"Forgive me, Preston," he said, recognising the man's kindly tone. "I know I spoke like a brute, but my nerves are all on edge, and while everybody is very kind to me, I'm easily upset. What is it, old man?"
"I can't tell you here," replied Preston. "It'll take me an hour, anyhow."
"Is it so important as that?" said Paul, with a questioning look in his eyes.
"Ay, I think so," replied the other.
George Preston was a teacher in the Hanover Sunday-school, and was some two years older than Paul. He had more than average intelligence, and had been known for years as a hard-working, saving fellow. They had met at the Mechanics' Institute, where they had gone for classes, and, while they had gone their different ways, mutual respect existed between them.
"I expect Mrs. Dixon will have got my little room all ready," said Paul, "so we shall be able to have a chat without interruption." And the two threaded their way along the busy street towards Paul's lodgings. Never did Paul realise how much he was liked until that evening. It happened to be market day, and the streets were crowded with people. Not only had the townspeople gathered together in the centre of Brunford, but many had come in from a distance, and thus to a casual visitor it might seem as though a fair were being held. Every minute or so he was stopped by someone who came up to congratulate him on his return, and to bid him welcome.
"Never fear, Paul lad," it was said to him again and again. "You shall noan suffer for this, and 'appen Wilson and that lot will noan be the happier for what they have done to thee. Art short of money, lad? If a sovereign 'll be of any use to thee, thou can have it."
And from the ring of sincerity in their voices Paul knew that every word was meant. For I should like to say here that, although the Lancashire operative is rough, and sometimes a little coarse, there are no kinder people on earth than those who live in the great manufacturing centres of the North. In the main they are loyal to a man, and as true as steel. Brunford is by no means an ideal place to live in; indeed, from November to April its atmospheric conditions are horrible beyond words. It rains nearly all the time, and, the air being smoke-begrimed, the streets are covered with black, slimy mud, offensive both to sight and to smell. The very conditions, too, under which the people live must have a tendency to coarsen and to destroy artistic feelings. The artisans know practically nothing about the gardens common to the South-country peasant. Houses are often built back to back, or only divided by a small paved yard, the front door is nearly always right on to the street, and, even in cases where some strip of garden is obtained, the flowers, which are the pride of the South-country people, simply come up hideous and black with grime.
The writer of these lines once lived in a manufacturing town in the North, and, there being a strip of garden to his house, he asked the gardener to plant for him some white hyacinth bulbs, hyacinths being one of his favourite flowers. When the spring came, the hyacinths appeared, but alas! they were not white, but as black as the soot which is belched forth from a hundred chimneys.
So moved was Paul by the kindness which was manifested, that a great sob came into his throat, and his heart became full of love towards the people. He longed, as he had never longed before, to work for them, to live for them; and before his mind came a vision of what the future might have in store. He knew what their life was, understood thoroughly the hard conditions under which they laboured. Yes, he would make some return for all this goodwill, and for the love which they evidently bore to him. He would live for them! He would work night and day for the betterment of their conditions! He would make Brunford a town to rejoice in! He would remove the wrongs under which the people suffered, and bring music and gladness into their lives! How he was to do this he did not know; indeed, it seemed impossible for him to commence as yet, but the time would come, and when that time came he would not spare himself. He did not forget what he had regarded as the chief purpose of his existence—that, at all costs, must be performed—but he must not live wholly for that; he must live for the people who loved him, and whom, in spite of everything, he loved.