“We will not leave you, Mr. Irving. We will go where you go. We will work for you for less wages than for anybody else,” was what the house servants said to him, and what many of his factory and shop hands said when next day he met them in front of the huge mill where they were congregated.
He had told his servants not to talk of his affairs, but they did not heed him; while Hester Floyd, whom no one could control, discussed the matter freely, so that by noon the little town was rife with rumors of every kind, and knots of people gathered at the corners of the street, while in front of the cotton mill a vast concourse had assembled even before the bell rang for twelve, and instead of going home to the dinner they would hardly have found prepared that day, they stood talking of the strange news, which had come to them in so many different forms. That there had been some undue influence brought to bear upon Squire Irving, they knew; and that the mother of the new heir was the guilty party who had slandered the Squire’s unfortunate young wife, they also knew; and many and loud were their imprecations against the woman whose proud haughty bearing had never impressed them favorably, and whom they now disliked with all the unrestrained bitterness common to their class.
All had heard of Jessie Irving, and a few remembered her as she was when she first came among them, in her bright, girlish beauty, with those great, sad blue eyes, which always smiled kindly upon her husband’s employes when she met with them. As people will do, they had repeated her story many times, and the mothers had blamed her sorely for deserting her child, while a few envious ones, when speaking of “the grand doings at Millbank,” had hinted that the original stock was “no better than it should be,” and that the Irving name was stained like many others.
But this was all forgotten now. Jessie Irving was declared a saint, and an angel, and a martyr, while nothing was too severe to say against the woman who had maligned her, and influenced the jealous old Squire to do a thing which would deprive the working classes in Belvidere of the kindest, most considerate, and liberal of masters. The factory hands could not work after they heard of it, and one by one they stole out upon the green in front of the large manufactory, where they were joined by other hands from the shoe-shop, until the square was full of excited men and boys, and girls, the murmur of their voices swelling louder and louder as, encouraged by each other, they grew more and more indignant toward the “new lords,” as they called Frank and his mother, and more enthusiastic in their praises of Roger.
One of their number proposed sending for him to come himself and tell them if what they had heard was true, and to hear their protest against it; and three of the more prominent men were deputed to wait upon him.
There was no mistaking the genuine concern, and sympathy, and sorrow written on their faces, when Roger went out to meet them, and the sight of them nearly unmanned him again. He had been very calm all the morning; had breakfasted with his sister and Frank, as usual; had said to the latter that it would be well enough to send for Lawyer Schofield, who was not now a resident of Belvidere, but was practising in Springfield; and had tried to quiet old Hester, who was giving loose rein to her tongue, and holding herself loftily above the “pertenders,” as she called them. He had also remembered Magdalen, and sent her a bouquet of flowers by Celine, who represented her as feverish and nervous, and too tired to leave her bed. Roger did not gather from Celine’s report that she was very ill, only tired and worn; so he felt no particular anxiety for her, and devoted himself to standing between and keeping within bounds the other members of his household, and in so doing felt a tolerable degree of quiet, until the men came up from the mill, when the sight of their faces, so full of pity, and the warm grasp of their friendly hands, brought a sudden rush of tears to his eyes, and his chin quivered a little when he first spoke to them.
“We’ve heard about it, Mr. Irving,” the speaker said, “and we don’t like it, any of us, and we hope it is not true, and we are sent by the others who are down on the green, and who want you to come and tell us if it is true, and what we are to do.”
Mrs. Walter Scott, sitting by her chamber window, saw the three men walk down the avenue, with Roger in their midst, and saw, too, in the distance the crowd congregated in front of the mill, and felt for a moment a thrill of fear as she began to realize, more and more, what taking Millbank from Roger meant. She would have felt still more uneasy could she have seen the faces of the crowd, and their eager rush for Roger when he appeared.
The women and the young girls were the first to pounce upon him, and were the most voluble in their words of sorrow, and surprise, and indignation, while the men and boys were not far behind.
Bewildered and too much overcome at first to speak, Roger stood like some father in the midst of his children, from whom he is soon to be separated. He had been absent from them for years, but his kindness and generosity had reached them across the sea. They had lighter tasks, and higher wages, and more holidays, and forbearance, and patience than any class of workmen for miles and miles around, and they knew it all came from Roger’s generosity, and the exceeding great kindness of his heart, and they were grateful for it.