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PART THE THIRD

CHAPTER I.
A PREMATURE AVOWAL

Daffodil's Delight was in all the glory of the lock-out. The men, having nothing to do, improved their time by enjoying themselves; they stood about the street, or lounged at their doors, smoking their short pipes and quaffing draughts of beer. Let money run ever so short, you will generally see that the beer and the pipes can be found. As yet, the evils of being out of work were not felt; for weekly pay, sufficient for support, was supplied them by the Union Committee. The men were in high spirits—in that sort of mood implied by the words 'Never say die,' which phrase was often in their mouths. They expressed themselves determined to hold out; and this determination was continually fostered by the agents of the Union, of whom Sam Shuck was the chief: chief as regarded Daffodil's Delight—inferior as regarded other agents elsewhere. Many of the more temperate of the men, who had not particularly urged the strike, were warm supporters now of the general opinion, for they regarded the lock-out as an unwarrantable piece of tyranny on the part of the masters. As to the ladies, they were over-warm partisans, generally speaking, making the excitement, the unsettled state of Daffodil's Delight, an excuse for their own idleness (they are only too ready to do so when occasion offers), and collected in groups round the men, or squatted themselves on door steps, proclaiming their opinion of existing things, and boasting that they'd hold out for their rights till death.

It was almost like a summer's day. Seated in a chair at the bottom of her garden, just within the gate, was Mary Baxendale. Not that she was there to join in the gossip of the women, little knots of whom were dotting the street, or had any intention of joining in it: she was simply sitting there for air.

Mary Baxendale was fading. Never very strong, she had, for the last year or two, been gradually declining, and, with the excessive heat of the past summer, her remaining strength appeared to have gone out. Her occupation, that of a seamstress, had not tended to keep her in health; she had a great deal of work offered her, her skill being superior, and she had sat at it early and late. Mary was thoughtful and conscientious, and she was anxious to contribute a full share to the home support. Her father had married again, had now two young children, and it almost appeared to Mary as if she were an interloper in the paternal home. Not that the new Mrs. Baxendale made her feel this: she was a bustling, hearty woman, fond of show and spending, and of setting off her babies; but she was kind to Mary.

The capability of exertion appeared to be past, and Mary's days were chiefly spent in a quiescent state of rest, and in frequently sitting out of doors. This day—it was now the beginning of September—was an unusually bright one, and she drew her invalid shawl round her, and leaned back in her seat, looking out on the lively scene, at the men and women congregating in the road, and inhaling the fresh air. At least, as fresh as it could be got in Daffodil's Delight.

'How do you feel to-day, Mary?'

The questioner was Mrs. Quale. She had come out of her house in her bonnet and shawl, bent on some errand and stopped to accost Mary.

'I am pretty well to-day. That is, I should be, if it were not for the weakness.'

'Weakness, ay!' cried Mrs. Quale, in a snapping sort of tone, for she was living in a state of chronic tartness, not approving of matters in general just now. 'And what have you had this morning to fortify you against the weakness?'

A faint blush rose to Mary's thin face. The subject was a sore one to the mind of Mrs. Quale, and that lady was not one to spare her tongue. The fact was, that at the present moment, and for some little time past, Mary's condition and appetite had required unusual nourishment; but, since the lock-out, this had not been procurable by John Baxendale. Sufficient food the household had as yet, but it was of a plain coarse sort, not suitable for Mary; and Mrs. Quale, bitter enough against the existing condition of things before, touching the men and their masters, was not by this rendered less so. Poor Mary, in her patient meekness, would have subsided into her grave with famine, rather than complain of what she saw no help for.

'Did you have an egg at eleven o'clock?'

'Not this morning. I did not feel greatly to care for it.'

'Rubbish!' responded Mrs. Quale. 'I may say I don't care for the moon, because I know I can't get it.'

'But I really did not feel to have any appetite just then,' repeated Mary.

'And if you had an appetite, I suppose you couldn't have been any the nearer satisfying it!' returned Mrs. Quale, in a raised voice. 'You let your stomach get empty, and, after a bit, the craving goes off and sickness comes on, and then you say you have no appetite. But, there! it is not your fault; where's the use of my–'

'Why, Mary, girl, what's the matter?'

The interruption to Mrs. Quale proceeded from Dr. Bevary. He was passing the gate with Miss Hunter. They stopped, partly at sight of Mary, who was looking strikingly ill, partly at the commotion Mrs. Quale was making. Neither of them had known that Mary was in this state. Mrs. Quale was the first to take up the discourse.

'She don't look over flourishing, do she, sir?—do she Miss Florence? She have been as bad as this—oh, for a fortnight, now.'

'Why did you not send my uncle word, Mary?' spoke Florence, impulsive in the cause of kindness, as she had been when a child. 'I am sure he would have come to see you.'

'You are very kind, Miss, and Dr. Bevary, also,' said Mary. 'I could not think of troubling him with my poor ailments, especially as I feel it would be useless. I don't think anybody can do me good on this side the grave, sir.'

'Tush, tush!' interposed Dr. Bevary. 'That's what many sick people say; but they get well in spite of it. Let us see you a bit closer,' he added, going inside the gate. 'And now tell me how you feel.'

'I am just sinking, sir, as it seems to me; sinking out of life, without much ailment to tell of. I have a great deal of fever at night, and a dry cough. It is not so much consumption as–'

'Who told you it was consumption?' interrupted Dr. Bevary.

'Some of the women about here call it so, sir. My step-mother does: but I should say it was more of a waste.'

'Your step-mother is fond of talking of what she knows nothing about, and so are the women,' remarked Dr. Bevary. 'Have you much appetite?'

'Yes, and that's the evil of it,' struck in Mrs. Quale, determined to lose no opportunity of propounding her view of the case. 'A pretty time this is for folks to have appetites, when there's not a copper being earned. I wish all strikes and lock-outs was put down by law, I do. Nothing comes of 'em but empty cubbarts.'

'Your cupboard need not be any the emptier for a lock-out,' said Dr. Bevary, who sometimes, when conversing with the women of Daffodil's Delight, would fall familiarly into their mode of speech.

'No, I know that; we have been providenter than that, sir,' returned Mrs. Quale. 'A pity but what others could say the same. You might take a walk through Daffodil's Delight, sir, from one end of it to the other, and not find half a dozen cubbarts with plenty in 'em just now. Serve 'em right! they should have put by for a rainy day.'

'Ah!' returned Dr. Bevary, 'rainy days come to most of us as we go through life, in one shape or other. It is well to provide for them when we can.'

'And it's well to keep out of 'em where it's practicable,' wrathfully remarked Mrs. Quale. 'There no more need have been this disturbance between masters and men, than there need be one between you and me, sir, this moment, afore you walk away. They be just idiots, are the men; the women be worse, and I'm tired of telling 'em so. Look at 'em,' added Mrs. Quale, directing the doctor's attention to the female ornaments of Daffodil's Delight. 'Look at their gowns in jags, and their dirty caps! they make the men's being out of work an excuse for their idleness, and they just stick theirselves out there all day, a crowing and a gossiping.'

'Crowing?' exclaimed the doctor.

'Crowing; every female one of 'em, like a cock upon its dunghill,' responded Mrs. Quale, who was not given to pick her words when wrath was moving her. 'There isn't one as can see an inch beyond her own nose. If the lock-out lasts, and starvation comes, let 'em see how they'll crow then. It'll be on t'other side their mouths, I fancy!'

'Money is dealt out to them by the Trades' Union, sufficient to live,' observed Dr. Bevary.

'Sufficient not to starve,' independently corrected Mrs. Quale. 'What is it, sir, the bit of money they get, to them that have enjoyed their thirty-five shillings a-week, and could hardly make that do, some of 'em? Look at the Baxendales. There's Mary, wanting more food than she did in health; ay, and craving for it. A good bit of meat once or twice in the day, an egg now and then, a cup of cocoa and milk, or good tea—not your wishy-washy stuff, bought in by the ounce—how is she to get it all? The allowance dealt out to John Baxendale keeps 'em in bread and cheese; I don't think it does in much else.' They were interrupted by John Baxendale himself. He came out of his house, touching his hat to the doctor and to Florence. The latter had been leaning over Mary, inquiring softly into her ailments, and the complaint of Mrs. Quale, touching the short-comings of Mary's comforts, had not reached her ears; that lady, out of regard to the invalid, having deemed it well to lower her tone.

'I am sorry, sir, you should see her so poorly,' said Baxendale, alluding to his daughter. 'She'll get better, I hope.'

'I must try what a little of my skill will do towards it,' replied the doctor. 'If she had sent me word she was ill, I would have come before.'

'Thank ye, sir. I don't know as I should have been backward in asking you to come round and take a look at her; but a man don't like to ask favours when he has got no money in his pocket; it makes him feel little, and look little. Things are not in a satisfactory state with us all just now.'

'They are not indeed.'

'I never thought the masters would go to the extreme of a lock-out,' resumed Baxendale. 'It was a harsh measure.'

'On the face of it it does seem so,' responded Dr. Bevary. 'But what else could they have done? Have kept open their works, that those on strike might have been supported from the wages they paid their men, and probably have found those men also striking at last? If you and others had wanted to escape a lock-out, Baxendale, you should have been cautious not to lend yourselves to the agitation that was smouldering.'

'Sir, I know there's a great deal to be said on both sides,' was the reply. 'I never was for the agitation; I did not urge the strike; I set my face nearly dead against it. The worst is, we all have to suffer for it alike.'

'Ay, that is the worst of things in this world,' responded the doctor. 'When people do wrong, the consequences are rarely confined to themselves, they extend to the innocent. Come, Florence. I will see you again later, Mary.'

The doctor and his niece walked away. Mrs. Quale had already departed on her errand.

'He was always a kind man,' observed John Baxendale, looking after Dr. Bevary. 'I hope he will be able to cure you, Mary.'

'I don't feel that he will, father,' was the low answer. But Baxendale did not hear it; he was going out at the gate, to join a knot of neighbours, who were gathered together at a distance.

'Will Mary Baxendale soon get well, do you think, uncle?' demanded Florence, as they went along.

'No, my dear, I do not think she will.'

There was something in the doctor's tone that startled Florence. 'Uncle Bevary! you do not fear she will die?'

'I do fear it, Florence; and that she will not be long first.'

'Oh!' Then, after she had gone a few paces further, Florence withdrew her arm from his. 'I must go back and stay with her a little while. I had no idea of this.'

'Mind you don't repeat it to her in your chatter,' called out the doctor; and Florence shook her head by way of answer.

'I am in no hurry to go home, Mary; I thought I would return and stay a little longer with you,' was her greeting, when she reached the invalid. 'You must feel it dull, sitting here alone.'

'Dull! oh no, Miss Florence. I like sitting by myself and thinking.'

Florence smiled. 'What do you think about?'

'Oh, miss, I quite lose myself in thinking. I think of my Saviour, of how kind he was to everybody; and I think of the beautiful life we are taught to expect after this life. I can hardly believe that I shall soon be there.'

Florence paused, feeling as if she did not know what to say. 'You do not seem to fear death, Mary. You speak rather as if you wished it.'

'I do not fear it, Miss Florence; I have been learning not to fear it ever since my poor mother died. Ah, miss! it is a great thing to learn; a great boon, when once it's learnt.'

'But surely you do not want to die!' exclaimed Florence, in surprise.

'Miss Florence, as to that, I feel quite satisfied to let it be as God pleases. I know I am in His good hands. The world now seems to me to be full of care and trouble.'

'It is very strange,' murmured Florence. 'Mamma, too, believes she is near death, and she expresses no reluctance, no fear. I do not think she feels any.'

'Miss Florence, it is only another proof of God's mercies,' returned the sick girl. 'My mother used to say that you could not be quite ripe for death until you felt it; that it came of God's goodness and Christ's love. To such, death seems a blessing instead of a terror, so that when their time is drawing near, they are glad to die. There's a gentleman waiting to speak to you, miss.'

Florence lifted her head hastily, and encountered the smile and the outstretched hand of Austin Clay. But that Mary Baxendale was unsuspicious, she might have gathered something from the vivid blush that overspread her cheeks.

'I thought it was you, Florence,' he said. 'I caught sight of a young lady from my sitting-room window; but you kept your head down before Mary.'

'I am sorry to see Mary looking so ill. My uncle was here just now, but he has gone. I suppose you were deep in your books?' she said, with a smile, her face regaining its less radiant hue. 'This lock-out must be a fine time for you.'

'So fine, that I wish it were over,' he answered. 'I am sick of it already, Florence. A fortnight's idleness will tire out a man worse than a month's work.'

'Is there any more chance of its coming to an end, sir?' anxiously inquired Mary Baxendale.

'I do not see it,' gravely replied Austin. 'The men appear to be too blind to come to any reasonable terms.'

'Oh, sir, don't cast more blame on them than you can help!' she rejoined, in a tone of intense pain. 'They are all led away by the Trades' Unions; they are, indeed. If once they enrol under them, they must only obey.'

'Well, Mary, it comes to what I say—that they are blinded. They should have better sense than to be led away.'

'You speak as a master, sir.'

'Probably I do; but I have brought my common sense to bear upon the question, both on the side of the masters and of the men; and I believe that this time the men are wrong. If they had laboured under any real grievance, it would have been different; but they did not labour under any. Their wages were good, work was plentiful–'

'I say, Mary, I wish you'd just come in and sit by the little ones a bit, while I go down to the back kitchen and rinse out the clothes.'

The interruption came from Mrs. Baxendale, who had thrown up her window to speak. Mary rose at once, took her pillow from the chair, wished Florence good day, and went indoors.

Austin held the gate open for Florence to pass out: he was not intending to accompany her. She stood a moment, speaking to him, when some one, who had come up rapidly and stealthily, laid his great hand on Austin's arm. Absorbed in Florence, Austin had not observed him, and he looked up with a start. It was Lawyer Gwinn, of Ketterford, and he appeared to be in some anger or excitement.

'Young Clay, where is your master to-day?'

Neither the salutation nor the manner of the man pleased Austin; his appearance, there and then, especially displeased him. His answer was spoken in haughty defiance. Not in policy: and in a cooler moment he would have remembered the latter to have been the only safe diplomacy.

A strangely bitter smile of conscious power parted the man's lips. 'So you take part with him, do you, sir! It may be better for both you and him, that you bring me face to face with him. They have denied me to him at his house; their master is out of town, they say; but I know it to be a lie: I know that the message was sent out to me by Hunter himself. I had a great mind to force–'

Florence, who was looking deadly white, interrupted, her voice haughty as Austin's had been.

'You labour under a mistake, sir. My father is out of town. He went this morning.'

Mr. Gwinn wheeled round to her. Neither her tone nor Austin's was calculated to abate his anger.

'You are his daughter, then!' he uttered, with the same insolent stare, the same displayed irony he had once used to her mother. 'The young lady whom people envy as that spoiled and only child, Miss Hunter! What if I tell you a secret?—that you–'

'Be still!' shouted Austin, in uncontrollable emotion. 'Are you a man, or a demon? Miss Hunter, allow me,' he cried, grasping the hand of Florence, and drawing her peremptorily towards Peter Quale's door, which he threw open. 'Go upstairs, Florence, to my sitting-room: wait there until I come to you. I must be alone with this man.'

Florence looked at him in amazement, as he pushed her into the passage. He was evidently in the deepest agitation: every vestige of colour had forsaken his face, and his manner was authoritative as any father's could have been. She bowed to its power unconsciously, not a thought of resistance crossing her mind, and went straight upstairs to his sitting room—although it might not be precisely correct for a young lady so to do. Not a soul, save herself, appeared to be in the house.

A short colloquy and an angry one, and then Mr. Gwinn was seen returning the way he had come. Austin came springing up the stairs three at a time.

'Will you forgive me, Florence? I could not do otherwise.'

What with the suddenness of the proceedings, their strangeness, and her own doubts and emotion, Florence burst into tears. Austin lost his head: at least, all of prudence that was in it. In the agitation of the moment he suffered his long-controlled feelings to get the better of him, and spoke words that he had hitherto successfully repressed.

'My darling!' he whispered, taking her hand, 'I wish I could have shielded you from it! Florence, you know—you must long have known—that my dearest object in life is you—your happiness, your welfare. I had not intended to say this so soon; it has been forced from me: you must pardon me for saying it here and now.'

She gently disengaged the hand, and he did not attempt to retain it. Her wet eyelashes fell on her blushing cheeks; they were like a damask rose glistening in the morning dew. 'But this mystery?—it certainly seems one,' she exclaimed, striving to speak with matter-of-fact calmness. 'Is not that man Gwinn, of Ketterford?'

'Yes.'

'Brother to the lady who seemed to cause so much emotion to papa. Ah! I was but a child at the time, but I noticed it. Austin, I think there must be some dreadful secret. What is it? He comes to our house at periods and is closeted with papa, and papa is more miserable than ever after it.'

'Whether there is or not, it is not for us to inquire into it. Men engaged in business often have troublesome people to deal with. I hastened you in,' he quickly went on, not caring to be more explanatory, and compelled to speak with reserve. 'I know the man of old, and his language is sometimes coarse, not fitted for a young lady's ears: so I sent you away. Florence,' he whispered, his tone changing to one of deepest tenderness, 'this is neither the time nor the place to speak, but I must say one word. I shall win you if I can.'

Florence made no answer. She only ran downstairs as quickly as she could, she and her scarlet cheeks. Austin laughed at her haste, as he followed her. Mrs. Quale was coming in then, and met them at the door.

'See what it is to go gadding out!' cried Austin, to her. 'When young ladies pay you the honour of a morning visit, they might find an empty house, but for my stay-at-home propensities.'

Mrs. Quale turned her eyes from one to the other of them in puzzled doubt.

'The truth is,' said Austin, vouchsafing an explanation, 'there was a rude man in the road, talking nonsense, so I sent Miss Hunter indoors, and stopped to deal with him.'

'I am sure I am sorry, Miss Florence,' cried unsuspicious Mrs. Quale. 'We often have rude men in this quarter: they get hold of a drop too much, the simpletons. And when the wine's in, the wit's out, you know, Miss.'

Austin piloted her through Daffodil's Delight, possibly lest any more 'rude men' should molest her, leaving her at her own door.

But when he came to reflect on what he had done, he was full of contrition and self-blame. The time had not come for him to aspire to the hand of Florence Hunter, at least in the estimation of the world, and he ought not to have spoken to her. There was only one course open to him now in honour; and that was, to tell the whole truth to her mother.

That same evening at dusk he was sitting alone with Mrs. Hunter. Mr. Hunter had not returned: that he had gone out of town for the day was perfect truth: and Florence escaped from the room when she heard Austin's knock.

After taking all the blame on himself for having been premature, he proceeded to urge his cause and his love, possibly emboldened to do so by the gentle kindness with which he was listened to.

'It has been my hope for years,' he avowed, as he held Mrs. Hunter's hands in his, and spoke of the chance of Mr. Hunter's favour. 'Dear Mrs. Hunter, do you think he will some time give her to me!'

'But, Austin–'

'Not yet; I do not ask for her yet; not until I have made a fitting home for her,' he impulsively continued, anticipating what might have been the possible objection of Mrs. Hunter. 'With the two thousand pounds left to me by Mrs. Thornimett, and a little more added to it, which I have myself saved, I believe I shall be able to make my way.'

'Austin, you will make your way,' she replied, in a tone of the utmost confidence and kindness. 'I have heard Mr. Hunter himself anticipate a successful career for you. Even when you were, comparatively speaking, penniless, Mr. Hunter would say that talent and energy, such as yours, could not fail to find its proper outlet. Now that you have inherited the money, your success is certain. But—I fear you cannot win Florence.'

The words fell on his heart like an icebolt. He had reckoned on Mrs. Hunter's countenance, though he had not been sure of her husband's. 'What do you object to in me?' he inquired, in a tone of pain. 'I am of gentle birth.'

'Austin, I do not object. I have long seen that your coming here so much—and it was Mr. Hunter's pleasure to have you—was likely to lead to an attachment between you and Florence. Had I objected to you, I should have pointed out to Mr. Hunter the impolicy of your coming. I like you: there is no one in the world to whom I would so readily intrust the happiness of Florence. Other mothers might look to a higher alliance for her: but, Austin, when we get near the grave, we judge with a judgment not of this world. Worldly distinctions lose their charm.'

'Then where lies the doubt—the objection?' he asked.

'I once—it is not long ago—hinted at this to Mr. Hunter,' she replied. 'He would not hear me out; he would not suffer me to conclude. It was an utter impossibility that you could ever marry Florence,' he said: 'neither was it likely that either of you would wish it.'

'But we do wish it; the love has already arisen,' he exclaimed, in agitation. Dear Mrs. Hunter–'

'Hush, Austin! calm yourself. Mr. Hunter must have some private objection. I am sure he has; I could see so far; and one that, as was evident, he did not choose to disclose to me. I never inquire into his reasons when I perceive this. You must try and forget her.'

A commotion was heard in the hall. Austin went out to ascertain its cause. There stood Gwinn of Ketterford, insisting upon an interview with Mr. Hunter.

Austin contrived to get rid of the man by convincing him Mr. Hunter was really not at home. Gwinn went out grumbling, promising to be there the first thing in the morning.

The interlude had broken up the confidence between Austin and Mrs. Hunter; and he went home in despondency: but vowing to win her, all the same, sooner or later.