Put Yourself in His Place [39]
her mind, but she panted heavily, and her fingers worked convulsively, and clutched themselves very tight at last.
When he had done his narrative, he said sadly, "I despise these fellows as much as you do; but they are too many for me. I am obliged to leave Hillsborough."
"What, let the wretches drive you away? I would never do that--if I was a man."
"What would you do, then?" asked Henry, his eye sparkling.
"Do? Why fight them; and beat them; and kill them, it is not as if they were brave men. They are only cunning cowards. I'd meet cunning with cunning. I'd outwit them somehow. I'd change my lodging every week, and live at little inns and places. I'd lock up every thing I used, as well as the rooms. I'd consult wiser heads, the editor of the Liberal, and the Head of the police. I'd carry fire-arms, and have a bodyguard, night and day; but they should never say they had frightened me out of Hillsborough--if I was a man."
"You are all right," cried Henry. "I'll do all you advise me, and I won't be driven out of this place. I love it. I'll live in it or I'll die in it. I'll never leave it."
This was almost the last word that passed this delightful afternoon, when the sense of her own past injustice, the thrilling nature of the story told by the very sufferer, and, above all, the presence and the undisguised emotion of another sympathizing woman, thawed Grace Carden's reserve, warmed her courage, and carried her, quite unconsciously, over certain conventional bounds, which had, hitherto, been strictly observed in her intercourse with this young workman.
Henry himself felt that this day was an era in his love. When he left the door, he seemed to tread on air. He walked to the first cab-stand, took a conveyance to his mother's door, and soon he was locked in her arms.
She had been fretting for hours at his delay; but she never let him know it. The whole place was full of preparations for his comfort, and certain delicacies he liked were laid out on a little side board, and the tea-things set, including the silver teapot, used now on high occasions only.
She had a thousand questions to ask, and he to answer. And, while he ate, the poor woman leaned back, and enjoyed seeing him eat; and, while he talked, her fine eyes beamed with maternal joy. She reveled deliciously in his health, his beauty, and his safe return to her; and thought, with gentle complacency, they would soon return to London together.
In the morning, she got out a large, light box, and said. "Harry, dear, I suppose I may as well begin to pack up. You know I take longer than you do."
Henry blushed. "Pack up?" said he, hesitatingly. "We are not going away."
"Not going away, love? Why you agreed to leave, on account of those dreadful Unions."
"Oh, I was ill, and nervous, and out of spirits; but the air of Cairnhope has made a man of me. I shall stay here, and make our fortune."
"But the air of Cairnhope has not made you friends with the unions." She seemed to reflect a moment, then asked him at what time he had left Cairnhope.
"Eleven o'clock."
"Ah! And whom did you visit before you came to me?"
"You question me like a child, mother."
"Forgive me, dear. I will answer my own question. You called on some one who gave you bad advice."
"Oh, did I?"
"On some woman."
"Say, a lady"
"What does it matter to me?" cried Mrs. Little, wildly. "They are all my enemies. And this one is yours. It is a woman, who is not your mother, for she thinks more of herself than of you."
CHAPTER VII.
Henry had now to choose between his mother's advice, and Miss Carden's commands; and this made him rather sullen and irritable. He was glad to get out of his mother's house, and went direct to the works. Bayne welcomed him warmly, and, after some friendly congratulations and inquiries, pulled out two files of journals, and told him he had promised to introduce him to the editor of the Liberal. He then begged Henry to wait in the office, and read the files--he would not be gone many minutes.
When he had done his narrative, he said sadly, "I despise these fellows as much as you do; but they are too many for me. I am obliged to leave Hillsborough."
"What, let the wretches drive you away? I would never do that--if I was a man."
"What would you do, then?" asked Henry, his eye sparkling.
"Do? Why fight them; and beat them; and kill them, it is not as if they were brave men. They are only cunning cowards. I'd meet cunning with cunning. I'd outwit them somehow. I'd change my lodging every week, and live at little inns and places. I'd lock up every thing I used, as well as the rooms. I'd consult wiser heads, the editor of the Liberal, and the Head of the police. I'd carry fire-arms, and have a bodyguard, night and day; but they should never say they had frightened me out of Hillsborough--if I was a man."
"You are all right," cried Henry. "I'll do all you advise me, and I won't be driven out of this place. I love it. I'll live in it or I'll die in it. I'll never leave it."
This was almost the last word that passed this delightful afternoon, when the sense of her own past injustice, the thrilling nature of the story told by the very sufferer, and, above all, the presence and the undisguised emotion of another sympathizing woman, thawed Grace Carden's reserve, warmed her courage, and carried her, quite unconsciously, over certain conventional bounds, which had, hitherto, been strictly observed in her intercourse with this young workman.
Henry himself felt that this day was an era in his love. When he left the door, he seemed to tread on air. He walked to the first cab-stand, took a conveyance to his mother's door, and soon he was locked in her arms.
She had been fretting for hours at his delay; but she never let him know it. The whole place was full of preparations for his comfort, and certain delicacies he liked were laid out on a little side board, and the tea-things set, including the silver teapot, used now on high occasions only.
She had a thousand questions to ask, and he to answer. And, while he ate, the poor woman leaned back, and enjoyed seeing him eat; and, while he talked, her fine eyes beamed with maternal joy. She reveled deliciously in his health, his beauty, and his safe return to her; and thought, with gentle complacency, they would soon return to London together.
In the morning, she got out a large, light box, and said. "Harry, dear, I suppose I may as well begin to pack up. You know I take longer than you do."
Henry blushed. "Pack up?" said he, hesitatingly. "We are not going away."
"Not going away, love? Why you agreed to leave, on account of those dreadful Unions."
"Oh, I was ill, and nervous, and out of spirits; but the air of Cairnhope has made a man of me. I shall stay here, and make our fortune."
"But the air of Cairnhope has not made you friends with the unions." She seemed to reflect a moment, then asked him at what time he had left Cairnhope.
"Eleven o'clock."
"Ah! And whom did you visit before you came to me?"
"You question me like a child, mother."
"Forgive me, dear. I will answer my own question. You called on some one who gave you bad advice."
"Oh, did I?"
"On some woman."
"Say, a lady"
"What does it matter to me?" cried Mrs. Little, wildly. "They are all my enemies. And this one is yours. It is a woman, who is not your mother, for she thinks more of herself than of you."
CHAPTER VII.
Henry had now to choose between his mother's advice, and Miss Carden's commands; and this made him rather sullen and irritable. He was glad to get out of his mother's house, and went direct to the works. Bayne welcomed him warmly, and, after some friendly congratulations and inquiries, pulled out two files of journals, and told him he had promised to introduce him to the editor of the Liberal. He then begged Henry to wait in the office, and read the files--he would not be gone many minutes.