With the words “starved to death” ringing in his ears, Langly walked to Chelsea. Bitterly he accused himself for his stupid blindness; all this had been going on for days, and he had had no suspicion of it. She had from the first undoubtedly stinted herself so that her father might not go hungry, and when, at last, the real pinch came, she was too weak to resist it. Her father, isolated by his temper from any friends who might have seen what was happening and given warning in time, had also been unconscious of what was passing before his eyes. His gruff independence had slowly famished his own daughter.
“Starved to death!” in the richest city in the world,—the granary of the nations, into whose ample lap pours the golden wheat from every country under the sun that ripens it.
At last Langly reached the studio, and might have known, had he been conversant with the habits of the great world, that a notable function was in progress thereabout by the numerous carriages, with fine horses and resplendent coachmen and footmen, that waited near by. In his earlier days Langly had hoped for pupils to instruct and thus increase his scanty income. He had cards printed—“Albert Langly,” in the centre, and “Teacher of Music”, in smaller type in the corner. These were never used, Langly not having the courage to push his inquiries for pupils and secure them. He, knowing Barney to be a fashionable man, had put some of these cards in his pocket, and, when the boy in buttons swung open the door, the bit of pasteboard was handed to him. The boy glanced at the card, dropped it into the receptacle that contained many others, and shouted the name up his stairway, wafting its ascent with a wave of his hand. The man who held aside the heavy drapery which covered the doorway bawled the name into the room, from which a confused murmur of conversation came, mingled now and then with a pleasing ripple of laughter. The ornamental living statue at the top of the stair gazed dreamily over Langly’s head as he mounted.
Taking another card, the organist gave it to the man at the door.
“I have not come to the ‘At Home,’” he said. “Would you give this to Mr. Hope and ask if he will see me for a moment. Tell him I called last night, and could not come earlier to-day.”
The man took the card and disappeared behind the curtains. In an incredibly short time Barney came out, and his reception of the musician was bewilderingly effusive.
“My dear fellow,” he cried, placing a hand on each shoulder of Langly, “can you play the piano? Of course you can. What a foolish question to ask! I always alight on my feet. Providence has dropped you down here, my boy, don’t you know. Here we have just sent out to scour Chelsea for a pianist, and here you drop right down from the skies, don’t you know. This is luck. Want to see me? Of course you do, and what’s more to the point, I want to see you, don’t you know! Now come right in. I’ve got the finest grand piano you ever fingered in your life—magnificent instrument—case designed by myself—told ’em to spare no expense, and they didn’t, don’t you know. Trust ’em for that. Now come in, come in.”
“Mr. Hope, I did not come to play—I am in no condition for playing.”
“Of course you didn’t come to play. That’s the beauty of it. You want something from me, now don’t you?”
“Yes, and if you will give me a moment——”
“A thousand of’em, my boy, a thousand of’em, but not just now. Listen to me. You want something I’ve got, and I want something you’ve got Very well. All England’s prosperity is based on just that position of things. Our commerce is founded on it. Our mutual country is great merely because she knows what she wants, and because she has something the other fellow wants, don’t you know! Now, I want a man who can play dance music, and I want him now—not to-morrow, or day after, or next week. You see what I mean? Good. You come in and polish us off some waltzes on the new piano; then, when it’s all over, I’ll let you have what you want, if it’s half my kingdom, as the story-books say. Then we will both be happy, don’t you know.”
“I am organist at St. Martyrs church. I can’t——”
“That’s all right. Don’t apologize. You can play the piano as well as the organ—I know that by the look of you. Come in, come in.”
Barney triumphantly dragged the reluctant musician after him.
“I’ve got him,” he cried, at which there was a clatter of applause and laughter.
“Now, there,” said Barney jubilantly, seating Langly before the grand piano, with its great lid like a dragon’s wing propped up, “there’s all the sheet music any reasonable man can want; but if you prefer anything else I’ll send out for it; and there’s the piano—‘Come let us hear its tune,’ as the poet says.”
The rugs which usually covered the waxed floor had been cleared away; the chairs had been shoved into corners and against the wall. There was much laughter and many protestations that they had not come prepared for a dance, but all were quite noticeably eager for the fun to begin.
“You see, you are in Bohemia,” cried Barney, beaming joyously on his many guests, “and the delight of Bohemia is unconventionality. I danced after the theatre till daylight this morning, and I am as ready as ever to begin again. Shall we not lunch because we have breakfasted, and because we dine at seven? Not so. I am ready for a dance any time of the night or day. Now, Mr. Musician, strike up. ‘On with the dance, let joy be unconfined!’ as the poet says.”
Langly could not have played out of time or tune if he tried. The piano, as Barney had truly said, was a splendid instrument, and when the gay waltz music filled the large room, each couple began to float lightly over the polished floor. The musician played on and on, mechanically yet brilliantly, and in the pauses between the dances more than one of the guests spoke to their host of the music’s excellence.
“Oh, yes,” said Barney, with a jaunty wave of the hand, “he’s one of my finds. The man’s a genius, don’t you know, and is in music what I am myself in painting.”
“Barney, you always lay it on too thick,” said one of the young men. “You’ll turn the pianist’s head with flattery, if he knows you consider him as clever as yourself.”
“Perhaps you imagine I’m too dense to see through that remark,” said Barney, with the condescension of true genius. “I know your sneering ways: but let me tell you what I meant was that both the musician and myself are unrecognized by the mob of commonplace people of whom you are so distinguished a representative.” (“I flatter myself I had him there,” whispered Barney, aside, to the lady on his right.) “Yes, my boy, the day will come when you will be proud to say you were invited to these receptions, which I intend to make one of the artistic features of London society.”
“Why, Barney,” protested the young man, “I’m proud of it now. I make myself objectionable in all my clubs by continually bragging that you smile upon me. I claim that you are in art what the Universal Provider is in commerce.”
“Do get him to play something while we are resting,” murmured the lady, thus pouring oil on the troubled waters.
Langly sat at the piano, a disconsolate figure, paying no attention to the hum of conversation around him. His thoughts were far away, in the squalid room where the dead girl lay. Barney bustled up to him, and the musician came to himself with a start on being spoken to.
“Here are several Hungarian mazurkas—weird things—you’ll like’em. Just polish off a few for us while we have some tea, will you? They are all complimenting your playing—they’re people who know a good thing when they hear it. Won’t you have some refreshment yourself before you begin?”
Langly shook his head, and began playing the Hungarian music. Barney sat down again beside the lady, smiling with satisfaction at being able to pose as the patron of so accomplished a musician. The lady leaned her chin on her hand, and listened intently.
“How marvellously he does those mazurkas!” she whispered, softly. “He brings out that diabolical touch which seems to be in much of the Polish and Hungarian music.”
“Yes,” assented Barney, cordially, “he does play like the devil, yet he is an organist in a church. Ah, well, I suppose Beelzebub looks after our music as he does our morals.”
“Has he composed anything?”
“Who? Satan?”
“No, no. You know very well I’m speaking of the organist.”
“Composed! Well, rather. He’s an unrecognized genius, but I’m going to look after his recognition. I’m going to bring out some of his works, if he’ll let me. He’s a very modest man, and——”
“Another likeness to yourself.”
“Exactly, exactly. I’m always pushing other people forward and neglecting my own interests; still, I’ll arrive some of these days and astonish you all, don’t you know. You see, our set doesn’t produce men of genius like that organist. The ‘upper ten’ never produced a Shakespeare.”
“I thought it did. Didn’t Lord Bacon write Shakespeare?”
“No, he didn’t. I’ve looked up that question, but there’s nothing in it, don’t you know. No, the really great men come from the common people. The world doesn’t know where to look for them, but I do, and I find ’em just as I found this man. I go for my society to the aristocracy, but for my geniuses to the democracy.”
“But if society does not produce great men, how do you hope to become the greatest of painters?”
“Ah, painting’s a different thing, don’t you know; it has always been the gentleman’s art. Leonardo and all of those chaps were great swells. Rubens—or was it Titian?—one of them, anyhow, went as ambassador to the court of Spain in great pomp. Painters have always been the companions of kings. But I say, let us have another dance.”
Once more the dreamy waltz music mingled with the swish-swish of silken skirts, sibilant on the polished floor. Langly nearly always lost himself in whatever music he played, but now it merely dulled his sorrow, and an undertone of deep grief lay beneath the frivolous harmony that rippled so smoothly and sweetly from the piano—an undertone heard by none save himself. Merry laughter, and now and then a whispered phrase as the dancers swung close to where he sat, fell on his unheeding ear, and he wished his task were done, so that he might face again the long walk lying before him. He chided himself as being ungrateful, when it seemed hard that at this time he should be called upon to minister to the amusement of a pleasure-loving party; for he remembered that the Hebrew had toiled seven years uncomplaining for the woman he loved: so why should he grudge an afternoon, when the object was practically the same, although hope cheered the longer task, and despair clouded the shorter. Each in his way laboured for his love, living and dead.
The heavy hand of Barney came down boisterously on the thinly clad shoulder of the player, and partially aroused him from his bitter reverie.
“First rate, my boy, first rate! You’ve done nobly, and every one is delighted—charmed!—they are indeed, I assure you. Now they’re saying good-by, so give us a rousing march for the farewell—anything you like—something of your own would be just the thing; you know what I mean—a march with a suggestion of regret in it—sorry they’re going, don’t you know.”
Barney hurried back to his guests, shaking hands, asking them to come again, and receiving gushing thanks for a most agreeable afternoon. Suddenly there knelled forth on the murmur of farewell the solemn notes of theFuneral March, like the measured toll of a passing-bell. The metallic clangour of the instrument gave a vibrant thrill to the sombre music, which was lacking in the smooth, round tones of the organ. Langly played like a man entranced, his head thrown back, his pale face turned upward, looking as if life had left it. An instantaneous chilling hush fell on the assemblage, as if an icy wind had swept through the room, freezing into silence the animated stream of conversation. Some shivered where they stood, and one girl, clasping her cloak at her throat, paused and said, half hysterically:
“If this is a joke, Mr. Hope, I must say I don’t like it.”
“Cursed bad taste, if you ask me,” muttered one man, hurrying away.
“Oh, I say,” cried Barney, as much shocked as any one at the inopportune incident, and striding toward the performer, as soon as his wits came to him, “we didn’t want a dirge, don’t you know.”
The lady who had spoken in praise of Langly’s music laid a detaining hand on Barney’s arm.
“Hush!” she said gently, the glimmer of tears in her eyes, “don’t stop him. Listen! That man is inspired. I never heard Chopin played like that before.”
“Oh, it’s Chopin, is it?” murmured Barney, apologetically, as if, had he known it, he would not have interfered.
The throng dissolved rapidly with the unwelcome chords ringing in their ears, leaving Barney and his guest standing there alone. Langly, on finishing the march, sat where he was, his long arms drooping by his side.
“Wouldn’t you like to speak to him?” asked Barney.
“No, not now.”
The lady stole softly out, Barney following her to the landing at the head of the stair.
“Please don’t lose sight of him,” she said, giving Barney her hand. “I want you to ask him here again, and let me invite the guests.”
“I’ll do it,” said Barney, enthusiastically. “That will be awfully jolly.”
“No, it won’t be jolly, Mr. Hope, but we’ll hear some enchanting music. Good-by!”
Barney re-entered the room, and found Langly standing beside the piano like a man awakened from a dream, apparently not quite knowing where he was.
“You must have something to drink,” cried Barney, cordially. “You look fagged out, and no wonder. I never heard Chopin so well rendered before. I tell you, my boy, you get all out of a piano that’s in it, don’t you know. Now, will you have whiskey or brandy?”
Langly thanked him, but refused either beverage. He had a long walk before him, and was anxious to get away, he said.
“Walk!” cried Barney. “Nonsense! Why should you walk, and thus insult every self-respecting cabby you meet? I’ll see about the walking; I hope I know my duty towards the hansom industry.”
Barney touched an electric bell, and when his man appeared said to him:
“Just send Buttons to the King’s Road for a hansom. When it comes, give the cabby ten shillings and tell him he belongs to his fare for four hours. Ask him to wait at the door till his fare comes, and meanwhile, bring in some whiskey and soda. Now, Mr. Organist—I always forget names—ah, Langly, here it is on the card, of course. Have you ever composed any music yourself? I thought so. Ever published any? I thought not. Well, my boy, we must remedy all that. You’re too modest; I can see that. Now, modesty doesn’t pay in London. I know, because I suffer from it myself. Heavens! if I only had the cheek of some men, I would be the most famous painter in Europe. If you bring a few of your compositions to me, I’ll get a publisher for you. Will you promise? Nonsense! not worthy? Bosh! Compared with the great composers? My dear fellow, the great composers were all very well in their way, I’ve no doubt, but they were once poor devils like you. Because Raphael painted, is that any reason why I should not improve on him? Not a bit of it. You and I will be old masters in painting and music some few centuries hence—you just wait and see. The great point is to realize that you’re an old master while you’re young and can do something. If you don’t recognize the fact yourself, you may be jolly well sure no one else will—at least, not in time to do you any good here below. Do have some whiskey; ‘it’s cheering and comforting,’ as the advertisements say. Well, here’s to you!”
“I came to see you, Mr. Hope,” stammered Langly, diffidently, “because Marsten—one of your father’s employees—told me he thought you might—that you were good enough to help once——”
“Oh. yes, I remember Marsten. He was here about some fellow knocking down a few policemen. Well—has he knocked down some more?”
“No, but he is in great trouble, Mr. Hope.”
“Such a man is sure to be. How much is the fine?”
“His only daughter died yesterday.”
“Oh, I’m very sorry to hear it—very sorry, indeed.”
“He has no money, and none of the men have any. Braunt would ask no one for help, but I know that he fears there will have to be a——He doesn’t want her to be buried as a pauper—and I thought——”
“Of course, of course. I see it all. I never could understand the feeling of the poor on that subject. They seem to like a fine funeral, as if that mattered. I confess that if you give me good company while I’m alive, you may do what you please with me when I’m dead. I would just as soon lie beside a pauper as a prince, but I prefer the prince when I’m above ground. Now, how much will be needed? Of course you don’t know; no more do I. Let us say fifteen pounds; if more is wanted, just telegraph me and I’ll send it by messenger at once, don’t you know. No, you mustn’t think of sending any of it back. Use the surplus, if there is a surplus, for some charity or another. But you must come back yourself, and we’ll have a talk on music. Drop in any time—there’s no ceremony here. And just write your address on this card, so that I may communicate with you. I promised a lady to have you here some day to play for a few friends. You won’t disappoint me, will you? Thanks, I’m ever so much obliged.”
“The hansom is here, sir,” said the man, entering. “All right. I’ll just see you into your cab, Mr.—er—Langly. No trouble at all; don’t mention it. You can make this fellow drive you around for four hours, if you want to. He’d take you to Brighton in that time, so I suppose he’ll land you anywhere in London in short order. Well, good-by, my dear fellow, and I thank you ever so much for your exquisite music.”
After the burial of his daughter, Braunt sat in his lonely room and pondered bitterly upon the failure his life had been, ever since he could remember. Hard and incessant toil he did not complain of: that was his lot, and it had been the lot of his fathers. He was able to work and willing; the work was there waiting to be done: yet, through the action of men over whom he had not the slightest control, he was doomed to idleness and starvation until the capricious minds of others changed, and the signal was given to pick up the tools that had been so heedlessly dropped.
“Ah’ll not stand it!” he cried aloud, bringing his fist down on the empty table.
But after these momentary flashes of determination, the depression habitual to him settled down with increased density upon his mind, and, realizing how helpless he was, he buried his face in his hands and groaned in hopeless despair. It is difficult for a starving man to be brave for long. What could he do? Absolutely nothing. He might drop dead from exhaustion before he got a chance to earn a meal, though he tramped the huge city searching for work. The trade he knew was already overcrowded with thousands of men, eager for the place he had been compelled to abandon. Even the street crossings were owned by impoverished wretches who earned what living they got by sweeping them. If he were presented with a crossing, he had not the money to buy a broom. Gibbons, fool though he might be, spoke the truth when he said a workingman was but a cog in a large wheel: the wheel might get a new cog, or a new set of cogs, but the cog separated from the wheel was as useless as a bit of old iron.
Langly stole softly in upon his stricken friend, closing the door stealthily after him, with the bearing of a man about to commit a crime and certain of being caught. Braunt gave him no greeting, but glowered upon him from under his frowning, shaggy eyebrows.
“There is some money here that you are to take,” said the organist timidly, placing a heap of coins on the table.
Braunt, with an angry gesture, swept away the pile, and the silver jingled on the floor.
“Ah’ll have none o’ thy money, as Ah’ve told ’ee before!” he roared. “Ah can earn ma money, if Ah boot get th chance.”
Langly, with no word of remonstrance, stooped and patiently collected every scattered piece.
“It is not my money,” he said, on rising. “It was sent to you, and is for you and for no one else. It belongs to you: I have no right to it, and this very money you yourself have earned. I don’t know who has a better claim to it.”
Again placing the silver and gold on the table, Langly tiptoed out of the room in some haste, before Braunt could collect his wits and make reply.
The Yorkshireman, with curious inconsistency, had accepted without question the money which had saved his child from a pauper funeral, although he must have known, had he reflected, that the expenses were paid by some one; yet charity which did not come direct awakened no resentment in his turbulent nature, while the bald offer of money or food sent him instantly into a tempest of anger.
He thought over the organist’s words. How could the money be his? How had he earned the coins? His slow brain gradually solved the problem the money evidently had come from Hope or Monkton, or perhaps from Sartwell. He cursed the three of them, together and separate, and in his rage once more scattered the heap to the floor. The coins whirled hither and thither, at last spinning to rest on the bare boards. Braunt watched them as they lay there glittering in the dim light, his mind ceasing to cogitate on the respective culpability of employers or employed for the state of things under which he suffered. He had formerly thought of Monkton and Hope as purse-proud, haughty capitalists, until he saw their cringing, frightened demeanour when escorted out of the works by the policemen, and since that time he had been endeavouring to reconstruct his ideas concerning them. So, after all, why should he refuse to take money from them if one or other had sent it? He gazed at the coins on the floor, white splotches and yellow points of light, hitching round his chair the better to see them. He had heard that a man might be hypnotized by gazing steadily on a silver piece held in the palm. As Braunt watched the coins intently, he passed his hand swiftly across his brow, concentrating his gaze by half closing his eyes. He leaned forward and downward. Surely they were moving, edging closer to each other, the larger heaps attracting the various atoms of metal, as he remembered, with bewildered brain, was the case with money all the world over, which gave a plausible cause, such as one has in dreams, for the coins creeping together, although what was left of his reason told him that it was all an illusion. The sane and insane sections of his mind struggled for mastery, while Braunt leaned closer and closer over the money, sitting forward now on the very edge of his chair, breathing hard, almost wholly absorbed in the strange movement on the floor, and gradually losing interest in the mental conflict regarding the reality of what his strained, unwinking eyes told him was going on at his feet. At last he noticed that the heap was slowly but perceptibly sliding away from him. All doubts about the geniuneness of what he saw vanished The money was trying to escape.
He sprang to his feet and jumped to the door, placing his back against it.
“Oh, no,” he shouted, “you’re mine, you’re mine!”
Crouching down, never taking his eyes from the coins, he got upon his hands and knees, crawling towards them craftily; then pounced suddenly on the main heap, while the isolated pieces scuttled back to their former positions, pretending they had never shifted their places. He laughed sneeringly at their futile attempts to deceive him, poured the heap into his pocket, and captured each separate coin that remained, by springing upon it. He searched the whole room like some animal, nosing into’ the corners, crouching lower and proceeding more cautiously when he spied a silver or gold piece that had rolled far, chuckling when he seized it and placed it with the others. At last he rose to his feet, slapping his pocket joyously, and making the money jingle. Once erect, the blood rushed to his head, making him dizzy. He staggered, and leaned against the wall, all his hilarity leaving him. The room seemed to swim around him, and he covered his eyes with his hands.
“Ah’m gooin’ mad,” he whispered. “Ah moost ha’ summat ta eat—or drink.”
Braunt staggered through the doorway to the passage and down the stair, out into the open air, which revived him and made him feel the nip of hunger again. Once on Light Street, he turned into the “Rose and Crown,” and asked for a mug of beer. The barman hesitated. The credit of the strikers had long since gone.
“I’d like to see the colour of your money,” he said, gruffly.
“Ah’ve no money. Ah’ll pay thee next week; ah’m goin’ to put a stop ta the strike to-day.”
He brought down his open palm against his trousers pocket to emphasize his poverty, and was startled by the clink of coins. He thrust his hand down into his pocket, and pulled out some silver, gazing at it stupidly.
“Ma word,” he gasped at last, “Ah thought Ah dreamt it!”
The barman laughed, and reached for an empty mug, grasping the beer-pump handle.
“That dream’s good enough for the ‘Crown,’” he said. “Better have some bread and cheese with it.”
“Yes. Be quick, man.”
Standing there, Braunt ate and drank ravenously.
“I can get you a plate of cold meat,” said the barman, seeing how hungry the man was. The other nodded, and the plate, with knife and fork, was placed before him.
“So the strike’s off, is it?” said the man, leaning his arms on the bar.
“It’ll be off when Ah get there.”
“Well, it’s not a minute too soon. Our trade’s suffered.”
“More than your trade has suffered, worse luck. Dom little you’ll do for a man, unless the money’s in ta pouch.”
“Oh, if it comes to that, neither will other people. We’re not giving out-door relief, any more than our neighbours.”
Braunt ate his food and drank his beer, but made no reply. The barman’s attitude was commercially correct; no one could justly find fault with it. Money was the master-key of the universe; it unlocked all doors. The barman did not care how Braunt came by it, so long as he paid for what was ordered; and the workman now found that courage was taking the place of despair, merely because he had money in his pocket. He felt that now he had energy enough to cope with the strikers, simply because he had fed while they were hungry. He would wait for no meeting, but would harangue the men on the street, those of them that were assembled in futile numbers around the closed gates, and most of them were sure to be there. If Gibbons opposed, he would settle the question by promptly and conclusively knocking him down—an argument easily comprehended by all onlookers.
Braunt drew the back of his hand across his lips when he had finished his meal, and departed for the works. He found, as he expected, the despondent men standing there, with hands hopelessly thrust deep in their empty pockets. Their pipes were as smokeless as the tall chimneys of the factory, and that of itself showed that their condition was at its lowest ebb. They were listening with listless indifference to a heated altercation going on between Gibbons and Marsten, as if the subject discussed did not concern them.
“You might have played that card last week,” Marsten cried, “but it is too late now. You can have no conference with the owners. I tell you they have left the country, and won’t return for a fortnight, and by that time the works will be filled with new men. The new men are coming in on Monday. I demand that the committee call a meeting now and that a vote be taken.”
“Don’t mind him, men!” cried Gibbons. “He’s in Sartwell’s pay.”
The men didn’t mind him, and paid no attention to Gibbons either. What they wanted was something to eat and drink, with tobacco to smoke afterwards. If Marsten was in Sartwell’s pay, they would gladly have changed places with him. Braunt made his way roughly through the crowd, elbowing the men rudely aside. None resented this; all the fight had gone out of them. Marsten seemed on the point of attacking Gibbons for the slanderous remark made, when he felt Braunt’s heavy hand on his shoulder.
“The time is past for meetings, lad,” said the big man, “and for talk too. The meeting’s here, and Ah’ll deal with it. Stop bothering with that fool, and stand among the crowd, ready to back me up if need be.”
Marsten at once did as requested, while Braunt strode across the open space, in spite of the warning of a policeman to stand back.
Few of the force were on the ground; the authorities saw there was little to fear from cowed and beaten men.
“You’ll have to stand back,” said the officer, “or I’ll take you in charge.”
“Will you so?” cried Braunt truculently, rolling up his sleeves as he turned upon his opponent. “Then I warn you, send for help. You haven’t men enough here to take me in charge. Ah’ve had a meal to-day.”
After glaring for a moment, Braunt turned and strode unmolested to the closed gate.
The officer paid heed to the advice given him and sent for more men. He saw there was to be trouble of some sort.
Braunt smote his huge fist against the panels and roared at the top of his voice:
“Open the gates!”
A slight flutter of listless interest seemed to pass over the crowd. The men elbowed closer together, shuffling their feet and craning their necks forward. Those to the rear pressed towards the front, wondering what was about to happen. The few policemen looked on without interfering, waiting for reinforcements. Braunt beat with his fist against the sounding timbers, the rhythmic thuds being the only break in the stillness except when he repeated his stentorian cry, “Open the gates!”
The porter at the small wicket, fearing an attack, ran for Sartwell, and met the manager coming down the stairs.
“I’m afraid there’s going to be another riot, sir,” said the porter, breathlessly.
Sartwell did not answer, but walked quickly to the small gate, unbolted it, and stepped out.
“What do you want?” he said.
“We want our work!” cried Braunt. “Open the gates!”
Sartwell’s glance swept swiftly over the men, who stood with jaws dropped, their gaunt faces and wolfish eyes turned towards the closed barriers. The manager quickly comprehended that it was no time for discussion or arranging of terms. What was needed was action, sharp and prompt. He turned towards the trembling porter, and said peremptorily:
“Throw down the bar!”
Whatever doubts the man may have had about the wisdom of such an order in the face of the hostile mob, he preferred to brave probable danger from the crowd rather than the certain wrath of the manager, and obeyed the command with haste. The heavy gates were slowly pushed open.
“Now, men, in with you!” cried Braunt, with a scythe-like swing of his long arm. “The man that holds back now—ah, God!—Ah’ll break his back!” Some one stumbled forward, as if pushed from behind; then it was as if an invisible rope, holding the crowd back, had suddenly broken. The men poured through the open gateway in a steady stream. Gibbons, waving his hands like a maniac, cried:
“Stop! Stop! Listen to me for a moment!”
But no one stopped, and no one listened. Braunt, his face white with anger, struggled against the incoming tide, shouting:
“Let me get at him! Ah’ll strangle the whelp!”
“Braunt!” said Sartwell sharply, his voice cutting through the din of shuffling boots. “Leave him alone, and get inside yourself. Gather the men together in the yard. I want a word with them.”
Braunt’s truculence at once disappeared. He turned with the men, and came to where Sartwell stood looking grimly at the moving throng. No one glanced towards his master, but each went doggedly forward, with head down as though doing something he was ashamed of. Braunt stopped at Sartwell’s side and whispered:
“For God’s sake, Manager, set them at work, and don’t talk to them. They’re beaten, and there’s no more to be said. Be easy with them; there’s been talk enough.”
“I quite agree with you,” said Sartwell, in kindly manner. “Don’t be afraid, but gather them together. You have the voice for it. I heard your first shout at the gates in my office.”
As the last man passed through, Sartwell heard Braunt calling them to halt. A few still remained outside,—Scimmins and his fellow-members of the strike committee, listening gloomily to Gibbons’s frantic denunciation of the wholesale defection. The manager stepped inside, and ordered the wondering porter to close the gates.
As Sartwell walked briskly towards the works he saw the men huddled together like sheep, very crestfallen, and evidently ready to endure any censure the manager saw fit to launch at their defenceless heads. Braunt, towering over them, looked anxiously about him, with the air of a huge dog not quite certain how his flock would behave.
Sartwell mounted the steps leading to the door of the former office, and spoke.
“I take it, men,” he said, “that this strike is off. I want to begin fair and square; so, if there is any among you unwilling to go back to work on my terms, let him stand out now and say so.”
There was a short pause, during which the silence was unbroken. No one stepped out.
“Very well,” continued the manager. “That’s settled and done with. Now each man knows his place in these buildings; let him get there, and remain for further instructions. No work will be done to-day, as some preparation is required before we begin. You will come to-morrow at the usual hour, and, after arrangements for work have been made, you may each draw half a week’s wages in advance from the cashier: I shall give orders to that effect. A number of telegrams were to have been sent out on Saturday which it is now unnecessary to send: I will spend the money thus saved in tobacco, of which each man shall get a share as he passes out through the small gate. The large gates will not be opened until to-morrow morning.”
There was a faint wavering cheer as Sartwell stopped speaking and stepped down. The men then slowly filtered into the works.
GIBBONS knew that Monkton and Hope had gone to the Continent before Marsten shouted out this bit of information on the street in presence of the men. He saw that the game was up, and all he wanted was time in which to beat a retreat, posing, if possible, as the man who had brought about a settlement. As soon as Gibbons learned that the two nominal masters had gone, he tried to open communications with Sart-well, and sent a private letter to him, saying that, taking into consideration the privations of the men, and the large money loss to the firm, he was willing to sink all personal feelings and waive the proviso heretofore insisted upon regarding a meeting between the manager and himself. Gibbons expressed his willingness to withdraw from the conflict, and have a committee of the men appointed to wait upon Sartwell to arrange for the termination of the strike, but asked that his letter be regarded as confidential.
Sartwell, with perhaps unnecessary contempt, returned the letter to Gibbons, saying curtly to the bearer that there was no answer.
It is usually unwise to humiliate unduly a beaten adversary; but Sartwell was not versed in the finer arts of courtesy, and, when he hated a man, he hated him thoroughly, caring little for any reprisal his enemy might attempt.
Gibbons had ground his teeth in helpless rage when his letter was returned to him. He saw that no concession he could make would placate Sartwell; so, as the strike was doomed, he resolved to make the best of the inevitable retreat. The committee agreed that it was no longer possible to hold out, although they had refused Marsten’s request that a meeting be called and a vote taken. It was resolved that they convene a meeting at once, not waiting for nightfall (hoping in this way to deprive Marsten of any credit that might accrue from the surrender), and march the men in a body from the hall to the works, where the committee, with the exception of Gibbons, would precede them, to induce the manager to open the gates. Gibbons would then be able to say that he, not Marsten, had ended the strike; and he might even enact therôleof a benefactor, who had sacrificed his own feelings in the interests of the men.
But luck was against Gibbons that day. When he reached the works he found Marsten there haranguing his fellow-workmen, imploring them to give in before it was too late, assuring them the two buildings would be full of workers on Monday, and then all efforts to enter would be fruitless. It was very apparent that the young man was already angered at the slight effect his appeal was making on the seeming indifference of the men, and, if Gibbons had been less angry from the rebuff he had received from the manager, he might have taken advantage of the position and scored. As it was, he had little time for planning any new line of procedure. The moment he appeared, Marsten demanded that a meeting should be instantly called and a vote taken. Gibbons asked him to mind his own business, saying he had an appointment with the owners of the works, and there would be a meeting to consider their reply. Then Gibbons learned that his falsehood was useless and that Marsten knew the owners had fled.
At this point the unexpected advent of Braunt, and the results that followed, tumbled all schemes to the ground like a house of cards.
Braunt, if he had thought about the matter (which he had not), was revenged at the end of the strike for his ignominious ejection from the hall at the beginning.
Gibbons retired with the committee to consult over the new situation. It was a gloomy consultation. As the men came out of the small gate one by one, each with half a week’s wages in his pocket and a packet of tobacco in his hand, Scimmins and another member of the committee stood outside, proclaiming that a meeting was called for that night, to discuss the events of the day in a friendly manner. No man answered; each hurried away to get something to eat or drink; nor did any appear that night at Salvation Hall. Next morning Scimmins and his fellow-committeemen applied to Sartwell for reinstatement, and were given their old places. Gibbons resigned the secretaryship of the Union, and his resignation was accepted, somewhat to his surprise; as he, knowing the men had been practically unanimous in bringing on the strike, expected to be asked to keep the office, with perhaps a vote of formal thanks. However, all blame for the failure was promptly placed on his shoulders, and he found himself suddenly called upon to seek another situation. His bitterness against Sartwell deepened into virulent hatred, and he heaped maledictions on the heads of the men whom so short a time ago he had swayed this way and that whenever he addressed them.
The morning after the surrender the gates stood invitingly open, and black smoke poured from the tall chimneys. The women and girls, who worked on the upper floors, were the first to come, and their pale faces turned in a look of mute thankfulness towards the banner of smoke flying above them like a signal of rescue. They had had no voice in bringing on the strike, and no voice in its cessation. No one during its continuance had been anxious to know whether they lived or died when strike pay ceased.
Before the day was done, work was going as smoothly as if nothing had happened. The men were at first afraid that Sartwell might pick and choose among them, and that some of them might be marked men because of what had been done on the day of the riot, but it soon became evident that no distinction was to be made.
Just as the men had settled down to a comfortable frame of mind regarding the point that had given them anxiety, they were startled from their complacency by an unexpected incident. Marsten was discharged. On the first regular pay-day the young man received what was due him, and a month’s money besides. The cashier told him that his services would no longer be required in the factory. Marsten was so dazed by this unexpected intimation that he asked for no explanation, but walked away with his money in his hand. He knew well why he had been so unceremoniously dismissed, but it seemed to him unfair that the manager should use his power against him for what was entirely a personal quarrel, and not through any fault in his work. He counted the money automatically three or four times, without the process conveying to his mind anything definite about the sum that had been paid him. At last he noticed that Sartwell had apparently ordered four times as much to be given him as was legally his due with a notice to quit. Marsten went back to the cashier and said:
“There’s a month’s money here: I am only entitled to a week’s notice.”
“You’d better keep what you’ve got,” replied the cashier. “I was told to pay you a month’s wages and discharge you. The money isn’t mine; it’s yours, and you’re a fool if you part with it for nothing.”
“I’ll take only what is my due,” said Marsten. “Give the remainder to Mr. Sartwell, and tell him I want none of his generosity.”
“It’s no affair of mine,” remarked the cashier. “I suppose you know what the trouble is—I don’t. If you are wise you won’t send any such message to the manager, but you will go quietly and see him. Perhaps a few words of explanation will set matters right; anyhow, nothing is to be gained by flying into a temper about it. That isn’t the way to get back into the works.”
“I’m not in a temper,” replied Marsten, “and I’m not going back into the works—no, not if Sartwell asks me to. You may tell him that when I come back it will be as master of these shops, with his power broken—you tell him that.”
“Oh, very well. If you think to frighten a man like Mr. Sartwell with great talk, you’ll be disappointed.”
Marsten turned away, and found Braunt standing outside the gates.
“Ah’m waitin’ for ’ee, lad, and Ah thought thou might ’a gone oot wi’ first lot, but porter said thou hadn’t. Coom whoam wi’ me, Marsten; Ah’m main lonely an’ want some’un ta speak wi’. Ah donno what’s wrong wi’ me, but there’s summat. Ma head’s queer. Ah’m hearin’ theDead Marchnight and day, an’ it’s soundin’ solemner an’ solemner till it frightens me. Will ye walk wi’ me, lad?”
“Yes, willingly. Don’t you find your work makes things easier? I thought that would help.”
“Ah’ve been too long idle, lad. Work doesn’t do what it used to. Ah used to lose maself in’t, but now Ah just seem in a dream, thinkin’, thinkin’; an’ when one speaks ta me sudden, Ah have to pull maself back from a distance like, before Ah can understand what’s said; an’ all th’ while the throb d’ the machinery is beat in’ out theDead March. Once or twice Ah’ve seen Langly sittin’ playin’ at the far end o’ the room wi’ the machines all answerin’ to his fingers, while Ah knew he’d ne’er been i’ the shops in’s life. Ah’ve stood there wi’ ma jaw hangin’ an’ wi’ people lookin’ at me curious. Then when Ah’d rubbed ma eyes, Langly was gone, but the machinery kept on an’ on.”
“Oh, you mustn’t think too much about what is past, Braunt. Everything will be all right in a little while. Stick hard at your work; that’s the main thing. You are foreman of the upper room now, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Sartwell’s been kind ta me. Ah! he’s a man, Sartwell is. There’s no waverin’ about him.”
“That’s true.”
“He sticks by them as sticks by him, as a man should. Has he said anythin’ to you, since the strike ended?”
“No.”
“You’re young, but your time’ll come. You stand by Sartwell an’ he’ll see you through. He knows how you tried to end the strike, an’ he’ll not forget. Ah’ll drop in a word for ye when Ah get the chance.”
“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
“Why? It’ll do no harm.”
“It will do no good.”
Braunt paused in his walk and looked closely at his companion. “What’s the matter wi’ thee, lad? Ye seem cast down, an’ here Ah’m talkin’ away about maself, an’ payin’ no heed to aught else. What’s wrong wi’ ye?”
“Well, as you will have to know sooner or later, and there’s no use making a secret of it, Sartwell has discharged me.”
“No!” cried Braunt, incredulously, stopping short and turning to his friend.
“Yes, he has.”
“In God’s name, what for?”
“No reason was given. The cashier gave me a month’s wages and told me to go. I gave back three-fourths of it, for I’m entitled to but a week’s notice. I’ll have no favour from Sartwell.”
“Ah, lad, there ye were foolish. Never give back money when you’ve got your fingers on it. Ye hurt yourself an’ not the others. Still, Ah’d very likely a’ done the same thing; but then, Ah’m a fool, an’ not to be taken pattern by. Have ye asked Sartwell the reason?”
“I have not seen him, nor will I.”
“Wrong again, lad. Let’s go back now, an’ have it out wi’ him before he goes whoam.”
“No, no, I refuse to see him.”
“Then Ah’ll see him. A thing like that mustn’t be. Discharged for no cause! Never! Ah’ve brought back the men, an’ Ah can bring them out again. Ah will, too, before Ah’ll let injustice like this happen!”
“What good would that do? The men are helpless, as you know; besides, they wouldn’t come out, and, if they thought of doing so, I would myself beg of them to stay in their places. No, the proper thing now is to keep quiet; work hard; fill up the empty treasury; organize the trade—not locally, but universally; and see, when the next strike comes on, that we are not led by a fool like Gibbons.”
“But lad, don’t ye want to find out why you’re paid off? It’s rank injustice, but there must be some reason for’t in Sartwell’s mind. Ye’ve like said some foolish thing that’s been misrepresented to him, an’ Ah’m sure Ah can put it straight. Ah didn’t think Sartwell was the man t’ listen t’ any jabber that was brought t’ him, but one can never tell.”
“You’re quite right about Sartwell. He wouldn’t pay attention to talk that came to him, no matter what the talk was. No, it’s deeper than that. He knows my opinions about the proper organization of the men, but that wouldn’t influence him for a moment. Because I said no reasons were given, you mustn’t think I don’t know why he turned me adrift. I do, but it’s not a subject I care to talk about, even with you, Mr. Braunt. Only I should like you to understand that interference will do no good. I should like to drop out quietly and have nothing said. Remember that I, knowing all the circumstances, am not sure but that, were I in his place, I should have acted exactly as Sartwell has done. I’m not going to have this made into a grievance, for I don’t want it talked about. The main fact to know is that Sartwell and I are enemies, and there can be no peace between us until one or other is defeated. If you could talk Sartwell into asking me to come back,—and you know the difficulty there would be in that,—I wouldn’t go back. So you understand the uselessness of seeing Mr. Sartwell.”
“But lad, how are ye t’ live?”
Marsten laughed.
“Oh, I’ll have no difficulty in making a living. Don’t you fear. I’ll stick by the Union too, and some day I hope to show Sartwell how a strike should be conducted.”
“Right ye are, if that’s the game!” cried Braunt, bringing his hand down on the other’s shoulder. “Ah don’t believe much in strikes, but Ah believe in ye! Ah’ll see the men to-night, an’ All’ll have ye made secretary to th’ Union. That will be our answer ta Sartwell. Then, lad, ye can have enough to live on, and ye can put the pieces o’ th’ Union together ta suit ye.”
“I should like that,” said Marsten, eagerly.
“It shall be done. The men will go in for it when they hear ye’ve got the sack. They still feel sore over the defeat, as if it wasn’t all their own fault; and now their fear of Sartwell’s packing some o’ them off is over, they’ll like to show a little independence by electing you, to prove to the manager that they’re not afraid, which they are. Ah’ll have to convince them that Sartwell won’t strike back or take your appointment as a defiance.”
“But perhaps he will.”
“Not him. He was as sick o’ the strike as any one. No. He’ll shrug his shoulders, but he’ll say nothing. Ah’m certain that if Gibbons had had the sense to go to the masters at the first, he would have broken Sartwell long since. An’ that was what Sartwell was afraid of, Ah’ll be bound. His greatest stroke was getting Monkton and Hope out of the country. It was your visit to Hope did that. Sartwell saw ye’d put your finger on the weak spot; an’ Ah’ll warrant, if we knew the ins and outs of it, Sartwell threatened ta chook up the whole business if they didn’t leave, and they left. Ah! he’s a man as can fight, is Sartwell.”
They had reached the court shortly before their conversation had arrived at this point, and Marsten sat down with his host. The room was barer than such places usually are, for every pawnable or salable thing had been removed from time to time as the siege went on. The empty space where the old harmonium had stood made the room seem larger than it really was.
“Yes,” said Braunt with a sigh, noticing Marsten’s eye wandering to the vacant spot, “it was the last thing that went before Jessie died. We pawned it, thinking we’d get it back again, but Ah’ll never take it back. Ah’m glad it’s gone. Ah couldn’t bear to look at it. But let’s not talk of what’s away, but o’ what’s here. Ye’re still thinkin’ ye can do somethin’ for the workin’ man by organization?”
“I’m sure of it.”
Braunt shook his head.
“Ye won’t, my lad, but Ah’ll do my best to get ye the chance ta try. Just look at what has happened. They let Gibbons go without a word: he was a fool, perhaps, but he worked hard for them, an’ they don’t even say thankee. An’ they’ll do the same wi’ ye. They’ll do the same wi’ any one.”
“It all depends on how they are led. When men are foolishly led, they soon find it out and lose confidence. Think what a man like Napoleon might have accomplished if he had led workingmen instead of soldiers, and had turned his talents to bettering his fellow-men instead of butchering them!”
“Napoleon could have done nothin’. He could have done nothin’ wi’ soldiers, even, if it had not been for one power which ye can never have.”
“What is that?”
“The power o’ orderin’ a man out o’ the ranks, an’ havin’ him shot. If Ah’d that power Ah’d lead the men maself, an’ get them anythin’ they wanted. The State will let you slowly starve a hundred men to death and never interfere, but if ye shot even Gibbons there’d be a row about it. An’ yet we think we’re civilized! Ah say we’re savages.”
“Oh, that’s wrong, Braunt!” cried Marsten, rising. “We’re long past that stage. If I get the reorganizing of the Union, I’ll try a fall with Sartwell some day, and will down him without shooting anybody.”
“Very well, lad, Ah’ll do ma best for ye, an’ wish ye luck.”
Braunt did his best, and the next week Marsten was unanimously made secretary of the Union by men who had looked upon him as a traitor only a few weeks before.