CHAPTER II.

Arch-conspirators.

When Mary Tiffin, who had been in the employ of the Townsleys ever since their marriage, excitedly entered the parlor ten minutes after the events narrated, it was empty.  Mary was a comely maiden of forty-three, of comfortable proportions and goodly to look upon.  Her cheeks were still attractively round; her glossy black hair was, with much placidity, smoothed over her temples, cunningly brought above her ears, and twisted in an alluring knot at the back of her head.  Her eyes were of that deep peculiar blue which generally is such a menace to the peace of the sterner sex, and over which lovers are wont to expatiate so tryingly to bosom friends.

Wringing her hands and ruefully shaking her head, Mary walked first to one end and then to the other of the long room.  Finally she broke out in healthy Yorkshire dialect:  “Wheere, oh, wheere can that lad John be?  I’m crazed wi’ all this trouble; nivver did I see the missus so worked up before, and she winna change her mind, no matter what is said.  I’m just as sure as I can be that if they part now they’ll nivver come together again.  Who’d a thow’t it ’ud ever come to this between ’em.”  She fairly panted with the burden of her feelings.

Just as she was about to break out into fresh lamentations, the door slowly opened, disclosing the sober face and lean figure of John Herbert Bedford Lawson, confidential servant to Mr. Townsley.

“Eh, lad, but I’m right glad to see thee!” exclaimed Mary, as she caught hold of John’s meagre arm and unceremoniously hurried him into the room.  For some reason or other, Mr. Lawson evinced no especial pleasure at seeing the comely Mary, as was clearly demonstrated by the ungallant manner in which he tried to brace himself back as she drew him forward.

When finally released, he said in a sceptical voice, as he indignantly put to rights his disturbed linen: 

“Oh, thou art glad to see me, art thou?  P’raps thou art; strange things happen in this world.  Yet I’ll be bound that it’s not for myself thou art glad.”  While speaking, he knitted his eyebrows in a most menacing manner.  He was a small, thin man, about forty-five years of age, and clean shaven.  As he stood eyeing Mary through his glasses he looked a crusted character enough.

“Nay, lad,” she said reproachfully, putting her hand on his arm, “don’t thou talk in a tone like that and look so sour; it don’t become thee; it’s not natural, too, and thou knows it.”  Then she went on anxiously:  “Thou knows what is troubling me; thou art the maister’s private servant, and he must have told thee what has happened.  Now we mun think o’ something, John, to stop ’em from breaking up in this way.  We daren’t go and tell anyone else about the trouble, so do, lad, do try and think o’ something, for there’s no time to be lost.”  In her excitement and distress she almost shook him.