# Haworth's/Chapter XXXIII

CHAPTER XXXIII.
A SEED SOWN.
There had been, as it seemed, a lull in the storm. The idlers did not come over from Molton and Dillup as often as at first. The strikes had extended until they were in full blast throughout the country, but "Haworth's," so far, had held its own. Haworth himself was regarded as a kind of demi-god. He might have done almost anything he pleased. It was a source of some surprise to his admirers that he chose to do so little and showed no elation. One or two observing outsiders saw that his struggle had left its mark upon him. There were deep lines in his face; he had lost flesh and something of his air of bravado; at times he was almost haggard. As things became quieter he began to take sudden mysterious journeys to London and Manchester and various other towns. Ffrench did not know why he went; in fact Ffrench knew very little of him but that his humors were frequently trying and always more morose after such absences. He himself had alternately blown hot and cold. Of late the fruit of his efforts had rather the flavor of ashes. He was of even less importance than before in the Works, and he continually heard unpleasant comments and reports outside. As surely as his spirits rose to a jubilant height some untoward circumstance occurred to dash them.
"I should have thought," he said fretfully to his ​daughter, "that as a Broxton man and—and a gentleman, the people would have been with me, but they are not."
"No," said Miss Ffrench, "they are not."
She knew far more than he did himself. She was in the habit of not allowing any sign to escape her. When she took her frequent drives she kept her eyes open to all that happened.
"If they dared, there are a good many of them who would be insolent to me."
"Why should they not dare?" asked her father with increased irritation.
"Because they know I am not afraid of them—because I set them at defiance; and for another reason."
The other reason which she did not state had nothing to do with their daring. It was the strong one that in the splendor of her beauty she had her greatest power. Ordinary womanhood would scarcely in itself have appealed to the chivalric sentiment of Broxton, Molton and Dillup, but Rachel Ffrench driving slowly through the streets and past the "beer-house" doors, and turning her perfect, unmoved face for criticism to the crowd collected thereat, created a natural diversion. Those who had previously been in a sarcastic mood, lapsed into silence, the most inveterate 'bacco consumers took their pipes out of their mouths, feeling it necessary to suspend all action that they might look after her with a clearer appreciation. They were neither touched nor softened, but they were certainly roused to an active admiration which, after a manner, held them in check.
"Theer is na another loike her i' England," was once remarked rather sullenly by one. "Not i' England, let aloan Lancashire—an' be dom'd to her,"—this last added with a shade of delicate significance.
​But there was one man who saw her with eyes different from the rest. If he had not so seen her, existence would have been another matter. He seemed to live a simple, monotonous life. He held his place in the Works, and did well what he had to do. He was not very thoroughly understood by his fellows, but there existed a vague feeling of respect for him among them. They had become used to his silence and absent-mindedness and the tasks which seemed to them eccentricities. His responsibilities had increased, but he shouldered them without making any fuss and worked among the rest just as he had been wont to do when he had been Floxham's right hand in the engine-room. In more select circles he was regarded, somewhat to his distaste, with no inconsiderable interest. He was talked of privately as a young man with a future before him, though the idea of what that future was to be, being gathered from Ffrench, was somewhat indefinite. His own reserve upon the subject was rather resented, but still was forgiven on the score of eccentricity. For the rest, he lived, as it were, in a dream. The days came and went, but at the close of each there were at least a few hours of happiness.
And yet it was not happiness of a very tangible form. Sometimes, when he left the house and stepped into the cool darkness of the night outside, he found himself stopped for a moment with a sense of bewilderment. Haworth, who sat talking to his partner and following Rachel Ffrench's figure with devouring eyes, had gained as much as he himself. She had not spoken often, perhaps, and had turned from one to the other with the same glance and tone, but one man left her with anger and misery in his breast, and the other wondered at his own rapture.
​"I have done nothing and gained nothing," he would often say to himself as he sat at the work-table afterward, "but—I am madly happy."
And then he would lie forward with his head upon his folded arms, going over the incidents of the night again and again—living the seconds over, one by one.
Haworth watched him closely in these days. As he passed him on his way to his work-room, he would look up and follow him with a glance until he turned in at its door. He found ways of hearing of his life outside and of his doings in the Works.
One morning, as he was driving down the road toward the town, he saw in the distance the graceful figure of Mr. Briarley, who was slouching along in the somewhat muddled condition consequent upon the excitement of an agreeably convivial evening at the "Who'd ha' Thowt it."
He gave him a critical glance and the next moment whipped up his horse, uttering an exclamation,
"There's th' chap," he said, "by th' Lord Harry!"
In a few seconds more he pulled up alongside of him.
"Stop a bit, lad," he said.
Mr. Briarley hesitated and then obeyed with some suddenness. A delicately suggestive recollection of "th' barrels" induced him to do so. He ducked his head with a feeble smile, whose effect was somewhat obscured by a temporary cloud of natural embarrassment. He had not been brought into immediate contact with Haworth since the strikes began.
"Th' same," he faltered, with illusive cheerfulness,—"th' same to yo' an'—an' mony on 'em."
Then he paused and stood holding his hat in his hand, ​endeavoring painfully to preserve the smile in all its pristine beauty of expression.
Haworth leaned forward in his gig.
"You're a nice chap," he said. "You're a nice chap."
A general vague condition of mind betrayed Mr. Briarley into the momentary weakness of receiving this compliment literally. He brightened perceptibly, and his countenance became suffused with the roseate blush of manly modesty.
"My best days is ower," he replied. "I've been misforchnit, Mester—but theer wur a toime as th' opposite sect ha' said th' same though that theer's a thing," reflecting deeply and shaking his head, "as I nivver remoind Sararann on."
The next moment he fell back in some trepidation. Haworth looked down at him coolly.
"You're a pretty chap," he said, "goin' on th' strike an' leaving your wife and children to starve at home while you lay in your beer and make an ass of yourself."
"Eh!" exclaimed Mr. Briarley.
"And make an ass of yourself," repeated Haworth, unmovedly. "You'd better be drawin' your wages, my lad."
Mr. Briarley's expression changed. From bewilderment he passed into comparative gloom.
"It is na drawin' 'em I've getten owt agen," he remarked. "It is na drawin' 'em. It's earnin' 'em,—an' ha'in' 'em took away an'—an' spent i' luxuries—berryin'-clubs an' th' loike. Brass as ud buy th' nessycerries."
"If we'd left you alone," said Haworth, "where would your wife and children be now, you scoundrel? Who's fed 'em and clothed 'em while you've been on th' spree? Jem Haworth, blast you!—Jem Haworth."
​He put his hand in his pocket, and, drawing forth a few jingling silver coins, tossed them to him.
"Take these," he said, "an' go an' spend 'em on th' 'nessycerries,' as you call 'em. You'll do it, I know well enow. You'll be in a worse box than you are now, before long. We'll have done with you chaps when Murdoch's finished the job he's got on hand."
"What's that?" faltered Briarley. "I ha' na heerd on it."
Haworth laughed and picked up his whip and reins.
"Ask him," he answered. "He can tell you better than I can. He's at work on a thing that'll set the masters a good bit freer than they are now. That's all I know. There won't be any need o' so many o' you lads. You'll have to make your brass out of a new trade."
He bent a little to settle a strap.
"Go and tell the rest on 'em," he said. "You'll do it when you're drunk enow, I dare say."
Briarley fumbled with his coins. His air became speculative.
"What are you thinkin' on?" demanded Haworth. "It's a bad lookout, isn't it?"
Mr. Briarley drew a step nearer the gig's side. He appeared somewhat pale, and spoke in a whisper. Muddled as he was, he had an idea or so left.
"It'll be a bad lookout for him," he said. "Bless yo'! They'd tear him to pieces. They're in th' humor for it. They've been carryin' a grudge so long they're ready fur owt. They've nivver thowt mich o' him, though, but start 'em on that an' they wouldn't leave a shred o' it together—nor a shred o' him, eyther, if they got the chance."
Haworth laughed again.
​"Wouldn't they?" he said. "Let 'em try. He'd have plenty to stand by him. Th' masters are on his side, my lad."
He touched his horse, and it began to move. Suddenly he checked it and looked back, speaking again.
"Keep it to yourself, then," he said, "if there's danger, and keep my name out of it, by George, if you want to be safe!"
Just as he drove up to the gates of the yard Murdoch passed him and entered them. Until then—since he had left Briarley—he had not spoken. He had driven rapidly on his way with a grim, steady face. As Murdoch went by he got down from his gig, and went to the horse's head. He stood close to it, knotting the reins.
"Nor of him either," he said. "Nor of him either, by——"