The summer was slowly passing. At a small and obscure seaside place on the East coast Mrs. Cumberland was located. She had engaged part of one of the few good houses there--houses that let at an enormous price in the season to visitors--and lived in it with Ellen Adair, and her maid to wait on her. Not Jelly this time, but the housemaid Ann. The interior of Mrs. Cumberland's own house at Dallory was being painted during her absence. She had deemed it well to leave Jelly in charge: and brought Ann instead.
They had been in this place, Eastsea, for some weeks now; and Ellen privately believed that this sojourn was never coming to an end. Any thing more wearisome than it was to her, could not have been found. Arthur Bohun was in London at his uncle's, where he had been staying for some time. It was several weeks since he and Ellen had met: to her it seemed as many months. James Bohun was still ill, but fluctuated much; at one time appearing to be beyond recovery, at another as if he were almost well again. He would not part with Arthur; Sir Nash said he must not think of leaving. Under the circumstances, Arthur did not see his way clear to getting away.
Another person was fluctuating. And that was Mrs. Cumberland. Her complaint, connected with the heart, was one of those that may snap life suddenly, or allow it to be prolonged for years. That she was gradually growing worse, was undoubted; but it was by almost imperceptible degrees. No change could be noted from day to day; it was only by comparing her present state with what it had been three, six, or twelve months before, that the change could be seen. Sometimes, for days together, she would feel very ill, be quite unable to quit her room; and again she would have an interval of ease, almost of seeming recovery, and walk and drive out daily. Dr. Rane had come over twice to see his mother: staying on each occasion only a few hours. His opinion was, that she might yet, with care, live for years; and probably many years. At the same time, he knew that there could be no certainty of it.
It was during this sojourn at Eastsea that Mrs. Cumberland received news from Mr. Adair. He wrote in answer to Mrs. Cumberland's letter--the first of the two letters already alluded to--wherein she had spoken of the probability of Ellen's being sought in marriage by a gentleman in every way desirable, but in which she had omitted, probably from inadvertence, to mention the gentleman's name. Mr. Adair's answer, now received, was to the effect that--fully relying on Mrs. Cumberland's judgment--he could not desire better for his daughter than that so suitable a marriage should be entered into; and accorded it his cordial consent.
But this involved a most unhappy contretemps: of which no one as yet was, or could be, conscious. That first letter of Mrs. Cumberland's had alluded to Mr. Graves:she imagined this consent to apply to Arthur Bohun. It takes time, as every one knows, for a letter to reach Australia from England and an answer to be returned. Whether, during those intervening weeks, Mrs. Cumberland actually forgot that her first letter had applied to Mr. Graves: or whether in her invalid state, memory had grown confused, and she remembered only the last letter, must ever remain a question. Certain it was, that she accepted this present approbation of Mr. Adair's as applying to Arthur Bohun. It might be, that she had altogether forgotten having written about Mr. Graves.
With her usual reticence, she said nothing to Ellen Adair. Not a word. Time enough for that when Arthur Bohun should speak--if he ever did speak. She held the consent ready for use if necessity ever required it: and was at ease.
"Ellen, how listless you seem!"
Ellen Adair looked up, faintly blushing at the abrupt charge, which came from Mrs. Cumberland.
"Listless!" exclaimed Ellen.
"My dear, it is nothing less. I don't think you care for Eastsea."
"Not very much. At least--it is rather dull."
"Well, I suppose you can only find it so; confined to the house half my time, as I am. At Niton you had often Captain Bohun to go out with; now you have to go out alone."
Ellen turned away, a soft blush rising to her face at the remembrance of Niton, "Shall you be going home soon, do you think, Mrs. Cumberland?" she asked.
"Oh dear no. I had a note from Jelly this morning, and she says the house is not half ready. Workpeople are so lazy! Once you get them into a place you can't get them out again. But if Jelly were ready for us I should still not go. This air is doing me good on the whole. Perhaps I shall remain the winter here."
Ellen's heart fell within her. All the autumn in this place, that verily seemed to her the fag end of the world, and all the winter! Should sheeveragain get the chance of seeing her heart's love, Arthur Bohun? And he?--perhaps he was forgetting her.
"Do you feel well enough to come out, Mrs. Cumberland?"
"No. I am sorry, Ellen, but you must go alone. Put on your things at once, child: the afternoon will be passing."
Ellen sighed. It was of no moment to her whether she went out or stayed in: she obeyed mechanically, and went forth. Quite alone. Generally speaking Ann attended her, but the servant was this afternoon wanted by her mistress.
The sunshine played on the clear blue sea, ever changing its lovely hues, as the light autumn clouds floated above it in the sky. Ellen Adair sat in a sheltered spot and watched it. It was her favourite seat: one hewn out of the rocks, and apparently frequented only by herself, as she had never yet been disturbed in it. Excepting the small strip of beach before her, nothing was to be seen from it but sea and sky. Overhead, she could hear the children's voices at play: the tide below was coming in with gentle monotony. Ellen had a book with her, and she had her diary; she had read a few pages in the one, she had written some lines in pencil in the other: and so the hours passed, and she was utterly dreary. The weary day was only the type of the other weary days that at present made up the sum total of her life.
"Will it ever come to an end?" she murmured, having watched a tiny pleasure-boat shoot past and disappear, leaving her to her silent solitude. "Shall we ever get back to Dallory Ham, and--the friends who live there? I suppose a wintermightbe got through and survived in this place, but----"
A gentleman in deep mourning walking on the strip of beach, looking to right and left. Ellen's thoughts were summarily ended, and she rose with a faint cry: the cry of intense joy that in its sound is so near akin to that of exquisite pain.
For it was no other than Captain Arthur Bohun. He had not heard it; but he saw her; it was for her he had been searching: and he turned with an outstretched hand. For a moment she felt utterly bewildered, half doubting the reality of the vision. But oh yes, it was he; it was he! The sea and sky, the rocks, and the monotony--all had changed into paradise.
"How do you do, Ellen?"
Nothing more than this commonplace greeting was spoken. They stood in silence, their hands clasped. His lips were quivering slightly, proving how ardent was the feeling that stirred him at their renewed meeting; Ellen, blushing and paling by turns, was agitated almost to pain. Sitting down quietly by her side on the ledge of rock he accounted for his unexpected appearance. On his arrival at Eastsea that afternoon, he had gone at once to call at Mrs. Cumberland's. Ann said her mistress was lying down, and that Miss Adair was on the beach.
"Did you think I was never coming to see you, Ellen? I thought so. I could not get away from my uncle's whilst James was so ill."
"Is he--dead?" hesitated Ellen, looking pointedly at the black clothes.
"Oh no. It is a cousin of Sir Nash's and of my father's who is dead: a very old man who has lived for years in the South of France. James Bohun is very much better."
"I thought, by the deep mourning, it must be."
"Is it deep? I suppose it looks so. I should not wish it otherwise in the present instance, for the good old man has been generous to me."
They fell into silence, each feeling the rapture of the other's presence, after the prolonged separation, as something more than human. So intense was it that Ellen, at least, might have been content to die in it there and then. The sea changed its beautiful colours, the sky seemed to smile on them, the children played overhead, a silvery flute from some unseen boat in the distance was softly playing. No: Eden could never have been sweeter than this.
"What have you been doing, all this time by yourself at Eastsea?" he at length asked her.
"Very much what I am doing now, I think--sitting here to watch the sea," she answered. "There has been nothing else to do. It was always dull."
"Has Mrs. Cumberland had any visitors?"
"Dr. Rane has been here twice. He gives a bad account of things at Dallory. The strike shows no signs of coming to an end; and the men are in want."
"So Dick says. I get a letter from him sometimes."
A great amount of talking, this. The tide turned; a big steamer went by in the distance.
"Do you hear that, Ellen?"
A man's soft tenor voice had struck up a love-song overhead: "Ellen Adair," Robin Adair, as the world more often has it. Arthur Bohun used to hear it sung as "Ellin Adair," when he was recovering from his wound in Ireland; the Irish insisted on it that so it was in the original song; and he had sometimes asked Ellen to sing it so for him since. The children ceased their play; the verses went on, and these two below the rocks, unseen, listened to the end, catching every word distinctly.
"Yet her I loved so well,Still in my heart shall dwell.Oh! I shall ne'er forgetEllen Adair."
"Yet her I loved so well,
Still in my heart shall dwell.
Oh! I shall ne'er forget
Ellen Adair."
"Nor I," softly spoke Arthur, as the refrain died away.
Mrs. Cumberland was up when they got in. Ann had told her of Captain Bohun's appearance and that he had gone to find Miss Adair. Mrs. Cumberland took a few minutes for consideration, and then decided on her course of conduct, and that was to speak to Captain Bohun.
It might have been all very well, whilst she was armed with no authority, tacitly to countenance Captain Bohun's frequent visits; but now that she had authority, she deemed it right, in justice to Ellen, to take a different standing. If Captain Bohun had serious intentions, well and good; if not, she should request him to bring the intimacy to a close. Feeling the responsibility that lay upon her as the sole guardian in Europe of Ellen Adair, she thought she should be justified in saying so much, for, unless Arthur Bohun proposed to make the young lady his wife, it was cruel to allow her to fall in love with him.
When Mrs. Cumberland once made her mind up to any resolve, she did not usually lose time in putting it into practice, and she lost none here. Taking the opportunity this same evening, when Ellen was out of the room; sent from it by herself on some errand of excuse; she spoke to Captain Bohun.
But the most fastidious man living could not have taken exception to what she said. She spoke quite as a lady. Captain Bohun's appearance that day at Eastsea--coupled with the remembrance of his frequent sojourns at Niton when they were staying there, and his constant visits to her house at Dallory Ham--had revived a faint idea that had sometimes presented itself to her mind, namely, that he might be growing attached to Ellen Adair. Mrs. Cumberland did not wish to enlarge on this point; it might be, or it might not be; Captain Bohun si! one knew; perhaps she was wholly mistaken; all she wished to say was this--that if Captain Bohunhadno future thoughts in regard to Miss Adair, she must request him to terminate his intimacy at once. When she returned to Dallory Ham she should be glad to see him at her house occasionally, just as any other visitor; but nothing more.
To this Arthur Bohun answered candidly enough. He did like Ellen Adair; if circumstances permitted he should be only too glad to make her his wife; but, as Mrs. Cumberland knew, he had hitherto been very poor. As he pleased, Mrs. Cumberland remarked; the matter was entirely for his own consideration; she did not attempt to press it, one way or the other; if he saw no chance of his circumstances improving, he should freely say so, and terminate his visits; she could not allow Ellen to be played with. And upon that, Arthur begged to have the night for reflection; he would see Mrs. Cumberland in the morning, and give her his decision.
So it was left. When Ellen returned to the room--unsuspicious of what had been said during her few minutes' absence from it--Captain Bohun took his departure. Arrived at the hotel where he had put up, he devoted himself to the consideration of the grave question, weighing it in all its bearings as fairly as his love for Ellen allowed him to do. Of course that biassed him.
He had sufficient to marry upon now. By the death of the relative for whom he was in mourning, he had come into about eight hundred a-year. With his own income, that made twelve. Quite sufficient to begin upon, though he was a Bohun. But--there were deterring considerations. In some way, as he suspected, his mother, in her fear of Ellen Adair, had contrived to instil a suspicion in the mind of Sir Nash, that Arthur, unless he were closely controlled, might be making a mésalliance. Sir Nash possessed all the pride of the Bohuns, and it frightened him. He spoke to Arthur, telling him that unless he married with the full approval of his family, he should never succeed to the estates. No, nor to the title if he could help it. If James died, he, Sir Nash, would marry first, and leave direct heirs.
This, it was, that now interfered with Arthur's decision. One fact was known to him--that James Bohun, since this illness set in, had joined his father in cutting off the entail, so that the threat of leaving the estates away from Arthur (even though he succeeded to the title) could be easily accomplished. What was to be done? Part with Ellen Adair he could not. Oh, if he might only make her his wife without the world knowing it; the world abroad, and the world at home!Mightthis be? Very slowly Arthur Bohun arrived at a conclusion--that the only plan, if Mrs. Cumberland and Ellen would accede to it, was to have a private marriage.
Arguments are so easy when inclination goes with them. The future looks very much as we ourselves paint it. They might be married at once, here at Eastsea. If James Bohun recovered and lived, why, there could be no question about the title or the estates lapsing to Arthur, and he might avow his marriage as soon as he pleased. If James died, he should not, as he really believed, have to conceal it long, for he thought Sir Nash's life quite as precarious as James's. A few months, perhaps a few weeks, and he might be able to tell the world that Ellen was his wife. He felt an inclination to whisper it beforehand to his good friend and aunt, Miss Bohun. But, he must first of all ascertain from Mrs. Cumberland what was the social standing of Mr. Adair. Unless he were undeniably a gentleman, Ellen could be no fit wife for a Bohun. Arthur, swayed by his love, had hitherto been content to take this fact for granted; now he saw the necessity of ascertaining it more certainly. It was not that he had any real doubt, but it was only right to make sure.
Mr. Adair held some post under the British Government, formerly in India, for a long time now in Australia. His wife had died young; his only child, Ellen, had been sent to a first-rate school in England for her education. Upon its completion, Mr. Adair had begged Mrs. Cumberland to receive her; he had some thought of returning home himself, so that he did not wish Ellen to go out to him. An impression was afloat in Dallory that Ellen Adair would inherit a fortune; also that Mrs. Cumberland received liberal remuneration for the expenses of the young lady. These generalities Arthur Bohun already knew; but he knew no more.
He paid the promised visit to Mrs. Cumberland in the morning. Ellen was on the beach with the maid; there was no interruption, and their conversation was long and confidential. Heaven alone knew how Arthur Bohun succeeded in making Mrs. Cumberland believe in the necessity for a private marriage. He did succeed. But he used no subterfuge. He frankly told of the prejudice his mother had taken against Ellen Adair, and that she had gained the ear of Sir Nash. In short, the same arguments he had used to himself the previous evening, he urged now. Mrs. Cumberland--naturally biassed against madam for the injury she had striven to work upon Dr. Rane--thought it a frightful shame that she should also strive to destroy the happiness and prospects of her own son Arthur, and sympathized with him warmly. It was this feeling that rendered her more easy than she would otherwise have been--in short, that made her give her consent to Arthur's plan. To counteract the bitter wrong contemplated by Mrs. North, she considered would be a merit on Arthur's part, instead of a sin. And then, when things were so far settled, and the speedy marriage determined on, Mrs. Cumberland astonished Captain Bohun by putting Mr. Adair's letter into his hands, explaining how it came to be received, and what she had written to that gentleman to call it forth. "So that her father's blessing will rest on the marriage," remarked Mrs. Cumberland; "but for that fact, I could not have consented to a private one."
This gave Arthur the opportunity to ask about the position of Mr. Adair, which, in the heat of argument, he had been forgetting. Certainly he was a gentleman, Mrs. Cumberland answered, and of very good Scotch family. Major Bohun, Mr. Adair, and her own husband, George Cumberland, had been firm friends in India at the time of Major Bohun's death. She could not help thinking, she added in conclusion, that it was the remembrance of that early friendship which induced Mr. Adair to give so ready and cordial a consent to his daughter's union with Major Bohun's son.
And so there the matter ended, all couleur-de-rose; Arthur believing that there could be no possible objection to his marrying Ellen Adair; nay, that the way had been most markedly paved for it through this letter of Mr. Adair's; Mrs. Cumberland deeming that she was not indiscreet in permitting the marriage to be a private one. Both were unsuspicious as the day. He, that there existed any real objection; she, that Mr. Adair's consent applied to a very different man from Arthur Bohun.
Captain Bohun went out from Mrs. Cumberland's in search of Ellen, with the light of love flushing his cheeks. He found her in the same sheltered spot, hedged in from the gaze of the world. Again alone. The servant had gone to the shops, to buy ribbon. Their salutations hitherto had been nothing but decorum and formality, as witness that of the previous day.
"Good-morning," said Ellen, rising and holding out her hand.
Instead of taking it, he took herself. Took her in his arms with a cry of long-repressed emotion, and laid her sweet face upon his breast, kissing it with impassioned kisses. Ellen, utterly astonished, could not escape.
"Do not shrink from me, Ellen. You are to be my wife."
Affairs grew more unsatisfactory at Dallory as the weeks went on. The strike continued; the men utterly refusing to return to work except on their own terms, or, rather, the Trades' Union refusing to allow them to do so. Supplies became more scanty. If not actual famine, something near to it began to reign. North Inlet, once so prosperous, looked like a half-starved place out at elbows. Oh, what senseless folly it was! What would it end in? Mrs. Gass had grown tired of going amongst the men to reason with them and try to bring them to their senses; but Miss Dallory still went. Miss Dallory could make no impression whatever. The men were moody, miserable, almost starved. They would gladly have gone back to work again almost on no pay at all, only as a relief to the present idleness; but they belonged to the famous Trades' Union now, and must obey its dictates. Mary Dallory grew angry sometimes, and asked whether they were men, or cravens, that they had no pity for their poor helpless children.
One day Mrs. Gass and Miss Dallory went forth together. Not of premeditation. One of Ketler's children was ill and weakly, incipient consumption, Dr. Rane said; she was a sweet little child, mild and gentle; and Miss Dallory would sometimes carry her strengthening things. It was a terrible shame, she would tell Ketler, that he should let even this poor sickly child starve: and Ketler humbly acknowledged to his own heart that the childwasstarving; and felt it keenly. The man was as well-meaning a man as Heaven ever sent into the world; anxious to do his duty: but he had signed himself a member of the Trades' Union, and was helpless.
Miss Dallory wore a print gown, and was altogether a great deal less fine than Jelly. She carried a small basket in her hand, containing fresh eggs. As she passed Mrs. Gass's that lady was standing at her open parlour window, in all the glory of a gorgeous green satin robe, and white bonnet with bird-of-paradise feather. She dearly loved fine clothes, and saw no reason why she should not wear them.
"Where be you bound to, my dear?" asked the grandly-dressed lady, as Mary stopped.
"I am taking these eggs to little Cissy Ketler. Mrs. Gass, what is to become of all the poor children if this state of things should last much longer?"
"I'm sure I don't know. It goes again' the grain to see 'em want; but when we give 'em food or helps it's just so much premium offered to the father's incorrigible obstinacy and idleness, my dear."
"But the child is ill," said Mary Dallory. "And so are many other children."
"They'll be worse before long. My dear, I was not talking at you, in saying that. But I don't see where it's all to end. We can't set up hospitals for the women and children, even with the best will to do it. And the will, I, for one, have not. Once get their wives and children took care of, and the men would lead the lives of gentlemen to the end o' the chapter. Here; I'll walk with you, my dear; and we can talk going along."
She came forth, drawing on her lemon-coloured gloves: and they went towards Ketler's. North Inlet looked deserted to-day. Not a man was lounging in it. The few stragglers to be seen were walking briskly in the direction of the works; as if they had business on hand, and were without their pipes. Mrs. Gass arrested one who was passing her.
"What's up, Dawson?"
"We've been called together, ma'am, to meet Mr. Richard North. He have som'at to say to us. Happen, maybe, he's a-going to give in at last."
"Is he!" retorted Mrs. Gass. "I don't think you need worrit your inside with that idea, Dawson. It's a deal more likely that he's going to warn you he'll sell the works out and out--if he can get any fool to buy 'em."
The man passed on. Mrs. Gass, as she turned to Miss Dallory, gave a flourish with her small white lace parasol and a toss to the bird-of-paradise.
"Had anybody told me men could be so obstinate, in regard to thinking themselves in the right, I'd never have believed it: but seeing's believing. My dear, suppose we just step on to the works, and learn what matter Mr. Richard has in hand."
The men, going in at the iron gates, branched round to their own entrance. Mrs. Gass took Miss Dallory to a private one. It led at once into what might now be called the audience chamber, for Richard North was already haranguing the men in it: a long and rather narrow room, with a counter running across it. It used to be the pay-room of the men: perhaps some of them, entering now, recalled those prosperous days with a sigh. Richard North did not see the ladies come in. He stood with his back to them, in his usual everyday attire, a plain black frock-coat and grey trousers. His hands rested on the counter as he talked to the men, who faced him on the other side; a crowd of them, all with attentive countenances. Mrs. Gass signed to Miss Dallory to halt; not to conceal themselves from Richard, but simply lest their advance should interrupt what he was saying. And so they remained listening, Richard unconscious that he had any other audience than his workpeople.
The matter was this. A contract had just been offered to North and Gass. It was a very large one, and would certainly, if accepted, keep the men employed for some time. It was offered at a certain price. Richard North made his calculations and found that he could accept it, provided the men would work on the former terms: but he could not if the rate of wages had to be raised. Considering the present hopeless condition of the men, imagining that they must have had very nearly sufficient experience of idleness and empty cupboards to bring them to reason, he determined to lay the proposal before them--that they might accept or reject it. In a clear and concise manner he stated this, and the men heard him respectfully to the end. One of them then advanced a few steps before the rest, and answered. Answered without the smallest deliberation; without so much as a pretence of inquiring what the feelings of his fellows might be.
"We can't do it, sir."
Richard North raised his hand for silence, as if the man had spoken before his time.
"Do you fully understand the case in all its bearings?" resumed Richard: "if not, take time to reflect until you do understand it. Look at it well; take into consideration the future as well as the present. Listen again. This contract has been offered me: it is a good one, as you must know. It will set our works going again; it will be the means of bringing back the business that seems to be drifting more hopelessly away from us day by day. It will provide you with, employment, with wages that you not so long ago thought liberal; and will place you again in what may be called prosperity--great prosperity as compared with what exists at present. Your homes may be homes of plenty again, your children have sufficient food. In short, both to you and to me, this contract offers just the turn of the tide. I wish to accept it: I see nothing but ruin before my father and myself if I cannot do so: what I see before you I do not care to speak of, if you are not wise enough to see it for yourselves. The decision lies with you, unfortunately; I wish it lay with myself. Shall I take it, or shall I not?"
"We couldn't return at them rate of wages, nohow," spoke up a voice from the crowd.
"It is the last chance that I shall offer you," proceeded Richard. "For your sakes I would strongly advise you to take it. Heaven is my witness that I am honest in saying 'for your sakes.' We have been associated together for many years, and I cannot see the breaking up of old ties without first using every effort to re-unite them. I must give my answer tomorrow, and accept this work or reject it. Little time is allowed me for decision, therefore I am unable to give much to you. Virtually the acceptance or rejection lies with you; for, without you, I could not fulfil it: but I cannot help a remark in passing, that for such a state of things to exist argues something rotten at the core in the relations between master and men. At six o'clock tomorrow morning the great bell shall be rung, calling you to work as formerly. My men, I hope you will all respond to it."
No, not at the terms offered, was the answer gathered by Richard North from the buzz that rose around.
"I cannot offer you better. I have said that this is the last chance," repeated Richard. "I shall never give you the option of working for me again."
The men couldn't help that. The fact was, they only half believed it. One ventured a supposition that if the works were sold, the new firm might give them work on new terms.
"No," said Richard North. "I am very different from you, my men. You see work at your very hand, and will not do it. You look forward to the future with, as I must suppose, easy apathy, giving neither care nor anxiety as to how you and your families are to live. I, on the contrary, am only anxious to work; at a reduced rate of profit, on a smaller scale if it must be; but, any way, to work. Night after night I lie awake, tormented with lively apprehensions for the future. What seemed, when you first turned out, to be a mere temporary stoppage, that reason and good sense on both our sides could not fail to rectify, has assumed gigantic proportions and a permanent aspect. After some time I gave way; offering to split the difference, as to wages, if you would return----"
"But we wanted the whole," came an interruption. "And you didn't give way as to time."
"I could not do either," said Richard North firmly. "I offered all I was able. That is a thing of the past: let it go. I now make you this last and final offer; and I think it only fair to tell you what my course will be if you reject it. I shall go over to Belgium and see if I cannot engage Belgian workmen to come here and take your places."
A dead silence fell on the room. Ketler broke it.
"You'd surely not do that, sir!"
"Not do it! Why, you force it upon me. I must either get a new set of men, or give up the works entirely. As I do not feel inclined to the latter course, the former alone is open to me."
"We'll have none o' them Belgiums here!" cried a threatening voice from the crowd.
"Allow me to tell you, Thoms, to tell you all, that the Belgians will not ask your leave to come," spoke Richard, raising his head to its full height. "Would you act the part of dogs-in-the-manger? I offeryouthe work; offer itnow; and I heartily wish you to accept it; but if you do not, I shall certainly endeavour to get others here who will."
"Who be they Belgicks that they should snatch the bread out of honest Englishmen's mouths!"
"What are the honest Englishmen about, to give them the opportunity?" retorted Richard. "Listen, my men," he continued, as he leaned forward and raised his hand impressively. "If you (I speak of the country collectively) refuse to work, it can practically matter very little to you whether the work goes to Belgium or elsewhere to be done, or whether strangers come and do it here.It must end in one or the other."
"It shan't never end in them frogs o' foreigners coming here," spoke Thoms again, vexed that his voice should have been recognized by Richard North. And this second interruption was hissed down by his more sensible comrades; who sharply bade him hold his tongue, and hear the master. Richard put up his hand again.
"We will take it, for the moment's argument, at what Thoms says--that strangers would not, or should not, come here. In that case the other result must happen--the work of the country would pass away from it. It has already begun to pass; you know it, my men; and so do your rulers the Trades' Unions. How it affects their nerves I don't pretend to say; but, when once this tide of desolation has fairly set in as a settled result, there will not be much need of their agitation. As truly as that I live, and now stand here speaking to you, I believe this will come. In different parts of the country whole places are being dismantled--the work has left it. Do you suppose North Inlet is the only spot where the provision shops may as well be closed because the men have no longer money to spend in them? Any newspaper you take up will tell you the contrary. Read about the ship-building in the East of London; how it has gone away, and whole colonies of men are left behind starving. Gone to Scotland; to the banks of the Tyne; anywhere that men can be found to work. It is the same with other trades. Whose fault is this? Why, the men's own."
Murmurs. "No. No."
"No! Why, here's a present illustration of it. Whose fault is it that my works are shut up, and you are living in idleness--or, we'll say, starving in idleness, if you like the word better? If I am unable to take this contract now offered, and it goes elsewhere, whose doings will it be, but yours? Don't talk nonsense, my men. It is all very well to say that the Trades' Unions don't allow, you to take the work. I have nothing to do with that: you and the Unions may divide the responsibility between you."
"The fact is, sir, that we are not our own masters," said Ketler.
"Just so. And it seems that you cannot, or will not, emancipate yourselves from your new slavery and again become your own masters. However, I did not call you together to go over this old ground, but to lay before you the option of returning to work. You have the day to consider it. At six o'clock tomorrow the call-bell will ring----"
"'Twon't be of no use ringing it, sir," interrupted Ketler, some sadness in his tone.
"At six o'clock tomorrow morning the call-bell here will ring," authoritatively repeated Richard North. "You respond to it and I shall heartily welcome you back. If you do not, my refusal must go in, and the contract will lapse from me. If we part to-day it is our final parting, for I shall at once take measures to secure a fresh set of workpeople. Though I gather but ten together at first, and the work I undertake be insignificant in proportion,I'll get them. It will be something like beginning life again: and you will have forced it on me."
"And of all pig-headed idiotics that mortal master ever had to deal with, sure you men are the worst!"
The undignified interruption came from Mrs. Gass. Richard looked round, in great surprise; perhaps all the greater when he also saw Miss Dallory. Mrs. Gass came forward; talking volubly; her bird-of-paradise nodding time to her words. As usual she told the men some home truths; none the less forcibly because her language was homely as their own.
"Is this true?" asked Miss Dallory in a low tone, as Richard went back to shake hands with her. "Shall you really reopen the works again with another set of men?"
"Yes--if these do not return. It will be better, however quietly I may have to begin, than going out to seek my fortune in the world. At least, I have lately been thinking so."
"Do you think the menwillreturn?"
"I am afraid to give you my true opinion. It might seem like a bad omen."
"And now you have given it me. It is also mine. They are blind to infatuation."
"Not so much blind, I think, as that they are--I have just said so to them--in a state of slavery from which they dare not emancipate themselves."
"And who would do so--under the specious promises of the Trades' Unions? Don't blame them too much, Mr. Richard North. If some strong body came down on you or me with, all sorts of agitation and golden promises for the future, we also might believe in them."
Richard shook his head. "Not if the strong body lived by the agitation: and took our hard-earned money to keep themselves and their golden promises going."
Mary Dallory laughed a little. "Shall you ring that great bell in the morning?"
"Yes; certainly."
"Ah, well--the men will only laugh at you. But I dare say you can stand that. Oh dear! What need there is that the next world should be great and good, when this is so foolish a one!"
The meeting had broken up. Richard North and a few of the more intelligent of the men--those who had filled the more important posts at the works--remained talking yet together. Mrs. Gass, and Miss Dallory with her basket of fresh eggs, went away together.
Women stood about with anxious faces, watching for the news. They were tired of the strike: heartsick, as some of them feelingly expressed it. Nothing teaches so well as experience: the women were as eager for the strike at one time as the men could be, believing it would bring them a tide of prosperity in its wake. They had not bargained for what it had really brought: misery, and dismantled homes, and semi-starvation. But for being obliged to keep up as others did--as we all have to do, whatever may be the life's struggles, the heart's bitter care--there were those amongst them who would have laid down to die in sheer hopelessness.
Mrs. Ketler stood at her door in a tattered black net cap--the once tidy woman. She was shading the sun from her eyes as she looked out for her husband. It prevented her noticing the approach of the ladies; and when they accosted her she backed into her house in her timid way, rather startled, attempting a few words by way of apology. The little girl who was sick--a wan child of seven years old--was being nursed by one somewhat older. Miss Dallory looked round to see that there was a chair left, and took the invalid on her own lap. Almost all the available things the house once contained had been parted with; either pledged or sold. Miss Dallory gave the eggs to the mother, and a half-pint bottle of beef-tea that lay at the bottom of the basket.
"How is Cissy to-day?" she asked tenderly of the child.
"Cissy tired," was the little one's answer.
"Has Cissy finished the strawberry-jam?"
Cissy nodded.
"Then let your big boy come to Ham Court for some more," said Miss Dallory, turning to the mother.
The "big boy" was the eldest. He had been employed at the works, but was of course condemned to idleness like the rest.
"Aren't you pretty tired of this sort o' thing?" demanded Mrs. Gass, who had come to an anchor on a wooden bucket turned upside-down.
The woman knew what she meant by "this sort o' thing," and gave a groan. It was very expressive, showinghowtired she was of it, and how hopeless were any prospects of a change.
"I've heard about the master's offer, ma'am; but the men mean to reject it," she said. "Smith stopped to tell me as he went by. The Lord above knows what is to become of us!"
"If the men do reject it, they'll deserve to starve for the rest of their lives," retorted Mrs. Gass. "Any way, I hope they'll have it upon their consciences for ever."
"It's the Trades' Union," said the woman in a low tone, giving a frightened look around. "The men can't do as they would."
"Not do as they would!" echoed Mrs. Gass. "Don't you pick up their folly and retail it to me again, Susan Ketler. If the men was fools enough to be drawn into joining the Union at first--and I wouldn't blame 'em too much for that, for the best of us gets led away at times by fair promises that turn out in the end to be smoke, or worse--they ought not to be so obstinate as to keep there. Now that they've seen what good that precious Trades' Union is doing for 'em, and what it's likely to do, they should buckle on the armour of their common sense and leave it. Mr. Richard North has this day given them the opportunity of doing so. Every man Jack of 'em can go back to work tomorrow morning at the ringing of the bell: and take up again with good wages and comfort. If they refuse they'll not be so much fools as something worse, Susan Ketler: they'll be desperately wicked."
"They are afraid," murmured the woman. "They have yielded themselves by word and bond to the Union."
"Then let 'em break the bond. Don't tell me, Susan Ketler. Afraid? What of? Could the Union kill them for it? Could the men be hung, drawn and quartered for leaving it? Whoisthe Union? Giants that were born with thunderbolts and power from the Creator to control people's wills?--or just simple men like themselves: workmen too, once, some of 'em, if reports are true. You'd better not try to come over me with your fallacies. Facts is facts. If these men chose to do it, they could send the Trades' Union to the right about this very day, and return, with one accord, to work and their senses tomorrow. Who's to hinder them?"
Mrs. Ketler ventured to say no more. She only wished she dared say as much to her husband and the men. But, what with common sense, as Mrs. Gass called it, on the one side, and the Trades' Union sophistries on the other, the steering in North Inlet just now was difficult in the extreme. Mrs. Gass rose from her uncomfortable seat, and departed with Miss Dallory.
There was commotion that day in Dallory. An offer such as this of Richard North's, coming as it did in the very midst of distress and prolonged privation, could not be rejected off-hand without dissenting voices. The few men who had not joined the Union, who only wished to get back to work, pleaded for acceptance as if they were pleading for life. Strangers also--that is, gentlemen who had no direct interest in the question--went about amongst the men, striving to impress upon them where their obligations lay, and what their course ought to be. One of these was Dr. Rane. There had been a good deal of sickness lately--when is there not where privation reigns?--and the doctor's services were in great requisition. Every house he visited that day, every workman with whom he came into contact, he spoke to forcibly and kindly: urging them all most strongly not to reject this opportunity of putting themselves right with the world. It was one, he said, that might never occur again, if neglected now. Dr. Rane, whilst blaming the men, was sorry for them; keenly sorry for their wives and children.
He had had a very fatiguing day. When the dusk of evening came on, he went and sat in the garden, tired and weary. Bessy had gone to spend the evening at Ham Court with Miss Dallory; and the doctor had promised to fetch her home. His ruminations still ran, as ever, on getting away from Dallory; but at present there seemed to be little chance of his doing it. Unless he could dispose of his practice here, he would not have the wherewithal to establish himself elsewhere. Had Oliver Rane been a less healthy man than he really was, he would long ago have thought and worried himself into a nervous fever.
It grew darker. Dr. Rane struck his repeater--for it was too dark to see the hands--wondering whether it was time to go for his wife. No; not quite, he found; he could delay another quarter-of-an-hour yet. And he lapsed into his musings.
The seat he had chosen was under the great cedar-tree at the extreme corner of the garden, close to the wire fence that divided his ground from Mrs. Cumberland's, and also close to that lady's back-door. Some foliage of clematis and woodbine would have hidden him from any one on the other side even in daylight, and Dr. Rane felt as solitary as he would have felt in an African desert. From his own troubles his thoughts went roaming off to other matters: to his mother's long sojourn at Eastsea; to wondering when she meant to return home; to speculating on what the workmen's answer to Richard North's call would be.
"Will they show the white feather still? it is nothing less, this cowardly grovelling to the dictates of the Union," soliloquized Dr. Rane; "or will they respond to Dick like men of sense, and go back to him? If it were not for those agitators----"
"I can tell you what it is, Mr. Tim Wilks--if you don't choose to keep to your time and your promises, you need not trouble yourself to come worrying after me later. A good two mortal hours by the clock have I been at Green's waiting foryou."
The above, succeeding to the sound of footsteps in the lane, and uttered in Jelly's sharpest tones, cut short Dr. Rane's musings. A short squabble ensued: Jelly scolding; Tim Wilks breathlessly explaining. From what the doctor, sitting in silence, and unsuspected, could gather, it appeared that Jelly must have had some appointment with Tim--no doubt of her own imperious making--which he had failed to keep, and had come running after her, only to catch her up at the garden-door.
Jelly put the key in the lock, and stepped inside the garden: the servants sometimes chose that way of entrance in preference to the front. During the absence of Mrs. Cumberland Jelly acted as mistress, entertained her friends, and went in and out at will. Mr. Wilks meekly remained where he was, not daring to cross the threshold without permission.
"Is it too late to come in, Miss Jelly?" asked he.
"Yes, it is too late," retorted Jelly; the pair not having the slightest notion that any eavesdropper was near them. But the word could not justly be applied to Dr. Rane: he did not want to hear what was said; felt rather annoyed at the noise and interruption.
"I couldn't get home before," resumed Timothy, "though I ran all the way from Whitborough. When a young man has his day's work to finish, and that in a lawyer's office, he is obliged to stay beyond hours if necessary."
"Don't tell me," said Jelly, who stood with the half-closed door in her hand in the most inhospitable manner. "You could have come home if you'd chosen."
"But I couldn't, Miss Jelly."
"You are always stopping beyond hours now. That is,sayingthat you do."
"Because we have been so busy lately," answered Tim. "Our head clerk, Repton, is away through illness, and it puts more work on the others. Dale's as cranky as he can be, and works us like horses. If you'll believe me, Miss Jelly, I hadn't time to go out and get any tea. I've not had bit or drop inside me since one o'clock to-day."
This pitiful view of affairs a little pacified Jelly; and she dropped her sharp tone. Dr. Rane was wishing they would take their departure. He would have done so himself, but that he did not altogether care to betray his presence.
"Why does that old Dale not get another clerk?" demanded Jelly. "I should tell him plainly if I were you, Tim, that going without my regular meals did not suit me."
"We should not dare to say that. Much he'd listen if we did! As to getting another clerk, I believe he is doing it. Repton's doctor says he'll never be well again, so Dale thinks it's of no use waiting for him."
"Youwere to take Repton's place, if ever he left," said Jelly, quickly.
"I know I was"--and Timothy Wilks's voice became so rueful that it might have made Dr. Rane laugh under more open circumstances. "But when Dale made that promise, Miss Jelly, you see the affair of the anonymous letter had not taken place."
"What anonymous letter?"
"The one that killed Edmund North."
"Why, you don't mean to insinuate that Dale lays the blame of that onyou?"
"I don't suppose he thinks I sent it. Indeed I'm sure he does not. But he was anything but pleasant over it to me at the time, and he has never been quite the same to me since."
"He is an unjust owl," said Jelly.
"One does not look for much else than injustice from lawyers."
"Does Dale say that letter is the reason of his not promoting you to Repton's place?"
"He doesn't say it: but I know that it is so, as if he did just as well."
Jelly struck the key two or three times against the door. She was thinking.
"That's through your foolish tongue, Timothy Wilks. You know you did talk of the matter out of the office."
"They say so," confessed Timothy. "But if I did, I'm sure I've been punished enough for it. It's hard that it should stick to me always. Why don't they find the writer of the letter, and punishhim?He was the villain; not me."
"So he was," said Jelly. "Tim, what would you say if I told you I knew who it was?"
"I? Excuse me, Miss Jelly, but I should not quite believe it."
Jelly laughed. Not a loud laugh, but one rather derisive, and full ofpower. Its peculiar significance penetrated to him who was seated under the cedar-tree, betraying all too surely that Jelly knew his dangerous secret. Even the less sensitive Tim Wilks was impressed by the sound.
"Surely, Miss Jelly, you do not mean that you know who wrote the letter?"
"I could put my finger out from where I now stand, Tim, and lay it on the right person," she answered in low, impressive tones, little suspecting how literally true were her words.
Tim seemed overwhelmed. He drew a deep breath.
"Then, why don't you, Miss Jelly?"
"Because----" Jelly stopped short. "Well, because there are certain considerations that make it difficult to speak."
"But you ought to speak. Indeed you ought, Miss Jelly. If Lawyer Dale got to hear of this, he'd tell you he could compel you to speak."
Again there broke forth a laugh from Jelly. But quite a different laugh this time--one of mirth. Tim decided that she had only been making fun of him. He resented it, as much as he was capable of resenting anything.
"You shouldn't make game, of a young man in this way, Miss Jelly! I'm sure I thought you were in earnest. You'd make a fine play-actor."
"Shouldn't I?" assented Jelly, "and take in the audience nicely, as I take in you. Well," changing her tone, "you must be soft, Tim Wilks! The idea of believing thatIcould know who wrote the letter?"
The hint about Lawyer Dale had frightened Jelly, bringing back the prudence which her impulsive sympathy with Tim's wrongs had momentarily put to flight. All she could do, then, was to strive to efface the impression she had made. There existed certain considerations, that made it, as she had aptly said, difficult to speak. But she felt vexed with herself, and resented it on Tim.
"See here," cried she, "I can't stand at this gate all night, jabbering with you; so you can just betake yourself off again. And the next time you make a promise to be home by a certain hour to take a late cup of tea with friends at Mrs. Green's, I'll trouble you to keep it. Mind that, Mr. Wilks."
Mr. Wilks had his nose round the post, and was beginning some deprecatory rejoinder, but Jelly slammed the door, and nearly snapped the nose off. Locking it with a click, she put the key in her pocket, and marched on to the house.
Leaving Dr. Rane alone to the night dews under the heavy cedar-tree.Werethe dews falling?--or was it that his own face gave out the damp moisture that lay on it? He sat still as death.
So, then, Jelly did know of it! As he had before half-suspected; and he had been living,wasliving, with a sword suspended over him. It mattered not to speculate as to how she acquired the terrible secret: she knew it, and that was sufficient. Dr. Rane had not felt very safe before; but now it seemed to him as though he were treading on the extreme edge of a precipice, and that his footing was crumbling from under him. There could be no certainty at any moment that Jelly would not declare what she knew: tomorrow--the next day--the day after: how could he tell what day or hour it might be? Oliver Rane passed his handkerchief over his face, his hand anything but a steady one.
The "certain considerations" to which Jelly had confessed, meant that she was in service with Mrs. Cumberland, and that he was Mrs. Cumberland's son. Whilst Jolly, retained her place, she would not perhaps be deliberately guilty of the bad faith of betraying, as it were, her mistress. Yet there were so many chances that might lead to it. Lawyer Dale's questioning might bring it about--and who could answer for it that this might not at once set in at a word from Wilks?--or she might be quitting Mrs. Cumberland's service--or taking upon herself to right Tim with the world--or speaking, as she had evidently spoken that night, upon impulse. Yes; there were a hundred-and-one chances now of his betrayal!
He must get away from Dallory without delay. "Out of sight, out of mind," runs the old proverb--and it certainly seemed to Dr. Rane that if he were out of sight the chances of betrayal would be wonderfully lessened. He could battle with it better, too, at a distance, if discovery came; perhaps keep it wholly from his wife. Never a cloud had come between him and Bessy: rather than letthisdisclosure come to her--he would have run away with her to the wilds of Africa. Or, perhaps from her.
Run away! The thought brought a circumstance to his mind. That self-same morning another letter had arrived from his friend in America, Dr. Jones. Dr. Jones had again urged on Oliver Rane his acceptance of the offer to join him in his practice there, saying it was an opportunity he might never have again throughout his lifetime. Dr. Rane fully believed it: it was, beyond doubt, a very excellent offer; but, alas! he had not the money to embrace it. Five hundred pounds--besides the expenses of the voyage and the removal: Dr. Rane had not five hundred shillings to spare. The tontine money came flashing through his brain. Oh, if he could only get it!
The air grew really damp; but he still sat in the dark under the shade of the cedar-tree, reviewing plans and projects, ways and means. To him it was growing as a very matter of life or death.
How long he sat, he knew not: but by-and-by the faint sound of Dallory Church clock was wafted to him through the clear air. He counted the strokes--ten.Ten?Dr. Rane started up: he ought to have gone for his wife long and long ago.