'Now, that man's been with us thirty years; he married his wife from here, and his family all work for us; and this one has been fifty years, and onlycomes once a week just to say he still works at the old mill,' explained Mr Howroyd.
'That's as it should be,' said George, touching his hat at each greeting, and raising it to an old woman who hobbled past them.
His uncle smiled a little, for such courtesy is not usual in mills, where kind hearts are hidden under rough exteriors and blunt speech; but though the 'hands' smiled, they said to each other, after the uncle and nephew had passed by, that 'he was a gentleman was young Clay, and took after his uncle Howroyd more'n his father, that was plain!'
'Oh uncle, why did you come so soon? I didn't want you yet,' cried Sarah when she saw the two at the door.
'Didn't you? It strikes me it's about time we did come. My word, you've got yourself into a nice state, my lass!' exclaimed Mr Howroyd, as well he might, for Sarah, in her interest in the new shades, had gone too near the huge vats and wet materials, and her dress was the colours of the rainbow, while her hands were a deep crimson.
'But just look what a lovely colour this crimson is, George!' she exclaimed, holding up a rag which she had dyed.
George contemplated his sister in silence, and then said, 'We'd better get a taxi to go home, I think;' and added, 'Yes, it's a pretty shade, but I think there's a little too much blue in it to be quite becoming.' And, turning to the dyer, he began talking pleasantly about dyeing; and when he went away the man remarked to Mr William Howroyd, 'He's a sharp young gentleman is yon, and I think I'll try his advice.'
Meanwhile Sarah was sitting in the cab with her brother, contemplating rather ruefully her stained hands. 'I say, will it come off?' she inquired anxiously.
'Yes, in time, if you use some acid,' replied her brother, looking at her fingers.
'Oh, but I must get them clean by lunch-time, or father will make a row,' she cried.
'I should advise you to have lunch in your boudoir, as you call it. You can't possibly get all this off at first go. I can't imagine what old Matthew was about to let you get yourself in such a mess. Really, you are very childish for your age, in some ways.'
'What were you talking to Uncle Howroyd about?' demanded Sarah, who did not want to talk about her hands any longer.
'The heavy woollen trade,' replied her brother promptly.
'That wasn't what you came down to see Uncle Howroyd about. A lot you know of the heavy woollen trade or any other trade! Besides, that came out too pat. What you came down to Ousebank for was just the same thing that I came for.'
'I should not have said so,' replied George dryly, with a significant glance at her hands.
'It was, all the same. You came to ask Uncle Howroyd what he meant by talking about the workhouse last night, and so did I; but I thought one of us was enough to ask that question, so now just tell me what he said.'
If George was taken aback by her astuteness, he did not say so, but answered simply, 'He said he didnot mean anything, and that there was no chance of the workhouse for us more than for him.'
'Do you believe that?' asked Sarah.
'He said there was no more chance of our going to the workhouse than his going there,' repeated George.
'Do you believe that?' repeated Sarah.
'No, I do not,' said George gravely.
'Oh George, do you think we are ruined, or anything?' cried Sarah in excitement.
'Oh, do be quiet, and don't talk so loud, or the cabby will hear you! Of course we're not ruined; but it would never astonish me any day if we came a howler. The pater goes too fast, and—— But we're all right now; and, for goodness' sake, don't say a word to mother; it would upset her dreadfully. It's only for her sake I'd mind so much.'
'We'd work for her, and she'd be happier with us, without father always shouting at her,' said Sarah.
'Probably we'd have to work for him too, and he might not be angelic as a pauper,' suggested George grimly, perhaps with a view to subdue Sarah's desire for poverty.
'Oh, I never thought of that. Let's hope his money will last as long as he lives,' she cried.
'We'd better go in the back way, I think,' observed George, tapping at the window of the cab as he spoke and giving the order.
Sarah laughed, as she spread her hands out before her and surveyed them. 'Perhaps it would be as well, for peace' sake,' she remarked.
They were just getting out of the cab at the little back-door leading into the stable-yard behind the house, when, to their dismay, they saw Mr Mark Clay's burly figure come with swaggering walk along the little path through the park towards the same door, probably coming to give some order, or more probably, his children thought, to make himself disagreeable to his stablemen and chauffeurs.
'Quick! in with you; there's the pater!' cried George, who, polite as usual, was holding the cab-door open for his sister.
Sarah needed no second bidding; but, instinctively clutching the front breadth of her skirt in her hands to conceal the stains, she jumped out, ran in at the little gate, and into the house, up to her room by the back-stairs.
George paid the man, who touched his hat and drove off quickly, and the young man noticed that he passed the owner of the park through which he was driving without any greeting at all. George turned to meet his father.
The tall, slim young man, with his refined features, looked a fit heir to the fine home, with its vast park; but a greater contrast to the coarse man who came towards him could not be imagined. He raised his hat to his father, and greeted him pleasantly enough. No one had ever heard George Clay speak otherwise than respectfully to or of his father, in which he compared favourably with Sarah; but if he could civilly do so he avoided his company, and, if the truth be known, he only spent his vacations at home for the sake of his mother and sister. On this occasion he could not with politeness avoid meeting him, and did so with a good grace.
'Mornin', lad! Where t' been?' inquired Mark Clay, as he gave his son a nod.
'Down to Ousebank, father. It's hot, isn't it?'
'Yes, it's fine and hot. Where's Sarah? Why didn't she stop and say good-mornin' to her dad? I'm not fine enough for her. I'm only good to make money, eh?'
'On the contrary, it was Sarah who was not fine enough to meet you. She stained her hands, and was running off to wash them,' said George.
'Stained her hands! What did she stain her hands for? I won't have her pretty hands soiled; there's no call for her ever to do aught with them but fancy work.'
'Sarah isn't fond of fancy work,' observed George, avoiding a direct answer.
'I don't know what she is fond of, without it's cheekin' me. What do you think she said yesterday? That I was no better than a murderer because I didn't pay a man his high wages when he got too old towork. A nice thing it would be if I had to keep all my sick workmen in luxury, and pay some one else for doing their work. It wasn't by such means that I built this house, I can tell 'e.' Mark Clay spoke broader Yorkshire than many of his men, and even he could speak, and did speak, better English when he chose; in fact, it was only when he was annoyed or angry that he broke out into dialect.
Sarah ran to her room and plunged her hands into hot water, but, as might have been expected, without any effect; and when the lunch-gong sounded they were still far too brilliant to bear her father's scrutiny. So she rang for Naomi, and said, 'Just tell Sykes to send up some lunch to me, Naomi; and if any one asks where I am, tell them I am very busy. So I am, cleaning my hands; though you needn't tell them that.'
Naomi went off to do her young mistress's bidding, but came back in ten minutes looking very grave, and said, 'Please, Miss Sarah, the master says as 'ow it don't matter about your hands, and you can go down to lunch with them as they are.'
Sarah stamped her foot with vexation. 'I told you not to say anything about my hands, Naomi.'
'No more I didn't; but the master knew, for he told Mr Sykes to give me that message for you. And please, miss, excuse me saying so, but Sykes he said, "Try and make Miss Sarah come down, for master he gets into such a taking if he's crossed;" and Sykes he says'——
'Never mind what Sykes said. Get me out my pink muslin,' said Sarah shortly, with her most haughty air, and Naomi obeyed in silence.
Sarah's frock was not pinker than her face when she got to the dining-room.
'So you've been to Howroyd's Mill messing with his dyes, have you? What do you want to go there for when you could come to mine, eh? What did you go to him for, and what did he say?' her father asked suspiciously.
'Nothing very interesting; at least I don't remember anything. Oh yes; he said hands weren't money-making machines, but human souls which had to be cared for,' replied Sarah.
'I don't mean that kind of talk. Did he talk business, eh?' inquired Mr Clay.
'Oh dear no; he never does to me,' she answered.
'Not been croaking, has he?' the millionaire asked with hidden anxiety.
This time it was George who spoke, inquiring, 'Is there anything to croak about, then?'
'I want an answer to my question, and, by gad, I'll have it!' exclaimed his father, bringing his fist down on the table with a crash.
'No; he was very cheerful, as he always is. And now, sir, perhaps you will be good enough to answer my question,' said George, who spoke very quietly but decidedly.
Sarah gave her brother an approving look.
'What question? Oh, whether there's anything to croak about? Not in my opinion; but your uncle—— But there, it's no good taking any notice of him. He'd build a palace for his hands to work in and live in, and stop in that old mill all his life, would Bill Howroyd,' replied Mr Clay; and, frowning heavily, the millionaire got up from the table.
'I say, mother, would you mind if I went for a week's shooting to Scotland?' inquired her son.
'No, dearie; no. You go; it'll do you good. I suppose it's some o' your college friends as 'ave asked you? Yes, you go; there's nothin' for you to do 'ere,' said the fond mother.
'And what about me? What am I to do if you go off and leave me all alone? I shall go melancholy mad in this hole of a place!' cried Sarah.
''Ole!—w'en it's on the top o' a 'ill! W'at silly nonsense you do talk, child! 'Ole, indeed!' said Mrs Clay.
'It is rather rough luck to leave you in your holidays; but Cockburn has asked me so often. Couldn't you ask some one to stay with you—one of your schoolfellows, perhaps?' George suggested.
'Nice, comfortable house this is to ask any one to stay in!' said Sarah sarcastically.
'It's as comfortable as any o' theirs, if it isn't a great deal better,' cried her mother.
'I'd sooner live in Naomi's home if I'd my choice,' said Sarah gloomily.
'Sarah is right in one way, mother,' said George before Mrs Clay could say anything. 'It is not very comfortable to have constant disturbances in one's home; and the governor is very easily angered.'
'Yes, dear, I know,' agreed Mrs Clay, who adored her son, and thought everything he did or said perfection. 'An' it's 'ard for you an' Sarah, for you don't understan' your father, nor ain't used to 'im as I am. But that's not a bad idea o' yours that Sarah should ask one o' the young ladies at 'er school to come an' stay 'ere for a bit.—There's that MissCunning'am that you've got the photograph o' in your room. She's got a nice, 'omely face.'
'She's a duke's granddaughter, whether her face is homely or not. No, I couldn't ask her,' declared Sarah.
'Why not? She'd be the very one. Your father likes people o' 'igh class, though 'e was only a mill-'and 'isself. An' she's got such a nice smile on 'er photo,' persisted the mother.
'I couldn't possibly ask her; she'd never come and stay with a manufacturer,' declared Sarah again.
'I'd be bound she'd jump at it. She'd not get a better dinner at 'ome or anyw'ere, nor a better room to sleep in,' said Mrs Clay.
This remark grated upon both her children, as so many of poor Mrs Clay's sayings did; but George, tactful as usual, remarked, 'Suppose you write and ask Miss Cunningham, Sarah; and if she is too proud to visit a maker of blankets, why, she will refuse, and there will be the end of it; and if she accepts, it will show that her friendship for you is stronger than class prejudices.'
Sarah looked at her brother for a minute as if she wanted to say something, but did not do so, and only drummed with her crimson-dyed fingers on the white table-cloth, taking apparently great delight in their appearance.
'Yes; you do as your brother tells you, instead of sittin' there smilin' at them dreadful 'ands o' yours. I'm sure they're nothin' to be proud o'. Now, if you lived in Howroyd's Mill, w'ere your uncle Bill lives, you might be ashamed to ask the young ladyto stay wi' you; but 'ere it's quite different,' said Mrs Clay.
The brother and sister, it will have been noticed, always called their father's step-brother Uncle Howroyd, whereas their mother and father called him Bill or 'your uncle Bill.' The fact was that the younger people did not like 'Bill,' and George said he was thankful for one thing, and that was that his name could not be shortened; while Sarah had made violent protests against being called Sally or Sal, and would not allow any one except her father, whom she could not control, to call her anything but Sarah; and, indeed, the latter name suited her best.
Sarah followed her brother into his smoking-den. 'Pshaw! What a stuffy room!' she exclaimed, as she threw herself upon the cushioned window-seat.
'If it does not please you I fail to see why you have come into it; and as for being stuffy'—— Instead of completing his sentence George shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say the accusation was too absurd to be argued about.
'Itisstuffy, with all those cushions and carpets about, and pictures and gimcracks, for all its big windows. I can't think how you like to stuff it up with all this rubbish,' persisted Sarah.
'This rubbish, as you call it, is worth a pretty penny,' he remarked, lighting a cigarette.
'You're as bad as father, counting everything by what it costs. But, I say, George, why did you go and suggest my inviting Horatia Cunningham to come and stay here? I don't want her; and now you've started mother on it she'll give me no peace till I do ask her, and very likely say something to father,and he'll begin worrying about it, especially if he hears she's a duke's granddaughter. Besides, she wouldn't come if I did ask her,' Sarah remarked.
'In that case there'll be no harm done if you do ask her. But I can't imagine why you shouldn't; she looks a very nice girl, and you are great friends, aren't you? And what has her grandfather to do with it?' asked George.
'At school we are; but whether we should be after she'd been up here isn't so certain. And as for why I shouldn't ask her, the reason is pretty plain—father,' replied Sarah.
'You mean he might make himself unpleasant?' suggested George.
'There's no need for him tomakehimself; Nature has made him unpleasant,' exclaimed Sarah.
'You need not see much of him. You can go for picnics or drives, and arrange to have lunch earlier or later; and you never breakfast and have tea with him, so it's only at dinner-time that they will meet. I should not think he will get into a rage before a stranger, especially a young girl.'
Sarah seemed to be considering something, and suddenly she blurted out, 'It isn't only that. I don't want her to come here; can't you see why not? They don't know what my people are. Oh, they know we're manufacturers; but that's nothing to be ashamed of. Lots of manufacturers are gentlemen, but we are not gentlefolks, and they—they don't guess it from me,' she wound up half-shamefacedly.
'Then I wouldn't sail under false colours. We are risen from the people, and our parents have not hadthe education they have been good enough to give us; but it would be contemptible to be ashamed of the fact or of them.'
'That's very fine and high-flown; but I am ashamed of my father, at any rate. I'd rather not have Horatia Cunningham come here and laugh at my mother behind her back,' said Sarah.
'I should like to see any one dare to do that,' said George, with an angrier look than his sister had ever seen him give.
'She wouldn't mean it nastily; but it's no good pretending that mother does not say the wrong thing sometimes,' said Sarah.
'The wrong thing has been sending you to that school,' said George, his loyalty and love for his mother preventing his acknowledging the truth of this remark; and then he said more kindly, for he sympathised more with his sister than he chose to say, 'I don't believe Miss Cunningham would be nasty in any way. I know her brother slightly at college, and he is "Hail, fellow! well met," with every chap he meets. You take my advice, and write and ask her to come here. You can tell her, if you like, that—well, that we arenouveaux riches, and have no pretensions of being gentlefolks; but that she will have a hearty Yorkshire welcome, and that's not a thing to be despised, let me tell you. Here, sit down and write the letter at once. I shall enjoy myself much more in Scotland if I know you have a companion.'
'I shouldn't mind so much if you were going to be at home,' said Sarah, only half-won over.
George ignored the implied compliment, and said,'You will get on much better alone. Sit down and write the invitation here. I'll help you.'
'No, thank you; I'd rather write my own way,' remarked Sarah, as she rose from the window-seat. When she got to the door, she turned back to say, 'I have a presentiment that she'll accept, and it will be all your fault, remember. Whatever the consequences, they will be on your head.'
George only laughed, and sat down himself to accept his shooting invitation.
It did not take George Clay five minutes to write his acceptance of his friend's invitation; but his sister did not find her letter quite so easy to write, and she sat at the pretty Chippendale table biting the end of her pen for more than that length of time before she began to write in desperation, only to tear up the letter in despair.
'It's all very well for George to talk; but it's not so easy to sit down and tell a girl you are not a lady, and, what's more, that your parents are not gentlefolks,' said Sarah aloud to herself.
Then she started again, and wrote a friendly invitation, without any embarrassing explanations or apologies.
'George may be able to say that kind of thing in a gentlemanly way—he always does say the right sort of thing—but I shall just chance it,' she muttered to herself, as she sealed up the letter and sent it off by Naomi, without showing it to any one or taking any one's advice upon it. To have done so would have been quite contrary to Sarah's habits, for she was of a very independent character, and the circumstances of her whole life no doubt fostered this characteristic.
'So we've got a grand young lady from London coming up to stay with us plain folk,' said Mr Mark Clay when he saw his daughter at dinner that evening.
'I've asked one of my schoolfellows to come tostay with me; but I don't know that she will come, and I don't know that you will think her grand. She dresses very plainly,' replied Sarah.
'Then she'll be all the more willing to come if she's poor,' said Mr Clay.
'She's not in the least poor. It's not the fashion for schoolgirls to dress very grandly,' said Sarah hastily.
'Nonsense! People dress as they can afford; and, I'll be bound, I could buy up her father twice over,' said Mark Clay in his boastful way.
Sarah's lips curled scornfully. 'You couldn't buy his rank. I hope to goodness she won't come,' she said.
No notice was taken of this remark, which was put down to Sarah's contradictoriness, and no one knew how heartily the girl repented of her invitation.
Meanwhile Horatia Cunningham opened the letter from her friend, without in the least expecting it to contain an invitation to visit the schoolfellow whom they all talked of as the millionaire's daughter. Great was her surprise on reading it, for Sarah never talked at school of her people or her home, and the girls vaguely imagined that she was unhappy in her home.
'Mamma, just listen to this letter,' Horatia cried, as she read the letter aloud at the breakfast-table:
'"Dear Horatia,—Will you come and spend as much of the holidays as you can spare with me? We live on a hill outside Ousebank, so that you will not be in a manufacturing town, and we can go for plenty of walks or rides and drives and play tennis as much as you like. I shall be all alone, as my brotheris going to stay with friends in Scotland.—Your affectionate friend,Sarah Clay."'
'"Dear Horatia,—Will you come and spend as much of the holidays as you can spare with me? We live on a hill outside Ousebank, so that you will not be in a manufacturing town, and we can go for plenty of walks or rides and drives and play tennis as much as you like. I shall be all alone, as my brotheris going to stay with friends in Scotland.—Your affectionate friend,Sarah Clay."'
'What an extraordinary letter! She is not gushing,' said Lady Grace Cunningham, as she continued to pour out the coffee.
'Is she an orphan, and what does she mean by being all alone? Has she no guardian or chaperon?' inquired Horatia's father.
'She has a father and a mother. She is the daughter of a millionaire blanket-maker named Clay.'
'I believe I've heard the name; but I don't know what I've heard of him,' said Mr Cunningham.
'That would account for her odd way of writing,' said his wife.
'What is odd about it?' demanded Horatia.
'Her writing without mentioning her mother's name, and she never says she would like to see you. Besides, to begin with, as a matter of politeness, Mrs Clay should have written to me,' objected Lady Grace Cunningham.
'Sarah is very independent, and I expect she does as she likes at home,' said Horatia. 'But she is a very nice girl, mamma, and I may go, mayn't I?' she begged.
'Do you really want to go? You know these people, though they have great riches, are very often very unrefined. What is the girl like?'
'I'll show you her photograph, and she looks like a queen when she walks,' said Horatia; and in her eagerness to get leave to pay the visit she ran upstairs to fetch the photo, and came back with a portrait of a boy and girl.
'Dear me, what a handsome couple!' exclaimed Lady Grace Cunningham; 'and most refined,' she added, as she passed the photo to her husband for his inspection and opinion.
'A very fine face—the girl's, I mean; the young fellow looks rather effeminate. I don't think you'd learn anything but good from that girl; but she looks proud. I should never have taken her for a tradesman's daughter,' he remarked, as he put the photo down.
'She is not. He is a manufacturer,' protested Horatia.
'Some of our merchants are of good old stock, and as refined as ourselves, if I may be allowed that piece of boasting,' replied his wife.
'And no doubt these people are. Well, personally, I have no objection to Horatia's going to them, if you have not,' said Mr Cunningham; and he buried himself in his newspaper.
'Hurrah!' cried Horatia, clapping her hands.
'Why this excitement? Are you so fond of this schoolfellow, or do you find home dull?' inquired Lady Grace Cunningham.
'Oh no, mamma; of course I am never dull at The Grange, and I don't know that I am so fond of Sarah. I do like her very much, but I shall see her in another month; so, if you like, I will write and refuse the invitation.'
'By no means. I wish you to grow up large-minded; but you have not explained why you were so delighted at the thought of going to spend a month with these strangers. I don't suppose their riches attract you.'
'Oh no; I don't think one could have a nicer home than this. I believe the real truth is that I should like to see a mill. I read a story about mill-girls once; how they wore pattens on their feet and shawls on their heads, and talked so broadly that you couldn't understand them, and threw mud at strangers. I would like'——
'To have mud thrown at you?' exclaimed her mother. 'Well, there's no accounting for tastes!'
Horatia gave a merry laugh, such an infectious laugh that both her mother and father joined in it.
'No; I should keep out of their way, and look at them through a window,' she remarked.
'Perhaps they'd throw a stone through the window and break it,' observed Horatia's practical sister.
'Well, I promise to duck my head if I see one coming,' she assured them, laughing.
'I don't suppose there will be any need. I fancy mill-hands, as I believe they call them, are very much civilised, and dress quite grandly now,' said her mother.
'Oh, I hope not! I shall be disappointed if they do,' cried Horatia.
Thus it came about that two mornings after she had despatched her letter Sarah had an answer from Horatia Cunningham, accepting her friend's kind invitation with pleasure, and announcing her arrival at the end of the week.
'So you were right, and she is coming,' Sarah said gloomily to her brother, as she twisted the letter in her fingers.
'That's very nice. You must think of nice expeditionsto take her. There is lovely scenery within reach, especially if she's fond of motoring,' he said.
'I wish to goodness the visit were over. I have a presentiment that it will be a failure,' his sister persisted.
'Don't be absurd! It won't be a failure if you try to make it a success; and, if you don't mind my giving you a hint, be civil to the governor before Miss Cunningham, at all events; it's such bad form not to be, you know,' said George.
'I wish you'd give the governor, as you call him, a hint or two. He's the one who'll make the visit a failure, if it is one. Well, she's going to come, so it's no use groaning about it now,' said Sarah.
'Now, Sally, what are you looking so glum about? I suppose you don't think we're grand enough for your duchess-friend? Never you mind, we'll put our best foot forward. She shall have the royal suite of rooms. I've made up my mind to do the thing handsome,' said Mr Clay.
'Oh Mark, that is good o' you! I 'ope the young lady won't spoil 'em,' said his wife.
The royal suite of rooms, it should be explained, consisted of a bedroom, anteroom, sitting-room, and bathroom, which had been so sumptuously decorated that the workmen called them the 'royal suite;' and Mr Clay, overhearing them, had said the royal suite they should be called. Perhaps it would be prophetic, for stranger things had to come to pass than royalty coming to stay with the Mayor of Ousebank, as he had been, and probably would be again.
Sarah knew she ought to express her gratitude to her father for the honour he was showing to herfriend; but no words would come. Sarah Clay was, unfortunately, more in the habit of uttering unpleasant truths than making pretty speeches to her father; and, if the truth be told, she was not altogether pleased at the honour shown, for the rooms were not very suitable for a young girl, and Sarah had an idea that the grandeur would be wasted on Horatia, who, she suspected, would rather have a room near hers.
George, as usual, came to the rescue. 'That is very kind of you, father; but perhaps, as Miss Cunningham is very young, and is coming for the first time among strangers, she would prefer to be in the west wing near some one she knows. There's the anteroom, next Sarah's; that is very pretty for a girl, and they could share the boudoir.'
Sarah shot a grateful look at her brother; but his pains were thrown away, for Mr Clay, who was not a man to be easily turned from his plan, said, 'She'll soon get used to us, and she can have her maid to sleep next door. No; I've promised she shall have the royal rooms, and I'll not go back on my word.'
'Let's hope she'll appreciate them,' said George in a non-committal tone.
Sarah spent the intervening two or three days in a state of suppressed excitement and unsuppressed irritability; and George at last began to regret, like herself, that her friend was coming, and was sorry for having made the suggestion. He would even have given up his visit to the north if Sarah had accepted his sacrifice; but the latter declared brusquely, 'You couldn't do much good; and, considering that my excuse for asking her here was that I should be alone,it would look rather odd if you didn't go away, after all.'
So George went off, his parting words to Sarah being, 'Don't worry. Just be as nice to her as you can, and don't, for goodness' sake, be ashamed of being what you are, for you have nothing to be ashamed of.'
'I don't think that,' said Sarah.
'We need be ashamed of nothing in this world except doing wrong,' said George; and the motor started with a hoot of approval of this worthy sentiment.
Sarah waved her hand to her brother, and stood watching him until the motor was hidden behind the trees and a bend in a long avenue, and then turned back to the house, her head bent towards the gravel-path, the pebbles of which she kicked with her feet, to the distinct disapproval of the young gardener who had just rolled it, and viewed this destruction of his work from a distance.
'Ashamed of nothing but doing wrong!' she soliloquised. 'That's not true. One is ashamed of having dirty hands or muddy boots; there's nothing wrong in that.' She turned impulsively as if to say this to her brother, and have the last word; but that being an impossibility, she was reduced to arguing the question out with herself, as Sarah had a habit of doing.
The only person she ever consulted, or whose advice or criticism she accepted, was her uncle Howroyd. But this question she could not ask him, for Sarah hardly liked to own to herself that she was a little ashamed of her uncle Howroyd; at least, not exactlyashamed, but she did not mean to take Horatia Cunningham to see him or the old-fashioned mill-house in which William Howroyd and his father had lived for three or four generations.
So Sarah was reduced to herself as an authority upon this question for the present, and not being by any means a safe authority, she did not get a wise answer, which might have saved her a great deal of vexation and annoyance; for Sarah decided that George was quite wrong. There were things which were not wrong, and yet one could not help being ashamed of them; and one thing Sarah was ashamed of was having parents who were not only uneducated, but had unrefined ideas.
Sarah had one day-dream, absurd as it may seem, of which she never spoke. Sarah always cherished the hope that she might some day find that she and her brother were not really George and Sarah Clay, but adopted children of Mark Clay, and that by-and-by the news would be broken to them. And yet Sarah was a well-educated, intelligent girl of sixteen, and lived in the twentieth century. The fancy arose from a remark her father once made when she was quite a child: 'They are not my children; they are a cut above me. They've got their mother's features, but they'll have nothing of me but my money.' And upon this half-bitter, half-proud speech of Mark Clay's Sarah built her romance, which varied as she invented different explanations of the mystery from time to time; but her favourite one was that her mother first married a lord who was ashamed of his wife, and would not acknowledge his children until they were grown up and properly educated; andSarah used to picture the reconciliation between them and their proud relatives, for whose benefit she composed many fine speeches full of reproof and final forgiveness.
This may be a little excuse for her want of respect to her father, Mark Clay, by speaking of whom, it will be remembered, as 'your husband' she used to anger her mother. She even half-thought of telling Horatia this tale; but Horatia had a way of turning everything into ridicule, and one of the many things that Sarah could not stand was being laughed at.
The same motor that took George Clay to the station took Sarah that afternoon to meet Horatia Cunningham, who was to arrive at six o'clock, and who persisted in arriving at that hour, although Sarah had written to her and warned her it was the hour when the mill-hands came out; she said she did not mind at all, and supposed that she would be quite safe in a motor with its smart chauffeur; and Sarah, looking so fresh and dainty that many a one turned and looked after the millionaire's pretty daughter, started off for the station, and not one of them guessed she was feeling nervous, and wished with all her might that she were going on another errand. The girl even wished that something might have happened to prevent her friend from coming; but when the train stopped she saw the wish was vain, for Horatia's face was smiling at her from a window, and Sarah forgot her fears for the moment, and smiled back a welcome.
Sarah stepped forward to help Horatia down from the carriage, and suddenly her expression changed to one of mingled surprise and annoyance; seeing which, the young visitor, with a merry laugh, jumped from the carriage to the platform, ignoring the steps and Sarah's outstretched hand.
'There! I said so, didn't I, Nanny?' she cried, turning to her maid, a highly respectable, middle-aged woman, with as good-humoured a face as her young charge.—'Sarah, I said the minute you saw us come out of a third-class carriage you would put on that shocked face of yours. That's partly why I did it.'
'You must excuse Miss Horatia, miss. She's full of mischief, and she got into this carriage at the junction without my seeing what class it was, or I would never have allowed her to do such a thing as arrive here third, with you to meet her, and the "chauffer" and all,' said Horatia's maid.
'Oh, bother the chauffeur! It's nothing to do with him which class I travel!' exclaimed Horatia, who, to do her justice, had no idea that the chauffeur was just behind her. That individual was far too well trained to give any sign of having heard this remark, though it was very different from the way his present employers treated him. Mark Clay bullied his servants, and his timid little wife hardly dared to speak to them. Sarah was very reserved, except with Naomi; whileGeorge was as courteous to a beggar as to a lord, having but one manner with them all.
When Horatia saw what she had done she made a funny little face, and said in an undertone to Sarah, 'I say, Sarah, can't we walk to your house?'
'I don't think we had better. We shall meet the mill-hands coming out, and mother does not like us to do that,' said Sarah.
'Oh, of course, if your mother does not allow it, we can't; but do you think I had better apologise to your man?' she suggested.
'Apologise? Pray, don't think of such a thing! But I suppose you are only saying that to shock me, though why that should amuse you so much I can't think,' observed Sarah.
'You would if you could see your own face; but I really didn't get into that railway-carriage only to shock you. I got in to hear Yorkshire people talk. I saw some country men and women get in, and I just followed them; and, oh Sarah, what does "ginnel" mean, and a "fettle"?'
'I don't know what a "ginnel" is; but "fettle" is a verb. A fettler is the man who cleans the machines in the mill. I have heard the people here talk of "fettling" the hearth when they mean "clean up." And old Matthew, a mill-hand, said the other day he didn't feel in a grand fettle. I suppose he meant "well."'
'A ginnel's a narrow passage, miss. Yon's a ginnel we are just passing,' said the chauffeur to Horatia, slowing down as they passed what is generally called an alley, to which he pointed.
'Oh, thank you very much,' said Horatia genially,and added to Sarah, as she squeezed her arm, 'Oh Sarah, I am enjoying myself so much!'
Her happiness was infectious, and Sarah turned to her visitor with an amused smile. 'Why, what can you find to enjoy already?' she asked, with some reason, for they were going almost at walking pace through the town, because of the crowds that poured into the streets from almost every side-turning, so that it could not be the exhilarating motion of motoring that she liked so much.
'Everything! Seeing all those people and hearing people talk Yorkshire,' cried Horatia.
'The people are just like poor people anywhere, only rather dirtier; and I don't like their way of speaking—they have such rough, loud voices,' replied Sarah.
'I think that kind of sing-song they have is musical, and they are not a bit like our villagers; I don't know how, but they are not,' said Horatia, glancing about her, and almost jumping up and down in her eagerness to see all there was to be seen, as they drove slowly along the narrow, and at this time crowded, streets of the grimy manufacturing town.
'Oh, oh, look, Nanny, at that lovely river all purple!' she cried enthusiastically.
'Well, really, Miss Horatia, I can't say that I do admire that. It looks shocking dirty,' said the maid.
'It is. It's lovely before it gets to Ousebank; but it's so polluted by the mills turning all their horrid dyes and things into it that fish can't live in it,' observed Sarah in tones of disgust.
'Well, I call it a lovely colour. Just think how delightful—when you get tired of a dress one colour,you have just got to dip it into the river when the water's the colour you want, and, hey, presto! there you are with a new dress!'
Even the chauffeur on the seat in front let his face relax into a smile at Horatia's chatter; but Sarah, though she laughed, said decidedly, 'I'd rather send my dresses to proper dyers than put them into that dirty water; and I'd rather see the river clean, and so would you if you lived here.'
They had got clear of the town now, and Horatia, having nothing to look at except an ugly row of cottages, in which even she could not find anything to admire, turned her attention to the car, which she declared most luxurious, and ever so much better than her father's.
'We can go out in it as much as you like, if you like motoring, and go for picnics in the country,' suggested Sarah.
'That will be very nice; but I want to see your mill first,' said Horatia. 'Is it near the house?'
'No; we passed it just now, when you said, "What a big stream of people!"' answered Sarah.
'But they didn't know you,' objected the other.
'Oh yes, they did—by sight, I mean. But what difference would that make? You don't expect them to nod to me, do you?'
'All our villagers do to me, even though I don't know them by sight,' said Horatia.
'Then they are different from our people, and perhaps there are not so many. We have over eight hundred men in our mill, besides women and boys.'
Horatia began to see that Sarah did not care to talk about mill-people, as she called them in hermind, and as they entered the park at the moment, and the house in another moment, she found other subjects for conversation.
Horatia was a year younger than Sarah and more than a head shorter, and a greater contrast than the two presented could not be imagined: the one tall, slender, dignified, with regular features and clear complexion; and the other short, square-set, with snub-nose and freckled skin, a face only redeemed from plainness by its merry, twinkling eyes and good-humoured mouth, which was always broadening into a smile.
Mrs Clay had seen Horatia Cunningham's photograph, so that she was prepared for a girl with a homely face; but most photographs flatter, and Mrs Clay had not expected to see any one quite so ordinary in appearance, 'an' that plainly dressed,' as she confided to her husband. However, she came forward with a hearty welcome, and as soon as Horatia smiled at her she forgot the slight shock her young guest's appearance had given her.
Horatia jumped out of the car as she had jumped out of the train. 'It is so kind of you to have me; and what a lovely view you have! One would never think the town was so near. I suppose it is hidden behind those trees?' she said.
'No, my dear—Miss Cunningham, I mean—the town is be'ind the 'ouse. My 'usband built the mansion this way on purpose,' said Mrs Clay, in her nervousness dropping theh'smore than usual.
Sarah kept a keen eye upon Horatia during this speech. She had been dreading this moment, and had only forgotten her anxiety, thanks to Horatia's freepraise of all she saw; but not a trace of mockery could she see in her schoolfellow's smile; in fact, Horatia was more polite than she was to the teachers at school, to whom they were expected to be most courteous. 'I suppose she didn't expect her to be educated,' thought Sarah, a little bitterly.
But she did her school friend an injustice, for Mrs Clay was a far greater shock to Horatia than she was to her hostess; and it said much for the girl's innate good-breeding that she showed no sign of the fact, but only answered frankly, 'Please don't call me Miss Cunningham. I'm not grown up yet, and my name is Horatia.' And here the thought came into Horatia's mind that she would certainly be ''Oratia' to her hostess, and she felt a wild desire to laugh, but valiantly repressed it; for which she was very thankful when Mrs Clay, with a pretty, pink colour in her delicate, faded cheeks, said, 'Thank you, my dear; it's a very pretty name, but it's difficult to remember. I expect I shall always call you "my dear," as you don't mind, and I am sure you are a very dear young lady.'
Horatia impulsively threw her arms round Mrs Clay's neck, and, kissing her, said, 'I am sure I am going to have a lovely time here, and I think it's awfully good of you to ask me.'
Mrs Clay beamed with delight, and all fears on her part that the visit would not be a success were over.
Sarah's brow cleared. She was rather surprised that Horatia and her mother had taken to each other; but so far so well. The worst was—her father; and Sarah almost longed for dinner-time, so that that meeting also should be over. 'She won't like him, Iknow,' she murmured, with a recollection of a scene at school when a visitor had been presuming in Horatia's opinion, and she had rather surprised her companions by the frigid air she assumed. 'He'll offend her, and she will say something, and, oh dear! I'm sure there will be a scene,' sighed Sarah.
However, dinner was two hours off, and Sarah took Horatia through the vast corridors and up to the royal rooms, followed by Horatia's old nurse, who had come in the capacity of maid, and was by her mistress's orders keeping near her charge till she settled down in her new surroundings.
Horatia and her maid were both used to large houses, and had stayed at the ducal mansion of Horatia's relative; but when the door leading into the royal rooms was opened she gave a cry of admiration. 'But am I to sleep here? It's far too grand for me, Sarah. And what a big room! I shall lose myself in it!' she cried.
'My father wished you to have these rooms. There's a bed for your maid next door, in the dressing-room. My mother thought you might be nervous in a new house,' explained Sarah.
'How kind you all are! Fancy taking all that trouble about making me comfortable! I'm afraid I sha'n't be able to give you such a lot of rooms when you come to stay with us,' said Horatia, as she wandered from room to room, and stopped first to admire the writing-table with gold everything, and finally the bathroom with silver fittings.
'I will leave you to rest a little, and when you are ready for a walk in the park, please ring the bell and Naomi will fetch me,' said Sarah as she went off,relieved to find that Horatia took everything in a friendly spirit.
'Oh Miss Horatia, this is a funny house!' exclaimed Horatia's nurse.
'I don't see anything funny in it,' said Horatia; 'it's a very beautiful one.'
'Yes, miss, it is that; these people must have a mint of money. Why, look at these rooms; they're fit for a king. And to think that poor thing is the mistress of it all. She doesn't look hardly fit,' said the woman.
Horatia let this remark pass in silence; but if her loyalty to her hostess had let her she would probably have agreed with her nurse, for she did feel, somehow, as Sarah did, that it was all too grand, and oppressed her somehow. 'My dresses are not grand enough for these rooms, Nanny, or for this house,' she replied.
But this was too much for the old nurse. 'You'll look a lady and be a lady in the commonest of them, and that's more than these Clays be, for all their money,' she cried indignantly.
'That isn't very nice of you when they are so kind to us, Nanny, and have asked us here so that we may enjoy ourselves,' said Horatia reproachfully.
'No, Miss Horatia, it isn't, and I ought to be ashamed of myself that you have to teach me my duty instead of me showing you a good example; but I felt wild to think of them, perhaps, thinking themselves better than you because they have such a lot of money out of blankets,' said the good woman. 'Why, I'd sooner have The Grange than this house any day.'
'So would I, of course, because it's my home; but I wouldn't mind having a bathroom like this, all marble and silver, and all those lovely little contrivances to wash yourself without any trouble; and I will some day, when I'm rich,' declared Horatia.