'I THINK I HAVE BEEN A FOOL.'
The Shucks had got a supper party. On this same Saturday night, when the
wind was blowing outside, and the rain was making the streets into
pools, two or three friends had dropped into Sam Shuck's--idlers like
Sam himself--and were hospitably invited to remain. Mrs. Shuck was
beginning to fry the liver and bacon she had just brought in, with the
accompaniment of a good peck of onions, and Sam and his friends were
staying their appetites with pipes and porter. When Mary Baxendale and
her father entered--Mary having lingered a minute outside, until her
emotion had passed, and her eyes were dry--they could scarcely find
their way across the kitchen, what with the clouds from the pipes, and
the smoke from the frying-pan. There was a great deal of laughter going
on. Prosperity had not yet caused the Shucks to change their residence
for a better one. Perhaps that was to come: but Sam's natural
improvidence stood in the way of much change.
'You are merry to-night,' observed Mary, by way of being sociable.
'It's merrier inside nor out, a-wading through the puddles and the sharp
rain,' replied Mrs. Shuck, without turning round from her employment.
'It's some'at new to see you out such a night as this, Mary Baxendale!
Don't you talk about folks wanting sense again.'
'I don't know that I ever do talk of it,' was the inoffensive reply of
Mary, as she followed her father up the stairs.
Mrs. Baxendale was hushing a baby when they entered their room. She
looked very cross. The best-tempered will do so, under the
long-continued embarrassment of empty purses and empty stomachs. 'Who
has been spreading it up and down the place that _we_ are in trouble
about the rent?' she abruptly demanded, in no pleasant voice. 'That girl
of Ryan's was here just now--Judy. She knew it, it seems, and she didn't
forget to speak of it. Mary, what a simpleton you are, to be out in this
rain!'
'Never mind who speaks of the rent, Mrs. Baxendale, so long as it can be
paid,' said Mary, sitting down in the first chair to get her breath up,
after mounting the stairs. 'Father is going to manage it, so that we
shan't have any trouble at present. It's all right.'
'However have you contrived it?' demanded Mrs. Baxendale of her husband,
in a changed tone.
'Mary has contrived it--not I. She has just put two pounds into my hand.
Where did you get it, child?'--'It does not signify your knowing that,
father.'
'If I don't know it, I shan't use the money,' he answered,
shortly.--'Why, surely, father, you can trust me!' she rejoined.
'That is not it, Mary,' said John Baxendale. 'I don't like to use
borrowed money, unless I know who it has been borrowed from.'
'It was not borrowed, in your sense of the word, father. I have only
done what you and Mrs. Baxendale have been doing lately. I pledged that
set of coral ornaments of my mother's. Had you forgotten them?'
'Why, yes, I had forgot 'em,' cried he. 'Coral ornaments! I declare they
had as much slipped my memory, as if she had never possessed them.'
'Cox would only lend me two pounds upon them. Father, I hope I shall
some time get them redeemed.' John Baxendale made no reply. He turned to
pace the small room, evidently in deep thought. Mary, her poor short
breath gathered again, took off her wet cloak and bonnet. Presently,
Mrs. Baxendale put the loaf upon the table, and some cold potatoes.
'Couldn't you have brought in a sausage or two for yourself, Mary, or a
red herring?' she said. 'You had got a shilling in your pocket.'
'I can eat a potato,' said Mary; 'it don't much matter about me.'
'It matters about us all, I think,' cried Mrs. Baxendale. 'What a
delicious smell of onions!' she added in a parenthesis. 'Them Shucks
have got the luck of it just now. Us, and the children, and you, are
three parts starved--I know that, Mary. _We_ may weather it--it's to be
hoped we shall; but it will just kill you.'
'No, it shan't,' said John Baxendale, turning to them with a strangely
stern decision marked upon his countenance. 'This night has decided me,
and I'll go and do it.'
'Go and do what?' exclaimed his wife, a sort of fear in her tone.
'I'll go to WORK, please God, Monday morning comes,' he said, with
emphasis. 'The thought has been hovering in my mind this week past.'
'It's just the thing you ought to have done weeks ago,' observed Mrs.
Baxendale.
'You never said it.'--'Not I. It's best to let men come to their senses
of their own accord. You mostly act by the rules of contrary, you men;
if I had advised your going to work next Monday morning, you'd just have
stopped away.'
Passing over this conjugal compliment in silence, John Baxendale
descended the stairs. He possessed a large share of the open honesty of
the genuine English workman. He disdained to do things in a corner. It
would not suit him to return to work the coming Monday morning on what
might be called 'the sly;' he preferred to act openly, and to declare it
to the Trades' Union previously, in the person of their paid agent, Sam
Shuck. This he would do at once, and for that purpose entered the
kitchen. The first instalment of the supper was just served: which was
accomplished by means of a tin dish placed on the table, and the
contents of the frying-pan being turned unceremoniously into it. Sam and
the company deemed the liver and bacon were best served hot and hot, so
they set themselves to eat, while Mrs. Shuck continued to fry.
'I have got just a word to say, Shuck; I shan't disturb you,' began John
Baxendale. But Shuck interrupted him.
'It's of no use, Baxendale, your remonstrating about the short
allowance. Think of the many mouths there is to feed. It's hard times,
we all know, thanks to the masters; but our duty, ay, and our pride too,
must lie in putting up with them, like men.'
'It's not very hard times with you, at any rate,' said John Baxendale,
sniffing involuntarily the savoury odour, and watching the tempting
morsels consumed. 'My business here is not to remonstrate at anything,
but to inform you that I shall resume work on Monday.'
The announcement took Sam by surprise. He dropped the knife with which
he was cutting the liver, held upon his bread--for the repast was not
served fashionably, with a full complement of plates and dishes--and
stared at Baxendale--'What!' he uttered.
'I have had enough of it. I shall go back on Monday morning.'
'Are you a fool, Baxendale? Or a knave?'
'Sometimes I think I must be a fool,' was the reply, given without
irritation. 'Leastways, I have wondered lately whether I am or not: when
there has been full work and full wages to be had for the asking, and I
have not asked, but have let my wife and children and Mary go down to
starvation point.'
'You have been holding out for principle,' remonstrated Sam.
'I know; and principle is a very good thing when you are sure it's the
right principle. But flesh and blood can't stand out for ever.'
'After standing out as long as this, I'd try and stand out a bit
longer,' cried Sam. 'You _must_, Baxendale; you can't turn traitor now.'
'You say "a bit," longer, Sam Shuck. It has been "a bit longer," and "a
bit longer," for some time past; but the bit doesn't come to any ending.
There's no more chance of the masters' coming to, than there was at
first, but a great deal less. The getting of these men from the country
will render them independent of us. What is to become of us then?'
'Rubbish!' said Sam Shuck. 'The masters must come to: they can't stand
against the Unions. Because a sprinkling of poor country workmen have
thrust in their noses, and the masters are keeping open their works on
the show of it, is that a reason why we should knuckle down? They are
doing it to frighten us.'
'Look here,' said Baxendale. 'I have two women and two children on my
hands, and one of the women is next door to the grave; I am
threatened--_you_ know it, Sam Shuck--with a lodging for them in the
street next week, because I have not been able to pay the rent; I have
parted by selling and pledging, with nearly all there is to part with,
of my household goods. There was what they call a Bible reader round
last week, and he says, pleasantly, "Why don't you kneel down and ask
God to consider your condition, Mr. Baxendale?" Very good. But how can I
do that? Isn't it just a mockery for me to pray for help to provide for
me and mine? If God was pleased to answer us in words, would not the
answer be, "There is work, and to spare; you have only got to do it?"'
'Well, that's grand,' put in one of Sam's guests, most of whom had been
staring with open mouths. 'As if folks asked God about such things as
this!'
'Since my late wife died, I have thought about it more than I used to,'
said Baxendale, simply, 'and I have got to see that there's no good to
be done in anything without it. But how can I in reason ask for help
now, when I don't help myself? The work is ready to my hand, and I don't
take it. So, Sam, my mind's made up at last. You'll tell the Union.'
'No, I shan't. You won't go to work.'
'You'll see. I shall be glad to go. I haven't had a proper meal
this----'
'You'll think better of it between now and Monday morning,' interrupted
Sam, drowning the words. 'I'll have a talk with you to-morrow. Have a
bit of supper, Baxendale?'
'No, thank ye. I didn't come in to eat your victuals,' he added, moving
to the door.
'We have got plenty,' said Mrs. Shuck, turning round from the
frying-pan. 'Here, eat it up-stairs, if you won't stop, Baxendale.' She
took out a slice of liver and of bacon, and handed them to him on a
saucer. What a temptation it was to the man, sick with hunger! However,
he was about to refuse, when he thought of Mary.
'Thank ye, Mrs. Shuck. I'll take it, then, if you can spare it. It will
be a treat to Mary.' Like unto the appearance of water in the arid
desert to the parched and exhausted traveller, was the sight of that
saucer of meat to Mary. Terribly did she often crave for it. John
Baxendale positively refused to touch any; so Mary divided it into two
portions, giving one to Mrs. Baxendale. The woman's good-nature--her
sense of Mary's condition--would have led her to refuse it; but she was
not quite made up of self-denial, and she felt faint and sinking. John
Baxendale cut a thick slice of bread, rubbed it over the remains of
gravy in the saucer, and ate that. 'Please God, this shall have an end,'
he mentally repeated. 'I think I _have_ been a fool!'
Mr. Hunter's yard--as it was familiarly called in the trade--was open
just as were other yards, though as yet he had but few men at work in
it; in fact, so little was doing that it was almost equivalent to a
stand-still. Mr. Henry Hunter was better off. A man of energy,
determined to stand no nonsense, as he himself expressed it, he had gone
down to country places, and engaged many hands.
On the Monday following the above Saturday night, John Baxendale
presented himself to Austin Clay and requested to be taken on again.
Austin complied at once, glad to do so, and told the man he was wise to
come to his senses. Mr. Hunter was not at business that day; 'too unwell
to leave home' was the message carried to Austin Clay. In the evening
Austin went to the house: as was usual when Mr. Hunter did not make his
appearance at the works in the day. Florence was alone when he entered.
Evidently in distress; though she strove to hide it from him, to turn it
off with gay looks and light words. But he noted the signs. 'What is
your grief, Florence?' he asked, speaking in an earnest tone of
sympathy.
It caused the tears to come forth again. Austin took her hands and drew
her to him, as either a lover or a brother might have done, leaving her
to take it as she pleased.
'Let me share it, Florence, whatever it may be.'
'It is nothing more than usual,' she answered; 'but somehow my spirits
are low this evening. I try to bear up bravely; and I do bear up: but,
indeed, this is an unhappy home. Mamma is sinking fast; I see it daily.
While papa----' But for making the abrupt pause, she would have broken
down. Austin turned away: he did not choose that she should enter upon
any subject connected with Mr. Hunter. This time Florence would not be
checked: as she had been hitherto. 'Austin, I cannot bear it any longer.
What is it that is overshadowing papa?' she continued, her voice, her
whole manner full of dread. 'I am sure that some misfortune hangs over
the house.'
'I wish I could take you out of it,' was the impulsive and not very
relevant answer. 'I can tell you nothing, Florence,' he concluded more
soberly. 'Mr. Hunter has many cares in business; but the cares are his
own.'
'Austin, is it kind of you to try to put me off so? I can bear reality,
whatever it may be, better than suspense. It is for papa I grieve. See
how ill he is! And yet he has no ailment of body, only of mind. Night
after night he paces his room, never sleeping.'
'How do you know that?' Austin inquired.
'Because I listen to it.'--'You should not do so.'
'I cannot _help_ listening to him. How is it possible? His room is near
mine, and when his footsteps are sounding in it, in the midnight
silence, hour after hour, my ears grow sensitively quick. I say that
loving him, I cannot help it. Sometimes I think that if I only knew the
cause, the nature of his sorrow, I might soothe it--perhaps help to
remove it.'
'As if young ladies could ever help or remove the cares of business!' he
cried, speaking lightly.
'I am not a child, Austin,' she resumed: 'it is not kind of you to make
pretence that I am, and try to put me off as one. Papa's trouble is
_not_ connected with business, and I am sure you know that as well as I
do. Will you not tell me what it is?'
'Florence, you can have no grounds for assuming that I am cognisant of
it.'
'I feel very sure that you are. Can you suppose that I should otherwise
speak of it to you?'
'I say that you can have no grounds for the supposition. By what do you
so judge?'
'By signs,' she answered. 'I can read it in your countenance, your
actions. I was pretty sure of it before that day when you sent me
hastily into your rooms, lest I should hear what the man Gwinn was about
to say; but I have been fully sure since. What he would have said
related to it; and, in some way, the man is connected with the ill.
Besides, you have been on confidential terms with papa for years.'
'On business matters only: not on private ones. My dear Florence, I must
request you to let this subject cease, now and always. I know nothing of
its nature from your father; and if my own thoughts have in any way
strayed towards it, it is not fitting that I should give utterance to
them.'
'Tell me one thing: could I be of any service, in any way?'
'Hush, Florence,' he uttered, as if the words had struck upon some
painful cord. 'The only service you can render is, by taking no notice
of it. Do not think of it if you can help; do not allude to it to your
mother.'
'I never do,' she interrupted.--'That is well.'
'You have sometimes said you cared for me.'
'Well?' he rejoined, determined to be as contrary as he could.
'If you did, you would not leave me in this suspense. Only tell me the
nature of papa's trouble, I will not ask further.'
Austin gathered his wits together, thinking what plea he should invent.
'It is a debt, Florence. Your papa contracted a debt many years ago; he
thought it was paid; but by some devilry--pardon the word; I forgot I
was talking to you--a lawyer, Gwinn of Ketterford, has proved that it
was not paid, and he comes to press for instalments of it. That is all I
know. And now you must give me your promise not to speak of this. I'll
never tell you anything more if you do.'
Florence had listened attentively, and was satisfied.
'I will never speak of it,' she said. 'I think I understand it now. Papa
fears he shall have no fortune left for me. Oh, if he only knew----'
'Hush, Florence!' came the warning whisper, for Mrs. Hunter was standing
at the door.
'Is it you, Austin? I heard voices here, and wondered who had come in.'
'How are you, dear Mrs. Hunter?' he said to her as she entered. 'Better
this evening?'
'Not better,' was Mrs. Hunter's answer, as she retained Austin's hand,
and drew him on the sofa beside her. 'There will be no "better" for me
in this world. Austin, I wish I could have gone from it under happier
circumstances. Florence, I hear your papa calling.'
'If _you_ are not happy in the prospect of the future, who can be?'
murmured Austin, as Florence left the room.
'I spoke not of myself. My concern is for Mr. Hunter. Austin, I would
give every minute of my remaining days to know what terrible grief it is
that has been so long upon him.' Austin was silent. Had Mrs. Hunter and
Florence entered into a compact to annoy him? 'It has been like a dark
shade upon our house for years. Florence and I have kept silence upon it
to him, and to each other; to him we dare not speak, to each other we
would not. Latterly it has seemed so much worse, that I was forced to
whisper of it to her: I could not keep it in; the silence was killing
me. We both agree that you are in his confidence; if so, perhaps you
will satisfy me?'
Austin Clay felt himself in a dilemma. He could not speak of it in the
light manner he had to Florence, or put off so carelessly Mrs. Hunter.
'I am not in his confidence, indeed, Mrs. Hunter,' he broke forth, glad
to be able to say so much. 'That I have observed the signs you speak of
in Mr. Hunter, his embarrassment, his grief----'
'Say his fear, Austin.'
'His fear. That I have noticed this it would be vain to deny. But, Mrs.
Hunter, I assure you he has never given me his confidence upon the
subject. Quite the contrary; he has particularly shunned it with me. Of
course I can give a very shrewd guess at the cause--he is pressed for
money. Times are bad; and when a man of Mr. Hunter's thoughtful
temperament begins to be really anxious on the score of money matters,
it shows itself in various ways.'
Mrs. Hunter quitted the subject, perhaps partially reassured; at any
rate convinced that no end would be answered by continuing it. 'I was
mistaken, I suppose,' she said, with a sigh. 'At least you can tell me,
Austin, how business is going on. How will it go on?'
Very grave turned Austin's face now. This was an open evil--one to be
openly met and grappled with; and what his countenance gained in
seriousness it lost in annoyance. 'I really do not see how it will go
on,' was his reply, 'unless we can get to work soon. I want to speak to
Mr. Hunter. Can I see him?'
'He will be in directly. He has not been down to-day yet. But I suppose
you will wish to see him in private; I know he and you like to be alone
when you talk upon business matters.'
At present it was expedient that Mrs. Hunter, at any rate, should not be
present, if she was to be spared annoyance; for Mr. Hunter's affairs
were growing ominous. This was chiefly owing to the stoppage of works
in process, and partly to the effect of a diminished capital. Austin as
yet did not know all the apprehension, for Mr. Hunter contrived to keep
some of it from him. That the diminishing of the capital was owing to
Gwinn of Ketterford, Austin did know; at least, his surmises amounted to
certainty. When a hundred pounds, or perhaps two hundred pounds,
mysteriously went out, and Austin was not made acquainted with the
money's destination, he drew his own conclusions.
'Are the men not learning the error of their course yet?' Mrs. Hunter
resumed.
'They seem further off learning it than ever. One of them, indeed, came
back to-day: Baxendale.'
'I felt sure he would be amongst the first to do so. He is a sensible
man: how he came to hold out at all, is to me a matter of surprise.'
'He told me this morning, when he came and asked to be taken on again,
that he wished he never had held out,' said Austin. 'Mary is none the
better for it.'
'Mary was here to-day,' remarked Mrs. Hunter. 'She came to say that she
was better, and could do some work if I had any. I fear it is a
deceitful improvement. She is terribly thin and wan. No; this state of
things must have been bad for her. She looks as if she were half
famished.'
'She only looks what she is,' said Austin.
'Oh, Austin! I should have been so thankful to help her to strengthening
food during this scarcity,' Mrs. Hunter exclaimed, the tears rising in
her eyes. 'But I have not dared. You know what Mr. Hunter's opinion
is--that the men have brought it upon themselves, and that, to help
their families, only in the least degree, would be encouraging them to
hold out, and would tend to prolong the contest. He positively forbade
me helping any of them: and I could only obey. I have kept indoors as
much as possible; that I might avoid the sight of the distress which I
must not relieve. But I ordered Mary a good meal here this morning: Mr.
Hunter did not object to that. Here he is.' Mr. Hunter entered, leaning
upon Florence. He looked like an old man, rather than one of middle age.
'Baxendale is back, sir,' Austin observed, after a few words on business
matters had passed in an under tone.
'Come to his senses at last, has he?' cried Mr. Hunter.
'That is just what I told him he had done, sir.'
'Has he signed the declaration?'
'Of course he has. The men have to do that, you know, sir, before they
get any work. He says he wishes he had come back at first.'
'So do a good many others, in their hearts,' answered Mr. Hunter,
significantly. 'But they can't pluck up the courage to acknowledge it.'
'The men are most bitter against him--urged on, no doubt, by the Union.
They----'
'Against Baxendale?'
'Against Baxendale. He came to speak to me before breakfast. I gave him
the declaration to read and sign, and sent him to work at once. In the
course of the morning it had got wind; though Baxendale told me he had
given Sam Shuck notice of his intention on Saturday night. At dinner
time, when Baxendale was quitting the yard, there were, I should say, a
couple of hundred men assembled there----'
'The Daffodil Delight people?' interrupted Mr. Hunter.
'Yes. Our late men chiefly, and a sprinkling of Mr. Henry's. They were
waiting there for Baxendale, and the moment he appeared, the yells, the
hisses, the groans, were dreadful. I suspected what it was, and ran out.
But for my doing so, I believe they would have set upon him.'
'Mark you, Clay! I will protect my workmen to the very limit of the law.
Let the malcontents lay but a finger upon any one of them, and they
shall assuredly be punished to the uttermost,' reiterated Mr. Hunter,
bringing down his hand forcibly. 'What did you do?'
'I spoke to them just as you have now spoken,' said Austin. 'Their
threatenings to the man were terrible. I dared them to lay a finger upon
him; I assured them that the language they were using was punishable.
Had the police been in the way--but the more you want them, the less
they are to be seen--I should have handed a few into custody.'
'Who were the ringleaders?'--'I can scarcely tell. Ryan, the Irishman,
was busy, and so was Jim Dunn; Cheek, also, backed by his wife.'
'Oh, you had women also!'
'In plenty,' said Austin. 'One of them--I think it was Cooper's
wife--roared out a challenge to fight _Mrs._ Baxendale, if her man,
Cooper, as she expressed it, was too much of a woman to fight _him_.
There will be bloodshed, I fear, sir, before the thing is over.'
'If there is, let they who cause it look to themselves,' said Mr.
Hunter, speaking as sternly as he felt. 'How did it end?'
'I cleared a passage for Baxendale, and they yelled and hooted him
home,' replied Austin. "I suppose they'd like to take my life, sir," he
said to me; "but I think I am only doing right in returning to work. I
could not let my family and Mary quite starve." This afternoon all was
quiet; Quale told me the men were holding a meeting.'
Florence was sitting with her hands clasped, her colour gradually
rising. 'If they should--set upon Baxendale, and--and injure him!' she
breathed.
'Then the law would see what it could do towards getting some of them
punished,' sternly spoke Mr. Hunter.
'Oh, James!' interposed his wife, her pale cheeks flushing, as the words
grated on her ears. 'Can nothing be done to prevent it? Prevention is
better than cure. Austin, will you not give notice to the police, and
tell them to be on the alert?'
'I have done it,' answered Austin.
'Papa,' said Florence, 'have you heard that Robert Darby's children are
ill?--likely to die? They are suffering dreadfully from want. Mary
Baxendale said so when she was here this morning.'
'I know nothing about Robert Darby or his children,' was the
uncompromising reply of Mr. Hunter. 'If a man sees his children
starving before him, and will not work to feed them, he deserves to find
them ill. Florence, I see what you mean--you would like to ask me to
permit you to send them relief. _I will not._'
Do not judge of Mr. Hunter's humanity by the words, or deem him an
unfeeling man. He was far from that. Had the men been out of work
through misfortune, he would have been the first to forward them
succour; many and many a time had he done it in cases of sickness. He
considered, as did most of the other London masters, that to help the
men or their families in any way, would but tend to prolong the dispute.
And there was certainly reason in their argument--if the men wished to
feed their children, why did they not work for them?
'Sir,' whispered Austin, when he was going, and Mr. Hunter went with him
into the hall, 'that bill of Lamb's came back to us to-day, noted.'
'No!'--'It did, indeed. I had to take it up.'
Mr. Hunter lifted his hands. 'This wretched state of things! It will
bring on ruin, it will bring on ruin. I heard one of the masters curse
the men the other day in his perplexity and anger; there are times when
I am tempted to follow his example. Ruin! for my wife and for Florence!'
'Mr. Hunter,' exclaimed Austin, greatly agitated, and speaking in the
moment's impulse, 'why will you not give me the hope of winning her? I
will make her a happy home----'
'Be silent!' sternly interrupted Mr. Hunter. 'I have told you that
Florence can never be yours. If you cannot put away this unthankful
subject, at once and for ever, I must forbid you the house.'
'Good night, sir,' returned Austin. And he went away, sighing heavily.