CHAPTER XLII.
"ANOTHER MAN!"
In two days Haworth returned. He came from the station one morning, not having been home. He did not go to the Works, but to the bank and straight into Ffrench's private room.
The look this unhappy gentleman gave him when he saw him was a queer mixture of anxiety, furtive query, and amiably frank welcome,—the frank welcome a very faint element indeed, though it was brought to light by a violent effort. Haworth shut the door and locked it, and then turned upon him, his face black with rage.
"Say summat!" he ground out through his teeth. "Say summat as'll keep me from smashing every bone in your body!"
Ffrench gave him one hopeless glance and wilted into a drooping, weakly protesting, humiliated figure.
"Don't—don't be so severe, Haworth," he said. "I—I——"
"Blast you!" burst in Haworth, pitilessly. "You've ruined me!"
He spoke under his breath. No one in the room beyond could hear a word, but it was a thousand times more terrible than if he had roared at the top of his voice, as was his custom when things went amiss.
"You've ruined me!" he repeated. "You! A chap that's played gentleman manufacturer; a chap I've laughed at; a chap I took in to serve my own ends—ruined me, by——"
"Oh, no, no!" the culprit cried out. "My dear fellow, no! No, no!"
Haworth strode up to him and struck his fist against the table.
"Have I ever told you a word of what was going on?" he demanded.
"No! No!"
"Have I ever let you be aught but what I swore you should be at th' first—a fellow to play second fiddle and do what he was told?"
Ffrench turned pale. A less hard nature would have felt more sympathy for him.
"No," he answered, "you have not," and his chin dropped on his breast.
Haworth shook his fist in his face. He was in a frenzy of rage and despair.
"It's been going from bad to worse for six months," he said; "but you were not up to seeing it stare you in the face. Strikes are the things for trade to thrive on! One place after another gone down and Jem Haworth's stood up. Jem Haworth's outdone 'em all. I've not slept for three month, my lad. I've fought it like a tiger! I've not left a stone unturned. I've held my mouth shut and my eyes open,—aye, and held my breath, too. I've swore every time I saw daylight that I'd hold it out to the end and show 'em all what Haworth was made of, and how he stood when th' nobs went down at the first drive. I'd sooner have hell than what's bound to come now! And it's you that's done it. You've lost me twenty thousand pound—twenty thousand, when ten's worth more to me than a hundred was a twelvemonth since!"
Ffrench quailed like a woman.
"Are—are you going to murder me?" he said. "You look as if you were."
Haworth turned on his heel.
"You're not worth it," he answered, "or I'd do it, by the Lord Harry."
Then he came back to him.
"I've paid enow for what I've never had, by George," he said, with bitter grimness.
"For what you have——" Ffrench began.
Haworth stopped him by flinging himself down in a chair near him—so near that their faces were brought within uncomfortably close range of each other. There was no avoiding his eye.
"You know what," he sneered. "None better."
"I——" Ffrench faltered.
"Blast you!" said Haworth. "You played her like bait to a fish—in your gentleman's fashion."
Ffrench felt a little sick. It was not unnatural that he should. A man of refined instincts likes less than any other man to be confronted brutally with the fact that he has, however delicately, tampered with a coarseness.
Haworth went on.
"You knew how to do it, and you did it—gentleman way. You knew me and you knew I was hard hit and you knew I'd make a big throw. That was between us two, though we never said a word. I'd never give up a thing in my life before and I was mad for her. She knew how to hold me off and gave me plenty to think of. What else had you, my lad? 'Haworth's' didn't want a gentleman; 'Haworth's' didn't want brass, and you'd none to give if it did. It wasn't you who was took in partner; it was what Jem Haworth was aiming at—and has missed, by——"
He got up, and, pushing his chair back, made a stride toward the door. Ffrench was sure he was going away without another word, but he suddenly stopped and turned back.
"I'd sooner take hell than what's comin'," he repeated in a hoarse whisper. "And it's you that's brought it on me; but if I'd got what I aimed at, it might have come and welcome."
Then he went out.
He went across to the Works, and, going into his room, he found Murdoch standing at one of the windows gazing out at something in the street. He was haggard and gaunt and had a vacant look. It occurred to Haworth that some sudden physical ailment had attacked him. He went up to his side.
"What have you found, lad?" he demanded.
The next instant his own eyes discovered what it was. An open carriage was just drawing up before the bank. Rachel Ffrench sat in it, and Saint Méran was with her.
He looked at them a second or so and then looked at Murdoch—at his wretched face and his hollow eyes. An unsavory exclamation burst from him.
"What!" he cried out after it. "There's another man, is there? Is it that?"
"Yes," was Murdoch's monotonous reply. "There's another man."