COME with me, Marsten,” said Braunt. “Let us get out of this crowd. I want a word with you.”
The two made their way to a quieter street, and walked together towards Rose Garden Court, talking as they went.
“This foolish strike must stop,” began the York-shireman, “and now is the time to stop it. The men are tired of it, and the masters are sick of it; but neither will give in, so a way must be found out of the tangle, and you are the man to find the way.”
“How? The men won’t throw over Gibbons, and Sartwell will resign before he will confer with him. Remember how Gibbons swayed the men last night, in spite of the grumbling there had been against him before the meeting opened.”
“Yes, I know. But, my lad, there is dissension in the other camp as well as in ours. Sartwell’s coming out as he did just now was as much defiance of his masters as of his men. If we knew the truth of it, both Monkton and Hope wanted him to come with them and their bodyguard. He refused. From what I hear, Mr. Hope was so frightened this morning that he could not have spoken if his life had depended upon it. There must have been some hot talk between the three to-day. Sartwell underestimates the danger, and the two owners perhaps overestimate it. What I am sure of is, that there is division between Sartwell and the masters, and when they hear that he came out alone to-night, while they were guarded by twelve policemen, they’ll be more angry than ever, if there’s any spirit in either of them. Now, what you must do to-morrow is to meet either Monkton or Hope, or both if possible. You’ll see they won’t look near the works again until this strike’s ended. I’d go to Mr. Hope first if I were you. He’s had the worst fright. Tell him you want to end the trouble, and he’ll listen willingly. Very likely he has some plan of his own that Sartwell won’t let him try. If you get him to promise to give us what we want if we throw over Gibbons, we’ll spring that on the meeting, and you’ll see, if we work it right, Gibbons will be thrown over. Then there will be no trouble with Sartwell.”
“It seems a treacherous thing to do,” said Marsten, with some hesitation.
“God’s truth, lad,” cried Braunt, with some impatience, “haven’t they been treating you like a traitor ever since this strike began? What’s the difference, if it does look like treachery? Think of the wives and children of the men, if not of the men themselves; think of those that no one has given a thought to all these weeks, the women workers in the top floor of the works. They’ve had little strike pay; they have no vote at the meetings, and they have to suffer and starve when they are willing to work. Treachery? I’d be a traitor a thousand times over to see the works going again.”
“I’ll do it,” said Marsten.
The young man had no money to waste on railway fare, so next morning early he set his face to the west, and trudged along the Portsmouth road the twelve miles’ distance between London and Surbiton.
As he walked up the beautifully kept drive to the Hope mansion, he thought he saw the owner among the trees at the rear, pacing very dejectedly up and down a path. Marsten hesitated a moment, but finally decided to apply formally at the front door. The servant looked at him with evident suspicion, and, after learning his business, promptly returned, saying Mr. Hope could not see him. The door was shut upon him, but Marsten felt sure Mr. Hope had not been consulted in the matter; so, instead of going out by the gate he had entered, he went around the house to the plantation beyond, and there came upon Mr. Hope, who was much alarmed at seeing a stranger suddenly appear before him.
“I am one of your workmen, Mr. Hope,” began Marsten, by way of reassuring the little man; but his words had an entirely opposite effect. Mr. Hope looked wildly to right and left of him, but, seeing no chance of escape, resigned himself, with a deep sigh, to dynamite, or whatever other shape this particular workingman’s arguments might take.
“What do you want?” faltered the employer at last. “I want this strike to end.”
“Oh, so do I, so do I!” cried Mr. Hope, almost in tears.
“Then, Mr. Hope, won’t you allow me to speak with you for a few moments, and see if we cannot find some way out of the difficulty?”
“Surely, surely,” replied the trembling old man, visibly relieved at finding his former employee did not intend to use the stout stick, which he carried in his hand, for the purpose of a personal assault.
“Let us walk a little further from the house, where we can talk quietly. Have you anything to propose?”
“Well, the chief trouble seems to be that Mr. Sart-well will not meet Gibbons.”
“Ah, Sartwell!” said the old man, as if whispering to himself. “Sartwell is a strong man—a strong man; difficult to persuade—difficult to persuade.” Then turning suddenly he asked, “You’re not Gibbons, are you?”
“No, my name is Marsten. Gibbons was the man who tried to speak with you yesterday at the gates.” The old man shuddered at the recollection.
“There were so many there I did not see any one distinctly, and it all took place so suddenly. I don’t remember Gibbons. It was dreadful, dreadful!”
“I hope you were not hurt.”
“No, no. Merely a scratch or two. Nothing to speak of. Now, what can be done about the strike?”
“Would you be prepared to grant the requests of the men, if they were to throw over Gibbons, and send a deputation to Mr. Sartwell?”
“Oh, willingly, most willingly. I don’t at all remember what it is the men want, but we’ll grant it; anything to stop this suicidal struggle. Does Sartwell know you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Of course he does. He knows every one in the works, by name even. A wonderful man—a wonderful man! I often wish I had more influence with him. Now, if you would go and see Mr. Sartwell—he lives at Wimbledon; it’s on your way; I asked him not to go to the works to-day, so perhaps you will find him at home—you might possibly arrange with him about receiving a deputation. Perhaps it would be best not to tell him that you’ve seen me—yes, I’m sure it’s best not. Then I’ll speak to him about granting the men’s demands. I’ll put my foot down; so will Monkton. We’ll be firm with him.” The old man glanced timidly over his shoulder. “We’ll say to him that we’ve stood at his back about Gibbons, and now he must settle at once with the men when they’ve abandoned Gibbons. Why will he not see Gibbons, do you know? Has he a personal dislike to the man?”
“Oh, no. It is a matter of principle with Mr. Sartwell. Gibbons is not one of your workmen.”
“Ah yes, yes. I remember now. That’s exactly what Sartwell said. Well, I’m very much obliged to you for coming, and I hope these awful occurrences are at an end. Good-by! There’s a train in half an hour that stops at Wimbledon.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hope, but I’m on foot to-day.”
“Bless me, it’s a long distance and roundabout by road. The train will get you there in a few minutes.”
Marsten laughed.
“I don’t mind walking,” he said.
The old man looked at him for a few minutes.
“You don’t mean to tell me you have walked all the way from London this morning!”
“It’s only twelve or thirteen miles.”
“Dear dear, dear dear! I see, I see. Yes, Sartwell’s right. I’m not a very brilliant man, although I think one’s manager should not say so before one’s partner. Come with me to the house for a moment.”
“I think I should be off now.”
“No no, come with me. I won’t keep you long; I won’t take a refusal. I’m going to put my foot down, as I said. I have had too little self-assertion in the past. Come along.”
The courageous man led the way towards his dwelling, keeping the trees between himself and the house as much as possible and as long as he could. He shuffled hurriedly across the open space, and went gingerly up the steps at the back of the building, letting himself into a wide hall, and then noiselessly entered a square room that looked out upon the broad lawn and plantation to the rear. The room was lined with books; a solid oak table stood in the centre, flanked by comfortable armchairs. Mr. Hope rang the bell, and held the door slightly ajar.
“Is there any cold meat down-stairs, Susy?” he whispered to the unseen person through the opening.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, bring up enough for two; some pickles, bread and butter, and a bit of cheese.” Then turning to Marsten he asked, “Will you drink wine or beer?”
“Really, Mr. Hope,” said the young man, moistening his lips and speaking with difficulty, “I’m not in the least hungry.”
Which was not true, for the very recital of the articles of food made him feel so faint that he had to lean against the bookcase for support.
“Bring a bottle of beer, please,” whispered the host, softly closing the door.
“Sit down, sit down,” he said to Marsten. “Not hungry? Of course you’re hungry after such a walk, no matter how hearty a breakfast you took before you left.”
While Marsten ate, Mr. Hope said nothing, but sat listening with apparently intense anxiety. Once he rose and cautiously turned the key in the door, breathing easier when this was done.
“Now,” said the old man, when Marsten had finished his meal, “you must go by rail to Wimbledon. Time is of importance—time is of importance. Here is a little money for expenses.”
“I cannot take money from you, Mr. Hope, but thank you all the same.”
“Nonsense, nonsense. You are acting for me, you know.”
“No, sir, I am acting for the men.”
“Well, it’s the same thing. Benefit one, benefit all. Come, come, I insist. I put down my foot. Call it wages, if you like. No doubt you didn’t want to strike.”
“I didn’t want to, but I struck.”
“Same thing, same thing. You must take the money.”
“I’d much rather not, sir.”
Marsten saw the anxiety of his host, who acted as a man might over whose head some disaster impended, and it weakened his resolution not to take the money. He understood that for some reason Mr. Hope wanted him to take the money and be gone.
“Tut, tut,” persisted the old man, eagerly. “We mustn’t let trifles stand in the way of success.”
As he was speaking, an imperious voice sounded in the hall—the voice of a woman. A sudden pallour overspread Mr. Hope’s face, that reminded Marsten of the look it wore when the twelve policemen escorted him and his partner through the crowd.
“Here, here,” said the old man, in a husky whisper, “take the money and say nothing about it—nothing about it.”
Marsten took the money, and slipped it into his pocket. The voice in the hall rang out again.
“Where is Mr. Hope, Susan?” it asked.
“He was in the back walk a few minutes ago, mum.”
Firm footsteps passed down the hall, the outside door opened and shut, and, in the silence, the crunch on the gravel was distinctly heard.
The anxiety cleared away from Mr. Hope’s face like the passing of a cloud, and a faint smile hovered about his lips. He seemed to have forgotten Marsten’s presence in the intensity of the moment.
“Clever girl, Susy—so I was, so I was,” he murmured to himself.
“Good-by, and thank you, Mr. Hope,” said Marsten, rising. “I will go at once and see Mr. Sartwell.”
“Yes, yes. In a moment—in a moment,” said the old man, with a glance out of the window. His voice sank into an apologetic tone as he added, as if asking a favour: “Won’t you take some money with you, to be given anonymously—anonymously, mind—to the committee for the men? You see, the negotiations may take a few days, and I understand they are badly off—badly off.”
Even Marsten smiled at this suggestion.
“I don’t see how that could be managed. I shall have to tell the men I have been to see you, or at least some of them, and they might misunderstand. I think, perhaps——”
“I see—I see. There is a difficulty, of course. I shall send it in the usual way to the papers. That’s the best plan.”
“To the papers?” said Marsten, astonished.
The old man looked at him in alarm.
“I didn’t intend to mention that. As you say, it might be misunderstood—misunderstood. The world seems to be made up of misunderstandings, but you’ll not say anything about it, will you? I did it in a roundabout way, so as not to cause any ill feeling, under the name of ‘Well-wisher,’ Merely trifles, you know; trifles, now and then. Sartwell said the strike would end in a fortnight or three weeks. He’s a clever man, Sartwell—a clever man—but was mistaken in that. We all make mistakes one time or another. I wouldn’t care for him to know, you see, that I contributed anonymously to the strike fund; he might think it prolonged the strike, and perhaps it did—perhaps it did. It is difficult to say what one’s duty is in a case like this—very difficult. So perhaps it is best to mention this to no one.”
“I shall never breathe a word about it, Mr. Hope.”
“That’s right—that’s right. I am very glad you came, and I’ll speak to Sartwell about you when we get in running order again. Now just come out by the front door this time, and when you speak to Mr. Sartwell be careful not to say anything that might appear to criticise his actions in any way. Don’t cross him—don’t cross him. The easiest way is generally the best. If any one has to put a foot down, leave that to me—leave that to me.”
The manufacturer himself let his employee out by the front entrance, and the young man walked briskly to Surbiton Station.
When young Marsten reached the walled-in house at Wimbledon, he found that Sartwell had indeed paid little attention to the wishes of his chief, and had left for the works at his usual hour in the morning. Mr. Hope had evidently not put his foot down firmly enough when he told the manager not to go to his office next day.
Marsten stood hesitatingly on the door-step; not knowing exactly the next best thing to do. After the events of yesterday, there was some difficulty about seeking an interview with the manager at his office.
“Mrs. Sartwell’s not home either,” said the servant, noting his indecision; “but Miss Sartwell is in the garden. Perhaps you would like to see her?”
Perhaps! The young man’s pulses beat faster at the mere mention of her name. He had tried to convince himself that he lingered there through disappointment at finding the manager away from home; but he knew that all his faculties were alert to catch sight or sound of her. He hoped to hear her voice; to get a glimpse of her, however fleeting. He wanted nothing so much on earth at that moment as to speak with her—to touch her hand; but he knew that if he met her, and the meeting came to her father’s knowledge, it would kindle Sartwell’s fierce resentment against him, and undoubtedly jeopardize his mission. Sartwell would see in his visit to Wimbledon nothing but a ruse to obtain an interview with the girl. Braunt had trusted him, and had sent him off with a hearty God-speed; the fate of exasperated men on the very brink of disorder might depend on his success. Women and children might starve to pay for five minutes’ delightful talk with Edna Sartwell. No such temptation had ever confronted him before, and he put it away from him with a faint and wavering hand.
“No,” he said, with a sigh, “it was Mr. Sartwell I wanted to see. I will call upon him at his office.”
The servant closed the door with a bang. Surely he did not need to take all that time, keeping her standing there, to say “No.”
The smallness of a word, however, bears little relation to the difficulty there may be in pronouncing it. Yet the bang of the door resulting from his hesitation brought about the very meeting he had with such reluctance resolved to forego. It is perhaps hardly complimentary to Sartwell to state that, when his daughter heard the door shut so emphatically, she thought her father had returned, and that something had gone wrong. Patience was not among Sartwell’s virtues, and when his wife, actuated solely by a strict sense of duty, endeavoured to point out to him some of his numerous failings, the man, instead of being grateful, often terminated a conversation intended entirely for his own good, by violently slamming the door and betaking himself to the breezy common, where a person may walk miles without going twice over the same path.
The girl ran towards the front of the house, on hearing the noisy closing of the door, and was far from being reassured when she recognized Marsten almost at the gate. That something had happened to her father instantly flashed across her mind, She fleetly overtook the young man, and his evident agitation on seeing her confirmed her fears.
“Oh, Mr. Marsten,” she cried, breathlessly, “is there anything wrong? Has there been more trouble at the works?”
“No; I don’t think so,” he stammered.
“I feel sure something is amiss. Tell me, tell me. Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“I think everything is all right.”
“Why do you say you ‘think’? Aren’t you sure? You have come from the works?”
“No, I haven’t. I’ve just come from Surbiton. I wanted to speak with Mr. Sartwell, but I find he’s not at home.”
“Oh,” said the girl, evidently much relieved. Then she flashed a bewilderingly piercing glance at him, that vaguely recalled her father to his mind. “From Surbiton? You came from Surbiton just now?”
“Yes,” he faltered.
“You have been to see Mr. Hope?”
Marsten was undeniably confused, and the girl saw it. A flush of anger overspread her face.
“If your visit was a secret one, of course I don’t expect you to answer my question.”
“It was not intended to be a secret visit, but—but Mr. Hope asked me not to mention it.”
“Not to mention it to my father?”
“To any one.”
Edna Sartwell gazed at the unhappy young man with a look of reproach in her eyes, and also—alas!—a look of scorn.
“I can see by your face,” she said, indignantly, “that you don’t want my father to know that you have been talking to Mr. Hope about the strike.”
“My face does not tell you everything I think, Miss Sartwell,” replied Marsten, with a burst of courage that astonished himself. “I saw Mr. Hope about the strike, and it was his wish, not mine, that Mr. Sartwell should not know I had been there. But I am wrong in saying it was not mine. I don’t want Mr. Sartwell to know either.”
“Well, I call that treachery,” cried the girl, her face ablaze.
“To whom?” asked Marsten, the colour leaving his face as it mounted in hers.
“To my father.”
“It may be treachery, as you say, but not to Mr. Sartwell. It is treachery to Gibbons, perhaps, for he is secretary to the Union and leader of the strike, while I am a member of the Union and a striker. I cannot be treacherous to Mr. Sartwell, for we are at war with each other.”
“You were not at war with him when you thought he could do you a favour,” said the girl, disdainfully.
The young man looked at her in speechless amazement.
“Oh, yes,” she continued, “he told me of it—that night I was last at the office. He refused you, and you were angry then. I thought at the time you were merely disappointed, and I spoke to him on your behalf; but he said I knew nothing about you, and I see I didn’t. I never thought you were a person who would plot behind your employer’s back.”
“Miss Sartwell,” said Marsten, speaking slowly, “you are entirely wrong in your opinion of me. I feel no resentment against Mr. Sartwell, and I hope he has none against me. You spoke of treachery just now; my treachery, as I have said, is against Gibbons. I mean to depose him, if I can get enough of the men to vote with me. Then the way will be smooth for Mr. Sartwell to put an end to this trouble, which I am sure is causing him more worry than perhaps any one else.”
“But why, if that is the case, don’t you want him to know this?”
“Don’t you see why? It is so that he won’t make the same mistake that you have made. You have kindly allowed me to explain; Mr. Sartwell might not have waited for explanations.”
“I have not been very kind, have I?” said Edna, contritely, holding out her hand to him. “Please forgive me. Now I want to understand all about this, so come with me into the garden, where we sha’n’t be interrupted. Standing here at the gate, some one might call, and then I would have to go into the house, for my mother has gone to Surbiton to see how Mr. Hope is. Was he injured yesterday?”
“No. I will go with you, Miss Sartwell, on one condition.”
“What is that?” asked the girl, in some surprise. She had turned to go, expecting him to follow.
“That you will not tell Mr. Sartwell you have been talking with me.”
“Oh, I cannot promise that. I tell my father everything.”
“Very well. That is quite right, of course; but in this instance, when you tell him you talked with me, say that I came to see him; that the servant said neither he nor Mrs. Sartwell were in, and asked me if I would see you. Tell your father that I said ‘No,’ and that I was leaving when you spoke to me.”
The girl looked frankly at him—a little perplexed wrinkle on her smooth brow. She was puzzled.
“You say that because you do not understand him. He wouldn’t mind in the least your talking with me about the strike, because I am entirely in his confidence; but he might not like it if he knew you had been to see Mr. Hope.”
“Exactly. Now don’t you see that if you tell him you have been talking with me, you will have to tell him what was said? He will learn indirectly that I have been to Surbiton, and will undoubtedly be angry, the more so when he hears I did not intend to tell him. In fact, now that this conversation has taken place, I shall go straight to him and tell him I have talked with Mr. Hope, although I feel sure my doing so will nullify all my plans.”
“And this simply because I talked with you for a few minutes?”
“Yes.”
The girl bent her perplexed face upon the ground, absent-mindedly disturbing the gravel on the walk with the tiny toe of her very neat boot. The young man devoured her with his eyes, and yearned towards her in his heart. At last she looked suddenly up at him with a wavering smile.
“I am sorry I stopped you,” she said. “Perhaps you don’t know what it is to think more of one person than all the rest of the world together. My father is everything to me, and when I saw you I was afraid something had happened to him. It doesn’t seem right that I should keep anything from him, and it doesn’t seem right that I should put anything in the way of a quick settlement. I don’t know what to do.”
When did a woman ever waver without the man in the case taking instant advantage of her indecision, turning her own weapons against her?
“Don’t you see,” said Marsten, eagerly, “that Mr. Sartwell has already as much on his mind as a man should bear? Why, then, add to his anxiety by telling him that I have been here or at Surbiton? The explanations which seem satisfactory to you might not be satisfactory to him. He would then merely worry himself quite unnecessarily.”
“Do you think he would?”
“Think! I know it.”
“Yes, I believe that is true. Well, then, I promise not to tell him of your visit unless he asks me directly. Now come with me; I want to know all your plans, and what Mr. Hope said. I can perhaps help you with a suggestion here and there; for I certainly know what my father will do, and what he won’t do, better than any of you.”
Edna led the way down the garden path, stopping at last where some chairs were scattered under a wide-spreading tree.
“Sit down,” she said. “We can talk here entirely undisturbed.”
Marsten sat down with Edna Sartwell opposite him in the still seclusion of the remotest depths of that walled garden. He would not have exchanged his place for one in Paradise, and he thought his lucky stars were fighting for him. But it is fated that every man must pay for his pleasure sooner or later, and Marsten promptly discovered that fate required of him cash down. He had no credit in the bank of the gods.
“Now, although I have promised,” began Edna, “I am sure you are wrong in thinking my father would be displeased if he knew we talked over the strike together, and if I have said I will not tell him you were here, it is not because I fear he will be annoyed at that, but because I would have certainly to tell him of your Surbiton visit as well, and, as you say, he might not think you were justified in going to Mr. Hope, no matter what your intentions were. But with me it is quite different. He would just laugh at our discussing the situation, as he does over the conversations I have with Mr. Barnard Hope in this very garden.”
“Ah, Mr. Barnard Hope comes here, does he?”
“Yes, quite often, ever since the strike began. He takes the greatest possible interest in the condition of the workingman.”
“Does he? It is very much to his credit.”
“That’s what I say, but father just laughs at him. He thinks Mr. Hope is a good deal of a—a——”
“Of a fool,” promptly put in Marsten, seeing her hesitation.
“Well, yes,” said Edna, laughing confidentially; “although that is putting it a little strongly, and is not quite what I intended to say. But I don’t think so. He may be frivolous—or rather he may have been frivolous, but that was before he came to recognize his responsibilities. I think him a very earnest young man, and he is exceedingly humble about it, saying that he hopes his earnestness will make up for any lack of ability that——”
“Then he needs all the earnestness he can bring to bear upon the subject.”
“Oh, he realizes that,” cried Edna, enthusiastically. “If there is only some one to point him the way, he says, he will do everything that lies in his power to assist the workingman in bettering his condition. I have told him that his own vacillation of mind is his worst enemy.”
“He vacillates, does he?”
“Dreadfully. He will leave here to-day, for instance, thoroughly convinced that a certain course of action is right. To-morrow he will return, having thought over it, and he has ever so many objections that he is not clear about. He says—which is quite true—that it is a most intricate question which one must look upon in all its bearings; otherwise mistakes are sure to be made.”
“That is why he does nothing, I suppose. Then he is sure of not making any mistake.”
Something of bitterness in the young man’s tone caused the girl to look at him in surprise. Surely two people who had the interests of the workingman so much at heart as both Hope and Marsten ought to be glad of any help one could give the other; yet Marsten did not seem to relish hearing of the unselfish and lofty aims of Barney.
“Why do you say he does nothing?”
“Well, when I called upon him before the strike began, hoping he would use his influence to avert trouble, he showed no desire to ameliorate any one’s condition but his own. He was comfortable and happy, so why trouble about the men? ‘Foolish beggars,’ he called them, when I told him they had voted to go on strike.”
“Now you see,” cried Edna, gleefully, “how easy it is, as you yourself said, for men to misunderstand each other. A few words of explanation will show you how you have thought unjustly of Mr. Barnard Hope. He did intend to use his influence on behalf of the men, and came all the way from Chelsea here to see father on the subject, just as you have done to-day, and father was not at home, just as he is not to-day. Mr. Hope talked it over with mother and me, and he quite agreed with us that it would not be fair to father if there was any interference. It was for my father’s sake that he refused to take part in the dispute.”
To this conclusive defence of Barney, the young man had no answer; but he was saved the necessity of a reply, for both talker and listener were startled by a shrill voice near the house, calling the girl’s name.
Edna started to her feet in alarm, and Marsten also arose.
“That is my step-mother calling me. She has returned. I had no idea it was so late. What shall we do? She mustn’t see you here, and yet you can’t get out without passing the house.”
“I can go over the wall. I wonder who lives in the next house?”
“It is vacant, but the wall is high, and there is broken glass on the top.”
“I’ll have a try for it, any way.”
They passed through the shrubbery to the dividing wall.
“Oh, I am sure you can’t do it, and you will cut your hands.”
Marsten pulled off his coat; threw it, widespread, over the barbarous broken glass; stepped back as far as the shrubbery would allow him, and took a running jump, catching the top of the wall with his hands where the coat covered the glass. Next instant he was up, putting on his coat, while his boots crunched the broken bottles.
“You haven’t cut yourself? I’m so glad. Good-by!” she whispered up at him, her face aglow with excitement.
“One moment,” he said, in a low but distinct voice. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you my plans.”
“Oh, please, please jump down; my mother may be here at any moment.”
The cry of “Edna!” came again from the house.
“It’s all right yet,” whispered Marsten. “But I must know what you think of my plans. I’ll be here at this hour to-morrow, and if the coast is clear would you throw your shawl, or a ribbon, or anything, on the wall where my coat was, so that I can see it from this side?”
“Do go. If you are seen it will spoil everything. I don’t know what to say about to-morrow. I’ll think over it.”
“Remember, I shall be on this side. You make everything so clear that I must consult you about this—it is very important.”
“Yes, yes. I promise, but you are risking it all by remaining there.”
Marsten jumped down into another man’s garden and pushed his trespass ruthlessly over and through whatever came in his way, until he reached the gate and was out once more on the public way. The safety signal, “To be Let,” was in the windows of the house and on a board above the high wall.
“Ah, Barney Hope,” he muttered, clenching his fist, “all the good things of this world are not for you. Once over the wall is worth a dozen times through the gate. I fancy I need instruction on my duty to my employers quite as much as you require having your obligations to the workingman explained to you.”
“Edna, where are you?”
“Here, mother.”
“You heard me calling you; why did you not answer?”
“I have answered by coming to you. How is Mr. Hope?”
“In a dreadfully nervous state. He thinks he is not hurt, but I am sure he has been injured internally, which is far worse than outward wounds, as I told him. He seems to be strung on wires, and jumps every time his wife makes the most casual remark to him. I advised him to see a physician, and know the worst at once. And Mrs. Hope tells me he acts very queerly. He took scarcely any breakfast this morning yet before lunch he ordered into the study a simply enormous meal, and devoured it all alone.”
“Perhaps that was because he had taken so little breakfast.”
“No, child, you don’t know what you are talking about. There are some things Mr. Hope can never touch without being ill afterwards. Mrs. Hope is very careful of his diet. There’s pickles, for instance; he hasn’t touched a pickle for sixteen years, yet to-day he consumed a great quantity, and drank a whole bottle of beer, besides roast beef and cheese, and ever so many other things. Mrs. Hope, poor woman, is sitting with folded hands, waiting for him to die. I never saw such a look of heavenly resignation on any human face before.”
“As on Mr.. Hope’s?”
“Edna, don’t be pert. You know very well I mean Mrs. Hope.”
“Really, mother, I didn’t. I thought perhaps Mr. Hope was resigned. What does he say?”
“He says it hasn’t hurt him in the least, but Mrs. Hope merely sighs and shakes her head. She knows what is in store for him.”
“I’ll warrant the poor man was just hungry, and tired of too much dieting. I hope he enjoyed his meal.”
“Edna, you have too little experience, and, much as I regret to say it, too little sense to understand what it means. Mr. Hope’s digestive organs have always been weak—always. If it had not been for his wife’s anxious care, he would have been dead long ago. She allowed him out of her sight for a few minutes this morning, and refused all callers, except myself and one or two of her own very dearest friends, and you see what happened. She fears that the excitement of yesterday has completely ruined his nerves, and that he doesn’t know what he is doing, although he insists he feels as well as ever he did; but I said to Mrs. Hope I would have the best medical advice at once if I were in her place. Who was it called here to see your father while I was away?”
“I have not been in the house since you left.”
“What! In the garden all this time! Edna, when will you learn to have some responsibility? How can you expect the maids to do their duty if you neglect yours and never look after them?”
“You train them so well, mother, that I did not think it was necessary for me to look after them while you were away.”
“Yes, I train them, and, I hope, I do my duty towards them; but you also have duties to perform, although you think so lightly of them. You forget that for every hour idled away you will have to give an account on the Last Great Day.”
“I have not been idling, and, even if I had, one can’t be always thinking of the Last Great Day.”
They had by this time reached the drawing-room, and Mrs. Sartwell sat down, gazing with chastened severity at her step-daughter.
“Edna,” she said, solemnly, “I implore you not to give way to flippancy. That is exactly the way your father talks, and while, let us hope, it will be forgiven him, it ill becomes one of your years to take that tone. Your father little thinks what trouble he is storing for himself in his training of you, and, if I told him you were deceiving him, he would not believe it. But some day, alas! his eyes will be opened.”
“How am I deceiving him?” cried Edna, a quick pallour coming into her face.
Her step-mother mournfully shook her head, and sighed.
“If your own heart does not tell you, then perhaps I should be silent. You have his wicked temper, my poor child. Your face is pale with anger just because I have mildly tried to show you the right path.”
“You have not shown me the right path. You have said I am deceiving my father, and I ask what you mean?”
Mrs. Sartwell smiled gently, if sadly.
“How like! how like! I can almost fancy it is your father speaking with your voice.”
“Well, I am glad of that. You don’t often say complimentary things to me.”
“That is more of your pertness. You know very well I don’t compliment you when I say you are like your father. Far from it. But a day will come when even his eyes will be opened. Yes, indeed.”
“You mean that his eyes will be opened to my deceit, but you have not told me how I am deceiving him.”
“You deceive him because you take very good care, when in his presence, not to show him the worst side of your character. Oh, dear no, you take good care of that! Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth when he is here. But he’ll find you out some day, to his sorrow. Wait till your stubborn wills cross, and then you will each know the other. Of course, now it is all smooth and pleasant, but that is because you don’t demand to know what he means, and do not tell him that you can’t be bothered about the Last Great Day.”
“Father never threatens me with the Judgment, as you so often do, nor does he make accusations against me, and so I don’t need to ask what he means. I suppose I am wicked,” continued the girl, almost in tears, “but you say things that seem always to bring out the bad side of my character.”
“You are too impulsive,” said the lady, smoothly. “You are first impenitently impudent to me, and then you, say you have a bad character, which I never asserted. You are not worse than your father.”
“Worse? I only wish I were half as good.”
“Ah, that’s because you don’t know him any better than he knows you. You think he takes you entirely into his confidence, but he does nothing of the sort. Why did he so carefully carry away the newspaper with him this morning?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. Why shouldn’t he? it’s his own.”
“His own,—yes! but he never did it before. He took it away the better to deceive his wife and daughter,—that’s why. So that we shouldn’t know how he braved and defied the men yesterday. Oh, I can see him! It was just the kind of thing that would gratify his worldly pride.”
“Oh, what happened, mother?” cried the girl, breathless with anxiety.
“I thought he didn’t tell you, and I suppose he did not mention that poor Mr. Hope, and Mr. Monkton too, begged and implored him not to go to the works to-day,—yes, almost on their bended knees; and he paid not the slightest attention to their wishes—and they his employers! If for no other reason he——”
“But tell me what he did? How did he defy the men?”
“Why do you not allow me to finish what I am saying? Why are you so impatient?”
“Because he is my father. Is that not reason enough?”
“Yes, my poor child, yes,” murmured Mrs. Sartwell, in mournful cadence, “that is reason enough. Like father, like daughter. It is perhaps too much for me to expect patience from you, whenhehas so little.”
“That is not my meaning, but never mind. Please tell me if he was in danger.”
“We are all of us in danger every moment of our lives, and saved from it by merciful interposition and not by any virtue of our puny efforts. How often, how often have I made my poor endeavour to impress this great truth on your father’s mind, only to be met with scorn and scoffing, as if scorn and scoffing would avail on the Last——Why are you acting so, Edna? You pace up and down the room in a way that is—I regret to say it—most unladylike. You shouldn’t spring from your chair in that abrupt manner. I say that scoffing will not avail. Surely I have a right to make the statement in my own house! When I said to your father this very morning that he should not boast in his own strength, which is but fleeting, but should put his trust in a higher power, he answered that he did—the police were on the ground. What is that but scoffing? He knew I was not referring to the police.”
Edna had left the room before her step-mother completed the last sentence, and when the much-tried woman, arising with a weary sigh, followed the girl into the hall, she found herself confronted with another domestic tribulation. Edna had her hat on, and was clasping her cloak.
“Where are you going?” asked her amazed stepmother.
“To London.”
“To London! Does your father know of this?”
“He will. I am going to take a hansom from the station to the works.”
“What! Drive through that howling mob?”
“The howling mob won’t hurt me.”
“Child, you are crazy! What is the meaning of this?”
“The meaning is that I am going to hear what danger my father was in yesterday, and to be with him if he is in danger to-day:”
The good woman held up her hands in helpless dismay. Was ever human being, anxious to do her duty to all, harassed by two such ungovernable persons since the world began?—she asked herself. But for once she made exactly the remark to cope with the situation.
“The time has come sooner than I expected. Your father has forbidden you to go to the office, and, when he sees that you have disobeyed him at such a time as this, he will be furious. Then you will know whatIhave to stand.”
The impetuous girl paused in her preparations.
“Then why do you exasperate me beyond endurance by refusing to tell me what happened?”
“I refuse! I refuse you nothing. Better would it have been for me if I had when you were younger; then you would think twice before you flung all obedience to the winds. You have only to ask what you want to know, and listen with patience while it is told to you.”
“I have asked you a dozen times.”
“How you do exaggerate! I call it exaggeration, although I might perhaps be forgiven for using a harsher term. Exactitude of statement is more——”
“Will you tell me, or shall I go?”
“Have I not just said that I will tell you anything? What is it you want to know? Your own ridiculous conduct has driven everything out of my head.”
“You said my father had defied the men and was in danger yesterday.”
“Oh, that! After seeing the police guard Mr. Hope and Mr. Monkton through the lawless mob, what must your father do but show how brave he was compared with his superiors. He came out of the gates alone, and walked through the mob.”
“What did he say?”
“He didn’t say anything.”
“Then how did he defy the men?”
“Good gracious, child, how stupid you are! When men are driven to extremities, surely his coming out among them—and he the cause of it all—was defiance enough. But a full account is in the paper I bought at the station; it is on the hall table, where you would have seen it if you could have kept your temper. Read it if you want to. It is not me you are disobeying when you do so. Remember, it was your father who did not want you to see the paper.”
The day proved a long one to Edna Sartwell, and, when her father did not return at the usual hour, she became more and more anxious. Her step-mother said nothing about the delay, as the hours passed, but began to assume that air of patient resignation which became her so well. Dinner was served to the minute, and at the accustomed moment the table was cleared. Once or twice she chided Edna for her restlessness, and regretted she had to speak, but was compelled to do so because the good example she herself set was so palpably unappreciated. At last she said:
“Edna, go to bed. I will wait up for your father.”
“He is sure to be home soon. Please let me wait until he comes.”
There was silence for a few minutes.
“I don’t wish to ask you twice, Edna. You heard what I said.”
“Please do not send me away until father comes. I am so anxious! Let me sit up instead of you. I can’t sleep if I do go to bed. Won’t you let me sit up in your place?”
The martyred look came into the thin face of her step-mother—the look which told of trials uncomplainingly borne.’
“I have always sat up for your father, and always shall, so long as we are spared to each other. For the third time I ask you to go to bed.”
The girl sat where she was, the red flag of rebellion in her cheek. The glint of suppressed anger in Mrs. Sartwell’s eye showed that a point had been reached where one or the other of them had to leave the room defeated. The elder woman exhibited her forbearance by speaking in the same level tone throughout.
“Do you intend to obey me, Edna?”
“No, I do not.”
Mrs. Sartwell went on with her sewing, a little straighter in the back, perhaps, but not otherwise visibly disturbed by the unjustifiable conduct of the girl. In each instance after Edna’s prompt replies there was silence for a few moments.
“In the earlier part of the day, Edna, you permitted yourself to speak to me and act towards me in a manner which I hoped you would regret when opportunity for reflection was given. I expected some expression of contrition from you. Have you reflected, Edna?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Sartwell threaded her needle with almost excessive deliberation.
“And what has been the result?”
“That I was pleased to think I had said nothing harsher than I did.”
The ticking of the tall clock on the landing echoed through the house. Edna listened intently for a quick, firm step on the gravel, but all outside was silent.
“Added to your—if I use the word insolence, it is because I can think of no other term with which to characterize the remarks you have addressed to me—added to your insolence is now disobedience. If I am overstating, the case, no one can be more pleased than I to be corrected, in the proper spirit.”
“I have no desire to correct you.”
After nipping the thread with her teeth and drawing a deep, wavering sigh, Mrs. Sartwell said:
“In every household, Edna, some one must command and others obey. When my time comes I shall gladly lay down the burden of what poor authority is delegated to me, but until that time comes I shall be mistress in my own house. Your father freely, and of his own choice, gave me that authority, and he, not you, is the proper person to revoke it, if it pleases him to do so. I shall therefore say nothing more until he returns. Then he must choose between us. If you are to be mistress here, I shall bow my head without a word, and leave this house, praying that peace and every blessing may remain within it.”
Something of the self-sacrificing resignation breathing through these measured words must have touched the hardened heart of the girl, for she buried her face in her hands and began to weep,—a certain sign of defeat. But she evidently determined not to give her antagonist the satisfaction fairly won by so admirable a dissertation upon the correct conduct of a well-ordered household.
“It is always poor father!” she sobbed. “With all the trouble and anxiety already on his mind, he must be worried when he comes home by our miserable squabbles.”
“I never squabble, Edna. Neither do I ever use such an undignified word. Where you got it, I’m sure I do not know, but it was not from me. If you wish your father not to be troubled, then you should act so that it would not be necessary to appeal to him. It is no wish of mine to add to his cares,—far otherwise. Are you ready to obey me now?”
“Yes.”
The girl rose and went rather uncertainly to the door, her eyes filled with tears.
“You have not kissed me good-night, Edna.”
She kissed her step-mother on the cheek and went to her room, flinging herself, dressed as she was, on her bed, sobbing. Yet she listened for that step on the gravel which did not come. At last she rose, arranged her hair for the night, and bathed her face, so that her father, if he came home and saw her, should not know she had been crying. Wrapping herself in her dressing-gown, she sat by the window and listened intently and anxiously. It was after midnight when the last train came in, and some minutes later her quick ear heard the long-expected step far down the street; but it was not the quick, nervous tread she was accustomed to. It was the step of a tired man. She thought of softly calling to him from the window, but did not. Holding her door ajar, she heard the murmur of her step-mother’s voice and occasionally the shorter, gruffer note of her father’s evidently monosyllabic replies. After what seemed an interminable time, her stepmother came up alone, and the door of her room closed.
Edna, holding her breath, slipped noiselessly out of her room and down the stairs. The steps were kind to her, and did not creak. She opened the door of the dining-room, and appeared as silently as if she were a ghost. Her father started from his chair, and it required all his habitual self-command to repress the exclamation that rose to his lips.
“Heaven help us, my dearest girl; do you want to frighten your old father out of what little wits he has left him?” he whispered.. “Why aren’t you asleep?” She gently closed the door, then ran to him, and threw her arms about his neck.
“Oh, father, are you safe? You are not hurt?”
“Hurt! Why, what would hurt me, you silly baby?” He ruffled her hair, pulling it over her eyes. “You’ve been dreaming; I believe you are talking in your sleep now. Why are you not in bed?”
“I couldn’t sleep till you came home. What kept you so late, father?”
“Now this is more than the law requires of a man. Have I to make explanations to two women every night I come home by the late train?”
The girl sat down on a hassock, and laid her head on her father’s knee, he smoothing her hair caressingly.
“What is all this pother about, Edna? Why are you so anxious at my being out late?”
“I was afraid you were in danger; I read what was said in the paper about your defying the men, and—and——”
Sartwell laughed quietly.
“My dear girl, if you are going to begin life by believing all you see in the papers, you will have an uneasy time of it. I can tell you something much more startling which has not yet appeared in print.”
“What is that, father?” asked the girl, looking up at him.
“That you have been a most unruly child all day, causing deep anxiety to those responsible for your upbringing.”
Edna sank her head again upon her father’s knee.
“Yes,” she said, “that is quite true. I have been dreadfully wicked and rebellious, saying things I ought not to have said.”
“And leaving unsaid the things,—ah well, none of us is quite perfect. It is a blessing there is such a thing as forgiveness of sins, otherwise most of us would come badly off.”
“Somehow, when you are here, nothing seems to matter, and any worries of the day appear small and trivial, and I wonder why they troubled me; but when you are away—well, it’s different altogether.”
“That is very flattering to me, Edna, but you mustn’t imagine I’m to be cajoled into omitting the scolding you know you deserve. No, I can see through your diplomacy. It won’t do, my dear girl, it won’t do.”
“It isn’t diplomacy or flattery; it’s true. I’ll take my scolding most meekly if you tell me what happened to-day.”
“I refuse to bargain with a confessed rebel; still, as I must get you off to bed before morning, I will tell you what happened. An attempt was made to settle the strike to-day. The men had a meeting to-night, and I waited at my club to hear the outcome. I had a man at the meeting who was to bring me the result of the vote as soon as it was taken. A young man—one of the strikers, but the only man of brains among them—saw me this afternoon, and made certain proposals that I accepted. Gibbons was to be renounced, and a deputation of the men was to come to me. We should probably have settled the matter in ten minutes, if it had come off.”
“Then he failed, after all his trouble?”
“Who failed?”
“The—the young man you speak of?”
Edna found herrôleof deceiver a difficult one. She was glad her father could not see her face, and bitterly regretted giving Marsten a promise not to tell of his visit.
“Yes, he failed. Of course there was not time to canvass the men properly, and at the meeting Gibbons, who is a glib talker, won over enough to defeat the efforts of the others. It wasn’t much of a victory, but sufficient for the purpose. They had, I understand, a very stormy meeting, and Gibbons won by some dozen votes or thereabouts.”
“And what is to be done now?”
“Oh, we are just where we were. I’ll wait a few days more, and, if the men do not come back, I’ll fill their places with a new lot. I don’t want to do that except as a last resort, but I won’t be played with very much longer. Now, dear girl, you know all about it; so to bed, to bed, at once, and sleep soundly. This dissipation cannot be allowed, you know.”
He kissed her and patted her affectionately on the shoulder. The girl, with a guilty feeling in her heart, crept up stairs as noiselessly as she had descended.