Chapter X

Henry walked away in a whirl of mingled passions--resentment mingled with wounded feelings; and one added force to the other. He had worked all night, perilling life without a care, but no word had been said on this subject. He had hastened over, weary and hungry, to confess all to Mr. Powderham, and advantage had been taken of his absence to get up stories against him. The sense of unfairness and ill-usage made his heart smart and bleed; the impossibility of coping with the unfairness maddened him.

Those who have been born fiery and sensitive may imagine the feelings of impotent resentment and desire of revenge that swept through his mind, adding to the inward tumult by the very consciousness of their impotency. But most men, either from principle or obedience to common laws of society, govern those feelings, instead of allowing them to be the governors. But Henry, unfortunately, had yielded too little to control, knew too little the duty or the importance of self-mastery, to be able to reason when agitated. His mind lost its balance, and before he reached his lodgings he had determined to throw up his situation.

“Why had he ever taken it? Why had he ever exposed himself to the insults of underlings?--to the oppression of masters? Why had he ever thought it possible that a connexion--any connexion--with his house’s enemy could bring good luck with it. He renounced it at once and for ever. Better be a common workman, a railway navvy, than bear what he had had to bear.”

He was exhausted with want of food when he got to his lodging, for he had had nothing during the work of the night, or the ride of the morning, and he called for some breakfast. The refreshment of his bodily powers in some degree soothed his mind, but did not alter his resolution; and after breakfast he began to sort out his papers and tear his letters.

In the course of his hurried inspection he opened Nora’s letter to himself, and as his eyes fell on the first few sentences a softer mood stole over him. He did not change his views, but the mood of mind changed. He would still resign, but he would not throw his resignation with bitter words in Mr. Powderham’s face; he would see Nora, and calmly yield up to her the office she had entrusted to him. This decision stilled and calmed him, and restored him to a sense of dignity. Possibly even without allowing it, a something in the future which might stay the offer of resignation floated dimly and consolingly before him; but it was not consciously seen.

He hurriedly put back his papers, only half sorted and arranged, and went up to the house to see what was going forward. He was calmed, but his mood of mind was still sensitive, and everything conspired to add to this sensitiveness. He found all the workmen busily at work, and no notice was taken of him as he stood by. This was but natural, since Mr. Powderham was supreme, and had given his orders; but Henry felt none the less overlooked. At last he asked if Mr. Powderham was gone. The man said he thought not. He thought he was going to stay to receive Miss Smith.

This was natural, but it was another blow to Henry.

“Where is Mr. Field?” he asked next.

There was something going on--a letter or messenger being sent to Miss Smith, the man said. He thought he was gone to find one.

Henry had intended to be this messenger himself. He felt every way baffled. He wandered into the house, no longer daring to take on himself to make arrangements for Nora’s reception; but did not find comfort there. All indeed were kind; even Hannah, now that she saw the look of misery on his handsome face, was repentant for her spiteful speech. But one and all seemed to look on him as the culprit--as without any doubt the culprit; and a feeling, a reasonless one, but a feeling of kindliness and chivalry, made him bear it bravely, and not attempt to shift the blame to other shoulders. Finding little comfort therefore in the house, he turned away. As he left the kitchen, where he had found Mrs. Ratcliffe, Sophy, beginning to cry, slipped her hand into his.

“Poor little thing!” he said, patting the little hand. “Were you very much frightened?”

“She was terribly frightened, sir,” said Mrs. Ratcliffe, “but I think she frets most for you. She don’t like to have you blamed.”

“Poor little thing!” he said, much touched. He stooped and kissed her; but feeling overmuch softened by the unexpected kindness, dropped her hand and strode away.

Sophy gasped a sob, and then sat down again and cried silently.

As Henry returned to his lodgings, he met James Field. “Where do you come from?” he asked shortly.

“Mr. Powderham has written to Miss Smith. A messenger is to go with the letter to the Junction. That will save her a surprise when she arrives.”

“I meant to go to the station to meet her.”

“So do I,” said James Field, with a stately manner, “and so does Mr. Powderham; but still it was right to prepare her.”

“Who is going?”

“Thornhill. He is just off, but you can catch him if you have a private message to send.”

“I have none.” That word “private,” pronounced in a peculiar tone of irony, made his flesh creep. “I shall be at the station,” he said, and walked on.

The storm was renewed within.

He set to work again upon his papers, now and then looking at his watch. His horse was tired, and he must walk to the station, which was six miles off. He determined to do it leisurely, and not arrive heated and excited. The weather was hot, and the sun very powerful; he did not mind this in general, but his mind was set on this reception at the station, and his appearance there assumed an enormous importance in his eyes. Not his personal appearance in any conceited sense; that for which he felt anxiety was for the dignity and self-possession of his air and manner.

He wished to be at the station by five. A little before three a message was brought him that a workman wished to speak to him. He went down and found a man, who, with an agitated manner, began to tell him that he had been suspected of stealing a fellow-workman’s tools.

“Now, sir,” he said, “the tools was taken between three and four yesterday afternoon; that is owned by Thorpe himself; and how could I have taken them when I was not there? You knows well, sir, that you sent me to Dollington,” naming the nearest town.

“Yes, I sent you. It was to get a piece of velvet for the chimney-piece of the unfortunate room.”

“Yes, sir. It is four good miles to Dollington, and I brought it you back at four o’clock; you knows that.”

“Yes, I am sure of it; and I did not give you the commission till after your dinner. All right; you can prove it is a mistake.”

“No, sir, that’s what I can’t do; for it seems nobody missed me; or they won’t say as they did. I’ve got a bit of a temper, sir, and I’m not a popular man, and they don’t care to see me down; but I value my character, sir, and I can’t put up with this.”

“Then you want me to prove it?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve got to be hauled before the magistrate, Squire Lubbock, this evening, and if there’s nobody to speak for me, I shall be hauled to prison; and, sir, I value my character, and if you be so good, I can’t put up with it.”

Henry’s countenance fell.

“What time are you to go?”

“I am to be at Squire Lubbock’s at half after five; and if you, sir, will be so good as to meet me there, you may get me out of this scrape, and I shall be for ever grateful to your honour.”

“Well, my good man, I can’t refuse you,” Henry said. “I know what it is to be wrongfully accused. Though I would rather be shot, and shoot you, too,” he added, using in his excitement one of those foolishly forcible expressions which did him so much injury. “I will do a good turn when I can. Go. I will meet you.”

“Thank ye, sir,” and the man went away.

Henry was forced to change his plans. Mr. Lubbock was a squire who lived in an opposite direction to the station, three or four miles over the heath. He was there by half-past five, but was kept waiting for nearly an hour, and it was past half-past seven before the business was well over, and he was at home again. He thought it too late to intrude on Nora.

“What will she think of me?” he said, as he sat dreary and distracted in his lodgings. “But it shall all be ended to-morrow morning. I’ll be off from this unfortunate place before another sun has set.”