by Ellen Wood
‘James, I suspect that you are in trouble. Now, I do not wish to pry into it unnecessarily; but I would remind you of the sound wisdom that lies in the good old proverb: “In the multitude of counsellors there is safety.”’
‘And if there is?’ returned Mr. Hunter.
‘If you will confide the trouble to me, I will do what I can to help you out of it — whatever it may be — to advise with you as to what is best to be done. I am your wife’s brother; could you have a truer friend?’
‘You are very kind, Bevary. I am in no danger. When I am, I will let you know.’
The tone — one of playful mockery — grated on the ear of Dr. Bevary.
‘Is it assumed to hide what he dare not betray?’ thought he.
Mr. Hunter cut the matter short by crossing the yard to the time-keeper’s office; and Dr. Bevary went out talking to himself: ‘A wilful man must have his own way.’
Austin Clay sat up late that night, reading one of the quarterly reviews; he let the time slip by till the clock struck twelve. Mr. and Mrs. Quale had been in bed some time; when nothing was wanted for Mr. Clay, Mrs. Quale was rigid in retiring at ten. Early to bed, and early to rise, was a maxim she was fond of, both in precept and practice. The striking of the church clock aroused him; he closed the book, left it on the table, pulled aside the crimson curtain, and opened the window to look out at the night before going into his chamber.
A still, balmy night. The stars shone in the heavens, and Daffodil’s Delight, for aught that could be heard or seen just then, seemed almost as peaceful as they. Austin leaned from the window; his thoughts ran not upon the stars or upon the peaceful scene around, but upon the curious trouble which seemed to be overshadowing Mr. Hunter. ‘Five thousand pounds!’ His ears had caught distinctly the ominous sum. ‘Could he have fallen into Lawyer Gwinn’s “clutches” to that extent?’
There was much in it that Austin could not fathom. Mr. Hunter had hinted at ‘bills;’ Miss Gwinn had spoken of the ‘breaking up of her happy home;’ two calamities apparently distinct and apart. And how was it that they were in ignorance of his name, his existence, his ——
A startling interruption came to Austin’s thoughts. Mrs. Shuck’s door was pulled hastily open, and some one panting with excitement, uttering faint, sobbing cries, came running down their garden into Peter Quale’s. It was Mary Baxendale. She knocked sharply at the door with nervous quickness.
‘What is it, Mary?’ asked Austin.
She had not seen him; but, of course, the words caused her to look up. ‘Oh! sir,’ the tears streaming from her eyes as she spoke, ‘would you please call Mrs. Quale, and ask her to step in? Mother’s on the wing.’
‘I’ll call her. Mary!’ — for she was speeding back again— ‘can I get any other help for you? If I can be of use, step back and tell me.’
Sam Shuck came out of his house as Austin spoke, and went flying up Daffodil’s Delight. He had gone for Dr. Bevary. The doctor had desired to be called, should there be any sudden change. Of course, he did not mean the change of death. He could be of no use in that; but how could they discriminate?
Mrs. Quale was dressed and in the sick chamber with all speed. Dr. Bevary was not long before he followed her. Neighbours on either side put their heads out.
Ten minutes at the most, and Dr. Bevary was out again. Austin was then leaning over Peter Quale’s gate. He had been in no urgent mood for bed before, and this little excitement, though it did not immediately concern him, afforded an excuse for not going to it.
‘How is she, sir?’
‘Is it you?’ responded Dr. Bevary. ‘She is gone. I thought it would be sudden at the last.’
‘Poor thing!’ ejaculated Austin.
‘Poor thing? Ay, that’s what we are all apt to say when our friends die. But there is little cause when the change has been prepared for, the spirit made ripe for heaven. She’s gone to a world where there’s neither sickness nor pain.’
Austin made no reply. The doctor spoke again after a pause.
‘Clay — to go from a solemn subject to one that — that may, however, prove not less solemn in the end — you heard me mention a stranger I met at the gates of the yard to-day, and Mr. Hunter would not take my question. Was it Gwinn of Ketterford?’
The doctor had spoken in a changed, low tone, laying his hand, in his earnestness, on Austin’s shoulder. Austin paused. He did not know whether he ought to answer.
‘You need not hesitate,’ said the doctor, divining his scruples. ‘I can understand that Mr. Hunter may have forbidden you to mention it, and that you would be faithful to him. Don’t speak; your very hesitation has proved it to me. Good night, my young friend; we would both serve him if we only knew how.’
Austin watched him away, and then went indoors, for Daffodil’s Delight began to be astir, and to collect itself around him, Sam Shuck having assisted in spreading the news touching Mrs. Baxendale. Daffodil’s Delight thought nothing of leaving its bed, and issuing forth in shawls and pantaloons upon any rising emergency, regarding such interludes of disturbed rest as socially agreeable.
CHAPTER IX. THE SEPARATION OF HUNTER AND HUNTER.
Austin Clay sat at his desk at Hunter and Hunter’s, sorting the morning letters, which little matter of employment formed part of his duties. It was the morning subsequent to the commotion in Daffodil’s Delight. His thoughts were running more on that than on the letters, when the postmark ‘Ketterford’ on two of them caught his eye.
The one was addressed to himself, the other to ‘Mr. Lewis Hunter,’ and the handwriting of both was the same. Disposing of the rest of the letters as usual, placing those for the Messrs. Hunter in their room, against they should arrive, and dealing out any others there might be for the hands employed in the firm, according to their address, he proceeded to open his own.
To the very end of it Austin read; and then, and not till then, he began to suspect that it could not be meant for him. No name whatever was mentioned in the letter; it began abruptly, and it ended abruptly; not so much as ‘Sir,’ or ‘Dear Sir,’ was it complimented with, and it was simply signed ‘A. G.’ He read it a second time, and then its awful meaning flashed upon him, and a red flush rose to his brow and settled there, as if burnt into it with a branding iron. He had become possessed of a dangerous secret.
There was no doubt that the letter was written by Miss Gwinn to Mr. Hunter. By some extraordinary mischance, she had misdirected it. Possibly the letter now lying on Mr. Hunter’s desk, might be for Austin. Though, what could she be writing about to him?
He sat down. He was quite overcome with the revelation; it was, indeed, of a terrible nature, and he would have given much not to have become cognizant of it. ‘Bills!’ ‘Money!’ So that had been Mr. Hunter’s excuse for the mystery! No wonder he sought to turn suspicion into any channel but the real one.
Austin was poring over the letter like one in a nightmare, when Mr. Hunter interrupted him. He crushed it into his pocket with all the aspect of a guilty man; any one might have taken him in his confusion so to be. Not for himself was he confused, but he feared lest Mr. Hunter should discover the letter. Although certainly written for him, Austin did not dare hand it to him, for it would never do to let Mr. Hunter know that he possessed the secret. Mr. Hunter had come in, holding out the other letter from Ketterford.
‘This letter is for you, Mr. Clay. It has been addressed to me by mistake, I conclude.’
Austin took it, and glanced his eyes over it. It contained a few abrupt lines, and a smaller note, sealed, was inside it.
‘My brother is in London, Austin Clay. I have reason to think he will be calling upon the Messrs. Hunter. Will you watch for him, and give him the inclosed note? Had he told me where he should put up in town, I should have had no occasion to trouble you.
A. Gwinn.’
Austin did not lift his eyes to Mr. Hunter’s in his usual candid open manner. He could not bear to look him in the face; he feared lest his master might read in his the dreadful
truth.
‘What am I to do, sir?’ he asked. ‘Watch for Gwinn, and give him the note?’
‘Do this with them,’ said Mr. Hunter.
Striking a wax match, he held both Austin’s note and the sealed one over the flame until they were consumed.
‘You could not fulfil the request if you wished, for the man went back to Ketterford last night.’
He said no more. He went away again, and Austin lighted another match, and burnt the crushed letter in his pocket, thankful, so far, that it had escaped Mr. Hunter.
Trouble came. Ere many days had elapsed, there was dissension in the house of Hunter and Hunter. Thoroughly united and cordial the brothers had always been; but now a cause of dispute arose, and it seemed that it could not be arranged. Mr. Hunter had drawn out five thousand pounds from the bank, and refused to state for what, except that it was for a ‘private purpose.’ The business had been a gradually increasing one, and nearly all the money possessed by both was invested in it; so much as was not actually out, lay in the bank in their joint names, ‘Hunter and Hunter.’ Each possessed a small private account, but nothing like sufficient to meet a cheque for five thousand pounds. Words ran high between them, and the sound penetrated to ears outside their private room.
His face pale, his lips compressed, his tone kept mostly subdued, James Hunter sat at his desk, his eyes falling on a ledger he was not occupied with, and his hand partially shading his face. Mr. Henry, more excited, giving way more freely to his anger, paced the carpet, occasionally stopping before the desk and before his brother.
‘It is the most unaccountable thing in the world,’ he reiterated, ‘that you should refuse to say what it has been applied to. Draw out, surreptitiously, a formidable sum like that, and not account for it! It is monstrous.’
‘Henry, I have told you all I can tell you,’ replied Mr. Hunter, concealing his countenance more than ever. ‘An old debt was brought up against me, and I was forced to satisfy it.’
Mr. Henry Hunter curled his lip.
‘A debt to that amount! Were you mad?’
‘I did not — know — I — had — contracted it,’ stammered Mr. Hunter, very nearly losing his self possession. ‘At least, I thought it had been paid. Youth’s errors do come home to us sometimes in later life.’
‘Not to the tune of five thousand pounds,’ retorted Mr. Henry Hunter. ‘It will cripple the business; you know it will. It is next door to ruin.’
‘Nonsense, Henry! The loss of five thousand pounds will neither cripple the business nor bring ruin. It will be my own loss: not yours.’
‘How on earth could you think of giving it away? Five thousand pounds!’
‘I could not help myself. Had I refused to pay it — —’
‘Well?’ for Mr. Hunter had stopped in embarrassment.
‘I should have been compelled to do so. There. Talking of it will not mend it.’
Mr. Henry Hunter took a few turns, and then wheeled round sharply. ‘Perhaps there are other claims for “youth’s follies” to come behind it?’
The words seemed to arouse Mr. Hunter. Not to anger; but to what looked very like fear — almost to an admission that it might be so.
‘Were any such further claim to come, I would not satisfy it,’ he cried, wiping his face. ‘No, I would not; I would go into exile first.’
‘We must part,’ said Mr. Henry Hunter the expression of his brother’s face quite startling him. ‘There is no alternative. I cannot risk the beggaring of my wife and children.’
‘If it must be so, it must,’ was all the reply given.
‘Tell me the truth, James,’ urged Mr. Henry in a more conciliatory tone. I don’t want to part. Tell me all, and let me be the judge. Surely, man! it can’t be anything so very dreadful. You didn’t set fire to your neighbour’s house, I suppose?’
‘I never thought the claim could come upon me. That is all I can tell you.’
‘Then we part,’ decisively returned Mr. Henry Hunter.
‘Yes, it may be better. If I am to go to ruin, it is of no use to drag you down into it.’
‘If you are to go to ruin!’ echoed Mr. Henry, regarding his brother attentively. ‘James! is that an admission that other mysterious claims may really follow this one?’
‘No, I think they will not. But we had better part. Only — let the cause of our separation be kept from the world.’
‘I should be clever to betray the cause, seeing that you leave me in ignorance of what it may be,’ answered Mr. Henry Hunter, who was feeling vexed, puzzled, and very angry.
‘I mean — let no shadow of the truth get abroad. The business is large enough for two firms, and we have agreed to carry it on apart. Let that be the plea.’
‘You take it coolly, James.’
A strange expression — a wrung expression — passed over the face of James Hunter. ‘I cannot help myself, Henry. The five thousand pounds are gone, and of course it is right that I should bear the loss alone — or any other loss it may bring in its train.’
‘But why not impart to me the facts?’
‘No. It could not possibly do good; and it might make matters infinitely worse. One advantage our separation will have; there is a great deal of money owing to us from different quarters, and this will call it in.’
‘Or I don’t see how you would carry anything on for your part, minus your five thousand pounds,’ retorted Mr. Henry, in a spirit of satire.
‘Will you grant me a favour, Henry?’
‘That depends upon what it may be.’
‘Let the real grounds of our separation — this miserable affair that has led to it — be equally a secret from your wife, as from the world. I should not ask it without an urgent reason.’
‘Don’t you mean to tell Louisa?’
‘No. The matter is one entirely my own; I do not wish to talk of it even to my wife. Will you give me the promise?’
‘Very well. If it be of the consequence you seem to intimate. I cannot fathom you, James.’
‘Let us apply ourselves now to the ways and means of the dissolution. That, at any rate, may be amicable.’
It was quite evident that he fully declined further allusion to the subject. And Mr. Henry Hunter obtained no better elucidation, then or later.
It fell upon the world like a thunderbolt — that is, the world connected with Hunter and Hunter. They separate? so flourishing a firm as that? The world at first refused to believe it; but the world soon found it was true.
Mr. Hunter retained the yard where the business was at present carried on. Mr. Henry Hunter found other premises to suit him; not far off; a little more to the west. Considerably surprised were Mrs. Hunter and Mrs. Henry Hunter; but the same plausible excuse was given to them; and they were left in ignorance of the true cause.
‘Will you remain with me?’ pointedly asked Mr. Hunter of Austin Clay. ‘I particularly wish it.’
‘As you and Mr. Henry may decide, sir,’ was the reply given. ‘It is not for me to choose.’
‘We could both do with you, I believe. I had better talk it over with him.’
‘That will be the best plan,’ sir.
‘What do you part for?’ abruptly inquired Dr. Bevary one day of the two brothers, coming into the counting-house and catching them together.
Mr. Henry raised his eyebrows. Mr. Hunter spoke volubly.
‘The business is getting too large. It will be better divided.’
‘Moonshine!’ cried the doctor, quietly. ‘That’s what you have been cramming your wives with; it won’t do for me. When a concern gets unwieldy, a man takes a partner to help him on with it; you are separating. There’s many a firm larger than yours. Do you remember the proverb of the bundle of sticks?’
But neither Dr. Bevary nor anybody else got at a better reason than that for the measure. The dissolution of partnership took place; it was duly gazetted, and the old firm became two. Austin remained with Mr. Hunter, and he was the only living being who gave a guess, or
who could give a guess, at the real cause of separation — the drawing out of that five thousand pounds.
And yet — it was not the drawing out of that first five thousand pounds, that finally decided Mr. Henry Hunter to enforce the step, so much as the thought that other thousands might perhaps be following it. He could not divest his mind of the fear.
PART THE SECOND.
CHAPTER I. A MEETING OF THE WORKMEN.
For several years after the separation of Hunter and Hunter, things went on smoothly; at least there was no event sufficiently marked that we need linger to trace it. Each had a flourishing business, though Mr. Hunter had some difficulty in staving off embarrassment in the financial department: a fact which was well known to Austin Clay, who was now confidential manager — head of all, under Mr. Hunter.
He, Austin Clay, was getting towards thirty years of age. He enjoyed a handsome salary, and was putting by money yearly. He still remained at Peter Quale’s, though his position would have warranted a style of living far superior. Not that it could have brought him more respect: of that he enjoyed a full share, both from master and men. Clever, energetic, firm, and friendly, he was thoroughly fitted for his post — was liked and esteemed. But for him, Mr. Hunter’s business might not have been what it was, and Mr. Hunter knew it. He was a broken-spirited man, little capable now of devoting energy to anything. The years, in their progress, had terribly altered James Hunter.
A hot evening in Daffodil’s Delight; and Daffodil’s Delight was making it a busy one. Uninterrupted prosperity is sometimes nearly allied to danger; or, rather, danger may grow out of it. Prosperity begets independence, and independence often begets assumption — very often, a selfish, wrong view of surrounding things. If any workmen had enjoyed of late years (it may be said) unlimited prosperity, they were those connected with the building trade. Therefore, being so flourishing, it struck some of their body, who in a degree gave laws to the rest, that the best thing they could do was to make themselves more flourishing still. As a preliminary, they began to agitate for an increase of wages: this was to be accomplished by reducing the hours of labour, the proposition being to work nine hours per day instead of ten. They said nothing about relinquishing the wages of the extra hour: they would be paid for ten hours and work nine. The proposition was first put by the men of a leading metropolitan firm to their principals, and, failing to obtain it, they threatened to strike. This it was that was just now agitating Daffodil’s Delight.
