''E says 'e walked in,' repeated her mother.
Sarah went to the receiver herself. 'Nonsense; he couldn't.—How did you get past the pickets, George?'
'Walked past, I tell you. They argued a little, but I told them I was on their business as well as my own, and they let me walk in. They're awfully good fellows, really, and you all exaggerate their ferocity.'
Suddenly Naomi came running into the room. Howroyd's house was not so ceremoniously ordered as Balmoral; but still Sarah was a little surprised at Naomi, till she said, 'There's a balloon-ship up above Ousebank, and you never saw such a funny thing in your life. Come and see it, Miss Sarah.'
'I suppose she means an air-ship,' said Sarah; but as she had nothing else to do, and time was hanging heavy on her hands, she followed Naomi into the garden. 'Yes, it is an air-ship,' she said. 'I wonder what it is doing up here.'
'It's going towards the hill—over Balmoral. We shall see where it goes if we go up to the roof, Miss Sarah,' said Naomi, who had never seen such a thing before, and was all agog with curiosity.
To please her, Sarah went up to the roof lookout.
As the two stood and watched the air-ship something dropped from it.As the two stood and watched the air-ship somethingdropped from it.S.S.F.Page 220
'Yes, it is over Balmoral, and they seem to be descending and doing manoeuvres over the house. I suppose they are going to look at it closer; but they won't be allowed in to-day, for Sykes is suspicious of a bird even. We really might be in Russia, to judge by the state of siege we are in,' she observed.
She had still more reason to make the comparison a little later, for as the two stood and watched and commented on the movements of the air-ship something dropped from it.
'What was that, Miss Sarah?' asked Naomi.
'Fire! They've outwitted us after all!' said Sarah,and she fled downstairs as hard as she could.—Uncle Howroyd, ring up the fire-brigade. They've set fire to Balmoral!' she panted.
'How do you know? Who told you so?' he inquired, evidently unbelieving, as well he might, for there was a posse of police guarding the house and grounds.
'We have seen it. They dropped fire out of an air-ship. Do send for the brigade!' cried Sarah, stamping her foot with rage at the delay.
For a moment her uncle stared at her in stupefaction; then he clapped his hand to his forehead. 'It's that agitator scoundrel that's put them up to it!' he cried; and he rang up the brigade, only to drop the receiver with a gesture of despair. 'They've had a call some miles off,' he cried.
'Uncle Howroyd, we must do something.'
'Yes,' he agreed. 'Wait a bit.'
Presently Sarah heard the mill-bell ring, and saw her uncle standing bareheaded at a window looking on his yard, in which the hands summoned from their work were gathered.
'My friends of many years, I have to ask a favour of you. My brother's house is burning, and the brigade is away. Who'll help to save a Yorkshireman's home, however much he has blundered, for a Yorkshire family?'
'We will, Mr William,' cried a hundred voices, and five minutes later there was not a man to be seen in the yard; but Sarah and Naomi, who had climbed to the lookout, saw them hurrying up the road to the hill on which Balmoral stood.
Flames were coming out of the top windows.
'They may save the lower part,' said Sarah.
'The marble staircase won't burn, will it?' asked Naomi.
Sarah laughed hysterically. 'No; but it won't be much use alone,' she remarked.
'It's going to be a big fire,' observed Naomi in an awe-struck voice.
'I'm glad my father is not there,' was Sarah's apparently irrelevant reply.
Naomi was surprised for the second time that day at Sarah's solicitude for her father. She did not know that her dream had something to do with it. Besides, Mr Mark Clay, boastful and blustering, was a different man from Mark Clay a prisoner in his own mills, with his beautiful house burning.
'Oh miss, the royal suite is on fire! See!' cried Naomi, as she saw the flames come out of that wing.
Sarah said nothing; but her lips tightened as she saw the wanton destruction of her home, and, now that she came to think of it, there were countless treasured possessions of her own there that she wanted to save.
'I wonder if I ought to tell mother?' she asked herself.
But she need not have troubled. Mrs Clay knew, and was talking about it in melancholy accents to Mary, her brother-in-law's maid. 'It's no more than I expected, Mary; an' the mills will go next,' she said.
'Let's hope not, ma'am; and now that Mr William's gone up something may be done to save it,' said Mary, who had great faith in her master.
But Mrs Clay had no faith in any human help; and when Sarah came down she found her motherdry-eyed and resigned. 'Yes, my dear, I know; it's the Lord's will. The Lord gave, an' the Lord taketh away. I began poor, an' I suppose it's 'is will I should end so. Per'aps I lay too great store by riches.'
'Never mind, mother, I'll work for you, and you shall never want, even if I have to scrub floors to support you,' said Sarah.
Mrs Clay shook her head; but the tears came now and relieved her. 'It's for you I care most, dearie. Your 'ands were never made to scrub floors or do any menial work,' she declared, as she stroked Sarah's soft, white hands.
'I don't believe anybody's hands were made to be idle, and I mean to use mine, you'll see,' she said.
'Per'aps it's not so bad as we think. We must 'ave patience,' said Mrs Clay. 'Go an' see 'ow it's goin', my dear.'
It is always the unexpected which happens. Here was Mrs Clay taking the destruction of her cherished possessions quite calmly, and only praying silently, as Sarah saw, that her husband and son might be saved. And here was Sarah getting angrier and angrier as she watched the fire spreading, apparently unchecked, and swallowing up not only the costly treasures for which she did not much care, but her own personal treasures, for which she cared more than she expected.
Naomi made matters worse by her lamentations. 'To think of all the beautiful carpets and curtains ruined; and, oh, Miss Sarah! all your dresses, and that picture in your boudoir that you are so fond of, some Italian view or something! Oh dear! oh dear! the more I think of it the worse it seems. It's wicked, is this morning's work!'
'It's a fine morning for a fire—the sun shining, and just a nice breeze blowing to fan the flames,' observed Sarah sarcastically.
But Naomi did not perceive the sarcasm; and after a wondering and rather reproachful glance at her young mistress, she remarked, 'It's what I call a bad morning; but, then, I suppose you're glad, because you want to be poor; though how you can stand there quiet-like, and see all your poor ma and pa's thingsburnt up, let alone everything you can call your own, passes me—it does.'
A smile flitted over Sarah's face as she thought how far out Naomi was in her judgment; but it passed speedily as she saw a huge tongue of flame dart up and blaze high above the trees.
'It's the garage! The petrol has taken fire!' said Naomi. 'Whatever could they have been thinking of to leave it there? Surely they've never left those beautiful cars to burn themselves up?'
'They don't seem to have done anything to stop the fire. If Uncle Howroyd hadn't been there himself, and if they had not been his hands, I should have said they had helped it, like the men the other day,' remarked Sarah.
'No fear of that. Mr William's men will stand by him and do what he says, for his sake. It's not been their fault that Barmoral's burnt to the ground, I'll lay,' declared Naomi with vehemence.
'No, I'm sure of that,' said Sarah, who felt a pang which surprised her at the words, 'Barmoral's burnt to the ground.' Not that they were quite true, for Balmoral was still burning furiously; but they soon would be.
Suddenly Naomi made a terrible suggestion. 'Miss Sarah, suppose anybody is in the house?' she cried.
Sarah turned on her quite angrily. 'Who should there be in the house? Of course there's no one in it. The fire began at the top, and it's not likely any one would stay up there to be burnt,' she cried, for this thought had never struck her; she had taken it for granted that the servants would have escaped at once. After the first fright she added more calmly,'Of course they are safe. Balmoral is only three stories high, and the top story is only attics and storerooms and servants' bedrooms, and they are not likely to be up there at this time of the day. But, pray, don't go suggesting horrors of that kind to mother, or you will make her quite ill.'
'I'm sorry if I upset you, and I know you've a feeling heart, though you don't care about the house burning, so I'll say no more and hope for the best,' said Naomi.
Sarah felt as if she could shake her for her determined pessimism. However, she said nothing, but stood and watched the flames in silence till they seemed to be dying down a little, and then she reluctantly turned from the absorbing sight, and went downstairs to give her mother the news.
'I think they've got the flames under, mother,' she said; but Mrs Clay took little notice. 'Mother, don't you hear? They've got the flames under at last.'
'Yes, my dear, I 'ear, an' I'm glad of it; but it's your father I'm thinkin' about. I do 'ope an' pray 'e's safe,' she replied.
'Why shouldn't he be? The mills are all right,' said Sarah.
'Yes; but I don't know if 'e's there. I keep ringin' 'im up, an' there's no answer, so 'e's not in the mills, for they always call 'im for the telephone.'
'The old hands would; but, you see, everything is different now. Let me try,' observed Sarah, taking up the receiver, and ringing, at intervals, for some minutes. 'They are all looking at the fire from the lookout,' she remarked at length, as she put the receiver down.
Mrs Clay shook her head. 'It isn't like your father to stand an' watch 'is property burn; 'e'll be up an' doin' somew'ere,' she declared.
'Would you like me to go and see if he is still there?' suggested Sarah. Not that she supposed for a minute that her mother would allow her to go, for she objected to her walking through Ousebank on ordinary occasions when the mill-hands were out, so she was still less likely to let her go to-day when the town was in a state of excitement never known before, and, to crown all, their mills in a state of siege and their family so unpopular.
But Sarah was mistaken. Her mother said gratefully, 'If you would just run to the mills, dear, I should be very glad. Even if they won't let you through, they'll tell you, or some one will tell you, if your father 'as come out.'
Sarah was just starting for her room to fetch her hat, when she remembered that she had no hat. She had come down with a shawl over her head like the mill-lasses, for whom she hoped to be mistaken; and Naomi had not thought of bringing one with the other necessaries which she had made into a bundle.
'And I don't suppose you've got a hat to your name now, Miss Sarah,' the maid observed gloomily when consulted on the subject.
Sarah gave her hair a brush, and remarked lightly, 'Well I must go bareheaded. Perhaps it will please those people to see the state of poverty they have reduced me to.' And off she started, regardless of Naomi's protests and offers to go and get a hat somewhere.
'Eh, but she's a proud lass, is yon!' said more thanone whom she passed, her head high and her eyes looking straight ahead of her, not seeing or noticing the groups through which she passed.
'Ay, she counts us the dust under her feet,' said another, and the group agreed; while one of the number observed, 'Perhaps she'll think differently when she sees her property laid in the dust;' and a younger man laughed, though the others said, 'Nay, 'tis nought to laugh at. Clays are no friends of mine; but I was always agin that. 'Tis a wicked deed they've done up at Balmoral, and tricks with air-ships isn't a Yorkshire way of fighting, though 'tis a dirty trick he've played us with his foreigners.'
But Sarah had not the satisfaction of hearing any of the remarks disapproving of the fire, and her heart swelled as she thought that all Ousebank was glad of their loss; for no one—not even an acquaintance, herself the wife of a mill-owner—stopped her to condole with her. Sarah had no idea that it was her own repellent bearing that prevented them, nor that this same lady went home and said to her family, with tears in her eyes, 'It made my heart ache to see her walking alone through all those crowds, with her head bare and face so grave. I'd have been glad to take her hands and say how sorry I was; but she wouldn't look at me, but passed me as if I was quite beneath her. I didn't dare to stop her.'
Nor, apparently, did the pickets dare—or care—to do so either, as Sarah came straight up to the chief gate and knocked at it.
A cautious face appeared at the other side of a little window, and a moment afterwards the little postern-gate was opened wide enough to let her slipin, and speedily shut to with a clang by two men who were posted there in case any one should attempt to enter with her.
'Thank you. Will you take me to my father?' she said to the men, whom she recognised as old hands.
'He's in the dye-house, miss. They 're making a beautiful new colour, and the master's rare and pleased about it,' replied the elder man.
'But the fire? Doesn't he mind about the fire?' inquired the girl.
The man looked at her, not understanding. The fire's all right, miss; they made it a bit too hot this morning, but it's all right now. We've got proper stokers and all,' he assured her, evidently thinking she was afraid the engine was not being properly attended to, and alluded to that.
It flashed across Sarah that they did not know of the fire at Balmoral. Then her father did not know, and she would have to tell him! She went very slowly towards the dye-house. This possibility had never struck her. Even though they could not see Balmoral from Clay's Mills, there was the telephone, and the pickets outside; but then Sarah remembered that for some reason or other the telephone had been abandoned, and naturally the pickets would not for obvious reasons choose to give the news.
She found her father and George in the dye-room as she had been told, the former jubilant over the new shade, and George standing by apparently as interested as his father.
'What! Sally? There's a brave girl to come and see the prisoners! But it's an ill wind that blows no one any good. Here's George showing himself quitea business man, with the makings of a fine wool-merchant in him, and I never knew it. So that's all the strike has done—got them two Clays to fight instead of one,' cried Mr Clay, and Sarah was struck by her father's pride in George.
She did not answer, but stood looking appealingly at her brother.
Mr Clay misunderstood her, and said, 'You don't like the idea of a merchant-brother; but you'll have to get used to it. I don't mean to let him go back to college. He knows a lot of useful stuff, and these are ticklish times.'
George understood his sister better, and, answering her look, said, 'What's the matter, Sarah? Is mother ill?'
Mr Clay looked anxiously at her. In his egotism he had not thought of his timid little wife, whom all this might well have made ill; but that he was not devoid of regard for her Sarah saw by his face.
'No, it's not mother; it's Balmoral.—Father, I thought you knew,' she stammered.
'Knew what? Speak out, girl. What's happened there. Nothing short of an earthquake could harm it; it's well enough protected.'
'It's burning, father,' Sarah blurted out.
The mill-owner looked at her unbelievingly, and laughed his boisterous laugh. 'Burning! Nonsense! They couldn't get near it to damage it. Why, there's fifty police up there guarding it, and a pretty penny it's costing me—a pretty penny all this.'
Sarah looked pitifully at her father. 'They dropped fire from an air-ship, father; but Uncle Howroyd and all his hands have gone up there to try to putit out,' she hastened to add, for her father's face terrified her.
He took no more notice of her; but turning to George, on whom he seemed all of a sudden to rely, he said,' What does the girl mean with her cock-and-bull story of an air-ship setting my house on fire? Why should an air-ship'——He paused. 'How could they get an air-ship?' he continued.
'Perhaps I'd better go to the lookout, father,' said George.—Come, Sarah;' and he took his sister by the hand and hastened along the dye-yard towards the spiral staircase to the lookout.
The mill-owner let them go without a word, not attempting to follow them, for it was an arduous climb to the lookout, and the mill-owner was a stout and heavy-built man, and had not been up there for years. He stood for a little as if puzzled, then went to the entrance-yard to the porter, and asked, 'Have you seen or heard aught of any fire at Balmoral?'
'No, sir; not except what Miss Clay said,' he replied.
Meanwhile Sarah was breathlessly hastening up the stairs, and telling George all that had happened.
'Why didn't you tell us before?' he demanded.
'Because we never imagined you didn't know. I thought every one in the town knew, and mother did try to telephone to you, but she couldn't make any one hear,' explained Sarah.
George groaned, but made no more reproaches, and soon they came out on the lookout.
The flames were still raging, though not so high. Evidently the petrol had burnt out; but not so the fire, alas!
'It will burn to the ground,' George remarked, as he stood there with glasses to his eyes. 'They are trying to save the west wing, but I doubt if they will.'
'Oh George, let me look! I never thought of using glasses! Why, you can see the people running about with buckets!' cried Sarah.
'It feels like a bit of myself gone; but you don't care, of course,' he remarked, as he reluctantly tore himself away to go down and tell his father.
'I do care. And, oh George, I'm awfully sorry for father! What will he do or say?' cried his sister.
'I don't know. But how did mother take it?' he asked.
'She said it was God's will. Somehow, I don't think it surprised her; she seemed to expect a disaster as soon as she knew about these foreigners being brought in, and I don't think she'll care if only father is safe,' said Sarah.
'Poor mother; she doesn't think of herself at all. Still, I know the place is heavily insured. Father is too cautious a man not to see to that, though he'll never get those pictures or their value back again, nor his plate. I must try to break it to him; but it isn't a thing one can break,' said George.
'Well, boy, what's this story? Any truth in it? More trees burnt?' asked Mr Clay.
'They've done worse this time, father; they have managed to set fire to the house. But Uncle Howroyd is working for all he's worth, and so are his men, so let us hope they'll save the valuables,' said George.
He spoke so calmly and collectedly that his father failed to grasp the extent of the calamity.
'I don't rightly understand. Is it the house that's on fire, and which part?' he demanded. Evidently he only imagined that it was some small outbreak which would soon be got under.
George hesitated. 'It's got a good hold of the house, sir—the fire, I mean; but we can build it up again.'
'Build it up again? Build up Balmoral again? You don't know what you're talking about. There's a million sunk in that house,' he cried angrily, and yet he did not believe them till he saw George's pitying look.
'It's not really bad, my lad?' he asked.
'Yes, father, it's pretty bad; but the house is insured.'
The millionaire gave a yell of rage. 'If they've done it, by heaven they shall pay for it!' And he made a dash for the front entrance.
After a moment of consternation, Sarah and her brother followed their father, and arrived at the front gate in time to see him dash out and down the street before the pickets on duty at the gate had seen what was happening, or had time to prevent his escape, if, indeed, they had wished to do so. Perhaps they felt that to prevent a man from going to rescue his property from destruction would be exceeding their duty, or perhaps they thought they had gone far enough, for they made no attempt to stop him, and looked after him with not unfriendly faces.
'He may run, but he'll not run so fast as the flames,' said one to the others.
'And you're a set of blackguards for what you've done, and I'd sooner be a blackleg any day than a blackguard,' shouted the watch inside the gate to the watch outside.
'I'd nought to do with it, Ben; I'm only obeying orders standing here, and there's no denying that the master's driven the lads to it. They've hot blood, and he's roused it,' replied the picket, who did not seem to resent the plain speaking of his former mate.
'No one is ever driven to setting other folk's homes on fire,' said the watchman bluntly.
'George, what do you think he's going to do?' demanded Sarah of her brother, who was standing, cigarette in mouth, listening with apparent indifferenceto the colloquy of the past and present hands.
'Gone to see what they are doing at Balmoral,' observed George.
'Hadn't you better go after him?' suggested his sister.
'I don't think so. Strikes me I'd better keep a lookout for possible air-ships dropping down upon us here. They'll get a warm reception if they do,' said George with significance.
'I wonder where they got the air-ships from. Naomi says it's the London agitators who have done it all,' said Sarah.
'Very likely. Well, it's a miserable business. I don't care for the men we've got here overmuch, though they do their work very well, and it was very clever of the governor to have got them here and at work so promptly,' said George.
'A good deal too clever! And see what the result has been! He tricked the hands, and the hands have tricked him, and he has come worst off so far,' retorted Sarah.
'I don't know about that! There's a proverb which says, "He laughs longest who laughs last," and we've yet to see who that will be. So far, the men have burnt Balmoral, but that loss is insured against; but they have not bettered their position, and they are losing money, whereas the governor is making money by the change.'
'One would think it was you who didn't care now; you stand there smoking, as if nothing were the matter,' remarked Sarah.
'If you will tell me what good I should do bygetting excited I might try it; but I don't know of anything to be gained by making a row. You'd better go back to mother, and tell her the mills are all right, that father's gone to see what he can do at Balmoral, and that I shall stop here until further notice. Try to put a good face on it, and cheer her up, Sarah. She isn't fit for all this worry,' urged her brother.
'I'll do my best,' replied Sarah; and she went back to her mother, and left her brother in charge of the mills and of the men.
The two porters at the gate were his devoted servants, and talked to him with the freedom of old workmen, as they deplored the present condition of things. 'And the sooner we see the backs of those chaps the better,' said one. 'They are quick enough, but they're not thorough; and they'd chuck it up to-morrow if it weren't for the high wages they're bribed with.'
'I shouldn't have thought that would pay,' observed George in his usual lazy, indifferent way.
The man gave him a look, and said in a significant tone, 'It doesn't—at least, it wouldn't in the long-run; but it pays better than letting the mills "play," especially with this big contract on for blankets for abroad. The hands knew that, and that's why they struck. They thought the master'd have been obliged to give way to get it done. And so did I, and so he would have if he hadn't got those chaps by a miracle.'
'How did he get them?' inquired George, asking the same question that every one else was asking.
The man laughed, with an evident appreciation of the smartness that could accomplish what looked likea miracle, although he shook his head disapprovingly. 'He telephoned to somewhere abroad—I don't rightly know if 'twas France or Belgium; in fact, he've been 'phoning for days; and it seems there was a wool-mill shut down, and these men out of employ, and he had the whole lot brought over and put in here by midnight on Sunday. They came in wagon-loads from a station ten miles off, and not a soul knew. Oh, he managed it well, did the master! But they laugh best who laugh last, as the saying is.'
George took a whiff of his cigarette. 'So you think the men will laugh the last? Do you think they'll burn the mills down?' he inquired.
'No, sir; I don't think they could if they would, and I doubt if they would. 'Twould be wholesale murder, with all those hands inside. Besides, there'll be some arrests for this other job, and that'll cool their blood. No; what I'm afraid of is those men in here,' said the old man, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder towards the mill-buildings.
'What do you think they'll do?' George demanded.
'They'll go. They're getting tired of the confinement and the dullness. Besides, they are frightened. Goodness knows how they've got to know anything of what's going on outside, but they have; and if they hear of this fire it'll be all up with us. They'll go, and a sack of gold won't keep them.'
George looked very thoughtful. 'Where do they sleep, and what do they eat?' he asked.
'Oh, they sleep on blankets and wool in the barns. And they've got their own cooks, and there's plenty of food of the kind they like,' replied the man, with true British contempt for foreign messes.
'What food have they, and how did you get enough in for them?' George asked.
'That's the master again! There's sacks and sacks of flour and coffee and beans, and things that we thought were bales of wool, and tins of milk; and they eat a lot of them things, and very little meat, except bacon. But they're crying out for vegetables. Mark my words, Mr George, they won't be here much longer, double pay or not.'
George turned and left him, and went for a walk through the mills. The men greeted him rather surlily, from which he opined that they could not be French, though they spoke that language; but when he put any questions they declined to answer, saying that their orders were not to give any information to any one. However, they seemed to be working well, and so George remarked to their manager.
'Yes, sir; they are doing time-work. They will get a bonus each if the work they are doing is finished by a certain time,' replied the man.
'I see,' said George, and then he looked thoughtful again. They would finish the contract and go. He walked back to the office, from whence he meant to go to the lookout again to see how the fire was going, but was in time to hear the ring of the telephone. 'Halloa!' he said.
'It's Sarah! Do you see what's happened at Balmoral?' she inquired.
'No; but I imagine it's burning or burnt to the ground,' said George in a resigned tone.
'The fire's out; at least, there's only smoke to be seen. But everybody's come away, and I am afraid some one is hurt, for I saw through the glasses thatthey were crowding round something, and then the men made a stretcher, and they are bringing whoever it is to Ousebank,' said Sarah.
'God forbid that any life has been lost! Let me know what it is as soon as you know. I can't leave the mills till father comes back, and I don't know that I shall even then. I think I'm wanted here.'
'I wish I could be there with you!' exclaimed Sarah.
'You've got to stay where you are and look after mother. How is she?' inquired George.
'She's all right. At least, she sits quite quietly, and says it's God's will, and that she doesn't care as long as she has all of us. But it's very dull here. Women always do have the dull work to do in this world,' observed Sarah.
'They think they have; but I don't think you'd be much better off here; it's not particularly lively being with a lot of sulky foreigners who won't talk to you.'
'How can they if they're foreigners?' protested Sarah.
'They can talk French all right, some of them; but they won't answer me in their own language,' said George.
'I dare say they don't understand your French,' said Sarah.
But George declined to notice this insulting remark. Sarah was evidently called away from the telephone, and ring as he might he could get no answer from her or any one at Howroyd's. He tried to get on to the office, but was told that Howroyd's was 'playing,' as they say in the north country, because the most of the men were at Balmoral.So there was nothing for it but to possess his soul in patience, and watch the men at their dinner-hour eating bacon and haricot beans, and a kind of soup made out of George could not imagine what, seeing that the cooks had no vegetables to make it with, and drinking wine and water.
'They seem to enjoy their food,' George remarked to Ben the gate-keeper.
'Yes, sir, they do; and a little seems to go a long way with them. But listen to them now that their tongues are loosened! Goodness only knows what they are saying, but they seem excited enough. I'd give a good deal to understand their jargon,' replied Ben.
'It's Flemish, I fancy. Anyway, I can't understand it. I wish I had some one to send to Howroyd's. I suppose it wouldn't be safe for one of you to leave the gate?' said George.
'Safe or not, I daren't risk it. The master's orders were not to leave it without his permission, if I wanted to stay with him. But I shouldn't worry, sir; ill news travels apace, and if there were anything wrong you'd have heard it soon enough,' said the man.
He had scarcely uttered these words when their attention was attracted by a knocking at the entrance-gate; and upon Ben going to the window to look out, he saw the picket on duty making signs to him to come to the gate and speak. The man looked so disturbed, and almost ashamed, that Ben knew there was nothing to fear from him except bad news, and that he felt pretty sure he should soon hear.
'Now, what villainy have you been up to?' he asked, as he opened the gate half-way.
'It's no use making bad blood by hard words, Ben. I told you before I've had nought to do with the happenings at Balmoral. We're only fighting for our rights and our livelihood, that you're trying to take away from us; but there, I didn't come to say all that, but to see the young master, if he'll let me have a word with him,' said the man.
'I shouldn't think he'd have anything to say to you, and I shouldn't have thought you'd the face to speak to him when you're trying to ruin him; and as for me taking your livelihood away, you've done it yourselves. Dogs in the manger, I call you; won't work yourselves, and won't let any one else.'
'Have done, Ben, and let me see Mr George. I've got a message that won't wait,' said the other.
The gate-keeper went to find George, who was again at the telephone in a vain effort to communicate with his sister, with whom he felt very irritated for leaving him without news for so long.
'Wants to see me? One of the pickets, you say? Does he want to come to terms, do you think?' inquired George.
'I doubt it, sir; but you'd better see him. He says his message won't wait.'
Thus entreated, George left the telephone and went to the gate.
'Excuse me, Mr George,' said the man, standing bareheaded to speak to him, which even George knew was a token of great respect—was it also sympathy?—coming from a mill-hand of his father's. 'Excuse me, but we think you're wanted at Howroyd's. There's been an accident'——
'An accident? To whom?' interrupted George.
'To the—to Mr Clay, sir,' said the man.
George was just hurrying off, but stopped for a moment. Suppose this were a ruse to get him out of the mills. He half-thought of trying to get a message to Sarah before leaving the mills.
But the man, seeming to guess his thoughts, said, 'We sha'n't interfere with the mills, sir, if you'll take my word for it.'
'You can scarcely expect me to feel very secure, can you?' said George quietly.
'No, sir, I know; but I swear to you I'll fetch you if you're wanted here. But do you go to Howroyd's at once,' said the man so earnestly that George hesitated no longer. Touching his hat as he passed them, he walked rapidly to his uncle's, where he found all in confusion.
The first person he saw was Sarah. 'What is the matter with father?' he asked.
'I don't know,' said Sarah.
'Don't know! Where is he?' asked George.
'In the sitting-room; that's why I couldn't get at the telephone. They disconnected it to stop the noise. The doctors are with him,' replied Sarah, who looked white and shaken.
'How did it happen? Did he get burnt? Is there no one to tell me anything?' asked George in despair.
'I don't know. He was brought on a stretcher, and Uncle Howroyd came with him, and he and mother have gone into that room. I don't know any more than you; but, oh, I am glad you've come!' cried Sarah, bursting into tears.
'Come and sit down,' said George, putting his armround his sister's shoulder. 'Some one will come out in a minute, I hope.'
It was William Howroyd who came. 'You here, my lad! That's right. You'll have to take the head of affairs now,' he said kindly but sadly.
'Is my father—dead?' asked George, with pale lips.
'No, no, not dead; but it's a stroke, and he won't be fit for business for some time. If I can help you I will; but it's a bad business, a very bad business. Well, my home is yours, as you know, and you must all stay here for the present. As for the future, why, you can stay here then if you will. It's not a mansion, but there's room enough for us all.'
'Can I see my father, sir?' said George.
'Yes, of course, my lad. Go in. He won't know you, but you may go in,' said his uncle.
Mrs Clay sat watching beside her husband, who lay on his improvised couch in the sitting-room, and she looked up dully when her son came in. 'They've killed 'im this time, George,' she said.
'I hope not, mother. He'll pull through this,' replied her son.
But his mother shook her head. ''E'll never get over bein' bested by the men. 'E's always been so masterful all 'is life, an' they've mastered 'im at last,' she declared.
'I don't know so much about that. Father said I was to stop at home and help him, and I mean to do it, and see if things can't be straightened out again,' said George, with youthful confidence.
Mrs Clay looked at her son proudly. 'You've the same spirit as your father, though you've never shown it before; but this coil's too 'ard for you to untwist, lad. You'd best leave it to your uncle Bill; 'e'll do the best 'e can for us all, an' there'll always be a bite an' a sup for us while 'e lives. But Clay's Mills are a thing of the past now, lad.'
Sarah, who, without asking leave of any one, had followed her brother into the sick-room, broke in now. 'We're not going to live on charity, mother.If we really are poor I shall just work in a mill, that's all. I won't live on any one else, not even Uncle Howroyd.'
Her mother and brother both gave her a warning glance.
George said in low tones, 'It's no good exaggerating the misfortune. We have met with losses, and my father may not be a millionaire at this moment; but I hope we may not long trespass on Uncle Howroyd's hospitality, though there is no talk of living on charity.'
As he said this his father opened his eyes, and it seemed to George that there was a gleam of consciousness in them. He bent over the sick man, and said in low, clear tones, 'Father, I'll do my best to keep the mills going. That is your wish, is it not?'
''E can't 'ear, George,' sighed his mother.
'I think he understood,' declared George; and though the others did not agree with him, they said no more to discourage the young man.
'Come, Sarah,' George said gently to his sister, as he drew her out of the room with him, 'you'll have to help me to put all this business right.'
'I? What can I do? I know nothing about accounts, you know,' cried Sarah, secretly pleased, all the same, at the idea of being of use.
'You are often down at Uncle Howroyd's, and I hear you talking of "fettles and pieces," and goodness knows what all,' observed George.
Sarah laughed. 'I suppose you mean fettlers (people who clean the machines) and piecers (those who join the pieces of wool or yarn together when it breaks),' she explained.
'There! You see I don't even know these words, and if I have to go into accounts and details I must know them, or I shall be showing my ignorance, and the people will have no confidence in me,' returned George.
'But those foreigners don't understand you. What will you do with them?' inquired Sarah.
'Nothing. I shall send them off the minute this contract is done,' said George. 'That is to say, if Uncle Howroyd approves.'
'What are you going to do with my approval, my lad?' demanded William Howroyd, coming in and putting his hand for a moment kindly on his nephew's shoulder.
Sarah was struck by his serious and troubled face. She wondered whether it was anxiety for his brother's health or sorrow for the misdeeds of the Ousebank men. She did not know that there was a third reason added to these two; but she soon was to know it.
'I want to pack off those men as soon as the contract we have in hand is finished,' said George.
'They've saved you and me any trouble, George, lad. They've discharged themselves,' said Mr Howroyd gravely.
George looked at his uncle aghast. 'You mean that the foreigners have gone—without a minute's warning?' he asked.
'They have that,' replied Mr Howroyd.
'But why did they suddenly do that? They seemed to go back to work willingly enough after their dinner,' said George.
'It seems they had some means of communicating with the outside world. When they heard of yourpoor father's illness, and were told he was ruined, and his house even burnt down, they decided to leave a sinking ship,' said Mr Howroyd.
'Uncle Howroyd, do you think it is a sinking ship?' inquired Sarah.
Mr Howroyd considered a little; but, being a man who thought honesty always the best policy, he replied frankly, 'I think we shall save enough out of the wreck to keep you afloat; but I think Clay's Mills must shut.'
'I don't understand that, sir. Of course, I know that we must have lost a good deal by the fire, and this contract, too, will be a serious loss; but there is the insurance of the house, and I understand that, thanks to you and other kind helpers, a good deal was saved at Balmoral,' observed George.
'That is so, my lad; but the trouble is—and that's what caused your father's illness—the house was not insured,' said Mr Howroyd.
'Oh, but, uncle, it was. I happen to know, because father said the insurance he paid would keep a family comfortably,' interrupted Sarah.
'I know, and so I thought; but, owing to threats they received, saying it was going to be burnt down, the company asked such a heavy premium that your father refused to pay it, and said he'd take precautions instead. It was a mad thing, and no one but him would have dared to do it. And now, what are you going to do with an empty mill, whose hands have all struck, and whose head is lying unconscious?' inquired Mr Howroyd kindly but discouragingly.
The brother and sister had drawn closer to eachother instinctively in this their first trouble, for trouble it was to both.
'If we give up the mills, what have we to live on? I don't know my father's affairs, but I imagine he has a large capital,' said George.
'It's difficult to explain to you, but most of it was in the mills. I expect that you will have a few hundreds a year when the business is wound up. But things have not been so prosperous as they have appeared of late with your father, and he spent freely,' replied Mr Howroyd.
George sat silent after this; but Sarah suddenly exclaimed, 'George, don't give it up! Open the mills again, and try to keep them going with the old hands. I know you could, with Uncle Howroyd's help, and I'll stop at home and help you all I can, and take care of mother.'
George gave his sister a swift glance, and then appealed to his uncle. 'What do you say, sir? Is it any use my trying?'
'My lad,' said Mr Howroyd in a moved tone of voice, 'if you had asked me that question a month ago I should have told you to go back to your Greek and your Latin at college, and leave blanket-making to those who know what they are doing; but if you like to try, I'll not be the one to stop you. It won't be much worse if you fail.'
'Oh, but he won't fail.—Will you, George?' cried Sarah.
'I hope not; I can but try,' said George.
But the two enthusiasts had a sudden check when they informed their mother.
'George run the mills! You don't know w'at youare talkin' about.—That's your doin', Sarah; you've always some maggot in your 'ead.'
'But Uncle Howroyd said he might try,' said Sarah.
'Your uncle Howroyd's kindness itself, an' generous to a fault. Don't you see you'd be runnin' them on 'is credit? Who'd trust George if they thought 'e was responsible? An' if your uncle Howroyd stan's surety 'e runs to lose 'eavily,' said Mrs Clay, who knew something about business.
'I never thought of that,' said Sarah slowly.
'Mother, you know that a certain sum was settled on me when I came of age, and was not invested in the business,' said her son.
'Yes, dear; but don't you touch that. You'll only lose it, an' then w'ere will you be?' she protested.
'Where I am now, under the necessity of earning my own living, and that will be no hardship,' said George, with his pleasant smile.
But their mother was not to be persuaded. 'Your father was a wonderful man. You 'aven't 'is talents, though you're dear, good children,' was all she would say.
'My father's talents didn't prevent him from making a horrid mess of things,' began Sarah hotly.
But George silenced his sister, and said to his mother, 'Very well, dear mother, if you do not wish me to try to carry on father's business for him till he is able to take it up again himself, then I will not do so; but I shall ask Uncle Howroyd to take me into his mill to learn the business of a blanket-maker. I mean to be sooner or later.'
Mrs Clay looked at her son in amazement. 'You, George! But all your book-learnin'—w'at are yougoin' to do wi' all that? Is it all goin' to be wasted? All your beautiful, expensive education an' all?' she expostulated. 'An' Sarah, too, talkin' o' stayin' at 'ome an' 'elpin'! She'll 'ave to go to some school, though I doubt whether we can afford her present one.'
'I don't think that school is much loss to Sarah, though it seems to have suited Miss Cunningham. But as for my book-learning, I mean to try to apply it to manufacturing; and if it is not much use there, as I fear it won't be, still no knowledge is lost, and I shall always have my books and the pleasure of reading,' remarked George.
'Well, my dear, you must do as you think best. If you could do such a thing as keep the mills goin' till your father was about again, 'twould be a grand thing, an' give 'im new life w'en 'e came to 'imself, an' I've no right to be a 'indrance in your way; so do as you wish, dear, an' God bless you for a dear, good boy!' said his mother, after some argument.
'Come along Sarah, let's go and look at our mills. It's rather disgraceful, but, do you know, I've never been over the whole of them before,' said George.
'It will be dreadful to see them empty and "playing," as the people say,' said Sarah.
'Please, sir,' said Naomi, 'the Frenchchefis here, and wants a month's wages and compensation for loss, he says.'
George paused on the threshold. 'I thought Sykes was seeing to all that, and housing the people till we could settle with them?' said George.
'He says he wishes to leave this country of savages at once,' said Naomi, with a toss of her head.
'I expect there's money in the till at the mills,' said Sarah.
'I'll write him a cheque on my own bank, and I shall be thankful to eat no more of his elaborate messes,' observed George; and he did so, though the cheque was a much bigger one than he had expected, and the operation had to be repeated till most of the servants were satisfied, after which George said, with a laugh, to his sister, 'I hope Sykes and Naomi and Tom Fox won't present their bills, for, to tell the truth, I've used up all my balance, and rather more.'
'Have you paid every one else?' asked Sarah.
'Yes; and I had no idea we had such an army to wait upon us. You've no idea what the total comes to,' said George, as he ruefully totalled it up.
'There must be lots of money somewhere,' said Sarah vaguely.
'Ah, now you begin to understand what poverty means,' said George. 'It's not quite so lovely, is it, after all?'
Sarah did not choose to answer this taunt, and was saved from the necessity of doing so by the announcement that Tom Fox and Sykes the butler were outside.
'I shall have to overdraw and realise some money,' observed George to his sister, after he had told Naomi to show them in.
'And please, sir, they speak for me, if you'll excuse me,' said Naomi as she ushered them into the room.
Sarah was surprised to find how disappointed and hurt she felt at this cupidity on the part of Naomi, and she would not look at her at all.
'Ah, Sykes, you want your wages? How muchwill that be?' said George, quiet and pleasant as usual.
'No, no, Mr George, I didn't come for them, sir. If you'll excuse me, sir, and not think it a liberty, but I've a nice house, a biggish house, though 'tis a cottage compared to Balmoral of course; but it's lying empty, and it would be convenient to have it used, and I'm going there myself to-night, and if you'd condescend for the next few months'——said Sykes, with much clearing of his throat and apologetic coughs.
'That's exceedingly kind of you, Sykes,' cried George, much touched. 'Where is this house?'
'Right opposite Balmoral, on the hill, Mr George. It touches the grounds, and what I was thinking was, you could make a gate into the grounds, and you'd be like in your own park, same as before.'
'I know the house. It's a big one, as you say. You've made money, then, Sykes?'
'Yes, sir; the master was always liberal, and I've saved, and done well in investments. I'd be pleased to wait on you, same as before. And Tom Fox here—— Why don't you speak up, Tom?' urged Sykes.
'I'd be glad to remain in your service, Mr George, and motor you down to town, as I hear you are taking on the business. I saved the motors, all on 'em,' said Tom.
'I don't know how to thank you, my friends, except by accepting your offers with all my heart; and if the mills pay all right you must take shares,' said George, with his winning smile.
'Well, we've got three servants and a motor, sofar,' said Sarah; 'because, of course, Naomi is going to stay, and it will be very nice to be still on the hill instead of living in Ousebank. I hate Ousebank'.
George wanted to remind Sarah that she had hated Balmoral; but he decided not to cast up the past, as she was so much improved, so he only said, 'Yes, I've often looked at that Red House, and wondered whose it was, and who would come and live in it. I little thought that it would be ourselves.'
'It reminds me of the Bible,' observed Sarah abruptly.
'What does?' asked George. 'The Red House?'
'No; all the other servants fleeing like the hireling, but our own Yorkshire servants staying with us, and offering their services and houses, and all.'
'There's another text it makes me think of,' said George reverently, 'and that is to put your trust in God.'
'George, I'm going to cheer mother up by telling her what a nice house we have had offered to us,' said Sarah, full of the new plans.
'I don't fancy anything will cheer mother while father lies there in that condition. However, she will be glad that Sykes has shown himself loyal,' replied George, who was just going down to the mills.
Mrs Clay had been sitting by her husband the whole of the day, and no power could induce her to leave him; but now Mr Howroyd had persuaded her to come and take some food. The two met George and Sarah in the passage.
'Going out, George? What are you living on to-day—air or excitement? Don't you know it's dinner-time?' he exclaimed when he saw that his nephew had his hat in his hand and was evidently going out.
'I was just going to the mills, uncle. I shall be back in half-an-hour,' said George.
'What are you going to do there? They are shut up, and Luke Mickleroyd and the other watchmen are in charge. Come and have some food, lad; it will help your mother to eat if she sees you eating. You must all badly want something; you've starved all day.'
George Clay put down his hat, remarking, 'I hadno idea it was so late.—Come, mother, take my arm.'
'Mother, we have something so nice to tell you,' said Sarah, speaking in a gentler voice than was her wont to her mother.
''Ave you, my dear?' said Mrs Clay indifferently.
'Yes; we've got a house for you to live in already.'
'I know, Sarah. Your uncle is very kind. I'm sure I'm very grateful to 'im,' said Mrs Clay.
'Oh, but it isn't Uncle Howroyd; it's Sykes. He wants us to live in his Red House on the top of the hill,' cried Sarah, her face aglow with pleasure at the good news she was imparting.
'Sykes, our butler! I 'aven't come to sharin' my butler's 'ouse,' said Mrs Clay, bridling.
'But he's going to wait on us just as he used to do,' explained Sarah.
'Wat's the good o' talkin' nonsense, Sarah? 'Ow can I order a man about in 'is own 'ouse? An' 'ow can you want your poor father to open 'is eyes an' look upon the ruins o' 'is beautiful mansion? It's downright indecent o' you to be so glad that you've got to live in a poky little 'ouse; but, at least, you sha'n't drag your father an' me to live there, to be reminded o' the beautiful past,' said Mrs Clay.
'Nay, Polly, my dear, you are taking this quite wrong. The children are behaving as well as can be, and Sykes too; and it's not a poky house, by any means. In fact, it's as big as this, and I don't know that it would be a bad idea, after a little while,' urged Mr Howroyd.
'I'm sure, Bill, I don't want to complain; but it's all so strange without Mark, an' to think o' 'imin Syke's 'ouse, after w'at 'e's been used to,' said his sister-in-law.
Sarah restrained her first impulse to reply indignantly, and said, 'I don't think father would mind, and it was partly for his sake I was glad. I thought he could still have his park and grounds, and you forget he could not see the ruins of Balmoral, because the plantations come between.'
'Besides, mother, if things go well we shall perhaps be able to build the house again,' suggested George. But he was no more successful than his sister in cheering his mother.
She answered him, quite shortly for her, 'That you'll never do, George. There'll never be another Balmoral, so don't you think it. There are not many men like Mark, an' there never was a 'ouse like 'is now'ere, not even the King's, so I've 'eard, an' I'm glad an' proud to 'ave lived in it; but I'll try an' be resigned to the will o' Providence; an' if you both wish it, an' your uncle thinks it right, I'll go to Sykes's 'ouse w'en your father is able to be moved.'
Mrs Clay said 'Sykes's 'ouse' in a tone of such contempt that her brother-in-law observed, with his genial laugh, 'One would think it was the workhouse by the way you talk, instead of being as big as many a manufacturer's. But I know you are thinking of the old place, and, of course, after what you've been used to it is a trial; but you must pluck up courage and be thankful that you have your family still and no lost lives to mourn over.'
Mrs Clay shook her head in a melancholy way; she was not to be comforted, and the others gave it up.
'One would think he had been the best and kindesthusband in the world, instead of being'——began Sarah after dinner, when her mother had hurried back to her husband's room; but here she checked herself.
'Well, there's one thing—you'll excite no envy, hatred, and malice at the Red House; and you know the proverb, "Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith,"' said their uncle.
'Oh!' cried Sarah, and then explained, 'That's just what I said when we lived at Balmoral; but I didn't mean it to come about in this dreadful way.'
'Ay; but things never do come about in the way we want or expect,' said Mr Howroyd as he rose from the table, leaving the brother and sister together.
'George, what are you thinking of?' asked his sister abruptly, after the former had sat for some time smoking a cigarette, and leaning back in his old indolent way.
'Thinking of? I'm thinking that I've undertaken a task too big for me, and that I should do better to accept Uncle Howroyd's offer of winding up affairs,' he replied.
'Then you are a coward! And I only wish I were your age and a man, and I'd carry on the mills myself, and show people.'
George looked at his sister with an amused smile, which was his usual way of treating her outbursts, and which always exasperated her; but he hastened to say, 'Steady there, Sarah! I never said I was going to back out, only that things seem more difficult than they did when I began.'
'Why? After Sykes's offer, and Tom Fox's? I nevertold mother of him. It didn't seem to be any use, because she doesn't care for anything or feel grateful about anything.'
'I hope I shall have as good a wife; but she will be difficult to find,' observed George.
'You'll probably marry a virago; easy-going people like you generally do, and you'll be henpecked all your life,' was Sarah's consoling remark.
Then they both laughed, which did them good. Not very long after they went to bed, and, being young and full of hope, to sleep.
It seemed to them both that they had just shut their eyes when they heard the clanging of a bell; and, starting up in alarm, they recognised it as the bell of their uncle's mill calling the people to work.
George decided to go down to the mills, and a very short time saw him dressed and at the gates.
''Tis young Clay,' he heard as he passed down the street, through groups of idle men, women, and girls, whom he guessed to be their former employés. They had nothing to get up for; but habit was too strong for them, and they had risen and turned out at the same hour.
'What'll he be going to do at t' old mills?' some of them inquired of each other.
'I be main sorry for him. He's a right good young gentleman, they say,' said one woman.
'I wish he'd run the mills. I'd work for him,' said another.
'If he'd have you; but I doubt he'd not have one of his father's hands after what's happened,' was the retort.
'He's but a youngster; he can't run the mills.They'll have to shut down till the old master comes to, or this one gets old enough,' said a shrewd old hand.
'Yes, 'twould never do for he to start blanket-making without experience; he'd soon run aground. I'd not work for him,' remarked another old man.
Evidently no one had any idea that George intended to try his hand at the business, in spite of inexperience and youth; and, indeed, as he went down the street he found himself wondering how he was to set about it, and whether he had not better brave Sarah's scorn and give it up. But he reasoned with himself, 'I will go on till my private capital is exhausted, and if I have failed by then I'll own it and give up.' With new resolve, he walked briskly on and entered the silent mills.
The clang of the gate as it shut after him struck painfully on his ears, and he went to the office and sat down to think. 'If only I knew what to do! Perhaps this room will inspire me,' he murmured. But the room did not seem to do so; on the contrary, he was oppressed with the sense of the failure in which all the business done in that room had ended.
Suddenly the door opened, and Sarah, dainty and fresh in the muslin Naomi had thoughtfully brought her, almost her only possession in the way of clothes, came in. 'George, I have an inspiration,' she said.
Her brother looked up with a smile. 'That's funny,' he replied, 'for that's just what I was sitting here waiting for.'
'That's a nice, useless thing to do!' said Sarah.
'On the contrary, it appears to have been answered,' he said.
'Oh, well, it wasn't your sitting there that made me come and have that inspiration; it was the clanging of Uncle Howroyd's bell. Why don't you do the same thing?' inquired Sarah.
'Do what?' demanded George, who did not think much of this inspiration.
'Ring the bell—the big bell, I mean—to call the hands in, just as if nothing had happened,' urged Sarah.
'Nothing would happen if I did, except that we should have a gaping crowd round the gate, and the fire-brigade coming to see if we had a fire. So, if that's your inspiration, I'm inclined to agree with you that my waiting for it has been useless,' returned George.
'I wish you'd try, George. I believe the hands would all come back, and we should get the contract done after all,' persisted Sarah. 'They looked at me in quite a friendly way as I passed, and lots of the men touched their hats, a thing they never did before.'
George hesitated. 'But I don't feel that I could take them back again,' he said.
'Then what do you mean to do? You can't run the mills with new hands,' she protested.
'No; but I can't take back the men who have destroyed our property,' he declared.
'They are, or soon will be, taken up; so they won't apply,' began Sarah, when her brother interrupted her.
'Sarah,' he cried with sudden vigour, 'you have inspired me after all! I will have the bell rung, and when the people come, as some are sure to come, out of curiosity, I will make them a speech, and explainthat those whom my father dismissed are still dismissed, but that the rest I shall be glad to have back. I'll speak to the manager, and see what he thinks.'
The manager and Ben looked admiringly at George.
'There's pluck for you! Let's hope it will be rewarded. At any rate, we can but try,' they said; and they gave orders for the big mills-bell to be rung, and the few faithful ones stood in the yard, making a kind of bodyguard round George, and waited for the curious crowd to arrive.
Sarah watched from the office window, and her eyes shone with excitement as she heard the sound of clogs and many footsteps coming down the street. 'I was right' she cried. 'It's our old hands! I knew they'd come.'
And they did come, till the mill-yard was packed, and then George made them a speech.
'My father is stricken down by the misdeeds of some of his former employés, and in his absence I am going, with the help of my good friends here, to run my father's mills. Those of you who voluntarily left his employ are welcome to return to it; those he discharged will not be admitted.'
Such, in brief, was the young man's speech. The hands noticed that he had not called them 'friends,' nor, indeed, had his tone been friendly, but only business-like and curt, in marked contradiction to the way he had spoken of 'my good friends here,' alluding to those who had remained at their posts. But they were just men, and they respected the young man all the more for bravely and boldly 'standing up to them,' and showing his loyalty to his father and those who had stood by his father.
Some few slunk away. They were those Mr Clay had discharged—an act which had brought about the strike. But this time their discharge was accepted. Without exception the hands took up their old places; the engine, which had stopped, went on again; the fires, which had not yet gone out, were replenished; and before William Howroyd could get down to see what new misfortune this was, Clay's Mills had ceased to 'play.'
'Nay, my lass, you can't be serious. Men are not a flock of sheep to come back to you just because the bell rings,' he protested when Sarah told him the tale.
'Just go into the rooms and see for yourself,' she said. 'They are all setting to work with a will.'
'But I meant to have a talk with George and try to arrange things,' objected Mr Howroyd. 'One can't restart a business like this in this hap-hazard manner.'
'It's not hap-hazard; it's just natural. They're sorry for us and for everything, and they've just come back as if nothing had happened. I really think George is a born business man; he's quite left off being half-asleep all the time,' cried Sarah.
'It's my belief he's been more wide awake than we knew "all the time,"' quoted her uncle.
'Anyway, he's quite wide awake now. And, oh! it's so funny to hear him when they come and ask him some questions he doesn't know anything about. He puts up his pince-nez, looks very wise, and says, "You had better go on as you have always done for the present."'
Mr Howroyd pinched her cheek. 'You are fartoo wide awake, especially when it comes to criticising other people. Well, I expect I can go back to my own mill. I'm not wanted here. I shall soon be coming to your George for advice. Dear, dear! who would have thought it? He looked as if it was too much trouble to live. This bad business has done you both good—you as well as him, and you badly wanted some improvement, my lass. It'll be a proud day for your father when he hears what you have both done,' said Mr Howroyd as he went off, looking bright and cheery again.