People that met Jael Dence and Henry Little driving to Cairnhope were struck with their faces; his so dark, hers so fair, and both so handsome: but the woman's lit up with lively delight, the man's clouded and sorrowful, and his brow knit with care. This very day he must take the lock off Cairnhope old church, in spite of his Uncle Raby. He had got the requisite¹ tools with him hidden in the gig; but, even should he succeed, it was but the first step of a difficult and, perhaps, dangerous enterprise; and he was entering on it all with a heart no longer buoyed² by hopeful love. But for his pledge to Mr. Cheetham he could hardly have persisted in the struggle.  
As for Jael Dence, she had no great reason to be happy either: the man she loved loved another. Still he was kind to HER, and they belonged to the same class; she had a chance, and gleams of hope. And, after all, the future was uncertain, but the present certain: she had him to herself for the day. She was close to him—so close, that she could feel him—and he was driving her out, and to those who loved her: she basked³ in the present delight, and looked as if she was being taken to heaven by an angel, instead of driving to Cairnhope by a gloomy young man, whom the passers-by envied, and wondered at his good luck in having such a companion. She talked to him, and got the short answers of an absent man. But she continued to make her little remarks occasionally, and, ere they reached Cairnhope, he found himself somehow soothed⁴ by her sex, her beauty, and her mellow⁵, kindly⁶ voice.
 
As they drove up to the farm-house, he told her to hide her face a moment, for they didn't know who it was.
 
Martha ran out. “Y'are welcome, y'are welcome; and so is your—Eh! Why it's our Jael. 'Tis no avail to hide thy face, thou jade⁸; I know every bit o' thee.” And Patty had her out of the gig in a moment, and there was a cuddling match it did one good to see.
 
Henry perked⁹ up for a moment and offered a suggestion. “Some of that ought to come my way, for bringing her here.”
 
“Oh, you'll get enough o' that fun before you die,” said Patty. “Now come you in; the carter's boy will take the horse.”
 
They went in and greeted the old farmer; and soon the bell began to ring for church, and Nathan Dence told Martha to put on her bonnet¹⁰.
 
“La, father!” said she, piteously.
 
“She prefers to stay at home and chat with Jael,” said Henry. The fact is, he wanted to be rid of them both.
 
Old Dence shook his head. He was one of those simple, grand, old rustic¹¹ Christians¹², who have somehow picked out the marrow¹³ of religion, and left the devil the bone, yclept theology. “What?” said he, “my lasses! can't ye spare God a slice out of his own day?”
 
“Nay, it is not that, father.”
 
The old man continued his remonstrance¹⁴. “To be sure our Jael is a cordial. But she'll dine and sup with us. Take my word for 't, all lawful¹⁵ pleasures are sweeter on the Lord's day after a bit o' church.”
 
“And so they are, father; but dear heart! to think of you forgetting. Will nobody tell him? They're sworn to give me a red face, Jael and all.”
 
This piteous appeal set Jael's wits working. “Eh, father, it will be the first of her bans!”
 
“Is it me you are asking such a question?” cried Patty, and turned her head away with absurd mock-modesty¹⁶.
 
“And so 'tis,” said Dence; “ah, that is a different thing.”
 
Henry thought that was no reason for Patty's staying at home; she ought rather to go and hear the bans were cried all right.
 
At this proposal both sisters lifted up their hands, and he was remonstrated¹⁷ with, and lectured, and at last informed that, if a girl was in church when her bans were cried, her children would be all born deaf and dumb.
 
“Oh, indeed!” said Little, satirically. “That's a fact in natural history I was not aware of. Well, farmer, then let's you and I go by ourselves.”
 
So Patty stayed at home, in obedience¹⁸ to rural superstition¹⁹, and Jael stayed to keep her company, and Farmer Dence went to church out of piety²⁰; and as for Henry, to tell the truth, he went to church to escape the girls' tongues, and to be in a quiet, somniferous place, where he could think out his plans undisturbed.
 
The men were no sooner gone than the sisters began to gossip hard.
 
“Eh, Jael, thou's gotten a prize.”
 
“Not as I know of.”
 
“I do adore a dark young man.”
 
“So do I; but this one is not mine.”
 
“I'll take his word before thine. Why, he calls thee his lass in his very letter.”
 
“Not he. Show me his letter.”
 
“What will ye give me?”
 
“Nay, Patty, pray show it me.”
 
“Well, and so I will.”
 
She brought her the letter. Jael read it and changed color, and was delighted for a moment or two; but soon her good sense and humility²¹ prevailed. “'Twas to surprise you, like. I do know he looks higher than me.”
 
“More fool he. But I don't believe it.”
 
“You may,” said Jael, and turned the conversation to Patty's approaching marriage; once launched in that direction, it flowed without intermission till the men returned, and dinner smoked upon the board.
 
After dinner Henry watched an opportunity, and slipped out into the yard, got the tools out, put his great-coat over them, and away to Cairnhope Church. He knew better than go past Raby Hall to it: he went back toward Hillsborough, full three miles, and then turned off the road and got on the heather. He skirted the base of a heathery mound²², and at last saw the church on an elevation²³ before him, made for it incautiously over some boggy²⁴ ground, and sank in up to his waist.
 
He extricated²⁵ himself with considerable difficulty, and cast a woful look at his clothes.
 
Then he turned to, and piled up a heap of stones to mark the dangerous spot; for he foresaw he must often travel that way in all weathers. At last he reached the church, removed the lock, and fastened the door with screws. He then went back to the farm as fast as he could. But all this had taken a long time, and the sun was sinking as he got into the yard. He was in the very act of concealing²⁶ the lock in the gig, when Martha Dence came out at him, as red as a turkey-cock.
 
“You thought but little of my sister, young man, to leave her all these hours, and you come out to spend the day with her.”
 
“Stuff and nonsense! I came out on my own business.”
 
“So it seems. And it have taken you into worse company. A fine figure she has made you.”
 
“Who?”
 
“The hussy you have been after this while.”
 
“That's so like you girls. You think a man has nothing to do but to run after women.”
 
“What business can you have on the Sabbath-day, I'd like to know.”
 
“Would you? Well, I'll tell you—when I tell the bellman.”
 
“You are quite right, Mr. Little. Trust none but your friends.”
 
This was a bitter remark. Henry could not reply to it, and that moved his bile. Patty pursued her advantage, and let him know that, when a young man brought a young woman out for the day, he did not leave her for three hours at a stretch, unless he meant to affront²⁷ her. She raised her voice in saying this, and so did he in replying, “Tell you I came out on my own business, not Jael's; but I am a good-natured fellow, considering all I endure, so I took that opportunity to bring your sister out to see you. Could I guess you two couldn't make yourselves happy for one afternoon without flirting²⁸? So much for sisterly affection! Well, next time I'll come alone—if I come at all.”
 
Jael came out at the raised voices, and received this last sentence full in the face. She turned pale.
 
“Oh, Patty, Patty, what have you been saying?”
 
“I've been speaking my mind, that is all.”
 
“Ay, and you've made him say the only unkind word I ever heard from his lips.”
 
“I'm very sorry, Jael,” said the young man, penitently²⁹.
 
“Oh, then I'm to blame, because he is so ill-tempered.” And Patty bridled³⁰.
 
“Partly. You should not interfere³¹ between friends.” Having delivered this admonition, Jael softened³³ it by kissing her, and whispered, “Father's asking for his tea.”
 
Patty went in as meek³⁴ as Moses.
 
Then Jael turned to Henry, and laid her hand on his arm, while her gray eyes searched his face.
 
“There's something amiss. You are never cross, except when you are unhappy. What is it?”
 
“Oh, Jael, my heart is broken. She is going to be married.”
 
“Who says so?”
 
“Mr. Cheetham told me she was engaged to a Mr. Coventry.”
 
“What can Mr. Cheetham know? To be sure the gentleman is a good deal with her, and I hear he has courted her this two years; and she likes his company, that's certain. But she is used to be admired, and she is very hard to please.”
 
“What, then, you think it is not quite hopeless?”
 
“While there's life there's hope.”
 
“What had I better do?”
 
“Nay, you shouldn't ask me.”
 
“Oh, yes: you advised me so wisely about the insurance.”
 
“Ay, but then I saw it clear. He is purse-proud, and I knew he'd think a deal more of you if you insured your life for a vast o' money. But now I don't see clear; and I'm loath³⁵ to advise. Happen you'd hate me afterward³⁶ if it went wrong.”
 
“No, no, I wouldn't be so ungrateful.”
 
Jael shook her head, doubtfully.
 
“Well, then,” said Henry, “don't advise me; but put yourself in my place. (I'll tell you a secret I daren't trust to Patty. I have found a way to beat the Trades, and make my fortune in a year or two.) Now what would you do, if you were me?”
 
This question raised a tumult³⁷ in Jael's heart. But her strong will, her loyalty³⁸, and, above all, her patience, conquered, though not without signs of the struggle, a bosom³⁹ that heaved somewhat higher, and a low voice that trembled a little. “If I was a young man, I wouldn't shilly-shally, nor wait till I was rich, before I spoke⁴⁰. I'd have it out with her. I'd get her alone, and tell her all. Then, if she showed any sign of liking⁴¹, I'd beg her to wait a bit, and say I'd soon be a gentleman for her sake. And if she cares naught⁴² for you, better know it, and leave her, than fare in heaven one hour and in hell the next, as I have seen thee do this while, my poor lad.”
 
“It is wise and good advice, and I'll take it. I've kept all my courage for the Trades; I'd better have shown her a little. But there's one thing more I want to ask you.”
 
This was too much. Jael's courage and patience failed her for once. “Keep it,” she cried almost wildly. “I can't bear no more. There's not one lass in a hundred would do what I have done for you: yet you want more. D'ye think I'm not flesh and blood, as well as her?”
 
And she began to cry bitterly.
 
This took Henry quite by surprise, and grieved him. He consoled her, and coaxed⁴³ her, in vague terms, that did not produce any effect. So then he kissed her cheek, and dried her eyes with his own handkerchief, and that was not quite so ineffectual. She gave a final sob⁴⁴, and said, with some slight remains⁴⁵ of passion, “There, there; never heed⁴⁶ me. It takes a deal of patience to go through the world.” And so she left him.
 
He was not sorry to be alone a minute, and think. This short dialogue with Jael gave him some insight into female character. It made him suspect that he had been too timid with Grace Carden, and also that there were two women in the game instead of one.
 
When the time came to return he asked leave to borrow a horse-cloth.
 
He aired it by the fire, and remarked that it had turned very cold.
 
“Why,” said Patty, “you have got your top-coat. Well, you are a soft one.”
 
“And you are a sharp one,” said Henry, ironically.
 
When Jael came to the gig, Henry put the cloth over her shoulders. “'Twasn't for me, ye see,” said he: “'twas for my betters.”
 
“I like you for that,” said Patty.
 
Then there was much kissing, and shaking of hands, and promising⁴⁷ to come again, and away they drove to Hillsborough.
 
On the road Henry, for the first time, was very respectful, as well as kind, to Jael. She was soft and gentle, but rather silent and reserved. They parted at the door of “Woodbine Villa⁴⁸.”
 
Next day, Henry called early, and found Miss Carden alone. His heart beat tumultuously. She was very gracious, and hoped he had spent a pleasant day yesterday.
 
“Pretty well.”
 
“Is that all? Why I quite envied you your ride, and your companion.”
 
“She is a very good girl.”
 
“She is something more than that: but one does not find her out all at once.”
 
Now it was Henry's turn. But he was flustered⁴⁹, and thinking how he should begin. And, while he hesitated, the lady asked him was he come to finish the bust⁵⁰.
 
“No. I didn't come for that. I will finish it though.” And thus he was diverted from his purpose, for the moment.
 
He took a carving⁵¹ tool, and eyed his model, but soon laid down the tool, and said: “I haven't thanked you yet. And I don't know how to thank you.”
 
“What for?”
 
“For what you sent to Mr. Cheetham.”
 
“Oh!” said Grace, and blushed. Then she turned it off, and said she thought if any body ought to thank her for that, it was Mr. Cheetham.
 
“Ay, for the order. But the sweet words that came with it? Do you think I don't prize them above all the orders in the world?”
 
She colored high again. “What! did he show you my note?”
 
“He did: and that has made me his friend. Shall I tell you the effect of those words on me?”
 
“No; never mind. But I'm glad I put them in, if they did you any good.”
 
“Any good? They made me a new man. I was defeated by the Trades: I was broken-hearted: and I hated every body. Good Dr. Amboyne had set me work to do; to save the lives of my fellow-creatures. But I couldn't; I hated them so. The world had been too unjust to me, I could not return it good for evil. My heart was full of rage and bitterness.”
 
“That's a great pity—at your age. But really it is no wonder. Yes; you have been cruelly used.” And the water stood in Grace's eyes.
 
“Ay, but it is all over; those sweet words of yours made a man of me again. They showed me you cared a little for me. Now I have found a way to outwit the Trades. Now I'm on the road to fortune. I won't be a workman this time next year. I'll be a master, and a thriving one.”
 
“Ay, do, do. Beat them, defeat them; make them scream with envy. But I am afraid you are too sanguine⁵².”
 
“No; I can do it, if you will only give me another word of hope to keep me going; and oh, I need it, if you knew all.”
 
Grace began to look uneasy. “Mr. Little, can you doubt that you have my best wishes?” said she, guardedly, and much less warmly than she had spoken just before.
 
“No, I don't doubt that; but what I fear is, that, when I have gained the hard battle, and risen in the world, it will be too late. Too late.”
 
Grace turned more and more uncomfortable.
 
“Oh, pray wait a few months, and see what I can do, before you—”
 
Will it be believed that Mr. Carden, who seldom came into this room at all, must walk in just at this moment, and interrupt them. He was too occupied with his own affairs, to pay much attention to their faces, or perhaps he might have asked himself why the young man was so pale, and his daughter so red.
 
“I heard you were here, Little, and I want to speak to you on a matter of some importance.”
 
Grace took this opportunity, and made her escape from the room promptly⁵³.
 
Henry, burning inwardly, had to listen politely to a matter he thought pitiably unimportant compared with that which had been broken off. But the “Gosshawk” had got him in its clutches; and was resolved to make him a decoy duck. He was to open a new vein⁵⁴ of Insurances. Workmen had hitherto acted with great folly⁵⁵ and imprudence in this respect, and he was to cure them, by precept⁵⁶ as well as example.
 
Henry assented⁵⁷, to gratify a person whose good-will he might require, and to get rid of a bore. But that was not so easy; the “Gosshawk” was full of this new project, and had a great deal to say, before he came to the point, and offered Henry a percentage on the yearly premium⁵⁸ of every workman that should be insured in the “Gosshawk.”
 
This little bargain struck, Henry was left alone; and waited for the return of Miss Carden.
 
He was simple enough to hope she would come back, and have it out with him.
 
She kept carefully out of his way, and, at last, he went sadly home.
 
“Ah,” said he, “Jael gave me bad advice. I have been premature⁵⁹, and frightened her.”
 
He would go to work his own way again.
 
In forty-eight hours he moved into his new house, furnished it partly: bought a quantity of mediocre⁶⁰ wood-carving, and improved it; put specimens⁶¹ in his window, and painted his name over the door. This, at his mother's request and tearful entreaties⁶², he painted out again, and substituted “Rowbotham.”
 
Nor was Rowbotham a mere⁶³ nom de plume⁶⁴. It was the real name of Silly Billy. The boy had some turn for carving, but was quite uncultivated: Henry took him into his employ, fed him, and made free with his name. With all this he found time to get a key made to fit the lock of Cairnhope old Church.
 
At one o'clock on Thursday morning he came to Cheetham's works, and scratched at the gate. A big workman opened it. It turned out to be Cheetham himself, in a moleskin suit, and a long beard.
 
The forge on wheels was all ready, also a cart containing anvil⁶⁵, bellows⁶⁶, hammers, pincers, leathern buckets, and a quantity of steel laths. They attached the forge to the tail of the cart, and went on their silent expedition. Cheetham drove the cart. Henry followed afar off until they had cleared the suburbs.
 
They passed “Woodbine Villa.” A single light was burning. Henry eyed it wistfully, and loitered long to look at it. Something told him that light was in her bedroom. He could hardly tear himself away from contemplating⁶⁷ it: it was his pole-star.
 
There was only one great difficulty in their way; a man on a horse might cross the moor⁶⁸, but a cart must go by “Raby Hall” to reach the church: and, before they got within a furlong of the Hall, a watch-dog began to bark.
 
“Stop, sir,” whispered Henry. “I expected this.” He then produced some pieces of thick felt, and tied them with strings⁶⁹ round the wheels.
 
They then drove by the house as fast as they could. They did not deceive the dogs; but no man heard them, nor saw them.
 
They got to the church, opened the door, and drew the forge into the deserted⁷⁰ building.
 
As soon as they got inside, Cheetham cast his eyes round and gave a shudder⁷¹. “You must have a stout⁷² heart: no money should tempt⁷³ me to work here by myself. Lord! What's that?”
 
For a low musical moan was heard.
 
Cheetham darted⁷⁴ back, and got to the church-door.
 
Henry's heart beast faster: but he lighted his lantern, and went up the aisle⁷⁵. The place was solemn, grim, gaunt, and moldering, and echoed strangely; but it was empty. He halloed to his companion that it was all right. Then they set the forge up near a pillar at the entrance into the chancel. When they had done this, and brought in the steel laths, the sacks of coals, etc., Cheetham produced a flask⁷⁶, and took a pull of neat brandy. This gave him courage, and he proposed to have a look round before they went. Accordingly they inspected the building.
 
When they came round to the chancel, suddenly there was a rattle⁷⁷, and a tremendous rush of some huge thing that made a cold wind, and blew out the light.
 
Henry was appalled⁷⁸, and Cheetham dropped the lantern, and ran, yelling. And soon Henry heard his voice in the churchyard calling on him to come out.
 
He did go out, and felt very much puzzled and alarmed. However, he got matches from Cheetham, and went back, and lighted the lantern, quaking a little, and then he found that the great moldering picture over the altar had rotted away from some of its supports, and one half of it was now drooping⁷⁹, like a monstrous⁸⁰ wing, over the altar.
 
He returned with the lantern, and told Cheetham what it was. Then he screwed on the lock, locked the church, and they went back to Hillsborough in good spirits.
 
But, as he lay in bed, Henry thought the matter over, and, for the first time in his life, felt superstitious⁸¹.
 
“It is very odd,” he said, “that old picture my forefathers⁸² have worshiped under, and prayed to, no doubt, should flap out in my face like that, the moment I offered to set up my forge among their dead bones.”
 
Daylight dispersed⁸³ these superstitious feelings, and the battle began.
 
As usual, the first step toward making money was to part with it. He could do nothing without a horse and a light cart. In Hillsborough they drive magnificent horses in public cabs: Henry knew one in particular, that had often spun⁸⁴ up the steepest hills with him; a brute⁸⁵ of prodigious⁸⁶ bone and spirit. He bought this animal for a moderate price, considering his value: and then the next thing was—and indeed with some of us it precedes the purchase of the animal—to learn to ride.
 
He had only two days to acquire this accomplishment⁸⁷ in: so he took a compendious⁸⁸ method. He went to the circus, at noon, and asked to see the clown. A gloomy fellow was fished out of the nearest public, and inquired what he wanted.
 
“The clown.”
 
“Well, I am the clown.”
 
“What! you the merry chap that makes the fun?” said Henry, incredulously.
 
“I make the fun at night,” replied the man, dolefully. “If you want fun out of me, come and pay your shilling, like a man.”
 
“But it isn't fun I'm come for. I want to learn to ride.”
 
“Then you are too old. Why, we begin as soon as we can stand on a horse's back.”
 
“Oh, I don't mean to ride standing⁹⁰. I want to sit a horse, rearing, or plunging⁹¹, or blundering over rough ground.”
 
“What will you stand?”
 
“A sovereign.”
 
The clown dived into the public-house, and told a dark seedy man, with his black hair plastered and rolled effeminately, that he had got a bloke who would stand a quid for a mount. The two came out, and the plastered Italian went to the stables: the melancholy⁹² punster conducted Henry into the arena⁹³, and stood beside him like Patience on a monument. Presently a quiet mare⁹⁴ ran in, and stuck.
 
Henry was mounted, and cantered her round, the two men instinctively⁹⁵ following in a smaller circle, with jaws⁹⁶ as long as your arm.
 
“This is delightful,” said Henry; “but I might as well be sitting in a chair. What I want is a Prancer⁹⁷.”
 
Then they brought him another horse, just as docile⁹⁸ as the mare. The obedient creature, at a signal, reared suddenly, and seated Mr. Little on the sawdust behind him. A similar result was attained⁹⁹ several times, by various means. But Henry showed himself so tough, courageous¹⁰⁰, and persistent¹⁰¹, that he made great progress, and his good-humor won his preceptors. They invited him to come tomorrow, at an earlier hour, and bring half a quid with him. He did so, and this time there was an American rider rehearsing, who showed Henry what to do, and what not to do; and gave him a most humorous and instructive lesson. Indeed, his imitations of bad riding were so truthful¹⁰² and funny, that even the clown was surprised into one laugh; he who rarely smiled, unless in the way of business.
 
“Well, sir,” said Henry, “you have given me a good lesson; now take a hint from me; just you go and do all this before the public; for I never saw you do any thing half as droll¹⁰³.”
 
They all three shook their heads with one accord. Go out of the beaten track, before an audience? Never. Such vagaries¹⁰⁴ were only admissible in private.
 
After this second day the fee was reduced to a gallon of ale.
 
But, on the third day, the pupil combined theory with practice. He told his mother he was going to Cairnhope for the night. He then rode off to Cairnhope Church. He had two large saddle-bags, containing provisions, and tools of all sorts. He got safe across the moor just before sunset. He entered the church, led the horse in with him, and put him into the Squire¹⁰⁵'s pew. He then struck a light, went into the chancel, and looked at the picture. It was as he had left it; half on the wall, half drooping over the altar-place. The walls were dank, and streaked¹⁰⁶ here and there with green. His footsteps echoed, and the edifice¹⁰⁷ was all dark, except within the rays of his lantern; it also sang and moaned in a way to be accounted for by the action of the wind on a number of small apertures¹⁰⁹; but, nevertheless, it was a most weird¹¹⁰ and ghostly sound. He was glad of the companionship of his very horse.
 
He took his buckets to the mountain stream, and, in due course, filled his trough, and left one bucket full for other uses. He then prepared and lighted his forge. As he plied⁸⁹ the bellows, and the coals gleamed brighter and brighter, monumental figures came out and glared at him; mutilated inscriptions¹¹¹ wavered on the w............