HOW IT ALL ENDED.
WHILE the men's meeting went on, Martha and the children still sat in
the dim firelight. Millie and Bobbie were asleep, leaning against their
mother's knee; and Martha, in a kind of half-dream, had forgotten the
passing of time. It was beyond the little ones' hour for bed, and she
had not noted the fact.
Somebody came in with a light step, and Sarah Holdfast's pleasant voice
asked, "Why, Mrs. Stevens, is this the way you spend your evening?"
Martha sat slowly more upright, wearing a dazed look.
"O dear, I'm tired," she said. "I didn't know it was so late."
"And the children up still?"
"They were so cold, I made a bit more fire, and they didn't seem to
want to leave it. I must have been near asleep too," Martha gasped
listlessly. "Well, I've got to wake 'em now."
"Wait a minute. I'll light your candle. I've got a loaf of bread here,
and some butter and a jug of milk. Poor thing!" as a faint cry escaped
Martha. "You're so hungry, aren't you? There's a basket of food come
from Mr. Hughes, and I knew John would want you to have a share. Don't
you stir yet."
Martha did not move. She sat motionless, staring down at the little
head on her arm.
Mrs. Holdfast had already lighted the candle, and pulled down the blind.
"Why, you're as white as a sheet, you poor thing!" she said, stirring
quickly about. "There! Give the children something to eat before they
go to bed. And it's plain you want it too. Well, my husband's in hopes
the strike will soon be over; and I'm sure I hope the same. It's been a
hard time for you all. I'll tell you what—a cup of tea will do you more
good than anything. Haven't got any? Never mind, I'll put the kettle on
to boil, and get a pinch in from next door."
Martha had not answered save by silence.
She looked strangely pale, and the dazed expression in her eyes had
increased. The little child on her knee lay motionless, and when Mrs.
Holdfast came near, Martha shielded the tiny face from observation.
"He's off—sound!" she said hoarsely.
"Well, let him be a few minutes," said Sarah cheerfully. "Don't you get
up yet. I'm sure you're not fit. Now, Millie, Bobbie—wake up, wake up."
She aroused the two drowsy children; and Bobbie at once broke into
fretting sobs. "I'm so hungry! I'm so hungry!" he wailed.
Martha made no response at all, but Sarah took him to the table, and
Bobbie's pitiful face changed into smiles at the sight of bread and
butter. When he and Millie were supplied, Sarah hastened away for the
"pinch of tea."
On her return, she found Martha still in the same position, passive and
white as an image, only with a bewildered wildness in her eyes. There
was again the shielding motion of both hands to hide baby Harry's face.
Mrs. Holdfast noticed it now, and wondered, but said nothing till the
tea was ready. Then she poured out a cup, hot and strong, and brought
it with a goodly slice of bread and butter to Martha's side.
"That'll do you good," she said. "And you'll let me see to Harry, won't
you? It's time he should have something."
"No, he's sound—sound;" repeated Martha in a hollow voice.
"Baby Harry hasn't eaten nothing all day," said Millie.
"Then he oughtn't to wait, I'm sure. Give him to me."
Martha did not resist when Sarah lifted the child from her lap, only
her eyes followed him with a strange gaze, and Mrs. Holdfast's own face
changed; for the little fair head fell helplessly, and the long lashes
lay upon cheeks of waxen whiteness.
Sarah checked the cry which rose to her lips. She turned to the fire,
away from Martha.
"He don't wake up, not even for your taking him," said Millie. "He must
be dreadful sleepy."
"He is—very sound," Mrs. Holdfast answered in trembling tones, as she
pressed the tiny cold form more closely in her arms.
"Give him back to me!" demanded Martha hoarsely.
"No, my dear—take your tea first," said Mrs. Holdfast. "I'll lay him in
his cot—just for—"
"No, no—give him to me! I won't have him laid—laid out—nowhere!" cried
Martha, in a voice of sharp anguish. "Give my baby back to me!"
"I'll hold him for you. Just a minute or two. You take your tea and
bread and butter. You must eat, you know."
Martha obeyed silently, rapidly. It was almost more than Sarah had
ventured to hope. Tea and bread and butter alike vanished, and a faint
tinge of colour came to Martha's lips. She was able now to stand up,
with outstretched hands.
"Not yet," insisted Mrs. Holdfast. "You just put Millie and Bobbie to
bed, and I'll see to him. Yes, do, my dear—it's best for you. Take
them," pleaded the good woman.
Martha yielded again. She hurried the two children away, and saw them
both in bed. Undressing did not take long, but Sarah was busy also
during her short absence.
Harry's little cot had been much in the kitchen of late. He had slept
away most of the day, often, in his growing weakness. When Martha
returned, still with half-wild, half-dreamy eyes, she found Mrs.
Holdfast standing beside the cot, and within lay Harry, prepared as if
for the night. He had his little night-dress on, and the calm white
baby-face rested peacefully on the pillow. The lips, just parted, were
rigid in repose, and one wee waxen hand was crossed over the other.
"You've put him to bed," said Martha's hollow voice.
"Yes, my dear; I've put him to bed," said Sarah pityingly.
Martha came nearer, and gasped for breath, gazing upon the fair little
image. Then her eyes went with passionate appeal to Sarah's.
"Poor thing!" murmured Sarah.
[Illustration: She hung over the cot, sobbing wildly.]
"You think I don't know! But I do!" said Martha bitterly. "I do! I do!
He's murdered! If ever anybody was murdered, it's my—" and then she
broke into a bitter wail—"O my baby! My baby Harry!"
She hung over the cot, sobbing wildly, and Sarah's arm came round her
in support.
"He'll never be hungry again," she whispered. "Think of that, my dear;
and don't you want him back. There 'll be no strikes up there. He's
got to the end of all the trouble. Don't you go and say that to your
husband when he comes. Stevens 'll have enough to bear!"
Enough indeed! There was not one of his children whom Stevens loved as
he loved baby Harry.
An hour later he returned, light-footed and eager with the news which,
he felt sure, would gladden Martha's heart. The door was flung open,
and he entered briskly.
"I say, Martha, it's all right! We've settled to accept the masters'
proposals, and I'll be off to work to-morrow morning. It's all right.
Just as you wanted."
A gesture from Mrs. Holdfast checked Roger. She was present still,
having persuaded a neighbour to stay with her own little ones for a
time.
Martha sat beside the cot, dropping hot quiet tears at intervals, and
the desolate look of the mother's eyes, lifted to his, Stevens would
not soon forget.
"Too late now!" she whispered.
Roger's glance went from her to the small face on the pillow—the face
of his own little Harry, the child who till lately had never failed to
greet him with a joyous spring, and cry of "Dadda." Harry had always
been the father's especial pet. Even of late, when the child was too
weak to spring or cry out, the tiny face had always brightened at the
sound of Roger's voice.
It did not brighten now; yet that was no look of common sleep. Roger
knew the difference.
"You don't say—What's the matter? Why don't you give him something, eh?
Letting him lie there! And the room as cold—! What d'you want for him,
Martha? Tell me, sharp, and I'll get it. I can now; we're going to work
again, and it'll be all right."
Martha's tears fell faster, and a sound like a sob crept into Roger's
rough voice.
"No use," Martha said brokenly; "the strike's done it at last. It's
killed him—our baby Harry!"
"He's better off. He'll never know trouble again," said Mrs. Holdfast.
"Don't you go and want him back again too much—both of you. He's out of
it all now!"
"If I'd known! Why didn't somebody tell me?" demanded Stevens,
hoarsely. "I'd have done—anything—if I'd known!"
Sobs came hard and thick from the father's heart. But no sounds of
grief could bring back the household darling; no wailing could reach
him on that distant shore which he had reached. He was "out of it all
now," indeed! The better for little Harry!
So the strike was at an end; and Peter Pope, finding his services no
longer required, betook himself elsewhere.
There were some who counted that the working-men of the place owed him
much, seeing that by dint of the strike he had won for them an increase
of seven and a half per cent. on their wages.
There were others who held that the same increase would have come,
probably as soon, without the pressure exerted by the strike.
There were very many who found that the said increase of wages would by
no means suffice to repay them for the heavy losses they had suffered
through the strike.
There were not a few who maintained that the trade of the town, and its
consequent prosperity, had received lasting injury from the strike.
On the whole it may be safely said, that if the strike had done some
possible good, it had also done a considerable amount of positive harm.
It may be hoped that the working-men of the town, having learnt wisdom
from a success which involved more of loss than of solid gain, would be
long before they embarked in another such enterprise.
THE END.