At one end of the glazing house—a lofty and bright workroom at the top story of the Mill—stood the dry press, to which the choice papers demanding extra finish came after glazing. Here they were piled between heavy slabs of hot metal and subject to great pressure; but the primal business of glazing had already been done between metal rollers. A range of these presented the principal object in this workshop.

Girls prepared the paper for the rollers, and Medora had once been of this cheerful and busy throng. Hither came the paper from its final drying after the size bath, and the workers stood with a heap of sheets on one side of them and a little stack of polished zinc plates on the other. With her left hand each girl snatched a sheet of paper, with her right a plate of zinc; and then she inter-leaved the paper with the metal until a good wad rose in her crib. The paper was now ready for the glazing rollers, and men, who tended these massive machines, ran the sheets and zinc wads between the steel rollers, backward and forward twice and thrice under tremendous strain. Then what was dim and lustreless reappeared with a bright and shining surface, and the sheets returned again to the girls, who separated zinc and paper once more.

Mr. Pinhey had often preached on this text—indeed his simile was worn threadbare, though he repeated it to every new-comer in the glazing house and rolling room.

“With paper as with humans,” he would say, “nothing like a sharp pinch to bring out the polish; that is if a man’s built of stuff good enough to take a polish. Of course some are not; we know that only too well.”

The distinctive sounds in this great shop were three and did he hear them, a paper maker with his eyes shut would know exactly where he was. First, the steady thud of the plates on the side of the wooden cribs; next, the ceaseless rustle and hiss of the paper flying between the girl’s hands as it is laid upon the zinc or snatched off it; and lastly the rumble of the rolling machines sounding a bass as they grip the piles of paper and metal and squeeze them up and down.

The very precious papers went to the dry press; but the mass of them passed directly to the sorters, who graded all stock into three qualities—perfect, less perfect, and inferior. No inferior paper ever left Dene Mill. It was pulped again; but could not aspire to the highest standard having once sunk beneath it.

And lastly it came to Mr. Pinhey—the finisher—who seemed a figure conceived and planned for this lofty purpose. Spick and span in his snowy apron, with delicate hands and quick eyes behind their shining glasses, he moved spotless through the mountains and masses of the finished article; he passed amid the ordered blocks magisterially—a very spirit of purity who reigned over the reams and called them by their names. Wove and laid Imperial, Super-royal, Medium, Demy, Foolscap and Double Foolscap were all included. Here towered orange and old rose sections; here azure and ultramarine; here sea green, here opaline pink and every delicate shade of buff and cream, to the snowy whiteness of the great papers and mightiest sheets. From fairy note to “double elephant” ranged Mr. Pinhey’s activity. He worked among the papers, great and small, and put the last touch of perfection and completeness before they passed away into the larger world.

But to-day Nicholas was concerned with a little affair outside the province of the finisher. On a sheet of palest pink, a sheet that seemed actually itself to blush at the delicacy of its task, Mr. Pinhey had written a few sentences in his happiest manner and was handing it round the shop, that men and women might set their names thereto. He told everybody that he much disliked such an appeal and protest, but that his sense of propriety made it necessary, for conscience sake, to proceed. He was honest in this assurance and did not deceive himself. Some of his co-workers, who declined to sign, thought that Mr. Pinhey was conducting his cathartic mission from private motives, not of the highest, and frankly told him so; but they were wrong. The man steadfastly believed that religion demanded his action. He had debated the problem for many weeks and at last come to the conclusion that a strong step must be taken.

The fact that Jordan Kellock should continue to earn his living at Dene Mill, while he lived in sin out of it, had become a mental possession with Mr. Pinhey. He believed that such a situation must be an active challenge to Providence, a perpetual blister to the Everlasting Intelligence on Whose watchful keeping that human hive depended. It seemed to Nicholas that this negation of right could not go on for ever, and he presently convinced himself that what appeared to be nobody’s business, was in reality everybody’s business. He suspected that many of the more sober and God-fearing agreed with him, and he knew that, so far as the glazing house was concerned, the majority always agreed as a matter of course with his views. Only the irreligious or low-minded ever questioned him, and when they had committed that error, he did not rest until he had got them out of his department.

And now he had drafted an appeal to Mr. Trenchard and was procuring all possible signatures for it.

It began “We the undersigned,” and it expressed a pious conviction that the presence of Jordan Kellock in the vat house was a source of danger to the prosperity of the Mill, and a threat to the spiritual stability of younger people, who would see in his support and encouragement an indication that morals counted for less than professional ability and that skill and craft were rated higher than a right way of living and scrupulous obedience to Divine precept.

He was pleased with the composition, but took no credit to himself. He felt that his hand had been guided when he wrote it, and believed that every word was in the right place by a direct act of inspiration. And now he desired the largest number of signatures possible—from the heads of departments for choice. Unhappily there were strong forces opposed to Nicholas and he knew that not only would the foreman, Ernest Trood, refuse to sign, but he might influence others against so doing. Neither could Medora’s mother be easily approached, though she had always represented a force for good. He decided, however, to invite Lydia’s opinion. She could at least see the other side, and Mr. Pinhey felt that she would not misunderstand a man of his repute if he discussed the painful subject on the plane where he habitually moved. For he, too, very constantly spoke of “moving on a plane,” even as the unregenerate Kellock was used to do. Indeed, they had no little in common—a fact that came to Mr. Pinhey’s shocked ear on this identical day.

During the dinner hour, fountain-pen in hand, Nicholas proceeded upon his task, nerved thereto by most exalted sentiments. The certainties all signed with gusto; but among the doubtful attestors, Mr. Pinhey was disappointed to find few prepared to support him. Lydia he approached, where she sat reading a newspaper in her workroom. Indeed her thoughts were far from the printed page, but she opened it from force of habit until the work bell rang again.

“I’ll thank you to read this, Mrs. Trivett,” said Nicholas, as he presented his blushing manifesto. “You may for a moment doubt whether I ought to ask you, of all people, to sign it. I’ve been advised not. But we’re old friends, I believe, and I know you’ll never quarrel with the man who does his duty, even if you don’t see his duty with the same eyes as him.”

“Duty’s often a doubtful matter,” she said, “and we mistake inclination for duty sometimes. You can easily hoodwink yourself about duty, Nicholas.”

She read the protest and gave it back to him and shook her head.

“Do as you think right,” she said. “But don’t ask me to sign that. You’ll guess without being told what a sad thing this is for a mother; but I’m not going to take sides this time of day. I’ve told them what I think about it and how I’ve suffered over it, and I’ve told other people also; but there’s nothing gained that I can see by this. There’s more in it than meets the eye, and Jordan Kellock is the sort of man to feel the punishment of his own conscience much sharper than the voice, or vote, of his fellow men.”

“‘Conscience!’” exclaimed Mr. Pinhey. “How can you say that the man who does a thing like that have got a conscience, Mrs. Trivett?”

“Because I know he has—so do you if you’ll think. There’s very few so fussy and nice about life and its duties and bearings as Jordan Kellock. We all know what he is; and until this happened, nobody respected him more than you. And now he’s done a thing that your conscience and mine don’t approve. But remember this, he’d never have done it if his own conscience hadn’t supported him.”

“It was the devil getting the better of his conscience,” argued Nicholas. “He was always weak, because he was self-righteous, though Lord knows, seeing his foggy religious opinions, none had less reason to be. He had got his own theory of morals seemingly, and since it didn’t come out of the Word, it was worthless as you’d expect. So when the trial came and your daughter—”

“Leave it, there’s a good man. I’m not going to argue upon it. I hope they’ll soon be properly married and this sad business allowed to pass by and be forgot. For the minute it’s up to Ned Dingle, and I’ve been bitter sorry for him, and he knows all I think about it; but there’s no more can be done to right the wrong and ease people who feel like you, till Ned does it.”

“Your heart is speaking against your morals, Lydia, if I may say so.”

“You may say what you like, of course.”

“You can’t rise to the thought that it is painful for some of us to earn our living under the same roof as that man?”

“No,” she said. “I’ve never met the man or woman so bad that I couldn’t work under the same roof with them.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s doubtfully Christian to be so large-minded in my opinion,” he said. “Do the other women up here think the same?”

“Alice Barefoot will sign; but her brother, Henry, will not.”

“Being an old sailor, no doubt he won’t,” said Mr. Pinhey. He won Miss Barefoot’s support, however, and then skirmished in the neighbourhood of the vat house. Jordan was not there, and after Mr. Life had appended his signature and Harold Spry, Kellock’s coucher, had declined to do so, Nicholas approached Philander Knox.

“I don’t know your exact opinions,” he said; “but I should be glad if you can feel on this subject with most of us serious people. You know the facts and feel it oughtn’t to go on, I expect—that is if you take life seriously, as no doubt you do.”

“The thing is to take other people’s lives seriously and your own pretty light,” said Knox. “That’s the best way, because it keeps your sense of proportion about fair, Pinhey.”

Nicholas liked these problems, but was doubtful here.

“Do you mean as a matter of morals?” he asked.

“No—as a matter of business,” replied Philander. “Because if you put yourself first always, your fellow creatures will be mighty quick to put you second, or third, or out of the running altogether. Nobody bores people worse than the man who is always thinking about himself. But if you show a proper interest in others and their hopes and fears and likes and dislikes, then the better sort will gladly give as well as take. If you want anything for nothing in this world, you won’t get it; but the more you give, the more you’ll receive, in my experience. In the matter of giving don’t stint and don’t squander; and don’t give where you’ll get nothing back of course—that’s foolish.”

Mr. Pinhey shook his head.

“Worldly wise, not heavenly wise,” he declared. “Be so good as to read this document, Knox, and let me have the pleasure of seeing you sign it. It’s the elder people I want to do so. In fact I’m not showing it to the young ones. Better such things should not enter their innocent minds.”

Mr. Knox read Kellock’s indictment and grinned.

“What do you know of sin, you old caterpillar?” he asked very rudely. “Good powers, my man, d’you see what you’re doing? You’re shaving with a blunt razor over another chap’s wounds. Blow out reason’s candle if you like to walk without light; but don’t from your darkness presume to show other people their road. That’s damned impertinent and only makes the other sort cuss.”

Mr. Pinhey shrank resentfully.

“If you make reason your guide,” he said, “God help you, Philander Knox. And—”

“Tear it up—tear it up and save Trenchard the trouble, Pinhey. Be guided by a man who’s moved in a larger world than yourself.”

“A larger and a wickeder world, if you can talk like that about sin,” answered Nicholas, who had grown pinker than his paper.

“I’m not talking about sin. I’d as soon talk about sin to a bluebottle as you. You’re one of the born good sort, you are, and the funny thing is that you’ve worked in the same business with Kellock all these years and years and don’t know he’s the same order of creation as yourself. Why, my dear man, he might be your son!”

“This is too much and I won’t stand it,” answered Mr. Pinhey. “I ask you to recall that, Knox; or I won’t know you from this hour forward.”

“Don’t be fussy. We’re both well past our half century and can air our opinions without getting cross. I mean that Kellock is a serious-minded chap with a strong character and steadfast opinions. He’s just as anxious to leave the world better than he found it as you are. And he means to do so; and very likely, if he’s not too deadly in earnest and too narrow in his virtues, he may. You must grant him his good character, Pinhey, and then ask yourself whether a man with his past would have done this without what seemed good and high reasons. I’m not saying he was right for a minute; but I’m saying he weighed it in all its bearings and from his mistaken and inexperienced point of view made this big error.”

“And aren’t we here to show him his error?”

“No, we can’t show it to him. You wouldn’t convince him if you talked for a month from your point of view. Sit tight—that’s all you’ve got to do. I believe he’s made a big mistake and I believe he’ll see it for himself before he’s six months older. But let his own nature work and don’t say more till you know more. What looks like wickedness to one man’s eye may seem goodness to another man’s.”

Mr. Pinhey had now grown calm.

“Then I won’t waste more of your time,” he answered. “You speak, I suppose, what you believe according to reason; but I wouldn’t say you were a very good advertisement even for reason, Knox. I know your eyes will be opened about that man sooner or later. I can only trust that he’s one by himself. I stand on the old paths and I believe most of us here do the same. But if we’re going to set up Kellock and his ways as a model, then I don’t see myself what’s to become of civilisation, or religion either.”

He departed, completed his rounds and confessed to disappointment at the result. Still he had mustered a respectable following and the document he left at Matthew Trenchard’s private house that evening was signed by twenty-eight men and women in more or less responsible positions.

To his everlasting surprise and indignation, Mr. Pinhey never heard of the protest again. He might as well have dropped it into the Dart, or posted it on the west wind.

A week passed and nothing happened. Nicholas had met the master frequently and found him just as usual—cheery, practical, busy. He fumed in secret. He told Robert Life and old Mr. Amos Toft, who mixed the size, that were it not for the fact that he only wanted a year to qualify for his pension, he would resign.

Mrs. Trivett and Philander Knox discussed the matter on an occasion when they met at close of work. It was the day on which Lydia had to announce her decision with respect to her admirer, and they both knew the time had come.

“We’ll give the Corkscrew a miss and go round the pond,” he said. “You can’t talk climbing that Jacob’s ladder of a hill—at least I can’t.”

Her heart sank, for she had desired to make the painful interview as brief as possible. But the event proved that Lydia need not have feared, for Mr. Knox took her black news in an unexpected spirit.

They spoke first, however, of Medora and Jordan Kellock.

“I never heard the like,” said Lydia. “It shows the danger of doing such things and not counting the cost. They was so wrapped up in their own affairs that they never saw it takes three people to make a divorce, and now that injured man is opening their eyes. It’s all as wrong as wrong can be, yet where are you going to put the blame?”

“I’m not going to put the blame anywhere,” answered Mr. Knox. “There’s a lot too much meddling, in my opinion, and if they’re only left alone, those three people may work out their own salvation in their own way. I’m fed up with ’em: one would think the welfare of Dene hung on their capers. To hear old Pinhey, you’d say it depended on our opinion about ’em whether we’d ever get to heaven ourselves. Where you can’t help, don’t worrit. They’re all right; but what about me? This is the appointed time, Lydia, and I hope I may add that this is the day of salvation.”

She jumped at the suggestion to lighten her refusal.

“I expect you may; and you’ll look back at this evening and feel you are better a free man. Yes, you must regard yourself as free, please—I couldn’t do it—I couldn’t take another. I’m fond of you, if that is anything, and I’m proud you could have a fancy for me; for a reminder that I’m a woman, coming from such a man as you, naturally makes me a bit above myself. But my life’s run into a mould, you see. It’s found its channel, like a river does; and it’s made its bed. I say again I like you—I even love you, if the word ain’t nonsense at fifty; but I’ve seen my duty clear since we spoke about it. I couldn’t fairly leave my sister-in-law and brother. ’Twould be like taking a screw out of a machine. The screw ain’t much in itself but a lot depends upon it.”

“You won’t marry me, you mean?”

“Won’t ain’t the word. I’d be very pleased to be your wife if I was a free party, but in a sense I’m not free. You can’t be in two places at once, like a flash of lightning, and I can’t keep house for you and look after Mary’s family and do my bit at Priory Farm. And it amounts to this—my brother, when he heard what was afoot, made it very clear that Priory Farm simply couldn’t get on without me. That may seem a vain thing to you; but it’s the truth—absurd, I dare say; but they’re built like that. You, on the contrary, would get on without me well enough.”

“Speak for yourself, but not for me,” he said, “and not for your brother, Tom, and his mate. Rabbits in a hutch have got to be looked after, I grant, but you mustn’t believe everything you hear—even from Tom Dolbear. Answer this: if you died to-morrow, what would happen at Priory Farm? Why, my dear woman, in six weeks they’d have somebody in your place who looked after the children all her time; and they’d wonder why they never thought of that before. We won’t argue about it, however. When you say ‘duty,’ I’m dumb, of course. But tell me this before we drop the subject: would you marry me if things were otherwise and your sense of duty didn’t come between?”

Mrs. Trivett was immensely relieved to find how quietly he had taken his reverse.

“Of course I would,” she said. “You’re one of the best, and if it hadn’t been that I’d got to work out my life same as I’m doing, I’d have been glad enough to come to you. People at our time of day have got judgment, if ever they’re going to have it, and in my opinion we should have made a well-matched pair enough. But such good things are not for me. I’ve been happily married once, and can’t expect it again.”

He continued to be quite restrained.

“I venture to think you’re about as wrong as you can be, Lydia, and your usual good sense has gone astray. But I know duty’s your guiding star, and I’m happy to think duty changes its shape from time to time, like most other human contrivances.”

“I’ll always try to do it, my dear man, however it looks.”

“You will—that’s why I’m keeping so quiet now, instead of breaking out and making a noise and lowering myself in your opinion. The beauty of a woman like you is that you’re steadfast—a slave, if not a martyr to what you think right. That being so, I take your word for the minute, and leave the rest to Providence.”

She was puzzled, but very glad he could be so gentle with her.

“You’ve took it like the wise man you are,” she said. “I might have known you would; but I was afraid you wouldn’t.”

“I haven’t took it,” he answered. “There are some things you don’t take, and this is one of them. I’ve a great trust in the future, Lydia Trivett. The future, though it plays many people false, have always treated me in a very sportsmanlike and trustworthy manner so far.”

“That’s because you make your future just the same as you make your paper, and leave nothing to chance.”

“You never spoke a truer word,” he answered. “I’m not going to brag before the event; but if ever I was properly interested in a bit of my future, it’s now; and if I can get the pattern right, and stamp my will and purpose upon it, I dare say you’ll be a good bit surprised yet.”

She became uneasy.

“Don’t you meddle with fate, however. That’s not our work,” she said.

“And what would you be inclined to call ‘fate’?” he asked.

“Well,” she answered, “in a manner of speaking, you might call ‘fate’ my dear brother, Tom, and his wife. And I’ll ask you not to touch them, Philander.”

“I promise that. That wouldn’t be playing the game,” he admitted. “I’d be very sorry if they had anything to do with my future, Lydia. You might as well try to carve butter, or a turnip, into an enduring thing. I shall treat your brother and his wife the same as I’ve always treated them. For the present, we’ll just go on as we’re going, please—good friends, and nothing more. I’ve a right to ask that.”

“I wish you’d take ‘no’ for an answer, however.”

“There’s nothing final about anything in this world except death, my dear. While she’s alive it’s never too late for a woman to change her mind. And if you did, it would be very unfortunate if I was in such a position I couldn’t listen to you. You may ask me to marry you, yet, Lydia—if Providence so wills it—though not leap year, I believe.”

She laughed, and such was his amiability that he saw her all the way home.