



Produced by David Edwards, Martin Pettit and the Online
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A LIFE'S SECRET.

A Novel.

By

MRS. HENRY WOOD,

AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE," "THE CHANNINGS," ETC.

[Illustration: Logo]

_EIGHTH EDITION._

LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty.

1879.

[_All Rights of Translation and Reproduction are Reserved._]




CONTENTS.


PART THE FIRST.

CHAP.                                       PAGE
   I. WAS THE LADY MAD?                       11

  II. CHANGES                                 32

 III. AWAY TO LONDON                          39

  IV. DAFFODIL'S DELIGHT                      52

   V. MISS GWINN'S VISIT                      67

  VI. TRACKED HOME                            83

 VII. MR. SHUCK AT HOME                      103

VIII. FIVE THOUSAND POUNDS!                  116

  IX. THE SEPARATION OF HUNTER AND HUNTER    127


PART THE SECOND.

   I. A MEETING OF THE WORKMEN               136

  II. CALLED TO KETTERFORD                   153

 III. TWO THOUSAND POUNDS                    168

  IV. AGITATION                              186


PART THE THIRD.

   I. A PREMATURE AVOWAL                     204

  II. MR. COX                                221

 III. 'I THINK I HAVE BEEN A FOOL'           238

  IV. SOMEBODY 'PITCHED INTO'                256

   V. A GLOOMY CHAPTER                       274

  VI. THE LITTLE BOY AT REST                 288

 VII. MR. DUNN'S PIGS BROUGHT TO MARKET      294

VIII. A DESCENT FOR MR. SHUCK                309

  IX. ON THE EVE OF BANKRUPTCY               326

   X. THE YEARS GONE BY                      342

  XI. RELIEF                                 359

 XII. CONCLUSION                             369




A LIFE'S SECRET




PART THE FIRST.




CHAPTER I.

WAS THE LADY MAD?


On the outskirts of Ketterford, a town of some note in the heart of
England, stood, a few years ago, a white house, its green lawn,
surrounded by shrubs and flowers, sloping down to the high road. It
probably stands there still, looking as if not a day had passed over its
head since, for houses can be renovated and made, so to say, new again,
unlike men and women. A cheerful, bright, handsome house, of moderate
size, the residence of Mr. Thornimett.

At the distance of a short stone's-throw, towards the open country, were
sundry workshops and sheds--a large yard intervening between them and
the house. They belonged to Mr. Thornimett; and the timber and other
characteristic materials lying about the yard would have proclaimed
their owner's trade without the aid of the lofty sign-board--'Richard
Thornimett, Builder and Contractor.' His business was extensive for a
country town.

Entering the house by the pillared portico, and crossing the
black-and-white floor-cloth of the hall to the left, you came to a room
whose windows looked towards the timber-yard. It was fitted up as a sort
of study, or counting-house, though the real business counting-house was
at the works. Matting was on its floor; desks and stools stood about;
maps and drawings, plain and, were on its walls; not finished
and beautiful landscapes, such as issue from the hands of modern
artists, or have descended to us from the great masters, but skeleton
designs of various buildings--churches, bridges, terraces--plans to be
worked out in actuality, not to be admired on paper. This room was
chiefly given over to Mr. Thornimett's pupil: and you may see him in it
now.

A tall, gentlemanly young fellow, active and upright; his name, Austin
Clay. It is Easter Monday in those long-past years--and yet not so very
long past, either--and the works and yard are silent to-day. Strictly
speaking, Austin Clay can no longer be called a pupil, for he is
twenty-one, and his articles are out. The house is his home; Mr. and
Mrs. Thornimett, who have no children of their own, are almost as his
father and mother. They have said nothing to him about leaving, and he
has said nothing to them. The town, in its busy interference,
gratuitously opined that 'Old Thornimett would be taking him into
partnership.' Old Thornimett had given no indication of what he might
intend to do, one way or the other.

Austin Clay was of good parentage, of gentle birth. Left an orphan at
the age of fourteen, with very small means, not sufficient to complete
his education, Ketterford wondered what was to become of him, and
whether he had not better get rid of himself by running away to sea. Mr.
Thornimett stepped in and solved the difficulty. The late Mrs.
Clay--Austin's mother--and Mrs. Thornimett were distantly related, and
perhaps a certain sense of duty in the matter made itself heard; that,
at least, combined with the great fact that the Thornimett household was
childless. The first thing they did was to take the boy home for the
Christmas holidays; the next, was to tell him he should stay there for
good. Not to be adopted as their son, not to leave him a fortune
hereafter, Mr. Thornimett took pains to explain to him, but to make him
into a man, and teach him to earn his own living.

'Will you be apprenticed to me, Austin?' subsequently asked Mr.
Thornimett.

'Can't I be articled, sir?' returned Austin, quickly.

'Articled?' repeated Mr. Thornimett, with a laugh. He saw what was
running in the boy's mind. He was a plain man himself; had built up his
own fortunes just as he had built the new house he lived in; had risen,
in fact, as many a working man does rise: but Austin's father was a
gentleman. 'Well, yes, you can be articled, if you like it better,' he
said; 'but I shall never call it anything but apprenticed; neither will
the trade. You'll have to work, young sir.'

'I don't care how hard I work, or what I do,' cried Austin, earnestly.
'There's no degradation in work.'

Thus it was settled; and Austin Clay became bound pupil to Richard
Thornimett.

'Old Thornimett and his wife have done it out of charity,' quoth
Ketterford.

No doubt they had. But as the time passed on they grew very fond of him.
He was an open-hearted, sweet-tempered, generous boy, and one of them at
least, Mr. Thornimett, detected in him the qualities that make a
superior man. Privileges were accorded him from the first: the going on
with certain of his school duties, for which masters came to him out of
business hours--drawing, mathematics, and modern languages chiefly--and
Austin went on himself with Latin and Greek. With the two latter Mrs.
Thornimett waged perpetual war. What would be the use of them to him,
she was always asking, and Austin, in his pleasant, laughing way, would
rejoin that they might help to make him a gentleman. He was that
already: Austin Clay, though he might not know it, was a true gentleman
born.

Had they repented their bargain? He was twenty-one now, and out of his
articles, or his time, as it was commonly called. No, not for an
instant. Never a better servant had Richard Thornimett; never, he would
have told you, one so good. With all his propensity to be a 'gentleman,'
Austin Clay did not shrink from his work; but did it thoroughly. His
master in his wisdom had caused him to learn his business practically;
but, that accomplished, he kept him to overlooking, and to other light
duties, just as he might have done by a son of his own. It had told
well.

Easter Monday, and a universal holiday Mr. Thornimett had gone out on
horseback, and Austin was in the pupil's room. He sat at a desk, his
stool on the tilt, one hand unconsciously balancing a ruler, the other
supporting his head, which was bent over a book.

'Austin!'

The call, rather a gentle one, came from outside the door. Austin,
buried in his book, did not hear it.

'Austin Clay!'

He heard that, and started up. The door opened in the same moment, and
an old lady, dressed in delicate lavender print, came briskly in. Her
cap of a round, old-fashioned shape, was white as snow, and a bunch of
keys hung from her girdle. It was Mrs. Thornimett.

'So you are here!' she exclaimed, advancing to him with short, quick
steps, a sort of trot. 'Sarah said she was sure Mr. Austin had not gone
out. And now, what do you mean by this?' she added, bending her
spectacles, which she always wore, on his open book. 'Confining yourself
indoors this lovely day over that good-for-nothing Hebrew stuff!'

Austin turned his eyes upon her with a pleasant smile. Deep-set grey
eyes they were, earnest and truthful, with a great amount of thought in
them for a young man. His face was a pleasing, good-looking face,
without being a handsome one, its complexion pale, clear, and healthy,
and the hair rather dark. There was not much of beauty in the
countenance, but there was plenty of firmness and good sense.

'It is not Hebrew, Mrs. Thornimett. Hebrew and I are strangers to each
other. I am only indulging myself with a bit of old Homer.'

'All useless, Austin. I don't care whether it is Greek or Hebrew, or
Latin or French. To pore over those rubbishing dry books whenever you
get the chance, does you no good. If you did not possess a constitution
of iron, you would have been laid upon a sick-bed long ago.'

Austin laughed outright. Mrs. Thornimett's prejudices against what she
called 'learning,' had grown into a proverb. Never having been troubled
with much herself, she, like the Dutch professor told of by George
Primrose,'saw no good in it.' She lifted her hand and closed the book.

'May I not spend my time as I like upon a holiday?' remonstrated Austin,
half vexed, half in good humour.

'No,' said she, authoritatively; 'not when the day is warm and bright as
this. We do not often get so fair an Easter. Don't you see that I have
put off my winter clothing?'

'I saw that at breakfast.'

'Oh, you did notice that, did you? I thought you and Mr. Thornimett were
both buried in that newspaper. Well, Austin, I never make the change
till I think warm weather is really coming in: and so it ought to be,
for Easter is late this year. Come, put that book up.'

Austin obeyed, a comical look of grievance on his face. 'I declare you
order me about just as you did when I came here first, a miserable
little muff of fourteen. You'll never get another like me, Mrs.
Thornimett. As if I had not enough outdoor work every day in the week!
And I don't know where on earth to go to. It's like turning a fellow out
of house and home!'

'You are going out for me, Austin. The master left a message for the
Lowland farm, and you shall take it over, and stay the day with them.
They will make as much of you as they would of a king. When Mrs. Milton
was here the other day, she complained that you never went over now; she
said she supposed you were growing above them.'

'What nonsense!' said Austin, laughing. 'Well, I'll go there for you at
once, without grumbling. I like the Miltons.'

'You can walk, or you can take the pony gig: whichever you like.'

'I will walk,' replied Austin, with alacrity, putting his book inside
the large desk. 'What is the message, Mrs. Thornimett?'

'The message----'

Mrs. Thornimett came to a sudden pause, very much as if she had fallen
into a dream. Her eyes were gazing from the window into the far
distance, and Austin looked in the same direction: but there was not
anything to be seen.

'There's nothing there, lad. It is but my own thoughts. Something is
troubling me, Austin. Don't you think the master has seemed very poorly
of late?'

'N--o,' replied Austin, slowly, and with some hesitation, for he was
half doubting whether something of the sort had not struck him.
Certainly the master--as Mr. Thornimett was styled indiscriminately on
the premises both by servants and workpeople, so that Mrs. Thornimett
often fell into the same habit--was not the brisk man he used to be. 'I
have not noticed it particularly.'

'That is like the young; they never see anything,' she murmured, as if
speaking to herself. 'Well, Austin, I have; and I can tell you that I do
not like the master's looks, or the signs I detect in him. Especially
did I not like them when he rode forth this morning.'

'All that I have observed is that of late he seems to be disinclined for
business. He seems heavy, sleepy, as though it were a trouble to him to
rouse himself, and he complains sometimes of headache. But, of
course----'

'Of course, what?' asked Mrs. Thornimett. 'Why do you hesitate?'

'I was going to say that Mr. Thornimett is not as young as he was,'
continued Austin, with some deprecation.

'He is sixty-six, and I am sixty-three. But, you must be going. Talking
of it, will not mend it. And the best part of the day is passing.'

'You have not given me the message,' he said, taking up his hat which
lay beside him.

'The message is this,' said Mrs. Thornimett, lowering her voice to a
confidential tone, as she glanced round to see that the door was shut.
'Tell Mr. Milton that Mr. Thornimett cannot answer for that timber
merchant about whom he asked. The master fears he might prove a slippery
customer; he is a man whom he himself would trust as far as he could
see, but no farther. Just say it into Mr. Milton's private ear, you
know.'

'Certainly. I understand,' replied the young man, turning to depart.

'You see now why it might not be convenient to despatch any one but
yourself. And, Austin,' added the old lady, following him across the
hall, 'take care not to make yourself ill with their Easter cheesecakes.
The Lowland farm is famous for them.'

'I will try not,' returned Austin.

He looked back at her, nodding and laughing as he traversed the lawn,
and from thence struck into the open road. His way led him past the
workshops, closed then, even to the gates, for Easter Monday in that
part of the country is a universal holiday. A few minutes, and he turned
into the fields; a welcome change from the dusty road. The field way
might be a little longer, but it was altogether pleasanter. Easter was
late that year, as Mrs. Thornimett observed, and the season was early.
The sky was blue and clear, the day warm and lovely; the hedges were
budding into leaf, the grass was growing, the clover, the buttercups,
the daisies were springing; and an early butterfly fluttered past
Austin.

'You have taken wing betimes,' he said, addressing the unconscious
insect. 'I think summer must be at hand.'

Halting for a moment to watch the flight, he strode on the quicker
afterwards. Supple, active, slender, his steps--the elastic, joyous,
tread of youth--scarcely seemed to touch the earth. He always walked
fast when busy with thought, and his mind was buried in the hint Mrs.
Thornimett had spoken, touching her fears for her husband's health. 'If
he is breaking, it's through his close attention to business,' decided
Austin, as he struck into the common and was nearing the end of his
journey. 'I wish he would take a jolly good holiday this summer. It
would set him up; and I know I could manage things without him.'

A large common; a broad piece of waste land, owned by the lord of the
manor, but appropriated by anybody and everybody; where gipsies encamped
and donkeys grazed, and geese and children were turned out to roam. A
wide path ran across it, worn by the passage of farmer's carts and other
vehicles. To the left it was bordered in the distance by a row of
cottages; to the right, its extent was limited, and terminated in some
dangerous gravel pits--dangerous, because they were not protected.

Austin Clay had reached the middle of the path and of the common, when
he overtook a lady whom he slightly knew. A lady of very strange
manners, popularly supposed to be mad, and of whom he once stood in
considerable awe, not to say terror, at which he laughed now. She was a
Miss Gwinn, a tall bony woman of remarkable strength, the sister of
Gwinn, a lawyer of Ketterford. Gwinn the lawyer did not bear the best of
characters, and Ketterford reviled him when they could do it secretly.
'A low, crafty, dishonest practitioner, whose hands couldn't have come
clean had he spent his days and nights in washing them,' was amidst the
complimentary terms applied to him. Miss Gwinn, however, seemed honest
enough, and but for her rancorous manners Ketterford might have grown to
feel a sort of