A Life's Secret

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.

CHAPTER II.

MR. COX

Time had gone on. It was a gloomy winter's evening. Not that, reckoning by the seasons, it could be called winter yet; but it was getting near it, and the night was dark and sloppy, and blowing and rainy. The wind went booming down Daffodil's Delight, sending the fierce rain before it in showers, and the pools gleamed in the reflected light of the gas-lamps, as wayfarers splashed through them and stirred up their muddy waters.

The luxurious and comfortable in position—those at ease in the world, who could issue their orders to attentive tradespeople at their morning's leisure—had no necessity to be abroad on that inclement Saturday night. Not so Daffodil's Delight; there was not much chance (taking it collectively) of a dinner for the morrow, at the best; but, unless they went abroad, there was none. The men had not gone to work yet, and times were bad.

Down the street, to one particular corner shop, which had three gilt-coloured balls hanging outside it, flocked the stream—chiefly females. Not together. They mostly walked in units, and, some of them at least, in a covert sort of manner, keeping in the shade of dead walls, and of dark houses, as if not caring to be seen. Amongst the latter, stole one who appeared more especially fearful of being recognised. She was a young woman, comely once, but pale and hollow-eyed now, her bones too sharp for her skin. Well wrapped up, was she, against the weather; her cloth cloak warm, a fur round her neck, and india-rubber shoes. Choosing her time to approach the shop when the coast should be tolerably clear, she glanced cautiously in at the window and door, and entered.

Laying upon the counter a small parcel, which she carried folded in a handkerchief, she displayed a cardboard box to the sight of the shop's master, who came forward to attend to her. It contained a really handsome set of corals, fashioned like those worn in the days when our mothers were young; a necklace of six rows of small beads, with a gold snap made to imitate a rose, a long coral bead set in it. A pair of gold earrings, with large pendant coral drops, lay beside it, and a large and handsome gold brooch, set likewise with corals.

'What, is it you, Miss Baxendale?' he exclaimed, his tone expressive of some surprise.

'It is, indeed, Mr. Cox,' replied Mary. 'We all have to bend to these hard times. It's share and share alike in them. Will you please to look at these jewels?'

She tenderly drew aside the cotton which was over the trinkets—tenderly and reverently, almost as if a miniature live baby were lying there. Very precious were they to Mary. They were dear to her from association; and she also believed them to be of great value.

The pawnbroker glanced at them slightly, carelessly lifting one of the earrings in his hand, to feel its weight. The brooch he honoured with a closer inspection.

'What do you want upon them?' he asked.

'Nay,' said Mary, 'it is not for me to name a sum. What will you lend?'

'You are not accustomed to our business, or you would know that we like borrowers to mention their own ideas as to sum; and we give it if we can,' he rejoined with ready words. 'What do you ask?'

'If you would let me have four pounds upon them, began Mary, hesitatingly. But he snapped up the words.

'Four pounds! Why, Miss Baxendale, you can't know what you are saying. The fashion of these coral things is over and done with. They are worth next to nothing.'

Mary's heart beat quicker in its sickness of disappointment.

'They are genuine, sir, if you'll please to look. The gold is real gold, and the coral is the best coral; my poor mother has told me so many a time. Her godmother was a lady, well-to-do in the world, and the things were a present from her.'

'If they were not genuine, I'd not lend as many pence upon them,' said the man. 'With a little alteration the brooch might be made tolerably modern; otherwise their value would be no more than old gold. In selling them, I–'

'It will not come to that, Mr. Cox,' interrupted Mary. 'Please God spares me a little while—and, since the hot weather went out, I feel a bit stronger—I shall soon redeem them.'

Mr. Cox looked at her thin face; he listened to her short breath; and he drew his own conclusions. There was a line of pity in his hard face, for he had long respected Mary Baxendale.

'By the way the strike seems to be lasting on, there doesn't seem much promise of a speedy end to it,' quoth he, in answer. 'I never was so over-done with pledges.'

'My work does not depend upon that,' said Mary. 'Let me get up a little strength, and I shall have as much work as I can do. And I am well paid, Mr. Cox: I have a private connection. I am not like the poor seamstresses who make skirts for fourpence a-piece.'

Mr. Cox made no immediate reply to this, and there was a pause. The open box lay before him. He took up the necklace and examined its clasp.

'I will lend you a sovereign upon them.'

She lifted her face pitiably, and the tears glistened in her eyes.

'It would be of no use to me,' she whispered. 'I want the money for a particular purpose, otherwise I should never have brought here these gifts of my mother's. She gave them to me the day I was eighteen, and I have tenderly kept them from desecration.'

Poor Mary! From desecration!

'I have heard her say what they cost; but I forget now. I know it was over ten pounds.'

'But the day for this fashion has gone by. To ask four pounds upon them was preposterous; and you would know it to be so, were you acquainted with the trade.'

'Will you lend me two pounds, then?'

The tone was tremblingly eager, the face beseeching—a wan face, telling of the coming grave. Possibly the thought struck the pawnbroker, and awoke some humanity within him.

'I shall lose by it, I know, if it comes to a sale. I'd not do it for anybody else, Miss Baxendale.'

He proceeded to write out the ticket, his thoughts running upon whether—if it did come to a sale—he could not make three pounds by the brooch alone. As he was handing her the money, somebody rushed in, close to the spot occupied by Mary, and dashed down a large-sized paper parcel on the counter. She wore a black lace bonnet, which had once been white, frayed, and altogether the worse for wear, independent of its dirt. It was tilted on the back of her head, displaying a mass of hair in front, half grey, half black, and exceedingly in disorder; together with a red face. It was Mrs. Dunn.

'Well, to be sure! if it's not Mary Baxendale! I thought you was too much of the lady to put your nose inside a pop-shop. Don't it go again the grain?' she ironically added, for she did not appear to be in the sweetest of tempers.

'It does indeed, Mrs. Dunn,' was the girl's meek answer, as she took her money and departed.

'Now then, old Cox, just attend to me,' began Mrs. Dunn. 'I have brought something as you don't get offered every day.'

Mr. Cox, accustomed to the scant ceremony bestowed upon him by some of the ladies of Daffodil's Delight, took the speech with indifference, and gave his attention to the parcel, from which Mrs. Dunn was rapidly taking off the twine.

'What's this—silk?' cried he, as a roll of dress-silk, brown, cross-barred with gold, came forth to view.

'Yes, it is silk; and there's fourteen yards of it; and I want thirty shillings upon it,' volubly replied Mrs. Dunn.

He took the silk between his fingers, feeling its substance, in his professionally indifferent and disparaging manner.

'Where did you get it from?' he asked.

'Where did I get it from?' retorted Mrs. Dunn. 'What's that to you!' D'ye think I stole it?'

'How do I know?' returned he.

'You insolent fellow! Is it only to-day as you have knowed me, Tom Cox? My name's Hannah Dunn; and I don't want you to testify to my honesty; I can hold up my head in Daffodil's Delight just as well as you can—perhaps a little better. Concern yourself with your own business. I want thirty shillings upon that.'

'It isn't worth thirty shillings in the shop, new,' was the rejoinder.

'What?' shrieked Mrs. Dunn. 'It cost three-and-fourpence halfpenny a yard, every yard of it, and there's fourteen of 'em, I tell you.'

'I don't care if it cost six-and-fourpence halfpenny, it's not worth more than I say. I'll lend you ten shillings upon it, and I should lose then.'

'Where do you expect to go to when you die?' demanded Mrs. Dunn, in a tone that might be heard half over the length and breadth of Daffodil's Delight. 'I wouldn't tell such lies for the paltry sake of grinding folks down; no, not if you made me a duchess to-morrow for it.'

'Here, take the silk off. I have not got time to bother: it's Saturday night.'

He swept the parcel, silk, paper, and string, towards her, and was turning away. She leaned over the counter and seized upon him.

'You want a opposition in the place, that's what you want, Master Cox! You have been cock o' the walk over Daffodil's Delight so long, that you think you can treat folks as if they was dirt. You be over-done with business, that's what you be; you're a making gold as fast as they makes it in Aurstraliar; we shall have you a setting up your tandem next. What'll you give me upon that silk?'

'I'll give you ten shillings; I have said so. You may take it or not; it's at your own option.'

More contending; but the pawnbroker was firm; and Mrs. Dunn was forced to accept the offer, or else take away her silk.

'How long is this strike going to last?' he asked, as he made out the duplicate.

The words excited the irascibility of Mrs. Dunn.

'Strike!' she uttered, in a flaming passion. 'Who dares to call it a strike? It's not a strike; it's a lock-out.'

'Lock-out, then. The two things come to the same, don't they? Is there a chance of its coming to an end?'

'No, they don't come to the same,' shrieked Mrs. Dunn. 'A strike's what it is—a strike; a act of noble independence which the British workman may be proud on. A lock-out is a nasty, mean, overbearing tyranny on the part of the masters. Now, old Cox! call it a strike again.'

'But I hear the masters' shops are open again—for anybody to go to work that likes,' replied Mr. Cox, quite imperturbable.

'They be open for slaves to go to work, not for free-born men,' retorted Mrs. Dunn, her shrieking voice at a still higher pitch. 'I hope the men'll hold out for ever, I do! I hope the masters 'll be drove, everyone of 'em, into the dust and dregs of the bankruptcy court! I hope their sticks and stones 'll be sold up, down to their children's cradles–'

'There, that's enough,' interposed the pawnbroker, as he handed her what he had to give. 'You'll be collecting a crowd round the door, if you go on like that. Here's somebody else waiting for your place.'

It was Mrs. Cheek, an especial friend of the lady's now being dismissed. Mrs. Cheek was carefully carrying a basket which contained various chimney ornaments—pretty enough in their places, but not of much value. The pawnbroker, after some haggling, not so intemperately carried on as the bargain just concluded, advanced six shillings on them.

'I had wanted twelve,' she said; 'and I can't do with less.'

'I am willing to lend it,' returned he, 'if you bring goods accordingly.'

'I have stripped the place of a'most all the light things as can be spared,' said Mrs. Cheek. 'One doesn't care to begin upon the heavy furniture and the necessaries.'

'Is there no chance of the present state of affairs coming to an end?' inquired Mr. Cox, putting the same question to which he had not got a direct answer from Mrs. Dunn. 'The men can go back to work if they like; the masters' yards are open again.'

'Open!' returned Mrs. Cheek, in a guttural tone, as she threw back her head in disdain; 'they have been open some time, if you call that opening 'em. If a man likes to go as a sneaking coward, and work upon the terms offered now, knuckling down to the masters, and putting his hand to their mean old odious document, severing himself from the Union, he can do it. It ain't many of our men as you'll find do that dirty work. If my husband was to attempt it, I'd be ready to skin him alive.'

'But the men have gone back in some parts of the metropolis.'

'Men, do you call 'em. A few may; one black sheep out of a flock. They ain't men, they are half-castes. Let them look to theirselves,' concluded Mrs. Cheek significantly, as she quitted the pawnbroker's shop with a fling.

At the butcher's stall, a few paces further, she came up to Mrs. Dunn, who was standing in the glare of the blazing gaslight, in the incessant noise of the 'Buy, buy, buy! what'll you buy?' Not less than a dozen women were congregated there, elbowing each other, as they turned over the scraps of meat set out for sale in small heaps—sixpence the lot, a shilling the lot, according to quality and quantity. In the prosperous time when their husbands were in full work, these ladies had scornfully disdained such heaps on a Saturday night. They had been wont then to buy a good joint for the Sunday's dinner. One of the women nudged another in her vicinity, directing her attention to the inside of the shop. 'Just twig Mother Shuck; she's a being served, I hope!'

'Mother Shuck,' Slippery Sam's better half, was making her purchases in the agreeable confidence of possessing money to pay for them—liver and bacon for the present evening's supper, and a breast of veal, to be served with savoury herbs, for the morrow's dinner. In the old times, while the throng of women now outside had been able to make the same or similar purchases, she had hovered without like a hungry hyena, hanging over the cheap portions with covetous eyes and fingers, as many another poor wife had done, whose husband could not or would not work. Times were changed.

'I can't afford nothing, hardly, I can't,' grumbled Mrs. Cheek. 'What's the good of six shillings for a Saturday night, when everything's wanted, from the rent down to a potater? The young 'uns have got their bare feet upon the boards, as may be said, for their shoes be without toes and heels; and who is to get 'em others? I wish that Cox was a bit juster. He's a getting rich upon our spoils. Six shillings for that lot as I took him in!'

'I wish he was smothered!' struck in Mrs. Dunn. 'He took and asked me if I'd stole the silk. It was that lovely silk, you know, as I was fool enough to go and choose the week of the strike, on the strength of the good times a coming. We have had something else to do since, instead of making up silk gownds.'

'The good times ain't come yet,' said Mrs. Cheek, shortly. 'I wish the old 'uns was back again, if we could get 'em without stooping to the masters.'

'It was at the shop where Mary Ann and Jemimar deals, when they has to get in things for their customers' work,' resumed Mrs. Dunn, continuing the subject of the silk. 'I shouldn't have had credit at any other place. Fourteen yards I bought of it, and three-and-fourpence halfpenny I gave for every yard of it; I did, I protest to you, Elizar Cheek; and that swindling old screw had the conscience to offer me ten shillings for the whole!'

'Is the silk paid for?'—'Paid for!' wrathfully repeated Mrs. Dunn; 'has it been a time to pay for silk gownds when our husbands be under a lock-out? Of course it's not paid for, and the shop's a beginning to bother for it; but they'll be none the nearer getting it. I say, master, what'll you weigh in these fag ends of mutton and beef at—the two together?' It will be readily understood, from the above conversation and signs, that in the several weeks that had elapsed since the commencement of the lock-out, things, socially speaking, had been going backwards. The roast goose and other expected luxuries had not come yet. The masters' works were open—open to any who would go to work in them, provided they renounced all connection with the Trades' Unions. Daffodil's Delight, taking it collectively, would not have this at any price, and held out. The worst aspect in the affair—I mean for the interests of the men—was, that strange workmen were assembling from different parts of the country, accepting the work which they refused. Of course this feature in the dispute was most bitter to the men; they lavished their abuse upon the masters for employing strange hands; and they would have been glad to lavish something worse than abuse up on the hands themselves. One of the masters compared them to the fable of the dog in the manger—they would not take the work, and they would not let (by their good will) anybody else take it. Incessant agitation was maintained. The workmen were in a sufficiently excited state, as it was; and, to help on that which need not have been helped, the agents of the Trades' Union kept the ball rolling—an incendiary ball, urging obstinacy and spreading discontent. But this little history has not so much to do with the political phases of the unhappy dispute, as with its social effects.

As Mary Baxendale was returning home from the pawnbroker's, she passed Mrs. Darby, who was standing at her own door looking at the weather. 'Mary, girl,' was the salutation, 'this is not a night for you to be abroad.'

'I was obliged to go,' was the reply. 'How are the children?'

'Come in and see them,' said Mrs. Darby. She led the way into a back room, which, at the first glance, seemed to be covered with mattresses and children. A large family had Robert Darby—indeed, it was a complaint prevalent in Daffodil's Delight. They were of various ages; these, lying on the mattresses, six of them, were from four to twelve years. The elder ones were not at home. The room had a close, unhealthy smell, which struck especially on the senses of Mary, rendered sensitive from illness.