There is a climax to everything, to every state of feeling as well as to every position in life.I turned this truism over in my mind as, in the frosty dawn of a January morning, Ihurried down the steep and now icy street which descended fromMrs.King’s to the Close.The factory workpeople had preceded me by nearly an hour, and the mill was all lighted up and in full operation when I reached it.I repaired to my post in the counting- house as usual; the fire there, but just lit, as yet only smoked; Steighton had not yet arrived.I shut the door and sat down at the desk; my hands, recently washed in half-frozen water, were still numb; I could not write till they had regained vitality, so I went on thinking, and still the theme of my thoughts was the “climax.” Self-dissatisfaction troubled exceedingly the current of my meditations.
“Come, William Crimsworth,” said my conscience, or whatever it is that within ourselves takes ourselves to task—“come, get a clear notion of what you would have, or what you would not have.You talk of a climax; pray has your endurance reached its climax? It is not four months old.What a fine resolute fellow you imagined yourself to be when you told Tynedale you would tread in your father’s steps, and a pretty treading you are likely to make of it! How well you like X—! Just at this moment how redolent of pleasant associations are its streets, its shops, its warehouses, its factories! How the prospect of this day cheers you! Letter-copying till noon, solitary dinner at your lodgings, letter-copying till evening, solitude; for you neither find pleasure in Brown’s, norSmith’s, nor Nicholl’s, nor Eccles’ company; and as to Hunsden, you fancied there was pleasure to be derived from his society—he! he! how did you like the taste you had of him last night? was it sweet? Yet he is a talented, an original-minded man, and even he does not like you; your self-respect defies you to like him; he has always seen you to disadvantage; he always will see you to disadvantage; your positions are unequal, and were they on the same level your minds could not; assimilate; never hope, then, to gather the honey of friendship out of that thorn-guarded plant.Hello, Crimsworth! where are your thoughts tending? You leave the recollection of Hunsden as a bee would a rock, as a bird a desert; and your aspirations spread eager wings towards a land of visions where, now in advancing daylight—in X— daylight—you dare to dream of congeniality, repose, union.Those three you will never meet in this world; they are angels.The souls of just men made perfect may encounter them in heaven, but your soul will never be made perfect.Eight o’clock strikes! your hands are thawed, get to work!”
“Work? why should I work?” said I sullenly: “I cannot pleasethough I toil like a slave.” “Work, work!” reiterated the inward voice.“I may work, it will do no good,” I growled; but nevertheless I drew out a packet of letters and commenced my task—task thankless and bitter as that of the Israelite crawling over the sun- baked fields of Egypt in search of straw and stubble wherewith to accomplish his tale of bricks.
About ten o’clock I heard Mr.Crimsworth’s gig turn into the yard, and in a minute or two he entered the counting-house.It was his custom to glance his eye at Steighton and myself, to hang up his mackintosh, stand a minute with his back to the fire, and thenwalk out.Today he did not deviate from his usual habits; the only difference was that when he looked at me, his brow, instead of being merely hard, was surly; his eye, instead of being cold, was fierce.He studied me a minute or two longer than usual, but went out in silence.
Twelve o’clock arrived; the bell rang for a suspension of labour; the workpeople went off to their dinners; Steighton, too, departed, desiring me to lock the counting-house door, and take the key with me.I was tying up a bundle of papers, and putting them in their place, preparatory to closing my desk, when Crimsworth reappeared at the door, and entering closed it behind him.
“You’ll stay here a minute,” said he, in a deep, brutal voice, while his nostrils distended and his eye shot a spark of sinister fire.
Alone with Edward I remembered our relationship, and remembering that forgot the difference of position; I put away deference and careful forms of speech; I answered with simple brevity.
“It is time to go home,” I said, turning the key in my desk.
“You’ll stay here!” he reiterated.“And take your hand off that key! leave it in the lock!”
“Why?” asked I.“What cause is there for changing my usualplans?”
“Do as I order,” was the answer, “and no questions! You are my servant, obey me! What have you been about—?” He was going on in the same breath, when an abrupt pause announced that rage had for the moment got the better of articulation.
“You may look, if you wish to know,” I replied.“There is theopen desk, there are the papers.”
“Confound your insolence! What have you been about?” “Your work, and have done it well.”
“Hypocrite and twaddler! Smooth-faced, snivelling greasehorn!” (this last term is, I believe, purely —-shire, and alludes to the horn of black, rancid whale-oil, usually to be seen suspended to cart-wheels, and employed for greasing the same.)“Come, Edward Crimsworth, enough of this.It is time you and Iwound up accounts.I have now given your service three months’ trial, and I find it the most nauseous slavery under the sun.Seek another clerk.I stay no longer.”
“What I do you dare to give me notice? Stop at least for your wages.” He took down the heavy gig whip hanging beside his mackintosh.
I permitted myself to laugh with a degree of scorn I took no pains to temper or hide.His fury boiled up, and when he had sworn half-a-dozen vulgar, impious oaths, without, however, venturing to lift the whip, he continued:—“I’ve found you out and know you thoroughly, you mean, whining lickspittle! What have you been saying all over X— about me? answer me that!”
“You? I have neither inclination nor temptation to talk about you.”
