All that was known was that a few weeks after the acquittal, a wagon came and fetched away their goods from the cottage, and Jenkins was heard of no more—for the time. He had, in fact, found work, and buried himself, as he hoped, forever out of sight. There was a certain natural pride in him, and it had been cruelly trampled upon. Suffer what he might, he would not ask for aid—not even from Violet. And he did suffer—he and his poor shattered wife. With not exactly a bad character, but the stigma of “murder” clinging to him, he wandered about seeking work, and nearly starved.
Even in Bury Wick, where he was so well-known, had he returned, he would have found a certain amount of reluctance to receive him into the old grooves. In distant villages where the dreadful tale of blood had penetrated, and where the people had had little or no opportunity of hearing the facts, there was still a strong prejudice against him; and it must be owned that from an outsider’s point of view, it did look suspicious that he should have been alone near the house when the deed was committed. So it was that he found it hard to get employment, especially now the winter was come, and labour less in demand.
At length, worn-out and exhausted with hunger and wandering, he accepted the wages of a boy from Albert Herring, and a wagon was sent to fetch his goods.
Albert Herring had the reputation of being a hard master, and it was well deserved. Hard work, long hours, small pay, and that given grudgingly, and withheld on trivial pretences—these were the practices which gained for him the hatred of the labouring population. Yet with singular inconsistency they were always willing to work for him. This is a phenomenon commonly to be observed—the worst of masters can always command plenty of men.
With Jenkins it was a matter of necessity. If he could not get work he must starve or go into the union—dreaded almost as much as the prison. Albert kept him several days after his application—he would see about it—he was in no hurry. He laid much stress upon the gardener’s age, though the other assured him that willingness would compensate for that Jenkins had been a gardener, not a labourer. It was doubtful if he would understand his duties if he was put on to cut a hedge.
“Oh, yes!” said the old man, eagerly; “I can use an axe or a billhook.”
“Ay, ay,” said Albert, brutally. “Thee can use a billhook, so I’ve heard say.”
Jenkins bowed his head, and his lip quivered.
The upshot was that he was put on at nine shillings per week—one shilling to be deducted for rent of a small cottage.
XI
This trial of poor Jenkins took up Aymer’s time, so that he had no leisure for his new book, which had to be laid aside; and when he was in hopes of returning to it, another incident again interrupted him. The work he had to do was very little after all; it was not the amount, but the character of it, that he disliked.
Yet, notwithstanding his hatred of the law, he could not help imbibing some small smattering which afterwards proved extremely serviceable. The change from World’s End was also beneficial in another manner—it opened his eyes to much that he had never suspected. If anything, his inclination hitherto would have been to have taken most people pretty much at their word. This may sound childish to the young men of the period, who—in the habit of frequenting billiard saloons, horse-races, card parties, hotels, and all places where people congregate—naturally pick up a good deal of knowledge of the world sufficient to astonish their parents, at all events.
Aymer certainly was not a model young man. Without a doubt, if he had been placed where such amusements were easily accessible, he would have done much as others of his age did; but it so happened that living at World’s End, entirely out of society, he had no such opportunities. After a month or so at Broughton’s office his eyes began to open, and he saw that things are very different under the surface to what they appear outwardly. He became less ready to accept what people said, or did in the sense they wished others to see them, and commenced a habit of deducting a large percentage from the price they put upon themselves.
He had been three times to see Violet—staying only a few hours—and was agreeably surprised with the pleasant reception he received from Lady Lechester, who took an opportunity of informing him privately that she wished Violet to continue with her. Violet was well, but dull. She was no sentimental heroine to pine away at separation from Aymer; but it was only natural that she should miss the old associations. Particularly she begged Aymer not to overwork himself at night with his private labour.
Lady Lechester seconded this, saying that she had known a gentleman who, much of the same disposition as Aymer, had lost his wits through incessant application. He was a relation of hers, and was now confined in an asylum at Stirmingham. To save speculation, it will be as well to at once mention that this person was not Odo Lechester.
Aymer’s reply was that he feared he should never complete his book, for something always seemed to happen to delay it, and now he should soon have to accompany Mr. Broughton to Stirmingham.
It was in this way. Mr. Broughton, before removing to Barnham, where he inherited the practice and most of the fortune of a deceased uncle, had lived in Stirmingham, working as the junior partner in a firm there. He was no longer a partner, but still continued on friendly relations with the firm; and having much confidence in his ability, they frequently sent for him in difficult
