SARTWELL, as he had written to his daughter and telegraphed to Barney Hope, found himself very busy, now the men had come back. Although he dismissed none who had taken part in the strike, he rearranged, with a dogged ruthlessness, the whole service of the works. Few men got their old jobs back again, or their old wages. There were promotions and retrogradations, although no one was discharged. At first it seemed to the men that this was a mere brutal display of power, presided over by wanton caprice, but as time went on they began to see the glimmering of a method in the weaving of the web. Those who were degraded to the meanest and most poorly paid work the firm had to offer were the men who had been most hot-headed in bringing on the strike, and the most persistent in opposing its conclusion. The soberer heads among the men, who had been thrust into the background during the agitation, were in every instance given promotion and higher pay; and as these changes took place one after another—for Sartwell was not the man to disorganize the works by any sweepingly radical changes—the general conclusion was that the manager merely desired to show the men that those whom they had valued lightly were the workmen whom he prized. Yet it could not be denied, even by those who lost in the game of reorganization, that the more conservative men thus advanced were among the most capable workmen in the factory. They were the men who had most to lose by a strike, and had naturally been most reluctant to enter into a contest the end of which no one could foresee. By-and-by it began to be suspected that the manager must have in his possession a complete and accurate record of every action and speech during the strike, so entirely did his shifting about of the pawns, which he played with such cool and silent relentlessness, coincide with the doings of each piece during the trouble they thought was past and hoped had been forgotten. In some instances it seemed as if Sartwell had deliberately marked the contrast by bringing the degraded and the elevated into purposeful juxtaposition, so that his design in showing that he held the future of each man in his hand could not be misunderstood by even the most stupid of his employees. It was a grim object lesson, apparently intended to convey Sartwell’s determination to stick by the men who, even remotely, had sympathized with him in the late struggle; for not a word was spoken, and when a man protested humbly against debasement, the manager made no reply, and the workman knew he had either to submit or to apply for his wages at the office.
In no instance was the evidence of Sartwell’s silent wrath more manifest than in the cases of Braunt and Scimmins. The two men had been equal in position when the strike began, although Scimmins received rather more money than Braunt. Now Braunt was made superintendent of the upper floor, where most of the employees were women and boys, while Scimmins was given the work which one of the boys who did not return at the end of the strike had done. Scimmins had the double humiliation of being under the none too gentle orders of the big Yorkshireman whom he had flouted during the strike, and also of having to accept little more than boy’s wages. He cursed Sartwell loud and often; but the manager was a man who paid little heed to the curses of others, and Scimmins was not in a position to refuse the small pay he received.
Sartwell had at last arranged the interior economy of the factory to his liking, and was just promising himself a few days free from worry down at Eastbourne, when a most unlooked-for disaster overturned all his plans. Shortly before the dinner hour he was coming down the stairs from the upper floor, when a shriek, which seemed to be the combined voices of those he had left a moment before, paralyzed him where he stood. The first thought that flashed through his mind was that Braunt had gone suddenly mad, and, perhaps, killed some one; for the manager had noticed, since Braunt’s promotion, that he sometimes spoke wildly, while now and again there was a dangerous maniacal gleam in his eye which betokened latent insanity. Before he could turn around, two dishevelled, screaming women passed him.
“What’s wrong?” he shouted after them.
“Fire!” they shrieked back at him as they fled.
As Sartwell bounded up the stairs he met no more coming down. He heard outside in the yard a man’s deep voice hoarsely shouting, “Fire! Fire!” The manager’s heart sank as he thought of the numbers on the upper floor, the narrow stairway, and the single exit. The other floors were reasonably safe, with broad stairways and wide doors; but the upper floor, which formerly had but few occupants, had long been a source of anxiety to him, fearing, as he did, just such a catastrophe as now seemed imminent. The remedying of this had often been agreed upon by both the owners and himself, and was among the good intentions which were at various times postponed to a more convenient season,—and now the cry of “Fire!” was ringing in his ears, and the narrow stair was the only means of escape!
He found the open doorway blocked by a mass of howling human beings, each wild to escape, and each making escape impossible. They were wedged and immovable, many too tightly compressed to struggle, while others farther back thrashed wildly about with their arms, trying to fight their way to safety. The dangerous aromatic smell of burning pine filled the air, and smoke poured up through, the lift shaft, and rolled in ever-increasing density along the ceiling. There was no flame as yet; but if the jam could not be broken, it would not need the fire itself to smother the life out of those in the hopeless contest.
“Stand back there!” cried Sartwell. “There is no danger if you but keep cool. All of you go back to your places. I’ll go in with you and be the last to leave, so there’s nothing to fear.”
A red tongue of flame flashed for the winking of an eye amidst the black smoke, disappearing almost as soon as it came, but sending a momentary glow like sheet lightning over the rapidly darkening room. It was a brief but ominous reply to Sartwell’s words, and he saw he might as well have spoken to the tempest. He tried to extricate one of the girls, whose wildly-staring eyes and pallid lips showed she was being crushed to death, but she was wedged as firmly in the mass as if cemented there. Sartwell, with a groan of despair, saw he was powerless in the face of this irresistible panic. He was attacking the wedge at the point, and so was at a tremendous disadvantage.
An angry roar, louder than his shout had been, called his attention to the fact that Braunt was making an assault on the wedge from the rear. The big man, using his immense strength mercilessly, was cleaving his way through the mass, grasping the women with both hands by the shoulders, and flinging them, with a reckless carelessness of consequences, behind him, fighting his way inch by inch towards the door.
“Stand back, ye villain!” Braunt roared to Scimmins, who, crazed by fear, was trampling down all ahead of him in his frantic efforts to escape.
“It’s every one for himself!” screamed Scimmins. “I have as much right to my life as you have to yours.”
“Stand back, ye ruffian, or Ah’ll strangle ye when Ah get ma hands on ye! Stand ye there, Mr. Sartwell, an’ catch them when Ah throw them t’ ye. The women first. Fling them down past the turn o’ the stair an’ they’ll be safe. Stand ye there; Ah’ll be at the door this minute. We’ll have them all out in a jiffy.”
While he shouted Braunt tore his way through the crowd, and at last reached the knot in the jam where further progress was impossible. Here he stood, and by the simple power of his arms lifted girl after girl straight up, and hurled them over the heads of those in front into Sartwell’s arms, who pushed them on down the stairs.
“For God’s sake, Scimmins,” cried Sartwell, who from his position could see the fear-demented man pressing the crowd on Braunt and hampering him, “be a man, and stand back! Don’t fight! There’s time for all to get out.”
“Ah’ll crack your skull for ye!” shouted Braunt hoarsely, over his shoulder. “Remember ye’ve to pass me before ye get to the stair, an’ little good your fightin’ ’ill do ye.”
At last the knot dissolved, as a long jam on a river suddenly gives way when the key-log is removed. Braunt stood now with his back against the door-post, while Sartwell took his place at the turn of the stairs, strenuously flinging torn and ragged items of humanity into safety. Several of those who had been at the point of the wedge lay at his feet, senseless or dead—there was no time to discover which. Now and then a girl he hurled down the stair tottered, fell, and lay where she fell.
“Why doesn’t some one come to carry those women out?” groaned the manager, who had asked one after another whom he had saved to send help to him.
At last two of his men appeared.
“It’s a bad fire, Mr. Sartwell,” said one.
“Yes, yes, I know. Take down two each, if you can, and send up more men. Tell the clerks to see that the iron doors between the buildings are closed. Are the firemen here?”
“Five engines, sir.”
“Good! Get down as quickly as you can, and send up more help.”
“Ye devil! Do ye think to sneak past me?” cried Braunt, seizing Scimmins, who had at last fought his way through.
“Don’t waste time with that man, Braunt. My God, don’t you see the flames! The roof will be in on us in a minute! Fling him down here!”
“He stays behind me till the last soul’s out,” snarled Braunt, between his teeth.
Sartwell said no more. It was no time to argue or expostulate, and Braunt, although pinning Scimmins to the wall behind him, continued to extricate the women as fast as the manager could pass them along. The knot was continually forming at the door, and was as continually unloosed by the stalwart, indefatigable arms of Braunt.
“You are smothering me,” whined Scimmins.
“I hope so,” said Braunt.
The situation was now hardly to be borne. The smoke ascending the stairway met the smoke pouring through the door, yet, in spite of the smoke, the room was bright, for a steady column of flame roared up through the shaft, making it like a blast-furnace.
“Are they all out?” gasped Sartwell, coughing, for the smoke was choking him.
“Ah think so, sir; but Ah’ll have a look. Some maybe on the floor,”—and Braunt, as he spoke, hurled Scimmins into the room ahead of him, pushing the door shut, so that Sartwell would not hear the man if he cried out. The manager, strangling in the smoke, appeared to have forgotten that Scimmins was there.
“Down on your hands and knees, ye hound, and see if any o’ the women ye felled are there!”
Scimmins was already on his knees.
“There’s no one here. Open the door!—open the door!” he cried.
Braunt opened the door an inch or two.
“All out, sir!” he shouted.
“Thank God for that!” said Sartwell. “Come down at once. There’s not a moment to lose.”
“I’ll be down as soon as you are, sir. Run!”
The manager stumbled down the crackling stair, not doubting but Braunt followed.
“Now, ye crawling serpent, I’m going to keep ye here till ye’re singed. I saw your villainy, ye coward!” The terror-stricken man mistook the purport of Braunt’s words, and thus lost all chance of life.
“I swear to God, I didn’t mean it!” he cried. “The match dropped before I knowed it. God’s truth, it did, Braunt!”
“What! Ye fired th’ works! Ye! With the women here ye tried to starve! Ye dropped the match! Ye crawling, murderous fiend!”
Braunt crouched like a wild beast about to spring, his crooked fingers, like claws, twitching nervously. Breathing in short quick gasps, for the smoke had him by the throat, his fierce eyes glittering in the flames with the fearsome light of insanity, he pounced upon his writhing victim and held his struggling figure with arms upstretched above his head. Treading over the quaking floor, he shouted:
“Down, ye craven devil, into the hell ye have made!”
The long, quivering shriek of the doomed man was swallowed and quenched in the torrent of fire.
Braunt stood in the centre of the trembling, sagging floor, with his empty hands still above his head, his face upturned, and swaying dimly in the stifling smoke. A fireman’s axe crashed in a window; a spurt of water burst through the opening, and hissed against the ceiling.
“Jessie! Jessie! Listen! theDead March!My girl! The—real—march!”
With a rending crash the floor sank into the furnace.
Barney Hope drove his tandem up and down the parade, to the glory of Eastbourne, but with small satisfaction to himself. He did not care for the admiration of those who were strangers to him. Although his state was princely, and had all the exclusiveness which attends princeliness, it was a condition of things not at all to the liking of so companionable a man as Barney. His magnificent plan, which gave employment to an amateur gardener, had apparently miscarried; for no word came from the girl at the school, and, whatever attractions the tandem had for other inhabitants of Eastbourne, it certainly seemed that Edna Sartwell did not share them, at least sufficiently to arrange for a drive with the young man and any of her companions who dared to break the rules of the school for the giddy whirl of his lofty vehicle. Barney cursed his luck and also his messenger. He was sure it was Marsten’s fault; some clumsiness on his part had undoubtedly spoiled everything. Now that Barney thought over Marsten’s demeanour when he returned, he saw—what he should have seen at the time, from the gruffness and shortness of the fellow’s answers—that he had made a mess of it somehow and was ashamed to confess his failure. Marsten had merely contented himself by saying to Barney that he had delivered the letter unseen, and that the girl had given him no message to take back. Barney could get no satisfying particulars from him regarding the incidents of the meeting. Had he talked with her? Of course he had. It was necessary to explain how he came to be there. What had she said? She said very little. Had she seemed angry? She did not seem any too well pleased. And thus Barney, with industry and persistence, endeavoured to draw the truth out of a reluctant man, who appeared only too eager to get away and commune with himself, and who evidently did not appreciate the fact that it was the duty of a messenger to communicate full particulars of his embassy to his chief.
Now that Marsten had so hurriedly gone to London,—probably loath to admit his diplomatic failure, yet fearing to be sent on another mission of the sort,—Barney was convinced there had been some awkward hitch in the proceedings, which was all the more annoying as he could not discover what it was, and so he set about to remedy it with that unfailing tact of which he knew himself to be possessed. For once in his life Barney had to confess that he did not know what to do. He did not care to return to London and admit defeat even to himself. One of his favourite boasts was that he never knew defeat; for where—to use his own language—he could not pull it off himself, Providence seemed always to step in and give him the necessary aid. He began to fear that his customary accuracy in detecting the interposition had for once failed him, for he remembered he had looked on the unexpected advent of Marsten as a distinct manifestation that fortune still favoured him; but, as day after day passed and no answer came to the letter he had sent, Barney began to have doubts as to the genuineness of the intervention on this occasion. At last, in deep gloom, he came to the conclusion that life under the present circumstances was not worth living if it had to be lived in Eastbourne without knowing a soul, and reluctantly he determined to return to London. He ordered out his tandem for a final exhibition, remembering that, even though he took no pleasure in it himself, it would be cruel to deprive the loungers along the parade of their usual delight in watching the elegance of the turnout and his own skill in handling a team placed endwise. After all, the innocent frequenters of Eastbourne were not to blame for what had happened, so why should they be punished unnecessarily?—said the ever-just Barney to himself. They should be allowed to feast their eyes for the last time on the tandem and its master, and Heaven help them when he finally departed! Barney mounted his chariot with a sigh; for, aside from the fact that this was in a measure a last act,—and last acts always carry a certain amount of pathos with them,—it is depressing to have it proven that one is after all under no special protection, and to have doubt cast on former instances which heretofore have stood unchallenged.
Barney drove his spirited horses with perhaps less than his customary dash, a chastened dignity taking the place of the exuberant confidence which generally distinguished him. The bracing air, the rapid motion, the feeling of controlling destiny that a man has when he is driving a tandem, all failed to raise his spirits, as might have been expected; for the very fact that he was driving alone emphasized his disappointment, and made this world the hollow mockery it sometimes seems to the most cheerful of us. Yet how often has it been said, in varying forms, that the darkest hour is just before the dawn!—and how often will men forget that simple nocturnal fact!—a defect of memory the more remarkable in a person like Barney, who so frequently had had opportunity, while on his way home from a post-midnight revel, of verifying the phenomenon. Just when his despair was at its blackest—on the fourth drive down the parade—he was amazed and delighted to see Edna Sartwell coming down one of the side streets all alone. She had a newspaper in her hand, and was looking anxiously, and, as Barney could not fail to see, furtively, up and down the street, apparently expecting to meet some one, yet fearing that her intention might be divined. Barney understood the whole situation in a flash: she had been afraid to write or had been prevented from writing, and had stolen alone from the school in the hope of meeting him. Well, they all did it, so far as Barney was concerned; and, in the glow of exultation that came over him at this proof of success, and the assurance that, after all, his luck—or whatever it was—had not deserted him, there was just a faint, annoying tinge of regret that she was no more proof against his fascinations than all the others had been. Man is but an uncertain creature at best, and never knows just what he does want. A moment before, it would have seemed to him that nothing on earth could have given him greater pleasure than a sight of her; and yet, now that he saw her looking for him, he was actually sorry she had not been walking unconcernedly along the pavement like those who were strangers to him.
However, it must be added in Barney’s favour that this feeling of being perhaps a trifle too much sought after was but transitory, and that it did not for a moment interfere with his action. He pulled up his team with a suddenness that caused the front horse to turn round and face its driver, threw the reins to his groom, and jumped down with a grace and celerity as charming in its way as was his driving. The groom disentangled the horses as Barney accosted Edna with that urbanity which was perhaps his distinguishing characteristic. The girl seemed surprised to see him, and was plainly more than a little embarrassed.
“I am so glad to meet you!” cried Barney. “Why, the very sight of you makes this dull old Eastbourne smile like a rose, don’t you know. I haven’t had a soul to speak to for ages, and I began to fear I should lose the use of language. I give you my word, it’s the truth! I do think—that is, I did, until I saw you—that Eastbourne is the dullest spot on earth.”
“Then why did you come here?” asked the girl.
“Oh, now, I say, Miss Sartwell, that’s rather too bad! It is, I assure you. You know I said in my letter I came solely for the pleasure of seeing you.”
“So you did. I had forgotten.”
“Yes; and you never even answered my note, Miss Sartwell. I call that rather hard, don’t you know.”
“You see, Mr Hope, we are not allowed to write letters from the school; that is one of the strictest rules.”
“And are you so afraid of breaking a rule as all that? When I was at school the delight of being there was the breaking of all rules—and of most other things as well. I thought perhaps you would not mind breaking a rule for once, even if only out of pity for a friend stranded on this inhospitable coast.”
Edna blushed when he spoke of the breaking of rules; then she lifted her honest eyes to his and said: “I am afraid I pay too little attention to the rules after all my pretence of regard for them. I am breaking a rule in being here now; but I was so anxious to see a newspaper that I stole out to buy one. That is why I am here, and I should not stand talking to you, but must go back at once.”
“But I say, Miss Sartwell,” protested Barney, “if you break a rule merely to buy a paper, surely you will break another, or keep on fracturing the same one, when you know how much pleasure it will give me to take you for a little drive.”
“Oh, I couldn’t think of such a thing, Mr. Hope—I couldn’t, indeed, and you must not ask me! I wanted the paper to see if there was anything more about the fire. I should never have known about it had my father not sent me a short telegram that gave no particulars. I suppose he did not have time to write.”
“What fire?”
“The fire at the works.”
“Bless me! Has there been a fire?”
“Didn’t you know? There has been a terrible fire; the east wing is destroyed, and two men have lost their lives—two of the workmen. There would have been a frightful loss of life had it not been for one of the men who is dead. It is supposed, so the papers say, that in trying to save the life of the other he lost his own.”
“Dear me! how perfectly awful! I wonder why Mr. Sartwell didn’t wire me, as neither father nor Monkton is there. You see I never read the papers myself—never have any interest in them. If a fellow could only know when there is to be something in them worth while, it wouldn’t be so bad; but one can’t go on buying them every day, in the hope there will some time be something in them, don’t you know. Besides, people generally tell me all the news, so I don’t need to read. I hear even more than I want to hear, without looking at the papers; but, you see, I know nobody down here, and so am slightly behind in the news of the day.”
“I must go now,” repeated Edna, who had listened to his remarks with ill-disguised uneasiness.
“Oh, but that’s just what you mustn’t do!” cried Barney, with great eagerness. “Have pity, if not on my loneliness, at least on my hopeless ignorance, don’t you know, in a matter that I, of all others, ought to be interested—vitally interested—in. You see there may be no insurance, and perhaps I’m a beggar—may have to sell my tandem, don’t you know; sacrifice my pictures, and all that sort of thing. I must hear about the fire, and all about it. It’s of more importance even than the condition of the workingman, to me at least, dear as that subject is and—all—interwoven—as I may say, with my very—ah—being,—the workingman, don’t you know.”
“But,” protested his anxious listener, “I know nothing about the insurance,—nothing whatever. You should go at once to London, by the very first train. There has been an inquest, and I expect to find a report of it in this paper. You can buy a paper at the station, and then you will learn everything that is to be known until you reach London.”
“I say, Miss Sartwell,” said Barney, in an injured tone, “you surely can’t expect me to understand what’s in the paper! I never could, don’t you know. They seem to me to print such rubbish. Now you can explain it all to me in a very short time—you always make everything so clear. If you will just step into this cart of mine, I’ll drive out of town and around behind the school; then no one will see us, and you can reach there much more quickly than if you walked, don’t you know.”
The girl frowned, and Barney saw with surprise that she perhaps had, after all, some of her father’s impatience. He felt he was not progressing quite as favourably as he could wish; but a few words would put that right, if he could get her to go with him for a drive.
“Mr. Hope,” she said, severely, “you will pardon me if I say that, under the circumstances, you should be busy in London rather than idling at Eastbourne. An unexpected calamity has happened; the business is deranged, and men are out of work just now when they need it most; yet here you stand idly talking of tandems and driving!”
Barney opened his eyes wide with astonishment. Here actually was censure, plain and undisguised. He had never encountered it before from any lady, except perhaps from his mother—and she did not count; for, as he knew, she would be the first to resent blame placed upon him by any one else.
“But—but what can I do?” stammered the unfortunate young man, with strong emphasis on the personal pronoun.
“I, of course, don’t know; but that is what I should find out, if I were in your place.”
“Nobody pays the least attention to what I say: they never did, and it’s not likely they’re going to begin now. Your father didn’t even take the trouble to telegraph, although he knows I’m here.”
“He knows you are here?”
“Of course. He was coming with me, and both of us were going to call upon you; but, unluckily for me, he couldn’t come, and here I am stranded; and I must say, when you talk like that, I think fate is a little hard on me.”
As the girl looked at him, her expression softened; she felt she had been unfair to him, and she had a keen sense of justice.
“I had no intention of saying anything harsh,” she replied. “I merely told you what I thought any one in your position would do. Don’t you agree with me?”
“I always agree with you, Miss Sartwell. I’m rather a blockhead, at best, don’t you know; but I usually recognize the right thing when some one points it out to me. That’s one great fault I find with myself: I don’t see things till after every one else has seen them; then they all seem so plain that I wonder I didn’t notice them before. People are so impatient with a fellow like me, that sometimes I feel sorry for myself,—I give you my word I do! If they would take a little pains,—but then, of course, no one ever cares whether a fellow goes right or wrong.”
“Oh, yes, they do!” cried the girl, quickly. “I’m sure I care very much.”
“You think you do,” replied Barney, dejectedly; “but you won’t even risk a slight scolding at the school to give me the advice I need at the time I need it most. But that’s the way of the world,” continued the ill-used young man, with a deep sigh. “All I want you to do is to take a short drive with me, and tell me what you know of the disaster, and what you think I ought to do under the circumstances. I brought this turnout from London on purpose to take you out. It isn’t as if I were suggesting anything clandestine, for I came with your father’s approval. I wrote to the mistress of the school, telling her so, but she answered with a sharp reprimand. Then I wrote directly to you, but my letter was returned with an intimation that I was trying to do something underhanded. So you see, I made every effort to be square and honest, but the honest people wouldn’t have it. That’s the sort of conduct that drives men to crime. Then I took to more questionable methods, and got that young fellow—I forget his name—to carry a letter to you. That offended you——-”
“Oh, no!”
“It’s nice of you to say so,” Barney went on, mournfully; “but I am so used to disappointment that a little extra, more or less, doesn’t matter. I see now I was wrong to send that letter in the way I did—I always see those things after; but I was forced into it. I expect to end up in prison some day, and never realize my crime until the judge sentences me. I suppose I ought to be above the need of an encouraging word now and then, but I don’t seem to be.”
“What do you wish me to do?” asked the girl, a shade of perplexity coming over her face.
“All I wish is a little straightforward clear-headed advice. Art beckons me in one direction, and advises me to leave business alone. You said just now that my place was at the works, and that I shouldn’t be idling here when there was so much to be done. Mr. Sartwell quite evidently hopes I shall keep out of the way, or he would have told me of the fire. I seem to be a superfluous person, not wanted anywhere—not even by the police. What do I wish you to do? I wish you to let me take you for a little drive into the country, and tell me how I can help your father at this crisis.”
“One is so conspicuous up there,” she said, glancing with distrust at’ the waiting tandem. “No; let us walk to the end of the parade. There we can sit down, and I will tell you all I know about the fire, and, if my advice is worth anything, you shall have it. After that you must let me walk to the school alone.” Barney was forced to content himself with this, and he reluctantly ordered the groom to take the horses to the stables.
The two walked along the parade to the most sheltered seat, where they sat down together. The young man’s mind was in a whirl; the coldness of his reception excited him, and made him fearful of losing what he had thought, up to that time, was his for the asking.
He proposed to the girl, and was rejected.
There is an idea prevalent that the young women of our land welcome addresses which the golden youth of the opposite sex urge upon their consideration, and that a girl’s happiness augments in proportionate ratio as the number of the proposals bestowed upon her increases. This, however, is merely a supposition, and there are unfortunately no statistics to which an historian, anxious to be accurate in statement, may turn in order to substantiate or overthrow this almost universally held opinion. It is to be regretted that the census, which gathers together in tabulated form so many interesting facts pertaining to the race, gives no attention to this particular subdivision of human data; and that, so far from being able to form any definite estimate of the feeling with which a girl welcomes the undoubted compliment of a marriage offer, we are left in the dark as to the average number of proposals a woman receives, say, between the ages of seventeen and thirty-seven. An inquisitive government which does not hesitate to ask a woman every ten years to set down her age in black and white seems, strangely enough, to shrink from inquiring into a vital question on which the future well-being of a nation largely depends; thus no one can positively state that matrimonial advances are held in high estimation by their recipients, clinching the proposition by referring the doubter to Blue Book such a number and such a page.
It being thus impossible to generalize, the careful writer is compelled to fall back on individual instances, and it must be set down that Edna Sartwell, so far from being happy or elated over the fact that two young men within one week had asked her to share their varying fortunes, walked hurriedly back to the school, filled with terror and dismay. On the very threshold of womanhood she had suddenly and unexpectedly been brought face to face with a state of things which made her wish to shrink back into the untroubled tranquillity of the life she had hitherto led. These two disquieting events, following one so closely on the other, loomed up in undue proportion to their importance, and threatened to overshadow the future. It seemed an appalling thing that the fate of two men should be placed at her disposal; that on her shoulders should be cast the great responsibility of deciding, unaided, a momentous question with far-reaching consequences. And if the first two young men with whom she became acquainted acted thus, what was to be expected from the numerous host she was still likely to meet? A pathway strewn with broken hearts offered no allurements to the feet of the young traveller; a life lived in an atmosphere of deep sighs was intolerable. The girl was frightened at the outlook, which was all the more bewildering because only partly understood. “It is often as important to classify your problem as to solve it,” her father had once said to her; but solution or classification appeared equally difficult to her.
Barney had taken his rejection badly. He made no attempt to conceal the fact that his life was blighted; that he would re-enter the world a changed man, but heroically determined to make the most out of the wreck. The austere, rugged road that now lay before him, unbrightened by love or human sympathy, he would walk with grim, if sombre, resolution; brushing aside the frivolities of existence; setting his face with sullen but dogged persistence towards the cheerless journey of life; hoping for no recompense except that perhaps he might have the consolation of knowing that he left the world a trifle better for having lived in it.
Inexperienced as she was, Edna could not help contrasting the actions of Hope and Marsten, not altogether to the disadvantage of the latter. There was no question in her mind that Marsten had in reality an up-hill road to travel; yet he had gone into no heroics about it, and he asked nothing but that she should remember him. She had been sorry she could give no encouraging word to Marsten; but Barney made her feel somehow that she was to blame in his case, and that he was an ill-used man. Then, it was difficult to realize the serious nature or hardship of Barney’s future career, when every one knew he had more money than was good for him. Some thought of this seemed to occur to Barney himself at the time, for he spoke bitterly and contemptuously of his wealth, and of how it handicapped him; however, he was going to give it all away when he came into his full fortune, and start the world afresh, winning his laurels and what little cash would suffice for his frugal needs, with his good right arm, assisted presumably by his paintbrushes; so in the face of this noble resolution it would have been unfair to censure him for the possession of riches he had had no hand in accumulating.
Edna hurried towards the school, thinking little of the reprimand in store for her, and much of the contrary conditions of this world. She, like Barney, needed advice, yet had no one in whom she might confide. She thought of writing fully to her father, remembering her promise to tell him everything that troubled her; but she shrank from the thought almost as soon as it took form in her mind. Besides, both complications were settled finally and forever, so why worry him unnecessarily about a page of her life on which was written the word “Finis”? There surged up in her heart a deep, passionate yearning for the mother she had never known, and whom she now missed as she had never missed her before. As she thought of the portrait of the beautiful, sweet-looking woman in her father’s office, whose pathetic eyes shone so tenderly and lovingly upon her, the tears which had been near the surface suddenly blinded her, and she sobbed:
“I am alone—alone!”
On reaching the school, Edna went directly to her room, where she found a letter from her step-mother awaiting her; and this helped more than anything else to drive away the sad thoughts which filled her mind. The letter ran thus:
“My Poor Dear Edna:”
“You will doubtless have heard of the dreadful calamity that has overtaken the business of Monkton & Hope, a calamity from which I fear it may never recover; although your father, as usual, scoffs at what I predict, and says they are fully insured—as if an insurance policy could cover the far-reaching effects of such a disaster! There seems little doubt that the fire was caused by some of the disaffected men, exasperated, probably, by the treatment they have received, although that is no excuse tor the crime. But we are all short-seeing, misguided creatures here below, with the taint of original sin in each of us; unable, unless directed by a Higher Power, to take even the slightest action that will be acceptable; and prone ever to slip and stumble if we neglect those warnings which for our benefit are showered on the just and the unjust alike: but if warnings are passed by—or, worse still, scoffed at—how can we hope to profit by them and mend our ways, as an ever-indulgent Providence—eager to forgive, if we but exhibit a desire for forgive-ness—intended they should?—and when I asked your father in a most gentle and respectful (I hope I know my duty as a wife by this time!) way if the fire had not pointed a great moral to him, he said with most regrettable flippancy—which I have sometimes attempted to correct in you, my poor child!—that it pointed the moral to be well insured and to have fire-escapes from the upper floors; as if ribaldry like that was not very much out of place in speaking of a solemn event where two immortal souls went to their last account without a moment’s warning—going, for aught we know, through perishable fire to flames that are never quenched! The usefulness of this thought makes no impression on your father, who is as stubborn as ever, and I fear no more just to his men than before all this happened. A poor young man named Marsten has been ruthlessly discharged by your father, and may now be wandering about the streets, looking for work and starving, for all any one knows or cares. Ask your father why he was discharged if you want to know, but don’t ask me. It is nothing but pride—pride—pride! My child, take warning while there is yet time, for the night cometh. Harden not your heart.
“I shall continue to petition for you both, for the mercy is unfailing and unlimited.
“Your loving but sorrowing mother,
“Sarah Sartwell.”
The benevolent intentions of this letter were in no wise frustrated, and Mrs. Sartwell would doubtless have been pleased had she known that the reading of, it did the recipient a world of good. It acted as a tonic, and gave Edna something to think about, preventing any morbid reflections on the wreck she had made of Barney’s life.
The discharge of Marsten was a great shock to the girl, and for the first time in her life she thought her father had acted unjustly. At first, in pondering over the unexpected bit of information, she thought her father had, in some way, heard of the young man’s visit to Eastbourne; but as she turned the subject over in her mind she came to the conclusion that his dismissal was the result of their meeting in the garden at home and the finding of Marsten there by her father. The reason, then, the young man had time to come to Eastbourne, was because his time was now his own. And yet he had said nothing about it, even when she asked him how he got away from duty. He had spoken well of her father, although he must have felt he had been unjustly treated. She had thought nothing of his good words at the time, but now they came back to her. She determined to write to her father, and tell him all about Marsten’s visit and its result; but when she sat down with the paper before her, she found she did not know how to begin. She wished to ask him to repair the unnecessary wrong he had done Marsten, for there was not the slightest chance of her ever marrying the young man; but somehow, when she came to put this all down on paper, the task seemed very difficult. The difficulty was increased by the knowledge that her father must at that moment have as much on his mind as any one should be called upon to bear, and she pictured the silent man sitting at home, tired out with the work and worry of the day, while the monotonous voice of his wife drew moral lessons from every new obstacle he had to surmount. No; she would not add a single care to those already on his shoulders.
The girl sat with her elbows on the desk, her chin in her hands, gazing with troubled eyes into vacancy, as if the problems that beset her were in the air before her and could be hypnotized into solution. A bewildering feature of the case was that she had continually, of late, to readjust her ideas, and bring them into correct relationship with some new fact which came within her cognizance. All the conversations she had held with her father, many of his actions, bore quite a new significance when she learned that he knew Marsten loved her. Again, the fact of Mars-ten’s dismissal lent a sharp poignancy to her remembrance of his fervent declaration that, for her sake, he would strive to please any master placed over him, as no man had ever striven before. Edna did not share her step-mother’s fear that the young man was starving; but her imagination kindled at the thought of his impassioned words, his resolute determination to succeed, addressed to the daughter of the man who a day or two before had turned him into the streets. The more she thought about her father’s action, the more unjust it seemed. A dozen times she began a letter, and as often relapsed again into reverie. Barney and his mythical woes faded entirely from her memory. Gradually she came to the conclusion that, if she did not intervene in Marsten’s interests, she would be making herself responsible for the continuance of the injustice; and, although she wished to relieve her father from all anxiety regarding her feelings towards the young man, still she was ashamed to touch upon that part of the subject. It might be possible some time, when she sat at her father’s knee, to tell him about it, with averted face; but to write it, she could not.
At last she succeeded in drafting a letter, which she hurriedly posted, fearing that longer meditation upon the question might result in its not being sent at all.
“Dear Father:
“I am sure you must be very busy, and perhaps very much worried at the present moment. You know I do not wish to add to your burden, and would rather lighten it if I could; but in that I am as helpless as you are strong. We made a compact a while since, and that is why I write. Something has happened for which I feel partly responsible. In a letter received to-day from my step-mother she says you have discharged Mr. Marsten, and she thinks he may now be looking in vain for employment. I am afraid you were not pleased at finding him talking to me in our garden, but that was my fault and not his. If that was the reason, won’t you please reconsider and invite him back?
“Your loving daughter,
“Edna.”
The answer came almost before she thought her letter had time to reach London.
“My Dear Little Girl:
“I should have written days ago, but unfortunately I cannot dictate an affectionate letter through my shorthand clerk, and the older I grow the more I dislike writing with my own hand. Worried? Oh, dear no! Why should one worry? I’m afraid your belligerent old father still loves a fight, whether with circumstances or with men. Before the fire was out, telegraphic orders were despatched to three machinery firms in the North. While the fire-engines were still flinging water on the ruins, I had secured a lease of the four houses that adjoin the works, had compounded with the tenants, and sent them packing. That night men were at work knocking doorways through the partitions and strengthening the floors. Happily the engines and boilers were not injured, being in a separate building, and already such machinery as we could get is in place, and a long, sagging, wobbling iron rope carries the power across the yard. The new secretary of the Union proposed a conference with me to discuss what the firm was willing to do for the men thrown out of work by the fire. I refused to discuss anything with the new secretary, he not being an employee of mine. He is a shrewder man than Gibbons; so he at once got up a deputation of my own men and sent them to me. I received them, of course, and they asked me if I would give them fifteen per cent of their wages while out of work. ‘No,’ said I, ‘I can always do better than the Union. There will be paid one hundred per cent of the wages, not fifteen; I expect you all back at the works on Monday.’ I fancy I made the men open their eyes a bit. Work will be going on as usual within a week, and we won’t be behind with a single order. The new factory which is now begun will be built in accordance with modern ideas, and I expect to be able to increase our business so that the four houses leased will be retained when the new building is ready for occupation. Forgive this patting of myself on the shoulder, but a man must brag now and then to some one, and you, my dear Edna, are the only one to whom I can boast.
“Yes, the compact is still in operation, and I’m glad you wrote about your step-mother’s letter, although I hope you will not take too seriously any half-hysterical comments on my tyrannical conduct, A man must act, and one who acts is bound to make mistakes. Perhaps the discharge of Marsten was a mistake. I don’t think so, but of course your step-mother does, and, as facts always embarrass her, she sees instant starvation and all the rest of it. Everything, Edna, depends on the point of view. A lighted match is dropped by accident or design, and, falling on inflammable material, certain chemical changes take place; carbonic acid gas is produced, and a factory goes down in ruins to supply the materials for combustion. All this seems perfectly natural to me, and in accordance with established scientific research. But your stepmother’s point of view is different. She sees the finger of Providence, and because I don’t, I’m a scoffer. Now, I’ve as great a belief and trust in Providence as any one, but to me Providence works sanely. It doesn’t destroy a factory and kill two men merely to show me I’m in error, because it could accomplish its purpose at much less expense and trouble. I can’t think that Providence is less sensible than my little girl, and she takes the right method. She says in kindly fashion, ‘Father, I think you are wrong, and I want you to reconsider.’ She doesn’t try to prove me a heartless despot. I would at once reconsider, and would invite Marsten back, but it is not necessary. He is the new secretary of the Union, with a salary larger than the wages he had here, with his time practically his own, and with ample opportunity for mischief if he chooses to exercise his power. I feel it in my bones that in one or two or three years I shall have to fight him. It will be an interesting struggle, but I shall win. So with this final bit of brag I close my long letter. I hope to run down and see you on Saturday, and meanwhile all the sympathy you have to spare, lavish on that iron-handed tyrant,
“Your Father.”