work is, still a-waiting for 'em, and they won't do it."
"The condition the poor children must be in!"
"Like hungry wolves," said old Thomas. "'Twas what Ford called 'em, and
he ought to know: own brother to Ford the baker, as lives in the very
thick of the trouble!"
Scarcely anything was talked of that evening but the strike. Its long
continuance half frightened some of us. Old Coney, coming in to smoke
his pipe with the Squire, pulled a face as long as his arm at the
poor-rate prospect: the Squire wondered how much work would stay in the
country.
It was said the weekly allowance made to the men was not so much as
it had been at first. It was also said that the Society, making it,
considered Crabb Lane in general had been particularly improvident in
spending the allowance, or it would not have been reduced to its present
distressed condition. Which was not to be wondered at, in Mr. Coney's
opinion: people used to very good wages, he said, could not all at once
pull up habits and look at every farthing as a miser does. Crabb Lane
was reproachfully assured by the Society that other strikes had kept
themselves quite respectable, comparatively speaking, upon just the
same allowance, and had not parted with _all_ their pots and pans.
That night I dreamt of the strike. It's as true as that I am writing
this. I dreamt I saw thousands and thousands of red-faced men--not
pale-faced ones--each tossing a loaf of bread up and down.
"I suppose I may go over and see Eliza," I said to Mrs. Todhetley, after
breakfast in the morning.
"There is no reason why you should not, Johnny, that I know of," she
answered, after a pause. "Excepting the cold."
As if I minded the cold! "I hope the whole lot, she and the young ones,
won't look like skeletons, that's all. Tod, will you come?"
"Not if I know it, old fellow. I have no fancy for seeing skeletons."
"Oh, that was all my nonsense."
"I know that. A pleasant journey to you."
The hoar frost had gathered on the trees, the ice hung fantastically
from their branches: it was altogether a beautiful sight. Groups of Miss
Timmens's girls, coming to school with frozen noses, were making slides
as they ran. As to Crabb Lane, it looked nearly deserted: the cold
kept the men indoors. Knocking at Hoar's door with a noise like a
fire-engine, I went in with a leap.
The scene I came upon brought me up short. Just at first I did not
understand it. In the self-same corner by the fireplace where Dicky's
bed had been that first day, was a bed now, and Eliza lay on it: and by
her side, wedged against the wall, was what looked like a bundle of
green baize with a calico nightcap on. The children--and really and
truly they were not much better than living skeletons--sat on the floor.
"What's to do here, you little mites? Is mother ill?"
Dicky, tending the fire (I could have put it into a cocoa-nut), turned
round to answer me. He had got quite well again, arm and all.
"Mother's _very_ ill," said he in a whisper. "That's the new baby."
"The new what?"
"The new baby," repeated Dick, pointing to the green bundle. "It's two
days old."
An old tin slop-pail, turned upside down, stood in the corner of the
hearth. I sat down on it to revolve the news and take in the staggering
aspect of things.
"What do you say, Dick? A baby--two days old?"
"Two days," returned Dick. "I'd show him to you but for fear o' waking
mother."
"He came here the night afore last, he did, while we was all asleep
upstairs," interposed the younger of the little girls, Jessy. "Mr. Cole
brought him in his pocket: father said so."
"'Twasn't the night afore last," corrected 'Liza. "'Twas the night afore
that."
Poor, pale, pinched faces, with never a smile on any one of them!
Nothing takes the spirit out of children like long-continued famine.
Stepping across, I looked down at Mrs. Hoar. Her eyes were half open as
if she were in a state of stupor. I don't think she knew me: I'm not
sure she even saw me. The face was fearfully thin and hollow, and white
as death.
"Wouldn't mother be better upstairs, Dick?"
"She's here 'cause o' the fire," returned Dick, gently dropping on a bit
of coal the size of a marble. "There ain't no bed up there, neither;
they've brought it down."
The "bed" looked like a sack of shavings. From my heart I don't believe
it was anything else. At that moment, the door opened and a woman came
in; a neighbour, I suppose; her clothes very thin.
"It's Mrs. Watts," said Dick.
Mrs. Watts curtsied. She looked as starved as they did. It seemed she
knew me.
"She be very bad. Mr. Ludlow, sir."
"She seems so. Is it--fever?"
"Law, sir! It's more famine nor fever. If her strength can last
out--why, well and good; she may rally. If it don't, she'll go, sir."
"Ought she not to have things, Mrs. Watts? Beef-tea and wine, and all
that."
Mrs. Watts stared a minute, and then her lips parted with a sickly
smile. "I don't know where she'd get 'em from, sir! Beef-tea and wine!
A drop o' plain tea is a'most more nor us poor can manage to find now.
The strike have lasted long, you see, sir. Any way, she's too weak to
take much of anything."
"If I--if I could bring some beef-tea--or some wine--would it do her
good?"
"It might just be the saving of her life, Mr. Ludlow, sir."
I went galloping home through the snow. Mrs. Todhetley was stoning
raisins in the dining-room for the Christmas puddings. Telling her the
news in a heap, I sat down to get my breath.
"Ah, I was afraid so," she said quietly, and without surprise. "I feared
there might be another baby at the Hoars' by this time."
"Another baby at the Hoars'!" cried Tod, looking up from my new
Shakespeare that he was skimming. "How is it going to get fed?"
"I fear that's a problem none of us can solve, Joseph," said she.
"Well, folk must be daft, to go on collecting a heap more mouths
together, when there's nothing to feed them on," concluded Tod, dropping
his head into the book again. Mrs. Todhetley was slowly wiping her
fingers on the damp cloth, and looking doubtful.
"Joseph, your papa's not in the way and I cannot speak to him--_do_
you think I might venture to send something to poor Eliza under the
circumstances?"
"Send and risk it," said Tod, in his prompt manner. "_Of course._ As to
the Pater--at the worst, he'll only storm a bit. But I fancy he would be
the first to send help himself. He wouldn't let her die for the want of
it."
"Then I'll despatch Hannah at once."
Hoar was down by the bed when Hannah got there, holding a drop of ale to
his wife's lips. Mr. Cole was standing by with his hat on.
"_Ale!_" exclaimed Hannah to the surgeon. "May she take _that_?"
"Bless me, yes," said he, "and do her good."
Hannah followed him outside the door when he was leaving. "How will it
go with her, sir?" she asked. "She looks dreadfully ill."
"Well," returned the Doctor, "I think the night will about see the end
of it."
The words frightened Hannah. "Oh, my goodness!" she cried. "What's the
matter with her that she should die?"
"Famine and worry have been the matter with her. What she will die of is
exhaustion. She has had a sharpish turn just now, you understand; and
has no stamina to bring her up again."
It was late in the afternoon when Hannah came home again. There was no
change, she said, for the better or the worse. Eliza still lay as much
like one dead as living.
"It's quite a picter to see the poor little creatures sitting on the
bare floor and quiet as mice, never speaking but in a whisper," cried
Hannah, as she shook the snow from her petticoats on the mat. "It's just
as if they had an instinct of what is coming."
The Squire, far from being angry, wanted to send over half the house.
It was not Eliza's fault, he said, it was the strike's--and he hoped
with all his heart she'd get through it. Helping the men's wives in
ordinary was not to be thought of; but when it came to dying, that was
a different matter. In the evening, between dinner and tea, I offered
to go over and see whether any progress had been made. Being curious
on the point themselves, they said yes.
The snow was coming down smartly. My great-coat and hat were soon
white enough for me to be taken for a ghost enjoying the air at night.
Knocking at the Hoars' door gently, it was opened by Jacky. He asked
me to go in.
To my surprise they were again alone--Eliza and the children. Mrs. Watts
had gone home to put her own flock to bed; and Hoar was out. 'Liza sat
on the hearthstone, the sleeping bundle on her lap.
"Father's a-went to fetch Mr. Cole," said Jacky. "Mother began a talking
queer--dreams, like--and it frightened him. He told us to mind her till
he run back with the Doctor."
Looking down, I thought she was delirious. Her eyes were wide open and
glistening, a scarlet spot shone on her cheeks. She began talking to me.
Or rather to the air: for I'm sure she knew no one.
"A great bright place it is, up there; all alight and shining. Silvery,
like the stars. Oh, it's beautiful! The people be in white, and no
strikes can come in!"
"She've been a-talking about the strikes all along," whispered Jacky,
who was kneeling on the mattress. "Mother! Mother, would ye like a drop
o' the wine?"
Whether the word mother aroused her, or the boy's voice--and she had
always loved Jacky with a great love--she seemed to recognize him. He
raised her head as handy as could be, and held the tea-cup to her lips.
It was half full of wine; she drank it all by slow degrees, and revived
to consciousness.
"Master Johnny!" she said then in a faint tone.
I could not help the tears filling my eyes as I knelt down by her in
Jacky's place. She knew she was dying. I tried to say a word or two.
"It's the leaving the children, Master Johnny, to strikes and things
o' that kind, that's making it so hard for me to go. The world's full
o' trouble: look at what ours has been since the strike set in! I'd
not so much mind _that_ for them, though--for the world here don't
last over long, and perhaps it's a'most as good to be miserable as
easy in it--if I thought they'd all come to me in the bright place
afterwards. But--when one's clammed with famine and what not, it's a
sore temptation to do wrong. Lord, bring them to me!" she broke forth,
suddenly clasping her hands. "Lord Jesus, pray for them, and save
them!"
She was nothing but skin and bone. Her hands fell, and she began
plucking at the blanket. You might have heard a pin drop in the room.
The frightened children hardly breathed.
"I shall see your dear mamma, Master Johnny. I was at her death-bed;
'twas me mostly waited on her in her sickness. If ever a sainted lady
went straight to heaven, 'twas her. When I stood over her grave I
little thought my own ending was to be so soon. Strikes! Nothing but
strikes--and famine, and bad tempers, and blows. Lord Jesus, wash us
white from our sins, and take us all to that better world! No strikes
there; no strikes there."
She was going off her head again. The door opened, and Hoar, the Doctor,
and Mrs. Watts all came in together.
* * * * *
Mrs. Todhetley went over through the snow in the morning. Eliza Hoar
had died in the night, and lay on the mattress, her wasted face calm
and peaceful. Hoar and the children had migrated to the kitchen at the
back, a draughty place hardly large enough for the lot to turn round
in. The eldest girl was trying to feed the baby with a tea-spoon.
"What are you giving it, Eliza?" asked Mrs. Todhetley.
"Sugar and water, with a sup o' milk in't, please, ma'am."
"I hope you are contented, Jacob Hoar, now you have killed your wife."
Very harsh words, those for Mrs. Todhetley to speak: and she hastened
to soften them. But, as she said afterwards, the matter altogether was
a cruel folly and sin, making her heart burn with shame. "That is,
Hoar, with the strike; for it is the strike that has killed her."
Hoar, who had been sitting with his head in the chimney, noticing no
one, burst into a sudden flood of tears, and sobbed for a minute or two.
Mrs. Todhetley was giving the children a biscuit apiece from her bag.
"I did it all for the best," said Hoar, presently. "'Twasn't me that
originated the strike. I but joined in it with the rest of my mates."
"And their wives and families are in no better plight than yours."
"Nobody can say I've not done my duty as a husband and a father," cried
Hoar. "I've not been a drunkard, nor a rioter, nor a spendthrift. I've
never beat her nor swore at her, as some of 'em does."
"Well, she is lying _there_; and the strike has brought her to it. Is it
so, or not?"
Hoar did not answer: only caught his breath with a sound of pain.
"It seems to me, Hoar, that the strikes cannot be the good things you
think for," she said, her voice now full of pity for the man. "They
don't bring luck with them; on the contrary, they bring a great deal
of ill-luck. It is you workmen that suffer; mostly in your wives and
children. I do not pretend to judge whether strikes may be good from a
political point of view, I am not clever; but they do tell very hardly
upon your poor patient wives and little ones."
"And don't you see as they tell upon us men, too!" he retorted with a
sob that was half pitiful, half savage. "Ay, and worst of all; for if
they should be mistaken steps stead of right ones, we've got 'em on our
conscience."
"But you go in for them, Hoar. You, individually: and this last night's
blow is the result. It certainly seems that there must be a mistake
somewhere."
* * * * *
This has not been much to tell of, but it is _true_; and, as strikes are
all the go just now, I thought I would write out for you a scrap of one
of ours. For my own part, I cannot see that strikes do much good in the
long run; or at best, that they are worth the outlay. I do know, for I
have heard and seen it, that through many a long day the poor wives and
children can only cry aloud to Heaven to pity them and their privations.
In course of time the strike (it was the longest on record in our parts,
though we have had a few since then) came to an end. Upon which, the men
began life again with bare homes and sickly young ones; and a few vacant
chairs.
XXIII.
BURSTING-UP.
There have been fiery August days in plenty; but never a more fiery one
than this that I am going to tell of. It was Wednesday: and we were
sitting under the big tree on the lawn at Dyke Manor. A tree it would
have done you good only to look at on a blazing day: a large weeping
ash, with a cool and shady space within it, large enough for a dozen
chairs round, and a small table.
The chairs and the table were there now. On the latter stood iced cider
and some sparkling lemonade: uncommonly good, both, on that thirsty day.
Mr. Brandon, riding by on his cob, had called in to see us; and sat
between me and Mrs. Todhetley. She was knitting something in green
shades of wool. The Squire had on a straw hat; Tod lay on the grass
outside, in the shade of the laurels; Hugh and Lena stood at the bench
near him, blowing bubbles and chattering like magpies.
"Well, I don't know," said old Brandon, taking a draught of the
lemonade. "It often happens with me if I plan to go anywhere much
beforehand, that when the time comes I am not well enough for it."
Mr. Todhetley had been telling him that he thought he should take the
lot of us to the seaside for a week or two in September; and suggested
that he should go with us. It had been a frightfully hot summer, and
everybody felt worn out.
"Where shall you go?" questioned Mr. Brandon.
"Somewhere in Wales, I think," said the Squire. "It's easiest of access
from here. Aberystwith, perhaps."
"Not much of a sea at Aberystwith," cried Mr. Brandon, in his squeaky
voice.
"Well, it's not quite a Gibraltar Rock, Brandon, but it does for us. The
last time we went to the seaside; it is three years ago now----"
"Four," mildly put in Mrs. Todhetley, looking up from her wools.
"Four, is it! Well, it was Aberystwith we went to then; and we were very
comfortably lodged. It was at a Mrs. Noon's, I remember; and----who's
coming now?"
A dash in at the gate was heard--a little startling Mr. Brandon, lest
whatever it was should dash over his cob, tied to the gate-post--and
then came the smooth run of light wheels on the gravel.
"Look out and see who it is, Johnny."
Putting the leaves aside, I saw a light, elegant, open carriage, driven
by a groom in livery; a gentleman seated beside him in dainty gloves.
"Why, that's the Clement-Pells' little carriage!" exclaimed Mrs.
Todhetley, who had been looking for herself.
"And that's Mr. Clement-Pell in it," said I.
"Oh," said Mr. Brandon. "I'll go then." But the Squire put up his arm to
detain him.
Tod did the honours. Went to receive him, and brought him to us under
the tree. The children stopped blowing bubbles to stare at Mr.
Clement-Pell as he crossed the lawn. It struck me that just a shade of
annoyance appeared in his face when he saw so many of us there.
Shaking hands, he sat down by Mr. Todhetley, observing that it was
some time since he had seen us. It was six weeks, or so: for we had
not happened to meet him since that visit of mine and Tod's at his
house in Kensington. All the family were back again now at Parrifer
Hall: and we were going to a grand entertainment there on the
following day, Thursday. An open-air fête, the invitations had said.
"You have been very busy lately, Mr. Clement-Pell," observed the Squire.
"I've not been able to get to see you to thank you for the kindness of
your folk to my boys in town. Twice I called at your chief Bank, but you
were not visible."
"I have been unusually busy," was the answer. "Business gets worse;
that is, more extensive; every day. I have had to be about a good deal
besides; so that with one thing and another, my time has been more than
fully occupied. I am very glad your young men enjoyed themselves with us
in London," he added in hearty tones.
Mr. Brandon gave me such a look that for the life of me I could not say
a word in answer. The London visit, taking it altogether, had not been
one of enjoyment: but Clement-Pell had no suspicion of the truth.
"Rather a _rapid_ life, that London life," remarked Mr. Brandon dryly.
And I went hot all over, for fear he might be going to let out things to
the company.
"Rapid?" repeated Mr. Clement-Pell. "Well, so it is; especially for us
business men."
Mr. Brandon coughed, but said no more. The Squire pressed refreshment
on Mr. Clement-Pell. He'd have nothing to say to the cider--it would
make him hotter, he thought--but took some of the lemonade. As he was
putting the glass down Mrs. Todhetley asked whether to-morrow's fête
was to be as grand and large as was reported. And the annoyance,
seen before, most certainly again crossed Clement-Pell's face at the
question.
"I do not really know much about it," he answered. "These affairs are my
wife's, not mine."
"And perhaps you don't much care for them," put in the Squire, who had
noticed the expression.
"I should like them very much, if I had more time to spare for them,"
said Mr. Clement-Pell, playing with his handsome chain and seals. "We
men of large undertakings must be content to work ourselves, and to let
our wives and daughters do the playing. However, I hope I shall manage
an hour or two for this one to-morrow."
"What are to be the amusements?" inquired Mrs. Todhetley.
"The question is, rather, what they are not to be," smiled Mr.
Clement-Pell. "I heard the girls talking about it with one another last
night. Dancing, music, archery, fortune-telling----"
"Something, I suppose, of what may be called a fancy-fair," she
interrupted.
"Just so. A fancy-fair without charge. At any rate, I make no doubt it
will be pleasant: and I sincerely hope to see you all at it. _You_ will
come, I trust, Mr. Brandon. These things are not in your usual way, I am
aware, but----"
"I have neither the health nor the inclination for them," said Mr.
Brandon, quite shrilly, stopping him before he could finish.
"But I trust you will make an exception in favour of us to-morrow, I was
about to say. Mrs. Clement-Pell and the Miss Clement-Pells will be so
pleased to see you."
"Thank you," said old Brandon, in a tone only just short of rudeness. "I
must be going, Squire."
He got up as he spoke, shook hands with Mrs. Todhetley only, nodded to
the rest of us, and set off across the lawn. Children liked him in spite
of his voice and dry manner, and of course Hugh and Lena, pipes and
soap-suds and all, attended him to the gate.
As the brown cob went trotting off, and the Squire was coming back
again--for he had gone too--Mr. Clement-Pell met him half-way across the
lawn, and then they both went indoors together.
"Clement-Pell must want something," said Mrs. Todhetley. "Johnny, do you
notice how very aged and worn he is? It never struck me until to-day. He
looks quite grey."
"Well, that's because he is getting so. I shall be grey some time."
"But I don't mean that kind of greyness, Johnny; grey hairs. His _face_
looks grey."
"It was the reflection of these green leaves, good mother."
"Well--perhaps it might be," she doubtfully agreed, looking up. "What a
grand fête it is to be, Johnny!"
"You'll have to put on your best bib-and-tucker, good mother. That new
dress you bought for the Sterlings' christening."
"I should if I went. But the fact is, Johnny, I and Mr. Todhetley have
made up our minds not to go, I fancy. We were talking together about it
this morning. However--we shall see when to-morrow comes."
"I wouldn't be you, then. That will be too bad."
"These open-air fêtes are not in our way, Johnny. Dancing, and archery,
and fortune-telling are not much in the way of us old people. You young
ones think them delightful--as we did once. Hugh! Lena! what _is_ all
that noise about? You are not to take her bowl, Hugh: keep to your own.
Joseph, please part them."
Joe accomplished it by boxing the two. In the midst of the noise, Mr.
Clement-Pell came out. He did not cross the lawn again to Mrs.
Todhetley; just called out a good day in getting into his carriage, and
lifted his hat as he drove away.
"I say, father, what did he want with you?" asked Tod, as the Squire
came sauntering back, the skirts of his light coat held behind him.
"That's my business, Joe," said the Squire. "Mind your own."
Which was a checkmate for Tod. The truth was, Tod had been uneasily
wondering whether it might not be his business. That is, whether Mr.
Clement-Pell had obtained scent of that gambling of his up in London and
had come to enlighten the Squire. Tod never felt safe upon the point:
which, you see, was all owing to his lively conscience.
"What a beautiful little carriage that is!" said Mrs. Todhetley to the
Pater. "It puts me in mind of a shell."
"Ay; must have cost a pretty penny, small as it is. Pell can afford
these fancy things, with his floating wealth."
In that city of seething crowds and wealth, London, where gigantic
operations are the rule instead of the exception, and large fortunes
are made daily, Mr. Clement-Pell would not have been thought much
of; but in our simple country place, with its quiet experiences,
Clement-Pell was a wonder. His riches were great. His power of making
money for himself and others seemed elastic; and he was bowed down to
as a reigning potentate--a king--an Olympian deity.
You have heard of him before. He had come to a neighbouring town some
years back as manager of a small banking company, having given up, it
was understood, a good law practice in London to undertake it. The small
banking grew and grew under his management. Some of its superfluous
hoards were profitably employed: to construct railroads; to work mines;
to found colonies. All sorts of paying concerns were said to have some
of Clement-Pell's money in them, and to bring him in cent. per cent. It
was believed that if all the wealth of the East India Company and the
Bank of England to boot had been poured into the hands of Clement-Pell,
it could not have been more than he would be able to use to profit, so
great were the resources at his command. People fought with one another
to get their money accepted by Mr. Clement-Pell. No wonder. The funds
gave them a paltry three per cent. for it; Mr. Clement-Pell doubled the
amount. So the funds lost the money, and Mr. Clement-Pell gained it. He
was worshipped as the greatest benefactor that had ever honoured the
country by settling down in it.