself she
did not read many novels, but loved her books about plants and her
poets. Poetry was precious food to her, and Mr. Churchouse, who also
appreciated it, had led her to his special favourites. For the present,
therefore, Estelle was content with Longfellow and Cowper and
Wordsworth. The more dazzling light of Keats and Shelley and Swinburne
had yet to dawn for her.

Nancy Buckler arrived presently to sing her song. Her looks did not
belie Nancy. She was sharp of countenance, with thin cheeks and a
prominent nose. Her voice, too, had a pinch of asperity about it. By
nature she was critical of her fellow creatures. No man had desired her,
and the fact soured her a little and led to a general contempt of the
sex.

She smiled for Estelle, however, because the ingenuous child had won her
friendship.

"Good morning, miss," she said. "If you've got a pencil and paper, you
can take down the words."

"But sing them first," begged the listener. "I want to hear you sing
them to the old tune, because I expect the tune is as old as the words,
Nancy."

"It's a funny old tune for certain. I can't sing it like grandfather
did, for all his age. He croaked it like a machine running, and that
seemed the proper way. But I've not got much of a voice."

"'Tis loud enough, anyway," said Mercy, "and that's a virtue."

"Yes, you can hear what I'm saying," admitted Miss Buckler, then she
sang her song.

"When a twister, a twisting, will twist him a twist,
With the twisting his twist, he the twine doth entwist;
But if one of the twines of the twist doth untwist,
The twine that untwisteth, untwisteth the twist,
Untwisting the twine that entwineth between,
He twists with his twister the two in a twine.
Then, twice having twisted the twines of his twine,
He twisteth the twine he had twined in twine.
The twain, that in twining before in the twine,
As twines were entwisted, he now doth untwine,
'Twixt the twain intertwisting a twine more between."

Nancy gave her remarkable performance in a clear, thin treble. It was a
monotonous melody, but suited the words very well. She sang slowly and
her face and voice exhibited neither light nor shade. Yet her method
suited the words in their exceedingly unemotional appeal.

"It's the most curious song I ever heard," cried Estelle, "and you sing
it perfectly, because I heard every word."

Then she brought out pencil and paper, sat in the deep alcove of the
window and transcribed Nancy's verse.

"You must sing that to my father next time you come up," she said.
"It's like no other song in the world, I'm sure."

Sally Groves came in. She had brought Estelle the seed of a flower from
her garden.

"I put it by for you, Miss Waldron," said the big woman, "because you
said you liked it in the fall."

They talked together while Mercy Gale doffed her overall and woollen
bonnet.

"Tell me," said Estelle, "of a very good sort of wedding present for Mr.
Ironsyde, when he marries Sabina next week."

"A new temper, I should think," suggested Nancy.

"He can't help being rather in a temper," explained Estelle, "because
they can't find a house."

"Sabina can find plenty," answered the spinner. "It's him that's so hard
to please."

Sally Groves strove to curb Nancy's tongue.

"You mind your own business," she said. "Mr. Ironsyde wants everything
just so, and why not?"

"Because it ain't a time to be messing about, I should think," retorted
Nancy. "And it's for the woman to be considered, not him."

Then Estelle, in all innocence, asked a shattering question.

"Is it true Sabina is going to have a baby? One or two girls in the mill
told me she was, but I asked my father, and he seemed to be annoyed and
said, of course not. But I hope it's true--it would be lovely for Sabina
to have a baby to play with."

"So it would then," declared Sally Groves, "but I shouldn't tell nothing
about it for the present, miss."

"Least said, soonest mended," said Mercy Gale.

"It's like this," explained Sally Groves with clumsy goodness: "they'll
want to keep it for a surprise, miss, and I dare say they'd be terrible
disappointed if they thought anybody knew anything about it yet."

Nancy Buckler laughed.

"I reckon they would," she said.

"So don't you name it, miss," continued Sally. "Don't you name the word
yet awhile."

Estelle nodded.

"I won't then," she promised. "I know how sad it is, if you've got a
great secret, to find other people know it before you want them to."

"Beastly sad," said Nancy, as she went her way, and the child looked
after her puzzled.

"I believe Nancy's jealous of Sabina," she said.

Then it was Sally Groves who laughed and her merriment shook the billows
of her mighty person.

Estelle found herself somewhat depressed as she went home. Not so much
the words as the general spirit of these comments chilled her. After
luncheon she visited her father's study and talked to him while he
smoked.

"What perfectly beautiful thing can I get for Ray and Sabina for a
wedding present?"

He cleaned his pipe with one of the crow's feathers Estelle was used to
collect for him. They stood in vases on the mantel-shelf.

"It's a puzzler," confessed Arthur Waldron.

"D'you think Ray has grown bad-tempered, father?"

"Do you?"

"No, I'm sure I don't. He is a little different, but that's because he's
going to be married. No doubt people do get a little different, then.
But Nancy Buckler at the Mill said she thought the best wedding present
for him would be a new temper."

"That's the sort of insolent things people say, I suppose, behind his
back. It's all very unfortunate in my opinion, Estelle."

"It's frightfully unfortunate Ray leaving us, because, after he's
married, he must have a house of his own; but it isn't unfortunate his
marrying Sabina, I'm sure."

"I'm not sure at all," confessed her father. His opinion always carried
the greatest weight, and she was so much concerned at this announcement
that Arthur felt sorry he had spoken.

"You see, Estelle--how can I explain? I think Ray in rather too young to
marry."

"He's well over twenty."

"Yes, but he's young for his age, and the things that he is keen about
are not the things that a girl is keen about. I doubt if he will make
Sabina happy."

"He will if he likes, and I'm sure he will like. He can always make me
happy, so, of course, he can make Sabina. He's really tremendously
clever and knows all sorts of things. Oh, don't think it's going to be
sad, father. I'm sure they're both much too wise to do anything that's
going to be sad. Because if Ray--"

She stopped, for Raymond himself came in. He had left early that morning
to seek a house with Sabina.

"What luck?" said Waldron.

"We've found something that'll do, I think. Two miles out towards
Chidcock. A garden and a decent paddock and a stable. But he'll have to
spend some money on the stable. There's a doubt if he will--the
landlord, I mean. Sabina likes the house, so I hope it will be all
right."

Waldron nodded.

"If it's Thornton, the horse-dealer, he'll do what you want. He's got
houses up there."

"It isn't. I haven't seen the man yet."

"Well," said his friend, "I don't know what the deuce Estelle and I are
going to do without you. We shall miss you abominably."

"What shall I do without you? That's more to the point. You've got each
other for pals--I--"

He broke off and Arthur filled the pregnant pause.

"Look here--Estelle wants to give you a wedding present, old man; and so
do I. And as we haven't the remotest idea what would be the likeliest
thing, don't stand on ceremony, but tell us."

"I don't want anything--except to know I shall always be welcome when I
drop in."

"We needn't tell you that."

"But you must want thousands of things," declared Estelle, "everybody
does when they're married. And if you don't, I'm sure Sabina
does--knives and forks and silver tea kettles and pictures for the
walls."

"Married people don't want pictures, Estelle; they never look at
anything but one another."

She laughed.

"But the poor walls want pictures if you don't. I believe the walls
wouldn't feel comfortable without pictures. Besides you and Sabina can't
sit and look at each other all day."

"What about a nice little handy 'jingle' for her to trundle about in?"
asked Waldron.

"As I can't pull it, old chap, it wouldn't be much good. I'm keeping the
hunter; but I shan't be able to keep anything else--if that."

"How would it be if you sold the hunter and got a nice everyday sort of
horse that you could ride, or that Sabina could drive?" asked Estelle.

"No," said Waldron firmly. "He doesn't sell his hunter or his guns.
These things stand for a link with the outer world and represent sport,
which is quite as important as marriage in the general scheme."

"I thought to chuck all that and take up golf," said Raymond. "There's a
lot in golf they tell me."

But Waldron shook his head.

"Golf's all right," he admitted, "and a great game. I'm going to take it
up myself, and I'm glad it's coming in, because it will add to the
usefulness of a lot of us men who have to fall out of cricket. There's a
great future for golf, I believe. But no golf for you yet. You won't run
any more and you'll drop out of football, as only 'pros.' play much
after marriage. But you must shoot as much as possible, and hunt a bit,
and play cricket still."

This comforting programme soothed Raymond.

"That's all right, but I've got to find work. I was just beginning to
feel keen on work; but now--flit, Estelle, my duck. I want to have a
yarn with father."

The girl departed.

"Do let it be a 'jingle,' Ray," she begged, and then was gone.

"It's my damned brother," went on Raymond.

"He'll come round and ask you to go back, as soon as you're fixed up and
everything's all right."

"Everything won't be all right. Everything's confoundedly wrong. Think
what it is for a proud man to be at the mercy of an aunt, and to look to
her for his keep. If anything could make me sick of the whole show, it's
that."

"I shouldn't feel it so. She's keen on you, and keen on Sabina; and she
knows you can't live upon air. You may be sure also she knows that it
won't last. Daniel will come round."

"And if he does? It's all the same--taking his money."

"You won't be taking it; you'll be earning it."

"I hate him, like hell, and I hate the thought of working under him all
my life."

"You won't be under him. You've often said the time was coming when
you'd wipe Daniel's eye and show you were the moving spirit of the Mill.
Well now, when you go back, you must work double tides to do it."

"He may not take me back, and for many things I'd sooner he didn't. We
should never be the same to one another after that row. For two pins,
even now, I'd make a bolt, Arthur, and disappear altogether and go
abroad and carve out my own way."

"Don't talk rot. You can't do that."

But Waldron, in spite of his advice and sanguine prophecies, hid a grave
doubt at heart whether, so far as Raymond's own future was concerned,
such a course might not be the wisest. He felt confident, however, that
the younger man would keep his engagements. Raymond had plenty of pluck
and did not lack for a heart, so far as Waldron knew. Had Sabina been no
more than engaged, he must strongly have urged Raymond to drop her and
endure the harsh criticism that would have followed: for an engagement
broken appeared a lesser evil than an unhappy mating; but since the
position was complicated, he could not feel so and stoutly upheld the
marriage on principle, while extremely doubtful of its practical
outcome.

They talked for two hours to no purpose and then Estelle called them to
tea.




CHAPTER XXII

THE TELEGRAM


Raymond and Sabina spent a long afternoon at the house they had taken;
and while he was interested with the stables and garden, she occupied
herself indoors. She was very tired before they had finished, and
presently, returning to Bridport, they called at 'The Seven Stars' and
ordered tea.

The famous garden was dismantled now and Job Legg spent some daily hours
in digging there. To-morrow Job was to hear what Mrs. Northover had to
say concerning his proposal, and, meantime, the pending decision neither
unsettled him nor interfered with his usual placidity and enterprise.

Nelly Northover herself waited upon the engaged couple. She was somewhat
abstracted with her own thoughts, but so far banished them that she
could show and feel interest in the visitors. Raymond described the
house, and Sabina, glad to see Raymond in a cheerful mood, expatiated on
the charms of her future home.

They delayed somewhat longer than Mrs. Northover expected and she left
them presently, for she had an appointment bearing on the supreme
subject of her offer of marriage. Mrs. Northover was, in fact, going to
take another opinion. Such indecision seemed foreign to her character,
which seldom found her in two minds; but it happened that upon one
judgment she had often relied since her husband's death and, before the
great problem at present challenging Nelly, she believed another view
might largely assist her. That she could not decide herself, she felt
to be very significant. The fact made her cautious and anxious.

She put on her bonnet now, left a maid to settle with the customers and
presently stepped across the road to 'The Tiger,' for it was Richard
Gurd in whom Mrs. Northover put her trust. She designed to place Job's
offer before her friend and invite a candid and unprejudiced criticism.
For so doing more reasons than one may have existed; we seldom seek the
judgment of a friend without mixed motives; but, at any rate, Nelly
believed very thoroughly in her neighbour, and if, in reality, it was as
much a wish that he should know what had happened, as a desire to learn
his opinion upon it, she none the less felt that opinion would be
precious and probably decide her.

Richard was waiting in his office--a small apartment off the bar, to
which none had access save himself.

"Come in here and we shan't be disturbed," he said. "Of course, when you
tell me you want my advice on a matter of the greatest importance, all
else has to stand by. My old friend's wife has a right to come to me, I
should hope, and I'm glad you've done so. Sit here by the fire."

It did not take Mrs. Northover long to relate the situation, nor was Mr.
Gurd much puzzled to declare his view. In brief words she told him of
Job Legg's greatly increased prosperity and his proposal to wed. Having
made her statement, she advanced a few words for Job.

"In fairness and beyond all this, I must tell you, Richard, that he's a
very uncommon sort of man. That you know, of course, as well as I do.
But what you don't know is that when he was away, I badly missed him and
found out, for the first time, what an all-round, valuable creature he
has become at 'The Seven Stars.' When he was along with his dying
relation, I missed the man a thousand times in every twelve hours and I
felt properly astonished to find how he was the prop and stay of my
business. That may seem too much to say, seeing I'm a fairly clever
woman and know how to run 'The Seven Stars' in a pretty prosperous way;
but there is no doubt Legg is very much more than what he seems. He's a
very human man and I'll go so far as to say this: I like him. There's
great self-respect to him and you feel, under his level temper and
unfailing readiness to work at anything and everything, that he's a
power for good--in fact a man with high principles--so high as my own,
if not higher."

"Stop there, or you'll over-do it," said Richard. "Higher than yours his
principles won't take him and I refuse to hear you say so. You ask me in
plain words if you shall marry Job Legg, or if you shan't. And before I
speak, I may tell you that, as a man of the world, I shan't quarrel with
you if you don't take my advice. As a rule I have found that good advice
is more often given than taken and, whether or no, the giving of advice
nearly always means one thing. And that is that the giver loses a
friend. If the advice is bad, it is generally taken, and him that takes
it finds out in due course it was bad, and so the giver makes an enemy.
And if 'tis good, the same thing happens, for then 'tis not taken and,
looking back, the sufferer sees his mistake, and human nature works, and
instead of kicking himself, he feels like kicking the wise man that gave
him the good advice. But between me and you that won't happen, for
there's the ghost of William Northover to come between. You and me are
high spirited, and I dare say there are some people who would say we are
short tempered; but we know better."

"That's all true as gospel; and now you tell me if I ought to marry Job.
Or, if 'tis too great a question to decide in a minute, as I find it
myself, then leave it till to-morrow and I'll pop in again."

"No need to leave it. My mind is used to make itself up swift. First, as
to Legg. Legg's a very good man, indeed, and I'd be the first to praise
him. He's all you say--or nearly all--and I've often been very much
impressed by him. And if he was anybody's servant but yours, I dare say
I'd have tempted him to 'The Tiger' before now. But there are some that
shine in the lead, like you and me, and some that only show their full
worth when they've got to obey. Job can obey to perfection; but I'm not
so sure if he's fitted to command."

"Remember," she said, "that if I say 'no' to the man, I lose him. He
can't be my right hand no more then, because he'd leave. And my heart
sinks at the thought of another potman at my age."

"When you say 'potman' you come to the root of the matter, and your age
has nothing to do with it," answered Richard. "The natural instinct at
such times is to advise against, and when man or woman asks a fellow
creature as to the wisdom of marrying, they'll always pull a long face
and find fifty good reasons why not. But I'm taking this in a larger
spirit. There's no reason why you shouldn't marry again, and you'd make
another as happy as you did your first, no doubt. But Job Legg is a
potman; he's been a potman for a generation; he thinks like a potman,
and his outlook in life is naturally the potman outlook. Mind, I'm not
saying anything against him as a man when I tell you so; I'm only
looking at him now as a husband for you. He's got religion and a good
temper, and dollops of sense, and I'll even go so far as to say, seeing
that he is now a man of money, that he was within his right to offer, if
he did it in a modest manner. But I won't say more than that. He's
simple and faithful and a servant worthy of all respect, but that man
haven't the parts to rise to mastership. A good stick, but if he was
your crutch, he'd fail you. For my part, I'm very sure that people of
much greater importance than him would offer for you if they knew you
were for a husband."

"I wouldn't say I was for a husband, Richard. The idea never came into
my mind till Job Legg put it there."

"Just your modesty. There's no more reason why you shouldn't wed than
why I shouldn't. You're a comely and highly marriageable person still,
and nobody knows it better than what I do."

"You advise against, then?"

"In that quarter, yes. I'm thinking of you, and only you, and I don't
believe Job is quite man enough for the part. Leave it, however, for
twenty-four hours."

"He was to have his answer, to-morrow."

"He's used to waiting. Tell him you're coming to it and won't keep him
much longer. It's too big a thing to be quite sure about, and you were
right when you said so. I'll come across and see you in the morning."

"I'm obliged to you, Richard. And if you'll turn it over, I'll thank
you. I wouldn't have come to any other than you, bachelor though you
are."

"I'll weigh it," he promised, "but I warn you I'm very unlikely to see
it different. What you've told me have put other side issues into my
head. You'll hunt a rabbit and flush a game bird, sometimes. In fact,
great things often come out of little ones."

"I know you'll be fair and not let anything influence your judgment,"
she said.

He promised, but with secret uneasiness, for already it seemed that his
judgment was being influenced. For that reason he had postponed a final
decision until the following day. Mrs. Northover departed with grateful
thanks and left behind her, though she guessed it not, problems far more
tremendous than any she had brought.

Meantime Raymond and Sabina, on their way to Miss Ironsyde, were met by
Mr. Neddy Motyer. Neddy had not seen his friend for some time and now
saluted and stopped. It was nearly dark and they stood under a
lamp-post.

"Cheero!" said Mr. Motyer. "Haven't cast an eye on you for a month of
Sundays, Ironsyde."

Raymond introduced Sabina and Neddy was gallant and reminded her they
had met before at the Mill. Then, desiring a little masculine society,
Sabina's betrothed proposed that she should go on and report that he was
coming.

"Aunt Jenny will expect us to stop for dinner, so there's no hurry. I'll
be up in half an hour."

She left them and Neddy suggested drinking.

"You might as well be dead and buried for all the boys see of you
nowadays," he said, as they entered 'The Bull' Hotel.

"I'm busy."

"I know, but I hope you'll have a big night off before the deed is done
and you take leave of freedom--what?"

"I'm not taking leave of freedom. You godless bachelors don't know
you're born."

"Bluff--bluff!" declared Neddy. "You can't deceive me, old sport."

"You wait till you find the right one."

"I shall," promised Neddy. "And very well content to wait. Nothing is
easier than not to be married."

"Nothing is harder, my dear chap, if you're in love with the right
girl."

Neddy felt the ground delicate. He knew that Raymond had knocked down a
man for insulting him a week before, so he changed the subject.

"I thought you'd be at the fight," he said. "It was a pretty
spar--interesting all through. Jack Buckler won. Blades practically let
him. Not because he wanted to, but because Solly Blades has got a streak
of softness in his make-up. That's fatal in a fighter. If you've got a
gentle heart, it don't matter how clever you are: you can't take full
advantage of your skill and use the opening when you've won it. Blades
didn't punish Buckler's stupidity, or weakness just when he could have
done it. So he lost, because he gave Jack time to get strong again; and
when Blades in his turn went weak, Buckler got it over and outed him."

"Your heart often robs you of what your head won," said another man in
the bar. "Life's like prize-fighting in that respect. If you don't hit
other people when you can, the time will probably come when they'll hit
you."

It was an ugly philosophy and Raymond, looking within, applied to it
himself. Then he put his own thoughts away.

"And how are the gee-gees?" he asked.

"As a 'gentleman backer,' I can't say I'm going very strong," confessed
Neddy. "On the whole, I think it's a mug's game. Anyway, I shall chuck
it when flat racing comes again. My father's getting restive. I shall
have to do something pretty soon."

Raymond stayed for an hour and was again urged to give a bachelor-supper
before he married; but he declined.

"Shan't chuck away a tenner on a lot of wasters," he said. "Got
something better to do with it."

Several men promised to come to church and see the event, now near at
hand, but he told them that they might be disappointed.

"I'm not too sure about that," he said. "I may put my foot down on that
racket and be married at a registrar's. Anyway church is no certainty.
I've got no use for making a show of my private affairs."

On the way to Miss Ironsyde's he grew moody and gloom settled upon him.
A glimpse of the old free and easy life threw into darker colours the
new existence ahead. He remembered the sentiments of the strange man in
the bar--how weakness is always punished and the heart often robs the
head of victory. His heart was robbing his head of freedom; and that
meant victory also; for what sort of success can life offer to those who
begin it by flinging liberty to the winds? Yes, he had been "bluffing,"
as Neddy declared; and to bluff was foreign to his nature. Nobody was
deceived, for everybody knew the truth, and though none dared laugh at
him in public, secretly all his acquaintance were doubtless doing so.

Sabina saw that he was perturbed when presently he joined Miss
Ironsyde. He had drunk more than enough and proved irritable.

He was, however, silent at first, while his aunt discussed the wedding.
She took it for granted that it would be in church and reminded Raymond
of necessary steps.

"And certain people should be asked," she said. "Have you any friends
you particularly wish to be there? Mr. Churchouse is planning a wedding
breakfast--"

"No--none of my friends will be there if I can help it. They're not that
sort."

"Have you written to Daniel?"

"'Written to Daniel'! Good God, no! What should I write to Daniel, but
to tell him he's the biggest cur and hound on earth?"

"You've passed all that. You're not going back again, Raymond. You know
what you said last time when we talked about it."

"If he's ever to be more than a name to me, he must apologise for being
a low down brute, first. I've got plenty on my mind without thinking
about him. He's going to rue the day he treated me as he has done. I'll
bring him and Bridetown Mill to the gutter, yet."

"Don't, don't, please. I thought you felt last time we were talking
about him--"

"Drop him--don't mention his name to me--I won't hear it. If you want me
to go on with my life with self-respect, then keep his name out of my
life. I've cursed him to hell once and for all, so talk of something
else!"

Jenny Ironsyde saw that her nephew was in a dark temper, and while at
heart she felt indignant and ashamed, more for Sabina's sake than his
own, she humoured him, spoke of the future and strove to win him back
into a cheerful mind.

Then as they were going to dinner, at half-past seven o'clock, the maid
who announced the meal, brought with her a telegram. It was directed to
'Ironsyde' only, and, putting on her glasses, Jenny read it.

Daniel had been very seriously injured in a railway accident at York.

Remorse strikes the young with cruel bitterness. Raymond turned pale and
staggered. While he had been cursing his brother, the man lay smitten,
perhaps at the door of death. His aunt it was who steadied him and
turned to the time-table. Then she went to her store of ready money. In
an hour Raymond was on his way. It might be possible for him to catch a
midnight train for the North from London and reach York before morning.

When he had gone, Jenny turned to Sabina, who had spoken no word during
this scene.

"Much may come of this," she said. "God works in mysterious ways. I have
no fear that Raymond will fail in his duty to dear Daniel at such a
time. Come back early to-morrow, Sabina. I shall get a telegram, as soon
as Raymond can despatch it, and shall hold myself in readiness to go at
once and stop with Daniel. Tell Mister Churchouse what has happened."

The lady spent the night in packing. Her sufferings and anxieties were
allayed by occupation; but the long hours seemed unending.

She was ready to start at dawn, but not until ten o'clock came the news
from York. Mr. Churchouse was already with her when the telegram
arrived. He had driven from Bridetown with Sabina. Daniel Ironsyde was
dead and had passed many hours before Raymond reached him.

Sabina went home on hearing this news, and Ernest Churchouse remained
with Miss Ironsyde.

She was prostrated and, for a time, he could not comfort her. But the
practical nature of her mind asserted itself between gusts of grief. She
despatched a telegram to Raymond at York, and begged him to bring back
his brother's body as soon as it might be done. Concerning the future
she also spoke to Ernest.

"He has made no will," she said, "That I know, because when last we
were speaking of Raymond, he told me he felt it impossible at present to
do so."

"Then the whole estate belongs to Raymond, now?" he asked.

"Yes, everything is his."




CHAPTER XXIII

A LETTER FOR SABINA


A human machine, under stress of personal tribulation and lowered
vitality, had erred in a signal box five miles from York, with the
result that several of his fellow creatures were killed and many
injured. Daniel Ironsyde had only lived long enough to direct the
telegram to his home.

Three days later Raymond returned with the body, and once more Bridetown
crowded to its windows and open spaces, to see the funeral of another
master of the Mill.

To an onlooker the scene might have appeared a repetition in almost
every particular of Henry Ironsyde's obsequies.

The spinners crowded on the grassy triangle under the sycamore tree and
debated their future. They wondered whether Raymond would come to the
funeral; and a new note entered into all voices when they spoke his
name, for he was master now. Mr. Churchouse attended the burial, and
Arthur Waldron walked down from North Hill House with his daughter. In
the churchyard, where Daniel's grave waited for him beside his father,
old Mr. Baggs stood and looked down, as he had done when Henry Ironsyde
came to his grave.

"Life, how short--eternity, how long," he said to John Best.

Ernest Churchouse opened the door of the mourning coach as he had done
on the previous occasion, and Miss Ironsyde alighted, followed by
Raymond. He had come. But he had changed even to the visible eye. The
least observing were able to mark differences of voice and manner.

Raymond's nature had responded to the stroke of circumstance with
lightning swiftness. The pressure of his position, thus suddenly
relieved, caused a rebound, a liberation of the grinding tension. It
remained to be seen what course he might now pursue; yet those who knew
him best anticipated no particular reaction. But when he returned it was
quickly apparent that tremendous changes had already taken place in the
young man's outlook on life and that, whatever his future line of
conduct might be, he realised very keenly his altered position. He was
now free of all temporal cares; but against that fact he found himself
faced with great new responsibilities.

Remorse hit him hard, but he was through the worst of that, and life had
become so tremendous, that he could not for very long keep his thoughts
on death.

At his brother's funeral he allowed his eye to rest on no familiar face
and cast no recognising glance at man or woman. He was haggard and pale,
but more than that: a new expression had come into his countenance.
Already consciousness of possession marked him. He had grasped the fact
of the change far quicker than Daniel had grasped it after their
father's death.

He was returning immediately with his aunt to Bridport; but Mr.
Churchouse broke through the barrier and spoke to him as he entered the
carriage.

"Won't you see Sabina before you go, Raymond? You must realise that,
even under these terrible conditions, we cannot delay. I understand she
wrote to you when you came back; but that you have not answered her
letter. As things are it seems to me you might like to be quietly and
privately married away from Bridetown?"

Raymond hardly seemed to hear.

"I can't talk about that now. A great deal falls upon me at present. I
am enormously busy and have to take up the threads of all poor Daniel
was doing in the North. There is nobody but myself, in my opinion, who
can go through with it. I return to London to-night."

"But Sabina?"

Raymond answered calmly.

"Sabina Dinnett will hear from me during the next twenty-four hours," he
said.

Ernest gazed aghast.

"But, my dear boy, you cannot realise the situation if you talk like
that. Surely you--"

"I realise the situation perfectly well. Good-bye, Uncle Ernest."

The coach drove away. Miss Ironsyde said nothing. She had broken down
beside the grave and was still weeping.

Then came Mr. Best, where Mr. Churchouse stood at the lich-gate. He was
anxious for information.

"Did he say anything about his plans?" he asked.

"Only that he is proceeding with his late brother's business in the
North. I perceive a most definite change in the young man, John."

"For the better, we'll hope. What's hid in people! You never would have
thought Mister Raymond would have carried himself like that. It wasn't
grief at his loss, but a sort of an understanding of the change. He even
looked at us differently--even me."

"He's overwrought and not himself, probably. I don't think he quite
grasps the immediate situation. He seems to be looking far ahead
already, whereas the most pressing matter should be a thing of
to-morrow."

"Is the wedding day fixed?"

"It is not. He writes to Sabina."

"Writes! Isn't he going to see her to-day!"

"He returns to London to-night."

Arthur Waldron also asked for news, for Raymond had apparently been
unconscious of his existence at the funeral. He, too, noted the change
in Ironsyde's demeanour.

"What was it?" he asked, as Mr. Churchouse walked beside him homeward.
"Something is altered. It's more his manner than his appearance. Of
course, he looks played out after his shock, but it's not that. Estelle
thinks it's his black clothes."

"Stress of mind and anxiety, no doubt. I spoke to him; but he was rather
distant. Not unfriendly--he called me 'Uncle Ernest' as usual--but
distant. His mind is entirely preoccupied with business."

"What about Sabina?"

"I asked him. He's writing to her. She wasn't at the funeral. She and
her mother kept away at my advice. But I certainly thought he would come
and see them afterwards. However, the idea hadn't apparently occurred to
him. His mind is full of other things. There was a suggestion of
strength--of power--something new."

"He must be very strong now," said Estelle. "He will have to be strong,
because the Mill is all his and everything depends upon him. Doesn't
Sabina feel she must be strong, too, Mr. Churchouse?"

"Sabina is naturally excited. But she is also puzzled, because it seems
strange that anything should come between her and Raymond at a time like
this--even the terrible death of dear Daniel. She has been counting on
hearing from him, and to-day she felt quite sure he would see her."

"Is the wedding put off then?"

"I trust not. She is to hear from him to-morrow."

       *       *       *       *       *

Raymond kept his word and before the end of the following day Sabina
received a letter. She had alternated, since Daniel's sudden death,
between fits of depression and elation. She was cast down, because no
communication of any kind had reached her since Raymond hurried off on
the day of the accident; and she was elated, because the future must
certainly be much more splendid for Raymond now.

She explained his silence easily enough, for much work devolved upon
him; but when he did not come to see her on the day of the funeral, she
was seriously perturbed and grew excited, unstrung and full of
forebodings. Her mother heard from those who had seen him that Raymond
appeared to be abstracted and 'kept himself to himself' entirely; which
led to anxiety on her part also. The letter defined the position.

"MY DEAREST SABINA,--A thing like the death of my brother, with all that
it means to me, cannot happen without having very far-reaching results.
You may have noticed for some time before this occurred that I felt
uneasy about the future--not only for your sake, but my own--and I had
long felt that we were doing a very doubtful thing to marry. However, as
circumstances were such then, that I should have been in the gutter if I
did not marry, I was going to do so. There seemed to be no choice,
though I felt all the time that I was not doing the fair thing to you,
or myself.

"Now the case is altered and I can do the fair thing to you and myself,
because circumstances make it possible. I have got tons of money now,
and it is not too much to say that I want you to share it. But not on
the old understanding. I hate and loathe matrimony and everything to do
with it, and now that it is possible to avoid the institution, I intend
to do so.

"What you have got to do is to put a lot of stupid, conventional ideas
out of your mind, and not worry about other people, and the drivel they
talk, or the idiotic things they say. We weren't conventional last year,
so why the dickens should we be this? I'm awfully keen about you,
Sabina, and awfully keen about the child too; but let us be sane and be
lovers and not a wretched married couple.

"If you will come and be my housekeeper, I shall welcome you with
rejoicings, and we can go house-hunting again and find something
worthier of us and take bigger views.

"Don't let this bowl you over and make you savage. It is simply a
question of what will keep us the best friends, and wear best. I am
perfectly certain that in the long run we shall be happier so, than
chained together by a lot of cursed laws, that will put our future
relations on a footing that denies freedom of action to us both. Let's
be pioneers and set a good example to people and help to knock on the
head the imbecile marriage laws.

"I am, of course, going to put you all right from a worldly point of
view and settle a good income upon you, which you will enjoy
independently of me; and I also recognise the responsibility of our
child. He or she will be my heir, and nothing will be spared for the
youngster.

"I do hope, my dearest girl, you will see what a sensible idea this is.
It means liberty, and you can't have real love without liberty. If we
married, I am certain that in a year or two we should hate each other
like the devil, and I believe you know that as well as I do. Marriage is
out-grown--it's a barbaric survival and has a most damnable effect on
character. If we are to be close chums and preserve our self-respect, we
must steer clear of it.

"I am very sure I am right. I've thought a lot about it and heard some
very shrewd men in London speak about it. We are up against a sort of
battle nowadays. The idea of marriage is the welfare of the community,
and the idea of freedom is the welfare of the individual; and I, for
one, don't see in the least why the individual should go down for the
community. What has the community done for us, that we should become
slaves for it?

"Wealth--at any rate, ample means--does several things for a man. It
opens his eyes to the meaning of power. Power is a fine thing if it's
coupled with sense. Already I see what a poor creature I was--owing to
the accident of poverty. Now you'll find what a huge difference power
makes. It changes everything and turns a child into a man. At any rate,
I've been a child till now. You've got to be childlike if you're poor.

"So I hope you'll take this in the spirit I write, Sabina, and trust
me, for I'm straight as a line, and my first thought is to make you a
happy woman. That I certainly can do, if you'll let me.

"I shall be coming home presently; but, for the moment, I must stop
here. There is a gigantic deal of work waiting for me; but working for
myself and somebody else are two very different things. I don't grudge
the work now, since the result of the work means more power.

"I hope this is all clear. If it isn't, we must thresh it out when we
meet. All I want you to grasp for the moment is that I love you as well
as ever--better than anything in the world--and, because I want us to be
the dearest friends always, I'm not going to marry you.

"Your mother and Uncle Ernest will of course take the conventional line,
and my Aunt Jennie will do the same; but I hope you won't bother about
them. Your welfare lies with me. Don't let them talk you into making a
martyr of yourself, or any nonsense of that sort.

"Always, my dearest Sabina,
"Your faithful pal,
"RAY."

Half an hour later Mrs. Dinnett took the letter in to Mr. Churchouse.

"Death," she said. "Death is in the air. Sabina has gone to bed and I'm
going for the doctor. He's broke off the engagement and wants her to be
his housekeeper. And this is a Christian country, or supposed to be.
Says it's going to be quite all right and offers her money and a
lifetime of sin!"

"Be calm, Mary, be calm. You must have misread the letter. Go and get
the doctor by all means if Sabina has succumbed. And leave the letter
with me. I will read it carefully. That is if it is not private."

"No, it ain't private. He slaps at us all. We're all conventional
people, which means, I suppose, that we fear God and keep the laws. But
if my gentleman thinks--"

"Go and get the doctor, Mary. Two heads are better than one in a case
of this sort. I feel sure you and Sabina are making a mistake."

"The world shall ring," said Mrs. Dinnett, "and we'll see if he can show
his face among honest men again. We that have abided by the law all our
days--now we'll see what the law can do for us against this godless
wretch."

She went off to the village and Ernest cried after her to say nothing at
present. He knew, however, as he spoke that it was vain.

Then he put away his own work and read the letter very carefully twice
through.

Profound sorrow came upon him and his innate optimism was over-clouded.
This seemed no longer the Raymond Ironsyde he had known from childhood.
It was not even the Raymond of a month ago. He perceived how potential
qualities of mind had awakened in the new conditions. He was
philosophically interested. So deeply indeed did the psychological
features of the change occupy his reflections, that for a time he
overlooked their immediate and crushing significance in the affairs of
another person.

Traces of the old Raymond remained in the promises of unbounded
generosity and assurances of devotion; but Mr. Churchouse set no store
upon them. The word that rang truest was Raymond's acute consciousness
of power and appreciation thereof. It had, as he said, opened his eyes.
Under any other conditions than those embracing Sabina and right and
wrong, as Ernest accepted the meaning of right and wrong, he had won
great hope from the letter. It was clear that Raymond had become a man
at a bound and might be expected to develop into a useful man; but that
his first step from adolescence was to involve the destruction of a
woman and child, soon submerged all lesser considerations in the
thinker's mind. Righteousness was implicated, and to start his new
career with a cold-blooded crime made Mr. Churchouse tremble for the
entire future of the criminal.

Yet he saw very little hope of changing Ironsyde's decision. Raymond
had evidently considered the matter, and though his argument was
abominable in Ernest's view, and nothing more than a cowardly evasion of
his promises, he suspected that the writer found it satisfy his
conscience, since its further education in the consciousness of power.
He did not suppose that any whose opinion he respected would alter
Raymond. It might even be that he was honest in his theories, and
believed himself when he said that marriage would end by destroying his
love for Sabina. But Mr. Churchouse did not pursue that line of
argument. Had not Mary Dinnett just reminded him that this was a
Christian country?

It was, of course, an immoral and selfish letter. Ernest knew exactly
how it would strike Miss Ironsyde; but he also knew that many people
without principle would view it as reasonable.

He had to determine what he was going to do, and soon came back to the
attitude he had always taken. An unborn, immortal soul must be
considered, and it was idle for Raymond to talk about making the coming
child his heir. Such undertakings were vain. The young man was volatile
and his life lay before him. That he could make this offer argued an
indifference to Sabina's honour which no promises of temporal comfort
condoned. For that matter he must surely have known while he wrote that
it would be rejected.

The outlook appeared exceedingly hopeless. Mr. Churchouse rose from his
desk and looked out of the window. It was a grey and silent morning.
Only a big magnolia leaf tapped at the casement and dripped rain from
its point. And overhead, in her chamber, Sabina was lying stricken and
speechless. With infinite commiseration Mr. Churchouse considered what
this must mean to her. It was as though Mrs. Dinnett's hysterical words
had come true. Indeed, the tender-hearted man felt that death was in
his house--death of fair hopes, death of a young and trusting spirit.

"The rising generation puts a strain on Christianity that I'm sure it
was never called to bear in my youth," reflected Mr. Churchouse.




CHAPTER XXIV

MRS. NORTHOVER DECIDES


When Richard Gurd began to consider the case of Nelly Northover, his
mind was very curiously affected. To develop the stages by which he
arrived at his startling conclusions might be attractive, but the
destination is more important than the journey. After twenty-four hours
devoted to this subject alone, Richard had not only decided that Nelly
Northover must not marry Job Legg; he had pushed the problem of his
friend far beyond that point and found it already complicated by a
greater than Job.

Indeed, the sudden reminder that Nelly was a comely and personable woman
had affected Richard Gurd, and the thought that she should contemplate
marriage caused him some preliminary uneasiness. He could no more see
her married again than he could see himself taking a wife; yet from this
attitude, progress was swift, and the longer he thought upon Mrs.
Northover, the more steadily did his mind drive him into an opinion that
she might reasonably wed again if she desired to do so. And then he
proceeded to the personal concession that there was no radical necessity
to remain single himself. Because he had reached his present ripe age
without a wife, it did not follow he must remain for ever unmarried. He
had no objection to marriage, and continued a bachelor merely because he
had never found any woman desirable in his eyes. Moreover he disliked
children.

He had reached this stage of the argument before he slept, and when he
woke again, he found his mind considerably advanced along the road to
Nelly. He now came to the deliberate conclusion that he wanted her. The
discovery amazed him, but he could not escape it; and in the light of
such a surprise he became a little dazzled. Sudden soul movements of
such force and complexity made Richard Gurd selfish. It is a fact, that
before he went at the appointed time to see the mistress of 'The Seven
Stars,' he had forgotten all about Job Legg and was entirely concerned
with his own tremendous project. Full grown and complete at all vital
points it sprang from his energetic brain. He had reached the high
personal ambition of wanting to marry Mrs. Northover himself, and their
friendship of many years had been so complete, that he felt sanguine
from the moment that his great determination dawned.

But she spoke and quickly reminded him of what she was expecting.

"And how d'you think about it? Shall it be, or shan't it, Richard?"

They were in the private parlour.

"Leave that," he said. "I can assure you that little affair is already a
thing of the past. In fact, my mind has moved such a long way since you
came to see me yesterday, that I'd forgot what you came about. But,
after all, that was the starting point. Now a very curious thing has
fallen out, and looking back, I can only say that the wonder is it
didn't fall out long years ago."

"It did, so far as he was concerned," explained Mrs. Northover. "Mr.
Legg has been hoping for this for years."

"The Lord often chooses a fool to light the road of the wise, my dear.
Not that Job's a fool, and a more self-respecting man you won't find. In
fact I shall always feel kindly to your potman, for, in a manner of
speaking, you may say he's helped to show me my own duty."

"I dare say he has; he's a lesson to us all."

"He is, but, all the same, it's confounding class with class to think of
him as a husband for you. Not that I've got any class prejudice myself.
You can't keep a hotel year in, year out, and allow yourself the luxury
of class prejudice; but be that as it may, Legg, though he adorns his
class, wouldn't adorn ours in my opinion. And yet I'll say this: I
believe it was put to him by Providence to offer for you, so that you
might be lifted to higher things."

"Speak English, my dear man. I don't exactly know what you're talking
about. But I suppose you mean I'd better not?"

Mrs. Northover was a little disappointed and Richard perceived it.

"Be calm, and don't let me sweep you off your feet as I've been swept
off mine," he answered. "Since I discovered marriage was a possibility
in your mind, I am obliged to confess that it's grown up to be a
possibility in mine. And why not?"

"No reason at all. 'Twas the wonder of Bridport, you might say for
years, why you remained single."

"Well, this I'll tell you, Nelly; I'm not going to have you marrying any
Dick, Tom or Harry that's daring enough to lift his eyes to you and
cheeky enough to offer. And when the thought came in my mind, I very
soon found that this event rose up ideas that might have slumbered till
eternity, but for Job Legg. And that's why I say Providence is in it.
I've felt a great admiration for your judgment, and good sense, and fine
appearance, ever since the blow fell and your husband was taken. And we
know each other pretty close and have got no secrets from each other.
And now you may say I've suddenly seen the light; and if you've got half
the opinion of me that I have of you, no doubt you'll thank your God to
hear what I'm saying and answer according."

"Good powers! You want to marry me yourself?" gasped Mrs. Northover.

"By all your 'Seven Stars' I do," he said. "In fact, I want for 'The
Tiger' to swallow the 'Seven Stars,' in a poetical way of speaking. I'm
a downright man and never take ten minutes where five's enough, so
there it is. It came over me last night as a thing that must be--like
the conversion of Paul. And I'll go further; I won't have you beat about
the bush, Nelly. You're the sort of woman that can make up your mind in
a big thing as quick as you can in a small thing. I consider there's
been a good deal of a delicate and tender nature going on between us,
though we were too busy to notice it; but now the bud have burst into
flower, and I see amazing clear we were made for each other. In fact, I
ain't going to take 'no' for an answer, my dear. I've never asked a
female to marry me until this hour; and I have not waited into greyness
and ripeness to hear a negative. I'm sure of myself, naturally, and I
well know that you'd only be a thought less fortunate than I shall be."

"Stop!" she said, "and let me think. I'm terrible flattered at this, and
I'll go so far as to say there's rhyme and reason in it, Richard. But
you run on so. I feel my will power fairly oozing out of me."

"Not at all," he answered. "Your will power's what I rely upon. You're a
forceful person yourself and you naturally approve of forcefulness in
others. There's no reason why you shouldn't love me as well as I love
you; and, for that matter, you do."

"Well, I must have time. I must drop Legg civilly and break it to him
gradual."

"I'll meet you there. You needn't tell him you're going to be married
all in a minute. He'll find that out for himself very quick. So will
everybody. If a thing's worth doing, try to do it--that's my motto. But,
for the moment, you can say that your affections are given in another
quarter."

"Of course, it's a great thing for me, Richard. I'm very proud of it."

"And so am I. And Job Legg was the dumb instrument, so I am the last to
quarrel with him. Just tell him, that failing another, you might have
thought on him; but that the die is cast; and when he hears his fate,
he'll naturally want to know who 'tis. And then the great secret must
come out. I should reckon after Easter would be a very good time for us
to wed."

"I can't believe my senses," she said.

"You will in a week," he assured her; "and, meanwhile, I shall do my
best to help you. In a week the joyful tidings go out to the people."

He kissed her, shook her hand and squeezed it. Then he departed leaving
Mrs. Northover in the extremity of bewilderment. But pleasure and great
pride formed no small part of her mingled emotions.

One paramount necessity darkened all, however. Nelly felt a very sharp
pang when she thought upon Mr. Legg, and her sufferings increased as the
day advanced until they quite mastered the situation and clouded the
brightness of conquest. Other difficulties and doubts also obtruded as
she began to estimate the immensity of the thing that Mr. Gurd's ardour
had prompted her to do; but Job was the primal problem and she knew that
she could not sleep until she had made her peace with him.

She determined to leave him in no doubt concerning his successful rival.
The confession would indeed make it easier for them both. At least she
hoped it might do so.

He came for keys after closing time and she bade him sit down in the
chair which Richard Gurd had that morning filled. One notes trifles at
the supremest moments of life, and the trifles often stick, while the
great events which accompany them fade into the past. Mrs. Northover
observed that while Richard Gurd had filled the chair--and overflowed,
Mr. Legg by no means did so. He occupied but the centre of the spacious
seat. There seemed a significance in that.

"Sit down, Job, and listen. I've got to say something that will hurt
you, my dear man. I've made my choice, after a good bit of deep thought
I assure you, and I've--I've chosen the other, Job."

He stared and his thin jaws worked. His nostrils also twitched.

"I didn't know there was another."

"More didn't I," answered she. "I'm nothing if not honest, and I tell
you frankly that I didn't know it either till he offered. He was a
lifelong friend, and I asked him about what I ought to be doing, and
then it came out he had already thought of me as a wife and was biding
his time. He had nought but praise for you, as all men have; but there
it is--Richard Gurd is very wishful to marry me; and you must understand
this clearly, Job. If it had been any lesser man than him, or any other
man in the world, for that matter, I wouldn't have taken him. I'm very
fond of you, and a finer character I've never known; but when Richard
offered--well, you're among the clever ones and I'm sure you'd be the
last to put yourself up against a man of his standing and fame. And my
first husband's lifelong friend, you must remember. And though, after
all these years, it may seem strange to a great many people, it won't
seem strange to you, I hope."

"It's a very ill-convenient time to hear this," said Mr. Legg mildly.

Then he stopped and regarded her with his little, shrewd eyes. He seemed
less occupied with the tremendous present than the future. Presently he
went on again, while Mrs. Northover stared at him with an expression of
genuine sadness.

"All I can say is that I wish Gurd had offered sooner, and not led me
into this tremendous misfortune. Of course, him and me aren't in the
same street and I won't pretend it, for none would be deceived if I did.
But I say again it's very unfortunate he hung fire till he heard that I
had made my offer. For if he'd spoke first, I should have held my peace
and gone on my appointed way and stopped at 'The Seven Stars.' But now,
if this happens, all is over and the course of my life is changed. In
fact, it is not too much to say I shall leave Bridport, though how any
person can live comfortably away from Bridport, I don't know."

Mrs. Northover felt relief that he should thus fasten on such a minor
issue, and never liked him better than at that moment. "Thank God, he's
took it, lying down!" she thought, then spoke.

"Don't you leave, my dear man. Bridport won't be Bridport without you,
and you've always been a true and valued friend to me, and such a
helpful and sensible creature that I shall only know in the next world
all I owe you. And between us, I don't see no reason at all why you
shouldn't go on as my potman and--more than that--why shouldn't you
marry a nice woman yourself and bring her here, if you've got a mind to
it!"

He expressed no indignation. Again, it seemed that the future was his
sole concern and that he designed to waste no warmth on his
disappointment.

"There never was but one woman for me and never will be; and as to
stopping here, I might, or I might not, for I've always had my feelings
under very nice control and shouldn't break the rule of a lifetime. But
you won't be at 'The Seven Stars' yourself much longer, and I certainly
don't serve under any other but you. In fact this house and garden would
only be a deserted wilderness to my view, if you wasn't reigning over
'em."

He spoke in his usual emotionless voice, but he woke very active
phenomena in Mrs. Northover. Her face grew troubled and she looked into
his eyes with a frown.

"Me gone! What do you mean, Legg? Me leave 'The Seven Stars' after
thirty-four years?"

"No doubt your first would turn in his grave if you did," he admitted;
"but what about it? When you're mistress of 'The Tiger'--well, then
you're mistress of 'The Tiger,' and you can't be in two places at
once--clever as you are."

He had given her something to think about. The possibility of guile in
Mr. Legg had never struck the least, or greatest, of his admirers. He
was held a simple soul of transparent probity, yet, for a moment, it
almost seemed as though his last remark carried an inner meaning. Nelly
dismissed the suspicion as unworthy of Job; but none the less, though he
had doubtless spoken without any sinister purpose, his opinions gave her
pause. Indeed, they shook her. She had been too much excited to look
ahead. Now she was called to do so.

Mr. Legg removed the bunch of keys from its nail and prepared to go on
his way.

She felt weak.

"To play second fiddle for the rest of your life after playing first for
a quarter of a century is a far-reaching thought," she said.

"Without a doubt it would be," he admitted. "Of course, with some men
you wouldn't be called to do it. With Richard Gurd, you would."

"To leave 'The Seven Stars'! Somehow I'd always regarded our place as a
higher class establishment than 'The Tiger'--along of the tea-gardens
and pleasure ground and the class of company."

"And quite right to do so. But that's only your opinion, and mine. It
won't be his. Good night."

He left her deep in thought, then five minutes afterwards thrust his
long nose round the door again.

"The English of it is you can't have anything for nothing--not in this
weary world," he said.

Then he disappeared.

A week later Sarah Northover came to see her aunt and congratulate her
on the great news.

"Now people know it," said Sarah, "they all wonder how ever 'twas you
and Mister Gurd didn't marry long ago."

"We've been wondering the same, for that matter, and Richard takes the
blame--naturally, since I couldn't say the word before he asked the
question. But for your ear and only yours, Sarah, I can whisper that
this thing didn't go by rule. And in sober honesty I do believe if he
hadn't heard another man wanted me, Mister Gurd would never have found
out he did. But such are the strange things that happen in human nature,
no doubt."

"Another!" said Sarah. "They're making up for lost time, seemingly."

"Another, and a good man," declared her aunt; "but his name is sacred,
and you mustn't ask to know it."

Sarah related events at Bridetown.

"You've heard, of course, about the goings on? Mister Ironsyde don't
marry Sabina, and her mother wants to have the law against him; but
though Sabina's in a sad state and got to be watched, she won't have the
law. We only hear scraps about it, because Nancy Buckler, her great
friend, is under oath of secrecy. But if he shows his face at Bridetown,
it's very likely he'll be man-handled. Then, against that, there's
rumours in the air he'll make great changes at the Mill, and may put up
all our money. In that case, I don't think he'd be treated very rough,
because, as my Mister Roberts says, 'Self-preservation is the first law
of nature,' and always have been; and if he's going to better us it will
mean a lot."

"Don't you be too hopeful, however," warned Mrs. Northover. "There's a
deal of difference between holding the reins yourself and saying sharp
things against them who are. He's hard, and last time he was in this
house but one, he got as drunk as a lord and Legg helped him to bed. And
he quarrelled very sharp with Mister Gurd for giving him good advice;
and Richard says the young man is iron painted to look like wood. And
he's rarely mistook."

"But he always did tell us we never got enough money for our work,"
argued Sarah. "And if anything comes of it and Nicholas and me earn five
bob more a week between us, it means marriage. So I'm in a twitter."

"What does John Best say?"

"Nought. We can't get a word out of him. All we know is we're cruel
busy and orders flow in like a river. But that was poor Mister Daniel's
work, no doubt."

"Marriage is in the air, seemingly," reflected Nelly. "It mightn't be
altogether a bad thing if you and me went to the altar together, Sarah.
'Twas always understood you'd be married from 'The Seven Stars,' and the
sight of a young bride and bridegroom would soften the ceremony a bit
and distract the eye from me and Richard."

"Good Lord!" answered the girl. "There won't be no eyes for small folks
like us on the day you take Mister Gurd. 'Twould be one expense without
a doubt; but I'm certain positive he wouldn't like for us little people
to be mixed up with it. 'Twould lessen the blaze from his point of view,
and a man such as him wouldn't approve of that."

"Perhaps you're right," admitted her aunt, with a massive sigh. "He's a
masterful piece, and the affair will be carried out as he wills."

"I can't see you away from 'The Seven Stars,' somehow, Aunt Nelly."

"That's what everybody says. More can't I see myself away for that
matter. But Richard said 'The Tiger' would swallow 'The Seven Stars,'
and I know what he meant now."




CHAPTER XXV

THE WOMAN'S DARKNESS


The blood of Sabina Dinnett was poisoned through an ordeal of her life
when it should have run at its purest and sweetest. That the man who had
promised to marry her, had exhausted the vocabulary of love for her,
should thus cast her off, struck her into a frantic calenture which, for
a season, threatened her existence. The surprise of his decision was not
absolute and utter, otherwise such a shock might indeed have killed her;
but there lacked not many previous signs to show that Raymond Ironsyde
had strayed from his old enthusiasm and found the approach of marriage
finally quench love. The wronged girl could look back and see a thousand
such warnings, while she remembered also a dark dread in her heart as to
what might possibly overtake her on the death of Daniel. True the shadow
had lasted but a moment; she banished it, as unworthy, and preferred to
dwell on the increased happiness and prosperity that must accrue to
Raymond; but the passing fear had touched her first, and she could look
back now and mark how deeply doubt tinctured all her waking hours since
the necessity arose for Raymond to wed.

For a few days she raged and was only comforted with difficulty. Mr.
Churchouse and Jenny Ironsyde both visited Sabina and bade her control
herself and keep calm, lest worst things should happen to her. Ernest
was still sanguine that the young man would regret his suggestions; but
Jenny quenched this hope.

"It is all of a piece," she said, "and, looking back, I see it. His
instinct and will are against any such binding thing as marriage. He
wants to make her happy; but if to do so is to make himself miserable,
then she must go unhappy. Some bad girls might accept his offer; but
Sabina, of course, cannot. She is not made of the stuff to sink to this,
and it was only because he always insisted on the vital need for her to
complete his life, that she forgot her wisdom in the past and believed
they were really the complement of each other. As if a woman ever was,
or ever will be, the real complement of a man, or a man, the complement
of a woman! They are only complementary as meat and drink to the
hungry."

After some days Sabina read Raymond's letter again and it now awoke a
new passion. At first she had hated herself and talked of doing herself
an injury; but this was hysteria bred of suffering, since she had not
the temperament to commit self-destruction. Now her rage burned against
the child that she was doomed to bring into the world, and she brooded
secretly on how its end might be accomplished. She knew the peril to
herself of any such attempt; but while she could not have committed
suicide, she faced the thought of the necessary risks. If the child
lived, the hateful link must exist forever, if it perished, she would be
free. So she argued.

Full of this idea, she rose from her bed, went about and found some
little consolation in the sympathy of her friends. They cursed the man
until they heard what he had written to her. Then a change came over
their criticism, for they were not tuned to Sabina's pitch, and it
seemed to them, from their more modest standards of education, combined
with the diminished self-respect where ignorance obtains, that Raymond's
offer was fair--even handsome. Some, indeed, still mourned with her and
shared her fierce indignation; some simulated anger to please her; but
most confessed to themselves that she had not much to grumble at.

A wise woman warned her against any attempt to tamper with the child. It
was too late and the danger far too serious. So she passed through the
second phase of her sufferings and went from hatred of herself and
loathing of her load, to acute detestation of the man who had destroyed
her.

His offer seemed to her more villainous than his desertion. His
ignorance of her true self, the insolence and contempt that prompted
such a proposal, the view of her--these thoughts lashed her into fury.
She longed for some one to help her against him and treat him as he
deserved to be treated. She felt equal to making any sacrifice, if only
he might be debased and scorned and pointed at as he deserved to be. She
felt that her emotions must be shared by every honourable woman and
decent man. Her spirit hungered for a great revenge.

At first she dreamed of a personal action. She longed to tear him with
her nails, outrage him in people's eyes and make him suffer in his
flesh; but that passed: she knew she could not do it. A man was needed
to extort punishment from Raymond. But no man existed who would
undertake the task. She must then find such a man. She even sought him.
But she did not find him. The search led to bitter discoveries. If women
could forgive her betrayer; if women could say, as presently they said,
that she did not know her luck, men were still more indifferent.

The attitude of the world to her sufferings horrified Sabina. She had
none to love her--none, at least, to show his love by assaulting and
injuring her enemy. Only a certain number even took up the cudgels for
her in speech. Of these Levi Baggs, the hackler, was the strongest. But
his misanthropy embraced her also. He had said harsh things of his new
master; but neither had he spared the victim.

Upon these three great periods, of rage, futile passion, and hate, there
followed a lethargy from which Ernest Churchouse tried in vain to rouse
Sabina. He apprehended worse results from this coma of mind and body
than from the flux of her natural indignation. He spent much time with
her and bade her hope that Raymond might still reconsider his future.

None had yet seen him since his brother's funeral, and his aunt
received no answer to a very strenuous plea. He wrote to her, indeed,
about affairs, and even asked her for advice upon certain matters; but
they affected the past and Daniel rather than the future and himself.
She could not fail to notice the supreme change that power had brought
with it; his very handwriting seemed to have acquired a firmer line;
while his diction certainly showed more strength of purpose. Could power
modify character? It seemed impossible. She supposed, rather, that
character, latent till this sudden change of fortune, had been revealed
by power. Her first fears for the future of the business abated; but
with increasing respect for Raymond, the former affection perished. She
was firm in her moral standards, and to find his first use of power an
evasion of solemn and sacred promises, made Miss Ironsyde Raymond's
enemy. That he ignored her appeals to his manhood and honesty did not
modify her changed attitude. She found herself much wounded by his
callous conduct, and while his past weakness had been forgiven, his new
strength proved unforgivable.

Her appeal was, however, indirectly acknowledged, for Sabina received
another letter from Raymond in which he mentioned Miss Ironsyde's
communication.

"My aunt," he wrote, "does not realise the situation, or appreciate the
fact that love may remain a much more enduring and lively emotion
outside marriage than inside it. There are, of course, people who find
chains bearable enough, and even grow to like them, as convicts were
said to do; but you are not such a craven, no more am I. We must think
of the future, not the past, and I feel very sure that if we married,
the result would be death to our friendship. We had a splendid time, and
we might still have a splendid time, if you could be unconventional and
realise how many other women are also. But probably you have decided
against my suggestions, or I should have heard from you. So I suppose
you hate me, and I'm awfully sorry to think it. You won't come to me,
then. But that doesn't lessen my obligations, and I'm going to take
every possible care of you and your child, Sabina, whether you come or
not. He is my child, too, and I shan't forget it. If you would like to
see me you shall when I return to Bridport, pretty soon now; but if you
would rather not do so, then let me know who represents you, and I will
hear what you and your mother would wish."

She wrote several answers to this and destroyed them. They were bitter
and contemptuous, and as each was finished she realised its futility.
She could but sting; she could not seriously hurt. Even her sting would
not trouble him much, for a man who had done what he had done, was proof
against the scorn and hate of a woman. Only greater power than his own
could make him feel. Her powerlessness maddened her--her powerlessness
contrasted with his remorseless strength. But he used his strength like
a coward.

Some of her friends urged her to take legal action against Raymond
Ironsyde and demand mighty damages.

"You can hurt him there, if you can't anywhere else," said Nancy
Buckler. "You say you're too weak to hurt him, but you're not. Knock his
money out of him; you ought to get thousands."

Her mother, for a time, was of the same opinion. It seemed a right and
reasonable thing that Sabina should not be called upon to face her
ruined life without some compensation, but she found herself averse from
this. The thought of touching his money, or availing herself of it in
any way, was horrible to her. She knew, moreover, that such an
arrangement would go far to soothe Raymond's conscience; and the more he
paid, probably the happier he would feel. For other causes also she
declined to take any legal steps against him, and in this decision
Ernest Churchouse supported her.

He had been her prime consolation indeed, and though, at first, his line
of argument only left Sabina impatient, by degrees--by very slow
degrees--she inclined to him and suffered herself to hope he might not
be mistaken. He urged patience and silence. He held that Raymond
Ironsyde would presently return to that better and worthier self, which
could not be denied him. His own abounding charity, where humanity was
concerned, honestly induced Ernest to hope and almost believe that the
son of Henry Ironsyde had made these proposals under excitation of mind;
that he was thrown off his balance by the pressure of events; and that,
presently, when he had time to remember the facts concerning Sabina, he
would be heartily ashamed of himself and make the only adequate amends.

It was not unnatural that the girl should find in this theory her
highest consolation. She clung to it desperately, though few but Mr.
Churchouse himself accounted it of any consequence. Him, however, she
had been accustomed to consider the fountain of wisdom, and though, with
womanhood, she had lived to see his opinions mistaken and his trust
often abused, yet disappointments did not change a sanguine belief in
his fellow creatures.

So, thankful to repose her mind on another, Sabina for a while came to
standing-ground in her storm-stricken journey. Each day was an eternity,
but she strove to be patient. And, meantime, she wrote and posted a
letter to her old lover. It was not angry, or even petulant. Indeed, she
made her appeal with dignity and good choice of words. Before all she
insisted on the welfare of the child, and reminded him of the cruelty
inflicted from birth on any baby unlawfully born in England.

Mr. Churchouse had instructed her in this matter, and she asked Raymond
if he could find it in his heart to allow the child of their common love
and worship to come into the world unrecognised by the world, deprived
of recognition and human rights.

He answered the letter vaguely and Mr. Churchouse read a gleam of hope
into his words, but neither Sabina nor her mother were able to do so.
For he spoke only of recognising his responsibilities and paternal duty.
He bade her fear nothing for the child, or herself, and assured her that
her future would be his care and first obligation as long as he lived.

In these assertions Mr. Churchouse saw a wakening dawn, but Mary Dinnett
declared otherwise. The man was widening the gap; his original idea,
that Sabina should live with him, had dearly been abandoned.

Then the contradictions of human nature appeared, and Mary, who had been
the first to declare her deep indignation at Raymond's cynical proposal,
began to weaken and even wonder if Sabina had done wisely not to discuss
that matter.

"Not that ever you should have done it," she hastened to add; "but if
you'd been a bit crafty and not ruled it out altogether, you might have
built on it and got friendly again and gradually worked him back to his
duty."

Then Mr. Churchouse protested, in the name of righteousness, while she
argued that God helps those that help themselves, and that wickedness
should be opposed with craft. Sabina listened to them helplessly and her
last hope died out.




CHAPTER XXVI

OF HUMAN NATURE


Nicholas Roberts drove his lathes in a lofty chamber separated by wooden
walls from the great central activities of the spinning mill. Despite
the flying sparks from his emery wheels, he always kept a portrait of
Sarah Northover before him; and certain pictures of notable sportsmen
also hung with Sarah above the benches whereon Nicholas pursued his
task. His work was to put a fresh face on the wooden reels and rollers
that formed a part of the machines; for running hemp or flax will groove
the toughest wood in time, and so ruin the control of the rollers and
spoil the thread.

The wood curled away like paper before the teeth of the lathes, and the
chisels of these, in their turn, had often to be set upon spinning
stones. It was noisy work, and Nicholas now stopped his grindstone that
he might hear his own voice and that of Mr. Best, who came suddenly into
the shop.

The foreman spoke of some new wood for roller turning.

"It should be here this week," he said. "I told them we were running
short. You may expect a good batch of plane and beech by Thursday."

They discussed the work of Roberts and presently turned to the paramount
question in every mind at the Mill. All naturally desired to know when
Raymond Ironsyde would make his appearance and what would happen when he
did so; but while some, having regard for his conduct, felt he would not
dare to appear again himself, others believed that one so insensible to
honesty and decency would be indifferent to all opinions entertained of
him. Such suspected that the criticisms of Bridetown would be too
unimportant to trouble the new master.

And it seemed that they were right, for now came Ernest Churchouse
seeking Mr. Best. He looked into the turning-shop, saw John and entered.

"He's coming next week, but perhaps you know it," he began. "And if you
haven't heard, be sure you will at any moment."

"Then our fate is in store," declared Nicholas. "Some hope nothing, but,
seeing that with all his faults he's a sportsman, I do hope a bit.
There's plenty beside me who remember his words very well, and they
pointed to an all-around rise for men and women alike."

"There was a rumour of violence against him. You don't apprehend
anything of that sort, I hope?" asked Ernest of Best.

"A few--more women than men--had a plot, I believe, but I haven't heard
any more about it. Baggs is the ringleader; but if there was any talk of
raising the money, he'd find himself deserted. He's very bitter just
now, however, and as he's got the pleasant experience of being right for
once, you may be sure he's making the most of it."

"I'll see him," said Mr. Churchouse. "I always find him the most
difficult character possible; but he must know that to answer violence
with violence is vain. Patience may yet find the solution. I have by no
means given up hope that right will be done."

"Come and tell Levi, then. Him and me are out for the moment, because I
won't join him in calling down evil on Mister Ironsyde's head. But
what's the sense of losing your temper in other people's quarrels?
Better keep it for your own, I say."

They found Levi Baggs grumbling to himself over a mass of badly scutched
flax; but when he heard that Raymond Ironsyde was coming, he grew
philosophic.

"If we could only learn from what we work in," he said, "we'd have the
lawless young dog at our mercy. But, of course, we shall not. Why don't
the yarn teach us a lesson? Why don't it show us that, though the thread
is nought, and you can break it, same as Raymond Ironsyde can break me
or you, yet when you get to the twist, and the doubling and the
trebling, then it's strong enough to defy anything. And if we combined
as we ought, we shouldn't be waiting here to listen to what he's got to
say; we should be waiting here to tell him what we've got to say. If we
had the wit and understanding to twist our threads into one rope against
the wickedness of the world, then we should have it all our own way."

"Yes--all your own way to do your own wickedness," declared Best. "We
know very well what your idea of fairness is. You look upon capital as a
natural enemy, and if Raymond Ironsyde was an angel with wings, you'd
still feel to him that he was a foe and not a friend."

"The tradition is in the blood," declared Levi. "Capital is our natural
enemy, as you say. Our fathers knew it, and we know it, and our children
will know it."

"Your fathers had a great deal more sense than you have, Baggs,"
declared Mr. Churchouse. "And if you only remember the past a little,
you wouldn't grumble quite so loudly at the present. But labour has a
short memory and no gratitude, unfortunately. You're always shouting out
what must be done for you; you never spare a thought on what has been
done. You never look back at the working-class drudgery of bygone
days--to the 'forties' of last century, when your fathers went to work
at the curfew bell and earned eighteen-pence a week as apprentices, and
two shillings a week and a penny for themselves after they had learned
their business. A good spinner in those days might earn five shillings a
week, Levi--and that out of doors in fair weather. In foul, he, or she,
wouldn't do so well. If you had told your fathers seventy years ago that
all the spinning walks would be done away with and the population
better off notwithstanding, they would never have believed it."

"That's the way to look at the subject, Levi," declared John Best.
"Think what the men of the past would have said to our luck--and our
education."

"Machinery brought the spinning indoors," continued Ernest. "I can
remember forty spinning walks in St. Michael's Lane alone. And with
small wages and long hours, remember the price of things, Levi; remember
the fearful price of bare necessities. Clothes were so dear that many a
labourer went to church in his smock frock all his life. Many never
donned broadcloth from their cradle to their grave. And tea five
shillings a pound, Levi Baggs! They used to buy it by the ounce and brew
it over and over again. Think of the little children, too, and how they
were made to work. Think of them and feel your heart ache."

"My heart aches for myself," answered the hackler, "because I very well
remember what my own childhood was. And I'm not saying the times don't
better. I'm saying we must keep at 'em, or they'll soon slip back again
into the old, bad ways. Capital's always pulling against labour and
would get back its evil mastery to-morrow if it could. So we need to
keep awake, to see we don't lose what we've won, but add to it. Now
here's a man that's a servant by instinct, and it's in his blood to
knuckle under."

He pointed to Best.

"I'm for no man more than another," answered John. "I stand not for man
or woman in particular. I'm for the Mill first and last and always. I
think of what is best for the Mill and put it above the welfare of the
individual, whatever he represents--capital or labour."

"That's where you're wrong. The people are the Mill and only the
people," declared Baggs. "The rest is iron and steel and flax and hemp
and steam--dead things all. We are the Mill, not the stuff in it, or the
man that happens to be the new master."

"Mr. Raymond has expressed admirable sentiments in my hearing,"
declared Ernest Churchouse. "For so young a man, he has a considerable
grasp of the situation and progressive ideas. You might be in worse
hands."

"Might we? How worse? What can be worse than a man that lies to women
and seduces an innocent girl under promise of marriage? What can be
worse than a coward and traitor, who does a thing like that, and when he
finds he's strong enough to escape the consequences, escapes them?"

"Heaven knows I'm not condoning his conduct, Levi. He has behaved as
badly as a young man could, and not a word of extenuation will you hear
from me. I'm not speaking of him as a part of the social order; I'm
speaking of him as master of the Mill. As master here he may be a
successful man and you'll do well to bear in mind that he must be judged
by results. Morally, he's a failure, and you are right to condemn him;
but don't let that make you an enemy to him as owner of the works. Be
just, and don't be prejudiced against him in one capacity because he's
failed in another."

"A bad man is a bad man," answered Baggs stoutly, "and a blackguard's a
blackguard. And if you are equal to doing one dirty trick, your fellow
man has a right to distrust you all through. You've got to look at a
question through your own spectacles, and I won't hear no nonsense about
the welfare of the Mill, because the welfare of the Mill means to
me--Levi Baggs--my welfare--and, no doubt, it means to that godless rip,
his welfare. You mark me--a man that can ruin one girl won't be very
tender about fifty girls and women. And if you think Raymond Ironsyde
will take any steps to better the workers at the expense of the master,
you're wrong, and don't know nothing about human nature."

John Best looked at Mr. Churchouse doubtfully.

"There's sense in that, I'm fearing," he said.

"When you say 'human nature,' Levi, you sum the whole situation,"
answered Ernest mildly. "Because human nature is like the sea--you never
know when you put a net into it what you'll drag up to the light of day.
Human nature is never exhausted, and it abounds in contradictions. You
cannot make hard and fast laws for it, and you cannot, if you are
philosophically inclined, presume to argue about it as though it were a
consistent and unchanging factor. History is full of examples of men
defeating their own characters, of falling away from their own ideals,
yet struggling back to them. Careers have dawned in beauty and promise
and set in blood and failure; and, again, you find people who make a bad
start, yet manage to retrieve the situation. In a word, you cannot argue
from the past to the future, where human nature is concerned. It is a
series of surprises, some gratifying and some very much the reverse.
There's always room for hope with the worst and fear with the best of
us."

"It's easy for you to talk," growled Mr. Baggs. "But talk don't take the
place of facts. I say a blackguard's always a blackguard and defy any
man to disprove it."

"If you want facts, you can have them," replied Ernest. "My researches
into history have made me sanguine in this respect. Many have been
vicious in youth and proved stout enemies to vice at a later time.
Themistocles did much evil. His father disowned him--and he drove his
mother to take her own life for grief at his sins. Yet, presently, the
ugly bud put forth a noble flower. Nicholas West was utterly wicked in
his youth and committed such crimes that he was driven from college
after burning his master's dwelling-house. Yet light dawned for this
young man and he ended his days as Bishop of Ely. Titus Vespasianus
emulated Nero in his early rascalities; but having donned the imperial
purple, he cast away his evil companions and was accounted good as well
as great. Henry V. of England was another such man, who reformed himself
to admiration. Augustine began badly, and declared as a jest that he
would rather have his lust satisfied than extinguished. Yet this man
ended as a Saint of Christ. I could give you many other examples, Levi."

"Then we'll hope for the best," said John.

But Mr. Baggs only sneered.

"We hear of the converted sinners," he said; "but we don't hear of the
victims that suffered their wickedness before they turned into saints.
Let Raymond Ironsyde be twenty saints rolled into one, that won't make
Sabina Dinnett an honest woman, or her child a lawful child."

"Never jump to conclusions," advised Ernest. "Even that may come right.
Nothing is impossible."

"That's a great thought--that nothing's impossible," declared Mr. Best.

They argued, each according to his character and bent of mind, and,
while the meliorists cheered each other, Mr. Baggs laughed at them and
held their aspirations vain.




CHAPTER XXVII

THE MASTER OF THE MILL


Raymond Ironsyde came to Bridetown. He rode in from Bridport, and met
John Best by appointment early on a March morning.

With the words of Ernest Churchouse still in his ears, the foreman felt
profound interest to learn what might be learned considering the changes
in his master's character.

He found a new Raymond, yet as the older writing of a parchment
palimpsest will sometimes make itself apparent behind the new, glimpses
of his earlier self did not lack. The things many remembered and hoped
that Ironsyde would remember were not forgotten by him. But instead of
the old, vague generalities and misty assurance of goodwill, he now
declared definite plans based on knowledge. He came armed with figures
and facts, and his method of expression had changed from ideas to
intentions. His very manner chimed with his new power. He was decisive,
and quite devoid of sentimentality. He feared none, but his attitude to
all had changed.

They spoke in Mr. Best's office and he marked how the works came first
in Raymond's regard.

"I've been putting in a lot of time on the machine question," he said.
"As you know, that always interested me most before I thought I should
have much say in the matter. Well, there's no manner of doubt we're
badly behind the times. You can't deny it, John. You know better than
anybody what we want, and it must be your work to go on with what you
began to do for my brother. I don't want to rush at changes and then
find I've wasted capital without fair results; but it's clear to me that
a good many of our earlier operations are not done as well and swiftly
as they might be."

"That's true. The Carder is out of date and the Spreader certainly is."

"The thing is to get the best substitutes in the market. You'll have to
go round again in a larger spirit. I'm not frightened of risks. Is there
anybody here who can take your place for a month or six weeks?"

Mr. Best shook his head.

"There certainly is not," he said.

"Then we must look round Bridport for a man. I'm prepared to put money
into the changes, provided I have you behind me. I can trust you
absolutely to know; but I advocate a more sporting policy than my poor
brother did. After that we come to the people. I've got my business at
my fingers' ends now and I found I was better at figures than I thought.
There must be some changes. There are two problems: time and money.
Either one or other; or probably both must be bettered--that's what I am
faced with."

"It wants careful thinking out, sir."

"Well, you are a great deal more to me than my foreman, and you know it.
I look to you and only you to help me run the show at Bridetown,
henceforth. And, before everything, I want my people to be keen and feel
my good is their good and their good is mine. Anyway, I have based
changes on a fair calculation of future profits, plus necessary losses
and need to make up wear and tear."

"And remember, raw products tend to rise in price all the time."

"As to that, I'm none too sure we've been buying in the best market.
When I know more about it, I may travel a bit myself. Meantime, I'm
changing two of our travellers."

Mr. Best nodded.

"That's to the good," he said. "I know which. Poor Mr. Daniel would keep
them, because his father had told him they were all they ought to be.
But least said, soonest mended."

"As to the staff, it's summed up in a word. I mean for them a little
less time and a little more money. Some would like longer hours and much
higher wages; some would be content with a little more money; some only
talked about shorter time. I heard them all air their opinions in the
past. But I've concluded for somewhat shorter hours and somewhat better
money. You must rub it into them that new machinery will indirectly help
them, too, and make the work lighter and the results better."

"That's undoubtedly true, but it's no good saying so. You'll never make
them feel that new machinery helps them. But they'll be very glad of a
little more money."

"We must enlarge their minds and make them understand that the better
the machinery, the better their prospects. As I go up--and I mean to--so
they shall go up. But our hope of success lies in the mechanical means
we employ. They must grasp that intelligently, and be patient, and not
expect me to put them before the Mill. If the works succeed, then they
succeed and I succeed. If the works hang fire and get behindhand, then
they will suffer. We're all the servants of the machinery. I want them
to grasp that."

"It's difficult for them; but no doubt they'll get to see it," answered
John.

"They must. That's the way to success in my opinion. It's a very
interesting subject--the most interesting to me--always was. The
machinery, I mean. I may go to America, presently. Of course, they can
give us a start and a beating at machinery there."

"We must remember the driving power," said Best.

"The driving power can be raised, like everything else. If we haven't
got enough power, we must increase it. I've thought of that, too, as a
matter of fact."

"You can't increase what the river will do; but, of course, you can get
a stronger steam engine."

"Not so sure about the river. There's a new thing--American, of
course--called a turbine. But no hurry for that. We've got all the
power we want for the minute. That's one virtue of some of the new
machinery: it doesn't demand so much power in some cases."

But Best was very sceptical on this point. They discussed other matters
and Raymond detailed his ideas as to the alteration of hours and wages.
For the most part his foreman had no objections to offer, and when he
did question the figures, he was overruled. But he felt constrained to
praise.

"It's wonderful how you've gone into it," he said. "I never should have
thought you'd have had such a head for detail, Mister Raymond."

"No more should I, John. I surprised myself. But when you are working
for another person--that's one thing; when you are working for
yourself--that's another thing. Not much virtue in what I've done, as it
is for myself in the long run. When you tell them, explain that I'm not
a philanthropist--only a man of business in future. But before all
things fair and straight. I mean to be fair to them and to the
machinery, too. And to the machinery I look to make all our fortunes. I
should have done a little more to start with--for the people I mean; but
the death duties are the devil. In fact, I start crippled by them. Tell
them that and make them understand what they mean on an enterprise of
this sort."

They went through the works together presently and it was clear that the
new owner fixed a gulf between the past and the future. His old easy
manner had vanished--and, while friendly enough, he made it quite clear
that a vast alteration had come into his mind and manners. It seemed
incredible that six months before Raymond was chaffing the girls and
bringing them fruit. He called them by their names as of yore; but they
knew in a moment he had moved with his fortunes and their own manner
instinctively altered.

He was kind and pleasant, but far more interested in their work than
them; and they drew conclusions from the fact. They judged his attitude
with gloom and were the more agreeably surprised when they learned what
advantages had been planned for them. Levi Baggs and Benny Cogle, the
engineman, grumbled that more was not done; but the women, who judged
Raymond from his treatment of Sabina and hoped nothing from his old
promises, were gratified and astonished at what they heard. An improved
sentiment towards the new master was manifest. The instinct to judge
people at your own tribunal awoke, and while Sally Groves and old Mrs.
Chick held out for morals, the other women did not. Already they had
realised that the idle youth they could answer was gone. And with him
had gone the young man who amused himself with a spinner. Of course, he
could not be expected to marry Sabina. Such things did not happen out of
story books; and if you tried to be too clever for your situation, this
was the sort of thing that befell you.

So argued Nancy Buckler and Mercy Gale; nor did Sarah Northover much
differ from them. None had been fiercer for Sabina than Nancy, yet her
opinion, before the spectacle of Raymond himself and after she heard his
intentions, was modified. To see him so alert, so aloof from the girls,
translated to a higher interest, had altered Nancy. Despite her asperity
and apparent independence of thought, her mind was servile, as the
ignorant mind is bound to be. She paid the unconscious deference of
weakness to power.

Raymond lunched at North Hill House--now his property. He had not seen
Waldron since the great change in his fortunes and Arthur, with the
rest, was quick to perceive the difference. They met in friendship and
Estelle kissed Raymond as she was accustomed to do; but the alteration
in him, while missed by her, was soon apparent to her father. It took
the shape of a more direct and definite method of thinking. Raymond no
longer uttered his opinions inconsiderately, as though confessing they
were worthless even while he spoke them. He weighed his words, jested
far less often, and did not turn serious subjects into laughter.

Waldron suggested certain things to his new landlord that he desired
should be done; but he was amused in secret that some work Raymond had
blamed Daniel for not doing, he now refused to do himself.

"I've no objection, old chap--none at all. The other points you raise I
shall carry out at my own expense; but the French window in the
drawing-room, while an excellent addition to the room, is not a
necessity. So you must do that yourself." Thus he spoke and Arthur
agreed.

Estelle only found him unchanged. Before her he was always jovial and
happy. He liked to hear her talk and listen to her budding theories of
life and pretty dreams of what the world ought to be, if people would
only take a little more trouble for other people. But Estelle was
painfully direct. She thought for herself and had not yet learned to
hide her ideas, modify their shapes, or muffle their outlines when
presenting them to another person. Mr. Churchouse and her father were
responsible for this. They encouraged her directness and, while knowing
that she outraged opinion sometimes, could not bring themselves to warn
her, or stain the frankness of her views, with the caution that good
manners require thought should not go nude.

Now the peril of Estelle's principles appeared when lunch was finished
and the servants had withdrawn.

"I didn't speak before Lucy and Agnes," she said, "because they might
talk about it afterwards."

"Bless me! How cunning she's getting!" laughed Raymond. But he did not
laugh long. Estelle handed him his coffee and lit a match for his cigar;
while Arthur, guessing what was coming, resigned himself helplessly to
the storm.

"Sabina is fearfully unhappy, Ray. She loves you so much, and I hope
you will change your mind and marry her after all, because if you do,
she'll love her baby, too, and look forward to it very much. But if you
don't, she'll hate her baby. And it would be a dreadful thing for the
poor little baby to come into the world hated."

To Waldron's intense relief Raymond showed no annoyance whatever. He was
gentle and smiled at Estelle.

"So it would, Chicky--it would be a dreadful thing for a baby to come
into the world hated. But don't you worry. Nobody's going to hate it."

"I'll tell Sabina that. Sabina's sure to have a nice baby, because she's
so nice herself."

"Sure to. And I shall be a very good friend to the baby without marrying
Sabina."

"If she knows that, it ought to comfort her," declared Estelle. "And I
shall be a great friend to it, too."

Her father bade the child be off on an errand presently and expressed
his regrets to the guest when she was gone.

"Awfully sorry, old chap, but she's so unearthly and simple; and though
I've often told myself to preach to her, I never can quite do it."

"Never do. She'll learn to hide her thoughts soon enough. Nothing she
can say would annoy me. For that matter she's only saying what a great
many other people are thinking and haven't the pluck to say. The truth
is this, Arthur; when I was a poor man I was a weak man, and I should
have married Sabina and we should both have had a hell of a life, no
doubt. Now the death of Daniel has made me a strong man, and I'm not
doing wrong as the result; I'm doing right. I can afford to do right and
not mind the consequences. And the truth about life is that half the
people who do wrong, only do it because they can't afford to do right."

"That's a comforting doctrine--for the poor."

"It's like this. Sabina is a very dear girl, and I loved her
tremendously, and if she'd gone on being the same afterwards, I should
have married her. But she changed, and I saw that we could never be
really happy together as man and wife. There are things in her that
would have ruined my temper, and there are things in me she would have
got to hate more and more. As a matter of brutal fact, Arthur, she got
to dislike me long before things came to a climax. She had to hide it,
because, from her standpoint and her silly mother's, marriage is the
only sort of salvation. Whereas for us it would have been damnation.
It's very simple; she's got to think as I think and then she'll be all
right."

"You can't make people think your way, if they prefer to think their
own."

"It's merely the line of least resistance and what will pay her best. I
want you to grasp the fact that she had ceased to like me before there
was any reason why she should cease to like me. I'll swear she had. My
first thought and intention, when I heard what had happened, was to
marry her right away. And what changed my feeling about it, and showed
me devilish clear it would be a mistake, was Sabina herself. We needn't
go over that. But I'm not going to marry her now under any circumstances
whatever, while recognising very clearly my duty to her and the child.
And though you may say it's humbug, I'm thinking quite as much for her
as myself when I say this."

"I don't presume to judge. You're not a humbug--no good sportsman is in
my experience. If you do everything right for the child, I suppose the
world has no reason to criticise."

"As long as I'm right with myself, I don't care one button what the
world says, Arthur. There's nothing quicker opens your eyes, or helps
you to take larger views, than independence."

"I see that."

"All the same, it's a steadying thing if you're honest and have got
brains in your head. People thought I was a shallow, easy, good-natured
and good-for-nothing fool six months ago. Well, they thought wrong. But
don't think I'm pleased with myself, or any nonsense of that sort. Only
a fool is pleased with himself. I've wasted my life till now, because I
had no ambition. Now I'm beginning it and trying to get things into
their proper perspective. When I had no responsibilities, I was
irresponsible. Now they've come, I'm stringing myself up to meet them."

"Life's given you your chance."

"Exactly; and I hope to show I can take it. But I'm not going to start
by making an ass of myself to please a few old women."

"Where shall you live?"

"Nowhere in particular for the minute. I shall roam and see all that's
being done in my business and take John Best with me for a while. Then
it depends. Perhaps, if things go as I expect about machinery, I shall
ask you for a corner again in the autumn."

Mr. Waldron nodded; but he was not finding himself in complete agreement
with Raymond.

"Always welcome," he said.

"Perhaps you'd rather not? Well--see how things go. Estelle may bar me.
I'm at Bridport to-night and return to London to-morrow. But I shall be
back again in a week."

"Shall you play any cricket this summer?"

"I should like to if I have time; but it's very improbable. I'm not
going to chuck sport though. Next year I may have more leisure."

"You're at 'The Seven Stars,' I hear--haven't forgiven Dick Gurd he
tells me."

"Did we quarrel? I forget. Seems funny to think I had enough time on my
hands to wrangle with an innkeeper. But I like Missis Northover's. It's
quiet."

"Shall I come in and dine this evening?"

"Wait till I'm back again. I've got to talk to my Aunt Jenny to-night.
She's one of the old brigade, but I'm hoping to make her see sense."

"When sense clashes with religion, old man, nobody sees sense. I'm
afraid your opinions won't entirely commend themselves to Miss
Ironsyde."

"Probably not. I quite realise that I shall have to exercise the virtue
of patience at Bridport and Bridetown for a year or two. But while I've
got you for a friend, Arthur, I'm not going to bother."

Waldron marked the imperious changes and felt somewhat bewildered.
Raymond left him not a little to think about, and when the younger had
ridden off, Arthur strolled afield with his thoughts and strove to bring
order into them. He felt in a vague sort of way that he had been talking
to a stranger, and his hope, if he experienced a hope, was that the new
master of the Mill might not take himself too seriously. "People who do
that are invariably one-sided," thought Waldron.

Upon Ironsyde's attitude and intentions with regard to Sabina, he also
reflected uneasily. What Raymond had declared sounded all right, yet
Arthur could not break with old rooted opinions and the general view of
conduct embodied in his favourite word. Was it "sporting"? And more
important still, was it true? Had Ironsyde arrived at his determination
from honest conviction, or thanks to the force of changed circumstances?
Mr. Waldron gave his friend the benefit of the doubt.

"One must remember that he is a good sportsman," he reflected, "and he
can't have enough brains to make him a bad sportsman."

For the thinker had found within his experience, that those who despised
sport, too often despised also the simple ethics that he associated with
sportsmanship. In fact, Arthur, after one or two painful experiences,
had explicitly declared that big brains often went hand in hand with a
doubtful sense of honour. He had also, of course, known numerous
examples of another sort of dangerous people who assumed the name and
distinction of "sportsman" as a garment to hide their true activities
and unworthy selves.




CHAPTER XXVIII

CLASH OF OPINIONS


Mr. Job Legg, with a persistence inspired by private purpose, continued
to impress upon Nelly Northover the radical truth that in this world you
cannot have anything for nothing. He varied the precept sometimes, and
reminded her that we must not hope to have our cake and eat it too; and
closer relations with Richard Gurd served to impress upon Mrs. Northover
the value of these verities. Nor did she resent them from Mr. Legg. He
had preserved an attitude of manly resignation under his supreme
disappointment. He was patient, uncomplaining and self-controlled. He
did not immediately give notice of departure, but, for the present,
continued to do his duty with customary thoroughness. He showed himself
a most tactful man. New virtues were manifested in the light of the
misfortune that had overtaken him. Affliction and reverse seemed to make
him shine the brighter. Nelly could hardly understand it. Had she not
regarded his character as one of obvious simplicity and incapable of
guile, she might have felt suspicious of any male who behaved with such
exemplary distinction under the circumstances.

It was, of course, clear that the mistress of 'The Seven Stars' could
not become Mr. Gurd's partner and continue to reign over her own
constellation as of old. Yet Nelly did not readily accept a fact so
obvious, even under Mr. Legg's reiterated admonitions. She felt
wayward--almost wilful about it: and there came an evening when Richard
dropped in for his usual half hour of courting to find her in such a
frame of mind. Humour on his part had saved the situation; but he lacked
humour, and while Nelly, even as she spoke, knew she was talking
nonsense and only waited his reminder of the inevitable in a friendly
spirit, yet, when the reminder came, it was couched in words so forcible
and so direct, that for a parlous moment her own sense of humour broke
down.

The initial error was Mr. Gurd's. The elasticity of youth, both mental
and physical, had departed from him, and he took her remarks, uttered
more in mischief than in earnest, with too much gravity, not perceiving
that Nelly herself was in a woman's mood and merely uttering absurdities
that he might contradict her. She was ready enough to climb down from
her impossible attitude; but Richard abruptly threw her down; which
unchivalrous action wounded Mrs. Northover to the quick and begat in her
an obstinate and rebellious determination to climb up again.

"I'm looking on ahead," she began, while they sat in her parlour
together. "This is a great upheaval, Richard, and I'm just beginning to
feel how great. I'm wondering all manner of things. Will you be so happy
and comfortable along with me, at 'The Seven Stars,' as you are at 'The
Tiger'? You must put that to yourself, you know."

It was so absurd an assumption, that she expected his laughter; and if
he had laughed and answered with inspiration, no harm could have come of
it. But Richard felt annoyed rather than amused. The suggestion seemed
to show that Mrs. Northover was a fool--the last thing he bargained for.
He exhibited contempt. Indeed, he snorted in a manner almost insulting.

"Woman comes to man, I believe, not man to woman," he said.

"That is so," she admitted with a touch of colour in her cheeks at his
attitude, "but you must think all round it--which you haven't done yet,
seemingly."

Then Richard laughed--too late; for a laugh may lose all its value if
the right moment be missed.

"Where's the fun?" she asked. "I thought, of course, that you'd be
business-like as well as lover-like and would see 'The Seven Stars' had
got more to it than 'The Tiger.'"

Even now the situation might have been saved. The very immensity of her
claim rendered it ridiculous; but Richard was too astonished to guess an
utterance so hyperbolic had been made to offer him an easy victory.

"You thought that, Nelly? 'The Seven Stars' more to it than 'The
Tiger'?"

"Surely!"

"Because you get a few tea-parties and old women at nine-pence a head on
your little bit of grass?"

A counter so terrific destroyed the last glimmering hope of a peaceful
situation, and Mrs. Northover perceived this first.

"It's war then?" she said. "So perhaps you'll tell me what you mean by
my little bit of grass. Not the finest pleasure gardens in Bridport, I
suppose?"

"Be damned if this ain't the funniest thing I've ever heard," he
answered.

"You never was one to see a joke, we all know; and if that's the
funniest thing you ever heard, you ain't heard many. And you'll forgive
me, please, if I tell you there's nothing funny in my speaking about my
pleasure gardens, though it does sound a bit funny to hear 'em called 'a
bit of grass' by a man that's got nothing but a few apple trees, past
bearing, and a strip of potatoes and weeds, and a fowl-run. But, as
you've got no use for a garden, perhaps you'll remember the inn yard,
and how many hosses you can put up, and how many I can."

"It's the number of hosses that comes--not the number you put up," he
answered; "and if you want to tell me you've often obliged with a spare
space in your yard, perhaps I may remind you that you generally got
quite as good as you gave. But be that as it will, the point lies in
one simple question, and I ask you if you really thought, as a woman
nearer sixty than fifty and with credit for sense, that I was going to
chuck 'The Tiger' and coming over to your shop. Did you really think
that?"

Not for an instant had she thought it; but the time was inappropriate
for saying so. She might have confessed the truth in the past; she might
confess the truth in the future; she was not going to do so at present.
He should have a stab for his stab.

"You've often told me I was the sensiblest woman in Dorset, Richard, and
being that, I naturally thought you'd drop your bar-loafers' place and
come over to me--and glad to come."

"Good God!" he said, and stared at her with open nostrils, from which
indignant air exploded in gusts.

She began to make peace from that moment, feeling that the limit had
been reached. Indeed she was rather anxious. The thrust appeared to be
mortal. Mr. Gurd rolled in his chair, and after his oath, could find no
further words.

She declared sorrow.

"There--forgive me--I didn't mean to say that. 'Tis a crying shame to
see two old people dressing one another down this way. I'm sorry if I
hurt your feelings, but don't forget you've properly trampled on mine.
My pleasure grounds are my lifeblood you might say; and you knew it."

"You needn't apologise now. 'The Tiger' a bar-loafers' place! The centre
of all high-class sport in the district a bar-loafers' place! Well,
well! No wonder you thought I'd be glad to come and live at 'The Seven
Stars'!"

"I didn't really," she confessed. "I knew very well you wouldn't; but I
had to say it. The words just flashed out. And if I'd remembered a joke
was nothing to you, I might have thought twice."

"I laughed, however."

"Yes, you laughed, I grant--what you can do in that direction, which
ain't much."

Mr. Gurd rose to his full height.

"Well, that lets me out," he said. "We'd better turn this over in a
forgiving spirit; and since you say you're sorry, I won't be behind you,
though my words was whips to your scorpions and you can't deny it."

"We'll meet again in a week," said Mrs. Northover.

"Make it a fortnight," he suggested.

"No--say a month," she answered--"or six weeks."

Then it was Richard's turn to feel the future in danger. But he had no
intention to eat humble pie that evening.

"A month then. But one point I wish to make bitter clear, Nelly. If you
marry me, you come to 'The Tiger.'"

"So it seems."

"Yes--bar-loafers, or no bar-loafers."

"I'll bear it in mind, Richard."

The leave-taking lacked affection and they parted with full hearts. Each
was smarting under consciousness of the other's failure in nice feeling;
each was amazed as at a revelation. Richard kept his mouth shut
concerning this interview, for he was proud and did not like to confess
even to himself that he stood on the verge of disaster; but Mrs.
Northover held a familiar within her gates, and she did not hesitate to
lay the course of the adventure before Job Legg.

"The world is full of surprises," said Nelly, "and you never know, when
you begin talking, where the gift of speech will land you. And if you're
dealing with a man who can't take a bit of fun and can't keep his eyes
on his tongue and his temper at the same time, trouble will often
happen."

She told the story with honesty and did not exaggerate; but Mr. Legg
supported her and held that such a self-respecting woman could have done
and said no less. He declared that Richard Gurd had brought the
misfortune on himself, and feared that the innkeeper's display revealed
a poor understanding of female nature.

"It isn't as if you was a difficult and notorious sort of woman,"
explained Job; "for then the man might have reason on his side; but to
misunderstand you and overlook your playful touch--that shows he's got a
low order of brain; because you always speak clearly. Your word is as
good as your bond and none can question your judgment."

He proceeded to examine the argument earnestly and had just proved that
Mrs. Northover was well within her right to set 'The Seven Stars' above
'The Tiger,' when Raymond Ironsyde entered.

He returned from dining with his aunt, and an interview now concluded
was of very painful and far-reaching significance. For they had not
agreed, and Miss Ironsyde proved no more able to convince her nephew
than was he, to make her see his purpose combined truest wisdom and
humanity.

They talked after dinner and she invited him to justify his conduct if
he could, before hearing her opinions and intentions. He replied at once
and she found his arguments and reasons all arrayed and ready to his
tongue. He spoke clearly and stated his case in very lucid language; but
he irritated her by showing that his mind was entirely closed to
argument and that he was not prepared to be influenced in any sort of
way. Her power had vanished now and she saw how only her power, not her
persuasion, had won Raymond before his brother's death. He spoke with
utmost plainness and did not spare himself in the least.

"I've been wrong," he said, "but I'm going to try and be right in the
future. I did a foolish thing and fell in love with a good and clever
girl. Once in love, of course, everything was bent and deflected to be
seen through that medium and I believed that nothing else mattered or
ever would. Then came the sequel, and being powerless to resist, I was
going to marry. For some cowardly reason I funked poverty, and the
thought of escaping it made me agree to marry Sabina, knowing all the
time it must prove a failure. That was my second big mistake, and the
third was asking her to come and live with me without marrying her. I
suggested that, because I wanted her and felt very keen about the child.
I ought not to have thought of such a thing. It wasn't fair to her--I
quite see that."

"Can anything be fair to her short of marriage?"

"Not from her point of view, Aunt Jenny."

"And what other point of view, in keeping with honour and religion,
exists?"

"As to religion, I'm without it and so much the freer. I don't want to
pretend anything I don't feel. I shall always be very sorry, indeed, for
what I did; but I'm not going to wreck my life by marrying Sabina."

"What about her life?"

"If she will trust her life to me, I shall do all in my power to make it
a happy and easy life. I want the child to be a success. I know it will
grow up a reproach to me and all that sort of thing in the opinion of
many people; but that won't trouble me half as much as my own regrets.
I've not done anything that puts me beyond the, pale of humanity--nor
has Sabina; and if she can keep her nerve and go on with her life, it
ought to be all right for her, presently."

"A very cynical attitude and I wish I could change it, Raymond. You've
lost your self-respect and you know you've done a wrong thing. Can't you
see that you'll always suffer it if you take no steps to right it? You
are a man of feeling, and power can't lessen your feeling. Every time
you see that child, you will know that you have brought a living soul
into the world cruelly handicapped by your deliberate will."

"That's not a fair argument," he answered. "If our rotten laws handicap
the baby, it will be my object to nullify the handicap to the best of my
ability. The laws won't come between me and my child, any more than they
came between me and my passion. I'm not the sort to hide behind the mean
English law of the natural child. But I'm not going to let that law
bully me into marriage with Sabina. I've got to think of myself as well
as other people. I won't say, what's true--that if Sabina married me she
wouldn't be happy in the long run; but I will say that I know I
shouldn't be, and I'm not prepared to pay any penalty whatever for what
I did, beyond the penalty of my own regrets."

"If you rule religion out and think you can escape and keep your honour,
I don't know what to say," she answered. "For my part I believe Sabina
would make you a very good and loving wife. And don't fancy, if you
refuse her what faithfully you promised her, she will be content with
less."

"That's her look out. You won't be wise, Aunt Jenny, to influence her
against a fair and generous offer. I want her to live a good life, and I
don't want our past love-making to ruin that life, or our child to ruin
that life. If she's going to pose as a martyr, I can't help it. That's
the side of her that wrecked the show, as a matter of fact, and made it
very clear to me that we shouldn't be a happy married couple."

"Self-preservation is a law of nature. She only did what any girl would
have done in trying to find friends to save her from threatened
disaster."

"Well, I dare say it was natural to her to take that line, and it was
equally natural to me to resent it. At any rate we know where we stand
now. Tell me if there's anything else."

"I only warn you that she will accept no benefits of any kind from you,
Raymond. And who shall blame her?"

"That's entirely her affair, of course. I can't do more than admit my
responsibilities and declare my interest in her future."

"She will throw your interest back in your face and teach her child to
despise you, as she does."

"How d'you know that, Aunt Jenny?"

"Because she's a proud woman. And because she would lose the friendship
of all proud women and clean thinking men if she condoned what you
intend to do. It's horrible to see you turned from a simple, stupid, but
honourable boy, into a hard, selfish, irreligious man--and all the
result of being rich. I should never have thought it could have made
such a dreadful difference so quickly. But I have not changed, Raymond.
And I tell you this: if you don't marry Sabina; if you don't see that
only so can you hold up your head as an honest man and a respectable
member of society, worthy of your class and your family, then, I, for
one, can have no more to do with you. I mean it."

"I'm sorry you say that. You've been my guardian angel in a way and I've
a million things to thank you for from my childhood. It would be a great
grief to me, Aunt Jenny, if you allowed a difference of opinion to make
you take such a line. I hope you'll think differently."

"I shall not," she said. "I have not told you this on the spur of the
moment, or before I had thought it out very fully and very painfully.
But if you do this outrageous thing, I will never be your aunt any more,
Raymond, and never wish to see you again as long as I live. You know me;
I'm not hysterical, or silly, or even sentimental; but I'm jealous for
your father's name--and your brother's. You know where duty and honour
and solemn obligation point. There is no reason whatever why you should
shirk your duty, or sully your honour; but if you do, I decline to have
any further dealings with you."

He rose to go.

"That's definite and clear. Good-bye, Aunt Jenny."

"Good-bye," she said. "And may God guide you to recall that 'good-bye,'
nephew."

Then he went back to 'The Seven Stars,' and wondered as he walked, how
the new outlook had shrunk up this old woman too, and made one, who
bulked so largely in his life of old, now appear as of no account
whatever. He was heartily sorry she should have taken so unreasonable a
course; but he grieved more for her sake than his own. She was growing
old. She would lack his company in the time to come, and her heart was
too warm to endure this alienation without much pain.

He suspected that if Sabina's future course of action satisfied Miss
Ironsyde, she would be friendly to her and the child and, in time,
possibly win some pleasure from them.




CHAPTER XXIX

THE BUNCH OF GRAPES


Raymond proceeded with his business at Bridetown oblivious of persons
and personalities. He puzzled those who were prepared to be his enemies,
for it seemed he was becoming as impersonal as the spinning machines,
and one cannot quarrel with a machine.

It appeared that he was to be numbered with those who begin badly and
retrieve the situation afterwards. So, at least, hoped Ernest
Churchouse, yet, since the old man was called to witness and endure a
part of the sorrows of Sabina and her mother, it demanded large faith on
his part to anticipate brighter times. He clung to it that Raymond would
yet marry Sabina, and he regretted that when the young man actually
offered to see Sabina, she refused to see him. For this happened. He
came to stop at North Hill House for two months, while certain experts
were inspecting the works, and during this time he wished to visit 'The
Magnolias' and talk with Sabina, but she declined.

The very active hate that he had awakened sank gradually to smouldering
fires of bitter resentment and contempt. She spoke openly of destroying
their babe when it should be born.

Then the event happened and Sabina became the mother of a man child.

Raymond was still with Arthur Waldron when Estelle brought the news, and
the men discussed it.

"I hope she'll be reasonable now," said Ironsyde. "It bothered me when
she refused to see me, because you can't oppose reason to stupidity of
that sort. If she's going to take my aunt's line, of course, I'm done,
and shall be powerless to help her. I spoke to Uncle Ernest about it two
days ago. He says that it will have to be marriage, or nothing, and
seemed to think that would move me to marriage! Some people can't
understand plain English. But why should she cut off her nose to spite
her face and refuse my friendship and help because I won't marry her?"

"She's that sort, I suppose. Of course, plenty of women would do the
same."

"I'm not convinced it's Sabina really who is doing this. That's why I
wanted to see her. Very likely Aunt Jenny is inspiring such a silly
attitude, or her mother. They may think if she's firm I may yield. They
don't seem to realise that love's as dead as a doornail now. But my duty
is clear enough and they can't prevent me from doing it, I imagine."

"You want to be sporting to the child, of course."

"And to the mother of the child. Damn it all, I'm made of flesh and
blood. I'm not a fiend. But with women, if you have a grain of
common-sense and reasoning power, you become a fiend the moment there's
a row. I want Sabina and my child to have a good show in the world,
Arthur."

"Well, you must let her know it."

"I'll see her, presently. I'll take no denial about that. It may be a
pious plot really, for religious people don't care how they intrigue, if
they can bring off what they want to happen. It was very strange she
refused to see me. Perhaps they never told her that I offered to come."

"Yes, they did, because Estelle heard Churchouse tell her. Estelle was
with her at the time, and she said she was so sorry when Sabina refused.
It may have been because she was ill, of course."

"I must see her before I go away, anyway. If they've been poisoning her
mind against me, I must put it right."

"You're a rum 'un! Can't you see what this means to her? You talk as if
she'd no grievance, and as though it was all a matter of course and an
everyday thing."

"So it is, for that matter. However, there's no reason for you to bother
about it. I quite recognise what it is to be a father, and the
obligations. But because I happen to be a father, is no reason why I
should be asked to do impossibilities. Because you've made a fool of
yourself once is no reason why you should again. By good chance I've had
unexpected luck in life and things have fallen out amazingly well--and
I'm very willing indeed that other people should share my good luck and
good fortune. I mean that they shall. But I'm not going to negative my
good fortune by doing an imbecile thing."

"As long as you're sporting I've got no quarrel with you," declared
Waldron. "I'm not very clever myself, but I can see that if they won't
let you do what you want to do, it's not your fault. If they refuse to
let you play the game--but, of course, you must grant the game looks
different from their point of view. No doubt they think you're not
playing the game. A woman's naturally not such a sporting animal as a
man, and what we think is straight, she often doesn't appreciate, and
what she thinks is straight we often know is crooked. Women, in fact,
are more like the other nations which, with all their excellent
qualities, don't know what 'sporting' means."

"I mean to do right," answered Raymond, "and probably I'm strong enough
to make them see it and wear them down, presently. I'm really only
concerned about Sabina and her child. The rest, and what they think and
what they don't think, matter nothing. She may listen to reason when
she's well again."

Two days later Raymond received a box from London and showed Estelle an
amazing bunch of Muscat grapes, destined for Sabina.

"She always liked grapes," he said, "and these are as good as any in the
world at this moment."

On his way to the Mill he left the grapes at 'The Magnolias,' and spoke
a moment with Mr. Churchouse.

"She is making an excellent recovery," said Ernest, "and I am hoping
that, presently, the maternal instinct will assert itself. I do
everything to encourage it. But, of course, when conditions are
abnormal, results must be abnormal. She's a very fine and brave woman
and worthy of supreme admiration. And worthy of far better and more
manly treatment than she has received from you. But you know that very
well, Raymond. Owing to the complexities created by civilisation
clashing with nature, we get much needless pain in the world. But a
reasonable being should have recognised the situation, as you did not,
and realise that we have no right to obey nature if we know at the same
time we are flouting civilisation. You think you're doing right by
considering Sabina's future. You are a gross materialist, Raymond, and
the end of that is always dust and ashes and defeated hopes. I won't
bring religion into it, because that wouldn't carry weight with you; but
I bring justice into it and your debt to the social order, that has made
you what you are and to which you owe everything. You have done a grave
and wicked wrong to the new-born atom of life in this house, and though
it is now too late wholly to right that wrong, much might yet be done. I
blame you, but I hope for you--I still hope for you."

He took the grapes, and Raymond, somewhat staggered by this challenge,
found himself not ready to answer it.

"We'll have a talk some evening, Uncle Ernest," he answered. "I don't
expect your generation to see this thing from my point of view. It's
reasonable you shouldn't, because you can't change; and it's also
reasonable that I shouldn't see it from your point of view. If I'm
material, I'm built so; and that won't prevent me from doing my duty."

"I would talk the hands round the clock if I thought I could help you
to see your duty with other eyes than your own," replied the old man. "I
am quite ready to speak when you are to listen. And I shall begin by
reminding you that you are a father. You expect Sabina to be a mother in
the full meaning of that beautiful word; but a child must have a father
also."

"I am willing to be a father."

"Yes, on your own values, which ignore the welfare of the community,
justice to the next generation, and the respect you should entertain for
yourself."

"Well, we'll thresh it out another time. You know I respect you very
much, Uncle Ernest; and I'm sure you'll weigh my point of view and not
let Aunt Jenny influence you."

"I have a series of duties before me," answered Mr. Churchouse; "and not
least among them is to reconcile you and your aunt. That you should have
broken with your sole remaining relative is heart-breaking."

"I'd be friends to-morrow; but you know her."

He went away to the works and Ernest took the grapes to Mrs. Dinnett.

"You'd better not let her have them, however, unless the doctor permits
it," said Mr. Churchouse, whereupon, Mary, not trusting herself to
speak, took the grapes and departed. The affront embodied in the fruit
affected a mind much overwrought of late. She took the present to
Sabina's room.

"There," she said. "He's sunk to sending that. I'd like to fling them in
his face."

"Take them away. I can't touch them."

"Touch them! And poisoned as likely as not. A man that's committed his
crimes would stick at nothing."

"He uses poison enough," said the young mother; "but only the poison he
can use safely. It matters nothing to him if I live or die. No doubt
he'd will me dead, and this child too, if he could; but seeing he can't,
he cares nothing. He'll heap insult on injury, no doubt. He's made of
clay coarse enough to do it. But when I'm well, I'll see him and make it
clear, once for all."

"You say that now. But I hope you'll never see him, or breathe the same
air with him."

"Once--when I'm strong. I don't want him to go on living his life
without knowing what I'm thinking of him. I don't want him to think he
can pose as a decent man again. I want him to know that the road-menders
and road-sweepers are high above him."

"Don't you get in a passion. He knows all that well enough. He isn't
deceiving himself any more than anybody else. All honest people know
what he is--foul wretch. Yes, he's poisoned three lives, if no more, and
they are yours and mine and that sleeping child's."

"He's ruined his aunt's life, too. She's thrown him over."

"That won't trouble him. War against women is what you'd expect. But
please God, he'll be up against a man some day--then we shall see a
different result. May the Almighty let me live long enough to see him in
the gutter, where he belongs. I ask no more."

They poured their bitterness upon Raymond Ironsyde; then a thought came
into Mary Dinnett's mind and she left Sabina. Judging the time, she put
on her bonnet presently and walked out to the road whence Raymond would
return from his work at the luncheon hour.

She stood beside the road at a stile that led into the fields, and as
Raymond, deep in thought, passed her without looking up, he saw
something cast at his feet and for a moment stood still. With a soft
thud his bunch of grapes fell ruined in the dust before him and,
starting back, he looked at the stile and saw Sabina's mother gazing at
him red-faced and furious. Neither spoke. The woman's countenance told
her hatred and loathing; the man shrugged his shoulders and, after one
swift glance at her, proceeded on his way without quickening or
slackening his stride.

He heard her spit behind him and found time to regret that a woman of
Mary's calibre should be at Sabina's side. Such concentrated hate
astonished him a little. There was no reason in it; nothing could be
gained by it. This senseless act of a fool merely made him impatient.
But he smiled before he reached North Hill House to think that but for
the interposition of chance and fortune, this brainless old woman might
have become his mother-in-law.




CHAPTER XXX

A TRIUMPH OF REASON


Mrs. Northover took care that her interrupted conversation with Job Legg
should be completed; and he, too, was anxious, that she should know his
position. But he realised the danger very fully and was circumspect in
his criticism of Richard Gurd's attitude toward 'The Seven Stars.'

"For my part," said Job on the evening that preceded a very important
event, "I still repeat that you have a right to consider we're higher
class than 'The Tiger'; and to speak of the renowned garden as a 'bit of
grass' was going much too far. It shows a wrong disposition, and it
wasn't a gentlemanly thing, and if it weren't such a wicked falsehood,
you might laugh at it for jealousy."

"Who ever would have thought the man jealous?" she asked.

"These failings will out," declared Mr. Legg. "And seeing you mean to
take him, it is as well you know it."

She nodded rather gloomily.

"Your choice of words is above praise, I'm sure, Job," she said. "For
such a simple and straightforward man, you've a wonderful knowledge of
the human heart."

"Through tribulation I've come to it," he answered. "However, I'm here
to help you, not talk about my own bitter disappointments. And very
willing I am to help you when it can be done."

"D'you think you could speak to Richard for me, and put out the truth
concerning 'The Seven Stars'?" she asked. But Mr. Legg, simple though he
might be, was not as simple as that.

"No," he replied. "There's few things I wouldn't do for you, on the
earth or in the waters under the earth, and I say that, even though
you've turned me down after lifting the light of hope. But for me to see
Gurd on this subject is impossible. It's far too delicate. Another man
might, but not me, because he knows that I stand in the unfortunate
position of the cast out. So if there's one man that can't go to Gurd
and demand reparation on your account, I'm that man. In a calmer moment,
you'll be the first to see it."

"I suppose that is so. He'd think, if you talked sense to him, you had
an axe to grind and treat you according. You've suffered enough."

"I have without a doubt, and shall continue to do so," he answered her.

"I think just as much of you as ever I did notwithstanding," said Mrs.
Northover. "And I'll go so far as to say that your simple goodness and
calm sense under all circumstances might wear better in the long run
than Richard's overbearing way and cruel conceit. Be honest, Job. Do you
yourself think 'The Tiger' is a finer house and more famous than my
place?"

Mr. Legg perceived very accurately where Nelly suffered most.

"This house," he declared, "have got the natural advantages and Gurd
have got the pull in the matter of capital. My candid opinion, what I've
come to after many years of careful thought on the subject, is that if
we--I say 'we' from force of habit, though I'm in the outer darkness
now--if we had a few hundred pounds spending on us and an advertisement
to holiday people in the papers sometimes, then in six months we
shouldn't hear any more about 'The Tiger.' Cash, spent by the hand of a
master on 'The Seven Stars,' would lift us into a different house and we
should soon be known to cater for a class that wouldn't recognise 'The
Tiger.' What we want is a bit of gold and white paint before next summer
and all those delicate marks about the place that women understand and
value. I've often thought that a new sign for example, with seven golden
stars on a sky blue background, and perhaps even a flagstaff in the
pleasure grounds, with our own flag flying upon it, would, as it were,
widen the gulf between him and you. But, of course, that was before
these things happened, and when I was thinking, day and night you may
say, how to catch the custom."

Mrs. Northover sighed.

"In another man, it would be craft to say such clever things," she
answered; "but, in you, I know it's just simple goodness of heart and
Christian fellowship. 'Tis amazing how we think alike."

"Not now," he corrected her. "Too late now. I wish to God we had thought
alike; for then, instead of looking at my money as I'd look at a pile of
road scrapings, I should see it with very different eyes. My windfall
would have been poured out here in such a fashion that the people would
have wondered. This place is my life, in a manner of speaking. My
earthly life, I mean; which you may say is ended now. I was, in my own
opinion, as much a part of 'The Seven Stars,' as the beer engine. And
when uncle died this was my first thought. Or I should say my second,
because in the natural course of events, you were the first."

She sighed again and Mr. Legg left this delicate ground.

"If the man can only be brought to see he's wrong about his fanciful
opinion of 'The Tiger,' all may go right for you," he continued. "I
don't care for his feelings over-much, but your peace of mind I do
consider. At present he dares to think you're a silly woman whose goose
is a swan. That's very disorderly coming from the man who's going to
marry you. Therefore you must get some clear-sighted person to open his
eyes, and make it bitter clear to him that 'The Tiger' never was and
never will be a place to draw nice minds and the female element like
us."

"There's nobody could put it to him better than you," she said.

"At another time, perhaps--not now. I'm not clever, Nelly; but I'm too
clever to edge in between a man like Gurd and his future wife. If we
stood different, then nobody would open his mouth quicker than me."

"We may stand different yet," she answered. "There was a good deal of
passion when we met, and not the sort of passion you expect between
lovers, either."

"If that is so," he answered, "then we can only leave it for the future.
But this I'll certainly say: if you tell me presently that you're free
to the nation once more and have changed your mind about Richard, then
I'd very soon let him know there's a gulf fixed between 'The Tiger' and
'The Seven Stars'; and if you said the word, he'd see that gulf getting
broader and broader under his living eyes."

"I'd have overlooked most anything but what he actually said," she
declared. "But to strike at the garden--However, I'll see him, and if I
find he's feeling like what I am, it's quite in human reason that we may
undo the past before it's too late."

"And always remember it's his own will you shall live at 'The Tiger,'"
warned Job. "Excuse my bluntness in reminding you of his words; which,
no doubt, you committed to memory long before you told me about 'em; but
the point lies there. You can't be in two places at once, and so sure as
you sign yourself 'Gurd,' you'll sell, or sublet 'The Seven Stars.' In
fact, even a simple brain like mine can see you'll sell, for Richard
will never be content to let you serve two masters; and where the
treasure is, there will the heart be also. And to one of your delicate
feelings, to know strange hands are in this house, and strange things
being done, and liberties taken with the edifice and the garden, very
likely. But I don't want to paint any such dreadful picture as that,
and, of course, if you honestly love Richard, though you're the first
woman that ever could--then enough said."

"The question is whether he loves me. However, I'll turn it over; and no
doubt he will," she answered. "I see him to-morrow."

"And don't leave anything uncertain, if I may advise," concluded Mr.
Legg. "I speak as a child in these matters; but, if he's looking at this
thing same as you are, and if you both feel you'd be finer ornaments of
society apart, than married, all I say is don't let any false manhood on
his part, or modesty on yours, keep you to it. Better be good neighbours
than bad partners. And if I've said too much, God forgive me."

Fired by these opinions Nelly went to her meeting with Richard and the
first words uttered by Mr. Gurd sent a ray of warmth to her heart, for
it seemed he also had reviewed the situation in a manner worthy of his
high intelligence.

But he approached the subject uneasily and Mrs. Northover was too much a
woman to rescue him at once. She had been through a good deal and felt
it fair that the master of 'The Tiger' should also suffer.

"It's borne in upon me," he said, after some generalities and vague
hopes that Nelly was well, "that, perhaps, there's no smoke without
fire, as the saying is."

"Meaning what?" asked she.

"Meaning, that though we flared up a bit and forgot what we owe to
ourselves, there must have been a reason for so much feeling."

"There certainly was."

"We needn't go back over the details; but you may be sure there must
have lurked more behind our row than just a difference of opinion.
People don't get properly hot with each other unless there's a reason,
Nelly, and I'm beginning to fear that the reason lies deeper than we
thought."

He waited for her to speak; but she did not.

"You mustn't think me shifty, or anything of that kind; but I do feel,
where there was such a lot of smoke and us separated all these weeks,
and none the worse for separation apparently, that, if we was to take
the step--in a word, it's come over me stronger and stronger that we
might do well to weigh what we're going to do in the balance before we
do it."

Her delight knew no bounds. But still she did not reply, and Mr. Gurd
began to grow red.

"If, by your silence, you mean that I'm cutting a poor figure before
you, and you think I want to be off our bargain, you're wrong," he said.
"Your mind ought to move quicker and I don't mind telling you so. I'm
not off my bargain, because I'm a man of honour, and my word, given to
man, woman or child, is kept. And if you don't know that, you're the
only party in Bridport that don't. But I say again, there's two sides to
it, and look before you leap, though not a maxim women are very addicted
to following, is a good rule for all that. So I'll ask you how the land
lies, if you please. You've turned this over same as me; and I'll be
obliged if you'll tell me how you're viewing it."

"In other words you've changed your mind?"

"My mind can wait. I may have done so, or I may not; but to change my
mind ain't to change my word, so you need have no anxiety on that
account."

"Far from being anxious," answered Mrs. Northover, "I never felt so
light-hearted since I was a girl, Richard. For why? My name for honest
dealing is as high as yours, I believe, and if you'd come back to me and
asked for bygones to be bygones, I should have struggled with it, same
as you meant to do. But, seeing you're shaken, I'm pleased to tell, that
I'm shaken also. In fact, 'shaken' isn't a strong enough word. I'm
thankful to Heaven you don't want to go on with it, because, more don't
I."

"If anything could make me still wish to take you, it's to hear such
wisdom," declared Mr. Gurd, after a noisy expiration of thanksgiving. "I
might have known you wasn't behind me in brain power, and I might have
felt you'd be bound to see this quite as quick as me, if not quicker.
And I'm sure nothing could make me think higher of you than to hear
these comforting words."

Mrs. Northover used an aphorism from Mr. Legg.

"Our only fault was not to see each other's cleverness," she said, "or
to think for a moment, after what passed between us, we could marry
without loss of self-respect. It's a lot better, Richard, to be good
neighbours than bad partners. And good neighbours we always have been
and shall be; and whether we'd be good partners or not is no matter; we
won't run the risk."

"God bless you!" he answered. "Then we part true friends, and if
anything could make me feel more friendly than I always have felt, it is
your high-mindedness, Nelly. For high-mindedness there never was your
equal. And if many and many a young couple, that flies together and then
feels the call to fly apart again, could only approach the tender
subject with your fair sight and high reasoning powers, it would be a
happier world."

"There's only one thing left," concluded Mrs. Northover, "and that's to
let the public know we've changed our minds. With small people, that
wouldn't matter; but with us, we can't forget we've been on the centre
of the stage lately; and it would never do to let the people suppose
that we had quarrelled, or sunk to anything vulgar."

"Leave it to me," he answered. "It only calls for a light hand. I shall
pass it off with one of my jokes, and then people will treat it in a
laughing spirit and not brood over it. Folk are quick to take a man's
own view on everything concerning himself if he's got the art to
convince."

"We'll say that more marriages are made on the tongues of outsiders than
ever come to be celebrated in church," suggested Mrs. Northover, "and
then people will begin to doubt if it wasn't all nonsense from the
first."

"And they won't be far wrong if they do. It was nonsense; and if we say
so in the public ear, none will dare to doubt it."




CHAPTER XXXI

THE OFFER DECLINED


Estelle talked to Raymond and endeavoured to interest him in Sabina's
child.

"Everybody who understands babies says that he's a lovely and perfect
one," declared Estelle. "I hope you're going to look at him before you
go away, because he's yours. And I believe he will be like you, some
day. Do the colours of babies' eyes change, like kittens' eyes, Ray?"

"Haven't the slightest idea," he answered. "You may be quite sure I
shall take care of it, Estelle, and see that it has everything it
wants."

"Somehow they're not pleased with you all the same," she answered. "I
don't understand about it, but they evidently feel that you ought to
have married Sabina. I suppose you're not properly his father if you
don't marry her?"

"That's nonsense, Estelle. I'm quite properly his father, and I'm going
to be a jolly good father too. But I don't want to be married. I don't
believe in it."

"If Sabina knew you were going to love him and be good to him, she would
be happier, I hope."

"I'm going to see her presently," he said.

"And see the baby?"

"Plenty of time for that."

"There's time, of course, Ray. But he's changing. He's five weeks old
to-morrow, and I can see great changes. He can just begin to laugh now.
Things amuse him we don't know. I expect babies are like dogs and can
see what we can't."

"I'll look at him if Sabina likes."

"Of course she'll like. It's rather horrid of you, in a way, being able
to go on with your work for so many weeks without looking at him. It's
really rather a slight on Sabina, Ray. If I'd had a baby, and his father
wouldn't look at him for week after week, I should be vexed. And so is
Sabina."

"Next time you see her, ask her to name a day and I'll go whenever she
likes."

Estelle was delighted.

"That's lovely of you and it will cheer her up very much, for certain,"
she answered. Then she ran away, for to arrange such a meeting seemed
the most desirable thing in the world to her at that moment. To Sabina
she went as fast as her legs could take her, and appreciating that he
had sent this guileless messenger to ensure a meeting without
preliminaries and without prejudice, Sabina hid her feelings and
specified a time on the following day.

"If he'll come to see me to-morrow in the dinner-hour, that will be
best. I'll be alone after twelve o'clock."

"You'll show him the baby, won't you, Sabina?"

"He won't want to see it."

"Why not?"

"Does he want to?"

"Honestly he doesn't seem to understand how wonderful the baby is,"
explained the child. "Ray's going to be a splendid father to him,
Sabina. He's quite interested; only men are different from us. Perhaps
they never feel much interest till babies can talk to them. My father
says he wasn't much interested in me till I could talk, so it may be a
general thing. But when Ray sees him, he'll be tremendously proud of
him."

Sabina said no more, and when Raymond arrived to see her at the time she
appointed, he found her waiting near the entrance of 'The Magnolias.'

She wore a black dress and was looking very well and very handsome. But
the expression in her eyes had changed. He put out his hand, but she did
not take it.

"Mister Churchouse has kindly said we can talk in the study, Mister
Ironsyde."

He followed her, and when they had come to the room, hoped that she was
quite well again. Then he sat in a chair by the table and she took a
seat opposite him. She did not reply to his wish for her good health,
but waited for him to speak. She was not sulky, but apparently
indifferent. Her fret and fume were smothered of late. Now that the
supreme injury was inflicted and she had borne a child out of wedlock,
Sabina's frenzies were over. The battle was lost. Life held no further
promises, and the denial of the great promise that it had offered and
taken back again, numbed her. She was weary of the subject of herself
and the child. She could even ask Mr. Churchouse for books to occupy her
mind during convalescence. Yet the slumbering storm in her soul awoke in
full fury before the man had spoken a dozen words.

She looked at Raymond with tired eyes, and he felt that, like himself,
she was older, wiser, different. He measured the extent of her
experiences and felt sorry for her.

"Sabina," he said. "I must apologise for one mistake. When I asked you
to come back to me and live with me, I did a caddish thing. It wasn't
worthy of me, or you. I'm awfully sorry. I forgot myself there."

She flushed.

"Can that worry you?" she asked. "I should have thought, after what
you'd already done, such an added trifle wouldn't have made you think
twice. To ruin a woman body and soul--to lie to her and steal all she's
got to give under pretence of marriage--that wasn't caddish, I
suppose--that wasn't anything to make you less pleased with yourself.
That was what we may expect from men of honour and right bringing up?"

"Don't take this line, or we shan't get on. If, after certain things
happened, I had still felt we--"

"Stop," she said, "and hear me. You're making my blood burn and my
fingers itch to do something. My hands are strong and quick--they're
trained to be quick. I thought I could come to this meeting calm and
patient enough. I didn't know I'd got any hate left in me--for you, or
the world. But I have--you've mighty soon woke it again; and I'm not
going to hear you maul the past into your pattern and explain everything
away and tell me how you came gradually to see we shouldn't be happy
together and all the usual dirty, little lies. Tell yourself falsehoods
if you like--you needn't waste time telling them to me. I'll tell you
the truth; and that is that you're a low, mean coward and bully--a
creature to sicken the air for any honest man or woman. And you know it
behind your big talk. What did you do? You seduced me under promise of
marriage, and when your brother heard what you'd done and flung you out
of the Mill, you ran to your aunt. And she said, 'Choose between ruin
and no money, and Sabina and money from me.' And so you agreed to marry
me--to keep yourself in cash. And then, when all was changed and you
found yourself a rich man, you lied again and deserted me, and wronged
your child--ruined us both. That's what you did, and what you are."

"If you really believe that's the one and only version, I'm afraid we
shan't come to an understanding," he said quietly. "You mustn't think so
badly of me as that, Sabina."

"Your aunt does. That's how she sees it, being an honest woman."

"I must try to show you you're wrong--in time. For the moment I'm only
concerned to do everything in my power to make your future secure and
calm your mind."

"Are you? Then marry me. That's the only way you can make my future
secure, and you well know it."

"I can't marry you. I shall never marry. I am very firmly convinced
that to marry a woman is to do her a great injury nine times out of
ten."

"Worse than seducing her and leaving her alone in the world with a
bastard child, I suppose?"

"You're not alone in the world, and your child is my child, and I
recognise the fullest obligations to you both."

"Liar! If you'd recognised your obligations, you wouldn't have let it
come into the world nameless and fatherless."

She rose.

"You want everything your own way, and you think you can bend everything
to your own way. But you'll not bend me no more. You've broke me, and
you've broke your child. We're rubbish--rubbish on the world's rubbish
heap--flung there by you. I, that was so proud of myself! We'll go to
the grave shamed and outcast--failures for people to laugh at or preach
over. Your child's doomed now. The State and the Church both turn their
backs on such as him. You can't make him your lawful son now."

"I can do for him all any father can do for a son."

"You shall do nought for him! He's part of me--not you. If you hold back
from me, you hold back from him. God's my judge he shan't receive a
crust from your hands. You've given him enough. He's got you to thank
for a ruined life. He shan't have anything more from you while I can
stand between. Don't you trouble for him. You go on from strength to
strength and the people will praise your hard work and your goodness to
the workers--such a pattern master as you'll be."

"May time make you feel differently, Sabina," he answered. "I've
deserved this--all of it. I'm quite ready to grant I've done wrong. But
I'm not going to do more if I can help it. I want to be your friend in
the highest and worthiest sense possible. I want to atone to you for the
past, and I want to stand up for your child through thick and thin, and
bear the reproach that he must be to me as long as I live. I've weighed
all that. But power can challenge the indifference of the State and the
cowardice of the Church. The dirty laws will be blotted out by public
opinion some day. The child can grow up to be my son and heir, as he
will be my first care and thought. Everything that is mine can be his
and yours--"

"That's all one now," she said. "He touches nothing of yours while I
touch nothing of yours. There's only one way to bring me and the child
into your life, Raymond Ironsyde, and that's by marrying me. Without
that we'll not acknowledge you. I'd rather go on the streets than do it.
I'd rather tie a brick round your child's neck and drown him like an
unwanted dog than let him have comfort from you. And God judge me if
I'll depart from that if I live to be a hundred."

"You're being badly advised, Sabina. I never thought to hear you talk
like this. Perhaps it's the fact that I'm here myself annoys you. Will
you let my lawyer see you?"

"Marry me--marry me--you that loved me. All less than that is insult."

"We must leave it, then. Would you like me to see my child?"

"See him! Why? You'll never see him if I can help it. You'd blast his
little, trusting eyes. But I won't drown him--you needn't fear that.
I'll fight for him, and find friends for him. There's a few clean people
left who won't make him suffer for your sins. He'll live to spit on your
grave yet."

Then she left the room, and he got up and went from the house.




BOOK II

ESTELLE




CHAPTER I

THE FLYING YEARS


But little can even the most complete biography furnish of a man's days.
It is argued that essentials are all that matter, and that since one
year is often like another, and life merely a matter of occasional
mountain peaks in flat country, the outstanding events alone need be
chronicled with any excuse. But who knows the essential, since
biographists must perforce omit the spade work of life on character, the
gradual attrition or upbuilding of principles under experience, and the
strain and stress, that, sooner or later, bear fruit in action? Even
autobiography, as all other history, needs must be incomplete, since no
man himself exactly appreciated the vital experiences that made him what
he is, or turns him from what he was; while even if the secret belongs
to the protagonist, and intellect and understanding have enabled him to
grasp the reality of his progress, or retrogression, he will be jealous
to guard such truths and, for pride, or modesty, conceal the real
fountains of inspiration that were responsible for progress, or the
temptations to error that found his weakest spots, blocked his advance,
and rendered futile his highest hopes. The man who knows his inner
defeats will not declare them honestly, even if egotism induces an
autobiography; while the biographist, being ignorant of his hero's real,
psychological existence, secret life, and those thousand hidden
influences that have touched him and caused him to react, cannot, with
all the will in the world to be true, relate more than superficial
truths concerning him.

Ten years may only be recorded as lengthening the lives of Raymond
Ironsyde, Sabina Dinnett and their son, together with those interested
in them. Time, the supreme solvent, flows over existence, submerging
here, lifting there, altering the relative attitudes of husband and
wife, parent and child, friend and enemy. For no human relation is
static. The ebb and flow forget not the closest or remotest connection
between members of the human family; not a friendship or interest stands
still, and not a love or a hate. Time operates upon every human emotion
as it operates upon physical life; and ten years left no single
situation at Bridetown or Bridport unchallenged. Death cut few knots;
since accident willed that one alone fell among those with whom we are
concerned. For the rest, years brought their palliatives and corrosives,
soothed here, fretted there; here buried old griefs and healed old
sores; here calloused troubles, so that they only throbbed
intermittently; here built up new enthusiasms, awakened new loves,
barbed new enmities.

Things that looked impossible on the day that Ironsyde heard Sabina
scorn him, happened. Threats evaporated, danger signals disappeared;
but, in other cases, while the jagged edges and peaks of bitterness and
contempt were worn away by a decade of years, the solid rocks from which
they sprang persisted and the massive reasons for emotion were not
moved, albeit their sharpest expressions vanished. Some loves faded into
likings, and their raptures to a placid contentment, built as much on
the convenience of habit as the memories of a passionate past; other
affections, less fortunate, perished and left nothing but remains
unlovely. Hates also, with their sharpest bristles rubbed down, were
modified to bluntness, and left a mere lumpish aversion of mind. Some
dislikes altogether perished and gave place to indifference; some
persisted as the shadow of their former selves; some were kept alive by
absurd pride in those who pretended, for their credit's sake, a
steadfastness they were not really built to feel.

Sabina, for example, was constitutionally unequal to any supreme and
all-controlling passion unless it had been love; yet still she preserved
that inimical attitude to Raymond Ironsyde she had promised to
entertain; though in reality the fire was gone and the ashes cold. She
knew it, but was willing to rekindle the flame if material offered, as
now it threatened to do.

Ernest Churchouse had published his book upon 'The Bells of Dorset' and,
feeling that it represented his life work, declared himself content. He
had grown still less active, but found abundant interests in literature
and friendship. He undertook the instruction of Sabina's son and, from
time to time, reported upon the child. His first friend was now Estelle
Waldron, who, at this stage of her development, found the old and
childlike man chime with her hopes and aspirations.

Estelle was passing through the phase not uncommon to one of her nature.
For a time her early womanhood found food in poetry, and her mind,
apparently fashioned to advance the world's welfare and add to human
happiness, reposed as it seemed on an interlude of reading and the
pursuit of beauty. She developed fast to a point--the point whereat she
had established a library and common room for the Mill hands; the point
at which the girls called her 'Our Lady,' and very honestly loved her
for herself as well as for the good she brought them. Now, however, her
activities were turned inward and she sought to atone for an education
incomplete. She had never gone to school, and her governesses, while
able and sufficient, could not do for her what only school life can do.
This experience, though held needless and doubtful in many opinions,
Estelle felt to miss and her conscience prompted her to go to London and
mix with other people, while her inclination tempted her to stop with
her father. She went to London for two years and worked upon a woman's
newspaper. Then she fell ill and came home and spent her time with
Arthur Waldron, with Raymond Ironsyde, and with Ernest Churchouse. A
girl friend or two from London also came to visit her.

She recovered perfect health, and having contracted a great new worship
for poetry in her convalescence, retained it afterwards. Ernest was her
ally, for he loved poetry--an understanding denied to her other friends.
So Estelle passed through a period of dreaming, while her intellect grew
larger and her human sympathy no less. She had developed into a handsome
woman with regular features, a large and almost stately presence and a
direct, undraped manner not shadowed as yet by any ray of sex instinct.
Nature, with her many endowments, chose to withhold the feminine
challenge. She was as stark and pure as the moon. Young men, drawn by
her smile, fled from her self. Her father's friends regarded her much as
he did: with a sort of uneasy admiration. The people were fond of her,
and older women declared that she would never marry.

Of such was Miss Jenny Ironsyde. "Estelle's children will be good
works," she told Raymond. For she and her nephew were friends again. The
steady tides of time had washed away her prophecy of eternal enmity, and
increasing infirmity made her seek companionship where she could find
it. Moreover, she remembered a word that she had spoken to Raymond in
the past, when she told him how a grudge entertained by one human being
against another poisons character and ruins the steadfast outlook upon
life. She escaped that danger.

It is a quality of small minds rather than of great to remain unchanged.
They fossilise more quickly, are more concentrated, have a power to
freeze into a mould and preserve it against the teeth of time, or the
wit and wisdom of the world. The result is ugly or beautiful, according
to the emotion thus for ever embalmed. The loves of such people are
intuitive--shared with instinct and above, or below, reason; their hate
is similarly impenetrable--preserved in a vacuum. For only a vacuum can
hold the sweet for ever untainted, or the bitter for ever unalloyed.
Mary Dinnett belonged to this order. She was now dead, and concerning
the legacy of her unchanging attitude more will presently appear.

As for Nelly Northover, she had long been the wife of Mr. Job Legg. That
pertinacious man achieved his end at last, and what his few enemies
declared was guile, and his many friends held to be tact, won Nelly to
him a year after her adventure with Mr. Gurd. None congratulated them
more heartily than the master of 'The Tiger.' Indeed, when 'The Seven
Stars' blazed out anew on an azure firmament--the least of many changes
that refreshed and invigorated that famous house--'The Tiger' also shone
forth in savage splendour and his black and orange stripes blazed again
from a mass of tropical vegetation.

And beneath the inn signs prosperity continued to obtain. Mr. Gurd grew
less energetic than of yore, while Mrs. Legg put on much flesh and daily
perceived her wisdom in linking Job for ever to the enterprise for which
she lived. He became thinner, if anything, and Time toiled after him in
vain. Immense success rewarded his innovations, and the tea-gardens of
'The Seven Stars' had long become a feature of Bridport's social life.
People hinted that Mr. Legg was not the meek and mild spirit of ancient
opinion and that Nelly knew it; but this suggestion may be held no more
than the penalty of fame--an activity of the baser sort, who ever drop
vinegar of detraction into the oil of content.

John Best still reigned at the Mill, though he had himself already
chosen the young man destined to wear his mantle in process of time. To
leave the works meant to leave his garden; and that he was unprepared to
do until failing energies made it necessary. A decade saw changes among
the workers, but not many. Sally Groves had retired to braid for the
firm at home, and old Mrs. Chick was also gone; but the other hands
remained and the staff had slightly increased. Nancy Buckler was chief
spinner now; Sarah Roberts still minded the spreader, and Nicholas
continued at the lathes. Benny Cogle had a new Otto gas engine to look
after, and Mercy Gale, now married to him, still worked in the warping
chamber. Levi Baggs would not retire, and since he hackled with his old
master, the untameable man, now more than sixty years old, still kept
his place, still flouted the accepted order, still read sinister motives
into every human activity. New machinery had increased the prosperity of
the enterprise, but to no considerable extent. Competition continued
keen as ever, and each year saw the workers winning slightly increased
power through the advance of labour interests.

Raymond Ironsyde was satisfied and remained largely unchanged. He had
hardened in opinion and increased in knowledge. He lacked imagination
and, as of old, trusted to the machine; but he was rational and proved a
capable, second class man of sound judgment and trustworthy in all his
undertakings. Sport continued to be a living interest of his life, and
since he had no ties that involved an establishment, he gladly accepted
Arthur Waldron's offer of a permanent home.

It came to him after he had travelled largely and been for three years
master of the works. Arthur was delighted when Raymond accepted his
suggestion and made his abode at North Hill. They hunted and shot
together; and Waldron, who now judged that the time for golf had come in
his case, devoted the moiety of his life to that pastime.

Ironsyde worked hard and was held in respect. The circumstance of his
child had long been accepted and understood. He exhausted his energy and
patience in endeavours to maintain and advance the boy; and those
justified in so doing lost no opportunity to urge on Sabina Dinnett the
justice of his demand; but here nothing could change her. She refused to
recognise Raymond, or receive from him any assistance in the education
and nurture of his son. She had called him Abel, and as Abel Dinnett
the lad was known. He resembled her in that he was dark and of an
excitable and uneven temperament. He might be easily elated and as
easily cast down. Raymond, who kept a secret eye upon the child, trusted
that in a few years his turn would come, though at present denied. At
first he resented the resolution that shut him out of his son's life;
but the matter had long since sunk to unimportance and he believed that
when Abel came to years of understanding, he would recognise his own
interests and blame those responsible for ignoring them in his
childhood. Upon this opinion hinged the future of not a few persons. It
developed into a conviction permanently established at the back of his
mind; but since Sabina and others came between, he was content to let
them do so and relied upon his son's intelligence in time to come. For
years he did not again seek the child's acquaintance after a rebuff, and
made no attempt to interfere with the operations of Abel's grandmother
and mother--to keep them wholly apart. Thus, after all, the
gratification of their purpose was devoid of savour and Ironsyde's
indifferent acquiescence robbed their will of its triumph. He had told
Mary Dinnett, through Ernest Churchouse, that she and her daughter must
proceed as they thought fit and that, in any case, the last word would
be with him. Here, however, he misvalued the strength of the forces
arrayed against him, and only the future proved whether the seed sowed
in Abel Dinnett's youthful heart was fertile or barren--whether, by the
blood in his own veins, he would offer soil of character to develop
enmity to the man who got him, or reveal a nature slow to anger and
impatient of wrath.

For Ernest Churchouse these problems offered occupation and he stood as
an intermediary between the interests that clashed in the child. He made
himself responsible for a measure of the boy's education and, sometimes,
reported to Estelle such development of character as he perceived. In
secret, inspired by the rival claims of heredity and environment, Ernest
strove to cast a scientific horoscope of little Abel's probable future.
But to-day contradicted yesterday, and to-morrow proved both
untrustworthy. The child was always changing, developing new ideas,
indicating new possibilities. It appeared too soon yet to say what he
would be, or predict his character and force of purpose.

Thus he grew, and when he was eight years old, his first friend and
ally--his grandmother--died. Mr. Churchouse, who had long deplored her
influence for Abel's sake, was hopeful that this departure might prove a
blessing.

Now Sabina had taken her mother's place and she looked after Ernest well
enough. He always hoped that she would marry, and she had been asked to
do so more than once, but felt tempted to no such step.

Thus, then, things stood, and any change of focus and altered outlook in
these people, that may serve to suggest discontinuity with their past,
must be explained by the passage of ten years. Such a period had renewed
all physically--a fact full of subtle connotations. It had sharpened the
youthful and matured the adult mind; it had dimmed the senses sinking
upon nature's night time and strengthened the dawning will and opening
intellect. For as a ship furls her spread of sail on entering harbour,
so age reduces the scope of the mind and its energies to catch every
fresh ripple of the breeze that blows out of progress and change. The
centre of the stage, too, gradually reveals new performers; the gaze of
manhood is turned on new figures; the limelight of human interest throws
up the coming forces of activity and intellect; while those who
yesterday shone supreme, slowly pass into the penumbra that heralds
eclipse. And who bulk big enough to arrest the eternal march, delay
their own progress from light to darkness, or stay the eager young feet
tramping outward of the dayspring to take their places in the day? Life
moves so fast that many a man lives to see the dust thick on his own
name in the scroll of merit and taste a regret that only reason can
allay.

Fate had denied Sabina Dinnett her brief apotheosis. From dark to dark
she had gone; yet time had purged her mind of any large bitterness. She
looked on and watched Raymond's sojourn in the light from a standpoint
negative and indifferent. The future for her held interest, for she
could not cease to be interested in him, though she knew that he had
long since ceased to be interested in her. From the cool cloisters of
her obscurity she watched and was only strong in opinion at one point.
She dreamed of her son making his way and succeeding in the world; she
welcomed Mr. Churchouse's assurance as to the lad's mental progress and
promise; but she was determined as ever that not, if she could help it,
should Abel enter terms of friendship with his father.

Thus the relations subsisted, while, strange to record, in practice they
had long been accepted as part of the order of things at Bridetown. They
ceased even to form matter for gossip. For Raymond Ironsyde was greater
here than the lord of the manor, or any other force. The Mill continued
to be the heart of the village. Through the Mill the lifeblood
circulated; by the Mill the prosperity of the people was regulated; and
since the master saw that on his own prosperity reposed the prosperity
of those whom he employed, there was none to decry him, or echo a
disordered past in the ear of the well-ordered present.




CHAPTER II

THE SEA GARDEN


Bride river still flowed her old way to her work and came, by goldilocks
and grasses, by reedmace and angelica, to the mill-race and water-wheel.
But now, where the old wheel thundered, there yawned a gap, for the
river's power was about to be conserved to better purpose than of old,
and as the new machines now demanded greater forces to drive them, so
human skill found a way to increase the applied strength of a streamlet.
Against the outer wall of the Mill now hung a turbine and Raymond,
Estelle and others had assembled to see it in operation for the first
time. Bride was bottled here, and instead of flashing and foaming over
the water wheel as of yore, now vanished into the turbine and presently
appeared again below it.

Raymond explained the machine with gusto, and Estelle mourned the wheel,
yet as one who knew its departure was inevitable.

It was summer time, and after John Best had displayed the significance
of the turbine and the increased powers generated thereby, Raymond
strolled down the valley beside the river at Estelle's invitation.

She had something to show him at the mouth of the stream--a sea garden,
now in all its beauty and precious to her. For though her mind had
winged far beyond the joys of childhood and was occupied with greater
matters than field botany, still she loved the wild flowers and welcomed
them again in their seasons.

Their speech drifted to the people, and he told how some welcomed the
new appliance and some doubted. Then Raymond spoke of Sabina Dinnett in
sympathetic ears.

For now Estelle understood the past; but she had never wavered in her
friendship with Sabina, any more than had diminished her sister-like
attachment to Raymond. Now, as often, he regretted the attitude his
child preserved towards him and expressed sorrow that he could not break
down Abel's distrust.

"More than distrust, in fact, for the kid dislikes me," he said. "You
know he does, Chicky. But I never can understand why, because he's
always with his mother and Uncle Ernest, and Sabina doesn't bear me any
malice now, to my knowledge. Surely the child must come round sooner or
later?"

"When he's old enough to understand, I expect he will," she said. "But
you'll have to be patient, Ray."

"Oh, yes--that's my strong suit nowadays."

"He's a clever little chap, so Sabina says; but he's difficult and
wayward. He won't be friends with me."

Raymond changed the subject and praised the valley as it opened to the
sea.

"What a jolly place! I believe there are scores of delightful spots at
Bridetown within a walk, and I'm always too busy to see them."

"That's certain. I could show you scores."

"I ought to know the place I live in, better. I don't even know the soil
I walk on--awful ignorance."

"The soil is oolite and clay, and the subsoil, which you see in the
cliffs, is yellow sandstone--the loveliest, goldenest soil in the
world," declared Estelle.

"The colour of a bath sponge," he said, and she pretended despair.

"Oh dear! And I really thought I had seen the dawning of poetry in you,
Ray."

"Merely reflected from yourself, Chicky. Still I'm improving. The
turbine has a poetic side, don't you think?"

"I suppose it has. Science is poetic--at any rate, the history of
science is full of poetry--if you know what poetry means."

"I wish I had more time for such things," he said. "Perhaps I shall
have some day. To be in trade is rather deadening though. There seems so
little to show for all my activities--only hundreds of thousands of
miles of string. In weak moments I sometimes ask myself if, after all,
it is good enough."

"They must be very weak moments, indeed," said Estelle. "Perhaps you'll
tell me how the world could get on without string?"

"I don't know. But you, with all your love of beautiful things, ought to
understand me instead of jumping on me. What is beauty? No two people
feel the same about it, surely? You'd say a poem was beautiful; I'd say
a square cut for four, just out of reach of cover point, was beautiful.
Your father would say, a book on shooting high pheasants was beautiful,
if he agreed with it; John Best would say a good sample of shop twine
was beautiful."

"We should all be right, beauty is in all those things. I can see that.
I can even see that shooting birds with great skill, as father does, is
beautiful--not the slaughter of the bird, which can't be beautiful, but
the way it's done. But those are small things. With the workers you want
to begin at the beginning and show them--what Mister Best knows--that
the beauty of the thing they make depends on it being well and truly
made."

"They're restless."

"Yes; they're reaching out for more happiness, like everybody else."

"I wouldn't back the next generation of capitalists to hold the fort
against labour."

"Perhaps the next generation won't want to," she said. "Perhaps by that
time we shall be educated up to the idea that rich people are quite as
anti-social as poor people. Then we shall do away with both poverty and
riches. To us, educated on the old values, it would come as a shock, but
the generation that is born into such a world would accept it as a
matter of course and not grumble."

He laughed.

"Don't believe it, Chicky. Every generation has its own hawks and eagles
as well as its sheep. The strong will always want the fulness of the
earth and always try to inspire the weak to help them get it. With great
leadership you must have equivalent rewards."

"Why? Cannot you imagine men big enough to work for humanity without
reward? Have there not been plenty of such men--before Christ, as well
as since?"

"Power is reward," he answered. "No man is so great that he is
indifferent to power, for his greatness depends upon it; and if power
was dissipated to-morrow and diluted until none could call himself a
leader, we should have a reaction at once and the sheep would grow
frightened and bleat for a shepherd. And the shepherd would very soon
appear."

They stood where the cliffs broke and Bride ended her journey at the
sea. She came gently without any splendid nuptials to the lover of
rivers. Her brief course run, her last silver loop wound through the
meadows, she ended in a placid pool amid the sand ridges above
high-water mark. The yellow cliffs climbed up again on either side, and
near the chalice in the grey beach whence, invisible, the river sank
away to win the sea by stealth, spread Estelle's sea garden--an expanse
of stone and sand enriched by many flowers that seemed to crown the
river pool with a garland, or weave a wreath for Bride's grave in the
sand. Here were pale gold of poppies, red gold of lotus and rich lichens
that made the sea-worn pebbles shine. Sea thistle spread glaucous
foliage and lifted its blue blossoms; stone-crops and thrifts, tiny
trefoils and couch grasses were woven into the sand, and pink
storks-bill and silvery convolvulus brought cool colour to this harmony
spread beside the purple sea. The day was one of shadow and sunshine
mingled, and from time to time, through passages of grey that lowered
the glory of Estelle's sea garden, a sunburst came to set all
glittering once more, to flash upon the river, lighten the masses of
distant elm, and throw up the red roofs and grey church tower of
Bridetown and her encircling hills.

"What a jolly place it is," he said taking out his cigar case.

Then they sat in the shadow of a fishing boat, drawn up here, and
Raymond lamented the unlovely end of the river.

While he did so, the girl regarded him with affection and a secret
interest and entertainment. For it amused her often to hear him echo
thoughts that had come to her in the past. In a lesser degree her father
did the like; but he belonged to a still older generation, and it was
with Raymond that she found herself chiefly concerned, when he
announced, as original, ideas and discoveries that reflected her own
dreams in the past. Sometimes she thought he was catching up; sometimes,
again, she distanced him and felt herself grown up and Raymond still a
boy. Then, sometimes, he would flush a covey of ideas outside her
reflections, and so remind her of the things that interested men, in
which, as yet, women took no interest. When he spoke of such things, she
strove to learn all that he could teach concerning them. But soon she
found that was not much. He did not think deeply and she quickly caught
him up, if she desired to do so.

Now he uttered just the same, trivial lament that she had uttered when
she was a child. She was pleased, for she rather loved to feel herself
older in mind than Raymond. It added a lustre to friendship and made her
happy--why, she knew not.

"What a wretched end--to be choked up in the shingle like that," he
said, "instead of dashing out gloriously and losing yourself in the
sea!"

She smiled gently to herself.

"I thought that once, then I was ever so sorry for poor little Bride."

"A bride without a wedding," he said.

"No. She steals to him; she wins his salt kisses and finds them sweet
enough. They mate down deep out of sight of all eyes. So you needn't be
sorry for her really."

"It's like watching people try ever so hard to do something and never
bring it off."

"Yes--even more like than you think, Ray; because we feel sad at such
apparent failures, and yet what we are looking at may be a victory
really, only our dull eyes miss it."

"I daresay many people are succeeding who don't appear to be," he
admitted.

"Goodness can't be wasted. It may be poured into the sand all unseen and
unsung; but it conquers somehow and does something worth doing, even
though no eye can see what. Plenty of good things happen in the
world--good and helpful things--that are never recorded, or even
recognised."

"Like a stonewaller in a cricket match. The people cuss him, but he may
determine who is going to win."

She laughed at the simile.

They went homeward presently, Estelle quietly content to have shown
Raymond the flower-sprinkled strand, and he well pleased to have
pleasured her.




CHAPTER III

A TWIST FRAME


Raymond Ironsyde grumbled sometimes at the Factory Act and protested
against grandmotherly legislation. Yet in some directions he anticipated
it. He went, for example, beyond the Flax Mill Ventilation Regulations.
He loved fresh air himself, and took vast pains to make his works sweet
and wholesome for those who breathed therein. Even Levi Baggs could not
grumble, for the exhaust draught in his hackling shop was stronger than
the law demanded, and the new cyclone separators in the main buildings
served to keep the air far purer than of old.

Ironsyde had established also the Kestner System of atomising water, to
regulate temperature and counteract the electrical effects of east wind,
or frost, on the light slivers. He was always on the lookout for new
automatic means to regulate the drags on the bobbins. He had installed
an automatic doffing apparatus, and made a departure from the usual dry
spinning in a demi-sec, or half-dry, spinning frame, which was new at
that time, and had offered excellent results and spun a beautifully
smooth yarn.

These things all served to assist and relieve the workers in varying
degree, but, as Raymond often pointed out, they were taken for granted
and, sometimes, in his gloomier moments, he accused his people of
lacking gratitude. They, for their part, were being gradually caught up
in the growing movements of labour. The unintelligent forgot to credit
the master with his consideration; while those who could think, were
often soured by suspicion. These ignorant spirits doubted not that he
was seeking to win their friendship against the rainy days in store for
capital.

Ironsyde came to the works one morning to watch a new Twist Frame and a
new operator. The single strand yarn for material from the spinners was
coming to the Twist Frame to be turned into twines and fishing lines.
Four full bobbins from the spinning machine went to each spindle of the
Twist Frame, and from it emerged a strong 'four-ply.' It was a machine
more complicated than the spinner; and, as only a good billiard player
can appreciate the cleverness of a great player, so only a spinner might
have admired the rare technical skill of the woman who controlled the
Twist Frame.

The soul of the works persisted, though the people and the machines were
changed. The old photographs and old verses had gone, but new pictures
and poems took their places in the workers' corners; and new
fashion-plates hung where the old ones used to hang. The drawers, and
the rovers, the spreaders and the spinners still, like bower-birds,
adorned the scenes of their toil. A valentine or two and the portrait of
a gamekeeper and his dog hung beside the carding machine; for Sally
Groves had retired and a younger woman was in her place. She, too, fed
the Card by hand, but not so perfectly as Sally was wont to do.

Estelle had come to see the Twist Frame. She cared much for the Mill
women and spent a good portion of her hours with them. A very genuine
friendship, little tainted with time-serving, or self-interest, obtained
for her in the works. On her side, she valued the goodwill of the
workers as her best possession, and found among them a field for study
in human nature and, in their work, matter for poetry and art. For were
not all three Fates to be seen at their eternal business here? Clotho
attended the Spread Board; the can-minders coiling away the sliver,
stood for Lachesis; while in the spinners, who cut the thread when the
bobbin was full, Estelle found Atropos, the goddess of the shears.

Mr. Best, grown grizzled, but active still and with no immediate
thoughts of retirement, observed the operations of the new spinner at
the Twist Frame. She was a woman from Bridport, lured to Bridetown by
increase of wages.

John, who was a man of enthusiasms, turned to Estelle.

"The best spinner that ever came to Bridetown," he whispered.

"Better than Sabina Dinnett?" she asked; and Best declared that she was.
So passage of time soon deadens the outline of all achievement, and
living events that happen under our eyes, offer a statement of the quick
and real with which beautiful dead things, embalmed in the amber of
memory, cannot cope.

"Sabina, at her best, never touched her, Miss Waldron."

"Sabina braids still in her spare time. Nobody makes better nets."

"This is a cousin of Sarah Roberts," explained the foreman. "Spinning
runs in the Northover family, and though Sarah is a spreader and never
will be anything else, there have been wondrous good spinners in the
clan. This girl is called Milly Morton, and her mother and grandmother
spun before her. Her father was Jack Morton, one of the last of the old
hand spinners. To see him walking backwards from his wheel, and paying
out fibre from his waist with one hand and holding up the yarn with the
other, was a very good sight. He'd spin very nearly a hundred pounds of
hemp in a ten hours' day, and turn out seven or eight miles of yarn, and
walk every yard of it, of course. The rope makers swore by him."

"I'm sure spinning runs in the blood!" agreed Estelle. "Both Sarah's
little girls are longing for the time when they can come into the Mill
and mind cans; and, of course, the boy wants to do his father's work and
be a lathe hand."

Best nodded.

"You've hit it," he declared. "It runs in the blood in a very strange
fashion. Take Sabina's child. By all accounts, his old grandmother did
everything in her power to poison his mind against the Mill as well as
the master. She was a lot bitterer than Sabina herself, as the years
went on; and if you could look back and uncover the past, you'd find it
was her secret work to make that child what he is. But the Mill draws
him like cheese draws a mouse. I'll find him here a dozen times in a
month--just popping in when my back's turned. Why he comes I couldn't
say; but I think it is because his mother was a spinner and the feeling
for the craft is in him."

"His father is a spinner, too, for that matter," suggested Estelle.

"In the larger sense of ownership, yes; but it isn't that that draws
him. His father's got no great part in him by all accounts. It's the
mother in him that brings him here. Not that she knows he comes so
often, and I dare say she'd be a good deal put about if she did."

"Why shouldn't he come, John?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I see no reason against. One gets so used to the situation that its
strangeness passes off, but it's very awkward, so to say, that nothing
can be done for Abel by his father. Sabina's wrong to hold out there,
and so I've told her."

"She doesn't influence Abel one way or the other. The child seems to
hate Mister Ironsyde."

"Well, he loves the Mill, though you'd think he might hate that for his
father's sake."

"He's hard for a little creature of ten years old," said Estelle. "He
won't make friends with me, but holds off and regards me--just as
rabbits and things regard one, before they finally run away. I pretend I
don't notice it. He'll listen and even talk if I meet him with his
mother; but if I meet him alone, he flies. He generally bolts through a
hole in the hedge, or somewhere."

"He links you up with Mister Raymond," explained Mr. Best. "He knows you
live at North Hill House, and so he's suspicious. You can disarm him,
however, for he's got reasoning parts quite up to the average if not
above. He's the sort of boy that if you don't want him to steal your
apples, you've only got to give him a few now and then; and then he
rises to the situation and feels in honour bound to be straight, because
you've lifted him to be your equal."

"I call that a very good character."

"It might be a lot worse, no doubt."

"I wanted him to come to our outing, but he won't do that, though his
mother asked him to go."

The outing, an annual whole holiday, was won for the Mill by Estelle,
and for the past four years she had taken all who cared to come for a
long day by the sea. They always went to Weymouth, where amusement
offered to suit every taste.

"More than ever are coming this year," John told her. "In fact, I
believe pretty well everybody's going but Levi Baggs."

"I'm glad. We'll have the two wagonettes from 'The Seven Stars' as
usual. If you are going into Bridport you might tell Missis Legg."

"The two big ones we shall want, and they must be here sharp at six
o'clock," declared Mr. Best. "There's nothing like getting off early.
I'll speak to Job Legg about it and tell him to start 'em off earlier.
You can trust it to Job as to the wagonettes being opened or covered.
He's a very weather-wise person and always smells rain twelve hours in
advance."




CHAPTER IV

THE RED HAND


The Mill had a fascination for all Bridetown children and they would
trespass boldly and brave all perils to get a glimpse of the machinery.
The thunder of the engines drew them, and there were all manner of
interesting fragments to be picked up round and about. That they were
not permitted within the radius of the works was also a sound reason for
being there, and many boys could tell of great adventures and
hairbreadth escapes from Mr. Best, Mr. Benny Cogle and, above all, Mr.
Baggs. For Mr. Baggs, to the mind of youth, exhibited ogre-like
qualities. They knew him as a deadly enemy, for which reason there was
no part of the works that possessed a greater or more horrid fascination
than the hackling shop. To have entered the den of Mr. Baggs marked a
Bridetown lad as worthy of highest respect in his circle. But proofs
were always demanded of such a high achievement. When Levi caught the
adventurer, as sometimes happened, proofs were invariably apparent and a
posterior evidence never lacked of a reverse for the offensive; but
youth will be served, even though age sometimes serves it rather
harshly, and the boys were untiring. Unless Levi locked the shop, when
he went home at noon to dinner, there was always the chance of a raid
with a strick or two possibly missing as proof of success.

Sabina had told Abel that he must keep away from the works, but he
ignored her direction and often revolved about them at moments of
liberty. He was a past master in the art of scouting and evading danger,
yet loved danger, and the Mill offered him daily possibilities of both
courting and escaping peril. Together with other little boys nourished
on a penny journal, Abel had joined the 'Band of the Red Hand.' They did
no harm, but hoped some day, when they grew older, to make a more'
painful impression on Bridetown. At present their modest ambition was to
leave the mark of their secret society in every unexpected spot
possible. On private walls, in church and chapel, or the house-places of
the farms, it was their joy to write with chalk, 'The Red Hand has been
here.' Then followed a circle and a cross--the dark symbol of the
brotherhood. Once a former chief of the gang had left his mark in the
hackling shop and more than one member had similarly adorned the
interior of the Mill; but the old chief had gone to sea at the age of
thirteen, and, though younger than some of the present members, Abel was
now appointed leader and always felt the demand to attempt things that
should be worthy of so high a state.

They were not the everyday boys who thus combined, but a sort of child
less common, yet not uncommon. Such lads scent one another out by parity
of taste and care less for gregarious games than isolated or lonely
adventures. They would rather go trespassing than play cricket; they
would organise a secret raid before a public pastime. Intuitively they
desire romance, and feeling that law and order is opposed to romance,
find the need to flout law and order in measure of their strength, and,
of course, applaud the successful companion who does so with most
complete results.

Now 'the old Adam'--a comprehensive term for independence of view and
unpreparedness to accept the tried values of pastors and masters--was
strong in Abel Dinnett. He loved life, but hated discipline, and for him
the Mill possessed far more significance than it could offer to any
lesser member of the band, since his father owned it. For that much Abel
apprehended, though the meaning of paternity was as yet hidden from him.

That Raymond Ironsyde was his father he understood, and that he must
hate him heartily he also understood: his dead grandmother had poured
this precept into his young mind at its most receptive period. For the
present he was still too youthful to rise beyond this general principle,
and he was far too busy with his own adventures to find leisure to hate
any one more than fitfully. He told the Red Handers that some day he
designed a terrific attack on Raymond Ironsyde; and they promised to
assist and support him; but they all recognised their greater
manifestations must be left until they attained more weight in the
cosmic and social schemes, and, for the moment, their endeavour rose
little higher than to set their fatal sign where least it might be
expected.

To this end came dark-eyed Abel to the Mill at an hour when he should
have been at his dinner. Ere long his activities might be curtailed, for
he was threatened with a preparatory school in the autumn; but before
that happened, the Red Hand must be set in certain high places, and the
hackling shop of Levi Baggs was first among them.

Abel wore knickerbockers and his feet and legs were bare, for he had
just waded across the river beyond the Mill, and meant to retreat by the
same road. He had hidden in a may bush till the people were all gone to
their meal, and then crossed the stream into the works. That the door of
the hackler's would be open he did not expect, for Levi locked it when
he went home; but there was a little window, and Abel, who had a theory
that where his head could go, his body could follow, believed that by
the window it would be possible to make his entrance. The contrary of
what he expected happened, however, for the window was shut and the door
on the latch. Fate willed that on the very day of Abel's attack, Mr.
Baggs should be spending the dinner-hour in his shop. His sister, who
looked after him, was from home until the evening, and Levi had brought
his dinner to the works. He was eating it when the boy very cautiously
opened the door, and since Mr. Baggs sat exactly behind the door, this
action served to conceal him. The intruder therefore thought the place
empty, and proceeded with his operations while Levi made no sound, but
watched him.

Taking a piece of chalk from his pocket Abel wrote the words of terror,
'The Red Hand has been here,' and set down the circle and cross. Then he
picked up one of the bright stricks, that lay beside the hackling board,
and was just about to depart in triumph, when Mr. Baggs banged the door
and revealed himself.

Thus discomfited, Abel grew pale and then flushed. Mr. Baggs was a very
big and strong man and the culprit knew that he must now prepare for the
pangs that attended failure. But he bore pain well. He had been operated
upon for faulty tendons when he was five and proved a Spartan patient.
He stood now waiting for Mr. Baggs. Other victims had reported that it
was Levi's custom to use a strap from his own waist when he beat a boy,
and Abel, even at this tense moment, wondered whether he would now do
so.

"It's you, is it?" said Mr. Baggs. "And the Red Hand has been here, has
it? And perhaps the red something else will go away from here. You're a
darned young thief--that's what you are."

"I ain't yet," argued Abel. His voice fluttered, for his heart was
beating very fast.

"You're as good, however, for you was going to take my strick. The will
was there, though I prevented the deed."

"I had to show the Band as I'd been here."

"Why did you come? What sense is there to it?"

Abel regarded Mr. Baggs doubtfully and did not reply.

"Just to show you're a bit out of the common, perhaps?"

Abel clutched at the suggestion. His eyes looked sideways slyly at Mr.
Baggs. The ogre seemed inclined to talk, and through speech might come
salvation, for he had acted rather than talked on previous occasions.

"We want to be different from common boys," said the marauder.

"Well, you are, for one, and there's no need to trouble in your case.
You was born different, and different you've got to be. I suppose you've
been told often enough who your father is?"

"Yes, I have."

"Small wonder then that you've got your knife into the world at large, I
reckon. What thinking man, or boy, has not for that matter? So you're up
against the laws and out for the liberties? Well, I don't quarrel with
that. Only you're too young yet to understand what a lot you've got to
grumble at. Some day you will."

Abel said nothing. He hardly listened, and thought far less of what Mr.
Baggs was saying than of what he himself would say to his companions
after this great adventure. To make friends with the ogre was no mean
feat, even for a member of the Red Hand.

What motiveless malignity actuated Levi Baggs meanwhile, who can say? He
was now a man in sight of seventy, yet his crabbed soul would exude gall
under pressure as of yore. None was ever cheered or heartened by
anything he might say; but to cast a neighbour down, or make a confident
and contented man doubtful and discontented, affected Mr. Baggs
favourably and rendered him as cheerful as his chronic pessimism ever
permitted him to be.

He bade the child sit and gave him his portion of currant dumpling.

"Put that down your neck," he said, "and don't you think so bad of me in
future. I treat other people same as they treat me, and that's a rule
that works out pretty fair in practice, if you've got the power to
follow it. But some folks are too weak to treat other people as they are
treated--you, for example. You're one of the unlucky ones, you are, Abel
Dinnett."

Abel enjoyed the pudding; and still his mind dwelt more on future
narration of this great incident than on the incident itself. With
unconscious art, he felt that the moment when this tale was told, would
be far greater for him than the moment when it happened.

"I ain't unlucky, Mister Baggs. I would have been unlucky if you'd beat
me; but you've give me your pudding, and I'm on your side till death
now."

"Well, that's something. I ain't got many my side, I believe. The
fearless thinker never has. You can come and see me when you mind to,
because I'm sorry for you, owing to your bad fortune. You've been
handicapped out of winning the race, Abel. You know what a handicap is
in a race? Well, you won't have no chance of winning now, because your
father won't own you."

"I won't own him," said the boy. "Granny always told me he was my
bitterest enemy, and she knew, and I won't trust him--never."

"I should think not--nor any other wise chap wouldn't trust him. He's a
bad lot. He only believes in machines, not humans."

The boy began to be receptive.

"He wants to be friends, but I won't be his friend, because I hate him.
Only I don't tell mother, because she don't hate him so much as me."

"More fool her, then. She ought to hate him. She's got first cause. Do
you know who ought to own these works when your father dies?"

"No, Mister Baggs."

"You. Yes, they did ought to belong to you in justice, because you are
his eldest son. Everything ought to be yours, if the world were run by
right and fairness and honour. But it's all took from you and you can't
lift a finger to better yourself, because you're only his natural son,
and Nature may go to hell every time for all the Law and the Church
care. Church and Law both hate Nature. So that's why I say you're an
unlucky boy; and that's why I say that, despite your father's money and
fame and being popular and well thought on and all that, he's a cruel
rogue."

Abel was puzzled but interested.

"If I'm his boy, why ain't my mother his wife, like all the other chaps'
fathers have got wives?"

"Why ain't your mother his wife? Yes, why? After ten years he'll find
that question as hard to answer as it was before you were born, I
reckon. And the answer to the question is the same as the answer to many
questions about Raymond Ironsyde. And that is, that he is a crooked man
who pretends to be a straight one; in a word, a hypocrite. And you'll
grow up to understand these things and see what should be yours taken
from you and given to other people."

"When I grow up, I'll have it out with him," said Abel.

"No, you won't. Because he's strong and you're weak. You're weak and
poor and nobody, with no father to fight for you and give you a show in
the world. And you'll always be the same, so you'll never stand any
chance against him."

The boy flushed and showed anger.

"I won't be weak and poor always."

"Against him you will. Suppose you went so far as to let him befriend
you, could he ever make up for not marrying your mother? Can he ever
make you anything but a bastard and an outcast? No, he can't; and he
only wants to educate you and give you a bit of money and decent clothes
for the sake of his own conscience. He'll come to you hat in hand some
day--not because he cares a damn for you, but that he may stand well in
the eyes of the world."

Abel now panted with anger, and Mr. Baggs was mildly amused to see how
easily the child could be played upon.

"I'll grow up and then--"

"Don't you worry. You must take life as you find it, and as you haven't
found it a very kind thing, you must put up with it. Most people draw
blanks, and that's why it's better to stop out of the world than in it.
And if we could see into the bottom of every heart, we should very
likely find that all draw blanks, and even what looks like prizes are
not."

Levi laughed after this sweeping announcement. It appeared to put him in
a good temper. He even relaxed in the gravity of his prophecies.

"However, life is on the side of youth," he said, "and you may come to
the front some day, if you've got enough brains. Brains is the only
thing that'll save you. Your mother's clever and your father's crafty,
so perhaps you'll go one better than either. Perhaps, some day, if you
wait long enough, you'll get back on your father, after all."

"I will wait long enough," declared Abel. "I don't care how long I
wait, but I'll best him, Mister Baggs."

"You keep in that righteous spirit and you'll breed a bit of trouble for
him some day, I daresay. And now be off, and if you want to come and see
me at work and learn about hackling and the business that ought to be
yours but won't be, then you can drop in again when you mind to."

"Thank you, sir," said Abel. "I will come, and if I say you let me,
nobody can stop me."

"That's right. I like brave boys that ain't frightened of their
betters--so called."

Then Abel went off, crossed Bride among the sedges and put on his shoes
and stockings again. He had a great deal to think about, and this brief
conversation played its part in his growing brain to alter old opinions
and waken new ideas. That he had successfully stormed the hackling shop
and found the ogre friendly was, of course, good; but already, and long
before he could retail the incident, it began to lose its rare savour.
He perceived this himself dimly, and it made him uncomfortable and
troubled. Something had happened to him; he knew not what, but it
dwarfed the operations of the Red Hand, and it even made his personal
triumph look smaller than it appeared a little while before.

Abel stared at the Mill while he pulled on his stockings and listened to
the bell calling the people back to work.

By right, then, all these wonders should be his some day; but his father
would never give them to him now. He vaguely remembered that his
grandmother had said something like this; but it remained for Mr. Baggs
to rekindle the impression until Abel became oppressed with its
greatness.

He considered the problem gloomily for a long time and decided to talk
to his mother about it. But he did not. It was characteristic of him
that he seldom went to Sabina for any light on his difficulties. Indeed
he attached more importance to Mr. Churchouse's opinions than his
mother's. He determined to see Levi Baggs again and, meantime, he let a
sense of wrong sink into him. Here the Band of the Red Hand offered
comfort. It seemed proper to his dawning intelligence that one who had
been so badly treated as he, should become the head of the Red Hand.
Yet, as the possible development of the movement occurred to Abel, the
child began to share the uneasiness of all conspiracy and feel a
weakness inherent in the Band. Seen from that modest standard of
evil-doing which belonged to Tommy and Billy Keep, Amos Whittle and
Jacky Gale, the Red Handers appeared a futile organisation even in
Abel's eyes. He felt, as greater than he have felt, that an ideal
society should embrace one member only: himself. There were far too many
brothers of the Red Hand, and before he reached home he even
contemplated resignation. He liked better the thought of playing his own
hand, and keeping both its colour and its purpose secret from everybody
else in the world. His head was, for the moment, full of unsocial
thoughts; but whether the impressions created by Mr. Baggs were likely
to persist in a mind so young, looked doubtful.

He told his mother nothing, as usual. Indeed, had she guessed half that
went on in Abel's brains, she might have sooner undertaken what
presently was indicated, and removed herself and her son to a district
far beyond their native village.

But the necessity did not exist in her thoughts, and when she recognised
it, since the inspiration came from without, she was moved to resent
rather than accept it.




CHAPTER V

AN ACCIDENT


There was a cricket luncheon at 'The Tiger' when Bridport played its
last match for the season against Axminster. The western township had
won the first encounter, and Bridport much desired to cry quits over the
second.

Raymond played on this occasion, and though he failed, the credit of
Bridetown was worthily upheld by Nicholas Roberts, the lathe-worker. He
did not bowl as fast as of yore, but he bowled better, and since
Axminster was out for one hundred and thirty in their first innings,
while Bridport had made seventy for two wickets before luncheon, the
issue promised well.

Job Legg still helped Richard Gurd at great moments as he was wont to
do, for prosperity had not modified Job's activity, or diminished his
native goodwill. Gurd carved, while Job looked after the bottles. Arthur
Waldron, who umpired for Bridport, sat beside Raymond at lunch and
condoled with him, because the younger, who had gone in second wicket
down, had played himself in very carefully before the interval.

"Now you'll have to begin all over again," said Waldron. "I always say
luncheon may be worth anything to the bowlers. It rests them, but it
puts the batsman's eye out."

"Seeing how short of practice you are this year, you were jolly steady,
Ray," declared Neddy Motyer, who sat on the other side of Ironsyde. "You
stopped some very hot ones."

Neddy preserved his old interest in sport, but was now a responsible
member of society. He had married and joined his father, a
harness-maker, in a prosperous business.

"I can't time 'em, like I could. That fast chap will get me, I expect."

And Raymond proved a true prophet. Indeed far worse happened than he
anticipated.

Estelle came to watch the cricket after luncheon. She had driven into
Bridport with her father and Raymond in the morning and gone on to Jenny
Ironsyde for the midday meal. Now she arrived in time to witness a
catastrophe. A very fast bowler went on immediately after lunch. He was
a tall and powerful youth with a sinister reputation for bowling at the
man rather than the wicket. At any rate he pitched them short and with
his lofty delivery bumped them very steeply on a lively pitch. Now, in
his second over, he sent down a short one at tremendous speed, and the
batsman, failing to get out of the way, was hit on the point of the jaw.
He fell as though shot and proved to be quite unconscious when picked
up.

They carried him to the pavilion, and it was not until twenty minutes
had passed that Raymond came round and the game went on. But Ironsyde
could take no further part. There was concussion of doubtful severity
and he found himself half blind and suffering great pain in the neck and
head.

Estelle came to him and advised that he should go to his aunt's house,
which was close at hand. He could not speak, but signified agreement,
and they took him there in an ambulance, while the girl ran on to advise
his aunt of the accident.

A doctor came with him and helped to get him to bed. His mind seemed
affected and he wandered in his speech. But he recognised Estelle and
begged her not to leave him. She sat near him, therefore, in a darkened
room and Miss Ironsyde also came.

Waldron dropped in before dusk with the news that Bridport had won, by a
smaller margin than promised, on the first innings. But he found
Raymond sleeping and did not waken him. Estelle believed the injured man
would want her when he woke again. The doctor could say nothing till
some hours had passed, so she went home, but returned a few hours later
to stop the night and help, if need be, to nurse the patient. A
professional nurse shared the vigil; but their duties amounted to
nothing, for Raymond slept through the greater part of the night and
declared himself better in the morning.

He had to stop with his aunt, however, for two or three days, and while
Estelle, her ministration ended, was going away after the doctor
pronounced Raymond on the road to recovery, the patient begged her to
remain. He appeared in a sentimental vein, and the experience of being
nursed was so novel that Ironsyde endured it without a murmur. To
Estelle, who did not guess he was rather enjoying it, the spectacle of
his patience under pain awoke admiration. Indeed, she thought him most
heroic and he made no effort to undeceive her.

Incidentally, during his brief convalescence the man saw more of his
aunt than he had seen for many days. She also must needs nurse him and
exhaust her ingenuity to pass the time. The room was kept dark for
eight-and-forty hours, so her method of entertaining her nephew
consisted chiefly in conversation.

Of late years Raymond seldom let a week elapse without seeing Miss
Ironsyde if only for half an hour. Her waning health occupied him on
these occasions and, at his suggestion, she had gone to Bath to fight
the arthritis that slowly gained upon her. But during his present
sojourn at Bridport as her guest, Raymond let her lead their talk as she
would, indeed, he himself sometimes led it into channels of the past,
where she would not have ventured to go.

Life had made an immense difference to the man and he was old for his
age now, even as until his brother's death he had been young for his
age. She could not fail to note the steadfastness of his mind, despite
its limitations. As Estelle had often done, she perceived how he set
his faith on material things--the steel and steam--to bring about a new
order and advance the happiness of mankind; but he was interested in
social questions far more than of old time, and she felt no little
surprise to hear him talk about the future.

"The air is full of change," she said, on one occasion.

"It always is," he answered. "There is always movement, although the
breath of advance and progress seems to sink to nothing, sometimes. Now
it's blowing a stiff breeze and may rise to a hurricane in a few years."

"It is for the stable, solid backbone of the nation--we of the
middle-class--to withstand such storms," she declared, and he agreed.

"If you've got a stake in the world, you must certainly see its
foundations are driven deep and look to the stake itself, that it's not
rotting. Some stakes are certainly not made of stuff stout enough to
stand against the storms ahead. Education is the great, vital thing. I
often feel mad to think how I wasted my own time at school, and came to
man's work a raw, ignorant fool. We talk of the education of the masses
and what I see is this: they will soon be better educated than we
ourselves; for we bring any amount of sense and modern ideas to work on
their teaching, while our own prehistorical methods are left severely
alone. I believe the boys who come to working age now are better taught
than I was at my grammar school. I wish I knew more."

"Yet we see education may run us into great dangers," said Jenny
Ironsyde. "It can be pushed to a perilous point. One even hears a murmur
against the Bible in the schools. It makes my blood run cold. And we
need not look farther than dear Estelle to see the peril."

"What do you think of Estelle?" he asked. "I almost welcome this stupid
collapse, nuisance though it is, because it's made a sort of
resting-place and brought me nearer to you and Estelle. You've both been
so kind. A man such as I am, is so busy and absorbed that he forgets
all about women; then suddenly lying on his back--done for and
useless--he finds they don't forget all about him."

"You ask what I think about Estelle?" she said. "I never think about
Estelle--no more than I do about the sunshine, or my comfortable bed, or
my tea. She's just one of the precious things I take for granted. I love
her. She is a great deal to me, and the hours she spends with a rather
old-fashioned and cross-grained woman are the happiest hours I know."

"I'm like her father," he said. "I give Estelle best. Nothing can spoil
her, because she's so utterly uninterested in herself. Another thing:
she's so fair--almost morbidly fair. The only thing that makes her
savage is injustice. If she sees an injustice, she won't leave it alone
if it's in her power to alter it. That's her father in her. What he
calls 'sporting,' she calls 'justice.' And, of course, the essence of
sport is justice, if you think it out."

"I don't know anything about sport, but I suppose I have to thank
cricket for your company at present. As for Estelle. I think she has a
great idea of your judgment and opinion."

He laughed.

"If she does, it's probably because I generally agree with her.
Besides--"

He broke off and lighted a cigarette.

"'Besides' what?" asked the lady.

"Well--oh I hardly know. I'm tremendously fond of her. Perhaps I've
taken her too much as you say we take the sun and our meat and drink--as
a matter of course. Yes, like the sun, and as unapproachable."

Miss Ironsyde considered.

"I suppose you're right. I can well imagine that to the average man a
'Una,' such as Estelle, may seem rather unapproachable."

"We're very good friends, though how good I never quite guessed till
this catastrophe. She seemed to come and help look after me as a matter
of course. Didn't think it a bit strange."

"She's simple, but in a very noble way. I've only one quarrel with
her--the faith of her fathers--"

"Leave it. You'll only put your foot into it, Aunt Jenny."

"Never," she said. "I shall never put my foot into it where right and
wrong are concerned--with Estelle or you, or anybody else. I'm nearly
seventy, remember, Raymond, and one knows what is imperishable and to be
trusted at that age."

Thus she negatived Mr. Churchouse's dictum--that mere age demanded no
particular reverence, since many years are as liable to error as few.

Her nephew was doubtful.

"Right and wrong are a never-ending puzzle," he said. "They vary so from
the point of view. And if you once grant there are more view points than
one, where are you?"

"Right and wrong are not doubtful," she assured him, "and all the
science in the world can't turn one into the other--any more than light
can turn into darkness."

"Light can turn into darkness easily enough. I've learned that during
the last three days," he answered. "If you fill this room with light, I
can't see. If you keep it dark, I can."

Estelle came to tea and read some notes that Mr. Best had prepared for
Raymond. They satisfied him, and the meal was merry, for he found
himself free of pain and in the best spirits. Estelle, too, had some
gossip that amused him. Her father was already practising at clay
pigeons to get his eye in for the first of September; and he wished to
inform Raymond that he was shooting well and hoped for a better season
than the last. He had also seen a vixen and three cubs on North Hill at
five o'clock in the morning of the preceding day.

"In fact, it's the best of all possible worlds so far as father is
concerned," said Estelle, "and now he hears you're coming home early
next week, he will go to church on Sunday with a thankful heart. He said
yesterday that Raymond's accident had a bright side. D'you know what it
is? Ray meant to give up cricket altogether after this year; but father
points out that he cannot do so now. Because it is morally impossible
for Ray to stop playing until he stands up again to that bowler who hurt
him so badly. 'Morally impossible,' is what father said."

"He's quite right too," declared the patient. "Till I've knocked that
beggar out of his own ground for six, I certainly shan't chuck cricket.
We must meet again next season, if we're both alive. Everybody can see
that."




CHAPTER VI

THE GATHERING PROBLEM


Sabina Dinnett found that her mind was not so indifferent to her
fortunes as she supposed. Upon examining it, with respect to the problem
of leaving Bridetown for Abel's sake, which Ernest had now raised, she
discovered a very keen disinclination to depart. Here was the only home
that she, or her child, had ever known, and though that mattered
nothing, she shrank from beginning a new life away from 'The Magnolias'
under the increased responsibility of sole control where Abel was
concerned. Moreover, Mr. Churchouse had more power with Abel than
anybody. The boy liked him and must surely win sense and knowledge from
him, as Sabina herself had won them in the past. She knew that these
considerations were superficial and the vital point in reason was to
separate the son from the father; so that Abel's existing animus might
perish. Both Estelle and Ernest Churchouse had impressed the view upon
her; but here crept in the personal factor, and Sabina found that she
had no real desire to mend the relationship. Considerations of her
child's future pointed to more self-denial, but only that Abel might in
time come to be reconciled to Raymond and accept good at his hands. And
when Sabina thought upon this, she soon saw that her own indifference,
where Ironsyde was concerned, did not extend to the future of the boy.
She could still feel, and still suffer, and still resent certain
possibilities. She trusted that in time to come, when Mr. Churchouse and
Miss Ironsyde were gone, the measure of her son's welfare would be hers.
She was content to see herself depending upon him; but not if his own
prosperity came from his father. She preferred to picture Abel as
making his way without obligations to that source. She might have
married and made her own home, but that alternative never tempted her,
since it would have thrust her off the pedestal which she occupied, as
one faithful to the faithless, one bitterly wronged, a reproach to the
good name--perhaps, even a threat to the sustained prosperity of Raymond
Ironsyde. She could feel all this at some moments.

She determined now to let the matter rest, and when Ernest Churchouse
ventured to remind her of the subject and to repeat the opinion that it
might be wise for Sabina to take the boy away from Bridetown, she
postponed decision.

"I've thought upon it," she said, "and I feel it can very well be left
to the spring, if you see nothing against. I've promised to do some
braiding in my spare time this winter for a firm at Bridport that wants
netting in large quantities. They are giving it out to those who can do
it; and as for Abel, he'll go to his day-school through the winter. And
it means a great deal to me, Mister Churchouse, that you are as good and
helpful to him as you were to me when I was young. I don't want to lose
that."

"I wish I'd been more helpful, my dear."

"You taught me a great many things valuable to know. I should have been
in my grave years ago, but for you, I reckon. And the child's only a
child still. If you work upon him, you'll make him meek and mild in
time."

"He'll never be meek and mild, Sabina--any more than you were. He has
plenty of character; he's good material--excellent stuff to be moulded
into a fine pattern, I hope. But a little leaven leavens the whole lump
of a child, and what I can do is not enough to outweigh other
influences."

"I don't fear for him. He's got to face facts, and as he grows he must
use his own wits and get his own living."

"The fear is that he may be spoiled and come to settled, rooted
prejudices, too hard to break down afterwards. He is a very interesting
boy, just as you were a very interesting girl, Sabina. He often reminds
me of you. There are the possibilities of beauty in his character. He is
sentimental about some things and strangely indifferent about others. He
is a mixture of exaggerated kindness in some directions and utter
callousness in others. Sentimental people often are. He will pick a
caterpillar out of the road to save it from death, and he will stone a
dog if he has a grudge against it. His attitude to Peter Grim is one of
devotion. He actually told me that it was very sad that Peter had now
grown too old to catch mice. Again, he always brings me the first
primrose and spares no pains to find it. Such little acts argue a kindly
nature. But against them, you have to set his unreasoning dislike of
human beings and a certain--shall I say buccaneering spirit."

"He feels, and so he'll suffer--as I did. The more you feel, the more
you suffer."

"And it is therefore our duty to prevent him from feeling mistakenly and
wanting to make others suffer. He may sometimes catch allusions in his
quick ears that cause him doubt and even pain. And it is certain that
the sight of his father does wake wrong thoughts. Removed from here, the
best part of him would develop, and when the larger questions of his
future begin to be considered in a few years time, he might then
approach them with an open mind."

"There can be no harm in leaving it till the spring. He'd hate going
away from here."

"I don't think so. The young welcome a change of environment. There is
nothing more healthy for their minds as a rule than to travel about.
However, we will get him used to the idea of going and think about it
again in the spring."

So the subject was left, and when the suggestion of departing from
Bridetown came to Abel, he belied the prophecy of Mr. Churchouse and
declared a strong objection to the thought of going. His mother
influenced him in this.

During the autumn he had a misfortune, for, with two other members of
the 'Red Hand,' he was caught stealing apples at the time of
cider-making. Three strokes of a birch rod fell on each revolutionary,
and not Ernest Churchouse nor his mother could console Abel for this
reverse. He gleaned his sole comfort at a dangerous source, and while
the kindly ignored the event and the unkindly dwelt upon it, only Levi
Baggs applauded Abel and preached privi-conspiracy and rebellion.
Raymond Ironsyde was much perturbed at the adventure, but his friend
Waldron held the event desirable. As a Justice of the Peace, it was
Arthur who prescribed the punishment and trusted in it.

Thus he, too, incurred Abel's enmity. The company of the 'Red Hand' was
disbanded to meet no more, and if his fellow sufferers gained by their
chastisement, it was certain that Sabina's son did not. Insensate law
fits the punishment to the crime rather than to the criminal, as though
a doctor should only treat disease, without thought of the patient
enduring it.

Neither did Abel's mother take the reverse with philosophy. She resented
it as cruel cowardice; but it reminded her of the advantages to be
gained by leaving her old home.

Then fell an unexpected disaster and Mr. Churchouse was called to suffer
a dangerous attack of bronchitis.

The illness seemed to banish all other considerations from Sabina's mind
and, while the issue remained in doubt, she planned various courses of
action. Incidentally, she saw more of Estelle and Miss Ironsyde than of
late, for Mr. Churchouse, whose first pleasure on earth was now Estelle,
craved her presence during convalescence, as Raymond in like case had
done; and Miss Ironsyde also drove to see him on several occasions. The
event filled all with concern, for Ernest had a trick to make friends
and, what is more rare, an art to keep them. Many beyond his own circle
were relieved and thankful when he weathered danger and began to build
up again with the lengthening days of the new year.

Abel had been very solicitous on his behalf, and he praised the child to
Jenny and Estelle, when they came to drink tea with him on a day in
early spring.

"I believe there are great possibilities in him and, when I am stronger,
I shall resume my attack on Sabina to go away," he said. "The boy's mind
is being poisoned and we might prevent it."

"It's a most unfortunate state of affairs," declared Miss Ironsyde. "Yet
it was bound to happen in a little place like this. Raymond is not
sensitive, or he would feel it far more than he does."

"He can't do more and he does feel it a great deal," declared Estelle.
"I think Sabina sees it clearly enough, but it's very hard on her too,
to have to go from Mister Churchouse and her home."

"Nothing is more mysterious than the sowing and germination of spiritual
seed," said the old man. "The enemy sowed tares by night, and what can
be more devilish than sowing the tares of evil on virgin soil? It was
done long ago. One hesitates to censure the dead, though I daresay, if
we could hear them talking in another world, we should find they didn't
feel nearly so nice about us and speak their minds quite plainly. We
know plenty of people who must be criticising. But truth will out, and
the truth is that Mary Dinnett planted evil thoughts and prejudices in
Abel. He was not too young, unfortunately, to give them room. A very
curious woman--obstinate and almost malignant if vexed and quite
incapable of keeping silence even when it was most demanded. If you are
going to give people confidences, you must have a good memory. Mary
would confide all sorts of secrets to me and then, perhaps six months
afterwards, be quite furious to find I knew them! She came to me for
advice on one occasion and I reminded her of certain circumstances she
had confided to me in the past, and she lost her temper entirely. Yet a
woman of most excellent qualities and most charitable in other people's
affairs."

"The question is Abel, and I have told Sabina she must decide about
him," said Jenny. "We are all of one mind, and Raymond himself thinks it
would be most desirable. As soon as you are well again, Sabina must go."

"I shall miss her very much. To find anybody who will fall into my ways
may be difficult. When I was younger, I used to like training a
domestic. I found it was better to rule by love than fear. You may lose
here and there, but you gain more than you lose. Human character is
really not so profoundly difficult, if you resolutely try to see life
from the other person's standpoint. That done, you can help them--and
yourself through them."

"People who show you their edges, instead of their rounds, are not at
all agreeable," said Miss Ironsyde. "To conquer the salients of
character is often a very formidable task."

"It is," he admitted, "yet I have found the comfortable, convex and
concave characters often really more difficult in the long run. You must
have some hard and durable rock on which to found understanding and
security. The soft, crumbling people may be lovable; but they are
useless as sand at a crisis. They are always slipping away and
threatening to smother their best friends with the debris."

He chattered on until a fit of coughing stopped him.

"You mustn't talk so much," warned Estelle. "It's lovely to hear you
talking again; but it isn't good for you, yet."

Then she turned to Miss Ironsyde.

"The first time I came in and found him reading a book catalogue, I knew
he was going to be all right."

"By the same token another gift has reached me," he answered; "a book on
the bells of Devon, which I have long wanted to possess."

"I'm sure it is not such a perfect book as yours."

"Indeed it is--very excellently done. The bell mottoes in Devonshire
are worthy of all admiration. But a great many of the bells in ancient
bell-chambers are crazed--a grave number. People don't think as much of
a ring of bells in a parish as they used to do."

Miss Ironsyde brought the conversation back to Abel; but Ernest was
tired of this. He viewed Sabina's departure with great personal regret.

"Things will be as they will, my dears," he told them, "and I have such
respect for Sabina's good sense that I shall be quite content to leave
decision with her. It would not become me to dictate or command in such
a delicate matter. To return to the bells, I have received a rather
encouraging statement from the publishers. Four copies of my book have
been sold during the last six months."




CHAPTER VII

THE WALK HOME


Upon a Bank Holiday Sabina took Abel to West Haven for a long day on the
beach and pier. He enjoyed himself very thoroughly, ate, drank and
played to his heart's content. But his amusements brought more pleasure
to the child than his mother, for he found the wonderful old stores and
discovered therein far more entertaining occupation than either sea or
shore could offer.

The place was deserted to-day, and while Sabina sat outside in a corner
of the courtyard and occupied herself with the future, Abel explored the
mysteries of the ancient building and found all manner of strange nooks
and mysterious passages. He wove dreams and magnified the least incident
into an adventure. He inhabited the dark corners and sombre,
subterranean places with enemies that wanted to catch him; he most
potently believed that hidden treasures awaited him under the
hollow-echoing floors. Once he had a rare fright, for a bat hanging
asleep in its folded wings, was wakened by him and suddenly flew into
his face. He climbed and crawled and crept about, stole a lump of putty
and rejoiced at the discovery of some paint pots and a brush. The 'Red
Hand' no longer existed; but the opportunity once more to set up its
sinister symbol was too good to resist. He painted it on the walls in
several places and then called his mother to look at the achievement.

She climbed up a long flight of stone steps that led to the lofts, and
suffered a strange experience presently, for the child was playing in
the chamber sacred to her surrender. She stood where twelve years before
she had come with Raymond Ironsyde after their day at Golden Cap.

Light fell through a window let into the roof. It was broken and
fringed with cobwebs. The pile of fishermen's nets had vanished and a
carpenter's bench had taken its place. On the walls and timbers were
scrawled names and initials of holiday folk, who had explored the old
stores through many years.

Sabina, perceiving where she stood, closed her eyes and took an
involuntary step backward. Abel called attention to his sign upon the
walls.

"The carpenter will shiver when he sees that," he said.

Then he rambled off, whistling, and she sat down and stared round her.
She told herself that deep thoughts must surely wake under this sudden
experience and the fountains of long sealed emotion bubble upwards, to
drown her before them. Instead she merely found herself incapable of
thinking. A dull, stale, almost stagnant mood crept over her. Her mind
could neither walk nor fly. After the first thrill of recognition, the
light went out and she found herself absolutely indifferent. Not anger
touched her, nor pain. That the child of that perished passion should
play here, and laugh and be merry was poignant, but it did not move her
and she felt a sort of surprise that it should not. There was a time
when such an experience must have shaken her to the depths, plunged her
into some deep pang of soul and left indelible wounds; now, no such
thing happened.

She gazed mildly about her and almost smiled. Then she rose from her
seat on the carpenter's bench, went out and descended the staircase
again.

When she called him to a promised tea at an inn, Abel came at once. He
was weary and well content.

"I shall often come here," he said. "It's the best place I know--better
than the old kiln on North Hill. I could hide there and nobody find me,
and you could bring me food at night."

"What do you want to hide for, pretty?" she asked.

"I might," he answered and looked at her cautiously For a moment he
seemed inclined to say more, but did not.

After tea they set out for home, and the fate, which, through the
incident of the old store, had subtly prepared and paved a way to
something of greater import, sent Raymond Ironsyde. They had passed the
point at which the road from West Haven converges into that from
Bridport, and a man on horseback overtook them. They were all going in
the same direction and Abel, as soon as he saw who approached, left his
mother, went over a convenient gate upon their right and hastened up a
hedge. Thus he always avoided his father, and when blamed for so doing,
would silently endure the blame without explanation or any offer of
excuse. Raymond had seen him thus escape on more than one occasion, and
the incident, clashing at this moment upon his own thoughts, prompted
him to a definite and unusual thing. The opportunity was good; Sabina
walked alone, and if she rebuffed him, he could endure the rebuff.

He determined to speak to her and break a silence of many years. The
result he could not guess, but since he was actuated by friendly motives
alone, he hoped the sudden inspiration might prove fertile of good. At
worse she could only decline his advance and refuse to speak with him.

Their thoughts that day, unknown to each, had been upon the other and
there was some emotion in the man's voice when he spoke, though none in
hers when she answered. For to him that chance meeting came as a
surprise and prompted him to a sudden approach he might not have
ventured on maturer consideration; to her it seemed to carry on the
experience of the day and, unguessed by Raymond, brought less amazement
than he imagined. She was a fatalist--perhaps, had always been so, as
her mother before her; yet she knew it not. They had passed and repassed
many times during the vanished years; but since the moment that she had
dismissed him with scorn and hoped her child would live to insult his
grave, they had never spoken.

He inquired now if he might address her.

"May I say a few words to you?" he asked.

Not knowing what was in her mind, he felt surprised at her conventional
reply.

"I suppose so, if you wish to do so."

Her voice seemed to roll back time. Yet he guessed her to be less
indifferent than her words implied.

He dismounted and walked beside her.

"I dare say you can understand a little what I feel, when I see that
child run away whenever he sets eyes on me," he began; but she did not
help him. His voice to her ear was changed. It had grown deeper and
hardened. It was more monotonous and did not rise and fall as swiftly as
of old.

"I don't know at all what you feel about him. I didn't know that you
felt anything about him."

This was a false note and he felt pained.

"Indeed, Sabina, you know very well I want his friendship--I need it
even. Before anything I wish to befriend him."

"You can't help him. He's a very affectionate child and loves me dearly.
You wouldn't understand him. He's all heart."

He marked now the great change in Sabina. Her voice was cold and
indifferent. But a cynic fate willed this mood. Had she not spent the
day at West Haven and stood in the old store, it is possible she might
have listened to him in another spirit.

"I know he's a clever boy, with plenty of charm about him. And I do
think, whatever you may feel, Sabina, it is doubtfully wise of you to
stand between him and me."

"If you fancy that, it is a good thing you spoke," she answered.
"Because nothing further from the truth could be. I don't stand between
him and you. I've never influenced him against you. He's heard nothing
but the fact that you're his father from me. I've been careful to leave
it at that, and I've never answered more than the truth to his many
questions."

"It is a very great sorrow to me, and it will largely ruin my life if I
cannot win his friendship and plan his future."

"A child's friendship is easily won. If he denies it, you may be sure it
is for a natural instinct."

"Such an instinct is most unnatural. He has had nothing but friendly
words and friendly challenges from me."

She felt herself growing impatient. It was clear that he had spoken out
of interest for the child alone, and any shadowy suspicion that he
designed to declare interest in herself departed from Sabina's mind.

"Well, what's that to me? I can't alter him. I can't make him regard you
as a hero and a father to be proud of. He's not hard-hearted or anything
of that. He's pretty much like other boys of his age--more sensitive,
that's all. He can suffer very sharply and bitterly and he did when that
cruel, blundering fool at North Hill House had him whipped. He gets the
cursed power to suffer from his mother. And, such is his position in the
world, that his power to suffer no doubt will be proved to the utmost."

"I don't want him to suffer. At least it is in my reach to save him a
great deal of needless suffering."

"That's just what it isn't--not with his nature. He'd rather suffer than
be beholden to you for anything. Young as he is, he's told me so in so
many words. He knows he's different from other boys--already he knows
it--and that breeds bitterness. He's like a dog that's been ill-treated
and finds it hard to trust anybody in consequence. Unfortunately for
you, he's got brains enough to judge; and the older he grows, the harder
he'll judge."

"That's what I want to break down, Sabina. It's awfully sad to feel,
that for a prejudice against things that can't be altered, he should
stand in his own light and be a needless martyr and make me a greater
villain than I am."

"Are you a villain? If you are, it isn't my child that made you one--nor
me, either. No doubt it's awkward to see him running about and breathing
the same air with you."

He felt an impulse of anger, but easily checked it.

"You're rather hard on me, I think. It's a great deal more than awkward
to have my child take this line. It's desperately sad. And you must
know--thinking purely and only of him--that nothing can be gained and
much lost by it. You say he'll hate me more as he grows older. But isn't
that a thing to avoid? What good comes into the world with hate? Can't
you see that it's your place, Sabina, to use your influence on my side?"

"My God!" she said, "was there ever such a selfish man as you! Out of
your own mouth you condemn yourself, for it's your inconvenience and
discomfort that's troubling you--not his fate. He's a living witness
against you--a running sore in your side--and that's why you want his
friendship, to ease yourself and heal your conscience. Anybody could see
that."

He did not answer; but this indictment astonished him. Could she still
be so stern after the years that had swept over their quarrel?

"You wrong me there, Sabina. Indeed, it's not for my own comfort only,
but much more largely for his that I am so much concerned. Surely we can
meet on the common ground of his welfare and leave the rest?"

"What common ground is there? Why must I think your friendship and your
money are the best possible things for him? Why should I advise him to
take what I refused for myself twelve years and more ago? You offered me
your friendship and your money--as a substitute for being your wife. You
were so stark ignorant of the girl you'd promised to marry, that you
offered her cash and the privilege of your company after your child was
born. And now you offer your child cash and the privilege of your
company--that's all. You deny him your name, as you denied his mother
your name; and why should he pick up the crumbs from your table that his
mother would have starved rather than eaten? I've never spoken against
you to him and never shall, but I'm not a fool now--whatever I was--and
I'm not going to urge my son to seek you and put his little heart into
your keeping; because well I know what you do with hearts. I'm outside
your life and so is he; and if he likes to come into your life, I shan't
prevent it. I couldn't prevent it. He'll do about it as he chooses, when
he's old enough to measure it up. But I'm not for you, or against you.
I'm only the suffering sort, not the fighting sort. You know whether you
deserve the love and worship of that little, nameless boy."

He was struck into silence, not at her bitter words, but at his own
thoughts. For he had often speculated on future speech with her and
wondered when it would happen and what it would concern. He had hoped
that she would let the past go and be his friend again on another plane.
He had pictured some sort of amity based on the old romance. He had
desired nothing so much in life as a friendly understanding and the
permission to contribute to the ease and comfort of Sabina and the
prosperity of his son. He hoped that in course of time and faced with
the rights of the child, she would come round. He had pictured her
coming round. But now it seemed that he was not to plan their future on
his own terms. What he offered had not grown sweeter to her senses. No
gifts that he could devise would be anything but poor in the light of
the unkind past. And that light burned steadfastly still. She was not
changed. As he listened to her, it seemed that she was merely picking up
the threads where they were dropped. He feared that if he stopped much
longer beside her, she would come back to the old anger and wake into
the old wrath.

"I'd dearly hoped that you didn't feel like that, any more. You've got
right on your side up to a point, though human differences are so
involved that it very seldom happens you can get a clean cut between
right and wrong. However, the time is past for arguing about that,
Sabina. Granted you are right in your personal attitude, don't carry it
on into the next generation and assume I cannot even yet, after all
these years, be trusted to befriend my own child."

"He's only your child in nature. He's only your child because your
blood's in his veins. He's my child, not yours."

"But if I want to make him mine? If I want to lift him up and assure his
future? If I want to assume paternity--claim it, adopt him as my son--to
succeed me some day?"

"He must decide for himself whether that's the high-water mark for his
future life--to be your adopted son. We can't have it all our own way in
this world--not even you, I suppose. A child has to have a mother as
well as a father, and a mother's got her rights in her child. Even the
law allows that."

"Who'd deny them, Sabina? You're possessed, as you always were, with the
significance of legal marriage. You don't know that marriage is merely a
human contrivance and, nine times out of ten, an infernally clumsy
makeshift and a long-drawn pretence. Like every other human shift, it is
a thing that gets out-grown by the advance of humanity towards higher
ideals and cleaner liberties. We are approaching a time when the edifice
will be shaken to its mouldering foundations, and presently, while the
Church and the State are wrangling and quibbling, as they soon must be,
over the loathsome divorce laws, these mandarins will wake up to find
the marriage laws themselves are being threatened by a new generation
sick of the archaic tomfoolery that controls them. If you could only
take a larger view and not let yourself be bound down by your own
experience--"

"You'd better go," she said. "If you'd spoken, so twelve years ago on
Golden Cap, and not hid your heart and lied to me and promised what you
never meant to perform, I'd not be walking the world a lonely, despised
woman to-day. And law, or no law, the law of the natural child is the
law of the land--cruel and vile though it may be."

"I'll go, Sabina; but I must say what I want to say, first. I must stand
up for Abel--even against you. Childish impressions and dislikes can be
rooted out if taken in time; if left to grow, they get beyond reach. So
I ask you to think of him. And don't pretend to yourself that my
friendship is dangerous, or can do him anything but good. I'm very
different from what I was. Life hasn't gone over me for nothing. I know
what's right well enough, and I know what I owe your son and my son, and
I want to make up to him and more than make up to him for his
disadvantages. Don't prevent me from doing that. Give me a chance,
Sabina. Give me a chance to be a good father to him. Your word is law
with him, and if you left Bridetown and took him away from all the
rumours and unkind things he may hear here, it would let his mind grow
empty of me for a few years; and then, when he's older and more
sensible, I think I could win him."

"You want us away from this place."

"I do. I never should have spoken to you until I knew you wished it, but
for this complication; but since the boy is growing up prejudiced
against me, I do feel that some strong effort should be taken to nip his
young hatred in the bud--for his sake, Sabina."

"Are you sure it's all for his sake? Because I'm not. They say you think
of nothing on God's earth but machinery nowadays, and look to machines
to do the work of hands, and speak of 'hands' when you ought to speak of
'souls.' They say if you could, you'd turn out all the people and let
everything be done by steam and steel. There's not much humanity in you,
I reckon. And why should you care for one little, unwanted boy?
Perhaps, if you looked deeper into yourself, you'd find it was your own
peace, rather than his, that's making you wish us away from Bridetown.
At any rate, that's how one or two have seen and said it, when they
heard how everybody was at me to go. I've had to live down the past for
long, slow, heart-breaking years and seen the fingers pointed at me; and
now, with the child growing up, it's your turn I daresay, and you--so
strong and masterful--have had enough of pointing fingers and mean to
pack us out of our home--for your comfort."

He stared at her in the gathering dusk and stood and uttered a great
sigh from deep in his lungs.

"I'm sorry for you, Sabina--sorrier than I am for myself. This is cruel.
I didn't know, or dream, that time had stood still for you like this."

"Time ended for me--then."

"For me it had to go on. I must think about this. I didn't guess it was
like this with you. Don't think I want you away; don't think you're the
only thorn in my pillow and that I'm not used to pain and anxiety, or
impatient of all the implicit meaning of your lonely life. Stop, if you
want to stop. I'll see you again, Sabina, please. Now I'll be gone."

When he had mounted his horse and ridden away without more words from
her, Abel, who had been lurking along on the other side of the hedge,
crept through it and rejoined his mother.

They walked on in silence for some time. Then the child spoke.

"Fancy your talking to Mister Ironsyde, mother!"

"He talked to me."

"I lay you dressed him down then?"

"I told him the truth, Abel. He wants everything for nothing, Mister
Ironsyde does. He wants you--for nothing."

"He's a beast, and I hate him, and he'll know I hate him some day."

"Don't hate him. He's not worth hating."

"I will hate him, I tell you. But for him I'd be the great man in
Bridetown when he dies. Mister Baggs told me that."

"You mustn't give heed to what people say. You've got mother to look
after you."

The boy was tired and spoke no more. He padded silently along beside her
and presently she heard him laugh to himself. His thoughts had wandered
back to the joy of the old store.

And she was thinking of what had happened. She, too, even as Raymond,
had imagined what speech would fall out between them after the long
years and wondered concerning the form it would take. She had imagined
no such conversation as this. Half of her regretted it; but the other
half was glad. He had gone on, but it was well that he should know she
had stood still. Could there be any more terrible news for him than to
hear that she had stood still--to feel that he had turned a living woman
into a pillar of stone?




CHAPTER VIII

EPITAPH


It cannot be determined by what train of reasoning Abel proceeded from
one unfortunate experience to create another, or why the grief
incidental on a loss should now have nerved him to an evil project long
hidden in his thoughts. But so it was; he suffered a sorrow and, under
the influence of it, found himself strong enough to attempt a crime.

There was no sort of connection between the two, for nothing could bear
less upon his evil project than the death of Mr. Churchouse's old cat;
yet thus it fell out and the spirit of Abel reacted to his own tears.

He came home one day from school to learn how the sick cat prospered and
was told to go into the study. His mother knew the child to be much
wrapped up in Peter Grim, and dreading to break the news, begged Mr.
Churchouse to do so.

"Your old playfellow has left us, daddy," said Ernest. "I am glad to say
he died peacefully while you were at school. I think he only had a very
little bit of his ninth and last life left, for he was fifteen years old
and had suffered some harsh shocks."

"Dead?" asked Abel with a quivering mouth.

"And I think that we ought to give him a nice grave and put up a little
stone to his memory."

Thus he tried to distract the boy from his loss.

"We will go at once," he said, "and choose a beautiful spot in the
garden for his grave. You can take one of those pears and eat it while
we search."

But Abel shook his head.

"Couldn't eat and him lying dead," he answered. He was crying.

They went through the French window from the study.

"Do you know any particular place that he liked?"

Slowly the child's sorrow lessened in the passing interest of finding
the grave.

"You must dig it, please, when you come back from afternoon school."

Abel suggested spots not practical in the other's opinion.

"A more secluded site would be better," he declared. "He was very fond
of shade. In fact, rather a shady customer himself in his young days.
But not a word against the dead. His old age was dignified and
blameless. You don't remember the time when he used to steal chickens,
do you?"

"He never did anything wrong that I know of," said Abel. "And he always
came and padded on my bed of a morning, like as if he was riding a
bicycle--and--and--"

He wept again.

"If I thought anybody had poisoned him, I'd poison them," he said.

"Think no such thing. He simply died because he couldn't go on living.
You shall have another cat, and it shall be your own."

"I don't want another cat. I hate all other cats but him."

They found a spot in a side walk, where lily of the valley grew, and
later in the day Abel dug a grave.

Estelle happened to visit Mr. Churchouse and he explained the tragedy.

"If you attend the funeral, the boy might tolerate you," he said. "Once
break down his suspicion and get to his wayward heart, good would come
of it He is feeling this very much and in a melting mood."

"I'll stop, if he won't be vexed."

Mr. Churchouse went into the garden and praised Abel's energies.

"A beautiful grave; and it is right and proper that Peter Grim should
lie here, because he often hunted here."

"He caught the mice that live in holes at the bottom of the wall," said
Abel.

"If you are ready, we will now bury him. Mother must come to the
funeral, and Estelle must come, because she was very, very fond of poor
Peter and she would think it most unkind of us if we buried him while
she was not there. She will bring some flowers for the grave, and you
must get some flowers, too, Abel. We must, in fact, each put a flower on
him."

The boy frowned at mention of Estelle, but forgot her in considering the
further problem.

"He liked the mint bed. I'll put mint on him," he said.

"An excellent thought. And I shall pluck one of the big magnolias
myself."

Returning, Ernest informed Estelle that she must be at the funeral and
she went home for a bunch of blossoms to grace the tomb. She picked
hot-house flowers, hoping to propitiate Abel. There woke a great hope in
her to win him. But she failed.

He glowered at her when she appeared walking beside his mother, while
before them marched Mr. Churchouse carrying the departed. When the
funeral was ended and Abel left alone, he sat down by the grave, cried,
worked himself into a very mournful mood and finally exhibited anger.
Why he was angry he did not know, or against whom his temper grew; but
his great loss woke resentment. When he felt miserable, somebody was
always blamed by him for making him feel so. No immediate cause for
quarrel with anything smaller than fate challenged his unsettled mind;
then his eyes fixed upon Estelle's flowers, and since Estelle was always
linked in his thoughts with his father, and his father represented an
enemy, he began to hate the flowers and wish them away. He heard his
mother calling him, but hid from her and when she was silent, came back
to the grave again.

Meantime Estelle and Ernest drank tea and spoke of Abel.

"When grief has relaxed the emotions, we may often get in a kindly word
and give an enemy something to think about afterwards," he said. "But
the boy was obdurate. He is the victim of confused thinking--precocious
to a degree in some directions, but very childish in others. At times he
alarms me. Poor boy. You must try again to win him. The general
sentiment is that the young should be patient with the old; but for my
part I think it is quite as difficult sometimes for the old to be
patient with the young."

He turned to his desk.

"When I found my dear cat was not, I composed an epitaph for him,
Estelle. I design to have it scratched on a stone and set above his
sleeping place."

"Do let me hear it," she said, and Ernest, fired with the joy of
composition, read his memorial verse.

"Criticise freely," he said. "I value your criticism and you understand
poetry. Not that this is a poem--merely an epitaph; but it may easily be
improved, I doubt not."

He put on his glasses and read:

"'Ended his mingled joy and strife,
  Here lies the dust of Peter Grim.
  Though life was very kind to him,
  He proved not very kind to life.'"

Estelle applauded.

"Perfect," she said. "You must have it carved on his tombstone."

"I think it meets the case. I may have been prejudiced in my affection
for him, owing to his affection for me. He came to me at the age of five
weeks, and his attitude to me from the first was devoted."

"Cats have such cajoling ways."

"He was not himself honest, yet, I think, saw the value of honesty in
others. Plain dealers are a temptation to rogues and none, as a rule, is
a better judge of an honest man than a dishonest cat."

"He wasn't quite a rogue, was he?"

"He knew that I am respected, and he traded on my reputation. His life
has been spared on more than one occasion for my sake."

"On the whole he was not a very model cat, I'm afraid," said Estelle.

"Yes, that is just what he was: a model--cat."

They went out to look at the grave again, and something hurried away
through the bushes as they did so.

"Friends, or possibly enemies," suggested Mr. Churchouse, but Estelle,
sharper-eyed, saw Abel disappear. She also noted that her bouquet of
flowers had gone from Peter's mound.

"Oh dear, he's taken away my offering," she said.

"What a hard-hearted boy! Are there no means of winning him?"

They spoke of Abel and his mother.

"We all regretted her decision to stop. It would have been better if she
had gone away."

"Raymond saw her some time ago."

"So she told me; and so did he. Misfortune seems to dog the situation,
for I believe Sabina was half in a mind to take our advice until that
meeting. Then she changed. Apparently she misunderstood him."

"Ray was very troubled. Somehow he made Sabina angry--the last thing he
meant to do. He's sorry now that he spoke. She thought he was
considering himself, and he really was thinking for Abel."

"We must go on being patient. Next year I shall urge her to let Abel be
sent to a boarding-school. That will be a great advantage every way."

So they talked and meantime Abel's sorrow ran into the channels of
evil. It may be that the presence of Estelle had determined this
misfortune; but he was ripe for it and his feeling prompted him to let
his misery run over, that others might drink of the cup. He had long
contemplated a definite deed and planned a stroke against Raymond
Ironsyde; but he had postponed the act, partly from fear, partly because
the thought of it was a pleasure. Inverted instincts and a mind fouled
by promptings from without, led him to understand that Ironsyde was his
mother's enemy and therefore his own. Baggs had told him so in a
malignant moment and Abel believed it. To injure his enemy was to honour
his mother. And the time had come to do so. He was ripe for it to-night.
He told himself that Peter Grim would have approved the blow, and with
his mind a chaos of mistaken opinions, at once ludicrous and mournful,
he set himself to his task. He ate his supper as usual and went to bed;
but when the house was silent in sleep, he rose, put on his clothes and
hastened out of doors. He departed by a window on the ground floor and
slipped into a night of light and shade, for the moon was full and rode
through flying clouds.

The boy felt a youthful malefactor's desire to get his task done as
swiftly as possible. He was impatient to feel the deed behind him. He
ran through the deserted village, crossed a little bridge over the
river, and then approached the Mill by a meadow below them. Thus he
always came to see Mr. Baggs, or anybody who was friendly.

The roof of the works shone in answer to fitful moonlight, and they
presented to his imagination a strange and unfamiliar appearance. Under
the sleight of the hour they were changed and towered majestically above
him. The Mill slept and in the creepy stillness, the river's voice,
which he had hardly heard till now, was magnified to a considerable
murmur. From far away down the valley came the song of the sea, where a
brisk, westerly wind threw the waves on the shingle.

A feeling of awe numbed him, but it was not powerful enough to arrest
his purpose. His plans had been matured for many days.

He meant to burn down the Mill.

Nothing was easier and a match in the inflammable material, of which the
hackler's shop was usually full, must quickly involve the mass of the
buildings.

It was fitting that where he had been impregnated by Mr. Baggs with much
lawless opinion, Abel should give expression to his evil purpose. From
the tar-pitched work-room of the hackler, fire would very quickly leap
to the main building against which it stood, and might, indeed, under
the strong wind, involve the stores also and John Best's dwelling
between them. But it was fated otherwise. A very small incident served
to prevent a considerable catastrophe, and when Abel broke the window of
the hackling room, turned the hasp, raised it, and got in, a man lay
awake in pain not thirty yards distant. The lad lighted a candle, which
he had brought with him, and it was then, while he collected a heap of
long hemp and prepared to set it on fire, that John Best, in torture
from toothache, went downstairs for a mouthful of brandy.

Upon the staircase he passed a window and, glancing through it, he saw a
light in the hackling shop. It was not the moon and meant a presence
there that needed instant explanation. Mr. Best forgot his toothache,
called his sailor son, who happened to be holiday-making at home, and
hastened as swiftly and silently as possible over the bridge to the
Mill. John Best the younger, an agile man of thirty, may be said to have
saved the situation, for he was far quicker than his father could be and
managed to anticipate the disaster by moments. Half a minute more might
have made all the difference, for the heap of loose hemp and stricks
once ignited, no power on earth could have saved a considerable
conflagration; but the culprit had his back turned to the window and was
still busily piling the tow when Best and his son looked in upon him,
and the sailor was already half through the window before Abel
perceived him. The youngster dashed for his candle, but he was too late,
a pair of strong hands gripped his neck roughly enough, and he fainted
from the shock.

They took him out as he had gone in, for the door was locked and Levi
Baggs had the key. Then the sailor went back to his home, dressed
himself and started for a policeman, while Mr. Best kept guard over
Abel.

When he came to his senses, the boy found himself in the moonlight with
a dozen turns of stout fisherman's twine round his hands and ankles The
foreman stood over him, and now that the house was roused, his wife had
brought John a pair of trousers and a great coat, for he was in his
night shirt.

"You'll catch your death," she said.

"It's only by God's mercy we didn't all catch our death," he answered.
"Here's Sabina Dinnett's boy plotted to destroy the works, and we've yet
to find whether he's the tool of others, or has done the deed on his
own."

"On my own I did it," declared Abel; "and I'll do it yet."

"You shut your mouth, you imp of Satan!" cried the exasperated man. "Not
a word, you scamp. You've done for yourself now, and everybody knew
you'd come to it, sooner or later."

In half an hour Abel was locked up, and when Mr. Baggs heard next
morning concerning the events of the night, he expressed the utmost
surprise and indignation.

"Young dog! And after the friend I've been to him. Blood will tell.
That's his lawless father coming out in the wretch," he said.




CHAPTER IX

THE FUTURE OF ABEL


Issues beyond human sight or calculation lay involved in the thing that
Abel Dinnett had done. He had cast down a challenge to society, and
everything depended on how society answered that challenge. Not only did
the child's own future turn on what must follow, but vital matters for
those who were called to act hung on their line of action. That,
however, they could not know. The tremendous significance of the
sinner's future training and the result of what must now happen to him
lay far beyond their prescience.

It became an immediate question whether Abel might, or might not, be
saved from the punishment he had deserved. Beyond that rose another
problem, not less important, and his father doubted whether, for the
child's own sake, it would be well to intervene. Waldron strongly agreed
with him; but Estelle did not, and she used her great influence on the
side of intervention. Miss Ironsyde and Ernest Churchouse were also of
her opinion. Indeed, all concerned, save his mother and Arthur Waldron,
begged Raymond to interfere, if possible.

He did not decide immediately.

"The boy will be sent to a reformatory for five years if I do nothing,"
he told Estelle, "and that's probably the very best thing on earth that
can happen to him. It will put the fear of God into him and possibly
obliterate his hate of me. He's bad all through, I'm afraid."

"No he isn't--far from it. That's the point," she argued. "These things
are a legacy--a hateful legacy from his grandmother. Mister Churchouse
knows him far better than anybody else, and he says there is great
sensibility and power of feeling in him. He's tender to animals."

"That's not much good if he's going to be tough to me. Tell me why his
mother doesn't come to me about him."

"Mister Churchouse says she's in a strange state and doesn't seem to
care. She told him the sins of the fathers were being visited on the
children."

"The sins of the fathers are being visited on the fathers, I should
think."

"That's fair at any rate," she said. "I know just how you must feel.
You've been so patient, Ray, and taken such a lot of trouble. But I
believe it's all part of the fate that links you to the child. His
future is made your business now, whether you will or no. It is thrust
upon you. Nobody but you would be listened to by the law; but you can
give an undertaking and do something to save him from the horror of a
reformatory."

Estelle and Raymond were having tea together at 'The Seven Stars' during
this conversation. Her father was returning home to Bridport by an
evening train and she had driven to meet him. Nelly Legg waited upon
them, and knowing the matter occupied many tongues, Raymond spoke to
her.

"You can guess this is a puzzler, Nelly," he said. "What would you do?
Miss Waldron says it's up to me to try and get the boy off; but the
question is shall I be serving him best that way?"

"My husband and me have gone over it," she confessed; "of course,
everybody has done so. You can't pretend the people aren't interested,
and if one has asked Job his opinion, a hundred have. People bring him
their puzzles and troubles as a sort of habit. From a finger ache to the
loss of a fortune they pour their difficulties into his wise head, and
for patience he's a very good second to the first of the name. And I may
tell you a curious thing, Mister Raymond, for I've seen it happen. As
the folks talk and talk to Legg, they get more and more cheerful and he
gets more and more depressed. Then, after they've let off all their woes
on the man, sometimes they'll have the grace to apologise and say it's
too bad to give him such a dose. And they always wind up by assuring him
he's done them a world of good; but they never stop to think what they
have done to him."

"Vampires of sympathy--blood-suckers," declared Raymond. "Such kindly
men as your husband must pay for their virtues, Nelly."

"Sympathetic people have to work hard," added Estelle.

"Not that he wants the lesser people's gratitude, so long as he has my
admiration," explained Mrs. Legg. "And that he always will have, for
he's more than human in some particulars. And only I know the full
extent of his wonders. A master of stratagems too--the iron hand in the
velvet glove--though if you was to tell half the people in Bridport he's
got an iron hand, they never would believe it. And as to this sad
affair, he's given his opinion and won't change it. You may think him
right or wrong, but so it is."

"And what does he say, Nelly?"

"He says the child may be saved as a brand from the burning if the law
takes its course. He thinks that if you, or anybody, was to go bail for
the child and save him from the consequences of his wicked deed, that a
great mistake would be made. In justice to you I should say that they
don't all agree. Some hope you'll interfere--mostly women."

"What do you think?" asked Raymond.

"As Missis Legg, I think the same as him; and I'll tell you another
thing you may not know. The young boy's mother is by no means sure if
she don't feel the same. My married niece is her friend, and last time
she saw her, Sabina spoke about it. From what Sarah says I think she
feels it might be better for the boy to put him away. I can't say as to
her motives. Naturally she's only concerned as to the welfare of the
child and knows he'll never be trained to any good where he is."

That Sabina had expressed so strong an opinion interested Raymond. But
Estelle refused to believe it.

"I'm sure Sarah misunderstood," she said. "Sabina couldn't mean that."

They went to the station presently, met Arthur Waldron and drove him
home. Estelle urged Raymond to see Sabina before he decided what to do;
and since little time was left before he must act, he went to 'The
Magnolias' that evening and begged for an interview.

Sabina had a small sitting-room of her own in which evidence of Abel did
not lack. Drawings that he had made at school were hung on the walls,
and a steam-engine--a present from Mr. Churchouse on his twelfth
birthday--stood upon the mantel-shelf.

"It's just this, Sabina," he said; "I won't keep you; but I feel the
future of the boy is in the balance and I can't do anything without
hearing your opinion. And first I want you to understand I have quite
forgiven him. He's not all to blame. Certain fixed, false ideas he has
got. They were driven into him at his most impressionable age; and until
his reason asserts itself no doubt he'll go on hating me. But that'll
all come right. I don't blame you for it."

"You should blame me all the same," she said. "It's as much me in his
blood as his grandmother at his ear, that turned him to hate you. I
don't hate you now--or anybody, or anything. I've not got strength and
fight in me now to hate, or love either. But I did hate you and I was
full of hate before he was born, and the milk was curdled with hate that
fed him. Now I don't care what happens. I can't prevent the future of my
child from shaping itself. The time for preventing things and doing
things and fixing character and getting self-respect is over and past.
What he's done is the natural result of what was done to him. And
who'll blame him? Who'll blame me for being bad and indifferent--wicked
if you like? Life's made me so--hard--cold to others. But I should have
been different if I'd had love and common justice. So would he. It's
natural in him to hate you; and now the poor little wretch will get what
he deserves--same as his mother did before him, and so all's said. What
we deserved, that's all."

"I don't think so. I'm very willing to fight for him if I can do him
good by fighting. The situation is unusual. You probably do not realise
what this means to me. Is there to be no finality in your resentment?
Honestly I get rather tired of it."

"I got rather tired of it twelve years ago."

"You're not prepared to help me, then, or make any suggestion--for the
child's sake?"

"I'll not help, or hinder. I've been looking on so long now that I'm
only fit to look on. My child has everything against him, and he knows
it; and you can't save him from his fate any more than I can. So what's
the good of wasting time talking as though you could? Fate's
fate--beyond us."

"We make our own fate. I may tell you that I should have been largely
influenced by you, Sabina. The question admits of different answers and
I recognise my responsibility. Some say that I must intervene now and
some say that I should not."

"And the only one not asked to give an opinion is Abel himself. A child
is never asked about his own hopes and fears."

"We know what his hopes were--to burn down the Mill. So we may take it
for the present he's not the best judge of what's good for him."

"I've done my duty to him," she said, "and that's all I could do. I'm
very sorry for him, and what love I've got for him is the sort that's
akin to pity. It's contrary to reason that I should take any deep joy in
him, or worship the ground he walks on, like other mothers do towards
their children. For he stands there before me for ever as the sign and
mark of my own failure in life. But I don't think any less of him for
trying to destroy the works. I'd decided about him long ago."

Raymond found nothing to the purpose in this illusive talk. It argued
curious impassivity in Sabina he thought, and he felt jarred to find the
conventional attitude of mother to son was not acknowledged by her.
Estelle had showed far more feeling, had taken a much more active part
in the troubles of Abel. Estelle had spared no pains in arguing for the
child and imploring Ironsyde to exhaust his credit on Abel's behalf.

He told Sabina this and she explained it.

"I dare say she has. A woman can see why, though doubtless you cannot.
It isn't because he's himself that she's active for him; and it isn't
because he's my child, either. It's because he's your child. Your
blood's sacred in her eyes you may be sure. She was a child herself when
you ruined me; she forgets all that. Why? Because ever since she's grown
to womanhood and intelligence to note what happens, you have been a
saint of virtue and the friend of the weak and the champion of the poor.
So, of course, she feels that such a great and good man's son only wants
his father's care to make him great and good too."

"To think you can talk so after all these years, Sabina," he said.

"How should I talk? What are the years to me? You never knew, or
understood, or respected the stuff I was made of; and you'll never
understand your child, either, or the stuff he's made of; and you can
tell the young woman that loves you so much, that she's wrong--as wrong
as can be. Nothing's gained by your having any hand in Abel's future.
You won't win him with sugarplums now, any more than you will with money
later on. He's made of different stuff from you--and better stuff and
rarer stuff. There's very little of you in him and very little of me,
either. He's himself, and the fineness that might have made him a useful
man under fair conditions, is turned to foulness now. Your child was
ruined in the making--not by me, but by you yourself. And such is his
mind that he knows it already. So be warned and let him alone."

"If anything could make me agree with Miss Waldron, Sabina, it would be
what you tell me," he answered. "And if I can live to show you that you
are terribly wrong I shall be glad."

"That you never will."

"At least you'll do nothing to come between us?"

"I never have. I was very careful not to do that. If he can look at you
as a friend presently, I shan't prevent it. I shan't warn him against
you--though I've warned you against him. The weak use poisonous weapons,
because they haven't got the strength to use weapons of might. That's
why he tried to burn down the Mill. He'll be stronger some day."

"He's clever, I'm told, and if we can only interest him in some
intelligent business and find what his bent is, we may fill his mind to
good purpose. At any rate, I thank you for leaving me free to act. Now I
can decide what course to take. It was impossible until I heard what you
felt."

She said no more and he left her to make up his mind. Doubt persisted
there, for he still suspected, that five years in a reformatory might be
better for Abel than anything else. Such an experience he felt would
develop his character, crush his malignant instincts and leave him only
too ready to accept his father as his friend; but against such a fate
for Abel, was his own relationship to the culprit, and the question
whether Raymond would not suffer very far-reaching censure if he made no
effort to come to the boy's rescue. Truest wisdom might hold a severe
course of correction very desirable; but sentiment and public opinion
would be likely to condemn him if he did nothing. People would say that
he had taken a harsh revenge on his own, erring child.

He fumed at a situation intolerable and was finally moved to accept
Estelle's advice. From no considerations for Bridport, or Bridetown, did
she urge his active intervention. For Abel's sake she begged it and was
more insistent than before, when she heard of Sabina's indifference.

"He's yours," she said. "You've been so splendidly patient. So do go on
being patient, and the result will be a fine character and a reward for
you. It isn't what people would say; but if he goes to a reformatory,
far from wanting you and your help when he comes out again, he'll know
in the future that you might have saved him from it and given him a
first-rate education among good, upright boys. But if he went to a
reformatory, he must meet all sorts of difficult boys, like himself, and
they wouldn't help him, and he'd come out harder than he went in."

His heart yielded to her at last, even though his head still doubted,
for Raymond's attitude to Estelle had begun insensibly to change since
his accident in the cricket field. From that time he won a glimpse of
things that apparently others already knew. Sabina, in their recorded
conversation, had bluntly told him that Estelle loved him; and while the
man dismissed the idea as an absurdity, it was certain that from this
period he began to grow somewhat more sentimentally interested in her.
The interest developed very slowly, but this business of Abel brought
them closer together, for she haunted him during the days before the
child came to his trial, and when, perhaps for her sake as much as any
other reason, Raymond decided to undertake his son's defence, her
gratitude was great.

He made it clear to her that she was responsible for his determination.

"I've let you over-rule me, Estelle," he told her. "Don't forget it,
Chicky. And now that the boy will, I hope, be in my hands, you must
strengthen my hands all you can and help me to make him my friend."

She promised thankfully.

"Be sure I shall never, never forget," she said, "and I shall never be
happy till he knows what you really are, and what you wish him. You must
win him now. It's surely contrary to all natural instinct if you can't.
The mere fact that you can forgive him for what he tried to do, ought to
soften his heart."

"I trust more to you than myself," he answered.




CHAPTER X

THE ADVERTISEMENT


Raymond Ironsyde had his way, and local justices, familiar with the
situation, were content not to commit Abel, but leave the boy in his
father's hands. He took all responsibility and, when the time came, sent
his son to a good boarding-school at Yeovil. Sabina so far met him that
the operation was conducted in her name, and since the case of Abel had
been kept out of local papers, his fellow scholars knew nothing of his
errors. But his difficulties of character were explained to those now
set over him, and they were warned that his moral education, while
attempted, had not so far been successful.

Perhaps only one of those concerned much sympathised with Ironsyde in
his painful ordeal. Those who did not openly assert that he was reaping
what he had sown, were indifferent. Some, like Mr. Motyer, held the
incident a joke; one only possessed imagination sufficient to guess what
these public events must mean to the father of Abel. Indeed, Estelle
certainly suffered more for Raymond than he suffered for himself. She
pictured poignantly his secret thoughts and sorrows at this challenge,
and she could guess what it must be to have a child who hated you. In
her maiden mind, however, the man's emotions were exaggerated, and she
made the mistake of supposing that this grievous thing must be
dominating Raymond's existence, instead of merely vexing it. In truth he
suffered, but he was juster than Estelle, and, looking back, measured
his liabilities pretty accurately. He had none but himself to thank for
these inconveniences, and when he weighed them against the alternative
of marriage with Sabina, he counted them as bearable. Abel tried him
sorely, but he did not try him as permanent union with Abel's mother
must have tried him. Since he had renewed speech with her, his
conviction was increased that supreme disaster must have followed
marriage. Moreover, there began to rise a first glimmer of the new
situation already indicated. It had grown gradually and developed more
intensely during his days of enforced idleness in his aunt's house. From
that time, at any rate, he marked the change and saw his old regard and
respect for Estelle wakening into something greater. Her sympathy
quickened the new sentiments. He thought she was saner over Abel than
anybody, for she never became sentimental, or pretended that nothing had
happened which might not have been predicted. Her support was both human
and practical. It satisfied him and showed him her good sense.

Miss Ironsyde had often reminded her nephew that he was the last of his
line, and urged him to take a wife and found a family. That Raymond
should marry seemed desirable to her; but she had not considered Estelle
as a wife for him. Had she done so, Jenny must have feared the girl too
young and too doubtful in opinions to promise complete success and
safety for the master of the Mill. He would marry a mature woman and a
steadfast Christian--so hoped Miss Ironsyde then.

There came a day when Raymond called on Mr. Churchouse. Business brought
him and first he discussed the matter of an advertisement.

"In these days," he said, "the competition grows keener than ever. And I
rather revel in it--as I do in the east wind. It's not pleasant at the
time, but, if you're healthy, it's a tonic."

"And if you're not, it finds the weak places," added Mr. Churchouse. "No
man over sixty has much good to say of the east wind."

"Well, the works are healthy enough and competition is merely a tonic to
us. We hold our own from year to year, and I've reached a conviction
that my policy of ruthlessly scrapping machinery the moment it's even on
the down grade, is the only sound principle and pays in the long run.
And now I want something new in the advertisement line--something not
mechanical at all, but human and interesting--calculated to attract, not
middlemen and retailers, but the person who buys our string and rope to
use it. In fact I want a little book about the romance of spinning, so
that people may look at a ball of string, or shoe-thread, or
fishing-line, intelligently, and realise about one hundredth part of all
that goes to its creation. Now you could do a thing like that to
perfection, Uncle Ernest, because you know the business inside out."

Mr. Churchouse was much pleased.

"An excellent idea--a brilliant idea, Raymond! We must insist on the
romance of spinning--the poetry."

"I don't want it to be too flowery, but just interesting and direct. A
glimpse of the raw material growing, then the history of its
manufacture."

Ernest's eyes sparkled.

"From the beginning--from the very beginning," he said. "Pliny tells us
how the Romans used hemp for their sails at the end of the first
century. Is not the English word 'canvas' only 'cannabis' over again?
Herodotus speaks of the hempen robes of the Thracians as equal to linen
in fineness. And as for cordage, the ships of Syracuse in 200 B.C.--"

He was interrupted.

"That's all right, but what I rather fancy is the development of the
modern industry--here in Dorset."

"Good--that would follow with all manner of modern instances."

Mr. Churchouse drew a book from one of his shelves.

"In Tudor times it was ordered by Act of Parliament that ropes should be
twisted and made nowhere else than here. Leland, that industrious
chronicler, came to grief in this matter, for he calls Bridport 'a fair,
large town,' where 'be made good daggers.' He shows the danger of taking
words too literally, since a 'Bridport dagger' is only another name for
the hangman's rope."

"That's the sort of thing," said Raymond. "An article we can illustrate,
showing the hemp and flax growing in Russia and Italy, then all the
business of pulling, steeping and retting, drying and scutching. That
would be one chapter."

"It shall be done. I see it--I see the whole thing--an elegant brochure
and well within my power. I am fired with the thought. There is only one
objection, however."

"None in the world. I see you know just what I'm after--a little
pamphlet well illustrated."

"The objection is that Estelle Waldron would do it a thousand times
better than I can. She has a more modern outlook and a more modern
touch. I feel confident that with me to supply the matter, she would
produce a much more attractive and readable work."

Raymond considered.

"I suppose she would. I hadn't thought of her."

"Believe me, she would succeed to admiration. For your sake as well as
mine, she would produce a little masterpiece."

"She'd do anything to please you, we all know; but I've no right to
bother her with details of business. Of course, if you do it, it is a
commission and you would name your honorarium, Uncle Ernest."

The old man laughed.

"We'll see--we'll see. Perhaps I should ask too high a price. But
Estelle will not be so grasping. And as to your right to bother her with
the details of business, anything she can do for you is a very great
privilege to her."

"I believe I owe her more than a man can ever pay a woman, already."

"Most men are insolvent to the other sex. Woman's noble tradition is to
give more than she gets, and let us off the reckoning, quite well
knowing it beyond our feeble powers to cry quits with her."

Raymond was moved at this challenge, for in the light that Estelle threw
upon them, women interested him more to-day than they had for ten years.

"One takes old Arthur's daughter for granted rather too much," he said;
"we always take good women for granted too much, I suppose. It's the
other sort who look out we shan't take them for granted, but at their
own valuation. Estelle--she's so many-sided--difficult, too, in some
things."

"She is," admitted Ernest. "And just for this reason. She always argues
on her own basis of perfect ingenuous honesty. She assumes certain
rational foundations for all human relations; and if such bases really
existed, then it would be the best possible world, no doubt, and we
should all do to our neighbour as we would have him do to us. But the
Golden Rule doesn't actuate the bulk of mankind, unfortunately. Men and
women are not as good as Estelle thinks them."

Raymond agreed eagerly.

"You've hit it," he said. "It is just that. She's right in theory every
time; and if people were all as straight and altruistic and
high-principled as she is, there'd really be no more bother about morals
in the world. Native good sense would decide. Even as it is, the native
good sense of mankind is deciding certain questions and will presently
push the lawyers into codifying their mouldy laws, and then give reason
a chance to cleanse the whole archaic lump of them; but as it is,
Estelle--Take Marriage, for example. I agree with her all the way--in
theory. But when you come to view the situation in practice--you're up
against things as they are, and you never want people you love to be
martyrs, however noble the cause. Estelle says the law of sex
relationships is barbaric, and that marriage is being submitted to
increasing rational criticism, which the law and the Church both
conspire to ignore. She thinks that these barriers to progress ought to
be swept away, because they have a vicious effect on the institution and
degrade men and women. She's always got her eye on the future, and the
result is sometimes that she doesn't focus the present too exactly. It's
noble, but not practical."

"The institution of marriage will last Estelle's time, I think,"
declared Mr. Churchouse.

"One hopes so heartily--for her own sake. One knows very well it's an
obsolescent sort of state, and can't bear the light of reason, and must
be reformed, so that intelligent people can enter it in a
self-respecting spirit; but if there is one institution that defies the
pioneers, it is marriage. The law's far too strong for us there. And I
don't want to see her misunderstood."

They parted soon after this speech, and the older man, who had long
suspected the fact, now perceived that Raymond was beginning to think of
Estelle in new terms and elevating her to another place in his thoughts.

It was the personal standpoint that challenged Ironsyde's mind. His old
sentiments and opinions respecting the marriage bond took a very
different colour before the vision of an Estelle united to himself. Thus
circumstances alter opinions, and the theories he had preached to Sabina
went down the wind when he thought of Estelle. The touchstone of love
vitiates as well as purifies thinking.




CHAPTER XI

THE HEMP BREAKER


Ironsyde attached increasing importance to the fullest possible
treatment of the raw material before actual spinning, and was not only
always on the lookout for the best hemps and flaxes grown, but spared no
pains to bring them to the Card and Spread Board as perfect as possible.

To this end he established a Hemp Break, a Hemp Breaker and a Hemp
Softener. The first was a wooden press used to crush the stalks of
retted hemp straw, so that the harl came away and left the fibre clean.
The second shortened long hemp, that it might be more conveniently
hackled and drawn. The third served greatly to improve the spinning
quality of soft hemps by passing them through a system of callender
rollers. There were no hands available for the breakers and softeners,
so Raymond increased his staff. He also took over ten acres of the North
Hill House estate, ploughed up permanent grass, cleaned the ground with
a root crop, and then started to renew the vanishing industry of flax
growing. He visited Belgium for the purpose of mastering the modern
methods, found the soil of North Hill well suited to the crop, and was
soon deeply interested in the enterprise. He first hoped to ret his flax
in the Bride river, as he had seen it retted on the Lys, but was
dissuaded from making this trial and, instead, built a hot water
rettery. His experiments did not go unchallenged, and while the women
always applauded any change that took strain off their muscles and
improved the possibility of rest, the men were indifferent to this
advantage. Mr. Baggs even condemned it.

He came to see the working of the Hemp Breaker, and perceived without
difficulty that its operations must directly tend to diminish his own
labour.

"You'll pull tons less of solid weight in a day, Levi," said Best, "when
this gets going."

"And why should I be asked to pull tons less of solid weight? What's the
matter with this?"

He thrust out his right arm with hypertrophied muscles hard as steel.

"It seems to me that a time's coming when the people won't want muscles
any more," he said. "Steam has lowered our strength standards as it is,
and presently labour will be called to do no more than press buttons in
the midst of a roaring hell of machines. The people won't want no more
strength than a daddy-long-legs; they that do the work will shrink away
till they're gristle and bones, like grasshoppers. And the next thing
will be that they'll not be wanted either, but all will be done by just
a handful of skilled creatures, that can work the machines from their
desks, as easy as the organist plays the organ in church. God help the
human frame then!"

"We shall never arrive at that, be sure," answered Best; "for that's to
exalt the dumb material above the worker, and if things were reduced to
such a pitch of perfection all round, there would be no need of large
populations. But we're told to increase and multiply at the command of
God, so you needn't fear machines will ever lower our power to do so. If
that happened, it would be as much as to say God allowed us to produce
something to our own undoing."

"He allows us to produce a fat lot of things to our own undoing,"
answered the hackler. "Ain't Nature under God's direction?"

"Without doubt, Levi."

"And don't Nature tickle us to our own undoing morning, noon, and night?
Ain't she always at it--always tempting us to go too far along the road
of our particular weakness? And ain't laziness the particular weakness
of all women and most men? 'Tis pandering to laziness, these machines,
and for my part I wish Ironsyde would get a machine to hackle once and
for all. Then I'd leave him and go where they still put muscles above
machinery."

"Funny you should say that," answered the foreman. "He's had the thought
of your retirement in his mind for a good bit now. Only consideration
for your feelings has prevented him dropping a hint. He always likes it
to come from us, rather than him, when anybody falls out."

Mr. Baggs took this with tolerable calm.

"I'll think of it next year," he said. "If I could get at him by a side
wind as to the size of the pension--"

"That's hid with him. He'll follow his father's rule, you may be sure,
and reward you according to your deserts."

"I don't expect that," said Mr. Baggs. "He don't know my deserts."

"Well, I shouldn't be in any great hurry for your own sake," advised
Best. "You're well and hard, and can do your work as it should be done;
but you must remember you've got no resources outside your hackling
shop. Take you away from it and you're a blank. You never read a book,
or go out for a walk, or even till your allotment ground. All you do is
to sit at home and criticise other people. In fact, you're a very
ignorant old man, Baggs, and if you retired, you'd find life hang that
heavy on your hands you'd hardly know how to kill time between meals.
Then you'd get fat and eat too much and shorten your days. I've known it
to happen, where a man who uses his muscles gives up work before his
flesh fails him."

Raymond Ironsyde joined them at this juncture and presently, when Levi
went back to his shop and the Hemp Breaker had been duly applauded, the
master took John Best aside and discussed a private matter.

"The boy has come back for his holidays," he said; and Best, who knew
that when Raymond spoke of 'the boy' he meant Sabina's son, nodded.

"I hope all goes well with him and that you hear good accounts," he
answered.

"The reports are all much the same, term after term. He's said to have
plenty of ability, but no perseverance."

"Think nothing of that," advised the foreman. "Schoolmasters expect boys
to persevere all round, which is more than you can ask of human nature.
The thing is to find out what gets hold of a boy and what he does
persevere at--then a sensible schoolmaster wouldn't make him waste half
his working hours at other things, for which the boy's mind has got no
place. Mechanics will be that boy's strong point, if I know anything
about boys. And I believe all the fearful wickedness that prompted him
to burn the place down is pretty well gone out of him by now."

"I've left him severely alone," said Raymond. "I've said to myself that
not for three whole years will I approach him again. Meantime I don't
feel any too satisfied with the school. I fancy they are a bit soft
there. Private schools are like that. They daren't be too strict for
fear the children will complain and be taken away. But there are others.
I can move him if need be. And I'll ask you, Best, to keep your eye on
him these holidays, as far as you reasonably can, when he comes here. It
is understood he may. Try and get him to talk and see if he's got any
ideas."

"He puts me a good bit in mind of what poor Mister Daniel was at that
age. He's keen about spinning, and if I was to let him mind a can now
and again he'd be very proud of himself."

"Rum that he should like the works and hate me. Yes, he hates me all
right still, for Mister Churchouse has sounded him and finds that it is
so. It's in the young beggar's blood and there seems to be no operation
that will get it out."

Best considered.

"He'll come round. No doubt his schooling is making his mind larger,
and, presently, he'll feel the force of Christianity also; and that
should conquer the old Adam in him. By the same token the less he sees
of Levi, the better. Baggs is no teacher for youth, but puts his own
wrong and rebellious ideas into their heads, and they think it's fine to
be up against law and order. I'll always say 'twas half the fault of
Baggs the boy thought to burn us down; yet, of course, nobody was more
shocked and scandalised than Levi when he heard about it. And until the
boy's come over to your side, he'll do well not to listen to the
seditious old dog."

"Keep him out of the hackling shop, then. Tell him he's not to go
there."

Best shook his head.

"The very thing to send him. He's like that. He'd smell a rat very quick
if he was ordered not to see Baggs. And then he'd haunt Baggs. I shan't
trust the boy a yard, you understand. You mustn't ask me to do that
after the past. But I'm hopeful that his feeling for the craft will lift
him up and make him straight. To a craftsman, his work is often more
powerful for salvation than his faith. In fact, his work is his faith;
and from the way things run in the blood, I reckon that Sabina's son
might rise into a spinner."

"I don't want anything of that sort to happen, and I'm sure she
doesn't."

"There's a hang-dog look in his eyes I'd like to see away," confessed
John. "He's been mismanaged, I reckon, and hasn't any sense of
righteousness yet. All for justice he is, so I hear he tells Mister
Churchouse. Many are who don't know the meaning of the word. I'll do
what I can when he comes here."

"He's old for his age in some ways and young in others," explained
Raymond. "I feel nothing much can be done till he gets friendly with
me."

"You're doing all any man could do."

"At some cost too, John. You, at any rate, can understand what a
ghastly situation this is. There seems no end to it."

"Consequences often bulk much bigger than causes," said Best. "In fact,
to our eyes, consequences do generally look a most unfair result of
causes; as a very small seed will often grow up into a very big tree.
You'll never find any man, or woman, satisfied with the price they're
called to pay for the privilege of being alive. And in this lad's case,
him being built contrary and not turned true--warped no doubt by the
accident of his career--you've got to pay a far heavier price than you
would have been called to pay if you'd been his lawful begetter. But
seeing the difficulty lies in the boy's nature alone, we'll hope that
time will cure it, when he's old enough to look ahead and see which side
his bread's buttered, if for no higher reason."

Ironsyde left the Mill depressed; indeed, Abel's recurring holidays
always did depress him. As yet no hoped-for sign of reconciliation could
be chronicled.

To-day, however, a gleam appeared to dawn, for on calling at 'The
Magnolias' to see Ernest Churchouse, Raymond was cheered by a promised
event which might contain possibilities. Estelle had scored a point and
got Abel to promise to come for a picnic.

"He made a hard bargain though," she said. "He's to light a fire and
boil the kettle. And we are to stop at the old store in West Haven for
one good hour on the road home. I've agreed to the terms and shall give
him the happiest time I know how."

"Is his mother going?"

"Yes--he insists on that. And Sabina will come."

"But don't hope too much of it," said Ernest. "I regard this as the thin
end of the wedge--no more than that. If Estelle can win his confidence,
then she may do great things; but she won't win it at one picnic. I know
him too well. He's a mass of contradictions. Some days most
communicative, other days not a syllable. Some days he seems to trust
you with his secrets, other days he is suspicious if you ask him the
simplest question. He's still a wild animal, who occasionally, for his
own convenience, pretends to be tame."

"I shan't try to tame him," said Estelle. "I respect wild things a great
deal too much to show them the charms of being tame. But it's something
that he's coming, and if once he will let me be his chum in holidays, I
might bring him round to Ray."

She planned the details of the picnic and invited Raymond to imagine
himself a boy again. This he did and suggested various additions to the
entertainment.

"Did Sabina agree easily?" he asked, still returning to the event as
something very great and gratifying.

"Not willingly, but gradually and cautiously."

"She's softer and gentler than she was, however. I can assure you of
that," said Mr. Churchouse.

"She thought it might be a trap at first," confessed Estelle.

"A trap, Chicky! You to set a trap?"

"No, you, Ray. She fancied you might mean to surprise the boy and bully
him."

"How could she think so?"

"I assured her that you'd never dream of any such thing. Of course I
promised, as she wished me to do so, that you wouldn't turn up at the
picnic. I reminded her how very particular you were, and how entirely
you leave it to Abel to come round and take the first step."

"Be jolly careful what you say to him. He's a mass of prejudice, where
I'm concerned, and doesn't even know I'm educating him."

"I'll keep off you," she promised. "In fact, I only intend to give him
as good a day as I can. I'm not going to bother about you, Ray; I'm
going to think of myself and do everything I can to get his friendship
on my own account. If I can do that for a start, I shall be satisfied."

"And so shall I," declared Ernest. "Because it wouldn't stop at that.
If you succeed, then much may come of it. In my case, I can't lift his
guarded friendship for me into enthusiasm. He associates me with
learning to read and other painful preliminaries to life. Moreover, I
have tried to awaken his moral qualities and am regarded with the
gravest suspicion in consequence. But you come to him freshly and won't
try to teach him anything. Join him in his pleasure and add to it all
you can. There is nothing that wins young creatures quicker than sharing
their pleasures, if you can do so reasonably and are not removed so far
from them by age that any attempt would be ridiculous. Fifteen and
twenty-seven may quite well have a good deal in common still, if
twenty-seven is not too proud to confess it."




CHAPTER XII

THE PICNIC


For a long day Estelle devoted herself whole-heartedly to winning the
friendship of Abel Dinnett. Her chances of success were increased by an
accident, though it appeared at first that the misadventure would ruin
all. For when Estelle arrived at 'The Magnolias' in her pony carriage,
Sabina proved to be sick and quite unequal to the proposed day in the
air.

Abel declined to go without his mother, but, after considerable
persuasion, allowed the prospect of pleasure to outweigh his distrust.

Estelle promised to let him drive, and that privilege in itself proved a
temptation too great to resist. His mother's word finally convinced him,
and he drove an elderly pony so considerately that his hostess praised
him.

"I see you are kind to dumb things," she said. "I am glad of that, for
they are very understanding and soon know who are their friends and who
are not."

"If beasts treat me well," he answered, "then I treat them well. And if
they treated me badly, then I'd treat them badly."

She did not argue about this; indeed, all that day her care was to amuse
him and hear his opinions without boring him if she could avoid doing
so.

He remained shy at first and quiet. From time to time she was in a fair
way to break down his reserve; but he seemed to catch himself becoming
more friendly and, once or twice, after laughing at something, he
relapsed into long silence and looked at her from under his eyelids
suspiciously when he thought she was not looking at him. Thus she won,
only to lose what she had won, and when they reached the breezy cliffs
of Eype, Estelle reckoned that she stood towards him pretty much as she
stood at starting. But slowly, surely, inevitably, before such good
temper and tact he thawed a little. They tethered the pony, gave it a
nosebag and then spread their meal. Abel was quick and neat. She noticed
that his hands were like his mother's--finely tapered, suggestive of
art. But on that subject he seemed to have no ideas, and she found,
after trying various themes, that he cared not in the least for music,
or pictures, but certainly shared his father's interest in mechanics.

Abel talked of the Mill--self-consciously at first; yet when he found
that Estelle ignored the past, and understood spinning, he forgot
himself entirely for a time under the spell of the subject.

They compared notes, and she saw he was more familiar than she with
detail. Then, while still forgetting his listener, Abel remembered
himself and his talk of the Mill turned into a personal channel. There
is no more confidential thing, by fits and starts, than a shy child; and
just as Estelle felt the boy would never come any closer, or give her a
chance to help him, suddenly he startled her with the most unexpected
utterance.

"You mightn't know it," he said, "but by justice and right I should have
the whole works for my very own when Mister Ironsyde died. Because he's
my father, though I daresay he pretends to everybody he isn't."

"I'm very sure Mister Ironsyde doesn't feel anything but jolly kind and
friendly to you, Abel. He doesn't pretend he isn't your father. Why
should he? You know he's often offered to be friends, and he even
forgave you for trying to burn down the Mill. Surely that was a pretty
good sign he means to be friendly?"

"I don't want his friendship, because he's not good to mother. He served
her very badly. I understand things a lot better than you might think."

"Well, don't spoil your lunch," she said. "We'll talk afterwards. Are
you ready for another bottle of gingerbeer? I don't like this gingerbeer
out of glass bottles. I like it out of stone bottles."

"So do I," he answered, instantly dropping his own wrongs. "But the
glass bottles have glass marbles in them, which you can use; and so it's
better to have them, because it doesn't matter so much about the taste
after it's drunk."

She asked him concerning his work and he told her that he best liked
history. She asked why, and he gave a curious reason.

"Because it tells you the truth, and you don't find good men always
scoring and bad men always coming to grief. In history, good men come to
grief sometimes and bad men score."

"But you can't always be sure what is good and what is bad," she argued.

"The people who write the histories don't worry you about that," he
answered, "but just tell you what happened. And sometimes you are jolly
glad when a beast gets murdered, or his throne is taken away from him;
and sometimes you are sorry when a brave chap comes to grief, even
though he may be bad."

"Some historians are not fair, though," she said. "Some happen to feel
like you. They hate some people and some ideas, and always show them in
an unfriendly light. If you write history, you must be tremendously fair
and keep your own little whims out of it."

After their meal Estelle smoked a cigarette, much to Abel's interest.

"I never knew a girl could smoke," he said.

"Why not? Would you like one? I don't suppose a cigarette once in a way
can hurt you."

"I've smoked thousands," he told her. "And a pipe, too, for that matter.
I smoked a cigar once. I found it and smoked it right through."

"Didn't it make you ill?"

"Yes--fearfully; but I hid till I was all right again."

He smoked a cigarette, and Estelle told him that his father was a great
smoker and very fond of a pipe.

"But he wouldn't let you smoke, except now and again in holiday
times--not yet. Nobody ought to smoke till he's done growing."

"What about you, then?" asked Abel.

"I've done growing ages ago. I'm nearly twenty-eight."

He looked at her and his eyes clouded. He entered a phase of reserve.
Then she, guessing how to enchant him, suggested the next step.

"If you help me pack up now, we'll harness the pony and go down to West
Haven for a bit. I want to see the old stores I've heard such a lot
about. You must show them to me."

"Yes--part. I know every inch of them, but I can't show you my own
secret den, though."

"Do. I should love to see it."

He shook his head.

"No good asking," he said. "That's my greatest secret. You can't expect
me to tell you. Even mother doesn't know."

"I won't ask, then. I've got a den, too, for that matter--in fact, two.
One on North Hill and one in our garden."

"D'you know the lime-kiln on North Hill?"

"Rather. The bee orchis grows thereabout."

He thought for a moment. "If I showed you my den in the store, would you
swear to God never to tell?"

"Yes, I'd swear faithfully not to."

"Perhaps I will, then."

But when presently they reached his haunt, he had changed his mood. She
did not remind him, left him to his devices and sat patiently outside
while he was hidden within. Occasionally his head popped out of
unexpected places aloft, then disappeared again. Once she heard a great
noise, followed by silence. She called to him and, after a pause, he
shouted down that he was all right.

When an hour had passed she called out again to tell him to come back to
her.

"We're going to Bridport to tea," she said.

He came immediately and revealed a badly torn trouser leg.

"I fell," he explained. "I fell through a rotten ceiling, and I've cut
my leg. When I was young the sight of blood made me go fainty, but I
laugh at it now."

He pulled up his trousers and showed a badly barked shin.

"We'll go to a chemist and get him to wash it, and I'll get a needle and
thread and sew it up," said Estelle.

She condoled with him as they drove to Bridport, but he was impatient of
sympathy.

"I don't mind pain," he said. "I've tried the Red Indian tests on myself
before to-day. Once I had to see a doctor after; but I didn't flinch
when I was doing it."

A chemist dressed the wounded leg and presently they arrived at 'The
Seven Stars,' where the pony was stabled and tea taken in the garden.
Mrs. Legg provided a needle and thread and produced a very excellent
tea.

Abel enjoyed the swing for some time, but would not let Estelle help
him.

"I can swing myself," he said, "but I'll swing you afterwards."

He did so until they were tired. Then he walked round the flower borders
and presently picked Estelle a rose.

She thanked him very heartily and told him the names of the blossoms
which he did not know.

Job came and talked to them for a time, and Estelle praised the garden,
while Abel listened. Then Mr. Legg turned to the boy.

"Holidays round again, young man? I dare say we shall see you
sometimes, and, if you like flowers, you can always come in and have a
look."

"I don't like flowers," said the boy. "I like fruit."

He went back to the swing and Job asked after Mr. Waldron.

Estelle reminded him that he had promised to come and see her garden
some day.

"Be sure I shall, miss," he answered, "but, for the minute, work fastens
on me from my rising up to my going down."

"However do you get through it all?"

"Thanks to method. It's summed up in that. Without method, I should be a
lost man."

"You ought to slack off," she said. "I'm sure that Nelly doesn't like to
see you work so hard."

"She'd work hard too, but Nature and not her will shortens her great
powers. She grows into a mountain of flesh and her substance prevents
activity; but the mind is there unclouded. In my case the flesh doesn't
gain on me and work agrees with my system."

"You're a very wonderful man," declared Estelle; "but no doubt plenty of
people tell you that."

"Only by comparison," he explained. "The wonder is all summed up in the
one word 'method,' coupled with a good digestion and no strong drink.
I'd like to talk more on the subject, but I must be going."

"And tell them to put in the pony. We must be going, too."

On the way home Estelle tried to interest Abel in sport. She had been
very careful all day to keep Raymond off her lips, but now intentionally
she spoke of him. It was done with care and she only named him casually
in the course of general remarks. Thus she hoped that, in time, he would
allow her to mention his father without opposition.

"I think you ought to play some games with your old friends at
Bridetown these holidays," she said.

"I haven't any old friends there. I don't want friends. I never made
that fire you promised."

"You shall make it next time we come out; and everybody wants friends.
You can't get on without friends. And the good of games is that you make
friends. I'm very keen on golf now, though I never thought I should like
sport. Did you play any cricket at school?"

"Yes, but I don't care about it."

"How did you play? You ought to be rather a dab at it."

"I played very well and was in the second eleven. But I don't care about
it. It's all right at school, but there are better things to do in the
holidays."

"If you're a good cricketer, you might get some matches. Your father is
a very good cricketer, and would have played for the county if he'd been
able to practise enough. And Mister Roberts at the mill is a splendid
player."

His nervous face twitched and his instant passion ran into his whip
hand. He gave the astonished pony a lash and made it start across the
road, so that Estelle was nearly thrown from her seat.

"Don't! Don't!" she said. "What's the matter?"

But she knew.

He showed his teeth.

"I won't hear his name--I won't hear it. I hate him, I hate him. Take
the reins--I'll walk. You've spoilt everything now. I always wish he was
dead when I hear his name, and I wish he was dead this minute."

"My dear Abel, I'm sorry. I didn't think you felt so bad as that about
him. He doesn't feel at all like that about you."

"I hate him, I tell you, and I'm not the only one that hates him. And I
don't care what he feels about me. He's my greatest enemy on earth, and
people who understand have told me so, and I won't be beholden to him
for anything--and--and you can stick up for him till you're black in the
face for all I care. I know he's bad and I'll be his enemy always."

"You're a little fool," she said calmly. "Let me drive and you can
listen to me now. If you listen to stupid, wicked people talking of your
father, then listen to me for a change. You don't know anything whatever
about him, because you won't give him a chance to talk to you himself.
If you once let him, you'd very soon stop all this nonsense."

"You're bluffing," he said. "You think you'll get round me like that,
but you won't. You're only a girl. You don't know anything. It's men
tell me about my father. You think he's good, because you love him; but
he's bad, really--as bad as hell--as bad as hell."

"What's he done then? I'm not bluffing, Abel. There's nothing to bluff
about. What's your father done to you? You must have some reason for
hating him?"

"Yes, I have."

"What is it, then?"

"It's because the Mill ought to be mine when he dies--there!"

She did not answer immediately. She had often thought the same thing.
Instinct told her that frankness must be the only course. Through
frankness he might still be won.

He did not speak again after his last assertion, and presently she
answered in a manner to surprise him. Directness was natural to Estelle
and both her father and her friend, Mr. Churchouse, had fostered it.
People either deprecated or admired this quality of her talk, for
directness of speech is so rare that it never fails to appear
surprising.

"I think you're right there, Abel. Perhaps the Mill ought to be yours
some day. Perhaps it will be. The things that ought to happen really do
sometimes."

Then he surprised her in his turn.

"I wouldn't take the Mill--not now. I'll never take anything from him.
It's too late now."

She realised the futility of argument.

"You're tired," she said, "and so am I. We'll talk about important
things again some day. Only don't--don't imagine people aren't your
friends. If you'd only think, you'd see how jolly kind people have been
to you over and over again. Didn't you ever wonder how you got off so
well after trying to burn down the works? You must have. Anyway, it
showed you'd got plenty of good friends, surely?"

"It didn't matter to me. I'd have gone to prison. I don't care what they
do to me. They can't make me feel different."

"Well, leave it. We've had a good day and you needn't quarrel with me,
at any rate."

"I don't know that. You're his friend."

"You surely don't want to quarrel with all his friends as well as him?
We are going to be friends, anyway, and have some more good times
together. I like you."

"I thought I liked you," he said, "but you called me a little fool."

"That's nothing. You were a little fool just now. We're all fools
sometimes. I've been a fool to-day, myself. You're a little fool to hate
anybody. What good does it do you to hate?"

"It does do me good; and if I didn't hate him, I should hate myself,"
the boy declared.

"Well, it's better to hate yourself than somebody else. It's a good sign
I should think if we hate ourselves. We ought to hate ourselves more
than we do, because we know better than anybody else how hateful we can
be. Instead of that, we waste tons of energy hating other people, and
think there's nobody so fine and nice and interesting as we are
ourselves."

"Mister Churchouse says the less we think about ourselves the better.
But you've got to if you've been ill-used."

In the dusk twinkled out a glow-worm beside the hedge, and they stopped
while Abel picked it up. Gradually he grew calmer, and when they parted
he thanked her for her goodness to him.

"It's been a proper day, all but the end," he said, "and I will like you
and be your friend. But I won't like my father and be his friend,
because he's bad and served mother and me badly. You may think I don't
understand such things, but I do. And I never will be beholden to him as
long as I live--never."

He left her at the outer gate of his home and she drove on and
considered him rather hopelessly. He had some feeling for beauty on
which she had trusted to work, but it was slight. He was vain, very
sensitive, and disposed to be malignant. As yet reason had not come to
his rescue and his emotions, ill-directed, ran awry. He was evidently
unaware that his father had so far saved the situation for him. What
would he do when he knew it?

Estelle felt the picnic not altogether a failure, yet saw little signs
of a situation more hopeful at present.

"I can win him," she decided; "but it looks as though his father never
would."




CHAPTER XIII

THE RUNAWAY


Estelle was as good as her word and devoted not a few of his holidays to
the pleasure of Sabina's son. Unconsciously she hastened the progress of
other matters, for her resolute attempt to win Abel, at any cost of
patience and trouble, brought her still deeper into the hidden life and
ambitions of the boy's father.

She was frank with Raymond, and when Abel had gone back to school and
made no sign, Estelle related her experiences.

"He's sworn eternal friendship with me," she said, "but it's not a
friendship that extends to you, or anybody else. He's very narrow. He
concentrates in a terrifying way and wants everything. He told me that
he hated me to have any other friends but him. It took him a long time
to decide about me; but now he has decided. He extracts terrific oaths
of secrecy and then imparts his secrets. Before giving the oaths, I
always tell him I shan't keep them if he's going to confide anything
wicked; but his secrets are harmless enough. The last was a wonderful
hiding-place. He spends many hours in it. I nearly broke my neck getting
there. That's how far we've reached these holidays; and after next term
I shall try again."

"He's got a heart, if one could only reach it, I suppose."

"A very hot heart. I shall try to extend his sympathies when he comes
back."

Her intention added further fuel to the fire burning in Raymond's own
thoughts. He saw both danger and hope in the situation, as it might
develop from this point. The time was drawing nearer when he meant to
ask Estelle to marry him, and since he looked now at life and all its
relations from this standpoint, he began to consider his son therefrom.

On the whole he was cheered by Estelle's achievements and argued well of
them. The danger he set aside, and chose rather to reflect on the hope.
With Abel back at school again and his mother in a more placid temper,
there came a moment of peace. Ironsyde was able to forget them and did
so thankfully, while he concentrated on the task before him. He felt
very doubtful, both of Estelle's response and her father's view. The
girl herself, however, was all that mattered, for Waldron would most
surely approve her choice whatever it might be. Arthur had of late,
however, been giving it as his opinion that his daughter would not
marry. He had decided that she was not the marrying sort, and told
Raymond as much.

"The married state's too limited for her: her energies are too
tremendous to leave any time for being a wife. To bottle Estelle down to
a husband and children is impossible. They wouldn't be enough for her
intellect."

This had been said some time before, when unconscious of Ironsyde's
growing emotions; but of late he had suspected them and was, therefore,
more guarded in his prophecies.

Then came a shock, which delayed progress, for Abel thrust himself to
the front of his mind again. Estelle corresponded with her new friend,
and the boy had heard from her that in future he must thank his father
for his education. She felt that it was time he knew this, and hoped
that he would now be sane enough to let the fact influence him. It did,
but not as she had expected. Instead there came the news that Abel had
been expelled. He deliberately refused to proceed with his work, and,
when challenged, explained that he would learn no more at his father's
expense.

Nothing moved him, and Estelle's well-meant but ill-judged action
merely served to terminate Abel's education for good and all.

The boy was rapidly becoming a curse to his father. Puritans, who knew
the story, welcomed its development and greeted each phase with
religious enthusiasm; but others felt the situation to be growing
absurd. Raymond himself so regarded it, and when Abel returned home
again he insisted on seeing him.

"You can be present if you wish to be," he told Sabina, but she
expressed no such desire. Her attitude was modified of late, and,
largely under the influence of Estelle, she began to see the futility of
this life-enmity declared against Raymond by her son. Of old she had
thought it natural, and while not supporting it had made no effort to
crush it out of him. Now she perceived that it could come to nothing and
only breed bitterness. She had, therefore, begun to tone her
indifference and withhold the little bitter speeches that only fortified
Abel's hate. She had even argued with him--lamely enough--and advised
him not to persist in a dislike of his father that could not serve him
in after life.

But he had continued to rejoice in his hatred. While Estelle hoped with
Sabina to break down his obstinacy, he actually looked forward to the
time when Estelle would hate his enemy also. He had been sorry to see
his mother weakening and even blaming him for his opinions.

But now he was faced with his father under conditions from which there
was no escape. The meeting took place in Mr. Churchouse's study and Abel
was called to listen, whether he would or no. Raymond knew that the
child understood the situation and he did not mince words. He kept his
temper and exhausted his arguments.

"Abel," he said, "you've got to heed me now, and whatever you may feel,
you must use your self-control and your brains. I'm speaking entirely
for your sake and I'm only concerned for your future. If you would use
your reason, it would show you that the things you have done and are
doing can't hurt me; they can only hurt yourself; and what is the good
of hurting yourself, because you don't like me? If you had burned down
the works, the insurance offices would have paid me back all the money
they were worth, and the only people to suffer would have been the men
and women you threw out of work. So, when you tried to hurt me, you were
only hurting other people and yourself. Boys who do that sort of thing
are called embryo criminals, and that's what they are. But for me and
the great kindness and humanity of other men--my friends on the
magistrates' bench--you would have been sent to a reformatory after that
affair; but your fellow creatures forgave you and were very good to me
also, and let you go free on consideration that I would be responsible
for you. Then I sent you to a good school, where nothing was known
against you. Now you have been expelled from that school, because you
won't work, or go on with your education. And your reason is that I am
paying for your education and you won't accept anything at my hands.

"But think what precisely this means. It doesn't hurt me in the least.
As far as I am concerned, it makes not a shadow of difference. I have no
secrets about things. Everybody knows the situation, and everybody knows
I recognise my obligations where you are concerned and wish to be a good
father to you. Therefore, if you refuse to let me be, nobody is hurt but
yourself, because none can take my place. You don't injure my credit;
you only lose your own. The past was past, and people had begun to
forget what you did two years ago. Now you've reminded them by this
folly, and I tell you that you are too old to be so foolish. There is no
reason why you should not lead a dignified, honourable and useful life.
You have far better opportunities than thousands and thousands of boys,
and far better and more powerful friends than ninety-nine boys out of a
hundred.

"Then why fling away your chances and be impossible and useless and an
enemy to society, when society only wants to be your friend? What is the
good? What do you gain? And what do I lose? You're not hurting me; but
you're hurting and distressing your mother. You're old enough to
understand all this, and if your mother can feel as I know she feels and
ask you to consider your own future and look forward in a sensible
spirit, instead of looking back in a senseless one, then surely, for her
sake alone, you ought to be prepared to meet me and turn over a new
leaf.

"For you won't tire out my patience, or break my heart. I never know
when I'm beat, and since my wish is only your good, neither you, nor
anybody, will choke me off it. I ask you now to promise that, if I send
you to another school, you'll work hard and complete your education and
qualify yourself for a useful place in the world afterwards. That's what
you've got to do, and I hope you see it. Then your future will be my
affair, for, as my son, I shall be glad and willing to help you on in
whatever course of life you may choose.

"So that's the position. You see I've given you the credit of being a
sane and reasonable being, and I want you to decide as a sane and
reasonable being. You can go on hating me as much as you please; but
don't go on queering your own pitch and distressing your mother and
making your future dark and difficult, when it should be bright and
easy. Promise me that you'll go back to a new school and work your
hardest to atone for this nonsense and I'll take your word for it. And I
don't ask for my own sake--always remember that. I ask you for your own
sake and your mother's."

With bent head the boy scowled up under his eyebrows during this
harangue. He answered immediately Raymond had finished and revealed
passion.

"And what, if I say 'no'?"

"I hope you won't be so foolish."

"I do say 'no' then--a thousand times I say it. Because if you bring me
up, you get all the credit. You shan't get credit from me. And I'll
bring myself up without any help from you. I know I'm different from
other boys, because you didn't marry my mother. And that's a fearful
wrong to her, and you're not going to get out of that by anything I can
do. You're wicked and cowardly to my mother, and she's Mister
Churchouse's servant, instead of being your wife and having servants of
her own, and I'm a poor woman's son instead of being a rich man's son,
as I ought to be. All that's been told me by them who know it. And
you're a bad man, and I hate you, and I shall always hate you as long as
you live. And I'll never be beholden to you for anything, because my
life is no good now, and my mother's life is no good neither. And if I
thought she was taking a penny of your money, I'd--"

His temper upset him and he burst into tears. The emotion only served to
increase his anger.

"I'm crying for hate," he said. "Hate, hate, hate!"

Raymond looked at the boy curiously.

"Poor little chap, I wish to God I could make you see sense. You've got
the substance and are shouting for the shadow, which you can never have.
You talk like a man, so I'll answer you like a man and advise you not to
listen to the evil tongue of those who bear no kindly thought to me, or
you either. What is the sense of all this hate? Granted wrong things
happened, how are you helping to right the wrong? Where is the sense of
this blind enmity against me? I can't call back the past, any more than
you can call back the tears you have just shed. Then why waste nervous
energy and strength on all this silly hate?"

"Because it makes me better and stronger to hate you. It makes me a man
quicker to hate you. You say I talk like a man--that's because I hate
like a man."

"You talk like a very silly man, and if you grow up into a man hating
me, you'll grow up a bitter, twisted sort of man--no good to anybody. A
man with a grievance is only a nuisance to his neighbours; and seeing
what your grievance is, and that I am ready and willing to do everything
in a father's power to lessen that grievance and retrieve the mistakes
of the past--remembering, too, that everybody knows my good
intentions--you'll really get none to care for your troubles. Instead,
all sensible people will tell you that they are largely of your own
making."

"The more you talk, the more I hate you," said the boy. "If I never
heard your voice again and never saw your face again, still I'd always
hate you. I don't hate anything else in the world but you. I wouldn't
spare a bit of hate for anything but you. I won't be your son
now--never."

"Well, run away then. You'll live to be sorry for feeling and speaking
so, Abel. I won't trouble you again. Next time we meet, I hope you will
come to me."

The boy departed and the man considered. It seemed that harm irreparable
was wrought, and a reconciliation, that might have been easy in
Abel's childhood, when he was too young to appreciate their connection,
had now become impossible, since he had grown old enough to understand
it. He would not be Raymond's son. He declined the filial
relationship--doubtless prompted thereto from his earliest days, first
on one admonition, then at another. The leaven had been mixed with his
blood by his mother, in his infant mind by his grandmother, in his soul
by fellow men as he grew towards adolescence.

Yet from Sabina herself the poison had almost passed away. In the light
of these new difficulties she grew anxious, and began to realise how
fatally Abel's possession was standing in his own light. She loved him,
but not passionately. He would soon be sixteen and her point of view
changed. She had listened long to Estelle and began to understand that,
whatever dark memories and errors belonged to Raymond Ironsyde's past,
he designed nothing but generous goodness for their son in the future.

After the meeting with Abel, Raymond saw Sabina and described what had
occurred; but she could only express her regrets. She declared herself
more hopeful than he and promised to reason with the boy to the best of
her power.

"I've never stood against you with him, and I've never stood for you
with him. I've kept out of it and not influenced for or against," she
said. "But now I'll do more than that; I'll try and influence him for
you."

Raymond was obliged.

"I shall be very grateful to you if you can. If there's any human being
who carries weight with him, you do. Such blistering frankness--such
crooked, lightning looks of hate--fairly frighten me. I had no idea any
young creature could feel so much."

"He's going through what I went through, I suppose," she said. "I don't
want to hurt you, or vex you any more. I'm changed now and tired of
quarrelling with things that can't be altered. When we find the world's
sympathy for us is dead, then it's wiser to accept the situation and
cease to run about trying to wake it up again. So I'll try to show him
what the world will be for the likes of him if he hasn't got you behind
him."

"Do--and don't do it bitterly. You can't talk for two minutes about the
past without getting bitter--unconsciously, quite unconsciously, Sabina.
And your unconscious bitterness hurts me far more than it hurts you. But
don't be bitter with him, or show there's another side of your feelings
about it. Keep that for me, if you must. My shoulders are broad enough
to bear it. He is brimming with acid as it is. Sweeten his mind if it is
in your power. That's the only way of salvation, and the only chance of
bringing him and me together."

She promised to attempt it.

"And if I'm bitter still," she said, "it is largely unconscious, as you
say. You can't get the taste of trouble out of your mouth very easily
after you've been deluged with it and nigh drowned in it, as I have.
It's only an echo and won't reach his ear, though it may reach yours."

"Thank you, Sabina. Do what you can," he said, and left her, glad to get
away from the subject and back to his own greater interests.

He heard nothing more for a few days, then came the news that Abel had
disappeared. By night he had vanished and search failed to find him.

Sabina could only state what had gone before his departure. She had
spoken with him on Raymond's behalf and urged him to reconsider his
attitude and behave sensibly and worthily. And he, answering nothing,
had gone to bed as usual; but when she called him next morning, no reply
came and she found that he had ridden away on his bicycle in the night.
The country was hunted, but without result, and not for three days did
his mother learn what had become of Abel. Then, in reply to police
notices of his disappearance, there came a letter from a Devonshire
dairy farm, twenty miles to the west of Bridport. The boy had appeared
there early in the morning and begged for some breakfast. Then he asked
for something to do. He was now working on trial for a week, but whether
giving satisfaction or no they did not learn.

His mother went to see him and found him well pleased with himself and
proud of what he had accomplished. He explained to her that he had now
taken his life into his own hands and was not going to look to anybody
in future but himself.

The farmer reported him civil spoken, willing to learn, and quick to
please. Indeed, Abel had never before won such a good character.

She left him there happy and content, and took no immediate steps to
bring the boy home.

It was decided that a conference should presently be held of those
interested in Abel.

"Since he is safe and cheerful and doing honest work, you need not be in
distress about him at present, Sabina," said Ernest Churchouse; "but
Raymond Ironsyde has no intention that the boy should miss an adequate
education, and wishes him to be at school for a couple of years yet, if
possible. It is decided that we knock our heads together on the subject
presently. We'll meet and try to hit upon a sensible course. Meantime
this glimpse of reality and hard work at Knapp Farm will do him good. He
may show talent in an agricultural direction. In any case, you can feel
sure that whatever tastes he develops, short of buccaneering, or highway
robbery, will be gratified."




CHAPTER XIV

THE MOTOR CAR


Raymond Ironsyde felt somewhat impatient of the conference to consider
the situation of his son. But since he had no authority and Sabina was
anxious to do something, he agreed to consult Mr. Churchouse.

They met at 'The Magnolias,' where Miss Ironsyde joined them; but her
old energy and forcible opinions had faded. She did little more than
listen.

Ironsyde came first and spoke to Ernest in a mood somewhat despondent.
They were alone at the time, for Sabina did not join them until Estelle
came.

"Is there nothing in paternity?" asked Raymond. "Isn't nature all
powerful and blood thicker than water? What is it that over-rides the
natural relationship and poisons him against me? Isn't a good father a
good father?"

"So much is implied in this case," answered the elder. "He's old enough
now to understand what it means to be a natural child. Doubtless the
disabilities they labour under have been explained to him. That fact is
what poisons his mind, as you say, and makes him hate the blood in his
veins. We've got to get over that and find antidotes for the poison, if
we can."

"I'm beginning to doubt if we ever shall, Uncle Ernest."

Sabina and Estelle entered at this moment and heard Mr. Churchouse make
answer.

"Be sure it can be done. Every year makes it more certain, because with
increase of reasoning power he'll see the absurdity of this attitude. It
is no good to him to continue your enemy."

"Increase of reason cuts both ways. It shows him his grievances, as
well as what will pay him best in the future. He's faced with a clash of
reason."

"Reason I grant springs from different inspirations," admitted Ernest.
"There's the reason of the heart and the reason of the head--yes, the
heart has its reasons, too. And though the head may not appreciate them,
they exercise their weight and often conquer."

Soon there came a carriage from Bridport and Miss Ironsyde joined them.

"Oh! I'm glad to see a fire," she said, and sat close beside it in an
easy chair.

Then Raymond spoke.

"It is good of you all to come and lend a hand over this difficult
matter. I appreciate it, and specially I thank Sabina for letting us
consider her son's welfare. She knows that we all want to befriend him
and that we all are his friends. It's rather difficult for me to say
much; but if you can show me how to do anything practical and establish
Abel's position and win his goodwill, at any cost to myself, I shall
thank you. I've done what I could, but I confess this finds me beaten
for the moment. You'd better say what you all think, and see if you
agree."

The talk that followed was inconsequent and rambling. For a considerable
time it led nowhere. Miss Ironsyde was taciturn. It occupied all her
energies to conceal the fact that she was suffering a good deal of
physical pain. She made no original suggestions. Churchouse, according
to his wont, generalised; but it was through a generalisation that they
approached something definite.

"He has yet to learn that we cannot live to ourselves, or design life's
pattern single-handed," declared Ernest. "Life, in fact, is rather like
a blind man weaving a basket: we never see our work, and we have to
trust others for the material. And if we better realised how blind we
were, we should welcome and invite criticism more freely than we do."

"No man makes his own life--I've come to see that," admitted Raymond.
"The design seems to depend much on your fellow creatures; your triumph
or failure is largely the work of others. But it depends on your own
judgment to the extent that you can choose what fellow creatures shall
help you."

Estelle approved this.

"And if we could only show Abel that, and make him feel this
determination to be independent of everybody is a mistake. But he told
me once, most reasonably, that he didn't mind depending on those who
were good to him. He said he would trust them."

"Trust's everything. It centres on that. Can I get his trust, or can't
I?"

"Not for the present, Ray. I expect his mind is in a turmoil over this
running away. It's all my fault and I take the blame. Until he can think
calmly you'll never get any power over him. The thing is to fill his
mind full with something else."

"Find out if you can what's in his thoughts," advised Sabina. "We say
this and that and the other, and plan what must be done, but I judge the
first person to ask for an opinion is Abel himself. When people are
talking about the young, the last thought in their minds is what the
young are thinking themselves. They never get asked what's in their
minds, yet, if we knew, it might make all the difference."

"Very sound, Sabina," admitted Mr. Churchouse; "and you should know
what's in his mind if anybody does."

"I should no doubt, but I don't. I've never been in the boy's secrets,
or I might have been more to him. But that's not to say nobody could win
them. Any clever boy getting on for sixteen years should have plenty of
ideas, and if you could find them, it might save a lot of trouble."

She turned to Estelle as she spoke.

"He's often told me things," said Estelle, "and he's often been going to
tell me others and stopped--not because he thought I'd laugh at him;
but because he was doubtful of me. But he knows I can keep secrets now."

"He must be treated as an adult," decided Ernest. "Sabina is perfectly
right. We must give him credit for more sense than he has yet
discovered, and appeal directly to his pride. I think there are great
possibilities about him if he can only be brought to face them. His
ruling passion must be discovered. One has marked a love of mystery in
him and a wonderful power of make-believe. These are precious promises,
rightly guided. They point to imagination and originality. He may have
the makings of an artist. Without exaggeration, I should say he had an
artist's temperament without being an artist; but art is an elastic
term. It must mean creative instinct, however, and he has shown that. It
has so far taken the shape of a will to create disaster; but why should
we not lead his will into another channel and help it to create
something worthy?"

"He's fond of machinery," said Sabina, "and very clever with his hands."

"Could your child be anything but clever with his hands, Sabina?" said
Estelle.

"Or mine be anything but fond of machinery?" asked Raymond.

He meant no harm, but this blunt and rather brutal claim to fatherhood
made Sabina flinch. It was natural that she never could school herself
to accept the situation in open conversation without reserve, and all
but Ironsyde himself appreciated the silence which fell upon her. His
speech, indeed, showed lack of sensibility, yet it could hardly be
blamed, since only through acceptation of realities might any hopeful
action be taken. But the harm was done and the delicate poise of the
situation between Abel's parents upset. Sabina said no more, and in the
momentary silence that followed she rose and left them.

"What clumsy fools even nice men can be," sighed Miss Ironsyde, and
Churchouse spoke.

"Leave Sabina to me," he said. "I'll comfort her when you've gone.
There is a certain ingrained stupidity from which no man escapes in the
presence of women. They may, or may not, conceal their feelings; but we
all unconsciously bruise and wound them. Sabina did not conceal hers.
She is quick in mind as well as body. What matters is that she knows
exceedingly well we are all on her side and all valuable friends for the
lad. Now let us return to the point. I think with Estelle that Abel may
have something of the artist in him. He drew exceedingly well as a
child. You can see his pictures in Sabina's room. Such a gift if
developed might waken a sense of power."

"If he knew great things were within his reach, he would not disdain the
means to reach them," said Miss Ironsyde. "I do think if the boy felt
his own possibilities more--if we could waken ambition--he would grow
larger-minded. Hate always runs counter to our interests in the long
run, because it wastes our energy and, if people only knew it, revenge
is really not sweet, but exceedingly bitter."

"I suggest this," said Ironsyde: "that Uncle Ernest and Estelle visit
the boy--not in any spirit of weakness, or with any concessions, or
attempts to change his mind; but simply to learn his mind. Sabina was
right there. We'll approach him as we should any other intelligent
being, and invite his opinion, and see if it be reasonable, or
unreasonable. And if it is reasonable, then I ought to be able to serve
him, if he'll let me do so."

"I shall certainly do what you wish," agreed Ernest. "Estelle and I will
form a deputation to this difficult customer and endeavour to find out
what his lordship really proposes and desires. Then, if we can prove to
him that he must look to his fellow creatures to advance his welfare; if
we can succeed in showing him that not even the youngest of us can stand
alone, perhaps we shall achieve something."

"And if he won't let me help, perhaps he'll let you, or Estelle, or Aunt
Jenny. Agree if he makes any possible stipulation. It doesn't matter a
button where he supposes help is coming from: the thing is that he
should not know it is really coming from me."

"I hope we may succeed without craft of that sort, Raymond," declared
Mr. Churchouse; "but I shall not hesitate to employ the wisdom of the
serpent--if the olive branch of the dove fails to meet the situation. I
trust, however, more to Estelle than myself. She is nearer Abel in point
of time, and it is very difficult to bridge a great gulf of years. We
old men talk in another language than the young use, and the scenery
that fills their eyes--why, it has already vanished beneath our
horizons. Narrowing vision too often begets narrowing sympathies and we
depress youth as much as youth puzzles us."

"True, Ernest," said Miss Ironsyde. "Have you noticed how a natural
instinct makes the young long to escape from the presence of age? The
young breathe more freely out of sight of grey heads."

"And the grey heads survive their absence without difficulty," confessed
Mr. Churchouse. "But we are a tonic to each other. They help us to see,
Jenny, and we must help them to feel."

"Abel shall help us to see his point of view, and we'll help him to feel
who his best friends are," promised Estelle.

Raymond had astonished Bridport and staggered Bridetown with a wondrous
invention. The automobile was born, and since it appealed very directly
to him, he had acquired one of the first of the new vehicles at some
cost, and not only did he engage a skilled mechanic to drive it, but
himself devoted time and pains to mastering the machine. He believed in
it very stoutly, and held that in time to come it must bulk as a most
important industrial factor. Already he predicted motor traction on a
large scale, while yet the invention was little more than a new toy for
the wealthy.

And now this car served a useful purpose and Mr. Churchouse, in some
fear and trembling, ventured a first ride. Estelle accompanied him and
together they drove through the pleasant lands where Dorset meets Devon,
to Knapp Farm under Knapp Copse, midway between Colyton and Ottery St.
Mary, on a streamlet tributary of the Sid.

Mr. Churchouse was amazed and bewildered at this new experience;
Estelle, who had already enjoyed some long rides, supported him, lulled
his anxieties and saw that he kept warm.

Soon they sighted the ridge which gave Knapp its name, and presently met
Abel, who knew that they were coming. He stood on the tumuli at the top
of the knoll and awaited them with interest. His master, from first
enthusiasms, now spoke indifferently of him, declared him an average
boy, and cared not whether they took him, or left him. As for Abel
himself, he slighted both Estelle and Mr. Churchouse at first, and
appeared for a time quite oblivious to their approaches. He was only
interested in the car, which stood drawn up in an open shed at the side
of the farmyard. He concentrated here, desired the company of the driver
alone, and could with difficulty be drawn away to listen to the
travellers and declare his own ambitions.

He was, however, not sorry to see Estelle, and when, presently, they
lured him away from the motor, he talked to them. He bragged about his
achievement in running away and finding work; but he was not satisfied
with the work itself.

"It was only to see if I could live in the world on my own," he said,
"and now I know I can. Nobody's got any hold on me now, because if you
can earn your food and clothes, you're free of everybody. I don't tell
them here, but I could work twice as hard and do twice as much if it was
worth while; only it isn't."

"If you get wages, you ought to earn them," said Estelle.

"I do," he explained. "I get a shilling a day and my grub, and I earn
all that. But, of course, I'm not going to be a farmer. I'm just
learning about the land--then I'm going. Nobody's clever here. But I
like taking it easy and being my own master."

"You oughtn't to take it easy at your time of life, Abel," declared
Estelle. "You oughtn't to leave school yet, and I very much hope you'll
go back."

"Never," he said. "I couldn't stop there after I knew he was paying for
it. Or anywhere else. I'm not going to thank him for anything."

"But you stand in the light of your own usefulness," she explained. "The
thing is for a boy to do all in his power to make himself a useful man,
and by coming here and doing ploughboy's work, when you might be
learning and increasing your own value in the world, you are being an
idiot, Abel. If you let your father educate you, then, in the future,
you can pay him back splendidly and with interest for all he has done
for you. There's no obligation then--simply a fair bargain."

His face hardened and he frowned.

"I may pay him for all he's done for me, whether or no," he answered.
"Anyway, I don't want any more book learning. I'm a man very nearly, and
a lot cleverer, as it is, than the other men here. I shall stop here for
a bit. I want to be let alone and I will be let alone."

"Not at all," declared Mr. Churchouse. "You're going back on yourself,
Abel, and if you stop here, hoeing turnips and what not, you'll soon
find a great disaster happening to you. You will indeed--just the very
thing you don't want to happen. You pride yourself on being clever.
Well, cleverness can't stand still, you know. You go back, or forward.
Here, you'll go back and get as slow-witted as other ploughboys. You
think you won't, but you will. The mud on your boots will work up into
your mind, and instead of being full of great ideas for the future,
you'll gradually forget all about them. And that would be a disgrace to
you."

Abel showed himself rather impressed with this peril.

"I shall read books," he said.

"Where will you get them?" asked Estelle. "Besides, after long days
working out of doors, you'll be much too tired to read books, or go on
with your studies. I know, because I've tried it."

"Quies was the god of rest in ancient Rome," proceeded Mr. Churchouse,
"but he was no god for youth. The elderly turned their weary bodies to
his shrine and decorated his altars--not the young. But for you, Abel,
there are radiant goddesses, and their names are Stimula and Strenua. To
them you must pay suit and service, and your motto should be 'Able and
Willing.'"

"Of course," cried Estelle; "but instead of that, you ask to be let
alone, to turn slowly and surely into a ploughboy! Why, the harm is
already beginning! And you may be quite sure that nobody who cares for
you is going to see you turn into a ploughboy."

They produced some lunch presently and Abel enjoyed the good fare. For a
time they pressed him no more, but when the meal was taken, let him show
them places of interest. While Estelle visited the farm with him and
heard all about his work, Mr. Churchouse discussed the boy with his
master. Nothing could then be settled, and it was understood that Abel
should stop at Knapp until the farmer heard more concerning him.

Estelle advanced the good cause very substantially, however, and felt
sanguine of the future; for alone with her, Abel confessed that farming
gave him no pleasure and that his ambition was set on higher things.

"I shall be an engineer some day," he said. "Presently I shall go where
there is machinery, and begin at the bottom and work up to the top. I
know a lot more about it than you might think, as it is."

"I know you do," she said. "And there's nothing your mother would like
better than engineering for you. Besides, a boy begins that when he's
young, and I believe you ought to be in the shops soon."

"I shall be soon. Very likely the next thing you hear about me will be
that I have disappeared again. Then I shall turn up in a works
somewhere. Because you needn't think I'm going to be a ploughboy. I
shouldn't get level with my father by being a ploughboy."

"Your father would be delighted for you to get level with him and know
as much as he does," she answered, pretending to mistake his meaning.
"If you said you wanted to know as much about machinery and machines in
general as he does, then he would very soon set to work to help you on."

Abel considered.

"I won't take any help from him; but I'll do this--to suit myself, not
him. I'd do it so as I could be near mother and could look after her.
Because, when Mister Churchouse dies, I'll have to look after her."

"You needn't be anxious about your mother, Abel. She's got plenty of
friends."

"Her friends don't count if they're his friends, because you can't be my
mother's friend and his friend, too. But I'll go into the spinning Mill,
and be like anybody else, and work for wages--just the same wages as any
other boy going in. That won't be thanking him for anything."

Estelle could hardly hide her satisfaction at this unexpected
concession. She dared not show her pleasure for fear that Abel would see
it and draw back.

"Then you could live with mother and Mister Churchouse," she said. "It
would be tremendously interesting for you. I wonder if you would begin
with Roberts at the lathes, or Cogle at the engines?"

"I don't know. Before I ran away, Nicholas Roberts wanted somebody to
help him turning. I've turned sometimes. I'd begin like that and rise to
better things."

She was careful not to mention his father again.

"I believe Mister Roberts would like to have you in his shop very much.
Sarah, his wife, hopes that her son will be a lathe-worker some day, but
he's too young to go yet."

"He'll never be any good at machinery," declared Abel. "I know him. He's
all for the sea."

They took their leave presently, after Ernest had heard the boy's offer.
He, too, was careful, but applauded the suggestion and assured Abel he
would be very welcome at his old home.

"I like you, you know; in fact, as a rule, we have got on very well
together. I believe you'll make an engineer some day if you remember the
Roman goddesses. To be ambitious is the most hopeful thing we can wish
for youth. Always be ambitious--that's the first essential for success."

But the old man surprised Estelle by failing to share her delight at
Abel's decision. She for her part felt that the grand difficulty was
passed, and that once in his father's Mill, the boy must sooner or later
come to reason, if only by the round of self-interest; but Mr.
Churchouse reminded her that another had to be reckoned with.

"A most delicate situation would be created in that case," he said. "Of
course I can't pretend to say how Raymond will regard it. He may see it
with your eyes. He sees so many things with your eyes--more and more, in
fact--that I hope he will; but you mustn't be very disappointed if he
does not. This cannot look to him as it does to you, or even to me. His
point of view may reject Abel's suggestion altogether for various
reasons; and Sabina, too, will very likely feel it couldn't happen
without awakening a great many painful memories."

"She advised us to consult Abel and hear what he thought."

"We have. We return with the great man's ultimatum. But I'm afraid it
doesn't follow that his ultimatum will be accepted. Even if Sabina felt
she could endure such an arrangement, it is doubtful in the extreme
whether Raymond will. Indeed I'll go so far as to prophesy that he
won't."

Estelle saw that she had been over-sanguine.

"There's one bright side, however," he continued. "We have got something
definite out of the boy and should now be able to help him largely in
spite of himself. Every day he lives, he'll become more impressed with
the necessity for knowledge, and if, for the moment, he declines any
alternative, he'll soon come round to one. He knows already that he
can't stop at Knapp, so this great and perilous adventure of the
automobile has been successful--though how successful we cannot tell
yet."

He knew, however, before the day was done, for Sabina felt very
definitely on the subject. Yet her attitude was curious: she held it not
necessary to express an opinion.

Mr. Churchouse came home very cold, and while she attended to his needs,
brought him hot drink and lighted a fire, Sabina listened.

"The boy is exceedingly well," he said. "I never saw his eye so bright,
or his skin so clear and brown. But a farmer he won't be for anybody. Of
course, one never thought he would."

When she had heard Abel's idea, she answered without delay.

"It's a thousand pities he's set his heart on that, because it won't
happen. What I think doesn't matter, of course, but for once you'll find
his father is of a mind with me. He'll not suffer such an arrangement
for a moment. It's bringing the trouble too near. He doesn't want his
skeleton walking out of the cupboard into the Mill, and whatever
happens, that won't."

She was right enough, for when Raymond heard all that Estelle could tell
him, he decided instantly against any such arrangement.

"Impossible," he said. "One needn't trouble even to argue about it. But
that he would like to be an engineer is quite healthy. He shall be; and
he shall begin at the beginning and have every advantage possible--not
his way, but mine. I argue ultimate success from this. It eases my
mind."

"All the same, if you don't do anything, he'll only run away again,"
said Estelle, who was disappointed.

"He won't run far. Let him stop where he is for a few months, till he's
heartily sick of it and ready to listen to sense. Then perhaps I'll go
over and see him myself. You've done great things, Estelle. I feel more
sanguine than I have ever felt about him. I wish I could do what he
wants; but that's impossible his way. However, I'll do it in my own.
Sense is beginning in him, and that is the great and hopeful discovery
you've made."

"I'm ever so glad you're pleased about it," she said. "He loved the
motor car much better than the sight of us. Yet he was glad to see us
too. He's really a very human boy, you know, Ray."




CHAPTER XV

CRITICISM


Upon a Sunday afternoon, Sarah Roberts and her husband were drinking tea
at 'The Seven Stars.' They sat in Nelly Legg's private room, and by some
accident all took rather a gloomy view of life.

As for Nelly, she had been recently weighed, and despite drastic new
treatment, was found to have put on two pounds in a month.

"Lord knows where it'll end," she said. "You can't go on getting heavier
and heavier for ever more. Even a vegetable marrow, and such like
things, reach their limit; and if they can it's hard that a creature
with an immortal soul have got to go growing larger and larger, to her
own misery and her husband's grief. To be smothered with your own fat is
a proper cruel end I call it; and I haven't deserved it; and it shakes
my faith in an all-wise God, to feel myself turning into a useless
mountain of flesh. Worse than useless in fact, because them that can't
work themselves are certain sure to make work for others. Which I do."

"I never knew anything so aggravating, I'm sure," assented Nicholas;
"but so far as I can see, if life don't fret you from within, it frets
you from without. It can't leave you alone to go on your way in a
dignified manner. It's always intruding, so to speak. In fact, life
comes between us and our living, if you understand me, and sometimes for
my part I can look on to the end of it with a lot of resignation."

Sentiments so unusual from her husband startled Mrs. Roberts as well as
her aunt.

"Lor, Nicholas! What's the matter with you?" asked Sarah.

"It ain't often I grumble," he answered, "and if anybody's better at
taking the rough with the smooth than me, I'd like to see him; but there
are times when nature craves for a bit of pudding, and gets sick to
death of its daily meal of bread and cheese. I speak in a parable,
however, because I don't mean the body but the mind. Your body bothers
you, Missis Legg, as well it may; but your mind, thanks to your husband,
is pretty peaceful year in year out. In my case, my body calls for no
attention. Thin as a rake I am and so shall continue. But the tissue is
good, and no man is made of better quality stuff. It's my mind that
turns in upon itself and gives me a pang now and again. And the higher
the nature of the mind, the worse its troubles. In fact the more you can
feel, the more you are made to feel; and what the mind is built to
endure, that, seemingly, it will be called to endure."

But Nelly had no patience with the philosophy of Mr. Roberts.

"You're so windy when you've got anything on your chest," she said. "You
keep talking and don't get any forwarder. What's the fuss about now?"

"You've been listening to Baggs, I expect," suggested the wife of
Nicholas. "Baggs has got the boot at last and leaves at Christmas, and
his pension don't please him, so he's fairly bubbling over with
verjuice. I should hope you'd got too much sense to listen to him,
Nick."

"So should I. He's no more than the winter wind in a hedge at any time,"
answered Mr. Roberts. "Baggs gets attended to same as a wasp gets
attended to--because of his sting. All bad-tempered people win a lot
more attention and have their way far quicker than us easy and amiable
ones. Why, we know, of course. Human nature's awful cowardly at bottom
and will always choose the easiest way to escape the threatened wrath of
a bad temper. In fact, fear makes the world go round, not love, as
silly people pretend. In my case I feel much like Sabina Dinnett, who
was talking about life not a week ago in the triangle under the sycamore
tree. And she said, 'Those who do understand don't care, and those who
don't understand, don't matter'--so there you are--one's left all
alone."

"I'm sure you ain't--more's Sabina. She's got lots of friends, and
you've got your dear wife and children," said Nelly.

"I have; but the mind sometimes takes a flight above one's family. It's
summed up in a word: there's nothing so damned unpleasant as being took
for granted, and that's what's the matter with me."

"Not in your home, you ain't," declared Sarah. "No good, sensible wife
takes her husband for granted. He's always made a bit of a fuss over
under his own roof."

"That's true; but in my business I am. To see people--I'll name no
names--to see other people purred over, and then to find your own craft
treated as just a commonplace of Nature, no more wonderful than the
leaves on a bush--beastly, I call it."

Mr. Legg had joined them and he admitted the force of the argument.

"We're very inclined to put our own job higher in the order of the
universe than will other people," he said; "and better men than you have
hungered for a bit of notice and a pat on the back and never won it. But
time covers that trouble. I grant, all the same, that it's a bit galling
when we find the world turns a cold shoulder to our best."

"It's a human weakness, Nicholas, to want to be patted," said Nelly, and
her husband agreed.

"It is. We share it with dogs," he declared. "But the world in general
is too busy to pat us. I remember in my green youth being very proud of
myself once and pointing to a lot of pewter in a tub, that I'd worked up
till it looked like silver; and I took some credit, and an old man in
the bar said that scouring pots was nothing more than scouring pots, and
that any other honest fool could have done them just as well as me."

"That's all right and I don't pretend my work on the lathe is a national
asset, and I don't pretend I ought to have a statue for doing it,"
answered Nicholas; "but what I do say is that I am greater than my lathe
and ought to get more attention according. I am a man and not a
cog-wheel, and when Ironsyde puts cog-wheels above men and gives a dumb
machine greater praise than the mechanic who works it--then it's wrong
and I don't like it."

"He can't make any such mistake as that," argued Job. "It's rumoured
he's going to stand for Parliament at the next General Election, so his
business is with men, not machines, and he'll very soon find all about
the human side of politics."

"He'll be human enough till he gets in. They always are. They'll stoop
to anything till they're elected," said Mrs. Legg, "but once there, the
case is often altered with 'em."

"I want to be recognised as a man," continued Roberts, "and Ironsyde
don't do it. He isn't the only human being with a soul and a future. And
now, if he's for Parliament, I dare say he'll become more indifferent
than ever. He may be a machine himself, with no feelings beyond work;
but other people are built different."

"A man like him ought to try and do the things himself," suggested
Sarah. "If employers had to put in a day laying the stricks on the
spreadboard, or turning the rollers on the lathe, or hackling, or
spinning, they'd very soon get a respect for what the workers do. In
fact, if labour had its way, it ought to make capital taste what labour
means, and get out of bed when labour gets out, and do what labour does,
and eat what labour eats. Then capital would begin to know it's born."

"It never will happen," persisted Nicholas. "Nothing opens the eyes of
the blind, or makes the man who can buy oysters, eat winkles. The gulf
is fixed between us and it won't be crossed. If he goes into Parliament,
or stops out, he'll be himself still, and look on us doubtfully and wish
in his soul that we were made of copper and filled with steam."

"A master must follow his people out of the works into their homes if
he's worth a rap," declared Job. "Your aunt always did so with her
maidens, and I do so with the men. And it's our place to remember that
men and women are far different from metal and steam. You can't turn the
power off the workers and think they're going to be all right till you
turn it on again. They go on all the time--same as the masters and
mistresses do. They sleep and eat and rest; they want their bit of human
interest, and bit of fun, and pinch of hope to salt the working day. And
as for Raymond Ironsyde, I've seen his career unfolding since he was a
boy and marked him in bad moments and seen his weakness; which secrets
were safe enough with me, for I'd always a great feeling for the young.
And I say that he's good as gold at heart and his faults only come from
a lack of power to put himself in another man's place. He could never
look very much farther than his own place in the world and the road that
led to it. He did wrong, like all of us, and his faults found him out;
which they don't always do. But he's the sort that takes years and years
to ripen. He's not yet at his best you'll find; but he's a learner, and
he may learn a great many useful things if he goes into Parliament--if
it's only what to avoid."

"There's one thing that will do him a darned sight more good than going
into Parliament, and that's getting married," said Sarah. "In fact, a
few of us, that can see further through a milestone than some people,
believe it's in sight."

"Miss Waldron, of course?" asked Nelly.

"Yes--her. And when that happens, she'll make of Mister Ironsyde a much
more understanding man than going into Parliament will. He's fair and
just--not one of us, bar Levi Baggs, ever said he wasn't that--but she's
more--she's just our lady, and our good is her good, and what she's done
for us would fill a book; and if she could work on him to look at us
through her eyes, then none of us, that deserved it, as we all do, would
lose our good word."

"What do you say to that, Job?" asked Mrs. Legg.

"I say nothing better could happen," he answered. "But don't feel too
hopeful. The things that promise best to the human eye ain't the things
that Providence very often performs. To speak in a religious spirit and
without feeling, there's no doubt that Providence does take a delight in
turning down the obvious things and bringing us up against the doubtful
and difficult and unexpected ones. That's why there's such a gulf
between story books and real life. The story books that I used to read
in my youth, always turned out just as a man of good will and good heart
and kindly spirit would wish them to do; but you'd be straining civility
to Providence and telling a lie if you pretended real life does.
Therefore I say, hope it may happen; but don't bet on it."

Job finished his tea and bustled away.

"The wisdom of the man!" said Nicholas. "He's the most comforting person
I know, because he don't pretend. There's some think that everything
that happens to us is our own fault, and they drive you silly with their
bleating. Job knows it ain't so."

"A far-seeing man," admitted Nelly, "and a great reader of the signs of
the times. People used to think he was a simple sort--God forgive me, I
did myself; but I know better now. All through that business with poor
Richard Gurd, Job understood our characters and bided his time and knew
that the crash must come between us. He's told me since that he never
really feared Gurd, because he looked ahead and felt that two such
natures as mine and Richard's were never meant to join in matrimony.
Looking back, I see Job's every move and the brain behind it. Talk about
Parliament! If Bridport was to send Legg there, they'd be sending one
that's ten times wiser than Raymond Ironsyde--and ten times deeper. In
fact, the nation's very ill served by most that go there. They are the
showy, rich, noisy sort, who want to bulk in the public eye without
working for it--ciphers who do what they're told, and don't understand
the inner nature of what they're doing more than a hoss in a plough. But
men like Job, though not so noisy, would get to the root, and use their
own judgment, and rise superior to party politics and the pitiful need
to shout with your side, right or wrong."

"Miss Waldron is very wishful for him to get in, and she says he's got
good ideas," replied Nicholas.

"If so, he has to thank her for them," added Sarah.

"And I hope," continued Nicholas, "that if he does get in, he'll be
suffered to make a speech, and his words will fall stone dead on the
ears of the members, and his schemes will fail. Then he'll know what it
is to be flouted and to see his best feats win not a friendly sign."

"Electors are a lot too easy going in my opinion," said Nelly. "I'm old
enough to have seen their foolish ways in my time, and find, over and
over again, that they are mostly gulls to be took with words. They never
ask what a man's record is and turn over the pages of his past. They
never trouble about what he's done, or how he's made his money, or where
he stands in public report. It isn't what he has done, but what he's
going to do. Yet you can better judge of a man from his past than his
promises, and measure, in the light of his record, whether he's going to
the House of Commons for patriotic, decent reasons, or for mean ones.
And never you vote for a lawyer, Nicholas Roberts. 'Tis a golden rule
with Job that never, under any manner of circumstances, will he help to
get a lawyer into Parliament. They stand in the way of all progress but
their own; they suck our blood in every affair of life; they baffle all
honest thinking with their cunning, and look at right and wrong only
from the point of expediency. Job says there ought to be a law against
lawyers going in at all. But catch them making it! In fact, we're in
their clutches more than the fly in the web, because they make the laws;
and they'll never make any laws to limit their own powers over us,
though always quick enough to increase them. Job says that the only
bright side to a revolution would be that the law and the lawyers would
be swept into the street orderly bin together. Then we'd start clean and
free, and try to keep clean and free."

Upon this subject Mrs. Legg always found plenty to say. Indeed she
continued to open her mind till they grew weary.

"We must be moving if we're going to church," said Sarah. "I think we'd
better go and pick up a bit of charity to our neighbour--Sunday and
all."




CHAPTER XVI

THE OFFER OF MARRIAGE


Raymond met Estelle on his way from the works and together they walked
home. Here and there in the cottage doorways sat women braiding. Among
them was Sally Groves--now grown too old and slow to tend the
'Card'--and accident willed that she should make an opening for thoughts
that now filled Ironsyde's mind. They stopped, for Sally was an old
acquaintance of both, and Estelle valued the big woman for her resolute
character and shrewd sense. Now Sally, on strength of long-standing
friendship, grew personal. It was an ancient joke to chaff Miss Groves
about marriage, but to-day, when Raymond asked if the net she made was
to catch a husband, Sally retorted with spirit.

"All very fine for you two to be poking fun at me," she said. "But what
about you? It's time you made up your minds I'm sure, for everybody
knows you're in love with each other--though you don't yourselves
seemingly."

"Give us a lead, Sally," suggested Raymond; but she shook her head.

"You're old enough to know your own business," she answered; "but don't
you go lecturing other people about matrimony while you're a bachelor
yourself--else you'll get the worst of it--as you have now."

They left her and laughed together.

"Yet I've heard you say she was the most sensible woman that ever worked
in the mills," argued Raymond.

Estelle made no direct reply, but spoke of Sally in the past at one of
her parties, when the staff took holiday and spent a day at Weymouth.

Their conversation faded before they reached North Hill House, and then,
as they entered the drive, Raymond reminded Estelle of a time long
vanished and an expedition taken when she was a child.

"Talking of good things, d'you remember our walk to Chilcombe in the
year one? Or, to be more exact, when you were in short frocks."

"I remember well enough. How my chatter must have bored you."

"You never bored me in your life, Chicky. In fact, you always seem to
have been a part of my life since I began to live. That event happened
soon after our walk, if I remember rightly. You really seem as much a
part of my life as my right hand, Estelle."

"Well, your right hand can't bore you, certainly."

"Some of the things that it has done have bored me. But let's go to
Chilcombe again--not in the car--but just tramp it as we did before. How
often have you been there since we went?"

She considered.

"Twice, I think. My friends there left ten years ago and my girl friend
died. I haven't been there since I grew up."

"Well, come this afternoon."

"It's going to rain, Ray."

"Since when did rain frighten you?"

"I'd love to come."

"A walk will do me good," he said. "I'm getting jolly lazy."

"So father thinks. He hates motors--says they are going to make the next
generation flabby and good-for-nothing."

They started presently under low grey clouds, but the sky was not grey
for them and the weather of their minds made them forget the poor light
and sad south-west wind laden with rain. It held off until they had
reached Chilcombe chapel, entered the little place of prayer and stood
together before the ancient reredos. The golden-brown wood made a patch
of brightness in the little building. They were looking at it and
recalling Estelle's description of it in the past, when the storm broke
and the rain beat on the white glass in the windows above them.

"How tiny it's all grown," said Estelle. "Surely everything has shrunk?"

They had the chapel to themselves and, sitting beside her in a pew,
Raymond asked her to marry him. Thunder had wakened in the sky, and the
glare of lightning touched their faces now and then. But they only
remembered that afterwards.

"Sally Groves was no more than half right," he said, "so her fame for
wisdom is shaken. She told us we didn't know we loved one another,
Estelle. But I know I love you well enough, and I've been shaking in my
shoes to tell you so for months and months. I knew I was getting too old
every minute and yet couldn't say the word. But I must say it now at any
cost. Chicky, I love you--dearly, dearly I love you--because I'm calm
and steady, that doesn't mean I'm not in a blaze inside. I never thought
of it even while you were growing up. But a time came when I did begin
to think of it like the deuce; and when once I did, the thought towered
up like the effreet let out of the bottle--that story you loved when you
were small. But my only fear and dread is that you've always been
accustomed to think of me as so much older than you are. If you once get
an idea into your head about a person's age, you can't get it out again.
At least, I can't; so I'm afraid you'll regard me as quite out of the
question for a husband. If that's so, I'll begin over again."

Her eyes were round and her mouth a little open. She did not blink when
the lightning flashed.

"But--but--" she said.

"If I'm not too old, there are no 'buts' left," he declared firmly. "Ten
years is no great matter after all, and from the point of view of
brains, I'm an infant beside you. Then say 'yes,' my darling--say 'yes'
to me."

"I wonder--I wonder, Ray?"

"Haven't you ever guessed what I felt?"

"Yes, in a vague way. At least I knew there was something growing up
between us."

"It was love, my beautiful dear."

She smiled at him doubtfully. The colour had come back to her face, but
she did not respond when he lifted his arms to her.

"Are you sure--can you be sure, Ray? It's so different,--so shattering.
It seems to smash up all the past into little bits and begin the world
all over again--for you and me. It's such a near thing. I've seen the
married people and wondered about it. You might get so weary of always
having me so close."

"I want you close--closer and closer. I want you as the best part of
myself--to make me happier first and, because happier, more useful in
the world. I want you at the helm of my life--to steer me, Chicky. What
couldn't we do together! It's selfish--? it's one-sided, I know that. I
get everything--you only get me. But I'll try and rise to the occasion.
I worship you, and no woman ever had a more devout worshipper. I feel
that your father wouldn't be very mad with me. But it's for you to
decide, nothing else matters either way."

"I love to think you care for me so much," she said. "And I care for
you, Ray, and have cared for you--more than either of us know. Yes, I
have. Sally Groves knew somehow. I should like to say 'yes' this moment;
but I can't. I know I shall say it presently; but I'm not going to say
it till I've thought a great many thoughts and looked into the future
and considered all this means--for you as well as for me. It's life or
death really, for both of us, and the more certain sure we are before,
the happier we should be afterwards, I expect."

"I'm sure enough, Estelle. I've been sure enough for many a long day. I
know the very hour I began to be sure."

"I think I am too; but I can't say 'yes' and mean 'yes' for the present.
I've got to thresh out a lot of things. I dare say they'd be absurd to
you; but they're not to me."

"Can I help you?"

"I don't know. You can, I expect. I shall come to you again to throw
light on the difficult points."

"How long are you going to take?"

"How can I tell? But I _can_ all the same, I'm not going to take long."

"Say you love me--do say that."

"I should have told you if I didn't."

"That's all right, but not so blessed as hearing you say with your own
lips you do. Say it--say it, Chicky. I won't take advantage of it. I
only want to hear it. Then I'll leave you in peace to think your
thoughts."

"I do love you," she said gently and steadily. "It can be nothing
smaller than that. You are a very great part of my life--the greatest. I
know that, because when you go away life is at evening, and when you
come back again life is at morning. Let me have a little time, Ray--only
a very little. Then I'll decide."

"I hope your wisdom will let you follow your will, then, and not forbid
the banns."

"You mustn't think it cold and horrid of me."

"You couldn't be cold and horrid, my sweet Estelle. We're neither of us
capable of being cold, or horrid. We are not babies. I don't blame you a
bit for wanting to think about it. I only blame myself. If I was all I
might have been, you wouldn't want to think about it."

This challenge shook her, but did not change her.

"Nobody's all they might be, Ray; but many people are a great deal more
than they might be. That's what makes you love people best, I think--to
see how brave and patient and splendid men and women can be. Life's so
difficult even for the luckiest of us; but it isn't the luckiest who are
the pluckiest generally--is it? I've had such a lot more than my share
of luck already. So have you--at least people think so. But nobody knows
one's luck really except oneself."

"It's the things that are going to happen will make our good luck," he
said. "You'll find men are seldom satisfied with the past, whatever
women may be. God knows I'm not."

"You were always one of my two heroes when I was a child; and father was
the other. He is still my hero--and so are you, Ray."

"A pretty poor hero. I wouldn't pretend that to my dog. I only claim to
have something worth while in me that you might bring out--raw material
for you to turn into the finished article."

She laughed to hear this.

"Come--come--you're not as modest as all that. You're much too clever
even to pretend any such thing. Women don't turn strong men into
finished articles. At best, perhaps, they can only decorate a little of
the outside."

"You laugh," he answered, "but you know better. If you love me, be
ambitious for me. That's the most helpful love a woman can give a
man--to see his capabilities better than he can, and fire him on the
best and biggest he can do, and help him to grasp his opportunities."

"So it is."

"You've got to decide whether it's worth while marrying me, Chicky. You
do love me, as I love you--because you can't help it. But you can help
marrying me. You've got to think of your own show as well as mine. I
quite understand that. You must be yourself and make your own mark, and
take advantage of all the big new chances offered to the rising
generation of women. I love you a great deal too much to want to lessen
you, or drift you into a back-water. It's just a question whether my
work, and the Mill, and so on, give you the chance you want--if, working
together, we can each help on the other. You could certainly help me
hugely and you know it; but whether I could help you--that's what you've
got to think about I suppose."

"Yes, I suppose it is, Ray."

"Your eyes say 'yes' already, and they're terrible true eyes."

But she only lowered them and neither spoke any more for a little while.
The worst of the storm had passed, and its riot and splash gave place to
a fine drizzle as the night began to close in.

They started for home and, both content to think their own thoughts,
trudged side by side. For Raymond's part, he knew the woman too well to
suffer any doubt of the issue and he was happy. For he felt that she was
quietly happy too, and if instincts had brought grave doubts, or
prompted her to deny him, she would not have been happy.

Estelle did not miss the romance from his offer of marriage. She had
dreamed of man's love in her poetry-reading days, but under the new
phase and the practical bent, developed by a general enthusiasm for her
kind, personal emotions were not paramount. There could be but little
sex in her affection for Raymond: she had lived too near him for that.
Indeed, she had grown up beside him, and the days before he came to
dwell at North Hill seemed vague and misty. Thus his challenge came as
an experience both less and greater than love. It was less, in that no
such challenge can be so urgent and so mighty as the call of hungry
hearts to each other; it was greater, because the interests involved
were built on abiding principles. They arrested her intellectual
ambitions and pointed to a sphere of usefulness beyond her unaided
power. What must have made his prosaic offer flat in the ear of an
amorous woman, edged it for her. He had dwelt on the aspect of their
union that was likely most to attract her.

There was a pure personal side where love came in and made her heart
beat warmly enough; but, higher than that, she saw herself of living
value to Raymond and helping him just where he stood most in need of
help. She believed that they might well prove the complement of each
other in those duties, disciplines, and obligations to which life had
called them.

That night she went closely, searchingly over old ground again from the
new point of vision. What had always been interesting to her, became now
vital, since these characteristics belonged to the man who wanted to wed
her. She tried to be remorseless and cruel that she might be kind. But
the palette of thought was only set with pleasant colours. She had been
intellectually in love with him for a long time, and he had offered
problems which made her love him for the immense interest they gave her.
Now came additional stimulus in the knowledge that he loved her well
enough to share his life, his hopes, and his ambitions with her.

She believed they might be wedded in very earnest. He was masterful and
possessed self-assurance; but what man can lead and control without
these qualities? His self-assurance was less than his self-control, and
his instinct for self-assertion had nearly always been counted by a kind
heart. It seemed to her that she had never known a man who balanced
reason and feeling more judicially, or better preserved a mean between
them.

She had found that men could differentiate in a way beyond woman's power
and be unsociable if their duty demanded it. But to be unsociable is not
to be unsocial. Raymond took long views, and if his old, genial and
jolly attitude to life was a thing of the past, there had been
substituted for it a wiser understanding and saner recognition of the
useful and useless. Men did take longer views than women--so Estelle
decided: and there Raymond would help her; but the all-important matter
that night was to satisfy herself how much she could help him. In this
reverie she found such warmth and light as set her glowing before dawn,
for she built up the spiritual picture of Raymond, came very close to
its ultimate realities, quickened by the new inspiration, and found that
it should be well within her power to serve him generously. She took no
credit to herself, but recognized a happy accident of character.

There were weak spots in all masculine armour, that only a woman could
make strong, and by a good chance she felt that her particular womanhood
might serve this essential turn for Raymond's manhood. To strengthen her
own man's weak spots--surely that was the crown and completion of any
wedded life for a woman. To check, to supplement, to enrich: that he
would surely do for her; and she hoped to deal as faithfully with him.

She was not clear-sighted here, for love, if it be love at all, must
bring the rosy veil with it and dim the seeing of the brightest eyes.
While the fact that she had grown up with Raymond made her view clear
enough in some directions, in others it served, of course, to dim
judgment. She credited him with greater intellect than he possessed, and
dreamed that higher achievements were in his power than was the truth.
But there existed a mean, below her dream yet above his present
ambition, that it was certainly possible with her incentive he might
attain. She might make him more sympathetic and so more synthetic also,
and show him how his own industry embraced industrial problems at
large--how it could not be taken by itself, but must hold its place only
by favour of its progress, and command respect only as it represented
the worthiest relation between capital and labour. Thus, from the
personal interest of his work, she would lift him to measure the
world-wide needs of all workers. And then, in time to come, he would
forget the personal before the more splendid demands of the universal.
The trend of machinery was towards tyranny; he must never lose sight of
that, or let the material threaten the spiritual. Private life, as well
as public life, was open to the tyranny of the machine; and there, too,
it would be her joyful privilege to fight beside him for added beauty,
added liberty, not only in their own home, but all homes wherein they
had power to increase comfort and therefore happiness. The sensitiveness
of women should be linked to the driving force of men, as the safety
valve to the engine. Thus, in a simile surely destined to delight him,
she summed her intentions and desires.

She had often wondered what must be essential to the fullest employment
of her energies and the best and purest use of her thinking; and now she
saw that marriage answered the question--not marriage in the abstract,
but just marriage with this man. He, of all she had known, was the one
with whom she felt best endowed to mingle and merge, so that their
united forces should be poured to help the world and water with increase
the modest territory through which they must flow.

She turned to go to sleep at last, yet dearly longed to tell Raymond and
amaze her father with the great tidings.

An impulse prompted her to leave her lover not a moment more in doubt.
She rose, therefore, and descended to his room, which opened beside his
private study on the ground floor. The hour was nearly four on an autumn
morning. She listened, heard him move restlessly and knew that he did
not sleep. He struck a match and lighted a cigarette, for he often
smoked at night.

Then she knocked at the door.

"Who the devil's that?" he shouted.

"I," she said, opening the door an inch and talking softly. "Stop where
you are and stop worrying and go to sleep. I'm going to marry you, Ray,
and I'm happier than ever I was before in all my life."

Then she shut the door and fled away.




CHAPTER XVII

SABINA AND ABEL


Now was Raymond Ironsyde too busy to think any thought but one, and
though distractions crowded down on the hour, he set them aside so far
as it was possible. His betrothal very completely dominated his life and
the new relation banished the old attitude between him and Estelle. The
commonplace existence, as of sister and brother, seemed to perish
suddenly, and in its place, as a butterfly from a chrysalis, there
reigned the emotional days of prelude to marriage. The mere force of the
situation inspired them and they grew as loverly as any boy and girl. It
was no make-believe that led them to follow the immemorial way and glory
only in the companionship of each other; they felt the desire, and love
that had awakened so tardily and moved in a manner so desultory, seemed
concerned to make up for lost time.

Arthur Waldron was not so greatly astonished as they expected, and
whatever may have been his private hopes and desires for his daughter,
he never uttered them, but seeing her happiness, echoed it.

"No better thing could have happened from my point of view," he
declared, "for if she'd married anybody else in the world, I should have
been called to say 'good-bye' to her. Since she's chosen you, there's no
necessity for me to do so. I hope you're going on living at North Hill,
and I trust you're going to let me do the same. Of course, it would be
an impossible arrangement if you were dealing with anybody but me; but
since we are what we are in spirit and temper and understanding, I claim
that I may stop. The only difference I can see is this: that whereas at
present, when we dine, you sit between Estelle and me, in future I shall
sit between Estelle and you."

"Not even that," vowed the lover. "Why shouldn't I go on sitting between
you?"

"No--you'll be the head of the house in future."

"The charm of this house is that there's no head to it," said Estelle,
"and Raymond isn't going to usurp any such position just because he
means to marry me."

But distractions broke in upon their happiness. Ernest Churchouse fell
grievously ill and lacked strength to fight disease; while there came
news from Knapp that the farmer was tired of Abel and wished him away.

For their old friend none could prolong his life; in the case of the
boy, Raymond decided that Sabina had better see him and go primed with a
definite offer. Abel's father did not anticipate much more trouble in
that quarter. He guessed that the lad, now in his seventeenth year, was
sufficiently weary of the land and would be glad to take up engineering.
He felt confident that Sabina must find him changed for the better,
prepared for his career and willing to enter upon it without greater
waste of time. He invited the boy's mother to learn if he felt more
friendly to him, and hoped that Abel had now revealed a frame of mind
and a power of reasoning, that would serve to solve the problem of his
career, and finally abolish his animosity to his father.

Sabina went to see her son and heard the farmer first. He was not
unfriendly, but declared Abel a responsibility he no longer desired to
incur.

"He's just at a tricky age--and he's shifty and secret--unlike other
lads. You never know what's going on in his mind, and he never laughs,
or takes pleasure in things. He's too difficult for me, and my wife says
she's frightened of him. As to work, he does it, but you always feel
he's got no love for it. And I know he means to bolt any day. I've
marked signs; so it will be better for you people to take the first
step."

The farmer's wife spoke to similar purpose and added information that
made Sabina more than uneasy.

"It's about this friend of his, Miss Waldron, that came to see him
backalong," she explained. "He'd talk pretty free about her sometimes
and was very proud of it when he got a letter now and again. But since
she's wrote and told him she's going to be married, he's turned a
gloomier character than ever. He don't like the thought of it and it
makes him dark. 'Tis almost as if he'd been in love with the lady. You
do hear of young boys falling in love before their time like that."

Sabina was on the point of explaining, but did not do so. Her first care
was to see Abel and learn the truth of this report. Perhaps she felt not
wholly sorry that he resented this conclusion. Not a few had spoken of
Ironsyde's marriage before her: it was the gossip of Bridetown; but none
appeared to consider how it must affect her, or sympathise with her
emotions on the subject. What these emotions were, or whither they
tended, she hardly knew herself. Unowned even to her innermost heart, a
sort of dim hope had not quite died, that he might, after all, come back
to her. She blushed at the absurdity of the idea now, but it had struck
in her subconsciously and never wholly vanished. Before the engagement
was announced she had altered her attitude to Raymond and used him
civilly and shared his desire that Abel should be won over by his
father. The old hatred at receiving anything from Ironsyde's hands no
longer existed. She felt indifferent and, before her own approaching
problems, was not prepared to decline the offers of help that she knew
would quickly come when Ernest Churchouse died.

She intended to preach patience and reason in the ears of Abel, and she
hoped he would not make her task difficult; but now it was clear that
Estelle's betrothal had troubled the boy.

She saw him and they spoke together for a long time; but already his
force of character began to increase beyond his mother's. Despite her
purpose and sense of the gravity of the situation, he had more effect
upon her than she had upon him. Yet her arguments were rational and his
were not. But the old, fatal, personal element of temper crept in and,
during her speech with him, Sabina found fires that she believed long
quenched, were still smouldering in the depths of memory. The boy could
not indeed fan them to flame again; but the result of his attitude
served to weaken hers. She did not argue with conviction after finding
his temper. By some evil chance, that seemed more like art than
accident, he struck old wounds, and she was interested and agitated to
find that now he knew all there was to be known of the past and its
exact significance. The dream hidden so closely in her heart: that there
might yet be a reconciliation--the dream finally killed when she
perceived that Ironsyde had fallen in love with Estelle Waldron--was no
dream in her son's mind. What she knew was impossible, till now
represented no impossibility to him. He actually declared it as a thing
which, in his moral outlook, ought to be. Only so could the past be
retrieved, or the future made endurable. But to that matter they did not
immediately come. She dined at the farmer's table with Abel and three
men. Then he was told that he might make holiday and spend the afternoon
with his mother where he pleased. He took her therefore to the old
barrows nigh Knapp, and there on a stone they sat, watched the sun sink
over distant woodlands and talked together till the dusk was down.

"I ought never to have trusted her," he said. "But I did. And, if I'd
thought she would ever have married him, I wouldn't have trusted her. I
thought she was the right sort; but if she was, she would never have
married a man who had sworn to marry you."

"Good gracious, Abel! Whatever are you talking about?" she asked,
concerned to find the matter in his mind.

"I'm talking about things that happened," he answered. "I'm not a child
now. I'm nearly seventeen and older than that, for I overheard two of
the men say so. You needn't tell me these things; I found them out for
myself, and I hated Raymond Ironsyde from the time I could hate anybody,
because the honest feeling to hate him was in me. And nobody has the
right to marry him but you, and he's got no right to marry anybody but
you. But he doesn't know the meaning of justice, and she is not fine, or
brave, or clever, or any of the things I thought she was, because she
wants to marry him."

His mother considered this speech.

"It's no good vexing yourself about the past," she said. "You and me
have got to look to the future, Abel, and not to dwell on all that don't
make the future any easier. It's difficult enough, but, for us, the
luxury of pride and hate isn't possible. I know very well what you feel.
It all went through me like fire before you were born--and after; but
we've got to go on living, and things are going to change, and we must
cut our coats according to our cloth--you and me."

"What does that mean?" he asked.

"It means we're not independent. There's not enough for your education
and my keep. So it's got to be him, or one other, and the other is an
old woman--his aunt. But it's all the same really, and he'll see that it
comes out of his pocket in the end. He's all powerful and we must do
according. Christianity's a very convenient thing for the likes of us.
It teaches that the meek are blessed and the weak the worthy ones. You
must look to your father if you want to succeed in the world."

"Never," he said. "He's got everything else in the world, but he shan't
have me. I don't care much about being alive at best, seeing I must be
different from other people all my life; but I'd rather die twenty
times than owe anything to him. He knew before I was born that he was
going to wreck my life, and he did it, and he wrecked yours, and his
marriage with any other woman but you is a lie and a sham, and Estelle
knows it very well. Now I hate her as much as him, and I hate those who
let her marry him, and I hate the clergyman that will do it; and if I
could ruin them by killing myself on their doorstep, I would. But he
wouldn't care for that. If I was to do that, it would just suit the
devil, because he'd know I'd gone and could never rise up against him
any more."

She made a half-hearted attempt to distract his thoughts. She began to
argue and, as usual, ended in bitterness.

"You mustn't talk nonsense, like that. He means well by you, and you
mustn't cut off your nose to spite your face. You'll find plenty of
people to take his side and you mustn't only listen to his enemies.
There's always wise people to stand up for young men and excuse them,
though not many to stand up for young women."

"Let them stand up for me and excuse me, then," he answered. "Let them
explain me and tell me why I should think different, and why I should
take his filthy money just to set his mind at rest. What has he done for
me that I should ease him and do as he pleases? Is it out of any care
for me he'd lift me up? Not likely. It's all to deceive the people and
make them say he's a good man. And until he puts you right, he's not a
good man, and soon or late I'll have it out with him. God blast me if I
don't. But I'll revenge myself clean on him. He shan't make out to the
world that he's done what a father should do for a son. He's my natural
father and no more, and he never wanted or meant to be more. And no
right will take away that wrong. And I'll treat him as other natural
creatures treat their fathers."

"You can't do that," she said. "You're a human, and you've got a
conscience and must answer to it."

"I will--some day. I know what my conscience says to me. My conscience
tells me the truth, not a lot of lies like yours tells you. I know
what's right and I know what's justice. I gave the man one chance. I
offered to go in his works--my works that ought to be some day. But that
didn't suit him. I must always knuckle under and bend to his will. But
never--never. I'd starve first, or throw myself into the sea. He don't
want me near him for people to point to, so I must be drove out of
Bridetown to the ends of the earth if he chooses. And if the damned
world was straight and honest and looked after the women and innocent
children, 'tis him, not me, would have been drove out of Bridetown."

He spoke with amazing bitterness for youth, and echoed much that he had
heard, as well as what he had thought. His mother felt some astonishment
to find how his mind had enlarged, and some fear, also, to see the
hopelessness of the position.

Already she considered in secret what craft might be necessary to bring
him to a more reasonable mind.

"You'll have to think of me as well as yourself," she said. "Life's hard
enough without you making it so much harder. Two things will happen in a
few weeks from now and nothing can stop them. First you've got to leave
here, because farmer don't want you any more, and then poor Mister
Churchouse is going to pass away. He's just fading out like a
night-light--flickering up and down and bound to be called. And the best
man and the truest friend to sorrow that ever trod the earth."

"I was going from here," he answered. "And you can look to me for making
a pound a week, and you can have it all if you'll take nothing from any
of my enemies. If you take money from my enemies, then I won't help
you."

"You're a man in your opinions seemingly, though I wish to God you
hadn't grown out of childhood so quick, if you were going to grow to
this. It'll drive you mad if you're not careful. Then where shall I be?"

"I'll drive other people mad--not you. I'll come back home, and then
I'll find work at Bridport."

"Where's home going to be--that's the question?" Sabina answered.
"There's only one choice for you--between letting him finish your
education and going out to work."

"We'll live in Bridport, then," he told her, "and I'll go into something
with machinery. I'll soon rise, and I might rise high enough to ruin him
yet, some day. And never you forget he had my offer and turned it down.
He didn't know what he was doing when he did that."

"He couldn't trust you. How was he to know you wouldn't try to burn the
works again--and succeed next time?"

Abel laughed.

"That was a fool's trick. If they'd gone, he'd only have built 'em
again, better. But there are some things he can't insure."

"I know a good few spinners at Bridport. Shall I have a look round for
you?" she asked, as they rose to return.

He considered and agreed.

"Yes, if it's only through you. I trust you not to go to him about it.
If you did and I found you had--"

"No, no. I'll not go to him."

He came and looked again at the motor car that had brought her. It
interested him as keenly as before.

"That's for him to go about the country in, because he's standing for
Parliament," explained Sabina.

But his anger was spent. He heeded her no more, and even the fact that
his father owned the car did not modify his deep interest.

He rode a mile or two with her when she started to return and remained
silent and rapt for the few minutes of the experience.

His mother tried to use the incident.

"If you was to be good and patient and let the right thing be done, I
daresay in a few years you'd rise to having a motor of your own," she
said, when they stopped and he started to trudge back.

"If ever I do, I'll get it for myself," he answered. "And when you're
old, I'll drive you about, very likely."

He left her placidly, and it was understood that in a month he would
return to her as soon as she had determined on their immediate future.

For herself she knew that it would be necessary to deceive him, yet
feared to attempt it after the recent conversation. She felt uneasily
proud of him.




CHAPTER XVIII

SWAN SONG


The doctor said Mr. Churchouse was dying because he didn't wish to go on
living, and when Estelle taxed the old man with his indifference, he
would not deny it.

"I have lived long enough," he said. "The machine is worn out. My
thinking is become a painful effort. I forget the simplest matters, and
before you are a nuisance to yourself, you may feel very certain you
have long been a nuisance to other people."

He had for some months grown physically weaker, and both Raymond and
others had noticed an inconsequence of utterance and an inability to
concentrate the mind. He liked friends to come and see him and would
listen with obvious effort to follow any argument, or grasp any fresh
item of news. But he spoke less and less. Nor could Sabina tempt him to
eat adequate food. He ignored the doctor's drugs and seemed to shrink
physically as well as mentally.

"I'm turning into my chrysalis," he said once to Estelle. "One has to go
through that phase before one can be a butterfly. Remember, my pretty
girl, you are only burying an empty chrysalis when this broken thing is
put into the ground."

"You're very unkind to talk so," she declared. "You might go on living
if you liked, and you ought to try--for the sake of those who love you."

But he shook his head.

"One doesn't control these things. You know I've always told you that
the length of the thread is no part of our business, but only the
spinning. I should have liked to see you married; yet, after all, why
not? I may be there. I shall hope to beg a holiday on that occasion and
be in church."

He always spoke thus quite seriously. Death he regarded as no
discontinuity, or destruction, of life, but merely an alteration of
environment.

At some personal cost Miss Ironsyde came to take leave of him, when it
seemed that his end was near. He kept his bed now, and by conserving his
strength gained a little activity of mind.

He was troubled for Jenny's physical sufferings; while she, for her
part, endeavoured to discuss Sabina's problems, but she could not
interest the old man in them.

"Abel is safe with his father," said Mr. Churchouse. "As for Sabina, I
have left her a competency, and so have you. One has been very heartily
sorry for her. She will have no anxiety when my will is read. I am
leaving you three books, Jenny. I will leave you more if you like. My
library as a whole is bequeathed to Estelle Waldron, since I know nobody
who values and respects books so well."

"But Abel," she said.

"I have tried to establish his character and we may find, after all, I
did more than we think. Providence is ever ready to water and tend the
good seed that we sow. But he must be made to abandon this fatal
attitude to his father. It is uncomfortable and inconvenient and helps
nobody. I shall talk to him, I hope, before I die. He is coming home in
a day or two."

But Abel delayed a week, at his master's request, that he might help
pull a field of mangels, and Mr. Churchouse never saw him again.

During his last days Estelle spent much time with him. He seldom
mentioned any other person but himself. He wandered in a disjointed
fashion over the past and mixed his recollections with his dreams. He
remembered jests and sometimes uttered them, then laughed; but often he
laughed to himself without giving any reason for his amusement.

He was thoughtful and apologetic. Indeed, when he looked up into any
face, he always said, "I mourn to give you so much trouble." Latterly he
confused his visitors, but kept Estelle and Sabina clear in his mind. He
fancied that they had quarrelled and was always seeking to reconcile
them. Every morning he appeared anxious and distressed until they stood
by him together and declared that they were the best of friends. Then he
became tranquil.

"That being so," he said, "I shall depart in peace."

Estelle relieved the professional nurse and would read, talk, or listen,
as he wished. He spoke disjointedly one day and wove reality and
imagination together.

"Much good marble is wasted on graves," he declared. "But it doesn't
bring the dead to life. Do you believe in the resurrection of the body,
Estelle? I hope you find it easy. That is one of the things I never was
honestly able to say I had grasped. Reason will fight against the nobler
tyranny of faith. The old soul in a glorified body--yet the same body,
you understand. We shan't all be in one pattern in heaven. We shall
preserve our individuality; and yet I deprecate passing eternity in this
tabernacle. Improvements may be counted upon, I think. The art of the
Divine Potter can doubtless make beautiful the humblest and the most
homely vessel."

"Nobody who loves you would have you changed," she assured him.

Then his mind wandered away and he smiled.

"I listened to a street preacher once--long, long ago when I was
young--and he said that the road to everlasting destruction was lined
with women and gin shops. Upon which a sailor-man, who listened to him,
shouted out, 'Oh death, where is thy sting?' The meeting dissolved in a
very tornado of laughter. Sailors have a great sense of humour. It can
take the place of a fire on a cold day. One touch of humour makes the
whole world kin. If you have a baby, teach it to laugh as well as to
walk. But I think your baby will do that readily enough."

On another occasion he laughed suddenly to himself and explained his
amusement to Sabina, who sat by him.

"Eunominus, the heretic, boasted that he knew the nature of God;
whereupon St. Basil instantly puzzled him with twenty-one questions
about the body of the ant!"

Estelle also tried to make Mr. Churchouse discuss Abel Dinnett. She told
him of an interesting fact.

"I have got Ray to promise a big thing," she said. "He hesitated, but he
loved me too well to deny me. Besides, feeling as I do, I couldn't take
any denial. You see Nature is so much greater than all else to me, and
contrasted with her, our little man-made laws, often so mean and hateful
in their cowardly caution and cruel injustice, look pitiful and beneath
contempt. And I don't want to come between Raymond and his eldest son. I
won't--I won't do it. Abel is his first-born, and it may be cold-blooded
of me--Ray said it was at first--but I insist on that. I've made him
see, and I've made father see. I feel so much about it, that I wouldn't
marry him if he didn't recognize Abel first and treat him as the
first-born ought to be treated."

"Abel--Abel Dinnett," said the other, who had not followed her speech.
"A good-looking boy, but lawless. He wants the world to bend to him; and
yet, if you'll believe me, there is a vein of fine sentiment in his
nature. With tears in his eyes he once told me that he had seen a fellow
pupil at school cruelly killing insects with a burning glass; and he had
beaten the cruel lad and broken his glass. That is all to the good. The
difficulty for him is that he was born out of wedlock. This great
disability could have been surmounted in America, Scotland, Ireland,
Germany, or, in fact, anywhere but in England. The law of the natural
child in this country would bring a blush to the cheek of a gorilla.
But neither Church nor State will lift a finger to right the infamy."

"We are always wanting to pluck the mote out of our neighbour's eyes,
and never see the beam in our own," she answered. "Women will alter that
some day--and the disgusting divorce laws, too. Perhaps these are the
first things they will alter, when they have the power."

"Who is going into Parliament?" he asked. "Somebody told me, but I
forget. He was a friend of mine. I remember that much."

"Ray hopes to get in. I am going to help him, if I can."

"It is a great responsibility. Tell him, if he is elected, to fight for
the natural child. It would well become him to do so. Let him rise to
it. Our Saviour said, 'Suffer the little children to come unto Me.' The
State, on the contrary, says, 'Suffer the little children to be done to
death and put out of the way.'"

"Yes," she answered, "suffer fifty thousand little children to be lost
every year, because it is kinder to let them perish, than help them to
live under the wicked laws we have planned to govern them."

But his mind collapsed and when she strove to bring it back again, she
could not.

Two days before he died, Estelle found him in deep distress. He begged
to see her alone, and explained that he had to confess a great sin.

"I ought to tell a priest," he said, "but I dare think that you will do
as well. If you absolve me, I shall know I may hope to be forgiven. I
have lived a double life, Estelle. I have pretended what was not
true--not merely once or twice, but systematically, deliberately,
callously."

"I don't believe it, dear Mister Churchouse. You couldn't."

"I should never have believed it myself. But even the old can surprise
themselves, painfully sometimes. I have lived with this perfidy for many
years; but I can't die with it. There's always an inclination to
confess our sins to a fellow creature. To confess them to our Maker is
quite needless, because He knows them; but it's a quality of human
nature to feel better after imparting its errors to another ear."

He broke off.

"What was I saying? I forget."

"That you'd done something ever so wicked and nobody knew it."

"Yes, yes. The books--the books I used to receive from unknown admirers
by post. My child, there were no unknown admirers! Nobody ever admired
me, either secretly or openly. Why should they? I used to send the books
to myself--God forgive me."

"If I'd only known, I'd have sent you hundreds of books," she said. "I
did send you one or two."

"I know it--they are my most precious possessions. They served in some
mysterious way to soothe my bad conscience. It would be interesting to
examine and find out how they did. But my brain can't look into anything
subtle now. I knew you sent the books. My good angel has recorded my
thanks. You always increased my vitality, Estelle. You are keeping me
alive at present. You have risen in the autumn of my life as a gracious
dawn; you have been the sun of my Indian summer. You will be a good wife
to Raymond. It seems only yesterday that he was a little thing in short
frocks, and Henry so proud of him. Now Henry is dead, and Raymond
wife-old and in Parliament. A sound Liberal, like his father before
him."

"The election isn't till next year. But I hope he'll get in. They say at
Bridport he has a very good chance."

The day before he died, Mr. Churchouse seemed better and talked to
Estelle of another visit from her father.

"I always esteem his great good humour and fine British instinct to live
and let live. That is where our secret lies. We ride Empire with such a
loose rein, Estelle--the only way. You cannot dare to put a curb on
proud people. A paradox that--that those who fast bind don't fast find.
The instinct of England's greatness is in your father; he is an epitome
of our virtues. He has no imagination, however. Nor has England. If she
had, doubtless she would not do the great deeds that beggar imagination.
That reminds me. There is one little gift that you must have from my own
hand. A work of imagination--a work of art. Nobody in the world would
care about it but you. A poem, in fact. I have written one or two
others, but I tore them up. I sent them to newspapers, hoping to
astonish you with them; but when they were rejected I destroyed them.
This poem I did not send. Nobody has seen it but myself. Now I give it
to you, and I want you to read it aloud to me, that I may hear how it
sounds."

"How clever of you! There's nothing you can't do. I know I shall love
it."

He pointed to a sheaf of papers on a table.

"The top one. It is a mournful subject, yet I hope treated cheerfully. I
wrote it before death was in sight; but I feel no more alarmed or
concerned about death now than I did then. You may think it is too
simple. But simplicity, though boring to the complex mind, is really
quite worth while. The childlike spirit--there is much to be said for
it. No doubt I have missed a great deal by limiting my interests; but I
have gained too--in directness."

"There is a greatness about simplicity," she said.

"To be simple in my life and subtle in my thought was my ambition at one
time; but I never could rise to subtlety. The native bent was against
it. The poem--I do not err in calling it a poem--is called
'Afterwards'--unless you can think of a better title. If any obvious and
glaring faults strike you, tell me. No doubt there are many."

She read the two pages written in his little, careful and almost
feminine hand.

"When I am dead, the storm and stress
Of many-coloured consciousness
Like blossom petals fall away
And drops the calyx back to clay;
A man, not woman, makes the bed
When our night comes and we are dead.

"When I am dead, the ebb and flow
Of folk where I was wont to go,
Will never stay a moment's pace,
Or miss along the street my face.
Yet thoughts may wake and things be said
By one or two when I am dead.

"When I am dead, the sunset light
Will fill the gap upon the height
In summer time, but on the plain
Sink down as winter comes again
And none who sees the evening red
Will know I loved it, who am dead.

"When I am dead, upon my mound
Exotic flow'rs may first be found,
And not until they've blown away
Will other blossoms come to stay.
A daisy growing overhead
Brings gentle pleasure to the dead.

"When I am dead, I'd love to see
An amber thrush hop over me
And bend his ear, as he would know
What I am whispering down below.
May many a song-bird find his bread
Upon my grave when I am dead.

"When I am dead, and years shall pass,
The scythe will cut the darnel grass
Now and again for decency,
Where we forgotten people lie.
O'er ancient graves the living tread
With great impertinence on the dead.

"When I am dead, all I have done
Must vanish, like the evening sun.
My book about the bells may stay
Behind me for a fleeting day;
But will not very oft be read
By anybody when I'm dead."

She stopped and smiled with her eyes full of tears.

"I had meant to write another verse," he explained, "but I put it off
and it's too late now. Such as it is, it is yours. Does it seem to you
to be interesting?"

"It's very interesting indeed, and very beautiful. I shall always value
it as my greatest treasure."

"Read it to your children," he said, "and if the opportunity occurs,
take them sometimes to see my grave. The spot is long chosen. Let there
be no gardening upon it out of good heart but bad taste. I should wish
it left largely to Nature. There will be daisies for your babies to
pick. I forget the text I selected. It's in my will."

He bade her good-bye more tenderly than usual, as though he knew that he
would never see her again, and the next morning Bridetown heard that the
old man had died in his sleep. The people felt sorry, for he left no
enemies, and his many kindly thoughts and deeds were remembered for a
little while.




CHAPTER XIX

NEW WORK FOR ABEL


With a swift weaver's knot John Best mended the flying yarn. Then he
turned from a novice at the Gill Spinner and listened, not very
patiently, to one who interrupted his lesson.

"It's rather a doubtful thing that you should always be about the place
now you've left it, Levi," he said to Mr. Baggs. "It would be better
judgment and more decent on your part if you kept away."

"You may think so," answered the hackler, "but I do not. And until the
figure of my pension is settled, I shall come and go and take no
denial."

"It is settled. He don't change. He's said you shall have ten shillings
a week and no more, so that it will be."

"And what if I decline to take ten shillings a week, after fifty years
of work in his beastly Mill?"

"Then you can do the other thing and go without. You want it both ways,
you do."

"I want justice--no more. Common justice, I suppose, can be got in
Dorset as elsewhere. I ought to have had a high testimonial when I left
this blasted place--a proper presentation for all to see, and a public
feed and a purse of sovereigns at the least."

"That's what I mean when I say you can't have it both ways," answered
Mr. Best. "To be nice and pick words and consider your feelings is waste
of time, so I tell you that you can't grizzle and grumble and find fault
with everything and everybody for fifty years, and then expect people to
bow down and worship you and collect a purse of gold when you retire. If
we flew any flags about you, it would be because we'd got rid of you.
Mister Ironsyde don't like you, and why should he? You've always been up
against the employer and you've never lost a chance to poison the minds
of the employed. There's no good will in you and never was, and where
you could hang us up in the Mill and make difficulties without getting
yourself into trouble, you've always took great pleasure in so doing.
Did you ever pull with me, or anybody, if you could help it? Never. You
pulled against. You'd often have liked to treat us like the hemp and
tear us to pieces on your rougher's hackle. And how does such a man
expect anybody to care about him? There was no reason why you should
have had a pension at all, in my opinion. You've been blessed with good
health and no family, and you've never spent a shilling on another
fellow creature in your life. Therefore, it's more than justice that you
get ten shillings, and not less as you seem to think."

Mr. Baggs glowered at John during this harangue. His was the steadfast
attitude of the egoist, who sees all life in terms of his own interest
alone.

"We've got to fight for ourselves in this world since there's none other
to fight for us," he said, "and, of course, you take his side. You've
licked Ironsyde boots all your life, and nothing an Ironsyde can do is
wrong. But I might have known the man that's done the wickedness he's
done, and deserts his child and let his only son work on the land,
wouldn't meet me fair. There's no honour or honesty in the creature, but
if he thinks I'm going to take this slight without lifting my voice
against it, he's wrong. To leave the works and sneak out of 'em
unmourned and without a bit of talk and a testimonial was shameful
enough; but ten shilling a week--no! The country shall ring about that
and he'll find his credit shaken. 'Tis enough to lose him his election
to Parliament, and I hope it will do so."

Best stared.

"You're a cracked old fool, and not a spark of proper pride or
gratitude in you. Feeling like that, I wonder you dare touch his money;
but you're the sort who would take gifts with one hand and stab the
giver with the other. I hope he'll change his mind yet and give you no
pension at all."

Levi, rather impressed with this unusual display of feeling from the
foreman, growled a little longer, then went his way; while in John there
arose a determination to prevent Mr. Baggs from visiting the scene of
his old activities. At present force of habit drew the old man to spend
half his time here; and now, when Best had returned to the Gill Spinner,
Levi prowled off to his old theatre of work, entered the hackling shop
and criticised the new hackler. His successor was young and stood in awe
of him at first; but awe was not a quality the veteran inspired for
long. Already Joe Ash began to grow restive under Levi's criticisms, and
dimly to feel that the old hackler was better away. To-day Mr. Baggs
allowed the resentment awakened by Best's criticisms to take shape in
offensive comments at the expense of his young successor. He was of that
order of beings who, when kicked, rests not until he has kicked somebody
again.

But to-day the evil star of Mr. Baggs was in ascendant, and when he told
the youth that he wasted half his strength and had evidently been taught
his business by a fool, Levi was called to suffer a spirited retort. Joe
Ash came from the Midlands; his vocabulary was wider than that of Mr.
Baggs, and he soon had the old man gasping. Finally he ordered him out
of the shop, and told him that if he did not go he would be put out.

"Strength or no strength," he said, "I've got enough for you, so hop out
of this and don't come back. If you're to be free of my shop, I leave;
and that's all there is to it."

Mr. Baggs departed, having hoped that he might live to see the young man
hung with his own long line. He then pursued his way by the river,
labouring under acute emotions, and half a mile down stream met a lad
engaged in angling.

Abel Dinnett had returned home and was making holiday until his mother
should discover work for him, or he himself be able to get occupation.

For the moment Sabina found herself sufficiently busy packing up her
possessions and preparing for the forthcoming sale at 'The Magnolias.'

She was waiting to find a new home until Abel's future labour appeared;
but, in secret, Raymond Ironsyde had undertaken to obtain it, and she
knew that henceforth she would live at Bridport.

Mr. Baggs poured out his wrongs, but he did not begin immediately.
Failing adult ears, Abel's served him, and he proceeded to declare that
the new hackler was a worthless rogue, who did not know his business and
would never earn his money.

Abel, however, had reached a standard of intelligence that no longer
respected Mr. Baggs.

"I don't go to the works now," he said, "and never shall again. I don't
care nothing about them. My mother and me are going to leave Bridetown
when I get a job."

"No doubt--no doubt. Though I dare say your talk is sour grapes--seeing
as you'll never come by your rights."

Abel lifted his eyes to the iron-roofed buildings up the valley.

"Oh yes, I could," he said. "That man wants to win me now. He's going to
be married, and she--her he's going to marry--told my mother that he's
wishful for me to be his proper son and be treated according. But I
won't have his damned friendship now. It's too late now. You can't drive
hate out of a man with gifts."

"They ain't gifts--they're your right and due. 'Tis done to save his
face before the people, so they'll forgive his past and help send him
into Parliament. Look at me--fifty years of service and ten shillings a
week pension! It shall be known and 'twill lose him countless votes,
please God. A dog like that in Parliament! 'Twould be a disgrace to the
nation. And you go on hating him if you're a brave boy. Every honest man
hates him, same as I do. Twenty shillings I ought to have had, if a
penny."

"Fling his money back in his face," said Abel. "Nobody did ought to
touch his money, or work for it. And if every man and woman refused to
go in his works, then he'd be ruined."

"The wicked flourish like the green bay tree in this country, because
there's such a cruel lot of 'em, and they back each other up against the
righteous," declared Levi. "But a time's coming, and you'll live to see
it, when the world will rise against their iniquity."

"Don't take his money, then."

"It ain't his money. It's my money. He's keeping back my money. When
that John Best drops out, as he ought to do, for he's long past his
work, will he get ten shillings a week? Two pound, more like; and all
because he cringes and lies and lets the powers of darkness trample on
him! And may the money turn to poison in his mouth when he does get it."

"Everything about Ironsyde is poison," added Abel. "And that girl that
was a friend to me--he's poisoned her now, and I won't know her no more.
I won't neighbour with anybody that has a good word for him, and I won't
breathe the same air with him much longer; and I told my mother if she
took a penny from him, I'd throw her over, too."

"Quite right. I wish you was strong enough to punish him; but if you
was, he'd come whining to you and pray you not to. Men like him only
make war on women and the weak."

Abel listened.

"I'll punish him if he lives long enough," he said. "That's what I'm
after. I'll bide my time."

"And for him to dare to get up and ask the people to send him to
Parliament. But they won't. He's too well known in these parts for that.
Who's he that he should be lifted up to represent honest, God-fearing
men?"

"If there was anything to stop him getting in, I'd do it," declared
Abel.

"'Tis for us, with weight of years and experience, to keep him out. All
sensible people will vote against him, and the more that know the truth
of him the fewer will support him. And Republican though I am, I'd
rather vote for the Tory than him. And as for you, if you stood up at
his meetings when the time comes, while they were all cheering the
wretch, and cried out that you was his son--that would be sure to lose
him a good few God-fearing votes. You think of it; you might hinder him
and even work him a mint of harm that way."

The old man left Abel to consider his advice and the angler sat watching
his float for another hour. But his thoughts were on what he had heard;
and he felt no more interest in his sport.

Presently he wound up his line and went home. He was attracted by Levi's
suggestion and guessed that he might create great feeling against his
father in that way. Himself, he did not shrink from the ordeal in
imagination; indeed his inherent vanity rather courted it. But when he
told his mother what he might do, she urged him to attempt no such
thing. Indeed she criticised him sharply for such a foolish thought.

"You'll lose all sympathy from the people," she said, "and be flung out;
and none will care twopence for you. When you tried to burn the place
down and he forgave you, that made a feeling for him, and since then
'tis well known by those that matter, that he's done all he could for
you under the circumstances."

"That's what he hasn't."

"That's what he would if you'd let him. So it's silly to think you've
got any more grievances, and if you get up and make a row at one of his
meetings, you'll only be chucked into the street. You're nobody now,
through your own fault, and you've made people sorry for your father
instead of sorry for you, because you're such a pig-headed fool about
him and won't see sense."

The boy flushed and glared at his mother, who seldom spoke in this vein.

"If you wasn't my mother, I'd hit you down for that," he said, clenching
his fists. "What do you know about things to talk to me like that? Who
are you to take his side and cringe to him? If you can't judge him,
there's plenty that can, and it's you who are pig-headed, not me,
because you don't see I'm fighting your battle for you. It may seem too
late to fight for you; but it's never too late to hate a wicked beast,
and if I can help to keep him from getting what he wants I will, and I
don't care how I do it, either."

She looked at him with little love in her eyes.

"You're only being a scourge to me--not to him," she answered. "You
can't hurt him, however much you want to, and you can't hurt his name or
reputation, because time heals all and he's done much to others that
will make them forget what he did to me. I forget myself sometimes, so
'tis certain enough the people do. And if I can, surely to God you can,
if only for my sake. You're punishing me for being your mother, not him
for being your father--just contrary to what you want."

"That's all I get, then, for standing up for you against him, and
keeping it before him and the people what he's done against you. Didn't
you tell me years and years ago I'd fight your battles some day? And
now, when I'm got clever enough to set about it, you curse me."

"I don't curse you, Abel. But time is past for fighting battles. There's
nothing to fight about now."

"We're punishing him cruel by not taking his money; but there's more to
do yet," he said. "And I'll do it if I can. And you mind that I'm
fighting against him for your sake, and if you're grown too old and too
tired to hate the man any more, I haven't. I can hate him for you as
well as myself."

"And the hate comes back on you," she said. "It's long past the time for
all that. You've got plenty of brains and you know that this passion
against him is only harming yourself. For God's sake drop it. You say
you're a man now. Then be a man and take man's views and look on ahead
and think of your future life. Far from helping me, you're only
hindering me. We've come to a time when life's altered and the old life
here is done. We're going to begin life together--you and me--and you're
going to make our fortunes; but it's a mad lookout if you mean to put
all your strength into hating them that have no hate for you. It will
make you bitter and useless, and you'll grow up a sour, friendless
creature, like Levi Baggs. What's he got out of all his hate and
unkindness to the world?"

Abel considered.

"He hates everybody," he said. "It's no use to hate everybody, because
then everybody will hate you. I don't hate everybody. I only hate him."

She argued, but knew that she had not changed her son. And then, when he
was gone again, fearing that he might do what he threatened, she went to
see Estelle Waldron.

They met on the way to see each other, for Estelle had heard from
Raymond that work was found for Abel and, as next step in the plot, it
was necessary for Sabina to go to a small spinning mill in Bridport
herself. Ironsyde's name was not to transpire.

Gladly enough the mother undertook her task.

"He's out of hand," she said, "and away from home half his time. He
roams about and listens to bad counsellors. He's worse than ever since
he's idle. He's got another evil thought now, for his thoughts foul his
reason, as well I know thoughts can."

She told Estelle what Abel had declared he would do.

"You'd best let Mister Ironsyde know," she said, "and he'll take steps
according. If the boy can be kept out from any meeting it would be
wisest. But I'm powerless. I've wearied my tongue begging and blaming
and praying to him to use his sense; but it's beyond my power to make
him understand. There's a devil in him and nobody can cast it out."

"He won't speak to me now. Poor Abel--yes, it's something like a
devil. I'll tell his father. We were very hopeful about the future
until--But if he gets to work, it may sweeten him. He'll have good
wages and meet nice people."

"I wish it had been farther off."

"So did I," answered Estelle; "but his father wants him under his own
eye and will put him into something better the moment he can. You won't
mention this to Abel, and he won't hear it there, because the workers
don't know it; but Raymond has a large interest in the Mill really."

"I'll not mention it. I'll go to-morrow, and the boy will know nothing
save that I've got him a good job."

"He can begin next month; and that will help him every way, I hope."

So things fell out, and within a month Abel was at work. He believed his
mother solely responsible for this occupation. She had yet to find a
home at Bridport, so he came and went from Bridetown.

He was soon deeply interested and only talked about his labours with a
steam engine. Of his troubles he ceased to speak, and for many days
never mentioned his father's name.




CHAPTER XX

IDEALS


An event which seemed more or less remote, came suddenly to the
forefront of Raymond Ironsyde's life, for ill-health hastened the
retirement of the sitting member and a parliamentary bye-election was
called for.

Having undertaken the constituency he could not turn back, though the
sudden demand had not been expected. But he found plenty of enthusiastic
helpers and his own personality had made him many friends.

It was indeed upon the significance of personality that much turned, and
incidentally the experiences into which he now entered served to show
him all that personality may mean. Estelle rejoiced that he should now
so swiftly learn what had so long been apparent to her. She always
declared an enthusiasm for personality; to her it seemed the force
behind everything and the mainspring of all movement. Lack of
personality meant stagnation; but granted personality, then advance was
possible--almost inevitable.

He caught her meaning and appreciated what followed from it. But he saw
that personality demands freedom before its fullest expression and
highest altitude are attainable. That altitude had never been reached as
yet even by the most liberty-loving people.

"There's no record in all the world of what man might do under
conditions of real liberty," said Estelle. "It has never been possible
so far; but I do believe history shows that the nearer we approach to
it, the more beautiful life becomes for everybody."

Raymond admitted so much and agreed that the world had yet to learn what
it might achieve under a nobler dispensation of freedom.

"Think of the art, the thought, the leisure for good things, if the
ceaseless fight against bad things were only ended; think of the
inspirations that personality will be free to express some day," she
said.

But he shattered her dreams sometimes. She would never suffer him to
declare any advance impossible; yet she had to listen, when he explained
that countless things she cried for were impracticable under existing
circumstances.

"You want to get to the goal without running the race, sweetheart," he
told her once. "Before this and this can possibly happen, that and that
must happen. House-building begins at the cellars, not the roof."

She wrestled with political economy and its bearings on all that was
meant by democracy. She was patient and strove to master detail and keep
within the domain of reality. But, after all, she taught him more than
he could teach her; because her thoughts sprung from an imagination
touched with genius, while he was contented to take things as he found
them and distrust emotion and intuition.

She exploded ideas in the ordered chambers of his mind. The proposition
that labour was not a commodity quite took him off his balance. Yet he
proved too logical to deny it when Estelle convinced his reason.

"That fact belongs to the root of all the future, I believe," she said.
"From it all the flowers and seed we hope for ought to come, and the
interpretation of everything vital. Labour and the labourer aren't two
different things; they're one and the same thing. His labour is part of
every man, and it can no more be measured and calculated away from him
than his body and soul can. But it is the body and soul that must
regulate labour, not labour the body and soul. So you've got to regard
labour and the rights of labour as part of the rights of man, and not a
thing to be bought and sold like a pound of tea. You see that? Labour,
in fact, is as sacred as humanity and its rights are sacred too."

"So are the rights of property," he answered, but doubtfully, for he
knew at heart that the one proposition did not by any means embrace the
other. Indeed Estelle contradicted him very forcibly.

"Not the least bit in the world," she declared. "They are as far apart
as the poles. There's nothing the least sacred about property. The
rights of property are casual. They generally depend on all sorts of
things that don't matter. They happen through the changes and chances of
life, and human whims and fads and the pure accident of heredity and
descent. They are all on a lower level; they are all suspect, whereas
the rights of labour are a part of humanity."

But he followed her parry with a sharp _riposte_.

"Remember what happened when somebody promised to marry me," he said.
"Remember that, as a principle of rectitude, I have recognised my son
and accepted your very 'accident of descent' as chief reason for
according him all a first-born's rights. That was your instinct towards
right--his rights of property."

"It was righteousness, not rights of property that made you decide," she
assured him. "Abel has no rights of property. The law ignores his rights
to be alive at all, I believe. The law calls him 'the son of none,' and
if you have no parents, you can't really exist. But the rights of labour
are above human law and founded in humanity. They are Abel's, yours,
everybody's. The man who works, by that fact commands the rights of
labour. Besides, circumstances alter cases."

"Yes, and may again," he replied. "We can't deny the difficulties in
this personal experience of mine. But I'm beginning to think the boy's
not normal. I very much fear there's a screw loose."

"Don't think that. He's a very clever boy."

"And yet Sabina tells me frankly that his bitterness against me keeps
pace with his growing intelligence. Instead of his wits defeating his
bad temper, as they do sooner or later with most sane people, the older
he gets, the more his dislike increases and the less trouble he takes
to control it."

"If that were so, of course circumstances might alter the case again,"
she admitted. "But I don't believe there's a weak spot like that.
There's something retarded--some confusion of thought, some kind of knot
in his mind that isn't smoothed out yet. You've been infinitely patient
and we'll go on being infinitely patient--together."

This difficult matter she dropped for the present; but finding him some
days later in a recipient mood, followed up her cherished argument, that
labour must be counted a commodity no more.

"Listen to me, Ray," she said. "Very soon you'll be too busy to listen
to me at all--these are the last chances for me before your meetings
begin. But really what I'm saying will be splendidly useful in
speeches."

"All very well if getting in was all that mattered," he told her. "I
can't echo all your ideas, Chicky, and speeches have a way of rising up
against one at awkward moments afterwards."

"At any rate, you grant the main point," she said, "and so you must
grant what follows from it; and if you grant that, and put it in your
manifesto, you'll lose a few votes, but you'll gain hundreds. If
labour's not a commodity, but to be regulated by body and soul, then
wages must be regulated by body and soul too. Or, if you want to put it
in a way for a crowd to understand, you can say that we give even a
steam-engine the oil it must have before it begins to work, so how can
we deny a man the oil he wants before he begins to work?"

"That means a minimum of wages."

"Yes, a minimum consistent with human needs, below which wages cannot
and must not fail. That minimum should be just as much taken for granted
as the air a man breathes, or the water he drinks, or the free education
he gets as a boy. It isn't wages really; it's recognition of a man's
right to live and share the privileges of life, and be self-respecting,
just because he is a man. Everybody who is born, Ray, ought to have the
unquestioned right to live, and the amplest opportunity to become a good
and useful citizen. After that is granted, then wages should begin, and
each man, or woman, should have full freedom and opportunity to earn
what he, or she, was worth. That does away with the absurd idea of
equality, which can only be created artificially and would breed
disaster if we did create it."

"There's no such thing as equality in human nature, any more than in any
other nature, Estelle. Seeds from the same pod are different--some weak,
some strong. But I grant the main petition. The idea's first rate--a
firm basis of right to reasonable life, and security for every human
being as our low-water mark; while, on that foundation, each may lift an
edifice according to their power. So that none who has the power to rise
above the minimum would be prevented from doing so, and no Trades Union
tyranny should interfere to prevent the strong man working eight hours a
day if he desires to do so, because the weaker one can only work seven."

"I think the Trades Unions only want to prevent men being handicapped
out of the race at the start," she answered. "They know as well as we
do, that men are not born equal in mind or body; but rightly and
reasonably, they want them all to start equal as far as conditions go.
The race is to the strong and the prize is to the strong; but all, at
least, should have power to train for the race and start with equal
opportunities to win. There's such a lot to be done."

"There is," he admitted. "The handicap you talk of is created for
thousands and thousands before they are born at all."

"Think of being handicapped out of the race before you are born!" she
cried. "What could be more unjust and cruel and wicked than that?"

"Very few will put the unborn before the living, or think of a
potential child rather than the desires of the parents--selfish though
they may be. It's a free country, and we don't know enough to start
stopping people from having a hand in the next generation if they decide
to do so."

But her enthusiasm was not quenched by difficulties.

"We want science and politics and good will to work together," she said.

He returned to the smaller argument.

"It's a far cry to what you want, yet I for one don't shrink from it.
The better a man is, the larger share he should have of the profits of
any enterprise he helps to advance. Then wages would take the shape of
his share in the profits, and you might easily find a head workman of
genius drawing more out of a business than--say, a junior partner, who
is a fool and not nearly so vital to the enterprise as he. But, you see,
if we say that, we argue in a circle, for the junior partner, ass though
he is, represents oil and fuel, which are just as important as the
clever workman's brains--in fact, his brains can't work without them.
Capital and labour are two halves of a whole and depend upon each other,
as much as men depend on women and women on men. Capital does a great
deal more than pay labour wages, remember. It educates his children,
builds his houses and doctors his ailments. Soon--so they tell
me--capital will be appropriated to look after labour's old age also,
and cheer his manhood with the knowledge that his age is safe."

"You don't grudge any of these things, Ray?"

"Not one. Every man should have security. But, after all, capital cannot
be denied its rights. It has got rights of some sort, surely? Socialists
would kill the goose that lays the golden eggs; but though they lack
power yet to kill the goose, they possess plenty of power to frighten it
away to foreign shores, where it can build its nest a bit more
hopefully than here. Many, who scent repudiation and appropriation, are
flying already. Capital is diminishing, and there seems a fair chance of
labour being over-coddled, at the expense of capital, when the Liberals
come in again. If that happens, labour is weakened as well as capital.
But both are essential to the power and well-being of the State. If we
ever had another war, which God forbid, labour and capital would have to
sink all differences and go to battle together unless we meant to be
defeated. Both are vital to our salvation."

"Then give labour an interest in the blessing of capital," she said.
"Open labour's eyes to the vital values of capital--its strength as well
as weakness. Let the units of labour share the interests of their
employers and each become a capitalist in their own right. What does it
matter where the capital is as long as the nation has got it safe? You
might make England a thousand times richer if all those in the country,
who want to save money, had the power to save."

"How can we? There's not enough to go round," he told her. But she
declared that no argument.

"Then create conditions under which there might be much more. Let the
workers be owners, too. If the owners only took their ownership in a
different spirit and felt no man is more than a trustee for all--if they
were like you, Ray, who are a worker and an owner both, what great
things might happen! Make all industry co-operation, in reality as well
as theory, and a real democracy must come out of it. It's bound to
come."

"Well, I suppose nothing can help it coming. We are great on free
institutions in this country and they get freer every year."

So they argued, much at one in heart, and an impartial listener had felt
that it was within the power of the woman's intelligence and the man's
energy and common sense, to help the world as far as individuals can,
did chance and the outcome of their union afford them opportunity.

But Estelle knew that good ideas were of little value in themselves.
Seed is of no account if the earth on which it falls be poisoned, and a
good idea above all, needs good will to welcome it. Good will to the
inspirations of man is as sunshine, rain, sweet soil to the seed;
without good will all thinking must perish, or at best lie dormant. She
wondered how much of good seed had perished under the bad weather of
human weakness, prejudice and jealousy. But she was young, and hope her
rightful heritage. The blessed word 'reconstruction' seemed to her as
musical as a ring of bells.

"There are some things you never will be able to express in political
terms, and life is one of them," Ernest Churchouse had assured her; but
she was not convinced of it. She still reverenced politics and looked to
it to play husbandman, triumph over party and presently shine out, like
a universal sun, whose sole warmth was good will to man.

And as she felt personally to Raymond's work, so did she want the world
of women to feel to all men's work. She would not have them claim their
rights in the argument of parity of intellect, for that she felt to be
vain. It was by the virtue of disparity that their equality should
appear. Their virtue and essential aid depended on the difference. The
world wanted women, not to do what men had done, but to bring to the
task the special qualities and distinctive genius of womanhood to
complement and crown the labour of manhood. The mighty structure was
growing; but it would never be finished without the saving grace of
woman's thought and the touch of woman's hand. The world's work needed
them--not for the qualities they shared with men, but for the qualities
men lacked and they possessed. If Raymond represented the masculine
worker, she hoped that she might presently stand in the ranks of the
women, and doubted not that great women would arise to lead her.

She remembered that the Roman element of humanity was described as
representing the male spirit, while the Greek stood for the female; and
she could easily dream a blend of the two destined to produce a spirit
greater than either. Love quickened her visions and added the glow of
life to her hopes.

So together she and her future husband prepared for their wedded days,
and if ever a man and woman faced the future with steadfast
determination to do justly and serve their kind with the best of their
united powers, this man and woman did.

They were to be married after the election, and that would take place
early in the coming year.




CHAPTER XXI

ATROPOS


Ironsyde for once found himself part of a machine, and by no means the
most important part. He fought the election resolutely and spared no
energy. The attraction of the contest grew upon him, and since he
contended against a personal acquaintance, one who rated sportsmanship
as highly as Arthur Waldron himself, the encounter proceeded on rational
lines. It became exceedingly strenuous in the later stages and Raymond's
agent, from an attitude of certainty, grew more doubtful. But the
personal factor told for the Liberal. He was popular in the constituency
and Waldron, himself a strong Conservative, whose vote must necessarily
be cast against his future son-in-law, preached the moral.

"If you beat us, Ray, it will be entirely owing to the fact that you
played cricket and football in the public eye for twenty years," he
asserted and believed.

The Liberal Committee room was at 'The Seven Stars,' for Mr. Legg
supported the cause of democracy and pinned his highest hopes thereto.
He worked hard for Ironsyde and, on the sole occasion when painful
incidents threatened to spoil a public meeting, Job exercised tact and
saved the situation.

At one of the last of his gatherings, in the great, new public room of
'The Seven Stars,' Ironsyde had been suddenly confronted with his son.
Abel attended this meeting of his father's supporters and attempted to
interrupt it. He had arrived primed with words and meant to declare
himself before the people; but when the time came, he was nervous and
lost his head. Sitting and listening grew to an agony. He could not wait
till question time and felt a force within him crying to him, to get
upon his feet and finish the thing he had planned to do. But Job, who
was among the stewards, kept watchful eyes upon the benches, and Abel
had hardly stood up, when he recognised him. Before the boy had shouted
half a dozen incoherent words, Mr. Legg and a policeman were at his
side.

He sat far down the hall and the little disturbance he had been able to
create was hardly appreciated. For Raymond now neared the end of his
speech and it had contained matter which aroused attention from all who
listened to it, awakened disquiet in some, but enthusiasm among the
greater number. He was telling of such hopes and desires as he and
Estelle shared, and though an indifferent speaker, the purity of his
ambitions and their far-reaching significance challenged intelligent
listeners.

In less than half a minute Abel was removed. He did not struggle, but
his first instinct was great relief to be outside. Not until later did
his reverse breed wrath. His father had not seen him and when Ironsyde
inquired afterwards, what the trouble was, Mr. Legg evaded the facts.
But he looked to it that Abel should be powerless to renew disturbances.
He warned those who controlled the remaining meetings not to admit him,
and henceforth kept at the doors a man who knew Abel. Mr. Legg also saw
Sabina, who was now much in Bridport concerned with a little house that
she had taken, and the boy's mother implored him to do no more evil. To
her surprise he admitted that he had been wrong. But he was dark and
stormy. She saw but little of him and did not know how he occupied his
leisure, or spent his wages.

There is no doubt that, at this time, Abel sank out of mind with those
most interested in him. Estelle was entirely preoccupied with the
election, and when once the lad's new work had been determined and he
went to do it, Raymond dismissed him for the present from his thoughts.
He felt grateful to Sabina for falling in with his wishes and hoped
that, since she was now definitely on his side, a time might soon come
when she would be able to influence her son. Indeed Sabina herself was
more hopeful, and when Estelle came to see her in Bridport, declared
that Abel kept regular hours and appeared to be interested in his work.

Neither she nor anybody belonging to him heard of the boy's escapade at
the meeting, for upon that subject Job Legg felt it wisest to be silent.
And when the penultimate meeting passed, the spirit of it was such that
those best able to judge again felt very sanguine for Ironsyde. He had
created a good impression and won a wide measure of support. He had
worked hard, traversed all the ground and left the people under no
shadow of doubt as to his opinions. Bridetown was for him; West Haven
and Bridport were said to be largely in his favour, but the outlying
agricultural district inclined towards his rival. Raymond had, however,
been at great pains to win the suffrage of the farmers, and his last
meeting was on their account.

Before him now lay the promise of two days' rest, and he accepted them
very thankfully, for he began to grow weary in mind and body. He had
poured his vitality into the struggle which, started more or less as a
sporting event, gradually waxed into a serious and all-important matter.
And as his knowledge increased and his physical energy waned, a cloud
dulled his enthusiasm at times and more than once he asked himself if it
was all worth while--if this infinite trouble and high tension were
expended to the wisest purpose on these ambitions. He had heard things
from politicians, who came to speak for him, that discouraged him. He
had found that single-mindedness was not the dominant quality of those
who followed politics as a profession. The loaves and fishes bulked
largely in their calculations, and he heard a distinguished man say
things at one of his meetings which Raymond knew that it was impossible
he could believe. For example, it was clearly a popular catchword that
party politics had become archaic, and that a time was near when party
would be forgotten in a larger and nobler spirit. Speakers openly
declared that great changes were in sight, and the constitution must be
modified; but, privately, they professed no such opinions. All looked to
their party and their party alone for personal advance. It seemed to
Ironsyde that their spirits were mean spirits; that they concealed
behind their profession a practice of shrewd calculation and a policy of
cynical self-advance. The talk behind the scenes was not of national
welfare, but individual success, or failure. The men who talked the
loudest on the platform of altruism and the greatest good to the
greatest number, were most alive in private conversation to the
wire-pulling and intrigue which proceeded unseen; and it was in the
machinery they found their prime interest and excitement, rather than in
the great operations the machine was ostensibly created to achieve. The
whole business on their lips in private appeared to have no more real
significance than a county cricket match, or any other game.

Thanks largely to the woman he was to wed, Ironsyde took now a
statesman-like rather than a political view as far as his inexperience
could do so. He had no axe to grind, and from the standpoint of his
ignorance, progress looked easy and demanded no more than that good will
of which Estelle so often spoke. But in practice he began to perceive
the gulf between ideal legislation and practical politics and, in
moments of physical depression, as the election approached, his heart
failed him. He grew despondent at night. Then, after refreshing sleep,
the spirit of hope reawakened. He felt very certain now that he was
going to get in; and still with morning light he hailed the victory;
while, after a heavy day, he doubted of its fruits and mistrusted
himself. His powers seemed puny contrasted with the gigantic
difficulties that the machine set up between a private member and any
effective or independent activity in the House.

He was cast down as he rode home after his last meeting but one, and
his reflections were again most deeply tinged with doubt as to the value
of these heroic exertions. Looked at here, in winter moonlight under a
sky of stars, this fevered strife seemed vain, and the particular
ambition to which he had devoted such tremendous application appeared
thin and doubtful--almost unworthy. He traversed the enterprise, dwelt
on outstanding features of it and comforted himself, as often he had
done of late, by reflecting that Estelle would be at his right hand. If,
after practical experience and fair trial, he found himself powerless to
serve their common interests, or advance their ideals, then he could
leave the field of Parliament and seek elsewhere for a hearing. His
ingenuous hope was to interest his leaders; for he believed that many
who possessed power, thought and felt as he did.

He had grown placid by the time he left South Street and turned into the
road for home. The night was keen and frosty. It braced him and he began
to feel cheerful and hungry for the supper that waited him at North
Hill.

Then, where the road forked from Bridetown and an arm left it for West
Haven, at a point two hundred yards from outlying farm-houses, a young,
slight figure leapt from the hedge, stood firmly in the road and stopped
Raymond's horse. The moonlight was clear and showed Ironsyde his son.
Abel leapt at the bridle rein, and when the rider bade him loose it, he
lifted a revolver and fired twice pointblank.

Ten minutes later, on their way back from the meeting and full of
politics, there drove that way John Best, Nicholas Roberts and a
Bridetown farmer. They found a man on his back in the middle of the road
and a horse standing quietly beside him. None doubted but that Raymond
Ironsyde was dead, yet it was not possible for them to be sure. They
lifted him into the farmer's cart therefore, and while Best and Roberts
returned with him to Bridport Hospital, the farmer mounted Ironsyde's
horse and galloped to North Hill with his news. Arthur Waldron was from
home, but Estelle left the house as quickly as a motor car could be made
ready, and in a quarter of an hour stood at Raymond's side.

He was dead and had, indeed, died instantly when fired upon. He had been
shot through the lung and heart, and must have perished before he fell
from his horse to the ground.

They knew Estelle at the hospital and left her with Raymond for a little
while. He looked ten years younger than when she had seen him last. All
care was gone and an expression of content rested upon his beautiful
face.

The doctor feared to leave her, judging of the shock; but when he
returned she was calm and controlled. She sat by the dead man and held
his hand.

"A little longer," she said, and he went out again.




CHAPTER XXII

THE HIDING-PLACE


No doubt existed as to the murderer of Raymond Ironsyde, for on the
night of his death, Abel Dinnett did not return home. He had left work
at the usual time, but had not taken his bicycle; and from that day he
was seen no more.

It appeared impossible that he could evade the hue and cry, but
twenty-four hours passed and there came no report of his capture. Little
mystery marked the matter, save that of Abel's disappearance. His
animosity towards his father was known and it had culminated thus. None
imagined that capture would be long delayed; but forty-eight hours
passed and still there came no news of him.

Estelle Waldron fled from all thought of him at first; then she
reflected upon him--driven to do so by a conviction concerning him that
commanded action from her.

On the day after the coroner's inquest, for the first time she sought
Sabina. The meeting was of an affecting character, for each very fully
realised the situation from the standpoint of the other. Sabina was the
more distressed, yet she entertained definite convictions and declared
herself positive concerning certain facts. Estelle questioned her
conclusions and, indeed, refused to believe them.

"I hope you'll understand my coming, Sabina," she said.

She was clad, as usual, in a grey Harris tweed, and the elder wondered
why she did not wear black. Estelle's face was haggard and worn, with
much suffering. But it seemed that the last dregs of her own cup were
not yet drunk, for an excruciating problem faced her. There was none to
help her solve it, yet she took it to Sabina.

"I thought you'd come, sooner or later. This is a thing beyond any human
power to make better. God knows I mourn for you far more than I mourn
for myself. I don't mourn for myself. Long ago I saw that the living
can't be happy, though the dead may be. The dead may be--we'll hope it
for them."

"It's death to me as well as to him," said Estelle simply. "As far as
I'm concerned, I feel that I'm dead from now and shall live on as
somebody different--somebody I don't know yet. All that we were and had
and hoped--everything is gone with him. The future was to be spent in
trying to do good things. We shared the same ideas about it. But that's
all over. I'm left--single-handed, Sabina."

"Yes, I know how you feel."

"I can't bear to think of it yet. I didn't come to talk about him, or
myself. I came to talk about Abel."

"I can't tell you anything about him."

"I know you know nothing. I think I know more than you do."

"Know more of him than I do?" asked the mother. There was almost a flash
of jealousy in her voice. But it faded and she sighed.

"No, no. You needn't fret for him. They may find him, or they may not;
but they'll not find him alive."

Estelle started. She believed most steadfastly that Abel was alive, and
felt very certain that she knew his hiding-place.

"Why do you think that?" she asked. "You might hope it; but why do you
think it? Have you any good reason for thinking it?"

"There are some things you know," answered the mother. "You know them
without being told and without any reason. You neither hope nor
fear--you know. I might ask you how you know where he is. But I don't
want to ask you. I've taken my good-bye of him, poor, wasted life. How
had God got the heart to let him live for this? People will say it was
fitting, and happened by the plan of his Maker. No man's child--not even
God's. It's all hidden, all dark to me. It's worked itself out to the
bitter end. Men would have been too kind to work it out like this. Only
God could. I can't say much to you. I'm very sorry for you. You were
caught up into the thing and didn't know, or guess, what you were
thrusting yourself into. But now it's your turn, and you'll have to wait
long years, as I did, before you can look at life again without passion
or sorrow."

"It doesn't matter about me. But, if you feel Abel is dead, I feel just
as strongly that he is alive, and that this isn't the end of him."

Sabina considered.

"I know him better than you, and I know Providence better than you do,"
she answered. "It's like the wonder you are--to think on him without
hate. But you're wasting your time and showing pity for nothing. He's
beyond pity. Why, I don't pity him--his mother."

"I'm only doing what Raymond tried to do so often and failed--what he
would have me do now if he'd lived. And if I know something that nobody
else does, I must use that knowledge. I'm sorry I do know, Sabina, but I
do."

"You waste your time, I expect. If the hunt that's going on doesn't find
him, how shall you do it? He's at the bottom of the sea, I hope."

They parted and the same night Estelle set out to satisfy her will. She
told nobody of her purpose, for she knew that her father would not have
allowed her to pursue it. Waldron was utterly crushed by the death of
his friend and could not as yet realise the loss.

Nor did Estelle realise it, save in fitful and fleeting agonies. As yet
the full significance of the event was by no means weighed by her. It
meant far more than she could measure and receive and accept in so
brief a space of time. Seen from the standpoint of this death, every
plan of her life, every undertaking for the future, was dislocated. She
left that complete ruin for the present. There was no hurry to restore,
or set about rebuilding the fabric of her future. She would have all her
life to do it in.

The thought of Abel came as a demand to her justice. Her knowledge,
amounting to a conviction, required action. The nature of the action she
did not know, but something urged her to reach him if she could. For she
believed him mad. Great torture of spirit had overtaken her under her
loss; but upon this extreme grief, ugly and incessant, obtruded the
thought of Abel, the secret of his present refuge and the impulse to
approach him. Her personal suffering established rather than shook her
own high standards. She had promised the boy never to tell anybody of
the haunt he had shown her under the roof in the old store at West
Haven; and if most women might now have forgotten such a promise,
Estelle did not. But she very strenuously argued against the spiritual
impulse to seek him, for every physical instinct rose against doing so.
To do this was surely not required of her, for whereunto would it lead?
What must be the result of any such meeting? It might be dreadful; it
could not fail to be futile. Yet all mental effort to escape the task
proved vain. Her very grief edged her old, austere, chivalrous
acceptance of duty. She felt that justice called her to this ordeal, and
she went--with no fixed purpose save to see him and urge him to
surrender himself for his own peace if he could understand. No personal
fear touched her reflections. She might have welcomed fear in these
unspeakable moments of her life, for she was little enamoured of living
after Raymond Ironsyde died. The thought of death for herself had not
been distasteful at that time.

She went fearlessly, when all slept and her going and coming would not
be observed. She left her home at a moonless midnight, took candle and
matches, dressed in her stoutest clothes and walked over North Hill
towards Bridport. But at the eastern shoulder of the downs she descended
through a field and struck the road again just at the fork where Raymond
had perished.

Then she struck into the West Haven way and soon slipped under the black
mass of the old store. The night was cloudy and still. No wind blew and
the sigh of the sea beneath the shelving beaches close at hand, had sunk
to a murmur. West Haven lay lost in darkness. The old store had been
searched, as many other empty buildings, for the fugitive; but he was
not specially associated with this place, save in the mind of Estelle.
The police had hunted it carefully, no more, and she guessed that his
eerie under the roof, only reached by a somewhat perilous climb through
a broken window, would not be discovered.

She remembered also that there were some students of Raymond's murder
who did not associate Abel with it. Such held that only accident and
coincidence had made him run away on the night of Ironsyde's end. They
argued that in these cases the obvious always proved erroneous, and the
theory most transparently rational seldom led the way to the truth.

But she had never doubted about that. It seemed already a commonplace of
knowledge, a lifetime old, that Abel had destroyed his father, and that
he must be insane to have ruined his own life in this manner.

She ascended cautiously through the darkness, reached a gap--once a
window--from which her ascent must be made, and listened for a few
moments to hear if anything stirred above her.

It seemed as though the old store was full of noises, for the fingers of
decay never cease from picking and, in the silence of night, one can
best hear their stealthy activities. Little falls of fragments sounded
loudly, even echoed, in this great silence. There was almost a
perpetual rustle and whisper; and once a thud and skurry, when a rat
displaced a piece of mortar which fell from the rotting plaster. Dark
though the heaven was and black the outer night, it had the quality that
air never loses and she saw the sky as possessed of illumination in
contrast with its setting of the broken window. Within all was blankly
black; from above there came no sound.

She climbed to the window ledge, felt for the nails that Abel had
hammered in to hold his feet and soon ascended through a large gap under
the eaves of the store. Some shock had thrown out a piece of brickwork
here. Seen from the ground the aperture looked trifling and had indeed
challenged no attention; but it was large enough to admit a man.

For a moment Estelle stood in this aperture before entering the den
within. She raised her voice, which fluttered after her climb, and
called to him.

"Abel! Abel! It's Estelle."

There came the thought, even as she spoke, that he might answer with a
bullet; but he answered not at all. She felt thankful for the silence
and hoped that he might have deserted his retreat. Perhaps, indeed, he
had never come to it; and yet it seemed impossible that he had for two
days escaped capture unless here concealed. It occurred to her that he
might wander out by night and return before day. He might even now be
behind her, to intercept her return. Still no shadow of fear shook her
mind or body. She felt not a tremor. All that concerned her conscience
was now completed and she hoped that it would be possible to dismiss
from her thoughts the fellow creature who had destroyed her joy of life
and worked evil so far reaching. She could leave him now to his destiny
and feel under no compulsion to relate the incidents of her nocturnal
search. Had he been there, she would have risked the meeting, urged him
to surrender and then left him if he allowed her to do so. She would
never have given him up, or broken her promise to keep his secret.

But the chamber under the roof was large and she did not leave it
without making sure that he was neither hiding nor sleeping within it.
She entered, lighted her candle and examined a triangular recess formed
by the converging beams of the roof above her and the joists under her
feet.

The boy had been busy here. There were evidences of him--evidences of a
child rather than a man. Boyish forethought stared her in the face and
staggered her by its ghastly incongruities with the things this
premeditating youth had done. Here were provisions, not such as a man
would have selected to stand a siege, but the taste of a schoolboy. She
looked at the supplies spread here--tins of preserved food, packets of
chocolate, bottles of ginger beer, bananas, biscuits. But it seemed that
the hoard had not been touched. One tin of potted salmon had been
opened, but no part of the contents was consumed. Either accident had
changed his purpose and frightened him elsewhere at the last moment, or
the energies and activities that had gone to pile this accumulation were
all spent in the process and now he did not need them.

Then she looked further, to the extremity of the den he had made, and
there, lying comfortably on a pile of shavings, Estelle found him.

She guessed that the storm and stress of his crime had exhausted him and
thrown him into heaviest possible physical slumber after great mental
tribulation. She shuddered as she looked down on him and a revulsion, a
loathing tempted her to creep away again before he awakened. She did not
think of him as a patricide, nor did her own loss entirely inspire the
emotion; she never associated him with that, but kept him outside it, as
she would have kept some insensible or inanimate object had such been
responsible for Ironsyde's end. It was the sudden thought of all
Raymond's death might mean--not to her but the world--that turned her
heart to stone for a fearful second as she looked down upon the
unconscious figure. Her own sorrow was sealed at its fountains for the
time. But her sorrow for the world could not be sealed. And then came
the thought that the insensible boy at her feet, escaping for a little
while through sleep's primeval sanctity, was part of the robbed world
also. Who had lost more than he by his unreason? If her heart did not
melt then, it grew softer.

But there was more to learn before she left him and the truth can be
recorded.

Abel had killed his father and hastened to his lair exultant. He had
provided for what should follow and vaguely hoped that presently, before
his stores were spent, the way would be clearer for escape. He assured
himself safe from discovery and guessed that when a fortnight was
passed, he might safely creep out, reach a port, find work in a ship and
turn his back upon England for ever.

That was his general plan before the deed. Afterwards all changed for
him. He then found himself a being racked and over-mastered by new
sensations. The desirable thing that he had done changed its features,
even as death changes the features of life; the ideal, so noble and
seemly before, when attained assumed such a shape as, in one of Abel's
heredity, it was bound to assume. Not at once did the change appear, but
as a cloud no bigger than a man's hand in the clear, triumphant sky of
his achievement. Even so an apple, that once he had stolen and hidden,
was bruised unknown to him and thus contained the seed of death, that
made it rot before it was ripe. The decay spread and the fruit turned to
filth before he could win any enjoyment from it.

He shook off the beginnings of doubt impatiently. He retraced his
grievances and dwelt on the glory of his revenge as he reached his
secret place after the crime. But the stain darkened in the heart of his
mind; and before dawn crept through cracks in the roof above his lair,
dissolution had begun.

Through the hours of that first day he lay there with his thoughts for
company and a process, deepening, as dusk deepened, into remorse began
to horrify him. He fought with all his might against it. He resented it
with indignation. His gorge rose against it; he would have strangled it,
had it been a ponderable thing within his power to destroy; but as time
passed he began to know it was stronger than he. It gripped his spirit
with unconquerable fingers and slowly stifled him. Time crept on
interminable. When the second night came, he was faint and turned to his
food. He struggled with himself and opened a tin of salmon. But he could
not eat. He believed that he would never eat again. He slept for an
hour, then woke from terrifying dreams. His mind wandered and he longed
to be gone and tear off his clothes and dip into the sea.

At dawn of the second day men were hunting the old stores, from its
cellars to the attics below him. He heard them speaking under his feet
and listened to two men who cursed him. They speculated whether he was
too young to hang and hoped he might not be. Yet he could take pride in
their failure to find him. There was, as he remembered, only one person
in the world who knew of his eerie; but terror did not accompany this
recollection. His exultation at the defeat of the searchers soon
vanished, and he found himself indifferent to the thought that Estelle
might remember.

He knew that his plans could not be fulfilled now: it was impossible for
him to live a fortnight here. And then he began stealthily, fearfully,
to doubt of life itself. It had changed in its aspect and invitation.
Its promises were dead. It could hold nothing for him as he had been
told by Levi Baggs. The emotions now threatening his mind were such that
he believed no length of days would ever dim them; from what he suffered
now, it seemed that time's self could promise no escape. Life would be
hell and not worth living. At this point in his struggles his mind
failed him and became disordered. It worked fitfully, and its processes
were broken with blanks and breaks. Chaos marked his mental steps from
this point; his feet were caught and he fell down and down, yet tried
hard for a while to stay his fall. His consciousness began to decide,
while his natural instincts struggled against the decision. Not one, but
rival spirits tore him. Reason formed no part in the encounter; no
arbiter arose between the conflicting forces, between a gathering will
to die and escape further torment, and the brute will to live, that must
belong to every young creature, happy or wretched.

The trial was long drawn out; but it had ended some hours before Estelle
stood beside him.

She considered whether she should waken Abel and determined that she
must do so, since to speak with him, if possible, she held her duty now.
He was safe if he wished to be, for she would never tell his secret. So
she bent down with her light--to find him dead. He had shot himself
through the right temple after sunset time of the second day.

Estelle stood and looked at him for a little while, then climbed back to
earth and went away through the darkness to tell his mother that she was
right.


THE END




The Human Boy and the War

BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS

In this book of stories Mr. Phillpotts uses his genial gift of
characterization to picture the effect of the European War on the
impressionable minds of boys--English school-boys far away from anything
but the mysterious echo of the strange terrors and blood-stirring
heroisms of battle, who live close only to the martial invitation of a
recruiting station. There are stories of a boy who runs away to go to
the front, teachers who go--perhaps without running; the school's
contest for a prize poem about the war, and snow battles, fiercely
belligerent, mimicking the strategies of Flanders and the Champagne.
They are deeply moving sketches revealing the heart and mind of English
youth in war-time.

"The book is extraordinary in the skill with which it gets into that
world of the boy so shut away from the adult world. It is entirely
unlike anything else by Phillpotts, equal as it is to his other volumes
in charm, character study, humor and interest. It is one of those books
that every reader will want to recommend to his friends, and which he
will only lend with the express proviso that it must be returned."--_New
York Times_.

"In this book Mr. Phillpotts pictures a boy, a real human boy. The boy's
way of thinking, his outlook upon life, his ambitions, his ideals, his
moods, his peculiarities, these are all here touched with a kindly
sympathy and humor."--_New York Sun_.

"Mr. Phillpotts writes from a real knowledge of the schoolboy's habit of
thought. He writes with much humor and the result is as delightful and
entertaining a volume as has come from his pen for some time."--_Buffalo
Evening News_.




CHRONICLES OF ST. TID

BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS


"The gifts of the short-story writer are wholly Mr. Phillpotts'. Here,
as elsewhere in his works, we have the place painted with the pen of an
artist, and the person depicted with the skill of the writer who is
inspired by all types of humanity."--_Boston Evening Transcript_.

"No one rivals Phillpotts in this peculiar domain of presenting an
ancient landscape, with its homes and their inmates as survivals of a
past century. There is nothing vague about his characters. They are
undeniable personalities, and are possessed of a psychology all their
own."--_The Chicago Tribune_.




THE BANKS OF COLNE

BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS


"Absorbing, written with sure power and a constant flow of humor.... Has
the warm human glow of sympathy and understanding, and it is written
with real mastery."--_New York Times_.

"A tale of absorbing interest from its start to the altogether unusual
and dramatic climax with which it closes."--_Philadelphia Public
Ledger_.

"Stands in the foremost rank of current fiction."--_New York Tribune_.

"His acute faculties of sympathetic observation, his felicitous skill in
characterization, and his power to present the life of a community in
all its multiple aspects are here combined in the most mature and
absorbing novel of his entire career."--_Philadelphia Press_.




THE GREEN ALLEYS

BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS


"As long as we have such novels as _The Green Alleys_ and such novelists
as Mr. Phillpotts, we need have no fears for the future of English
fiction. Mr. Phillpotts' latest novel is a representative example of him
at his best, of his skill as a literary creator and of his ability as an
interpreter of life."--_Boston Transcript_.

"A drama of fascinating interest, lightened by touches of delicious
comedy ... one of the best of the many remarkable books from the pen of
this clever author."--_Boston Globe_.




BRUNEL'S TOWER

BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS


The regeneration of a faulty character through association with
dignified honest work and simple, sincere people is the theme which Mr.
Phillpotts has chosen for this novel. The scene is largely laid in a
pottery, where a lad, having escaped from a reform school, has sought
shelter and work. Under the influence of the gentle, kindly folk of the
community he comes in a measure to realize himself.




OLD DELABOLE

BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS


"Besides being a good story, richly peopled, and brimful of human nature
in its finer aspects, the book is seasoned with quiet humor and a deal
of mellow wisdom."--_New York Times_.





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