If any of them hinted that he ought to subscribe, he at once closed the matter by the sharp, pithy answer: “Nobody helped me to what I hev. What’s mine’s my own, an’ I’m not boun’ to gi’e it unless I like.” His pockets would give their loudest chaunting of confidence and defiance (like allied monarchs singing their Te Deum), and the sharp jerk of his head and a glance to the door would show that the interview was concluded, and his ultimatum given. He was convinced that in the estimation of the world his money was the best part of him. He entertained no inflated notion of his personal qualifications or attainments: on the contrary, he had a very low opinion of them. He knew that he was devoid of education, and had no talent except that of making money—which he considered a very easy thing to do. In his self-communings, after his advice or counsel had been sought by others, he would say, “Ay, Sam, thy money’s thy wit; loise one an’ t’ other goes wi’ it. A man’s wit is what he has; t’ lawyer’s his wig, an’ t’ parson’s his gown. There’s no wit in a poor man.” His wealth had not produced in him any of the vulgar pride which so often causes the man who has risen from the ranks to despise the grade from which he has come. He was still in heart and in manners one of the people, and he looked with undisguised and plain-spoken contempt upon such of his early acquaintances as had risen like himself, and had then assumed to themselves the style and haughtiness of those with whom they had nothing in common except wealth. After a visit to them, which he paid very seldom and reluctantly, he would, in allusion to the contrast between their luxury and their manners, say, “It wor war nor suppin’ porridge out o’ t’ dye-pan.”
His great “Boggart” was poor relations. He had no faith in their affection towards him. They were all to him plunderers, open or disguised. In his walks in the town, he would go a mile round rather than meet one, for with all his contempt for them he felt, as he expressed it, “that blood’s thicker nor water;” and however much he might rail at them, he never left them without some more pleasant and substantial proof of his kinship. It was perhaps from a sense of his weakness on this point that he carefully refrained from giving his nephew any information about his relations. To this nephew he was indulgent in all respects: perhaps because he never thwarted his will. He was determined that there should be no drawbacks to his nephew’s advancement in the world, or to his enjoyment in due time of the ease and pleasure which wealth can give. He should be able to take his place with the best in the land. His maxim was, “Th’ getter a man, an’ t’spender a gentleman,” and he spared no expense in the education of his nephew. Still he was careful that no idle or extravagant habits should be contracted by him, and maintained a strict superintendence over him. Hitherto he had had little occasion to find fault. Henry was perhaps too fond of his books, too slow in acquiring the tricks of trade, and too full of unsettled notions to altogether suit his uncle, but he was admitted to be on the whole “a steady decent lad, wi’ some queer notions.”
From the time of Henry’s last interview with Susan, there was a change in him which his uncle soon perceived, but which he could not account for. He came home at more irregular hours, he was abstracted and irritable, and sat by the fire for hours in moody silence. His uncle formed many an hypothesis as to the cause. He feared he had got into some pecuniary difficulty which he dare not confess, or that there had been some quarrel between him and his master. A little adroit inquiry of the latter satisfied him that this was not the case, but elicited the fact that Henry’s attendance to business had of late been irregular and open to comment. Bentley was determined to find out the cause, and mentioned the matter to his manager, telling him to make investigations and report the result. In a few days the manager came to him and stated that he had found out that “Henry was after a mill hand,” one famous in the town for her good looks.
If Bentley had had patience to listen on, he would have learnt that there was not that criminality which in the glow of his indignation he assumed there was, for the manager would have stated honestly the particulars of his discovery, and admitted that in his opinion no blame attached to the girl, or as yet to Henry. Bentley, however, started off in a mighty rage, vowing dreadful things against Henry and the girl, and swearing he would discard him and expose her. He went as quick as he could to the warehouse, where Henry ought to have been at work, and found he was not there, and that no one knew where he was. He had therefore to nurse his rage until evening, when Henry would return home. During the day he became, by dwelling upon the hateful subject, greatly excited, and communicated to more than one of his acquaintances the resolution to turn Henry adrift in the world if he ventured to show his face again. Idle words; the mere fume of a troubled affection, but which brought forth fruit.
At the time Bentley went in search of Henry, the latter was in search of Susan. He had past many weary hours in hanging about Mrs. Womersley’s house in hopes of again seeing Susan; he had covertly made inquiries, all without success, and was despairing of again meeting with her, when, from a casual observation by one of his companions, he obtained a clue to her residence. He immediately went out to ascertain the accuracy of the information, and learnt that Susan was lodging at the low end of the town, in one of the dingy and not very reputable streets below the Old Church with a factory girl, who did not, even amongst her own class, bear the best of characters. This surprised him. He had formed a bright idea of Susan’s purity and worth, which this fact seemed to destroy, and the soft beaming and transparent gaze which seemed to him to know no thought that man could condemn, or woman reprove, might be but a snare and a delusion. The thought was maddening. He could not give her up, and with this fearful doubt he could not seek her. The truth, be it what it might, must and should be known instantly. Instead of returning to his employment, he went into a neighbouring public-house to spend the few hours of the afternoon until the factories should close. He would