CHAPTER XVII. A FLOWER.
But at last it was evident that the acquaintance between Haworth and Ffrench had advanced with great rapidity. Ffrench appeared at the Works, on an average, three or four times a week, and it had become a common affair for Haworth to spend an evening with him and his daughter. He was more comfortable in his position of guest in these days. Custom had given him greater ease and self-possession. After two visits he had begun to give himself up to the feverish enjoyment of the hour. His glances were no longer furtive and embarrassed. At times he reached a desperate boldness.
"There's something about her," he said to Murdoch, "that draws a fellow on and holds him off both at the same time. Sometimes I nigh lose my head when I'm with her."
He was moody and resentful at times, but he went again and again, and held his own after a manner. On the occasion of the first dinner Mr. Ffrench gave to his old friends, no small excitement was created by Haworth's presence among the guests. The first man who, entering the room with his wife and daughters, caught sight of his brawny frame and rather dogged face, faltered and grew nervous, and would have turned back if he had possessed the courage to be the first to protest. Everybody else lacked the same courage, it appeared, for nobody did protest openly, though there were comments enough made in private, and as much coldness of manner as good breeding would allow.
Miss Ffrench herself was neither depressed nor ill at ease. It was reluctantly admitted that she had never appeared to a greater advantage nor in better spirits.
Before the evening was half over it was evident to all that she was not resenting the presence of her father's new found friend. She listened to his attempts at conversation with an attentive and suave little smile. If she was amusing herself at his expense, she was at the same time amusing herself at the expense of those who looked on, and was delicately defying their opinion.
Jem Haworth went home that night excited and exultant. He lay awake through the night, and went down to the Works early.
"I didn't get the worst of it, after all," he said to Murdoch. "Let 'em grin and sert if they will—'them laughs that wins.' She—she never was as handsome in her life as she was last night, and she never treated me as well. She never says much. She only lets a fellow come nigh and talk; but she treated me well—in her way."
"I'm going to send for my mother," he said afterward, somewhat shamefacedly. "I'm goin' to begin a straight life; I want naught to stand agin me. And if she's here they'll come to see her. I want all the chances I can get."
He wrote the letter to his mother the same day.
"The old lady will be glad enough to come," he said, when he had finished it. "The finery about her will trouble her a bit at first, but she'll get over it."
His day's work over, Murdoch did not return home at once. His restless habit of taking long rambles across the country had asserted itself with unusual strength, of late. He spent little time in the house. To-night he was later than usual. He came in fagged and mud-splashed. Christian was leaving the room as he entered it, but she stopped with her hand upon the door.
"We have had visitors," she said.
"Who?" he asked.
"Mr. Ffrench and his daughter. Mr. Ffrench wanted to see you. She did not come in, but sat in the carriage outside."
She shut the door and came back to the hearth.
"She despises us all!" she said. "She despises us all!"
He had flung himself into a chair and lay back, clasping his hands behind his head and looking gloomily before him.
"Sometimes I think she does," he said. "But what of that?"
She answered without looking at him.
"To be sure," she said. "What of that?"
After a little she spoke again.
"There is something I have thought of saying to you," she said. "It is this. I am happier here than I ever was before."
"I am very glad," he answered.
"I never thought of being happy," she went on, "or like other women in anything. I—I was different."
She said the words with perfect coldness.
"I was different."
"Different!" he echoed absently, and then checked himself. "Don't say that," he said. "Don't think it. It won't do. Why shouldn't you be as good and happy as any woman who ever lived?"
She remained silent. But her silence only stirred him afresh.
"It is a bad beginning," he said. "I know it is because I have tried it. I have said to myself that I was different from other men, too."
He ended with an impatient movement and a sound half like a groan.
"Here I am," he cried, "telling myself it is better to battle against the strongest feeling of my life because I am 'different'—because there is a kind of taint in my blood. I don't begin as other men do by hoping. I begin by despairing, and yet I can't give up. How it will end, God knows!"
"I understand you better than you think," she said.
Something in her voice startled him.
"What!" he exclaimed. "Has my mother——"
He stopped and gazed at her, wondering. Some powerful emotion he could not comprehend expressed itself in her face.
"She does not speak of it often," she said. "She thinks of it always."
"Yes," he answered. "I know that. She is afraid. She is haunted by her dread of it—and," his voice dropping, "so am I."
He felt it almost unnatural that he should speak so freely. He had found it rather difficult to accustom himself to her presence in the house, sometimes he had even been repelled by it, and yet, just at this moment, he felt somehow as if they stood upon the same platform and were near each other.
"It will break loose some day," he cried. "And the day is not far off. I shall run the risk and either win or lose. I fight hard for every day of dull quiet I gain. When I look back over the past I feel that perhaps I am holding a chained devil; but when I look forward I forget, and doubt seems folly."
"In your place," she said, "I would risk my life upon it!"
The passion in her voice amazed him. He comprehended even less clearly than before.
"I know what it has cost," she said. "No one better. I am afraid to pass the door of the room where it lies, in the dark. It is like a dead thing, always there. Sometimes I fancy it is not alone and that the door might open and show me some one with it."
"What do you mean?" he said. "You speak as if——"
"You would not understand if I should tell you," she answered a little bitterly. "We are not very good friends—perhaps we never shall be—but I will tell you this again, that in your place I would never give it up—never! I would be true to him, if all the world were against me!"
She went away and shortly afterward he left the room himself, intending to go upstairs.
As he reached the bottom of the staircase, a light from above fell upon his face and caused him to raise it. The narrow passage itself was dark, but on the topmost stair his mother stood holding a lamp whose light struck upon him. She did not advance, but waited as he came upward, looking down at him, not speaking. Then they passed each other, going their separate ways.
The next day Ffrench appeared in the engine-room itself. He had come to see Murdoch, and having seen him went away in most excellent humor.
"What's he after?" inquired Floxham, when he was gone.
"He wants me at his house," said Murdoch. "He says he needs my opinion in some matter."
He went to the house the same evening, and gave his opinion upon the matter in question, and upon several others also. In fact, Mr. Ffrench took possession of him as he had taken possession of the young man from Manchester, and the Cumberland mechanic, though in this case he had different metal to work upon. He was amiable, generous and talkative. He exhibited his minerals, his plans for improved factories and workmen's dwelling-houses, his little collection of models which had proved impracticable, and his books on mechanics and manufactures. He was as generous as Haworth himself in the matter of his library; it was at his visitor's service whenever he chose.
As they talked Rachel Ffrench remained in the room. During the evening she went to the piano and sitting down played and sung softly as if for no other ears than her own. Once, on her father's leaving the room, she turned and spoke to Murdoch.
"You were right in saying I should outlive my terror of what happened to me," she said. "It has almost entirely worn away."
"I am glad," he answered.
She held in her belt a flower like the one which had attracted Granny Dixon's attention. As she crossed the room shortly afterward it fell upon the floor. She picked it up but, instead of replacing it, laid it carelessly upon the table at Murdoch's side.
After he had risen from his chair, when on the point of leaving, he stood near this table and almost unconsciously took the flower up, and when he went out of the house he held it in his fingers.
The night was dark and his mood was preoccupied. He scarcely thought of the path before him at all, and on passing through the gate he came, without any warning, upon a figure standing before it. He drew back and would have spoken had he been given the time.
"Hush," said Haworth's voice. "It's me, lad."
"What are you doing here?" asked Murdoch. "Are you going in?"
"No," surlily, "I'm not."
Murdoch said no more. Haworth turned with him and strode along by his side. But he got over his ill-temper sufficiently to speak after a few minutes.
"It's the old tale," he said. "I'm making a fool of myself. I can't keep away. I was there last night, and to-night the fit came upon me so strong that I was bound to go. But when I got there I'd had time to think it over and I couldn't make up my mind to go in. I knew I'd better give her a rest. What did Ffrench want of you?"
Murdoch explained.
"Did you see—her?"
"Yes."
"Well," restlessly, "have you naught to say about her?"
"No," coldly. "What should I have to say of her? It's no business of mine to talk her over."
"You'd talk her over if you were in my place," said Haworth. "You'd be glad enow to do it. You'd think of her night and day, and grow hot and cold at the thought of her. You—you don't know her as I do—if you did——"
They had reached the turn of the lane, and the light of the lamp which stood there fell upon them. Haworth broke off his words and stopped under the blaze. Murdoch saw his face darken with bitter passion.
"Curse you!" he said. "Where did you get it?"
Without comprehending him Murdoch looked down at his own hand at which the man was pointing, and saw in it the flower he had forgotten he held.
"This?" he said, and though he did not know why, the blood leaped to his face.
"Ay," said Haworth. "You know well enow what I mean. Where did you get it? Do you think I don't know the look on it?"
"You may, or you may not," answered Murdoch. "That is nothing to me. I took it up without thinking of it. If I had thought of it I should have left it where it was. I have no right to it—nor you either."
Haworth drew near to him.
"Give it here!" he demanded, hoarsely.
They stood and looked each other in the eye. Externally Murdoch was the calmer of the two, but he held in check a fiercer heat than he had felt for many a day.
"No," he answered. "Not I. Think over what you are doing. You will not like to remember it to-morrow. It is not mine to give nor yours to take. I have done with my share of it—there it is." And he crushed it in his hand, and flung it, exhaling its fragrance, upon the ground; then turned and went his way. He had not intended to glance backward, but he was not as strong as he thought. He did look backward before he had gone ten yards, and doing so saw Haworth bending down and gathering the bruised petals from the earth.
CHAPTER XVIII. "HAWORTH & CO."
The next day, when he descended from his gig at the gates, instead of going to his office, Haworth went to the engine-room.
"Leave your work a bit and come into my place," he said to Murdoch. "I want you."
His tone was off-hand but not ill-humored. There was a hint of embarrassment in it. Murdoch followed him without any words. Having led the way into his office, Haworth shut the door and faced him.
"Can tha guess what I want?" he demanded.
"No," Murdoch answered.
"Well, it's easy told. You said I'd be cooler to-day, and I am. A night gives a man time to face a thing straight. I'd been making a fool of myself before you came up, but I made a bigger fool of myself afterward. There's the end on it."
"I suppose," said Murdoch, "that it was natural enough you should look at the thing differently just then. Perhaps I made a fool of myself too."
"You!" said Haworth, roughly. "You were cool enow."
Later Ffrench came in, and spent an hour with him, and after his departure Haworth made the rounds of the place in one of the worst of his moods.
"Aye," said Floxham to his companion, "that's allus th' road when he shows hissen."
The same day Janey Briarley presented herself to Mr. Ffrench's housekeeper, with a message from her mother. Having delivered the message, she was on her way from the housekeeper's room, when Miss Ffrench, who sat in the drawing-room, spoke through the open door to the servant.
"If that is the child," she said, "bring her here to me."
Janey entered the great room, awe-stricken and overpowered by its grandeur. Miss Ffrench, who sat near the fire, addressed her, turning her head over her shoulder.
"Come here," she commanded.
Janey advanced with something approaching tremor. Miss Ffrench was awe-inspiring anywhere, but Miss Ffrench amid the marvels of her own drawing-room, leaning back in her chair and regarding her confusion with a suggestion of friendly notice, was terrible.
"Sit down," she said, "and talk to me."
"SIT DOWN," SHE SAID, "AND TALK TO ME."
But here the practical mind rebelled and asserted itself, in spite of abasement of spirit.
"I haven't getten nowt to talk about," said Janey, stoutly. "What mun I say?"
"Anything you like," responded Miss Ffrench. "I am not particular. There's a chair."
Janey seated herself in it. It was a large one, in which her small form was lost. Her parcel was a big one, but Miss Ffrench did not tell her to put it down, so she held it on her knee and was almost hidden behind it, presenting somewhat the appearance of a huge newspaper package, clasped by arms and surmounted by a small, sharp face and an immense bonnet, with a curious appendage of short legs and big shoes.
"I dunnot see," the girl was saying mentally, and with some distaste for her position, "what she wants wi' me."
But as she stared over the top of her parcel, she gradually softened. The child found Miss Ffrench well worth looking at.
"Eh!" she announced, with admiring candor. "Eh! but tha art han'some!"
"Am I?" said Rachel Ffrench. "Thank you."
"Aye," answered Janey, "tha art. I nivver seed no lady loike thee afore, let alone a young woman. I've said so mony a toime to Mester Murdoch."
"Have you?"
"Aye, I'm allus talkin' to him about thee."
"That's kind," said Rachel Ffrench. "I dare say he enjoys it. Who is he?"
"Him!" exclaimed Janey. "Dost na tha know him? Him as was at our house th' day yo' coom th' first toime. Him as dragged thee out o' th' engine."
"Oh!" said Miss Ffrench, "the engineer."
"Aye," in a tone of some discomfiture. "He's a engineer, but he is na th' common workin' soart. Granny Dixon says he's getten gentlefolks' ways."
"I should think," remarked Miss Ffrench, "that Mrs. Dixon knew."
"Aye, she's used to gentlefolk. They've takken notice on her i' her young days. She knowed thy grandfeyther."
"She gave me to understand as much," responded Miss Ffrench, smiling at the recollection this brought to her mind.
"Yo' see mother an' me thinks a deal o' Mester Murdoch, because he is na one o' th' drinkin' soart," proceeded Janey. "He's th' steady koind as is fond o' books an' th' loike. He does na mak' much at his trade, but he knows more than yo'd think for, to look at him."
"That is good news," said Miss Ffrench, cheerfully.
Janey rested her chin upon her parcel, warming to the subject.
"I should na wonder if he getten to be a rich mon some o' these days," she went on. "He's getten th' makin's on it in him, if he has th' luck an' looks sharp about him. I often tell him he mun look sharp."
She became so communicative indeed, that Miss Ffrench found herself well entertained. She heard the details of Haworth's history, the reports of his prosperity and growing wealth, the comments his hands had made upon herself, and much interesting news concerning the religious condition of Broxton and "th' chapel."
It was growing dusk when the interview ended, and when she went away Janey carried an additional bundle.
"Does tha allus dress i' this road?" she had asked her hostess, and the question suggested to Miss Ffrench a whimsical idea. She took the child upstairs and gave her maid orders to produce all the cast-off finery she could find, and then stood by and looked on as Janey made her choice.
"She stood theer laughin' while I picked th' things out," said Janey afterward. "I dunnot know what she wur laughin' at. Yo' nivver know whether she's makin' game on you or not."
"I dunnot see as theer wur owt to laugh at," said Mrs. Briarley, indignantly.
"Nay," said Janey, "nor me neyther, but she does na laugh when theer's owt to laugh at—that's th' queer part o' it. She said as I could ha' more things when I coom again, I would na go if it wur na fur that."
Even his hands found out at this time that Haworth was ill at ease. His worst side showed itself in his intercourse with them. He was overbearing and difficult to please. He found fault and lost his temper over trifles, and showed a restless, angry desire to assert himself.
"I'll show you who's master here, my lads," he would say. "I'll ha' no dodges. It's Haworth that's th' head o' this concern. Whoever comes in or out, this here's 'Haworth's.' Clap that i' your pipes and smoke it."
"Summat's up," said Floxham. "Summat's up. Mark yo' that."
Murdoch looked on with no inconsiderable anxiety. The intercourse between himself and Haworth had been broken in upon. It had received its first check months before, and in these days neither was in the exact mood for a renewal of it. Haworth wore a forbidding air. His rough good-fellowship was a thing of the past. He made no more boisterous jokes, no more loud boasts. At times his silence was almost morose. He was not over civil even to Ffrench, who came oftener than ever, and whose manner was cheerful to buoyancy.
Matters had remained in this condition for a couple of months, when, on his way home late one night, Murdoch's attention was arrested by a light burning in the room used by the master of the Works as his office.
He stopped in the road to look up at it. He could scarcely, at first, believe the evidence of his senses. The place had been closed and locked hours before, when Haworth had left it with Ffrench, with whom he was to dine. It was nearly midnight, and certainly an unlawful hour for such a light to show itself, but there it burned steadily amid the darkness of the night.
"It doesn't seem likely that those who had reason to conceal themselves would set a light blazing," Murdoch thought. "But if there's mischief at work there's no time to waste."
There was only one thing to do, and he did it, making the best of his way to the spot.
The gate was thrown open, and the door of entrance yielded to his hand. Inside, the darkness was profound, but when he found the passage leading to Haworth's room he saw that the door was ajar and that the light still burned. On reaching this door he stopped short. There was no need to go in. It was Haworth himself who was in the room—Haworth, who lay with arms folded on the table, and his head resting upon them.
Murdoch turned away, and as he did so the man heard him for the first time. He lifted his head and looked round.
"Who's there?" he demanded.
There was no help for it. Murdoch pushed the door open and stood before him.
"Murdoch," he said. "I saw the light, and it brought me up."
Haworth gave him a grudging look.
"Come in," he said.
"Do you want me?" Murdoch asked.
"Aye," he answered, dully, "I think I do."
Murdoch stood and looked at him. He did not sit down. A mysterious sense of embarrassment held him in check.
"What is wrong?" he asked, in a lowered voice. He hardly knew it for his own.
"Wrong?" echoed Haworth. "Naught. I've—been taking leave of the place. That's all."
"You have been doing what?" said Murdoch.
"Taking leave of the place. I've given it up."
His visitor uttered a passionate ejaculation.
"You are mad!" he said.
"Aye," bitterly. "Mad enow."
The next instant a strange sound burst from him,—a terrible sound, forced back at its birth. His struggle to suppress it shook him from head to foot; his hands clinched themselves as if each were a vise. Murdoch turned aside.
When it was over, and the man raised his face, he was trembling still, and white with a kind of raging shame.
"Blast you!" he cried, "if there's ever aught in your face that minds me o' this, I'll—I'll kill you!"
This Murdoch did not answer at all. There was enough to say.
"You are going to share it with Ffrench?" he said.
"Aye, with that fool. He's been at me from the start. Naught would do him but he must have his try at it. Let him. He shall play second fiddle, by the Lord Harry!"
He began plucking at some torn scraps of paper, and did not let them rest while he spoke.
"I've been over th' place from top to bottom," he said. "I held out until to-night. To-night I give in, and as soon as I left 'em I came here. Ten minutes after it was done I'd have undone it if I could—I'd have undone it. But it's done, and there's an end on it."
He threw the scraps of paper aside and clenched his hand, speaking through his teeth.
"She's never given me a word to hang on," he said, "and I've done it for her. I've give up what I worked for and boasted on, just to be brought nigher to her. She knows I've done it,—she knows it, though she's never owned it by a look,—and I'll make that enough."
"If you make your way with her," said Murdoch, "you have earned all you won."
"Aye," was the grim answer. "I've earned it."
And soon after the light in the window went out, and they parted outside and went their separate ways in the dark.