Volume Three—Chapter One.Richard Begins to Woo.The vicar’s visits to the Big House became fewer, for he could not but see that Richard Glaire, in spite of all that had passed, was more and more embittered against him. He was very quiet, and ceased to be insulting, but there was a malicious look in his eye, an ill-concealed air of jealousy in his glance, whenever the vicar spoke to Eve, that told of his feelings. In fact, Richard vowed that the lesson was chosen because he went to church that day, and if ever opportunity served he would be revenged.Opportunity was serving him, for, like Mrs Glaire, he saw but too plainly what the vicar’s feelings were towards Eve—feelings that made him grind his teeth whenever they were together, and which finally brought on a fresh quarrel with his mother.It was one morning when Mrs Glaire had been appealing to him to reopen the works.“Not yet,” he said. “I should have done it before now if they hadn’t been such beastly cowards. I’ll give ’em a good lesson this time.”“But you are losing heavily, Richard,” said Mrs Glaire.“Yes,” he said, maliciously. “I like to lose heavily when I can get my money’s worth; and I’m punishing them, so I don’t care.”“But, do you know, that if your conduct does not alter, you’ll lose something for which you will never forgive yourself?”“What’s that?” he said, eagerly.“Your cousin.”He caught his mother sharply by the wrist, and looked her full in the face.“You’ve been plotting for this, mother?”“Indeed, no, my son.”“Do you want me to marry Eve?”“You know I do.”“Then why do you encourage that cursed prig of a parson here?”“Because he has shown himself a good friend to me and mine.”“Bah!” said Richard. “I won’t have it. He shall come no more. Look here, mother; you don’t believe that I’ve got Daisy Banks away.”“No, Richard, I never have believed it,” said Mrs Glaire, meeting his eye, and responding without hesitation.“Well, look here, then, I tell you what. I’m going to quiet down.”“Dick, my own brave boy,” cried Mrs Glaire, hysterically, as she threw her arms round his neck.“There, don’t be stupid,” he said, carelessly repulsing her, after she had kissed him passionately. “I was going to say I’m sick of all this cursed worry, and I shall open the works soon.”“Yes, my dear boy, yes.”“And suppose, to settle all this rumour about Daisy Banks, I marry Eve?”“My darling boy,” sobbed Mrs Glaire; “it is the wish of my life. You make me so happy.”“There, don’t, mother; how can I talk to you if you keep pawing me about like that? Look here, you’re making my face all wet.”“Yes, yes, my dear boy, it’s very foolish, and I’ll control myself.”“There, look at them,” said Richard, in a low whisper, as he pointed out of the window, to where Eve and the vicar were walking together on the lawn. “Do you see that, mother?”“Yes,” said Mrs Glaire, uneasily.“Do you know he’s making up to Eve?”He looked at her searchingly.“I cannot help thinking that he admires her, Richard; but I am sure Eve thinks of no one but you.”“Then curse him, he shall see me marry her,” said Richard, eagerly. “You want it to be, mother, and it shall be—soon. Eve won’t mind, and you’ll settle it all with her, and then I’m not going to have him here any more.”“Don’t talk like that, my boy,” said Mrs Glaire; “but I do think it would be for your happiness if you were married.”As she spoke, the question seemed to be asked her—Was it for Eve’s good? and a cold, chilly feeling of misery came over her, as she felt that she was destroying the young life of the girl who had been to her almost more than a daughter.“That’s settled then, is it, mother?” said Richard, lightly.“Yes, my boy, indeed yes,” said Mrs Glaire, throwing off her momentary feeling of depression, and telling herself that it was for the best, and that so good a wife should be the saving of her son. Besides, it was for this that she had been working, and now that there was to be the fruition of her hopes, she felt that she must not hang back.Richard was already out on the lawn, going up to where the vicar and Eve were talking about flowers, and it galled the young man to see the bright happy look pass away as he approached, and not come back.The vicar spoke pleasantly to Richard, but the replies were monosyllables, and an awkward pause was ended by the coming of Mrs Glaire, who soon after returned into the house with their visitor, while Richard led his cousin down to the bottom of the garden, and, to her surprise, asked her to sit down.“Look here, Eve,” he said, shortly, “I’ve been talking to the old lady about our being married.”“Our being married, Richard?” said Eve, turning pale and starting.“Yes, our being married,” he said, sharply. “What are you starting for, you little goose? Any one would think it was something new.”“It came upon me like a surprise,” said Eve, catching her breath, and speaking quickly. “I did not expect it.”“Gammon!” said the young man, coarsely. “Why, you’ve been expecting it for months.”“Indeed no, Richard,” she said, eagerly.“Then you ought to have been,” he continued. “You know the old girl wishes it.”“Yes, Richard,” she faltered, with her forehead becoming rugged, and her lower lip quivering, “I know that.”“Well, we’ve talked it over, and she thinks like I do, that if we’re married it will settle all this rubbish about Daisy Banks.”“Oh, Richard! Richard!” she cried, pitifully; and she rose to run away, but he caught her wrist, and forced her back into the seat.“Don’t be a little stupid,” he said. “Why, that was only a silly flirtation, and I don’t care asoufor the girl.”“Let me go in, Richard, please,” she sobbed.“Not till I’ve done,” he said, with a half laugh. “Look here, Eve, dear; you are not such a little silly as to think that I know where Daisy is, or that I took her away?”“Tell me, on your word of honour, Richard, that you don’t know where she is,” said Eve, simply, “and I shall believe you.”“’Pon my word of honour, I don’t know where she is; and I didn’t take her away; and I didn’t send her away; and I don’t care a fig where she is, and if I never see her again.”“Richard!”“There now, are you satisfied?” he cried.“I believe you, Richard,” she said, ceasing to resist, but sitting back in the garden seat, and looking dreamily away.“That’s all right, then,” he said. “Well, then, now we can talk about when the wedding is to be.”“No, no, Richard; not now, not now,” she cried piteously, as she strove once more to get away.“But we will, though,” said the young man, flushing at her resistance. “It’s all been settled long enough that you were to be my wife, so let’s have none of your ‘not nows,’ miss.”“Let me go into the house, please, Richard,” said Eve, coldly.“Yes, my dear, when we’ve settled the wedding-day,” said Richard.“We cannot settle that now, Richard,” said Eve.“And why not, pray?”“Because,” she said, with her heart beating and her voice faltering, “I cannot forget for certainly a year or two, that which has taken place during the past few weeks.”“What?” he shouted.“I think you understand me, Richard,” said the girl, quietly, and making no effort now to free the wrist he so tightly held.“Yes,” he said, flushing with passion, “I do understand. You wish to throw me over because you have been angling for and catching that cursed intriguing parson.”“Richard!” cried Eve, turning red and stamping her foot upon the ground, “I will not stop and listen to such language.”“And in a passion, too,” he said, mockingly, “because her favourite is spoken of; but it won’t do, madam. You’re promised to me, and I wish the wedding to take place as soon as it can. Don’t you think I’m going to let that beggarly meddling priest come between us.”“This is as cowardly as it is unjustifiable, Richard,” exclaimed Eve.“Is it?” he retorted. “Don’t you think I’m blind. I’ve seen your soft looks at him; and, curse him, if he comes here again I’ll strangle him—an insidious crafty Jesuit. But don’t you think me such a child as to believe I’m to be treated like this.”“You are hurting my wrist, Richard,” said Eve, coldly, and speaking firmly now, for as her cousin began to bluster she grew calm.“Hang your wrist,” he said angrily; “my hands are not so tender as the parson’s, I suppose.”“Richard,” she said, with her voice trembling as she spoke, “Mr Selwood has always been to me as a gentlemanly, very kind friend, and to you the best of friends.”“Damn his friendship,” said Richard, looking ugly in his wrath. “He’s my enemy, and always has been, and he’s trying to win you away. Ah! I know what it means: I’m to be thrown over, and you take up with him.”“Richard, this is as coarse as it is cruel and unjust,” cried Eve, now regularly roused; “and I will not submit to it. Mr Selwood is nothing to me but a friend.”“Indeed!” said Richard, with a sneer; “then pray what may this great change mean?”“Mean!” she cried, scornfully; and Richard’s eyes lit up, for he thought he had never seen her look so attractive before, “it means that you have cruelly outraged my feelings by your wickedness and deceit.”“My deceit!” he cried.“Yes,” she said, with contempt: “have you forgotten what I saw that evening in Ranby Wood? Have you forgotten the past year’s neglect and contemptuous indifference to all my affection? Shame on you, Richard; shame! You ask me to be your wife, and tell me I am promised to you. I am; but you have broken the ties, and if I could forgive you, it must be years hence, when I have learned the truth of your sorrow for what is past.”Before he could recover from his surprise, she had snatched away her hand to run, frightened and sobbing, to her own room, where she threw herself upon her knees, to weep and bewail her wickedness, for she was beginning to feel that there was some truth in her cousin’s words, and that she had committed a sin, for whose enormity there could be no pardon.“What is to become of me?” she wailed in her misery, as she went to her dressing-table, and started back in affright at her hot, flushed face. “Oh, is it true that I have behaved as he says, and can Mr Selwood have seen my boldness?”She sank into a chair to cover her face with her hands, but only to start and utter a faint cry as she felt them drawn away, and saw that Mrs Glaire was looking eagerly down upon her flushed and fevered cheeks.
The vicar’s visits to the Big House became fewer, for he could not but see that Richard Glaire, in spite of all that had passed, was more and more embittered against him. He was very quiet, and ceased to be insulting, but there was a malicious look in his eye, an ill-concealed air of jealousy in his glance, whenever the vicar spoke to Eve, that told of his feelings. In fact, Richard vowed that the lesson was chosen because he went to church that day, and if ever opportunity served he would be revenged.
Opportunity was serving him, for, like Mrs Glaire, he saw but too plainly what the vicar’s feelings were towards Eve—feelings that made him grind his teeth whenever they were together, and which finally brought on a fresh quarrel with his mother.
It was one morning when Mrs Glaire had been appealing to him to reopen the works.
“Not yet,” he said. “I should have done it before now if they hadn’t been such beastly cowards. I’ll give ’em a good lesson this time.”
“But you are losing heavily, Richard,” said Mrs Glaire.
“Yes,” he said, maliciously. “I like to lose heavily when I can get my money’s worth; and I’m punishing them, so I don’t care.”
“But, do you know, that if your conduct does not alter, you’ll lose something for which you will never forgive yourself?”
“What’s that?” he said, eagerly.
“Your cousin.”
He caught his mother sharply by the wrist, and looked her full in the face.
“You’ve been plotting for this, mother?”
“Indeed, no, my son.”
“Do you want me to marry Eve?”
“You know I do.”
“Then why do you encourage that cursed prig of a parson here?”
“Because he has shown himself a good friend to me and mine.”
“Bah!” said Richard. “I won’t have it. He shall come no more. Look here, mother; you don’t believe that I’ve got Daisy Banks away.”
“No, Richard, I never have believed it,” said Mrs Glaire, meeting his eye, and responding without hesitation.
“Well, look here, then, I tell you what. I’m going to quiet down.”
“Dick, my own brave boy,” cried Mrs Glaire, hysterically, as she threw her arms round his neck.
“There, don’t be stupid,” he said, carelessly repulsing her, after she had kissed him passionately. “I was going to say I’m sick of all this cursed worry, and I shall open the works soon.”
“Yes, my dear boy, yes.”
“And suppose, to settle all this rumour about Daisy Banks, I marry Eve?”
“My darling boy,” sobbed Mrs Glaire; “it is the wish of my life. You make me so happy.”
“There, don’t, mother; how can I talk to you if you keep pawing me about like that? Look here, you’re making my face all wet.”
“Yes, yes, my dear boy, it’s very foolish, and I’ll control myself.”
“There, look at them,” said Richard, in a low whisper, as he pointed out of the window, to where Eve and the vicar were walking together on the lawn. “Do you see that, mother?”
“Yes,” said Mrs Glaire, uneasily.
“Do you know he’s making up to Eve?”
He looked at her searchingly.
“I cannot help thinking that he admires her, Richard; but I am sure Eve thinks of no one but you.”
“Then curse him, he shall see me marry her,” said Richard, eagerly. “You want it to be, mother, and it shall be—soon. Eve won’t mind, and you’ll settle it all with her, and then I’m not going to have him here any more.”
“Don’t talk like that, my boy,” said Mrs Glaire; “but I do think it would be for your happiness if you were married.”
As she spoke, the question seemed to be asked her—Was it for Eve’s good? and a cold, chilly feeling of misery came over her, as she felt that she was destroying the young life of the girl who had been to her almost more than a daughter.
“That’s settled then, is it, mother?” said Richard, lightly.
“Yes, my boy, indeed yes,” said Mrs Glaire, throwing off her momentary feeling of depression, and telling herself that it was for the best, and that so good a wife should be the saving of her son. Besides, it was for this that she had been working, and now that there was to be the fruition of her hopes, she felt that she must not hang back.
Richard was already out on the lawn, going up to where the vicar and Eve were talking about flowers, and it galled the young man to see the bright happy look pass away as he approached, and not come back.
The vicar spoke pleasantly to Richard, but the replies were monosyllables, and an awkward pause was ended by the coming of Mrs Glaire, who soon after returned into the house with their visitor, while Richard led his cousin down to the bottom of the garden, and, to her surprise, asked her to sit down.
“Look here, Eve,” he said, shortly, “I’ve been talking to the old lady about our being married.”
“Our being married, Richard?” said Eve, turning pale and starting.
“Yes, our being married,” he said, sharply. “What are you starting for, you little goose? Any one would think it was something new.”
“It came upon me like a surprise,” said Eve, catching her breath, and speaking quickly. “I did not expect it.”
“Gammon!” said the young man, coarsely. “Why, you’ve been expecting it for months.”
“Indeed no, Richard,” she said, eagerly.
“Then you ought to have been,” he continued. “You know the old girl wishes it.”
“Yes, Richard,” she faltered, with her forehead becoming rugged, and her lower lip quivering, “I know that.”
“Well, we’ve talked it over, and she thinks like I do, that if we’re married it will settle all this rubbish about Daisy Banks.”
“Oh, Richard! Richard!” she cried, pitifully; and she rose to run away, but he caught her wrist, and forced her back into the seat.
“Don’t be a little stupid,” he said. “Why, that was only a silly flirtation, and I don’t care asoufor the girl.”
“Let me go in, Richard, please,” she sobbed.
“Not till I’ve done,” he said, with a half laugh. “Look here, Eve, dear; you are not such a little silly as to think that I know where Daisy is, or that I took her away?”
“Tell me, on your word of honour, Richard, that you don’t know where she is,” said Eve, simply, “and I shall believe you.”
“’Pon my word of honour, I don’t know where she is; and I didn’t take her away; and I didn’t send her away; and I don’t care a fig where she is, and if I never see her again.”
“Richard!”
“There now, are you satisfied?” he cried.
“I believe you, Richard,” she said, ceasing to resist, but sitting back in the garden seat, and looking dreamily away.
“That’s all right, then,” he said. “Well, then, now we can talk about when the wedding is to be.”
“No, no, Richard; not now, not now,” she cried piteously, as she strove once more to get away.
“But we will, though,” said the young man, flushing at her resistance. “It’s all been settled long enough that you were to be my wife, so let’s have none of your ‘not nows,’ miss.”
“Let me go into the house, please, Richard,” said Eve, coldly.
“Yes, my dear, when we’ve settled the wedding-day,” said Richard.
“We cannot settle that now, Richard,” said Eve.
“And why not, pray?”
“Because,” she said, with her heart beating and her voice faltering, “I cannot forget for certainly a year or two, that which has taken place during the past few weeks.”
“What?” he shouted.
“I think you understand me, Richard,” said the girl, quietly, and making no effort now to free the wrist he so tightly held.
“Yes,” he said, flushing with passion, “I do understand. You wish to throw me over because you have been angling for and catching that cursed intriguing parson.”
“Richard!” cried Eve, turning red and stamping her foot upon the ground, “I will not stop and listen to such language.”
“And in a passion, too,” he said, mockingly, “because her favourite is spoken of; but it won’t do, madam. You’re promised to me, and I wish the wedding to take place as soon as it can. Don’t you think I’m going to let that beggarly meddling priest come between us.”
“This is as cowardly as it is unjustifiable, Richard,” exclaimed Eve.
“Is it?” he retorted. “Don’t you think I’m blind. I’ve seen your soft looks at him; and, curse him, if he comes here again I’ll strangle him—an insidious crafty Jesuit. But don’t you think me such a child as to believe I’m to be treated like this.”
“You are hurting my wrist, Richard,” said Eve, coldly, and speaking firmly now, for as her cousin began to bluster she grew calm.
“Hang your wrist,” he said angrily; “my hands are not so tender as the parson’s, I suppose.”
“Richard,” she said, with her voice trembling as she spoke, “Mr Selwood has always been to me as a gentlemanly, very kind friend, and to you the best of friends.”
“Damn his friendship,” said Richard, looking ugly in his wrath. “He’s my enemy, and always has been, and he’s trying to win you away. Ah! I know what it means: I’m to be thrown over, and you take up with him.”
“Richard, this is as coarse as it is cruel and unjust,” cried Eve, now regularly roused; “and I will not submit to it. Mr Selwood is nothing to me but a friend.”
“Indeed!” said Richard, with a sneer; “then pray what may this great change mean?”
“Mean!” she cried, scornfully; and Richard’s eyes lit up, for he thought he had never seen her look so attractive before, “it means that you have cruelly outraged my feelings by your wickedness and deceit.”
“My deceit!” he cried.
“Yes,” she said, with contempt: “have you forgotten what I saw that evening in Ranby Wood? Have you forgotten the past year’s neglect and contemptuous indifference to all my affection? Shame on you, Richard; shame! You ask me to be your wife, and tell me I am promised to you. I am; but you have broken the ties, and if I could forgive you, it must be years hence, when I have learned the truth of your sorrow for what is past.”
Before he could recover from his surprise, she had snatched away her hand to run, frightened and sobbing, to her own room, where she threw herself upon her knees, to weep and bewail her wickedness, for she was beginning to feel that there was some truth in her cousin’s words, and that she had committed a sin, for whose enormity there could be no pardon.
“What is to become of me?” she wailed in her misery, as she went to her dressing-table, and started back in affright at her hot, flushed face. “Oh, is it true that I have behaved as he says, and can Mr Selwood have seen my boldness?”
She sank into a chair to cover her face with her hands, but only to start and utter a faint cry as she felt them drawn away, and saw that Mrs Glaire was looking eagerly down upon her flushed and fevered cheeks.
Volume Three—Chapter Two.Sim Slee’s Brotherhood.Many of Richard Glaire’s workmen belonged to one of the regular trades’ unions, from which they received counsel and assistance, and these men held Sim Slee’s movements in the most utter contempt. For his part, the above-named worthy returned the contempt, looking down upon trades’ unions as not being of sufficiently advanced notions for him, and praising up his own brotherhood to all who were weak enough to listen.The brotherhood, as he called it, was entirely his own invention, as far as Dumford was concerned; but it was really based upon an absurd institution that had place in London, and maintained a weak and sickly growth, being wanting in all the good qualities of the regular unions, and embracing every one of their faults.But it pleased Sim Slee, who went upon the mottoAut Caesar aut nullus. In his own brotherhood he was chief, chairman, father, or patriarch. In the regular trades’ union he would have been only Sim Slee, an individual largely held in contempt.It was a great night at the Bull and Cucumber, for the brotherhood was to hold a secret meeting on the subject of the lock-out. Robinson, the landlord, took a great interest in the proceedings, and wanted to see all; but Sim Slee and one or two more leaders of the secret society condescended only to allow the inquiring mind to see to the arrangement of the tables and forms; and then, as the brotherhood assembled in secret conclave, they were ushered in with great ceremony, and every man seemed to be impressed with the solemnity.In fact, the room was lit up for the occasion, curtains were tacked over the two windows, and flags were arranged on the walls, each flag bearing a device in tinsel. On one were the words:—“The Horny Hand is the Nation’s Need.”On another:—“Labour Conquers All.”While over the president’s chair, or, as Sim had christened himself, “the Grand Brother,” was a roughly-drawn representation of the familiar skull and cross bones.On the table were two stage swords, drawn from their sheaths, and laid crosswise; and at the door were a couple of sentries, over the said door being tacked the motto—“Free and Equal.”It was a great night, and every man of Sim’s partisans looked solemn, but mugs of ale and long clay pipes were not excluded from the two tables, at which sat about a dozen men, as many more standing where they could find room.There was a ridiculous aspect to the affair, but mingled with it was a grim look of determination, and many a stern face there wore an aspect that Richard Glaire would not have cared to see, even though he might have scoffed at the meeting, and called the men fools and idiots.Sim Slee was the great gun of the evening, and he wore his plaid vest very much open, to display a clean shirt, at the edge of whose front fold it was observable that Mrs Slee’s “scithers” had been at work, to take off what she termed the “dwiny” ends; but the buttons refused to remain on terms of intimacy with their holes, with the consequence that the front gaped widely.But Sim Slee was too important and excited to notice this, for he was busy over a book before him, and papers, and constantly in communication with the tall, heavy-looking man in black, Mr Silas Barker, the deputation from London, who was to help the brotherhood through their difficulties, and who had promised to coach and assist Sim in the great speech he was to make that evening.At last all seemed about settled, and Sim rose to tap the table with a small wooden hammer, when he sat down again suddenly, for three loud knocks were heard at the door.“Who knocks without?” said the first sentry.“Brotherly love,” said a voice without.“What does it bring?” said the second sentry.“Ruin and death,” was the reply.“Enter ruin and death,” said the first sentry; the door was opened, two men entered, Sim Slee looked solemn, and everybody seemed very much impressed.The door being closed, and silence procured, Sim Slee rose, and there was a great deal of tapping on the table, to which Sim bowed, frowned, and thrust one hand into his vest. At least he meant so to do, but it went inside the gaping shirt.“Brother paytriots and sitterzens,” he commenced, “I think as we are all assembled here.”Just then a knocking was heard without.“Ah, theer’s some un else,” said Sim, and he sat down, while the sentries repeated their formula; the voices outside replied in due order, with the requisite pass-words, and three more entered to swell the little crowd. Sim then rose again, more important than ever.“Now, then, brother sitterzens,” he began, “as I believe all the paytriots are here, we will now proceed to business.”“Howd hard a minnit,” said Big Harry, who occupied a central position, “I want another gill o’ ale.”Sim hammered the table with his little mallet, and exclaimed angrily,“Yow can’t hev it now: don’t you see the brotherhood is setting?”“’Arf on ’em’s a stanning,” said Big Harry, with a grin; “and if you’re goin’ to hev all this dry wuck, I must wet it.”“Hee-ar! hee-ar!” shouted two or three voices.“But don’t yow see as the brotherhood is a setting?” cried Sim. “The door is closed now, and we’re in secret conclave.”“I don’t keer nowt about no secret concave,” growled Big Harry. “A mun hev another gill o’ ale.”“Let’s hev some more drink, then,” cried several voices.“Yow can’t, I tell you,” cried Sim. “We’re a setting wi’ closed doors.”“Open ’em, then,” said Harry, “or I will. Here, summun, a gill o’ ale.”“And I wants some ’bacco,” said another voice.Sim hammered away at the board for a bit, when Harry exclaimed, leaning his great arms on the table, and grinning,“Say, lads, I niver see owd Simmy handle a harmmer like that up at th’ wucks.”“Silence!” roared Sim, in the midst of a hearty laugh from the men. “Fellow paytriots and sitterzens, as Grand Brother of this order, I say—eh, what?”Sim leaned down to the deputation, who had pulled his sleeve.“Better let them have in the drink,” whispered Mr Barker, “it makes ’em more trackable.”“All raight,” said Sim, in an ill-used tone. “Here, send out for what’s wanted, you two at the door, for no one isn’t to enter.”There was a bustle at the door after this, and various orders were shouted downstairs, and eagerly responded to by the landlord, who wanted to bring all in, but was stayed by the sentries.“Here, I say,” said Sim to Mr Barker, “I shall lose all that speech ’fore I begin, if I have to wait much longer.”“I’ll prompt you,” said Barker.“Eh?” said Sim.“I’ll prompt you—help you.”“Oh, all right; thankey. Kiver up them motters till the door’s shoot close,” he continued aloud; but as the door was on the point of being closed, Sim’s order was not obeyed; and the ale and tobacco being handed to those who demanded them, Sim once more rose to begin, but only for a fresh clamour to arise from another party, whose “moogs” were empty, and while these were being filled, the swords were covered with a coat, and the mottoes turned to the wall.At length all were satisfied, and Sim Slee rose for the speech of the evening.“Brother workmen, mates, paytriots, and fellow sitterzens o’ Doomford—”“He—ar, he—ar!”“We are met here to-night, honoured by the presence o’ Brother Silas Barker.”“He—ar, he—ar,” and a “hooray.”“And Brother Silas Barker is delicate, from the payrent lodge o’ Brothers in London.”“Drink along o’ me, mate,” growled Big Harry, holding out his mug to the deputation, “that’ll keep you from being delicate.”“You, Harry,” cried Sim, “don’t interrupt. You ain’t one of our most trustworthy brothers. You’ve fote on the wrong side afore now.”“I’ll faight yow for a gill o’ ale any day, Simmy Slee,” said Harry, winking solemnly across the table at a mate.“Don’t you int’rupt the meeting wi’ ignorant remarks,” said Sim, taking no notice of the challenge. “I said delicate fro’ the—fro’ the—”“Payrent society,” said Mr Barker, prompting.“All raight, I know,” said Sim, pettishly; “fro’ payrent society. Came down to Doomford to tell us suff’ring wuckmen as the eyes o’ the Bri’sh wucking man i’ London and all the world is upon us.”There was vociferous cheering at this, during which Big Harry confidentially informed his mate across the table, that he’d “Tak’ Sim Slee wi’ one hand tied behind him, and t’other chap, too, one down and t’other come on.”“We’re met together here, mates—met together,” continued Sim, whose flow of oratory had not yet begun, but who was gradually warming—“met together, mates, to bring things to a big crisis, and let the thunder of the power of the sons of labour—”“Here, let’s hev in some more ale,” shouted some one at the other end.“Why can’t yow be quiet? interrupting that how,” cried Sim, remonstrating. “Yow can’t hev no more ale till the debate’s ended. Do you want to hev the mummy—mummy—”“Course we don’t,” said Big Harry, aloud. “But who’s him?”“I say,” cried Sim, angrily, “do you want to have the mummy—mummy”—then angrily to Barker, “Why don’t you tell a fellow?”“Myrmidons—myrmidons of”—whispered Barker.“All raight, all raight,” said Sim, impatiently, “I know—mummy—mummidons of a brutal holygarchy down upon us?”“And hale us off,” whispered Barker, for Sim had evidently forgotten his speech.“Yes, yes, I know,” whispered Sim. Then aloud, “And hale us off—”“Hear, hear!” roared Harry, hammering his empty mug on the table; “raight, lad, raight. Here, sum un, tell the mummy to bring the ale.”“Sit down, Harry,” shouted Sim. “I say hale us off to fresh chains and slavery. I say, mates,” cried Sim, now growing excited, and waving his hands about, “as the holygartchy of a brutal mummidom.”“No, no,” whispered Barker, behind his hand, “Myrmidons of a brutal oligarchy.”“Yes, yes, I know,” cried Sim; “but they don’t. It’s all the same to them. Yes, mates, a brutal mummidom, and a holygartchy, and as I was a saying, our fellow sittyzens in London have been a wackin o’ ’em oop. They’ve gone arm in arm, in their horny-handed strength, like brave sons of tyle, with gentlemen playing their bands o’ music.”“Hear, hear!”“And colours flying—”“Hear, hear!” and a great deal of mug rattling on the table.“And made Pall Mall—Pall Mall—Pall Mall—”“Hear, hear!”“Go on,” whispered Barker, “that’s it—echo to their warlike tread.”“Echo to the warlike tread o’ their heavy boots,” cried Sim, banging his hand down upon the table.“Hear, hear!”“Till the bloated holygarchs a sitting in theer bloated palluses abloating theer sens.”“Brayvo, lad,” shouted Big Harry; “that’s faine.”“Set down and shouthered wi’ fear,” continued Sim; “as they—as they—do be a bit sharper,” he whispered to Barker.“Saw the nation rising in its might,” whispered the prompter.“Saw the nation rising up wi’ all its might and main,” cried Sim. Then to Barker, “Shall I put it into ’em now?”“Yes, yes; they’re ripe enough,” was the answer.“And now, mates,” continued Sim, “it’s time as we rose up in our might, and showed him as is starving our wives and bairns what we can do when we’re trampled down, and that like the wums as is tread on, we can turn and sting the heel o’ the oppressors.”“Good, good! Go on,” said the deputation, rubbing its hands.“Are we to see a maulkin like Dickey Glaire, because he is an employer, always getting fat on the sweat of a pore man’s brow?”“Go on! go on! Capital!” whispered Barker. “Fine himage.”“What’s a himage?” said Sim, stopped in his flow.“All right, go on, man,” whispered Barker; “I only said fine himage.”“As my friend and brother the deppitation says,” continued Sim, “Dicky Glaire’s a fine image to sit on all us like an old man o’ the mountains.”“No, no, I didn’t,” whispered Barker.“You did,” whispered Sim. “I heerd you.”“Go on,” whispered back Barker; “the time has come—go on; beautiful.”“And the time has come to go on beautiful,” said Sim, waving his arms.“No, no,” whispered Barker.“I wish yow’d howd thee tongue altogether,” whispered Sim. “You do nowt but put me out.”“Go on, brayvo!” cried the men.“Now, don’t you interrupt me no more,” whispered Sim, in an aggrieved tone; “that aint a bit like as you writ it down, and I shall say it my own way-er. And, mates,” he continued aloud, “the time has come when we’ve got to tak’ our heads from under the despot’s heels, when we’ve got to show ’em ’ow they depends upon the sons of tyle; and teach ’em as all men’s ekal, made o’ the same flesh and blood, eddication or no eddication; and if Dickey Glaire won’t gi’e uz a fair day’s wuck for a fair day’s pay.”“No, no, other way on,” whispered the deputation.“You let me alone; I’m getting on better wi’out you,” whispered Sim. Then aloud, “They’ll hev’ to change places wi’ us, and see how they like it then. Now, who’s that?” cried Sim, as a loud knocking was heard. “A man can’t get a word in edgeways.”“Who knocks wi’out?” cried the first sentry.“Open the door,” said a loud voice.“Who knocks wi’out?” said the sentry again.“Open the door, fool!” said the rough voice again.“Give the pass-word,” said the sentry.“Open the door before I kick it down,” cried the voice.“Look out, lads,” cried Sim, excitedly, as he left the chair. “It’s the police. Tak down them flags, and shove the swords out o’ sight. It’s the police.”There was a rush, and the flags were hurriedly pulled down and folded up, while the swords were placed under the table.“Open this door,” cried the same loud voice, and a heavy fist was applied to the panel.“You can’t come in, I tell you,” cried one of the sentries angrily. “This room’s private.”“You’d better tell them to open the door,” said the deputation. “They can’t touch you; we’re within the law. It’s a society meeting. Take your seat.”“Open the door, then,” said Sim, reluctantly resuming his place, when, as the door was thrown back, in came Joe Banks, closely followed by Tom Podmore.“Hooray, lads!” cried Sim, enthusiastically. “I always said as he would. It’s Joe Banks come to join us at last, along wi’ Tom Podmore.”
Many of Richard Glaire’s workmen belonged to one of the regular trades’ unions, from which they received counsel and assistance, and these men held Sim Slee’s movements in the most utter contempt. For his part, the above-named worthy returned the contempt, looking down upon trades’ unions as not being of sufficiently advanced notions for him, and praising up his own brotherhood to all who were weak enough to listen.
The brotherhood, as he called it, was entirely his own invention, as far as Dumford was concerned; but it was really based upon an absurd institution that had place in London, and maintained a weak and sickly growth, being wanting in all the good qualities of the regular unions, and embracing every one of their faults.
But it pleased Sim Slee, who went upon the mottoAut Caesar aut nullus. In his own brotherhood he was chief, chairman, father, or patriarch. In the regular trades’ union he would have been only Sim Slee, an individual largely held in contempt.
It was a great night at the Bull and Cucumber, for the brotherhood was to hold a secret meeting on the subject of the lock-out. Robinson, the landlord, took a great interest in the proceedings, and wanted to see all; but Sim Slee and one or two more leaders of the secret society condescended only to allow the inquiring mind to see to the arrangement of the tables and forms; and then, as the brotherhood assembled in secret conclave, they were ushered in with great ceremony, and every man seemed to be impressed with the solemnity.
In fact, the room was lit up for the occasion, curtains were tacked over the two windows, and flags were arranged on the walls, each flag bearing a device in tinsel. On one were the words:—
“The Horny Hand is the Nation’s Need.”
On another:—
“Labour Conquers All.”
While over the president’s chair, or, as Sim had christened himself, “the Grand Brother,” was a roughly-drawn representation of the familiar skull and cross bones.
On the table were two stage swords, drawn from their sheaths, and laid crosswise; and at the door were a couple of sentries, over the said door being tacked the motto—“Free and Equal.”
It was a great night, and every man of Sim’s partisans looked solemn, but mugs of ale and long clay pipes were not excluded from the two tables, at which sat about a dozen men, as many more standing where they could find room.
There was a ridiculous aspect to the affair, but mingled with it was a grim look of determination, and many a stern face there wore an aspect that Richard Glaire would not have cared to see, even though he might have scoffed at the meeting, and called the men fools and idiots.
Sim Slee was the great gun of the evening, and he wore his plaid vest very much open, to display a clean shirt, at the edge of whose front fold it was observable that Mrs Slee’s “scithers” had been at work, to take off what she termed the “dwiny” ends; but the buttons refused to remain on terms of intimacy with their holes, with the consequence that the front gaped widely.
But Sim Slee was too important and excited to notice this, for he was busy over a book before him, and papers, and constantly in communication with the tall, heavy-looking man in black, Mr Silas Barker, the deputation from London, who was to help the brotherhood through their difficulties, and who had promised to coach and assist Sim in the great speech he was to make that evening.
At last all seemed about settled, and Sim rose to tap the table with a small wooden hammer, when he sat down again suddenly, for three loud knocks were heard at the door.
“Who knocks without?” said the first sentry.
“Brotherly love,” said a voice without.
“What does it bring?” said the second sentry.
“Ruin and death,” was the reply.
“Enter ruin and death,” said the first sentry; the door was opened, two men entered, Sim Slee looked solemn, and everybody seemed very much impressed.
The door being closed, and silence procured, Sim Slee rose, and there was a great deal of tapping on the table, to which Sim bowed, frowned, and thrust one hand into his vest. At least he meant so to do, but it went inside the gaping shirt.
“Brother paytriots and sitterzens,” he commenced, “I think as we are all assembled here.”
Just then a knocking was heard without.
“Ah, theer’s some un else,” said Sim, and he sat down, while the sentries repeated their formula; the voices outside replied in due order, with the requisite pass-words, and three more entered to swell the little crowd. Sim then rose again, more important than ever.
“Now, then, brother sitterzens,” he began, “as I believe all the paytriots are here, we will now proceed to business.”
“Howd hard a minnit,” said Big Harry, who occupied a central position, “I want another gill o’ ale.”
Sim hammered the table with his little mallet, and exclaimed angrily,
“Yow can’t hev it now: don’t you see the brotherhood is setting?”
“’Arf on ’em’s a stanning,” said Big Harry, with a grin; “and if you’re goin’ to hev all this dry wuck, I must wet it.”
“Hee-ar! hee-ar!” shouted two or three voices.
“But don’t yow see as the brotherhood is a setting?” cried Sim. “The door is closed now, and we’re in secret conclave.”
“I don’t keer nowt about no secret concave,” growled Big Harry. “A mun hev another gill o’ ale.”
“Let’s hev some more drink, then,” cried several voices.
“Yow can’t, I tell you,” cried Sim. “We’re a setting wi’ closed doors.”
“Open ’em, then,” said Harry, “or I will. Here, summun, a gill o’ ale.”
“And I wants some ’bacco,” said another voice.
Sim hammered away at the board for a bit, when Harry exclaimed, leaning his great arms on the table, and grinning,
“Say, lads, I niver see owd Simmy handle a harmmer like that up at th’ wucks.”
“Silence!” roared Sim, in the midst of a hearty laugh from the men. “Fellow paytriots and sitterzens, as Grand Brother of this order, I say—eh, what?”
Sim leaned down to the deputation, who had pulled his sleeve.
“Better let them have in the drink,” whispered Mr Barker, “it makes ’em more trackable.”
“All raight,” said Sim, in an ill-used tone. “Here, send out for what’s wanted, you two at the door, for no one isn’t to enter.”
There was a bustle at the door after this, and various orders were shouted downstairs, and eagerly responded to by the landlord, who wanted to bring all in, but was stayed by the sentries.
“Here, I say,” said Sim to Mr Barker, “I shall lose all that speech ’fore I begin, if I have to wait much longer.”
“I’ll prompt you,” said Barker.
“Eh?” said Sim.
“I’ll prompt you—help you.”
“Oh, all right; thankey. Kiver up them motters till the door’s shoot close,” he continued aloud; but as the door was on the point of being closed, Sim’s order was not obeyed; and the ale and tobacco being handed to those who demanded them, Sim once more rose to begin, but only for a fresh clamour to arise from another party, whose “moogs” were empty, and while these were being filled, the swords were covered with a coat, and the mottoes turned to the wall.
At length all were satisfied, and Sim Slee rose for the speech of the evening.
“Brother workmen, mates, paytriots, and fellow sitterzens o’ Doomford—”
“He—ar, he—ar!”
“We are met here to-night, honoured by the presence o’ Brother Silas Barker.”
“He—ar, he—ar,” and a “hooray.”
“And Brother Silas Barker is delicate, from the payrent lodge o’ Brothers in London.”
“Drink along o’ me, mate,” growled Big Harry, holding out his mug to the deputation, “that’ll keep you from being delicate.”
“You, Harry,” cried Sim, “don’t interrupt. You ain’t one of our most trustworthy brothers. You’ve fote on the wrong side afore now.”
“I’ll faight yow for a gill o’ ale any day, Simmy Slee,” said Harry, winking solemnly across the table at a mate.
“Don’t you int’rupt the meeting wi’ ignorant remarks,” said Sim, taking no notice of the challenge. “I said delicate fro’ the—fro’ the—”
“Payrent society,” said Mr Barker, prompting.
“All raight, I know,” said Sim, pettishly; “fro’ payrent society. Came down to Doomford to tell us suff’ring wuckmen as the eyes o’ the Bri’sh wucking man i’ London and all the world is upon us.”
There was vociferous cheering at this, during which Big Harry confidentially informed his mate across the table, that he’d “Tak’ Sim Slee wi’ one hand tied behind him, and t’other chap, too, one down and t’other come on.”
“We’re met together here, mates—met together,” continued Sim, whose flow of oratory had not yet begun, but who was gradually warming—“met together, mates, to bring things to a big crisis, and let the thunder of the power of the sons of labour—”
“Here, let’s hev in some more ale,” shouted some one at the other end.
“Why can’t yow be quiet? interrupting that how,” cried Sim, remonstrating. “Yow can’t hev no more ale till the debate’s ended. Do you want to hev the mummy—mummy—”
“Course we don’t,” said Big Harry, aloud. “But who’s him?”
“I say,” cried Sim, angrily, “do you want to have the mummy—mummy”—then angrily to Barker, “Why don’t you tell a fellow?”
“Myrmidons—myrmidons of”—whispered Barker.
“All raight, all raight,” said Sim, impatiently, “I know—mummy—mummidons of a brutal holygarchy down upon us?”
“And hale us off,” whispered Barker, for Sim had evidently forgotten his speech.
“Yes, yes, I know,” whispered Sim. Then aloud, “And hale us off—”
“Hear, hear!” roared Harry, hammering his empty mug on the table; “raight, lad, raight. Here, sum un, tell the mummy to bring the ale.”
“Sit down, Harry,” shouted Sim. “I say hale us off to fresh chains and slavery. I say, mates,” cried Sim, now growing excited, and waving his hands about, “as the holygartchy of a brutal mummidom.”
“No, no,” whispered Barker, behind his hand, “Myrmidons of a brutal oligarchy.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” cried Sim; “but they don’t. It’s all the same to them. Yes, mates, a brutal mummidom, and a holygartchy, and as I was a saying, our fellow sittyzens in London have been a wackin o’ ’em oop. They’ve gone arm in arm, in their horny-handed strength, like brave sons of tyle, with gentlemen playing their bands o’ music.”
“Hear, hear!”
“And colours flying—”
“Hear, hear!” and a great deal of mug rattling on the table.
“And made Pall Mall—Pall Mall—Pall Mall—”
“Hear, hear!”
“Go on,” whispered Barker, “that’s it—echo to their warlike tread.”
“Echo to the warlike tread o’ their heavy boots,” cried Sim, banging his hand down upon the table.
“Hear, hear!”
“Till the bloated holygarchs a sitting in theer bloated palluses abloating theer sens.”
“Brayvo, lad,” shouted Big Harry; “that’s faine.”
“Set down and shouthered wi’ fear,” continued Sim; “as they—as they—do be a bit sharper,” he whispered to Barker.
“Saw the nation rising in its might,” whispered the prompter.
“Saw the nation rising up wi’ all its might and main,” cried Sim. Then to Barker, “Shall I put it into ’em now?”
“Yes, yes; they’re ripe enough,” was the answer.
“And now, mates,” continued Sim, “it’s time as we rose up in our might, and showed him as is starving our wives and bairns what we can do when we’re trampled down, and that like the wums as is tread on, we can turn and sting the heel o’ the oppressors.”
“Good, good! Go on,” said the deputation, rubbing its hands.
“Are we to see a maulkin like Dickey Glaire, because he is an employer, always getting fat on the sweat of a pore man’s brow?”
“Go on! go on! Capital!” whispered Barker. “Fine himage.”
“What’s a himage?” said Sim, stopped in his flow.
“All right, go on, man,” whispered Barker; “I only said fine himage.”
“As my friend and brother the deppitation says,” continued Sim, “Dicky Glaire’s a fine image to sit on all us like an old man o’ the mountains.”
“No, no, I didn’t,” whispered Barker.
“You did,” whispered Sim. “I heerd you.”
“Go on,” whispered back Barker; “the time has come—go on; beautiful.”
“And the time has come to go on beautiful,” said Sim, waving his arms.
“No, no,” whispered Barker.
“I wish yow’d howd thee tongue altogether,” whispered Sim. “You do nowt but put me out.”
“Go on, brayvo!” cried the men.
“Now, don’t you interrupt me no more,” whispered Sim, in an aggrieved tone; “that aint a bit like as you writ it down, and I shall say it my own way-er. And, mates,” he continued aloud, “the time has come when we’ve got to tak’ our heads from under the despot’s heels, when we’ve got to show ’em ’ow they depends upon the sons of tyle; and teach ’em as all men’s ekal, made o’ the same flesh and blood, eddication or no eddication; and if Dickey Glaire won’t gi’e uz a fair day’s wuck for a fair day’s pay.”
“No, no, other way on,” whispered the deputation.
“You let me alone; I’m getting on better wi’out you,” whispered Sim. Then aloud, “They’ll hev’ to change places wi’ us, and see how they like it then. Now, who’s that?” cried Sim, as a loud knocking was heard. “A man can’t get a word in edgeways.”
“Who knocks wi’out?” cried the first sentry.
“Open the door,” said a loud voice.
“Who knocks wi’out?” said the sentry again.
“Open the door, fool!” said the rough voice again.
“Give the pass-word,” said the sentry.
“Open the door before I kick it down,” cried the voice.
“Look out, lads,” cried Sim, excitedly, as he left the chair. “It’s the police. Tak down them flags, and shove the swords out o’ sight. It’s the police.”
There was a rush, and the flags were hurriedly pulled down and folded up, while the swords were placed under the table.
“Open this door,” cried the same loud voice, and a heavy fist was applied to the panel.
“You can’t come in, I tell you,” cried one of the sentries angrily. “This room’s private.”
“You’d better tell them to open the door,” said the deputation. “They can’t touch you; we’re within the law. It’s a society meeting. Take your seat.”
“Open the door, then,” said Sim, reluctantly resuming his place, when, as the door was thrown back, in came Joe Banks, closely followed by Tom Podmore.
“Hooray, lads!” cried Sim, enthusiastically. “I always said as he would. It’s Joe Banks come to join us at last, along wi’ Tom Podmore.”
Volume Three—Chapter Three.To Save Richard.“Eve, my child,” said Mrs Glaire, “what is it? Tell me what this means.”“Oh, aunt, aunt,” the poor girl sobbed. “Richard—Richard.”“Yes, yes,” said Mrs Glaire, drawing her to her breast, and laying her cool soft hands upon the burning brow; “tell me, darling. You have no secrets from me.”“I will—directly—aunt,” sobbed Eve; and then, in a burst of passionate grief, “He has been begging me to be his wife.”“And is that so very dreadful, my child?” said Mrs Glaire.“And when I told him it could not be perhaps for years—not till I could freely forgive him—he accused me, so dreadfully.”“Indeed, child! what did he say?”“Oh, I could not, cannot tell you,” sobbed Eve.“Yes, yes, my poor little frightened bird,” said Mrs Glaire, caressing her, “you can tell me all.”“I will, aunt,” said the girl, starting up, looking flushed and eager, as she hastily dried her eyes, and speaking now indignantly; “he accused me, aunt, of encouraging Mr Selwood.”“And have you, Eve?”“Oh, aunt dear, never, never.” This with a wondering, almost angry, look.“And has Mr Selwood ever made any advances to you, my dear?” said Mrs Glaire, watching curiously the bright blushing face before her.“Never, aunt dear, never. He has always been so kind and gentlemanly. Never by word or by look, aunt.”“No, child, he would not,” said Mrs Glaire, slowly; “he is a gentleman whom we can trust and love.”“Love, aunt?”“Yes, child, as a very dear friend. But about Richard, Eve. He was very hot and passionate?”“Yes, aunt. Most cruel to me.”“And you told him you could not forgive him for his cruel neglect and trifling with—with that poor girl?”“Yes, aunt,” said Eve, struggling hard to keep up her firmness; “but not quite all you say. I did not tell him I would not forgive him.”“What then, my child?”“That I could not forgive him yet, not till I saw that he was truly sorry for the past.”“You told him this, Eve?”“Yes, aunt dear. Was it wrong?”“Wrong, my child,” said Mrs Glaire, embracing her, as the tears started to her eyes.“No; it was most maidenly and true. But, Eve, my child, some day you may be a mother—some day you may have a son, over whose welfare your heart will yearn, and for whom you would be ready to do anything—even to committing a crime to save him from a downward course.”“Aunt!” cried the girl, looking up at her wonderingly, for she was speaking now in eager excited tones.“Yes, child; ready to screen him, forgive him, bear the penalty of his sins, anything to save him from pain, suffering, or the retribution he has been calling down upon his head.”“Oh, aunt,” cried the girl, in awe-stricken tones, “is it like this to be a mother?”“No, no, my child: all sons are not like this. But it is a mother’s agony to feel that if her boy turns from the straightforward course, she may herself be perhaps to blame; that by indulgent weakness, by giving up the reins of government too soon, she may have caused him to go astray; and—Eve—Eve—my darling, this is my fate, and it is you alone who can save my boy.”“Aunt!”“Yes, child. He is my boy, my very own, and I have been weak, and let the weeds grow up in him, to the choking of the good qualities he possesses. I have been too proud of him, too glad to see my son taking his position as a gentleman, and a man of the world. It was my proud desire to see him the leading man here at the works—the great man of the town; and my pride has brought its punishment—has ruined my boy, so that he needs all I can do to save him.”“Aunt—dear aunt—pray—pray don’t kneel to me,” cried Eve, excitedly, as she saw her aunt’s next act.“Yes, yes, child, I must—I must; for it is to you I look alone for help, as God’s minister, to save my boy. I—I have sinned for him more deeply than I can tell—more than a life of repentance can wash out, bringing, as I have, misery upon others, and fresh ill-treatment of my boy; but you—you—Eve, can save him. We must forgive—you must forgive; for it is I who am to blame.”“No, no, aunt.”“Yes, my child,” cried Mrs Glaire, clinging to her passionately. “Nothing but the earnest love of a pure, true woman, can save him—the woman who will be his faithful wife, and bless him with her love. Eve, my child, on my knees I ask you to forgive him, now—at once, even as you nightly pray our Father to forgive us our trespasses. Say you will forgive him, that you will blot out all the past, and be his wife; for it will be the turning-point of his life.”“Aunt, dear aunt,” sobbed the poor girl, bewildered by the strange outburst of passion from one generally so calm and placid in her ways. “What can I say? Oh, this is terrible!”“Terrible, Eve? No, no, child, not terrible to save him we love, for you do love him, Eve?”“I—I—hope so, aunt.”“Yes, yes, you do. You must, for he is true and good at heart. You will forgive him—for my sake, Eve. Eve, I am on my knees to you. If you have one spark of gratitude for the past, listen to my prayer.”“Aunt, dearest aunt, my more than mother,” sobbed Eve, completely carried away by the agony of one who had been everything to her for years and years of her life; “I will do all you wish. I am your child. Tell me what to do, and I will do it; for I love you, dearest aunt, as if you were my own mother.”“I knew it, I knew it, my darling, my own darling,” cried Mrs Glaire, throwing her hands upwards. “Saved, saved! Oh, God! oh, God! Thou hast heard my prayer.”Eve shrank from her for an instant, frightened at her wild appeal, but only for the moment; the next she had thrown herself on her knees beside her, and the two women were sobbing and caressing each other tenderly, till the calm came after their storm of weeping, and Eve prevailed upon the trembling mother to lie down upon her bed, where exhausted nature at last prevailed, and she sank to sleep. But only to mutter strangely of “Daisy Banks—poor Daisy Banks,” and utter at times the most piteous sighs; while, as Eve watched her, the memory of that which she had promised came upon her with all its force, and a feeling of depression and of utter misery stole over her, so great that she could hardly bear to sit alone.She had promised to be Richard’s wife—promised again, and that it should be soon; promised to save him, when that strange and wondrous joy, that glorious light of love that was springing up in her breast, frightening her by its intensity, was ever expanding, but must now be crushed out—for ever.What was she to do? To save Richard—to be his wife. Not so hard a task a few months since, but now! Oh, it was dreadful. And yet that was a traitorous feeling that she must crush; and at last, sobbing bitterly, Eve Pelly knelt by her sleeping aunt, and prayed earnestly, as woman ever prayed before, that Murray Selwood might never care for her, and that she might be a good and tender wife to the man who sat at the bottom of the garden smoking a cigar, and uttering a few oaths from time to time against the woman on her knees. What time he also defiled the flowers around the rustic seat, and cut them with his stick, till he started to his feet in an agony of dread, for a shadow fell across him as some one approached noiselessly over the velvet lawn, and looking up, there stood the foreman, gazing full in his face, as he exclaimed—“Richard Glaire, I’ve come to have a few words wi’ you.”
“Eve, my child,” said Mrs Glaire, “what is it? Tell me what this means.”
“Oh, aunt, aunt,” the poor girl sobbed. “Richard—Richard.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mrs Glaire, drawing her to her breast, and laying her cool soft hands upon the burning brow; “tell me, darling. You have no secrets from me.”
“I will—directly—aunt,” sobbed Eve; and then, in a burst of passionate grief, “He has been begging me to be his wife.”
“And is that so very dreadful, my child?” said Mrs Glaire.
“And when I told him it could not be perhaps for years—not till I could freely forgive him—he accused me, so dreadfully.”
“Indeed, child! what did he say?”
“Oh, I could not, cannot tell you,” sobbed Eve.
“Yes, yes, my poor little frightened bird,” said Mrs Glaire, caressing her, “you can tell me all.”
“I will, aunt,” said the girl, starting up, looking flushed and eager, as she hastily dried her eyes, and speaking now indignantly; “he accused me, aunt, of encouraging Mr Selwood.”
“And have you, Eve?”
“Oh, aunt dear, never, never.” This with a wondering, almost angry, look.
“And has Mr Selwood ever made any advances to you, my dear?” said Mrs Glaire, watching curiously the bright blushing face before her.
“Never, aunt dear, never. He has always been so kind and gentlemanly. Never by word or by look, aunt.”
“No, child, he would not,” said Mrs Glaire, slowly; “he is a gentleman whom we can trust and love.”
“Love, aunt?”
“Yes, child, as a very dear friend. But about Richard, Eve. He was very hot and passionate?”
“Yes, aunt. Most cruel to me.”
“And you told him you could not forgive him for his cruel neglect and trifling with—with that poor girl?”
“Yes, aunt,” said Eve, struggling hard to keep up her firmness; “but not quite all you say. I did not tell him I would not forgive him.”
“What then, my child?”
“That I could not forgive him yet, not till I saw that he was truly sorry for the past.”
“You told him this, Eve?”
“Yes, aunt dear. Was it wrong?”
“Wrong, my child,” said Mrs Glaire, embracing her, as the tears started to her eyes.
“No; it was most maidenly and true. But, Eve, my child, some day you may be a mother—some day you may have a son, over whose welfare your heart will yearn, and for whom you would be ready to do anything—even to committing a crime to save him from a downward course.”
“Aunt!” cried the girl, looking up at her wonderingly, for she was speaking now in eager excited tones.
“Yes, child; ready to screen him, forgive him, bear the penalty of his sins, anything to save him from pain, suffering, or the retribution he has been calling down upon his head.”
“Oh, aunt,” cried the girl, in awe-stricken tones, “is it like this to be a mother?”
“No, no, my child: all sons are not like this. But it is a mother’s agony to feel that if her boy turns from the straightforward course, she may herself be perhaps to blame; that by indulgent weakness, by giving up the reins of government too soon, she may have caused him to go astray; and—Eve—Eve—my darling, this is my fate, and it is you alone who can save my boy.”
“Aunt!”
“Yes, child. He is my boy, my very own, and I have been weak, and let the weeds grow up in him, to the choking of the good qualities he possesses. I have been too proud of him, too glad to see my son taking his position as a gentleman, and a man of the world. It was my proud desire to see him the leading man here at the works—the great man of the town; and my pride has brought its punishment—has ruined my boy, so that he needs all I can do to save him.”
“Aunt—dear aunt—pray—pray don’t kneel to me,” cried Eve, excitedly, as she saw her aunt’s next act.
“Yes, yes, child, I must—I must; for it is to you I look alone for help, as God’s minister, to save my boy. I—I have sinned for him more deeply than I can tell—more than a life of repentance can wash out, bringing, as I have, misery upon others, and fresh ill-treatment of my boy; but you—you—Eve, can save him. We must forgive—you must forgive; for it is I who am to blame.”
“No, no, aunt.”
“Yes, my child,” cried Mrs Glaire, clinging to her passionately. “Nothing but the earnest love of a pure, true woman, can save him—the woman who will be his faithful wife, and bless him with her love. Eve, my child, on my knees I ask you to forgive him, now—at once, even as you nightly pray our Father to forgive us our trespasses. Say you will forgive him, that you will blot out all the past, and be his wife; for it will be the turning-point of his life.”
“Aunt, dear aunt,” sobbed the poor girl, bewildered by the strange outburst of passion from one generally so calm and placid in her ways. “What can I say? Oh, this is terrible!”
“Terrible, Eve? No, no, child, not terrible to save him we love, for you do love him, Eve?”
“I—I—hope so, aunt.”
“Yes, yes, you do. You must, for he is true and good at heart. You will forgive him—for my sake, Eve. Eve, I am on my knees to you. If you have one spark of gratitude for the past, listen to my prayer.”
“Aunt, dearest aunt, my more than mother,” sobbed Eve, completely carried away by the agony of one who had been everything to her for years and years of her life; “I will do all you wish. I am your child. Tell me what to do, and I will do it; for I love you, dearest aunt, as if you were my own mother.”
“I knew it, I knew it, my darling, my own darling,” cried Mrs Glaire, throwing her hands upwards. “Saved, saved! Oh, God! oh, God! Thou hast heard my prayer.”
Eve shrank from her for an instant, frightened at her wild appeal, but only for the moment; the next she had thrown herself on her knees beside her, and the two women were sobbing and caressing each other tenderly, till the calm came after their storm of weeping, and Eve prevailed upon the trembling mother to lie down upon her bed, where exhausted nature at last prevailed, and she sank to sleep. But only to mutter strangely of “Daisy Banks—poor Daisy Banks,” and utter at times the most piteous sighs; while, as Eve watched her, the memory of that which she had promised came upon her with all its force, and a feeling of depression and of utter misery stole over her, so great that she could hardly bear to sit alone.
She had promised to be Richard’s wife—promised again, and that it should be soon; promised to save him, when that strange and wondrous joy, that glorious light of love that was springing up in her breast, frightening her by its intensity, was ever expanding, but must now be crushed out—for ever.
What was she to do? To save Richard—to be his wife. Not so hard a task a few months since, but now! Oh, it was dreadful. And yet that was a traitorous feeling that she must crush; and at last, sobbing bitterly, Eve Pelly knelt by her sleeping aunt, and prayed earnestly, as woman ever prayed before, that Murray Selwood might never care for her, and that she might be a good and tender wife to the man who sat at the bottom of the garden smoking a cigar, and uttering a few oaths from time to time against the woman on her knees. What time he also defiled the flowers around the rustic seat, and cut them with his stick, till he started to his feet in an agony of dread, for a shadow fell across him as some one approached noiselessly over the velvet lawn, and looking up, there stood the foreman, gazing full in his face, as he exclaimed—
“Richard Glaire, I’ve come to have a few words wi’ you.”
Volume Three—Chapter Four.A New Brother.Joe Banks stood staring round the room defiantly, while the sentries kept the door ajar.“Shoot the door, fools,” he said sharply; and then, as it was closed, he turned on Barker, who, rising, said smoothly,“May I ask what our friend, Mr Joseph Banks, wants here at a private meeting?”“Let me tackle him, mate,” said Sim. “Here’s a cheer here, Maister Banks; come an’ sit along-side me. Yow’ve come to join uz then, at last?”“Yes,” said Banks, shortly, as he beckoned Tom Podmore to his side.“I always said he would, lads,” cried Sim. “I always said it. He’s seen the error of his ways, and come to join the brotherhood, and clasp the honest horny hand o’ labour. He’s a paytriot at heart, is Maister Banks, and I knew as he’d come at last.”“But,” said Barker, “our friend is not yet one of the brotherhood.”“What?” said Banks sharply.“Our friend has not taken the oaths,” said Barker.“Oaths—Brotherhood”—cried Banks. “Don’t I tell you I join you? What more do you want?”“You leave Joe Banks to me, lads, and I’ll explain,” said Sim, confidentially. “You see, Joe Banks, we binds and ties oursens together wi’ oaths like in a holy bond, and sweers brotherly love. Don’t you see?”“Yes, you must be sworn in, Mr Banks; it’s the rule.”“Swear me in, then,” said Banks, contemptuously.Several of the men then advanced, and Banks and Podmore were seized, while Slee began to place a folded handkerchief across the former’s eyes.“What do you mean by this mummery?” exclaimed the foreman; and he tried to drag away the handkerchief, but was stopped.“This is part of the formula for the administration of the oath,” said Barker. “Kneel down. Now bring forward the swords.”Two of the men came forward with the swords, which had been extracted from their hiding-place, and as Joe Banks was half forced into a kneeling position, they were held crossed over his head.“Silence!” exclaimed Barker. “Now, you swear.”“Curse your childish folly!” cried Banks, starting up, tearing the bandage from his eyes, and sending the cross swordsmen flying. “Ye’re worse than a set o’ bairns in their play-a.”“Haw—haw—haw!” laughed Big Harry. “I niver see such a siaght in my liafe.”“I swear to be faithful brother to you,” exclaimed Banks, “and to fight with you against all our enemies.”“That’ll do; that’ll do,” exclaimed several voices. “We know Joe Banks always does what he says; he’ll do.”“But that wean’t do,” said Sim. “It aint the oath, you know, Joe Banks, and you must tak’ it.”“I’ll take no other,” cried Banks, shortly. “Wheer’s Tom Podmore?”Tom was brought forward, bandaged, while Slee and Barker whispered together; and the majority of the men seemed to look upon the scene as one to be held in great veneration.“Sweer in Tom Podmore,” cried Slee; and the men with the swords were once more about to perform their theatrical act with the most solemn of faces.“Stop!” cried Banks, snatching off the bandage. “That’s enew o’ this stuff. I’ll answer for Tom Podmore. Let’s hev deeds, not words.”“I’ll go on to explain,” said Sim, snatching at the chance for a speech. “I was speaking when you came in, Joe Banks.”“I think you come into the world speaking,” cried Joe Banks, roughly. “Get down off that cheer, and say your say like a man.”“This sort of interruption is not parliamentary,” cried Sim. “It isn’t, is it?”The gentleman from town shook his head.“Theer,” cried Sim, “the deppitation says as it isn’t.”“Look here, men,” cried Joe Banks, speaking excitedly, “I come here to-night to join you. You wanted me wi’ you before, but I wouldn’t come, because I was in the cause o’ raight. I wouldn’t gi’e up my position as a straightforward man for to faight for a few beggarly shillings a week.”There were some murmurs of discontent here, but the foreman did not seem to hear them, and went on.“The side of raight is the side of raight no longer, and I’m wi’ you, for I’ll work no more for one who has done me as great a wrong as he can do.”“He hev, Joe Banks, he hev, and we’ll let him know it,” cried several.“No, no,” cried Banks; “no more attacks on him; we’ve had enew o’ that. Strike him through his pocket; let him feel it where we’ve felt it; but mind this, the lad as raises hand again the house where them two women are, raises it again me.”Amidst the loud cheering that followed, Sim Slee, who would not be repressed, climbed upon the table in front of his chair, shouting—“He’s roused at last, lads. He’s a-takking the iron foot of the despot from his brow, and come to straike for freedom.”There was a loud cheer at this, and Sim’s vanity was gratified.“Now,” cried Banks, “what are you going to do? You’ve got some plans?”“Theer,” cried Sim; “what did I tell you? Didn’t I say as he’d come to uz? Yes, Joe Banks, our new brother, we’re going to set the eyes of all England starting out of its head, to see us strike for our raights. We’re a-going to—Hey?”“Stop!” whispered Barker. “See to the doors there. We’ve a man present as isn’t sworn. He must take the oath.”“Didn’t I say,” cried Joe Banks, fiercely, “that I’d be answerable for him?”“But I’m not going to join their plans, Joe Banks,” said Tom, in a low voice.“Raight,” said Banks, shortly. “Go on, Sim Slee.”“Then look here, mates. Here’s what we’re a-going to do. Bring that theer keg.”Two men dragged a keg from a cupboard, and placed it on the table.“Them as is smoking is to go to the other end of the room,” said Sim, and there was a sudden movement amongst the men, the deputation not being the last. “Now then,” said Sim, “who’s got a knife?”Joe Banks took a big clasp-knife from his pocket, and threw it upon the table, Sim picking it up, and beginning to open it as he went on talking.“Here’s my plan. We’re a-going to open the eyes o’ lots of places as thowt they was very big in their way; and—Hello, where didst thou get this knife fro’, Joe Banks?—it’s mine.”“Then it was thou as coot the bands,” cried Joe, seizing him by the throat. “Thou cunning fox, thou’st trapped after all. It’s thou as browt all this trouble on uz wi’ thy coward’s trick. It was thou as clomb into wucks through the window, and coot all the bands, and left thee knife behind to bear witness again thee. Look at him, lads; he canno’ say it wean’t.”“And he don’t want to,” cried Sim, shaking himself free. “I did it all by my sen as a punishment to a bad maister as knows nowt but nastiness; and now we’re a-going to come down o’ him wi’ tenfold violence. Bands is nowt to what we’re a-going to do.”There was a cheer at this, and the men who were beginning to be wroth against Sim and his companion, and who would have severely punished him a short time back, lost all thought of the dastardly escapade in the savage attack they meant to make.“Look here, Joe Banks,” continued Sim, whose words came freely enough now without the aid of the deputation, “we’re a-going to do something as shall let ’em see what your honest British workman can do, when he’s been trampled down, and rises up in his horny-handed majesty to show as he’s a man, and to teach all the masters of England to treat their men as if they were Christians—like brothers as helps ’em to bloat and fatten on the corn and wine, and oil olive and unney as the horny-handed hand pro—”“Curse your long-winded speeches!” cried the foreman, savagely, “are you going to talk for ever?”“Don’t be excited, my friend,” said Barker, smoothly.“We’re a-going to startle the whole world,” cried Sim, not heeding the interruption, as he stood now with one foot upon the keg; “startle the whole world with the report, and the savour shall go up to make the British workman free. Mates, lads, and fellow-workers, we’re going to—”“That’s powther, I suppose?” said Banks, pointing to the keg.“Yes,” cried Sim, “and—”“You mean to blow up the wucks?” said Banks, with a sombre look in his countenance.“Dal it all, Joe Banks,” cried Sim, stamping with rage, “what d’yer want to go spoiling the climax like that how! You didn’t make the plans.”“You are going to blow up the place as that cursed smooth-tongued liar will not agree for you to work?”“Yes,” said Sim, sulkily, “that’s it.”“Lads,” said Banks, “a week ago and I couldn’t ha’ done this. If he had shown but the least bit as he was sorry for what had passed, I’d ha’ forgiven him. But I went to him to-day. I found him sitting in his garden smoking, and careless of the sufferings of his men. I went to him wi’out anger, but humbly, and begged of him to open the wucks again for the sake o’ the wives and bairns ’most pining wi’ hunger, and then—then—”Joe Banks put his hand to his throat, for he was choking, but struggling bravely he went on.“Then I begged on him to give me some tiding o’ my poor bairn. I begged it o’ him humbly, just to tell me she weer alive, and well; and to let me know wheer we might send a line to her; for, lads, I’ve been broken and down like, and ready to do owt to get sight o’ her again for her mother’s sake, for she’s ’bout worn out wi’ sorrow. I asked him this.”Banks stopped with his face working amidst the most profound silence, while Tom Podmore took his hand, which was heartily pressed, and Big Harry, after rubbing his eyes with his knuckles like a great schoolboy, crossed over, to double up his fists and say—“Joe Banks, say the word, mun, and I’ll go oop t’house, an’ crack him like a nut.”“You as has bairns wean’t think me an owd fool for this,” said Banks, huskily. “Yow can feel for me.”“Ay, owd lad, we do that,” rose in chorus; and then the foreman went on, with his voice gathering strength as he proceeded.“I asked this of him for you, lads, and for mysen, and he turned upon me, cursed me for an owd fool, and ca’ed me the cause o’ all his troubles. He swore he did’n’ know nor keer where my poor bairn might be, and at last I comed awaya trembling all ower me, to wheer Tom Podmore here waited for me i’ street; for,” he continued, holding out his hands before him half-crooked, “if I’d ha’ stayed, I should ha’ throttled him wheer he stood; and for his moother’s sake, his dead father’s sake, and that o’ my poor lost bairn, I should ha’ repented it till I died.”A low murmur ran through the room, and Sim Slee was about to rise and speak, but several of those present thrust him down, when, with a fierce and lowering countenance, the foreman turned upon him.“Now,” he said, “speak out, mun, what are your plans?”“The plan is mine,” said Sim; “and we go to work this how. We climb in by the little window in the lane, and then go into the low foundry and put two barrels o’ powther theer under the middle wall.”Joe Banks nodded.“Then we lay a train away to the leather, and put a slow match which we fires, comes awaya, and horny-handed labour triumps, and the wucks comes down.”“Good!” said Banks, nodding his head. “It will destroy them.”“That ’ll do, wean’t it?” continued Slee, eagerly.“Yes, that will do,” said Banks, in the midst of silence. “And the powther?”“That is one barrel,” said Barker; “the other is at Sim Slee’s. Hadn’t you better go on, Brother Slee, and make the arrangements?”“Yes, brother sitterzens,” said Slee, “there’s the powther to place, and the train to lay. What do you say to Thuzday, this day week?”“And when’s it to be fired?” said Tom Podmore.“Same time,” said Sim; “it’s anniversary o’ last turn out, and we strikes for freedom. Who comes forward like a horny-handed hero to do the deed?”“Not me,” said Big Harry. “I aint going to mak’ a Guy Fox o’mysen.”“Shame on you!” cried Sim. “Rise outer the slime in which you wallows, and in which the iron foot of the despot has crushed you. Rise, base coward, rise.”“If thee ca’s me a coward, Sim Slee,” growled Harry, ominously, “dal me ef I don’t mak’ all thee bones so sore thee wean’t know thee sen. I’ll faight any two men i’ the room, but dal all barrels o’ powther.”“Bah!” said Sim, contemptuously. “You’d be a martyr to a holy cause.”“Come away, now,” whispered Tom Podmore, laying his hand on the foreman’s shoulder.“Nay, let’s hear them out,” was the reply. “Ay, that’s all faine enew,” said Big Harry, “but I were in the blast when we cast that bell in the wet mowld.”“Bah!” cried Sim.“Well, lad, look here now,” said Big Harry, “you’re a fine chap to talk; s’pose you do all the martyr wuck your own sen.”“I’m ashamed on you,” cried Sim, as this proposal was met by a burst of cheers. “Isn’t theer one on you as will rise out of his sloth and slime, and prove hissen a paytriot. Didn’t I mak’ all the plans? Didn’t I invent the plot? Am I to do everything? Hevn’t I allays been scrarping about for the cause? Don’t let me blush for you all, and feel as there isn’t one as’ll come forward and lay the train. I’ll do it,” he continued, looking hard at Banks, who was staring at vacancy, “if no one else comes forward. I’ll go and wuck for the holy mission, as I did over the cooting o’ the bands, if there’s no other paytriot as rises to the height.”Here there was a dead silence, and Barker broke it by saying—“Had they not better draw lots?”“Yes,” said Sim, enthusiastically.“Not if I knows it,” said Big Harry, thrusting his hands further into his pockets.“Say the plan ower again, mun,” said Banks, in a low voice. “No mouthin’, but joost the plan.”“To climb in at the little window.”“Yes.”“Lay the powther under the middle wall.”“Yes.”“Break open the staves to let it out—lay a good train—light a slow match close to the leather (ladder).”“Yes.”“Run up and get out as you got in.”“Yes,” said Joe Banks, softly, “or die.”“And you understand?”“Yes.”“And the wucks ’ll be blown to atoms.”“And what are we to do for wuck then?” said Big Harry.“You great maulkin, you get no wuck now,” cried Sim; and the big fellow grunted and looked uncomfortable.“And you will do all this, Sim Slee?” said Banks quietly.“Who? I?” cried Sim, shrinking away.Joe Banks looked at him contemptuously, and then turned to the men.“I’ll do it, my lads,” he said. “No one knows the old plaace as I know it, and if it’s to be blown down, mine’s the hand as shall do it. Thuzday night? Good! Be three or four of you theer with the powther under the window, and I’ll be ready to tak’ it in.”There was a burst of applause at this, and the meeting broke up, the folded flags being carefully buttoned up in Barker’s breast, while Sim Slee walked stiffly home, with a sword down each leg of his trousers, and the hilts under his scarlet waistcoat, beneath his arms.
Joe Banks stood staring round the room defiantly, while the sentries kept the door ajar.
“Shoot the door, fools,” he said sharply; and then, as it was closed, he turned on Barker, who, rising, said smoothly,
“May I ask what our friend, Mr Joseph Banks, wants here at a private meeting?”
“Let me tackle him, mate,” said Sim. “Here’s a cheer here, Maister Banks; come an’ sit along-side me. Yow’ve come to join uz then, at last?”
“Yes,” said Banks, shortly, as he beckoned Tom Podmore to his side.
“I always said he would, lads,” cried Sim. “I always said it. He’s seen the error of his ways, and come to join the brotherhood, and clasp the honest horny hand o’ labour. He’s a paytriot at heart, is Maister Banks, and I knew as he’d come at last.”
“But,” said Barker, “our friend is not yet one of the brotherhood.”
“What?” said Banks sharply.
“Our friend has not taken the oaths,” said Barker.
“Oaths—Brotherhood”—cried Banks. “Don’t I tell you I join you? What more do you want?”
“You leave Joe Banks to me, lads, and I’ll explain,” said Sim, confidentially. “You see, Joe Banks, we binds and ties oursens together wi’ oaths like in a holy bond, and sweers brotherly love. Don’t you see?”
“Yes, you must be sworn in, Mr Banks; it’s the rule.”
“Swear me in, then,” said Banks, contemptuously.
Several of the men then advanced, and Banks and Podmore were seized, while Slee began to place a folded handkerchief across the former’s eyes.
“What do you mean by this mummery?” exclaimed the foreman; and he tried to drag away the handkerchief, but was stopped.
“This is part of the formula for the administration of the oath,” said Barker. “Kneel down. Now bring forward the swords.”
Two of the men came forward with the swords, which had been extracted from their hiding-place, and as Joe Banks was half forced into a kneeling position, they were held crossed over his head.
“Silence!” exclaimed Barker. “Now, you swear.”
“Curse your childish folly!” cried Banks, starting up, tearing the bandage from his eyes, and sending the cross swordsmen flying. “Ye’re worse than a set o’ bairns in their play-a.”
“Haw—haw—haw!” laughed Big Harry. “I niver see such a siaght in my liafe.”
“I swear to be faithful brother to you,” exclaimed Banks, “and to fight with you against all our enemies.”
“That’ll do; that’ll do,” exclaimed several voices. “We know Joe Banks always does what he says; he’ll do.”
“But that wean’t do,” said Sim. “It aint the oath, you know, Joe Banks, and you must tak’ it.”
“I’ll take no other,” cried Banks, shortly. “Wheer’s Tom Podmore?”
Tom was brought forward, bandaged, while Slee and Barker whispered together; and the majority of the men seemed to look upon the scene as one to be held in great veneration.
“Sweer in Tom Podmore,” cried Slee; and the men with the swords were once more about to perform their theatrical act with the most solemn of faces.
“Stop!” cried Banks, snatching off the bandage. “That’s enew o’ this stuff. I’ll answer for Tom Podmore. Let’s hev deeds, not words.”
“I’ll go on to explain,” said Sim, snatching at the chance for a speech. “I was speaking when you came in, Joe Banks.”
“I think you come into the world speaking,” cried Joe Banks, roughly. “Get down off that cheer, and say your say like a man.”
“This sort of interruption is not parliamentary,” cried Sim. “It isn’t, is it?”
The gentleman from town shook his head.
“Theer,” cried Sim, “the deppitation says as it isn’t.”
“Look here, men,” cried Joe Banks, speaking excitedly, “I come here to-night to join you. You wanted me wi’ you before, but I wouldn’t come, because I was in the cause o’ raight. I wouldn’t gi’e up my position as a straightforward man for to faight for a few beggarly shillings a week.”
There were some murmurs of discontent here, but the foreman did not seem to hear them, and went on.
“The side of raight is the side of raight no longer, and I’m wi’ you, for I’ll work no more for one who has done me as great a wrong as he can do.”
“He hev, Joe Banks, he hev, and we’ll let him know it,” cried several.
“No, no,” cried Banks; “no more attacks on him; we’ve had enew o’ that. Strike him through his pocket; let him feel it where we’ve felt it; but mind this, the lad as raises hand again the house where them two women are, raises it again me.”
Amidst the loud cheering that followed, Sim Slee, who would not be repressed, climbed upon the table in front of his chair, shouting—
“He’s roused at last, lads. He’s a-takking the iron foot of the despot from his brow, and come to straike for freedom.”
There was a loud cheer at this, and Sim’s vanity was gratified.
“Now,” cried Banks, “what are you going to do? You’ve got some plans?”
“Theer,” cried Sim; “what did I tell you? Didn’t I say as he’d come to uz? Yes, Joe Banks, our new brother, we’re going to set the eyes of all England starting out of its head, to see us strike for our raights. We’re a-going to—Hey?”
“Stop!” whispered Barker. “See to the doors there. We’ve a man present as isn’t sworn. He must take the oath.”
“Didn’t I say,” cried Joe Banks, fiercely, “that I’d be answerable for him?”
“But I’m not going to join their plans, Joe Banks,” said Tom, in a low voice.
“Raight,” said Banks, shortly. “Go on, Sim Slee.”
“Then look here, mates. Here’s what we’re a-going to do. Bring that theer keg.”
Two men dragged a keg from a cupboard, and placed it on the table.
“Them as is smoking is to go to the other end of the room,” said Sim, and there was a sudden movement amongst the men, the deputation not being the last. “Now then,” said Sim, “who’s got a knife?”
Joe Banks took a big clasp-knife from his pocket, and threw it upon the table, Sim picking it up, and beginning to open it as he went on talking.
“Here’s my plan. We’re a-going to open the eyes o’ lots of places as thowt they was very big in their way; and—Hello, where didst thou get this knife fro’, Joe Banks?—it’s mine.”
“Then it was thou as coot the bands,” cried Joe, seizing him by the throat. “Thou cunning fox, thou’st trapped after all. It’s thou as browt all this trouble on uz wi’ thy coward’s trick. It was thou as clomb into wucks through the window, and coot all the bands, and left thee knife behind to bear witness again thee. Look at him, lads; he canno’ say it wean’t.”
“And he don’t want to,” cried Sim, shaking himself free. “I did it all by my sen as a punishment to a bad maister as knows nowt but nastiness; and now we’re a-going to come down o’ him wi’ tenfold violence. Bands is nowt to what we’re a-going to do.”
There was a cheer at this, and the men who were beginning to be wroth against Sim and his companion, and who would have severely punished him a short time back, lost all thought of the dastardly escapade in the savage attack they meant to make.
“Look here, Joe Banks,” continued Sim, whose words came freely enough now without the aid of the deputation, “we’re a-going to do something as shall let ’em see what your honest British workman can do, when he’s been trampled down, and rises up in his horny-handed majesty to show as he’s a man, and to teach all the masters of England to treat their men as if they were Christians—like brothers as helps ’em to bloat and fatten on the corn and wine, and oil olive and unney as the horny-handed hand pro—”
“Curse your long-winded speeches!” cried the foreman, savagely, “are you going to talk for ever?”
“Don’t be excited, my friend,” said Barker, smoothly.
“We’re a-going to startle the whole world,” cried Sim, not heeding the interruption, as he stood now with one foot upon the keg; “startle the whole world with the report, and the savour shall go up to make the British workman free. Mates, lads, and fellow-workers, we’re going to—”
“That’s powther, I suppose?” said Banks, pointing to the keg.
“Yes,” cried Sim, “and—”
“You mean to blow up the wucks?” said Banks, with a sombre look in his countenance.
“Dal it all, Joe Banks,” cried Sim, stamping with rage, “what d’yer want to go spoiling the climax like that how! You didn’t make the plans.”
“You are going to blow up the place as that cursed smooth-tongued liar will not agree for you to work?”
“Yes,” said Sim, sulkily, “that’s it.”
“Lads,” said Banks, “a week ago and I couldn’t ha’ done this. If he had shown but the least bit as he was sorry for what had passed, I’d ha’ forgiven him. But I went to him to-day. I found him sitting in his garden smoking, and careless of the sufferings of his men. I went to him wi’out anger, but humbly, and begged of him to open the wucks again for the sake o’ the wives and bairns ’most pining wi’ hunger, and then—then—”
Joe Banks put his hand to his throat, for he was choking, but struggling bravely he went on.
“Then I begged on him to give me some tiding o’ my poor bairn. I begged it o’ him humbly, just to tell me she weer alive, and well; and to let me know wheer we might send a line to her; for, lads, I’ve been broken and down like, and ready to do owt to get sight o’ her again for her mother’s sake, for she’s ’bout worn out wi’ sorrow. I asked him this.”
Banks stopped with his face working amidst the most profound silence, while Tom Podmore took his hand, which was heartily pressed, and Big Harry, after rubbing his eyes with his knuckles like a great schoolboy, crossed over, to double up his fists and say—
“Joe Banks, say the word, mun, and I’ll go oop t’house, an’ crack him like a nut.”
“You as has bairns wean’t think me an owd fool for this,” said Banks, huskily. “Yow can feel for me.”
“Ay, owd lad, we do that,” rose in chorus; and then the foreman went on, with his voice gathering strength as he proceeded.
“I asked this of him for you, lads, and for mysen, and he turned upon me, cursed me for an owd fool, and ca’ed me the cause o’ all his troubles. He swore he did’n’ know nor keer where my poor bairn might be, and at last I comed awaya trembling all ower me, to wheer Tom Podmore here waited for me i’ street; for,” he continued, holding out his hands before him half-crooked, “if I’d ha’ stayed, I should ha’ throttled him wheer he stood; and for his moother’s sake, his dead father’s sake, and that o’ my poor lost bairn, I should ha’ repented it till I died.”
A low murmur ran through the room, and Sim Slee was about to rise and speak, but several of those present thrust him down, when, with a fierce and lowering countenance, the foreman turned upon him.
“Now,” he said, “speak out, mun, what are your plans?”
“The plan is mine,” said Sim; “and we go to work this how. We climb in by the little window in the lane, and then go into the low foundry and put two barrels o’ powther theer under the middle wall.”
Joe Banks nodded.
“Then we lay a train away to the leather, and put a slow match which we fires, comes awaya, and horny-handed labour triumps, and the wucks comes down.”
“Good!” said Banks, nodding his head. “It will destroy them.”
“That ’ll do, wean’t it?” continued Slee, eagerly.
“Yes, that will do,” said Banks, in the midst of silence. “And the powther?”
“That is one barrel,” said Barker; “the other is at Sim Slee’s. Hadn’t you better go on, Brother Slee, and make the arrangements?”
“Yes, brother sitterzens,” said Slee, “there’s the powther to place, and the train to lay. What do you say to Thuzday, this day week?”
“And when’s it to be fired?” said Tom Podmore.
“Same time,” said Sim; “it’s anniversary o’ last turn out, and we strikes for freedom. Who comes forward like a horny-handed hero to do the deed?”
“Not me,” said Big Harry. “I aint going to mak’ a Guy Fox o’mysen.”
“Shame on you!” cried Sim. “Rise outer the slime in which you wallows, and in which the iron foot of the despot has crushed you. Rise, base coward, rise.”
“If thee ca’s me a coward, Sim Slee,” growled Harry, ominously, “dal me ef I don’t mak’ all thee bones so sore thee wean’t know thee sen. I’ll faight any two men i’ the room, but dal all barrels o’ powther.”
“Bah!” said Sim, contemptuously. “You’d be a martyr to a holy cause.”
“Come away, now,” whispered Tom Podmore, laying his hand on the foreman’s shoulder.
“Nay, let’s hear them out,” was the reply. “Ay, that’s all faine enew,” said Big Harry, “but I were in the blast when we cast that bell in the wet mowld.”
“Bah!” cried Sim.
“Well, lad, look here now,” said Big Harry, “you’re a fine chap to talk; s’pose you do all the martyr wuck your own sen.”
“I’m ashamed on you,” cried Sim, as this proposal was met by a burst of cheers. “Isn’t theer one on you as will rise out of his sloth and slime, and prove hissen a paytriot. Didn’t I mak’ all the plans? Didn’t I invent the plot? Am I to do everything? Hevn’t I allays been scrarping about for the cause? Don’t let me blush for you all, and feel as there isn’t one as’ll come forward and lay the train. I’ll do it,” he continued, looking hard at Banks, who was staring at vacancy, “if no one else comes forward. I’ll go and wuck for the holy mission, as I did over the cooting o’ the bands, if there’s no other paytriot as rises to the height.”
Here there was a dead silence, and Barker broke it by saying—
“Had they not better draw lots?”
“Yes,” said Sim, enthusiastically.
“Not if I knows it,” said Big Harry, thrusting his hands further into his pockets.
“Say the plan ower again, mun,” said Banks, in a low voice. “No mouthin’, but joost the plan.”
“To climb in at the little window.”
“Yes.”
“Lay the powther under the middle wall.”
“Yes.”
“Break open the staves to let it out—lay a good train—light a slow match close to the leather (ladder).”
“Yes.”
“Run up and get out as you got in.”
“Yes,” said Joe Banks, softly, “or die.”
“And you understand?”
“Yes.”
“And the wucks ’ll be blown to atoms.”
“And what are we to do for wuck then?” said Big Harry.
“You great maulkin, you get no wuck now,” cried Sim; and the big fellow grunted and looked uncomfortable.
“And you will do all this, Sim Slee?” said Banks quietly.
“Who? I?” cried Sim, shrinking away.
Joe Banks looked at him contemptuously, and then turned to the men.
“I’ll do it, my lads,” he said. “No one knows the old plaace as I know it, and if it’s to be blown down, mine’s the hand as shall do it. Thuzday night? Good! Be three or four of you theer with the powther under the window, and I’ll be ready to tak’ it in.”
There was a burst of applause at this, and the meeting broke up, the folded flags being carefully buttoned up in Barker’s breast, while Sim Slee walked stiffly home, with a sword down each leg of his trousers, and the hilts under his scarlet waistcoat, beneath his arms.