A Life's Secret

'It's a good thing you have not got much of an audience here, Sam Shuck! That doctrine of yours is false and pernicious; its in opposition to the laws of God and man.' The interruption proceeded from Dr. Bevary. He had come into the garden unperceived by Sam, who was lounging on the side palings, his back to the gate. The doctor was on his way to pay a visit to Mary Baxendale. Sam started up. 'What did you say, sir?'

'What did I say!' repeated Dr. Bevary. 'I think it should be, what did you say? You would dare to circumscribe the means of usefulness God has given to man—to set a limit to his talents and his labour! You would say, "So far shall you work, and no farther!" Who are you, and all such as you, that you should assume such power, and set yourselves up between your fellow-men and their responsibilities?'

'Hear, hear,' interrupted Mrs. Quale, putting her head out at her window—for she had gone indoors. 'Give him a bit of truth, sir.'

'I have been a hard worker for years,' continued Dr. Bevary, paying no attention, it must be confessed, to Mrs. Quale. 'Mentally and practically I have toiled—toiled, Sam Shuck—to improve and make use of the talents entrusted to me. My days are spent in alleviating, so far as may be, the sufferings of my fellow-creatures; when I go to rest, I often lie awake half the night, pondering difficult questions of medical science. What man living has God endowed with power to come and say to me, "You shall not do this; you shall only work half your hours; you shall only earn a limited amount of fees?" Answer me.'

'It's not a parallel case, sir, with ours,' returned Sam.

'It is a parallel case,' said Dr. Bevary. 'There's your friend next door, Peter Quale; take him. By diligence he has made himself into a finished artizan; by dint of industry in working over hours, he is amassing a competence that will keep him out of the workhouse in his old age. What reason or principle of justice can there be in your saying, "He shall not do this; he shall receive no more than I do, or than Ryan, there, does? Because Ryan is an inferior workman, and I love idleness and drink and agitation better than work, Quale and others shall not work to have an advantage over us; we will share and fare alike." Out upon you, Slippery Sam, for promulgating doctrines so false! You must be the incarnation of selfishness, or you could not do it. If ever they obtain sway in free and enlightened England, the independence of the workman will be at an end.' The Doctor stepped in to Shuck's house, on his way to Mary Baxendale, leaving Sam on the gravel. Sam put his arm within Darby's, and led him down the street, out of the Doctor's way, who would be coming forth again presently. There he set himself to undo what the Doctor's words had done, and to breathe persuasive arguments into Darby's ear. Later, Darby went home. It had grown dusk then, for Sam had treated him to a glass at the Bricklayers' Arms, where sundry other friends were taking their glasses. There appeared to be a commotion in his house as he entered; his wife, Grace, and the young ones were standing round Willy.

'He has had another fainting fit,' said Mrs. Darby to her husband, in explanation. 'And now—I declare illness is the strangest thing!—he says he is hungry.' The child put out his hot hand. 'Father!' Robert Darby advanced and took it. 'Be you better, dear? What ails you this evening?'

'Father,' whispered the child, hopefully, 'have you got the work?'

'When do you begin, Robert?' asked the wife. 'To-morrow?'

Darby's eyes fell, and his face clouded. 'I can't ask for it; I can't go back to work,' he answered. 'The society won't let me.'

A great cry. A cry from the mother, from Grace, from the poor little child. Hope, sprung up once more within them, had been illumining the past few hours. 'You shall soon have food; father's going to work again, darlings,' the mother had said to the hungry little ones. And now the hopes were dashed! The disappointment was hard to bear. 'Is he to die of hunger?' exclaimed Mrs. Darby, in bitterness, pointing to Willy. 'You said you would work for him.'

'So I would, if they'd let me. I'd work the life out of me, but what I'd get a crust for ye all; but the Trades' Union won't have it,' panted Darby, his breath short with excitement. 'What am I to do?'

'Work without the Trades' Union, father,' interposed Grace, taking courage to speak. She had always been a favourite with her father. 'Baxendale has done it.'

'They are threatening Baxendale awfully,' he answered. 'But it is not that I'd care for; it's this. The society would put a mark upon me: I should be a banned man: and when this struggle's over, they say I should be let get work by neither masters nor men. My tools are in pledge, too,' he added, as if that climax must end the contest.

Mrs. Darby threw her apron over her eyes and burst into tears; Grace was already crying silently, and the boy had his imploring little hands held up. 'Robert, they are your own children!' said the wife, meekly. 'I never thought you'd see them starve.'

Another minute, and the man would have cried with them. He went out of doors, perhaps to sob his emotion away. Two or three steps down the street he encountered John Baxendale. The latter slipped five shillings into his hand. Darby would have put it back again.

'Tut, man; don't be squeamish. Take it for the children. You'd do as much for mine, if you had got it and I hadn't. Mary and I have been talking about you. She heard you having an argument with that snake, Shuck.'

'They be starving, Baxendale, or I wouldn't take it,' returned the man, the tears running down his pinched face. 'I'll pay you back with the first work I get. You call Shuck a snake; do you think he is one?'

'I'm sure of it,' said Baxendale. 'I don't know that he means ill, but can't you see the temptation it is?—all this distress and agitation that's ruining us, is making a gentleman of him. He and the other agents are living on the fat of the land, as Quale's wife calls it, and doing nothing for their pay, except keeping up the agitation. If we all went to work again quietly, where would they be? Why, they'd have to go to work also, for their pay must cease. Darby, I think the eyes of you union men must be blinded, not to see this.'

'It seems plain enough to me at times,' assented Darby. 'I say, Baxendale,' he added, wishing to speak a word of warning to his friend ere he turned away, 'have a care of yourself; they are going on again you at a fine rate.'

Come what would, Darby determined to furnish a home meal with this relief, which seemed like a very help from heaven. He bought two pounds of beef, a pound of cheese, some tea, some sugar, two loaves of bread, and a lemon to make drink for Willy. Turning home with these various treasures, he became aware that a bustle had arisen in the street. Men and women were pressing down towards one particular spot. Tongues were busy; but he could not at first obtain an insight into the cause of the commotion.

'An obnoxious man had been set upon in a lonely corner, under cover of the night's darkness, and pitched into,' was at length explained. 'Beaten to death.' Away flew Darby, a horrible suspicion at his heart. Pushing his way amidst the crowd collected round the spot, as only a resolute man can do, he stood face to face with the sight. One, trampled on and beaten, lay in the dust, his face covered with blood.

'Is it Baxendale?' shouted Darby, for he was unable to recognise him.

'It's Baxendale, as sure as a trivet. Who else should it be? He have caught it at last.'

But there were pitying faces around. Humanity revolted at the sight; and quiet, inoffensive John Baxendale, had ever been liked in Daffodil's Delight. Robert Darby, his voice rising to a shriek with emotion, held out his armful of provisions.

'Look here! I wanted to work, but the Union won't let me. My wife and children be a starving at home, one of them dying: I came out, for I couldn't bear to stop indoors in the misery. There I met a friend—it seemed to me more like an angel—and he gave me money to feed my children; made me take it; he said if I had money and he had not, I'd do as much for him. See what I bought with it: I was carrying it home for my poor children when this cry arose. Friends, the one to give it me was Baxendale. And you have murdered him!' Another great cry, even as Darby concluded, arose to break the deep stillness. No stillness is so deep as that caused by emotion.

'He is not dead!' shouted the crowd. 'See! he is stirring! Who could have done this!'

CHAPTER V.

A GLOOMY CHAPTER

The winter had come in, intensely hard. Frost and snow lay early upon the ground. Was that infliction in store—a bitter winter—to be added to the already fearful distress existing in this dense metropolis? The men held out from work, and the condition of their families was something sad to look upon. Distress of a different nature existed in the house of Mr. Hunter. It was a house of sorrow; for its mistress lay dying. The spark of life had long been flickering, and now its time to depart had come. Haggard, worn, pale, stood Mr. Hunter in his drawing-room. He was conversing with his brother Henry. Their topic was business. In spite of existing domestic woes, men of business cannot long forget their daily occupation. Mr. Henry Hunter had come in to inquire news of his sister-in-law, and the conversation insensibly turned on other matters.

'Of course I shall weather it,' Mr. Henry was saying, in answer to a question. 'It will be a fearful loss, with so much money out, and buildings in process standing still. Did it last very much longer, I hardly know that I could. And you, James?' Mr. Hunter evaded the question. Since the time, years back, when they had dissolved partnership, he had shunned all allusion to his own prosperity, or non-prosperity, with his brother. Possibly he feared that it might lead to that other subject—the mysterious paying away of the five thousand pounds.

'For my part, I do not feel so sure of the strike's being near its end,' he remarked.

'I have positive information that the eligibility of withdrawing the strike at the Messrs. Pollocks' has been mooted by the central committee of the Union,' said Mr. Henry. 'If nothing else has brought the men to their senses, this weather must do it. It will end as nearly all strikes have ended—in their resuming work upon our terms.'

'But what an incalculable amount of suffering they have brought upon themselves!' exclaimed Mr. Hunter. 'I do not see what is to become of them, either, in future. How are they all to find work again? We shall not turn off the stranger men who have worked for us in this emergency, to make room for them.'

'No, indeed,' replied Mr. Henry. 'And those strangers amount to nearly half my complement of hands. Do you recollect a fellow of the name of Moody?'

'Of course I do. I met him the other day, looking like a walking skeleton. I asked him whether he was not tired of the strike. He said he had been tired of it long ago; but the Union would not let him be.'

'He hung himself yesterday.'

Mr. Hunter replied only by a gesture.

'And left a written paper behind him, cursing the strike and the Trades' Unions, which had brought ruin upon him and his family. 'I saw the paper,' continued Mr. Henry. 'A decent, quiet man he was; but timorous, and easily led away.'

'Is he dead?'

'He had been dead two hours when he was found. He hung himself in that shed at the back of Dunn's house, where the men held some meetings in the commencement of the strike. I wonder how many more souls this wretched state of affairs will send, or has sent, out of the world!'

'Hundreds, directly or indirectly. The children are dying off quickly, as the Registrar-General's returns show. A period of prolonged distress always tells upon the children. And upon us also, I think,' Mr. Hunter added, with a sigh.

'Upon us in a degree,' Mr. Henry assented, somewhat carelessly. He was a man of substance; and, upon such, the ill effects fall lightly. 'When the masters act in combination, as we have done, it is not the men who can do us permanent injury. They must give in, before great harm has had time to come. James, I saw that man this morning: your bête noire, as I call him. Mr. Hunter changed countenance. He could not be ignorant that his brother alluded to Gwinn of Ketterford. It happened that Mr. Henry Hunter had been cognisant of one or two of the unpleasant visits forced by the man upon his brother during the last few years. But Mr. Henry had avoided questions: he had the tact to perceive that they would only go unanswered, and be deemed unpleasant into the bargain.

'I met him near your yard. Perhaps he was going in there.'

The sound of the muffled knocker, announcing a visitor, was heard the moment after Mr. Henry spoke, and Mr. Hunter started as though struck by a pistol-shot. At a calmer time he might have had more command over himself; but the sudden announcement of the presence of the man in town—which fact he had not been cognisant of—had startled him to tremor. That Gwinn, and nobody else, was knocking for admittance, seemed a certainty to his shattered nerves. 'I cannot see him: I cannot see him!' he exclaimed, in agitation; and he backed away from the room door, unconscious what he did in his confused fear, his lips blanching to a deadly whiteness.

Mr. Henry moved up and took his hand. 'James, there has been estrangement between us on this point for years. As I asked you once before, I now ask you again: confide in me and let me help you. Whatever the dreadful secret may be, you shall find me your true brother.'

'Hush!' breathed Mr. Hunter, moving from his brother in his scared alarm. 'Dreadful secret! who says it? There is no dreadful secret. Oh Henry! hush! hush! The man is coming in! You must leave us.' Not the dreaded Gwinn, but Austin Clay. He was the one who entered. Mr. Hunter sat down, breathing heavily, the blood coming back to his face; he nearly fainted in the revulsion of feeling brought by the relief. Broken in spirit, health and nerves alike shattered, the slightest thing was now sufficient to agitate him.

'You are ill, sir!' exclaimed Austin, advancing with concern.

'No—no—I am not ill. A momentary spasm; that's all. I am subject to it.'

Mr. Henry moved to the door in vexation. There was to be no more brotherly confidence between them now than there had formerly been. He spoke as he went, without turning round. 'I will come in again by-and-by, James, and see how Louisa is.'

The departure seemed a positive relief to Mr. Hunter. He spoke quietly enough to Austin Clay. 'Who has been at the office to-day?'

'Let me see,' returned Austin, with a purposed carelessness. 'Lyall came, and Thompson–'

'Not men on business, not men on business,' Mr. Hunter interrupted with feverish eagerness. 'Strangers.'

'Gwinn of Ketterford,' answered Austin, with the same assumption of carelessness. 'He came twice. No other strangers have called, I think.'

Whether his brother's request, that he should be enlightened as to the 'dreadful secret,' had rendered Mr. Hunter suspicious that others might surmise there was a secret, certain it is that he looked up sharply as Austin spoke, keenly regarding his countenance, noting the sound of his voice. 'What did he want?'

'He wanted you, sir. I said you were not to be seen. I let him suppose that you were too ill to be seen. Bailey, who was in the counting-house at the time, gave him the gratuitous information that Mrs. Hunter was very ill—in danger.'

Why this answer should have increased Mr. Hunter's suspicions, he best knew. He rose from his seat, grasped Austin's arm, and spoke with menace. 'You have been prying into my affairs! You sought out those Gwinns when you last went to Ketterford! You–'

Austin withdrew from the grasp, and stood before his master, calm and upright. 'Mr. Hunter!'

'Was it not so?'

'No, sir. I thought you had known me better. I should be the last to "pry" into anything that you might wish to keep secret.'

'Austin, I am not myself to-day, I am not myself,' cried the poor gentleman, feeling how unjustifiable had been his suspicions. 'This grief, induced by the state of Mrs. Hunter, unmans me.'

'How is she, sir, by this time?'

'Calm and collected, but sinking fast. You must go up and see her. She said she should like to bid you farewell.' Through the warm corridors, so well protected from the bitter cold reigning without, Austin was conducted to the room of Mrs. Hunter. Florence, her eyes swollen with weeping, quitted it as he entered. She lay in bed, her pale face raised upon pillows; save for that pale face and the laboured breathing, you would not have suspected the closing scene to be so near. She lifted her feeble hand and made prisoner of Austin's. The tears gathered in his eyes as he looked down upon her.

'Not for me, dear Austin,' she whispered, as she noted the signs of sorrow. 'Weep rather for those who are left to battle yet with this sad world.' The words caused Austin to wonder whether she could have become cognisant of the nature of Mr. Hunter's long-continued trouble. He swallowed down the emotion that was rising in his throat.

'Do you feel no better?' he gently inquired.

'I feel well, save for the weakness. All pain has left me. Austin, I shall be glad to go. I have only one regret, the leaving Florence. My husband will not be long after me; I read it in his face.'

'Dear Mrs. Hunter, will you allow me to say a word to you on the subject of Florence?' he breathed, seizing on the swiftly-passing opportunity. 'I have wished to do it before we finally part.'

'Say what you will.'

'Should time and perseverance on my part be crowned with success, so that the prejudices of Mr. Hunter become subdued, and I succeed in winning Florence, will you not say that you bless our union?'

Mrs. Hunter paused. 'Are we quite alone?' she asked. Austin glanced round to the closed door. 'Quite,' he answered.

'Then, Austin, I will say more. My hearty consent and blessing be upon you both, if you can, indeed, subdue the objection of Mr. Hunter. Not otherwise: you understand that.'

'Without her father's consent, I am sure that Florence would not give me hers. Have you any idea in what that objection lies?'

'I have not. Mr. Hunter is not a man who will submit to be questioned, even by me. But, Austin, I cannot help thinking that this objection to you may fade away—for, that he likes and esteems you greatly, I know. Should that time come, then tell him that I loved you—that I wished Florence to become your wife—that I prayed God to bless the union. And then tell Florence.'

'Will you not tell her yourself?'

Mrs. Hunter made a feeble gesture of denial. 'It would seem like an encouragement to dispute the decision of her father. Austin, will you say farewell, and send my husband to me? I am growing faint.' He clasped her attenuated hands in both his; he bent down, and kissed her forehead. Mrs. Hunter held him to her. 'Cherish and love her always, should she become yours,' was the feeble whisper. 'And come to me, come to me, both of you, in eternity.'

A moment or two in the corridor to compose himself, and Austin met Mr. Hunter on the stairs, and gave him the message. 'How is Baxendale?' Mr. Hunter stayed to ask.

'A trifle better. Not yet out of danger.'

'You take care to give him the allowance weekly?'

'Of course I do, sir. It is due to-night, and I am going to take it to him.'

'Will he ever be fit for work again?'—'I hope so.'

Another word or two on the subject of Baxendale, the attack on whom Mr. Hunter most bitterly resented, and Austin departed. Mr. Hunter entered his wife's chamber. Florence, who was also entering, Mrs. Hunter feebly waved away. 'I would be a moment alone with your father, my child. James,' Mrs. Hunter said to her husband, as Florence retired—but her voice was now so reduced that he had to bend his ear to catch the sounds—'there has been estrangement between us on one point for many years: and it seems—I know not why—to be haunting my death-bed. Will you not, in this my last hour, tell me its cause?'

'It would not give you peace, Louisa. It concerns myself alone.'

'Whatever the secret may be, it has been wearing your life out. I ought to know it.'

Mr. Hunter bent lower. 'My dear wife, it would not bring you peace, I say. I contracted an obligation in my youth,' he whispered, in answer to the yearning glance thrown up to him, 'and I have had to pay it off—one sum after another, one after another, until it has nearly drained me. It will soon be at an end now.'

'Is it nearly paid?'—'Ay. All but.'

'But why not have told me this? It would have saved me many a troubled hour. Suspense, when fancy is at work, is hard to bear. And you, James: why should simple debt, if it is that, have worked so terrible a fear upon you?'

'I did not know that I could stave it off: looking back, I wonder that I did do it. I could have borne ruin for myself: I could not, for you.'

'Oh, James!' she fondly said, 'should I have been less brave? While you and Florence were spared to me, ruin might have done its worst.' Mr. Hunter turned his face away: strangely wrung and haggard it looked just then. 'What a mercy that it is over!'

'All but, I said,' he interrupted. And the words seemed to burst from him in an uncontrollable impulse, in spite of himself.

'It is the only thing that has marred our life's peace, James. I shall soon be at rest. Perfect peace! perfect happiness! May all we have loved be there! I can see–'

The words had been spoken disjointedly, in the faintest whisper, and, with the last one died away. She laid her head upon her husband's arm, and seemed as if she would sleep. He did not disturb her: he remained buried in his own thoughts. A short while, and Florence was heard at the door. Dr. Bevary was there.

'You can come in,' called out Mr. Hunter.

They approached the bed. Florence saw a change in her mother's face, and uttered an exclamation of alarm. The physician's practised eye detected what had happened: he made a sign to the nurse who had followed him in, and the woman went forth to carry the news to the household. Mr. Hunter alone was calm.

'Thank God!' was his strange ejaculation.

'Oh, papa! papa! it is death!' sobbed Florence, in her distress. 'Do you not see that it is death?'

'Thank God also, Florence,' solemnly said Dr. Bevary. 'She is better off.'

Florence sobbed wildly. The words sounded to her ears needlessly cruel—out of place. Mr. Hunter bent his face on that of the dead, with a long, fervent kiss. 'My wronged wife!' he mentally uttered. Dr. Bevary followed him as he left the room.

'James Hunter, it had been a mercy for you had she been taken years ago.'

Mr. Hunter lifted his hands as if beating off the words, and his face turned white. 'Be still! be still! what can you know?'

'I know as much as you,' said Dr. Bevary, in a tone which, low though it was, seemed to penetrate to the very marrow of the unhappy man. 'The knowledge has disturbed my peace by day, and my rest by night. What, then, must it have done by yours?'

James Hunter, his hands held up still to shade his face, and his head down, turned away. 'It was the fault of another,' he wailed, 'and I have borne the punishment.'

'Ay,' said Dr. Bevary, 'or you would have had my reproaches long ago. Hark! whose voice is that?' It was one known only too well to Mr. Hunter. He cowered for a moment, as he had hitherto had terrible cause to do: the next, he raised his head, and shook off the fear.

'I can dare him now,' he bravely said, turning to the stairs with a cleared countenance, to meet Gwinn of Ketterford.

He had obtained entrance in this way. The servants were closing up the windows of the house, and one of them had gone outside to tell the gossiping servant of a neighbour that their good lady and ever kind mistress was dead, when the lawyer arrived. He saw what was being done, and drew his own conclusions. Nevertheless, he desisted not from the visit he had come to pay.

'I wish to see Mr. Hunter,' he said, while the door stood open.

'I do not think you can see him now, sir,' was the reply of the servant. 'My master is in great affliction.'

'Your mistress is dead, I suppose.'—'Just dead.'

'Well, I shall not detain Mr. Hunter many minutes,' rejoined Gwinn, pushing his way into the hall. 'I must see him.'