He was simple enough to hope she would come back, and have it out with him.
She kept carefully out of his way, and, at last, he went sadly home.
“Ah,” said he, “Jael gave me bad advice. I have been premature, and frightened her.”
He would go to work his own way again.
In forty-eight hours he moved into his new house, furnished it partly: bought a quantity of mediocre wood-carving, and improved it; put specimens in his window, and painted his name over the door. This, at his mother's request and tearful entreaties, he painted out again, and substituted “Rowbotham.”
Nor was Rowbotham a mere nom de plume. It was the real name of Silly Billy. The boy had some turn for carving, but was quite uncultivated: Henry took him into his employ, fed him, and made free with his name. With all this he found time to get a key made to fit the lock of Cairnhope old Church.
At one o'clock on Thursday morning he came to Cheetham's works, and scratched at the gate. A big workman opened it. It turned out to be Cheetham himself, in a moleskin suit, and a long beard.
The forge on wheels was all ready, also a cart containing anvil, bellows, hammers, pincers, leathern buckets, and a quantity of steel laths. They attached the forge to the tail of the cart, and went on their silent expedition. Cheetham drove the cart. Henry followed afar off until they had cleared the suburbs.
They passed “Woodbine Villa.” A single light was burning. Henry eyed it wistfully, and loitered long to look at it. Something told him that light was in her bedroom. He could hardly tear himself away from contemplating it: it was his pole-star.
There was only one great difficulty in their way; a man on a horse might cross the moor, but a cart must go by “Raby Hall” to reach the church: and, before they got within a furlong of the Hall, a watch-dog began to bark.