Page:Once a Week Volume 8.djvu/487

25, 1863.] visit, he would stretch out his hand, and say, “Welcome, Charles!” while Cissy would smile upon him pleasantly, and without the least show of awkwardness, call him “Cousin Charles,” the same as ever.

It was a curious impulse that led Charles towards the Mountain Mills that foggy November evening, and one which he did not stay to explain or analyse. The express train would convey him to a station half a mile’s walk from the Mountain Mills, in about three hours; and he soon found himself installed in the cushioned carriage, with no other company than the yellow, unhealthy fog and the dim oil lamp above.

To the tune of the monotonous jarring he thought again. He thought of great statesmen, great heroes, great philosophers, great writers. Under certain circumstances, and barring the crust of habits long formed, he speculated whether there was not a something in every living man—however distorted and disguised—which would impel him also to make life a great and a noble thing. But in all this he never thought of himself and his wasted life; he only thought of some imaginary men, who might have done so much to ennoble their names and better their fellows, and who had really done so little; and he was inclined to pity rather than blame them. His mind, too, wandered to the Mountain Mills much sooner than the express could manage it, and he was there in the cosy parlour, and saw how contented Cissy was, and what a happy home she had. He had long ceased to reflect that that happy home might have been his too, as well as Cissy’s.

Arrived at the station, he walked by a short path across the fields towards the villa. It stood a little behind the Mountain Mills, and having to pass through the factory yard, he was a little surprised at that late hour to see a light gleaming through the fog (for it was foggy there too) from the little glass counting-house, where George was in the habit of writing and arranging accounts on Saturday afternoons. He said to himself, “George is more than usually busy,” and went towards the counting-house door with the intention of shaking hands with George, and giving him notice of his visit, before going in to see Cissy and the children. But as his footsteps echoed in the deserted yard, and the bull-dog began to bark fiercely and clank his iron chain, the light suddenly disappeared. His first movement was towards the house, but on second thoughts he concluded it must be George on the point of leaving, and they could walk towards the house together; so again he walked towards the glass counting-house.

Then it was that he observed the light had reappeared at the little glazed window. He walked quietly that time, turned the latch of the door softly, and stood in the little passage, screened from observation by the darkness, but able to see and hear all that passed in the office. It was not George.

His attention was arrested by the sound of one of the sweetest and most melodious voices he had ever heard. It proceeded from a pleasant-looking gentleman of fresh-coloured complexion and thin silver hair. His eyes beamed kindly and gently upon another man—whom by his dress and general appearance Charles judged to be one of the workmen—and who leant carelessly against a desk, and brought his hard, sullen features near to the one candle which served to illumine the office.

The gentleman with the charming voice was speaking to this man in a kind, expostulatory tone, and from the stray words that caught his ear, Charles inferred that he was endeavouring to dissuade him from an interview with some person which he seemed determined to obtain. So determined, indeed, that the gentleman was finally obliged to bend to the man’s wishes: but laying his hand on his shoulder, he said, “Have the interview, my dear friend, by all means, if you wish it. But knowing the character of the pitiless man you have to deal with, I can prophecy the result of it.”

The man muttered something about “givun his boy one more chance.”

“Very sorry indeed should I be for one word of mine to deter you,” the gentleman said. “Speak with him by all means. But stay! It is dangerous to enter the house with that packet about you. I will meet you at the corner of the lane at ten o’clock to-night, and I will give it you then.”

The man twisted a fur cap he held in his hands as if he were strangling a rabbit, and suddenly clapping it on his head, lounged towards the door.

“Stay, Abel,” said the gentleman, raising his hand. “We need not speak when we see each other in the lane later this evening. You shall say ‘ten o’clock,’ as if speaking to yourself, and hold out your hand carelessly—so—I will give you the packet, and then you will have nothing to do but to hurry as fast as you can to London, and carefully follow my instructions when you arrive there.”

Abel seemed to be thinking of something else, and again turning his sullen countenance towards the door, passed so close to Charles that his flannel jacket touched him. Charles walked quietly across the yard, resolved to give George an account of this strange conversation, and pondering in his own mind what could be the meaning of the strange importance they seemed to attach to the papers.

Five minutes afterwards he reached the house; and, entering the reading-room, he found George seated alone, and buried in accounts and papers.

“You come at an unhappy time, Charles,” he said, shaking hands in his usual cold, stolid manner: “but nevertheless we are glad to see you.”

“Is anything the matter?”

“Cissy and the children are well. But within the last few days troubles have followed so rapidly one upon the other, that I am quite bewildered. First of all, Cissy’s sister, Lucy, left this house the night before last, and eloped with one of my junior clerks—young Thornberg—a man I had taken into my employ some years ago from motives of pure charity.”

Cissy’s sister Lucy! He remembered her well. She had brighter eyes even than Cissy, and her