After this waste of time and money, Henry went back to the works, and a workman told him rather sulkily, he was wanted in the foreman's office.
He went in, and there was a lovely girl of eighteen, who looked at him with undisguised curiosity, and addressed him thus: “Sir, is it you that carve wood so beautifully?”
Henry blushed, and hesitated; and that made the young lady blush herself a very little, and she said, “I wished to take lessons in carving.” Then, as he did not reply, she turned to Mr. Bayne. “But perhaps he objects to teach other people?”
“WE should object to his teaching other workmen,” said the foreman; “but,” turning to Henry, “there is no harm in your giving her a lesson or two, after hours. You will want a set of the tools, miss?”
“Of course I shall. Please put them into the carriage; and—when will he come and teach me, I wonder? for I am wild to begin.”
Henry said he could come Saturday afternoon, or Monday morning early.
“Whichever you please,” said the lady, and put down her card on the desk; then tripped away to her carriage, leaving Henry charmed with her beauty and ease.
He went home to his mother, and told her he was to give lessons to the handsomest young lady he had ever seen. “She has bought the specimen tools too; so I must forge some more, and lose no time about it.”
“Who is she, I wonder?”
“Here is her card. 'Miss Carden, Woodbine Villa, Heath Hill.'”
“Carden!” said the widow. Then, after a moment's thought, “Oh, Henry, don't go near them. Ah, I knew how it would be. Hillsborough is not like London. You can't be long hid in it.”
“Why, what is the matter? Do you know the lady?”
“Oh, yes. Her papa is director of an insurance company in London. I remember her being born very well. The very day she was christened—her name is Grace—you were six years old, and I took you to her christening; and oh, Harry, my brother is her godfather. Don't you go near that Grace Carden; don't visit any one that knew us in better days.”
“Why, what have we to be ashamed of?” said Henry. “'Tisn't as if we sat twiddling our thumbs and howling, 'We have seen better days.' And 'tisn't as if we asked favors of anybody. For my part I don't care who knows I am here, and can make three hundred a year with my own hands and wrong no man. I'd rather be a good workman in wood and steel than an arrogant old fool like your b—. No, I won't own him for yours or mine either—call him Raby. Well, I wouldn't change places with him, nor any of his sort: I'm a British workman, and worth a dozen Rabys—useless scum!”
“That you are, dear; so don't demean yourself to give any of them lessons. Her godfather would be sure to hear of it.”
“Well, I won't, to please you. But you have no more pluck than a chicken—begging your pardon, mother.”
“No, dear,” said Mrs. Little, humbly, quite content to gain her point and lose her reputation for pluck; if any.
Henry worked regularly, and fast, and well, and in less than a fortnight a new set of his carving-tools were on view in Hillsborough, and another in London; for it was part of Mr. Cheetham's strategy to get all the London orders, and even make London believe that these superior instruments had originated in Hillsborough.
One day Miss Carden called and saw Bayne in the office. Her vivid features wore an expression of vexation, and she complained to him that the wood-carver had never been near her.
Bayne was surprised at that; but he was a man who always allayed irritation on the spot. “Rely on it, there's some reason,” said he. “Perhaps he has not got settled. I'll go for him directly.”
“Thank you,” said the young lady. Then in the same breath, “No, take me to him, and perhaps we may catch him carving—cross thing!”
Bayne assented cheerfully, and led the way across a yard, and up a dirty stone stair, which, solid as it was, vibrated with the powerful machinery that steam was driving on every side of it. He opened a door suddenly, and Henry looked up from his work, and saw the invaders.
He stared a little at first, and then got up and looked embarrassed and confused.
“You did not keep your word, sir,” said Grace, quietly.
“No,” he muttered, and hung his head.
He seemed so confused and ashamed, that Bayne came to his assistance. “The fact is, no workman likes to do a hand's-turn on Saturday afternoon. I think they would rather break Sunday than Saturday.”
“It is not that,” said Henry, in a low voice.
Grace heard him, but answered Mr. Bayne: “Oh dear, I wish I had known. I fear I have made an unreasonable request: for, of course, after working so hard all the week—but then why did you let me purchase the tools to carve with? Papa says they are very dear, Mr. Bayne. But that is what gentlemen always say if one buys anything that is really good. But of course they WILL be dear, if I am not to be taught how to use them.” She then looked in Mr. Bayne's face with an air of infantine simplicity: “Would Mr. Cheetham take them back, I wonder, under the circumstances?”
At this sly thrust, Bayne began to look anxious; but Henry relieved him the next moment by saying, in a sort of dogged way, “There, there; I'll come.” He added, after a pause, “I will give you six lessons, if you like.”
“I shall be so much obliged. When will you come, sir?”
“Next Saturday, at three o'clock.”
“I shall be sure to be at home, sir.”
She then said something polite about not disturbing him further, and vanished with an arch smile of pleasure and victory, that disclosed a row of exquisite white teeth, and haunted Henry Little for many a day after.
He told his mother what had happened, and showed so much mortified pride that she no longer dissuaded him from keeping his word. “Only pray don't tell her your name,” said she.
“Well, but what am I to do if she asks it?”
“Say Thompson, or Johnson, or anything you like, except Little.”
This request roused Henry's bile. “What, am I a criminal to deny my name? And how shall I look, if I go and give her a false name, and then she comes to Bayne and learns my right one? No, I'll keep my name back, if I can; but I'll never disown it. I'm not ashamed of it, if you are.”
This reduced poor Mrs. Little to silence; followed, in due course, by a few meek, clandestine tears.
Henry put on his new tweed suit and hat, and went up to the villa. He announced himself as the workman from Cheetham's; and the footman, who had probably his orders, ushered him into the drawing-room at once. There he found Grace Carden seated, reading, and a young woman sewing at a respectful distance. This pair were types; Grace, of a young English gentlewoman, and Jael Dence of a villager by unbroken descent. Grace was tall, supple, and serpentine, yet not thin; Jael was robust and ample, without being fat; she was of the same height, though Grace looked the taller. Grace had dark brown eyes and light brown hair; and her blooming cheek and bewitching mouth shone with expression so varied, yet vivid, and always appropriate to the occasion, grave or gay, playful or dignified, that her countenance made artificial faces, and giggling in-the-wrong-place faces, painfully ridiculous. As for such faces as Jael's, it killed them on the spot, but that was all. Jael's hair was reddish, and her full eyes were gray; she was freckled a little under the eyes, but the rest of her cheek full of rich pure color, healthy, but not the least coarse: and her neck an alabaster column. Hers was a meek, monotonous countenance; but with a certain look of concentration. Altogether, a humble beauty of the old rural type;