'No, no; I really couldn't, Nanny; but we're quite safe, for there are a lot of police guarding us.'
Nancy groaned as she went off.
Mr Howroyd and Sarah, it will he remembered, had not been seen since they arrived at the scene of the fire in the park. Mr Howroyd had vaulted from the car as soon as his half-brother; and when the latter made his angry speech, and sent off the townspeople, William Howroyd went after them as quickly as he could. But he had not gone far when he heard quick, light footsteps behind him; and, turning to see who it was, he saw Sarah, looking very hot, coming hurrying after him. 'What do you want, my lass? You go home. The town's no place for you to-night,' he said.
'Yes it is, Uncle Howroyd. I want to see Jane Mary. I'm sure this is some of her doing,' she panted as she came up to her uncle.
'And if it is, what good will it do you to know it, even if she owned up, which she won't, you may be sure?' inquired her uncle, stopping, rather unwillingly, to talk to his niece.
'Oh, she'll tell me; she's not afraid of me. She knows I'm on her side,' said Sarah.
'A fine statement that! Then what are you going to do? Incite them to more outrages? Because, if that's your intention, you certainly won't come; and I must say, Sarah, you don't show a very nice spirit in taking this tone.'
'What tone?' demanded Sarah, looking rather defiant.
'Why, rejoicing in your father's loss, and openly taking the part of his enemies,' said Mr Howroyd.
'I'm not rejoicing in it; I'm awfully sorry. I would have given anything to have prevented it; and it's just to prevent any more that I am going down to Ousebank,' replied Sarah.
William Howroyd turned and continued his way towards Ousebank. As it was evident that Sarah meant to go to the town, it was better that she should go with him than alone, which he was convinced she would do if he did not let her come with him; so he only said testily, 'I never did pretend to understand women, but you beat every one of them. I don't know what you do mean; but I'm glad to hear you are not so undutiful as I thought you were. Not that you'll do any good by going to Ousebank, because you'll not turn these people.'
'If you think I'm going to try to turn Jane Mary because I want to save papa's property for him you are mistaken, because I don't care a fig if it is destroyed or not; but I do care about Jane Mary, and I don't want her to get into trouble, and that's why I am going to see her.'
'You're a queer girl, Sarah; but I think you'll be sorry one of these days for the part you're acting now. Why, that little schoolfellow of yours has a more friendly feeling for your father than his own daughter,' observed Mr Howroyd, as the two walked hurriedly along the path through the park, which was a short-cut to the town.
'Oh Horatia! You say you don't understand me;but I think I'm much easier to understand than Horatia. She came up here to be my friend and companion, and sympathise with me, and, lo and behold! she goes and makes friends with father, and cares much more for father and mother than for me,' complained Sarah.
'And I don't blame her,' said Mr Howroyd.
Sarah laughed. 'I wonder you don't follow her example; but you don't, and you know, Uncle Howroyd, it's no use your pretending to champion my father, because you don't really care for him a bit except from duty, and you like me much better,' she announced coolly.
'I don't like you at all to-night, and I disapprove of your behaviour to your parents very strongly. As I told you before, you will be sorry for it one day,' said her uncle.
They had reached the outskirts of the park and come out on the high-road as Mr Howroyd said this; and about a hundred yards to the right of them, coming down the hill, they saw a crowd of people, and heard the murmur of many voices. It was the townspeople coming from the fire, who had been longer in coming because they had kept to the drive, not daring to use the short-cut.
'It's the hands!' said Sarah.
'You'd best turn back, my lass; you can't do any good, and you're far too young to mix yourself up with this kind of thing,' her uncle entreated her.
Sarah shook her head. 'I am going on; but if you want to go ahead, do; I shall be all right with these people,' she affirmed.
But this was more than Mr Howroyd could bear. 'Nay, you'll not do that if I can stop it, lass. You don't want to be the talk of the town, do you? But whether you do or not, you're not going to have your way. There'll be scandal enough without Mark Clay's daughter adding to it by going marching through the town with the rabble that have just burnt her father's barns,' said Mr Howroyd; and he quickened his steps to avoid being caught up by the rabble, as he called them.
But in spite of his efforts, the crowd behind gained on them, and they heard the foremost say, 'It's William Howroyd, that's who it is. He's a different man to his brother, that he is. He'd never turn us out of his park, wouldn't Mr William.'
'He's got Clay's lass with him, though. What d'ye say lads, shall we let her come into t' town if he won't let us go into his park, or shall we turn her back same as he did us?'
There were mingled shouts of 'Let her be!' and 'Nay, nay, let's turn her back, same as he did us, and teach him a lesson!'
They were close behind now, and Mr William Howroyd could no longer pretend not to hear what they said. The road was wide, and bordered by banks and hedges. He took Sarah by the hand and pulled her up on to the bank with him; but even in that moment he noticed that her hand did not tremble in the least, but was, as a matter of fact, steadier than his own.
'I'm not going to run away from them, Uncle Howroyd. I'm not a bit afraid of them,' she protested, as he pulled her up after him.
'You do as I tell you; but you couldn't run away from them if you wanted to,' he replied.
Sarah stood on the bank beside her uncle, and waited for the crowd to come up to them. They were only about fifty in all, and mostly young men, and they seemed undecided what to do when they saw Mr Howroyd standing upon the bank by the roadside, with his niece beside him.
William Howroyd's pleasant, cheery face was graver than most present had ever seen it, as he stood and watched the men come up and stand, half-sheepishly and half-defiantly, in a kind of irregular semicircle round them.
As none of them spoke, except in murmurs to each other, Mr Howroyd decided to break the ice, and began, in his brisk, ringing voice, which had a very stern tone in it to-night: 'Well, men, what do you want of me? I've made way for you to go forward. Why don't you go?'
'We want a word with you first, Mr Howroyd,' said one of the foremost, who had already shown himself to be antagonistic.
'I want no words with men who break the laws of the land,' replied William Howroyd sternly, and as he said this some of the men remembered that he was a Justice of the Peace.
'We've broken no laws, Mr William. We never set the barn afire, and you can't prove that we did,' said one rather anxiously.
'You stood by and let it burn; and you forget that it was my brother's property,' he replied.
'Mark Clay's no blood-brother of yours. We've nought again' you, Mr William.—Let 'im be, lad;he've allus right on his side, and he's a good master, is Mr William,' said an older man, walking on.
'Noa; but we've summat again' Mr Clay, and I say let the Clays stop in their park—they want it to themselves, and let 'em have it; but we won't have 'em in Ousebank,' said the first speaker in a surly voice.
'The park's private property, and you've no right there, and my brother had a right to turn you out to-night. I'd have done the same if you'd come into my house; but we're all equal on the public road, and if you molest us here you'll answer for it to me in another place,' said Mr Howroyd with determination.
All this time Sarah had stood beside her uncle, her eyes flashing, but giving no other sign that she was moved by the discussion; but she now said, 'The men are right, Uncle Howroyd. I will go back to Balmoral;' and she turned to go up the hill.
Poor Mr Howroyd might well say he did not understand women, for this was the last thing he had expected Sarah to do, and it embarrassed him very much, for he wanted to get to the town as soon as he could and stop possible disturbances; but it was impossible to let Sarah return to her home alone on an evening like this. He stood looking first at the crowd, which was now passing on, and then at Sarah, doubtful which to accompany, when the question was decided for him by a man in the crowd, who came forward and said, 'I'll see Miss Clay home, Mr William; you'll be wanted down Ousebank to-night.'
'Mickleroyd!' cried Mr Howroyd in amazement. 'You here! I didn't expect to see you among this lot.'
William Howroyd feared no man, and 'said his mind,' as he was wont to express it, and he was far too popular for it to be resented, perhaps because his 'mind' had never anything but kindness in it, though it was very truthful.
'I'll answer for my presence here if need be, Mr. William; but let me take the young lady home. She'll be safe with me, and the town'll be safer if you are there,' said the old man, with sturdy independence.
'I'll come, Luke.—Good-night, uncle,' said Sarah, deciding the question, as usual, for herself.
'Good-night, Sarah. I'm glad you're going home; your mother'll be worrying about you, I'll be bound, and she'll want some one to comfort her,' said her uncle as he turned to go down the hill.
'Oh, Horatia's doing that, I've no doubt. I can't think why she wasn't me, and I her. She'd have liked to live at Balmoral,' replied Sarah.
'She's a good young lady, Miss Sarah, and, if you'll excuse me, she's done the master a mint of good. It's what he wants, some one to say a word in season, and make him a little softer like,' said Luke Mickleroyd.
'You're all alike, Luke; you think there's no one like Horatia Cunningham, and I can't think why except that she has a pleasant way of saying things,' said Sarah a little bitterly.
'It isn't only that, miss; it's that she's got a lot of heart. But I know you've got a heart too, and a heart of gold; only I often think 'tis a pity some people cover it up so carefully that it wants a lot of digging to come at,' remarked the man.
'I suppose you are talking about me; but don't Ishow you any feeling, Luke?' asked Sarah rather reproachfully.
'Yes, miss, of course; and I wasn't thinking of you at the minute, as it happened. I'm sorry I said what I did about Miss Cunningham if it annoyed you, for I know from Naomi how kind you are, and what a true friend to all our family. If I said anything, it was because I was thinking 'twas a pity you didn't take things as the other young lady does, for if you had very likely matters would never have come to this pass.'
Sarah did not answer a word, and the two walked on in silence. Luke Mickleroyd was thinking bitterly of the part his daughter Jane Mary had taken in the day's work, and Sarah's thoughts were not more pleasant.
'I dare say you're right, Luke; but one can't change one's character. If a person's born proud and horrid like me she can't help it; it's her nature to be so,' she said after a pause.
'There's something above nature, Miss Sarah; and though I'm not one to preach, I know you know better than me, not being a scholar, that you can be changed,' replied the man.
Sarah was so surprised at such a speech from a mill-hand that she found no words to reply; but when he had left her, by her desire, at the back of the house, she made her way to her room by the back-stairs, and taking up her favourite attitude on the wide window-seat, sat and gazed out over Ousebank.
'I hate them all! I hate Ousebank, and the mills, and the hands—the ungrateful people; they turned against me even, though they know I have alwaystaken their parts and sympathised with them,' she burst out. Then the words of her uncle came back to her that she would one day regret the attitude she had taken up, and she wondered whether she didn't regret it a little now. And then Luke Mickleroyd's remarks haunted her, and with a sudden impatient movement she got up and went to the door. There she paused irresolutely, and then, half-shamefacedly, she turned back and knelt down by her bedside; and after ten minutes she got up and walked swiftly out of the room and down the stairs, wondering rather at have said; and though she said her prayers night and morning as a matter of habit, she did not remember ever having prayed in the daytime before.
Sarah walked swiftly along the passages, her head erect, her colour a little brighter, and her lips half-smiling instead of being curved in a contemptuous droop; and on her way she met Naomi.
'Oh miss!' cried Naomi, and then stopped short, and looked curiously at her young mistress.
'Well, Naomi, what is it? What are you looking at me like that for? Has anything more happened?' demanded Sarah.
'No, miss; thank goodness there's nothing more than you know, and that's enough, and too much. I was only thinking you look rare and beautiful this evening,' blurted out the maid.
'What nonsense, Naomi! I'm just hot and red, and you don't like pale people,' replied Sarah; but she was pleased all the same; for though she was not in the least vain of her good looks—which she would have exchanged willingly for Horatia's parentage—she liked to be admired, and she walked on, feeling very satisfied with herself.
Naomi looked after her admiringly. 'There's not a young lady can hold a candle to her in all the county. But wherever's she going? Why, that's not the way to the drawing-room; she's going to the master's room. Well, it isn't often she pays him a visit, and it mostly ends badly, if it doesn't begin so.How she comes to be his daughter I can't think; she's too good for the like of him. I'd sooner have believed she was a duke's daughter,' she soliloquised.
Meanwhile Sarah, conscious that she was doing a noble action in conquering her own feelings, walked on, as Naomi had said, to her father's special sitting-room, which he called his study, but in which his only study was how to make more money.
Sarah tapped at the door, and her father's voice growled something which she took to be an invitation to come in, so she opened the door and entered the room; but on the threshold she paused and hesitated. Her father was sitting in his big easy-chair in front of his bureau, writing. He did not look up at once, thinking it was a servant, who could wait his pleasure, and Sarah had time to notice his forbidding expression. It seemed to her that her father had never looked more unlovable, as he sat there with a scowl on his face, writing no doubt letters to the police or whatever authorities he wished to invoke aid from to punish the incendiaries; and as he wrote such a malignant and fierce expression came over his face that Sarah made a movement to retreat; but the noise she made in doing so attracted Mr Clay's attention, and, looking up sharply, he exclaimed, 'What! you, Sally?' and laid down his pen to hear what his daughter had to say to him.
'Yes, father; I came to tell you how sorry I am about all this affair to-day,' she said.
Mr Clay looked keenly and a little suspiciously at his daughter. She stood there, looking so like a culprit apologising for her misdeeds, that the thought flashed across him that perhaps she had somethingto be sorry for. She made no secret of her sympathy with the 'hands,' and she had not expressed sorrow or indignation at the time, so that the mill-owner may be excused if he believed for the moment that she had had something to do with the fire.
'Are you sorry?' he asked dryly. 'I thought you didn't care if I lost every penny of my money. That's what you always say. Are you sure you're not sorry that your friends are going to get into trouble, eh? I suppose you didn't know anything about it beforehand? Because, you know, I sha'n't make any exceptions. Those that burn my property shall pay for it.'
'Father,' cried Sarah indignantly, 'how can you think such a dreadful thing of me? If that's what you think, I'm sorry I came to you at all;' and she turned to go.
'Stop a minute, my lass,' said her father. 'I'd like to get to the bottom of this. Why did you come?'
'I came to tell you I am sorry for your loss,' said Sarah half-sullenly.
'You are sure you didn't come to beg these people off their punishment?' persisted Mr Clay.
'Yes, I am quite sure of that. I should never waste my time asking you to show mercy to any one,' cried Sarah, her eyes flashing.
Mark Clay looked at his daughter with an angry light in his eyes. 'I'm glad you've got so much sense, my lass,' he said coldly, and went on with his writing.
Sarah hesitated a minute. She was sorry for the words the moment they were out of her mouth. It was a miserable end to her attempt at making friends with her father; but her father's head was bent overhis writing, and his face had on the stubborn look she knew so well, so she reluctantly turned away, and went back to her own room.
'He means mischief,' she said as she leant her chin on her hands. 'He's more dangerous when he is quiet like that than when he blusters.'
How long she sat Sarah did not know, until she was startled by hearing the dinner-gong clanging through the house. She gave a violent start, and looked round to see if Naomi had put out her dress for dinner, and saw, to her surprise, not only that she had not done so, but that it was the dinner-hour, so that either dinner must be late—an unheard-of thing in that house—or she had not heard the dressing-bell, and this must be the dinner-gong.
'But where is Naomi, and why was my dress not put out for me?' Sarah asked herself, and in answer to her unspoken question Naomi appeared.
'Oh Miss Sarah, I'm so sorry; I've fair forgot everything to-day, with all the upset! Oh miss, do let me dress you quick!' she cried, in great distress.
'It's the dinner-gong, then?' inquired Sarah.
'Yes, miss; there hasn't been any other. Sykes he forgot to ring the dressing-bell; the first time in his life, he says, that he ever did such a thing. The only one that's gone on the same as usual is the Frenchchef, and, of course, he doesn't care a bit about us English folk. All he said when he heard about this was, "Vell, he got plenty money build more barns; but if his dinner isn't to the minute he'll swear, and so there it is, ready to dish." So pray make haste, Miss Sarah, for master's sure to be upset easy to-night,' Naomi wound up.
'Naomi, was Jane Mary in this?' inquired Sarah abruptly.
It will be noticed that they both alluded to the incendiarism as 'this.'
Naomi replied, 'I couldn't say, Miss Sarah. I couldn't say anything for certain about it, on any account.'
'You mean you won't; and that means that you don't trust me,' replied Sarah.
'No, indeed, miss; I'd trust you as soon as I would myself. But it's the real truth; I don't know anything, nor I won't know anything. And if I was you I'd do the same. It'll be the safest way and the best in this business,' Naomi told her earnestly.
Sarah sighed. 'It's going to be a bad business for those that do know anything about it,' she said.
'It would have been worse if some of them had had their way,' observed Naomi.
'Then you do know something about it?' exclaimed Sarah.
'I know what they're all talking about, but what's true and what's false I couldn't tell you.'
'Is my mother dressed for dinner?' inquired Sarah suddenly, abandoning the attempt to pump Naomi.
'No, Miss Sarah; the mistress has been lying down ever since she came in, with Miss Horatia.'
'Lying down with Horatia?' ejaculated Sarah.
'I mean lying down, with Miss Horatia sitting beside her holding her hand like a daughter,' Naomi corrected herself.
Sarah coloured violently, and Naomi wondered what made her do so. Poor Sarah was being made to feel all round what a poor sort of daughter shewas, and she felt irritably that it was only since Horatia came that this fact had been obvious. But Sarah was wrong. Her attitude towards her parents had always been noticeable, and her brother and mother had constantly upbraided her with it; but it was Horatia's coming which had brought this home to her, and she did not like it.
'That will do, Naomi,' she said, giving an impatient tug to the sash that the maid was tying, and she ran lightly down the corridors and the wide marble staircase to the dining-room.
Mr and Mrs Clay and Horatia were all there, and dinner was begun; and Sarah noticed, to her annoyance, that all three were dressed in the clothes they had worn for the picnic. 'Oh, you haven't changed! I have; that's why I am late.'
'We were all too upset to think of dress; we're not like you, above caring about these things,' said her father bitterly.
'Sarah thought you wouldn't like to see 'er in 'er dusty clothes, Mark; an' I would 'ave changed too, only I was so tired I thought you'd excuse me; an' Miss 'Oratia 'ere was too kind to leave me alone, my nerves bein' upset,' put in Mrs Clay in order to shield her daughter, and really making things worse by contrasting Sarah's conduct with Horatia's.
'Yes, she's a good, kind lass, is Miss Horatia,' said Mr Clay, giving her a friendly look, as he pressed some favourite dish of his on her.
Sarah had dreaded dinner, being of the same opinion as Naomi that her father would be upset. Indeed, he had looked very much upset and ready for an explosion when she left him in his study; but it was'Horatia again,' she said to herself, and she thought angrily that Horatia cared nothing about those poor people who had got themselves into trouble.
She was angrier still when Horatia replied, 'I'm not at all good or kind at this minute, for I should like to put all those people I saw in the park into prison.'
'You'll have your wish before long, little lass, for that's where they'll all be,' said Mr Clay.
'Oh, but I shall be very sorry if they really do go to prison. I only wished it from revenge, and, of course, that's a very wrong motive,' cried Horatia. She looked across at Sarah to help her; but Sarah would not look at her friend or join in the conversation at all.
'I don't know whether it's a wrong motive or not, but I do know that it's necessary to punish those wretches for destroying my property; and punished they will be,' Mr Clay replied.
'There wasn't many o' 'em really doin' that, Mark,' said Mrs Clay timidly.
'They were doing as bad, standing by watching the destruction; and I'll have every man of them clapped into prison,' said the millionaire.
Mrs Clay said no more, and Horatia began to chatter about other things, amusing both Mr and Mrs Clay by her shrewd remarks.
Sarah sat sullenly by, and when dinner was over she went straight up to her room instead of joining the others in the drawing-room. 'They prefer Horatia to me, so let them have her. I'm sure she's welcome to do daughter,' Sarah said to herself. Perhaps finding her place usurped awakened Sarah to the knowledge that she had a place to fill in her home, and that she was not filling it.
The next day Mr Clay went down to his mills as usual, and no word had been said about the events of the day before; but Sarah was not deceived. Her father, she was sure, was planning his revenge, and sooner or later he would, as he had said, clap his enemies into prison.
Naomi could give her no information on the subject, and Mr Howroyd refused point-blank to discuss the matter. 'You'll hear all there is to hear in time; but it may come before me to be heard, and I can't discuss it with you or any one else.'
The next morning came a very polite letter from Lady Cunningham to Mrs Clay, thanking her for all her kindness to Horatia, and begging that she might return in time to pay a visit to some relatives, who desired that she might accompany her parents, as she was a great favourite.
'I don't wonder at that, my dearie; you'd be welcome anywhere, with your bonny bright face,' said Mrs Clay.
'I sha'n't let you go unless you promise to come again soon,' said Mr Clay, with a heavy attempt at humour.
'Oh, but I am coming! I've enjoyed myself immensely,' cried Horatia willingly.—'Good-bye, Sarah. I shall be so glad to see you back at school. We shall be friends again then as we used to be, sha'n't we?'
'I don't feel as if anything were going to be as it used to be,' said Sarah; but she kissed Horatia very affectionately when they parted.
'I believe it's your doing that mamma sent for us, Nanny,' said Horatia when the two were in the train.
'And if it was, I'm not a bit ashamed of it,' said Nancy stoutly, 'for I couldn't have stayed another night there, starting and trembling at every sound, and dreaming shocking dreams of being burnt alive in my bed.'
'It's awfully selfish of us to come away and let them be burnt alive in their beds, if you think it's at all likely,' remarked Horatia.
'Then I'll have to be selfish, for I don't consider it's any part of my duty to stop and be burnt with them, which it's their own fault in a way, for they do say that Mr Clay's made himself fairly hated by his ways.'
'I don't hate him,' observed Horatia.
'No, miss, so I saw; but however you put up with him and his common ways, let alone his hasty temper, I can't make out. Well, we've seen the last of them, thank goodness! so I'll say nothing against them,' remarked Mrs Nancy with satisfaction.
'I've promised to go and stay with them again soon,' observed Horatia.
'That's if her ladyship allows it,' replied Nancy, in a tone that implied that the mistress wouldn't allow it.
Horatia only laughed. 'It will be nice to see them all again,' she said. And this time she meant her own family.
Sarah was sitting in her own room, rather cross with herself for feeling lonely, and trying not to acknowledge, even to herself, that she missed Horatia, or to own that her schoolfellow made things go more smoothly, somehow. It was a stormy-looking morning, and Sarah was wondering what she should do with herself, when she felt a gentle hand placed on her shoulder, and, turning in surprise, saw her brother standing behind her, with his usual pleasant smile on his face.
'Good-morning!' he said, as he kissed her.
'Goodness me, George! Where on earth did you spring from?' she cried in surprise. 'I thought you were in Scotland.'
'So I was till yesterday; in fact, I've only just arrived,' he remarked.
'You've been travelling all night, and you look as fresh and clean as if you'd just dressed for breakfast! But that's just like you. I believe you'd be miserable if you had your hair untidy or your face dirty,' she observed.
'It certainly isn't a pleasant idea. Besides, there is no need for it in this case, seeing that they provide plenty of hot water in the through sleeping-car,' remarked George, seating himself on the window-seat opposite his sister.
'All the same, I should think it would be pleasanterto travel by day. And what brought you back a week before your time?' Sarah demanded.
'I thought I should like to have a last look at the old home,' he replied dryly. 'I have more affection for it than you have, you see.'
'How did you hear about it?' inquired Sarah.
'I saw something in the papers, and wired to Uncle Howroyd, and he said I had better come back. I meant to come in any case, though, as soon as I saw the papers,' explained George.
'What did the papers say? I haven't seen one, and no one will tell me anything. Uncle Howroyd is worst of all, because, he says, he's a magistrate; but I suppose it's just because I am only a girl, since he will talk to you,' said Sarah.
'He only told me the real facts of the case, and said he thought my place was at home, if only to comfort my mother.' Here George paused a moment, and then continued, 'She seems to miss that little Miss Cunningham. She's been rather lonely these last two days.'
There was a tone of reproach in his voice, and Sarah answered quickly, 'I've been too miserable and worried to talk to any one.'
'I'm afraid the pater will be in a terrific rage about it,' replied George; and, having made his reproach, did not recur to it.
'Will be in a rage? What do you mean? He has been in a rage ever since it happened. He ought to be cooling down by now; but I don't suppose he'll do that till he's got them all in prison,' replied Sarah.
'Then you don't know?' inquired George.
'Know what? Have they been tried and let off?It's too bad of Uncle Howroyd not to tell me, and I wanted so to know,' cried Sarah.
'They can't get a case against them. No one will give evidence, not even the head-gardener; he says he didn't see how the fire began, and it might have been burning weeds that caused it,' said George.
Sarah laughed. 'I am glad!' she exclaimed in a tone of delight.
'I'm not. It's a very disgraceful thing that a man's property should be destroyed and no one punished,' said George, with unwonted sternness.
'But father said he'd prosecute them all for trespassing,' observed Sarah.
'You'll be glad to hear that he has been told that no magistrate would convict; it's something about a right of way,' said George.
'George, I am sorry they did it; but I do think he has provoked them, and he is hard to his workpeople,' said Sarah.
'I know; but this isn't the way to make him better. In fact, I am afraid they've enraged him so that goodness only knows what will be the end of it,' said George gloomily.
'I suppose you'd mind dreadfully if we did lose all our money?' suggested she.
'Of course I should; and so would you, whatever nonsense you may talk to the contrary!' cried George testily. 'And it's to do what I can to smooth matters down and prevent any such catastrophe that I have hurried home. Not that I can do much good,' he wound up.
'Oh George, it would be jolly to live in a little cottage, and do as one liked, and dress as one liked,and not have to sit for hours over long, stupid meals, and have to walk half a mile from your bedroom to the dining-room!' cried Sarah.
'You'd be a nice one in a cottage! You'd want the whole of it to yourself to begin with; and as for doing what you like, you would not be able to do that if you were poor any more than, or nearly as much as, if you were rich. You'd have to keep the house clean, and do the cooking, and be a drudge. How would you like that, pray?' he inquired.
'Lovely!' said Sarah with enthusiasm.
George looked at her curiously, with a half-amused expression. 'I only hope you mayn't be put to the proof, but it wouldn't surprise me. However, I mustn't stop here talking; I want to see the governor. I suppose he's gone to the mills?'
'Yes; but I don't advise you to go there after him. You know he's always in a worse humour in the morning than he is in the afternoon when he's had some lunch. Wait and see him then. We might go down to the rink father had made on purpose for Horatia. I think he'd have got her the moon if she had asked for it,' observed Sarah.
George laughed. 'She was very nice to mother. By the way, if you really want to skate, I'll go and tell her; she'd like to come down and watch us, and the walk would do her good.'
'All right,' agreed Sarah, as her brother went off to fetch his mother.
'It was so kind o' your father to 'ave this floor laid. 'E's good enough to people if they only take 'im the right way, only 'e mustn't be crossed; 'e never 'as been. Oh deary me! w'at 'e'll do now thatthey've crossed 'im in this business, I don't know. 'E says 'e'll best 'em yet, for 'e's never been bested by any man, an' doesn't mean to be,' said Mrs Clay as she walked along, clinging to her son's arm.
'I dare say he'll calm down in a day or two. It is very irritating. He can't "best" the law, as he calls it,' said George in a soothing tone.
'Well, there's no fear o' 'is goin' against the law, for 'e doesn't 'old wi' that,' said Mrs Clay.
'Then we may console ourselves that his "besting" will be legal, in which case no harm will come of it,' said George with a smile, as, having put his skates on, he gave his hand to his sister and took her for a round.
Mrs Clay sat on the raised stand, and watched the two as they skated round and round, doing all sorts of figures, and performing rinking feats for her special benefit, as she was well aware.
'Beautiful, my dears—beautiful! But, oh, do be careful! Suppose you were to fall an' break your pretty noses or legs, or anythin'!' she ejaculated at intervals.
The two skaters laughed heartily at this last remark. 'I believe you would care more about our noses than our legs, mother,' said Sarah, 'though they aren't half so important.'
'There's nothin' so important to a woman as good looks—except bein' good,' said Mrs Clay seriously when they stopped to rest for a few minutes beside her.
After a couple of hours they went back to lunch, and found their father had just come back from the mills. He greeted George in a friendly enough manner.
'I got your telegram, my lad, thank you; and it's nice of you to hurry home to stand by your dad in his fight. For I suppose that's what you've come for, isn't it?'
'Yes, father, certainly, as I told you in my telegram. I only wish I had been there; they wouldn't have got off scot-free, the scoundrels!' replied George.
'That's the right spirit, my lad. I wish you had been there; but I've got the best of them. They didn't know Mark Clay when they tried that game on with him; but they'll know him better now,' said the mill-owner.
'What have you done, sir?' inquired George, in his calm way, which gave no sign of his secret anxiety on the subject.
Mark Clay gave a chuckle, which made Sarah feel very uneasy; but only said, 'You'll see, my boy—you'll see. Just wait till the end of the week. It'll be public property then, and folks will see whether Mark Clay's an easy man to beat.'
George avoided looking either at his mother or Sarah; for, truth to tell, he felt very uncomfortable. This cheerfulness on the part of his father boded no good. But he asked no more questions, and talked about the sport he had had in Scotland.
'George,' said Sarah after lunch, 'what's he up to?'
'I don't know,' replied her brother, too depressed to comment upon her mode of expression.
'Well, I believe I know. He's going to turn them all off. You see if he isn't. That's what he means by saying, "Wait till the end of the week." Oh dear! oh dear! What a business there'll be! There were at least a hundred in the park that day.'
'It's their own fault. But that would be cutting off his nose to spite his ears, wouldn't it? It would inconvenience him dreadfully to dismiss so many men at once,' objected George.
George, it will be observed, knew even less of his father's business than Sarah, whose visits to her uncle Howroyd's mill and her acquaintance with the Mickleroyd family gave her some knowledge of the working of the mills; so she answered now, 'Oh, he won't care. He'll shut a workroom up and make the others work harder. You may trust him for not inconveniencing himself; it's the people who will be thrown out of employment that I am sorry for.'
George did not argue the matter with her, but walked off to see his uncle, who had nothing consoling to say to him, except that he would stand by them whatever happened.
'And what do you suppose he expects to happen?' George asked his sister, rather irritably, when he returned.
'Goodness knows! All I know is that I shall be glad when this week is over,' she replied.
But Sarah was wrong, for when the time came there was no gladness at Balmoral.
'You were right, Sarah,' said George, coming in and throwing himself down on a cane armchair in the garden, near where his sister was sitting reading.
'I generally am,' said Sarah lightly. She and her brother were great friends in spite of their abuse of each other.
'It's no joke,' he replied seriously; and Sarah, looking to see what was the matter, was struck byher brother's grave looks. He was coming out in quite a new aspect.
'What's no joke? Oh, do you mean that I was right about father's revenge?' she inquired.
'I don't know about its being a revenge; but he's turned out that crowd that looked on at the fire, and the hands have revenged themselves by striking, and Clay's Mills are "playing."'
It should be explained that 'playing' in the north country means not working, and a very serious thing it is, especially in a large mill.
Sarah dropped her book, and sat there, open-mouthed, looking at her brother. 'Clay's Mills "playing"! Our hands have gone out on strike?' she gasped.
Her brother nodded silently. 'Of course they'll have to give in; the governor can hold out longer than they can; but it means a terrible loss,' he said at length.
They were sitting there staring blankly at each other when they heard their father's voice. Both started as if they had been caught doing something wrong, and instinctively looked round to see if there was any possibility of escaping without being seen; but they saw that this was impossible, for Mr. Clay was making for them.
'Oh George! he'll be in a towering rage. You talk to him. I'm sure to say something to irritate him,' said Sarah in a hurried undertone.
'He doesn't look much upset,' observed George; and just at that minute the millionaire came within hearing, and called out a cheery 'Good-morning' to them.
'Well, my lad, I've got rid of a lot of bad material to-day,' he remarked jocosely.
'You mean the hands, father?' said George, as he rose and politely placed a chair for his father.
'Yes, I mean the hands,' said Mr Clay, mimicking, with little success it must be owned, his son's soft, drawling tones and refined accents.
'I'm sorry you found them all bad material,' George replied, without noticing this.
'I didn't say I did; but part of it was bad, and as the good wouldn't stay without the bad, out they both had to go, and bitterly they'll rue the day they did it,' declared Mr Clay.
'I hope you won't,' burst out Sarah.
Her father looked as if he were going to get into one of his violent rages, but refrained, as he had done lately; and again Sarah could not help noticing the change that had taken place since Horatia's coming, though Horatia had not been able to prevent him from doing this latest act. 'I hope not; Clay's Mills sha'n't "play" for them,' he said quietly; but there was a satisfied look on his face that Sarah could not understand.
It was Saturday, and all that day and all Sunday the millionaire went about looking aggressively cheerful. 'He only does it just to annoy us,' said Sarah.
'It doesn't annoy me. I'm only too glad to see one cheerful face in the midst of so many gloomy ones, though I should like to know what it means,' said George.
'So should I, for Naomi says father has a big contract on, and will lose thousands every day he stands idle,' said Sarah.
George looked very serious. 'What can he bethinking of? He must be going cracky,' he opined.
'Oh no, he isn't,' said Sarah a few minutes later; 'he's done them, somehow. Look!'
George looked out of the window. 'The mills are working!' he exclaimed. 'How has he done it?'
The young Clays stood and stared at each other in blank amazement. Then they looked out again at the cluster of tall chimneys which belonged to Clay's Mills, and which were belching forth great volumes of smoke as if in contemptuous defiance of those who had dared to try to stop their mighty engine.
'It is our mills!' repeated Sarah, as if she had almost disbelieved her eyes.
'Yes, there's no mistake about it; they are our mills; and yet I could have vowed I saw some of the hands pass by the park-gate this morning when I went to speak to the park-keeper. They were going away from Ousebank in search of work, I supposed.'
'I expect you are mistaken. How could the mills work without the hands? Unless they climbed down, and I'm sure they won't do that. Besides, you don't know their faces, do you?' asked Sarah.
'I guessed who they were by the way they glared at me; it made me pretty uncomfortable,' said George.
Sarah looked at her brother, who was smoking a gold-tipped cigarette. 'You don't look very uncomfortable,' she observed.
'Oh George! Oh Sarah! Do you see that the mills are workin' again?' cried Mrs Clay, her lips trembling, as she came into the room where her children were.
George put his arm round his mother. Even Sarah was moved to be demonstrative, and, taking her mother's hand, fondled it.
'What is it, mother? Why does that frighten you so? It is a very good thing, though I don't know how it has come about,' said George gently.
Mrs Clay only shook her head. She made no reply, but stood gazing out over Ousebank, her eyes fixed on the cluster of chimneys that belonged to their mills. They had finished the firing probably, for the chimneys were not smoking so violently now, but some smoke was still coming out.
Sarah seemed very thoughtful, and soon left the room to go in search of Naomi. 'Have the hands gone back, Naomi?' she asked abruptly.
'You've seen it, then? Our lads haven't, I know. I can't make it out at all. I'd give something to know what's happened; but now that none of the townspeople are allowed farther than the park-gates we hear no news at all,' replied Naomi.
'Naomi, I must know how they've managed it. I shall come down the town with you,' cried Sarah.
'Very well, miss. I'll be ready in two minutes,' said Naomi, and went off.
On her way she met Mrs Clay, who looked relieved at meeting her, and remarked, 'Oh Naomi, just tell Miss Sarah that Mr Howroyd 'as 'phoned to say that none of us are to go into the town to-day.'
'None of us, ma'am? Do you mean not even me?' inquired Naomi, looking blank.
'Oh, you! No, you won't matter; they won't 'urt you,' said Mrs Clay, quite severely for her.
Naomi returned slowly to Sarah's room. 'Mistresssays no one is to go into the town to-day, by Mr Howroyd's orders, except me; so, please, miss, may I run down and find out what it all means?'
As may be imagined, Sarah did not understand this message at all; but when Naomi had explained as well as she could, her young mistress said with decision, 'I'm coming with you, Naomi. Something dreadful is the matter. I expect they are burning up all the fuel, or doing some damage to the mill.'
'Please, Miss Sarah, don't be angry, but I daren't take you. It's as much as my place is worth, and you might get roughly handled if the lads are angry with the master,' said Naomi.
'You need not take me, but you can't prevent me from going with you. In fact, if you like you can start first. I will go alone,' persisted Sarah.
Naomi would have liked to argue with Sarah; but she knew it would be a waste of time, so she went off, and instead of making herself smart, she caught up a shawl, threw it over her head, and ran down the back-stairs and out at the back-door as quick as she could.
'No, you don't!' cried a voice behind her, and a strong hand grasped her shoulder none too gently.
With a little cry Naomi turned, to see herself confronted by Sykes, who exclaimed, 'Whatever are you up to, Naomi? I thought you were a mill-lass, and we don't want none of them up here.'
'So I am for the moment. Let me pass, Mr Sykes. Miss Sarah wants to know what's on in Ousebank.'
'No good, I'll warrant; and don't get mixing up with it,' was the butler's parting remark as he released her.
Naomi sped across the park; but what was her surprise to see ahead of her, running as fast as she could, another mill-lass! Naomi made after her quickly, meaning, if she were a friend, to ask what was doing in Ousebank, and, if not, to demand her business at Balmoral. 'Wait a bit, lass,' she called out when she got near enough to be heard; but the girl only ran on faster. She was tall and slender, and not unlike Jane Mary, Naomi's sister; and the thought struck Naomi that if it was her sister, she was after no good. 'Jane Mary,' she shouted, 'if you don't stop I'll heave this stone at you!'
The figure in front stopped at this threat, and turned.
'Miss Sarah! I beg your pardon, miss; I didn't know you,' cried Naomi in surprise.
'Now that you do know me, and see that I mean to go to Ousebank, perhaps you'll drop that stone—it might have killed me if it had fallen on my head—and let me walk beside you instead of in front.'
Noami looked rather guiltily at the stone in her hand, and dropped it, saying apologetically, 'I thought it might be some one up to no good. But do you suppose they won't know you, miss?'
'You didn't,' observed Sarah with a laugh.
'Not your back; but all Ousebank knows your face, and they'll maybe turn nasty to you,' Naomi warned her.
'They'll be too busy to stare at a mill-lass, and I shall keep as well behind you as I can.'
Naomi looked doubtfully at her mistress. 'Perhaps if you were to tie this handkerchief round your face,as if you'd got toothache, you'd pass better,' she suggested, handing Sarah a large white pocket-handkerchief with a coloured border.
Sarah took it and wrapped it round her face, saying as she did so, 'It will make me very hot. But I'll tell you what, we'll go straight to your house, Naomi; they will know all about it there, and we sha'n't mix in the crowd.' Sarah's courage, as may be seen, was oozing away with all Naomi's warnings.
But Naomi proved a Job's comforter. 'I doubt we'd better not go home, Miss Sarah. There's Jane Mary fair off her head, she's that mad with the master, and she's turned against all of you. She'd think you were a spy or something, and be nasty as like as not.'
Sarah said no more, and as they had come to the town now they had enough to do to pick their way through the crowded streets. 'The mills can't be working, Naomi. Here are some of the chief hands,' she said in an undertone.
'I never thought they were. It's some mischief they're doing. Hark! did you hear what yon man said?' inquired Naomi in the same tone.
'No; at least, I could not understand, he spoke such broad Yorkshire. I thought he said something about "furriners,"' replied Sarah.
'That's what he did say. Oh miss, come into the ginnel [alley] till these men pass,' cried Naomi, pulling Sarah into the said 'ginnel,' just in time to avoid a party of young men, who were evidently very excited, and were anathematising Mark Clay. 'Miss, you'd best go to Howroyd's. There's a fine to-do to-day,' entreated Naomi.
'Perhaps I'd better,' agreed Sarah, who was notvery happy in her mill-lass's get-up. At no time did Sarah like meeting the 'hands;' but in this disguise she disliked it still more. It was only a mad impulse which made her don the disguise, and she rather regretted it now that she saw the state of the town. So she willingly turned towards Howroyd's Mill.
'The master's at the telephone. He's been there most of the morning, and it's no use your coming to-day; you'd best leave your message,' said the maid, who did not recognise Sarah. Indeed, she had only opened the door a few inches, taking them to be poor girls come to ask help from the ever-ready philanthropist, William Howroyd.
'Let me in, Mary,' said Sarah, coming forward and untying her disguising handkerchief.
The maid gave a little shriek, and grasping Sarah by the hand, drew her inside. 'Miss Sarah, my dear! however could you? And the town all against your father! Come forward! Pray, come forward!'
Sarah very willingly went 'forward,' as they say in Yorkshire, and gave a sigh of relief as she threw off the shawl which covered her head, and sank into a chair. 'What is the matter, Mary? What has my father done now?' she demanded.
'You don't know? Oh deary me!' cried the maid, with lifted hands and much shaking of the head.
'No; tell me quick,' said Sarah abruptly.
Mary looked fearfully round, as if the information was dangerous to give. 'He's got in a lot of furriners—blacklegs—to run the mills,' she said in a hoarse whisper.
Sarah looked at her in horror, mingled with incredulity. 'Foreigners! How could he? And howcould they do the work? Besides, where did he get them from, and when did they come? It's impossible!' she cried.
'It's true for all that,' said Mary, nodding her head.
'I must see Uncle Howroyd,' said Sarah. 'Go and tell him I'm here, Mary.'
'I told you not to leave the house,' was her uncle's remark when he came in, looking graver and sadder than Sarah had ever seen him.
'Yes, I know; but I simply had to come, and no one recognised me. See, I was a mill-lass,' said Sarah, throwing her shawl over her head to show her uncle.
She looked so pretty and coaxing—for Sarah could be charming to those she loved—that her uncle smiled, and said with a sigh, 'Well, you're safe enough now you're here, and I've half a mind to send for your mother and George. Anyway, I must telephone to tell them you are here.'
'Oh no, Uncle Howroyd; I must go back for lunch,' cried Sarah, not adding what was in her mind—that her father would be angry if she were not home for lunch.
'You'll have to stay now you've come, child. There'll be no going home for you to-day, so you'll have to do with a plain dinner to-night; and Naomi had better go back and fetch what you want, unless I go and fetch them and your mother myself,' replied Mr Howroyd.
'Do you mean that you think mother isn't safe at Balmoral?' cried Sarah, starting up.
'I hope so. Do you suppose I should be here and not with her if she weren't?' demanded Mr Howroyd. 'No; it's only that I doubt if your father will be ableto get home to-day, and I thought she'd feel safer with me.'
'She has George,' said Sarah quickly, for she sometimes resented other people speaking slightingly of her brother, however much she might do so herself.
'Ah yes, she has George. Well, I'll just 'phone to her;' and he went off, only to return in a few minutes to say, 'You are right; she prefers George, and George prefers Balmoral. He says I am to tell you to stop where you are, if it's any use telling you to do anything.'
'I sha'n't obey George; but as it's Hobson's choice, I will stay with you, Uncle Howroyd; but, please, tell me, how did father manage to get foreigners to do his work?'
'That's more than any one but himself knows; but he smuggled them into the mills yesterday, and they slept there all night, it seems; but who they are, or where they came from, or how they are getting on, no one knows,' replied Mr Howroyd.
'They can't stop in there always, and the people will kill them when they come out,' said Sarah.
'Your father will protect them, and so shall I, if it comes to that; but it's a bad business, a very bad business; and what will be the end of it, who can tell?'
'I know they'll burn down the mills—that's what always happens—and we shall be ruined,' said Sarah.
'That won't ruin you, because they are insured, and let us hope it won't come to that. Besides, the mills are so well guarded that they can't get near them,' said Mr Howroyd in a tone which showed that he had thought of this danger himself.
Mr Howroyd was now called away, and Sarah was left to her own thoughts, which were not pleasant ones. Somehow, when it came to the point, the thought of her father being burnt in his mill or ruined by his workpeople's spite was not so lovely, and she was relieved when Naomi reappeared with a bundle in her arms.
'I didn't dare to bring a portmanteau, miss, or even your dressing-bag. I was afraid with all these folk about ready for any mischief, so I've just brought a few necessities, as the mistress says; and she sends her love, and says she's glad you are safe with your uncle, though she wishes you'd stayed with her.'
'I wish I had, Naomi. Tell her I would never have come if I had known I should not be able to get back, and that if she will tell Uncle Howroyd I may, I'll come home at once,' said Sarah.
Trouble was doing Sarah good, and her affectionate message did her mother good; though she hurried off to the telephone to tell Mr Howroyd that she forbade Sarah to attempt to come home, and to inform him that Mr Clay was stopping at the mill too.
And so the weary, dreary day wore on, and the excitement in the streets grew. After nightfall the older men held indignation meetings in public, where they had huge audiences of sympathisers, the entire population being on their side, as a matter of fact.
'Foreigners in Ousebank! We've never had such a thing before, and we don't want it now,' they all agreed. As for the younger men, they held meetings too; but their meetings were held within closed doors, and what was said at them was not divulged.
'They're brewing mischief they young uns, sir,'said Luke Mickleroyd to Mr Howroyd when he came in for a few minutes before he took his watch for the night.
'I'm afraid they are. We must only pray and trust that they may not carry it out,' replied Mr Howroyd.
'Ay, sir, that's all we can do. I shall keep a sharper lookout to-night than I've ever done, and, please God, they'll be kept from doing harm to others and bringing sorrow on themselves,' said the good and pious old watchman.
All that night Sarah lay and tossed and turned, or fell into fitful slumbers, in which she had hideous dreams of the mills being burnt down, and her father with them. After a very vivid one, in which she saw the mill-owner standing, a tall, burly figure, on the top of one of the chimneys, with flames all round him which in a minute must devour him, she woke with a muffled cry, to find Naomi standing beside her with a frightened face.
'What has happened, Naomi? Tell me the worst at once,' cried Sarah.
'There's nought to tell, good or bad, so far as I know. But are you ill, Miss Sarah?' inquired the maid.
'No; I'm quite well. But the mills, and my father—are you sure that—that he's alive and well?' asked Sarah.
'So far as I know he is, and so are the mills; but no one has seen the master since yesterday, for he never came home last night. He sent to say he should stop in the mills all night,' said Naomi.
'Naomi, I must get up. Quick, get me some hot water,' cried Sarah, jumping up as she spoke.
'It's only six o'clock, miss. I shouldn't have come in and wakened you, only I thought I heard you call. You'd best go to sleep again; you're upset with all these doings, and no wonder.'
'I can't sleep, and I want to go to the mills,' declared Sarah.
But Naomi exclaimed in alarm, 'Impossible, miss! Don't you think of doing such a thing! Mr Howroyd won't hear of it, I know. Besides'—here Naomi paused, and added in a rather embarrassed manner, 'you can't, Miss Sarah.'
'I can't go to the mills—our own mills, Naomi? What do you mean? You are hiding something from me. Are they burnt down or damaged in any way?' asked Sarah anxiously.
'Not so far as I know, miss; but you can't go into them for all that. No one can,' repeated Naomi.
'Naomi, have you seen the mills to-day? Are the chimneys all standing just as usual?' demanded Sarah.
'Why, yes, to be sure they are, and smoking; and big fires they are making, too, for I saw red sparks coming out of one. Why, what's the matter, Miss Sarah? You must be getting downright nervous,' observed Naomi, for Sarah had started and given a little shiver at this last remark.
'It's nothing, only I had a horrid dream about one of the chimneys; but if you say you saw them standing, with nothing unusual about them, it's all right.' And Sarah gave a half-nervous laugh as she thought of the 'unusual' appearance they had in her dream. 'All the same, I'm going to get up; it's no use lying in bed when you can't sleep,' she continued.
While she was dressing, Sarah's thoughts recurred to the conversation she had just had with Naomi, and she suddenly remembered that the girl had neverexplained her mysterious statement that no one could go into Clay's Mills. So she rang her bell, and telling Naomi to do her hair, sat down on a chair while this process went on, and came to the point at once. 'I suppose father has barricaded himself and the men into the mills; but I could have got through all right,' she observed.
'The master has barricaded himself in; but the pickets set by the hands to guard the mills have barricaded every one else out, and they wouldn't let you pass if it was ever so, not for life or death, for it's been tried,' replied Naomi.
'How do you mean for life or death?' asked Sarah, bewildered at this extraordinary statement.
'What I say. One of those foreigners was taken ill and wanted a doctor, and no doctor would they let through, not even Mr Howroyd; and if any one could get round Ousebank folk it would be Mr William, for he's fair worshipped by them all for his goodness.'
'What's going to be the end of it all?' cried Sarah.
'I couldn't say, Miss Sarah. I don't know what's going on, nor I don't want to. It's safest not, and so mother thinks, for she won't have a word about it in our house; and Jane Mary has to hold her tongue there, though they do say she talks like a man at the young fellows' meetings, and is as bad or worse than they, egging them on. Not that I know anything about it,' Naomi hastened to add.
'There are none so ignorant as those that won't know, eh, Naomi?' said Sarah slyly.
'Perhaps not, miss,' agreed Naomi, as she shut herlips tightly, and was not to be induced to say any more.
Meanwhile the night at Balmoral had not been much more restful. In the morning George said to his mother in a decided tone which she had not heard him ever use, 'I am going into Ousebank, mother. I shall go and see Uncle Howroyd, and if he approves I shall try and see my father.'
'Oh my dear, my dear, don't you do it! I couldn't stay here alone—I couldn't really!' she cried, wringing her hands.
'Then come with me. We'll motor down, and at best they can only stop the car and make us turn back; but I don't think they will. Come, mother, that's not a bad idea; it will make a change, and bring you nearer to the governor, and you will see Sarah and give her a scolding for her disobedience.'
'I don't feel like scolding any one. I shall only be too thankful to have her safe by me; though who knows whether any of us are safe anywhere?' said poor little Mrs Clay, whom the events of the past week had frightened out of her wits.
'I think you exaggerate the danger. They may try to fire the house—in fact, I rather expect they will, only I fancy the police are guarding us too well for them to succeed; but as for touching us or attempting our lives, I don't for a moment believe they would do any such thing—not Ousebank men,' said George, composed as ever.
'Oh, but it isn't only Ousebank men; there are some agitators come down,' cried his mother.
'They'll not put their heads in a noose, catch them, however much they may incite other fellowsto. Don't you worry, mother; trust to me. I'll take you safe to Uncle Howroyd's,' said George.
Mrs Clay meekly did as she was bid. At bottom she was rather pleased to be going near her husband and insubordinate daughter, and by the time she got into the motor her fears were calmed.
Sarah was looking out of the mill-house window when she saw the car drive up to the big gates of the little front-garden. 'Mother, oh, I am glad to see you!' she cried, as she kissed her mother affectionately.
Mrs Clay's pale cheeks grew pink with pleasure at the affectionate greeting, and she clasped her tall daughter in her arms. 'My dearie, I am glad to have you again!' she exclaimed.
'You ought to scold her well, Polly, instead of petting her; but it is always the way with the prodigal—he has the fatted calf,' said Mr Howroyd.
'George says he's going to see his father,' said Mrs Clay.
'If the pickets will let him,' observed his uncle.
'Exactly so,' said George.
'You can't possibly,' cried Sarah; 'they won't even let Uncle Howroyd through, so they certainly won't let you.'
'There's no harm in trying, anyway. I half-thought they might be unpleasant when we passed through the town; but they only scowled a bit,' observed George, as, having made his mother comfortable in an easy-chair, he kissed her and took up his hat to go.
'You are really going, dear?' said his mother.
Sarah expected her to protest with tears; but shedid nothing of the kind. 'I believe,' mused Sarah, 'that she cares more for father's safety than she does for George's!' And this idea was so surprising to her that she, too, let her brother go without a protest. Not that arguments would have been any good, as his sister knew.
'That boy has more grit in him than I suspected,' said George's uncle, as he watched his nephew walk with his deliberate gait out at the gate towards the notorious mills.
'I'd have given something to go with him to see what will happen when they turn him back. George is awfully obstinate, uncle; I dare say he'll stand there and argue with them till they let him through because they're sick of him and his polite requests to be allowed to go into his own father's mills,' observed Sarah.
Mr Howroyd laughed, though it was not his usual cheery laugh. 'He'll be a cleverer fellow than I take him for if he gets past that picket, will George.'
However, half-an-hour later the telephone rang. 'It's from Clay's Mills,' Mr Howroyd informed them, 'and they're calling for you, Polly.'
'Oh dear, 'ave they 'urt 'im?' Mrs Clay cried, and flew to the telephone. 'It's George,' she announced in accents of surprise; 'an' 'e says father is quite well, an' very glad to see 'im, an' 'e shall stay a bit.'
'How did he get in? Ask him that, mother,' demanded Sarah, who was naturally curious on the point.