THE MUTABLE MANY
A Novel
By Robert Barr
Second Edition
“For the imitable, rank-scented many, let them
Regard me as I do not flatter, and
Therein behold themselves?
--CORIOLANUS.
London: Frederick A. Stokes Company
1896
[Illustration: 0001]
[Illustration: 0007]
He that trusts you,
Where he should find you lions, finds you hares;
Where foxes, geese. You are no surer, no,
Than is the coal of fire upon the ice,
Or hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is,
To make him worthy, whose offence subdues him
And curse that justice did it.
Who deserves greatness,
Deserves your hate: and your affections are
A sick man’s appetite, who desires most that
Which would increase his evil. He that depends
Upon your favours, swims with fins of lead,
And hews down oaks with rushes.. Hang ye!
Trust ye?
With every minute you do change a mind;
And call him noble that was now your hate,
Him vile, that was now your garland.”
Coriolanus.
THE MUTABLE MANY
CHAPTER I.
The office of Monkton & Hope’s great factory hung between heaven and
earth, and, at the particular moment John Sartwell, manager, stood
looking out of the window towards the gates, heaven consisted of a
brooding London fog suspended a hundred feet above the town, hesitating
to fall, while earth was represented by a sticky black-cindered
factory-yard bearing the imprint of many a hundred boots. The office was
built between the two huge buildings known as the “Works.” The situation
of the office had evidently been an after-thought--it was of wood, while
the two great buildings which it joined together as if they were
Siamese twins of industry, were of brick. Although no architect had ever
foreseen the erection of such a structure between the two buildings,
yet necessity, the mother of invention, had given birth to what Sartwell
always claimed was the most conveniently situated office in London.
More and more room had been acquired in the big buildings as business
increased, and the office--the soul of the whole thing--had, as it were,
to take up a position outside its body.
The addition, then, hung over the roadway that passed between the two
buildings; it commanded a view of both front and back yards, and had,
therefore, more light and air than the office Sartwell had formerly
occupied in the left-hand building. The unique situation caused it to
be free from the vibration of the machinery to a large extent, and as
a door led into each building, the office had easy access to both.
Sartwell was very proud of these rooms and their position, for he had
planned them, and had thus given the firm much additional space, with
no more ground occupied than had been occupied before--a most desirable
feat to perform in a crowded city like London.
Two rooms at the back were set apart for the two members of the firm,
while Sartwell’s office in the front was three times the size of either
of these rooms and extended across the whole space between the two
buildings. This was as it should be; for Sartwell did three times the
amount; of work the owners of the business accomplished and, if it came
to that, had three times the brain power of the two members of the firm
combined, who were there simply because they were the sons of their
fathers. The founders of the firm had with hard work and shrewd
management established the large manufactory whose present prosperity
was due to Sartwell and not to the two men whose names were known to the
public as the heads of the business.
Monkton and Hope were timid, cautious, somewhat irresolute men, as
capitalists should be all the world over. They had unbounded confidence
in their manager, and generally shifted any grave responsibility or
unpleasant decision to his shoulders, which bore the burdens placed upon
them with equanimity. Sartwell was an iron man, with firm resolute lips,
and steely blue eyes that were most disconcerting to any one who had
something not quite straight to propose. Even the two partners quailed
under these eyes and gave way before them if it came to a conflict of
opinion. Sartwell’s rather curt “It won’t do, you know” always settled
things.
Sartwell knew infinitely more about the works than they did; for while
they had been at college the future manager was working his way up into
the confidence of their fathers, and every step he took advanced his
position in the factory. The three men were as nearly as possible of the
same age, and the hair of each was tinged with grey; Sartwell’s perhaps
more than the others.
It was difficult to think of love in connection with the two partners,
yet it is pleasing to know that when love did come to them at the
proper time of life, it had come with gold in one hand and a rigid
non-conformist conscience in the other. The two had thus added wealth to
wealth by marrying, and, as their wives were much taken up with deeds
of goodness, done only after strict and conscientious investigation, so
that the unworthy might not benefit, and as both Monkton and Hope were
somewhat timorous men who were bound to be ruled by the women they
married some of their wealth found its way into the coffers of
struggling societies and organizations for the relieving of distress.
Thus there came to impregnate the name of Monk-ton & Hope (Limited) a
certain odour of sanctity which is most unusual in business circles
in London. The firm, when once got at, could be counted on for a
subscription almost with certainty, but alas! it was not easy to get
at the firm. The applicant had to come under the scrutiny of those
searching eyes of Sartwell’s, which had a perturbing habit of getting
right at the heart of a matter with astonishing quickness; and when once
he said “It won’t do, you know,” there was no going behind the verdict.
A private stairway led from the yard below to the hall in the suspended
building which divided the large office of the manager from the two
smaller private rooms of the firm. This stairway was used only by the
three men. The clerks and the public came in by the main entrance, where
a watchful man sat behind a little arched open window over which was
painted the word “Enquiries.”
Outside in the gloom the two great lamps over the gateposts flared
yellow light down on the cindery roadway and the narrow street beyond.
Through the wide open gateway into the narrow stone-paved street
poured hundreds of workingmen. There was no jostling and they went out
silently, which was unusual. It seemed as if something hovered over them
even more depressing than the great fog cloud just above their heads.
Sartwell, alone in his office, stood somewhat back from the window,
unseen, and watched their exit grimly, sternly. The lines about his firm
mouth tightened his lips into more than their customary rigidity. He
noticed that now and then a workman cast a glance at his windows, and he
knew they cursed him in their hearts as standing between them and
their demands, for they were well aware that the firm would succumb
did Sartwell but give the word. The manager knew that at their meetings
their leader had said none was so hard on workingmen as a workman who
had risen from the ranks. Sartwell’s name had been hissed while the name
of the firm had been cheered; but the manager was not to be deterred
by unpopularity, although the strained relations between the men and
himself gave him good cause for anxiety.
As he thought over the situation and searched his mind to find whether
he himself were to blame in any way, there was a rap at his door.
He turned quickly away from the window, stood by his desk, and said
sharply, “Come in.”
There entered a young man in workman’s dress with his cap in his hand.
His face was frank, clear-cut, and intelligent, and he had washed it
when his work was done, which was a weakness not indulged in by the
majority of his companions.
“Ah, Marsten,” said the manager, his brow clearing when he saw who it
was. “Did you get that job done in time?”
“It was off before half-past five, sir.”
“Right. Were there any obstacles thrown in your way?”
“None that could not be surmounted, sir.”
“Right again. That’s the way I like to have things done. The young man
who can accomplish impossibilities is the man for me, and the man who
gets along in this world.”
The young fellow turned his cap over and over in his hands, and,
although he was evidently pleased with the commendation of the manager,
he seemed embarrassed. At last he said, hesitatingly:
“I am very anxious to get on in the world, sir.”
“Well, you may have an opportunity shortly,” replied the manager.
Then he suddenly shot the question:
“Are you people going to strike?”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
“Why do you say ‘afraid’? Are you going out with the others, or do you
call your soul your own?”
“A man cannot fight the Union single-handed.”
“You are talking to a man who is going to.”
The young man looked up at his master.
“With you it is different,” he said. “You are backed by a wealthy
company. Whether you win or lose, your situation is secure. If I failed
the Union in a crisis, I could never get another situation.”
Sartwell smiled grimly when the young man mentioned the firm. He knew
that there lay his weakness rather than his strength, for although the
firm had said he was to have a free hand, yet he was certain the moment
the contest became bitter the firm would be panic-stricken. Then, if the
women took a hand in, the jig was up. If the strikers had known on which
side their bread was buttered they would have sent a delegation of their
wives to Mrs. Monkton and Mrs. Hope. But they did not know this, and
Sartwell was not the man to show the weakness of his hand.
“Yes,” said the manager, “I have the entire confidence of Mr. Monkton
and Mr. Hope. I wonder if the men appreciate that fact.”
“Oh yes, sir; they know that.”
“Now, Marsten, have you any influence with the men?”
“Very little, I’m afraid, sir.”
“If you have any, now is the time to exert it; for their sakes, you
know, not for mine. The strike is bound to fail. Nevertheless I don’t
forget a man who stands by me.”
The young man shook his head.
“If my comrades go, I’ll go with them. I am not so sure that a strike is
bound to fail, although I am against it. The Union is very strong, Mr.
Sartwell. Perhaps you do not know that it is the strongest Union in
London.”
The manager allowed his hand to hover for a moment over a nest of
pigeon-holes, then he drew out a paper and handed it to Marsten.
“There is the strength of the Union,” he said, “down to the seventeen
pounds eight shillings and twopence they put in the bank yesterday
afternoon. If you want any information about your Union, Marsten, I
shall be happy to oblige you with it.”
The young man opened his eyes as he looked at the figures.
“It is a very large sum,” he said.
“A respectable fighting fund,” remarked Sartwell, impartially. “But how
many Saturdays do you think it would stand the drain of the pay-roll of
this establishment?”
“Not very many perhaps.”
“It would surprise you to know how few. The men look at one side of
this question only, while I am compelled to look at two sides. If any
Saturday their pay was not forthcoming, they would not be pleased, would
they? Now I have to scheme and plan so that the money is there every
Saturday, and besides there must be enough more to pay the firm for its
investment and its risk. These little details may not seem important to
a demagogue who knows nothing of business, but who can harangue a body
of men and make them dissatisfied. I should be very pleased to give him
my place here for a month or two while I took a rest, and then we would
see whether he thought there was anything in my point of view.”
“Mr. Sartwell,” said Marsten, looking suddenly at the manager, “some
of the more moderate men asked me to-night a similar question to one of
yours.”
“What question was that?”
“They asked if I had any influence with you.”
“Yes? And you told them----?”
“That I didn’t know.”
“Well, you will never know until you test the point. Have you anything
to suggest?”
“Many are against a strike, but even the more moderate think you are
wrong in refusing to see the delegation. They think the refusal seems
high-handed, and that if you were compelled to reject any requests made,
you ought not to let things come to a crisis without at least allowing
the delegation to present the men’s case.”
“And do you think I am wrong in this?”
“I do.”
“Very well. I’ll settle that in a moment. You get some of the more
moderate together--head the delegation yourself. I will make an
appointment with you, and we will talk the matter over.”
The young man did not appear so satisfied with this prompt concession as
might have been expected. He did not reply for some moments, while the
elder man looked at him critically, with his back against the tall desk.
At last Marsten spoke:
“I could not lead the delegation, being one of the youngest in the
employ of the firm. The secretary of the Union is the leader the men
have chosen.”
“Ah! The secretary of the Union. That is quite a different matter. He is
not in my employ. I cannot allow outsiders to interfere in any business
with which I am connected. I am always willing to receive my own men,
either singly or in deputation, and that is no small matter where so
many men are at work; but if I am to open my office doors to the outside
world--well, life is too short. For instance, I discuss these things
with you, but I should decline to discuss them with any man who dropped
in out of the street.”
“Yes, I see the difficulty, but don’t you think you might make a
concession in this instance, to avoid trouble?”
“It wouldn’t be avoiding trouble, it would merely be postponing it. It
would form a precedent, and I would have this man or that interfering
time and again. I would have to make a stand some time, perhaps when I
was not so well prepared. If there is to be a fight, I want it now. We
need some new machinery in, and we could do with a week’s shut-down.”
Marsten shook his head.
“The shut-down would be for longer than a week,” he said.
“I know that. The strike will last exactly three weeks. At the end of
that time there will be no Union.”
“Perhaps there will also be no factory.”
“You mean there will be violence? Very well. In that case the strike
will last but a fortnight. You see, my boy, we are in London, and there
are not only the police within a moment’s call, but, back of them,
the soldiers, and back of them again the whole British Empire. Oh no,
Marsten, it won’t do, you know, it won’t do.
“The men are very determined, Mr. Sartwell.”
“All the better. I like a determined antagonist. Then you get things
settled once for all. I don’t object to a square stand-up fight, but
eternal haggling and higgling and seeing deputations and arbitrations,
and all that sort of thing, I cannot endure. Let us know where we are,
and then get on with our work.”
“Then you have nothing to propose, Mr. Sartwell? Nothing conciliatory, I
mean.”
“Certainly I have. Let the men request that blatant ass Gibbons to
attend to his secretarial duties and then let a deputation from our own
workshops come up and see me. We’ll talk the matter over, and if they
have any just grievance I will remedy it for them. What can be fairer
than that?”
“It’s got to be a matter of principle with the men now--that is, the
inclusion of Gibbons has. It means recognizing of the Union.”
“Oh, I’ll recognize the Union and take off my hat to it; that is, so far
as my own employees are concerned. But I will not have an outsider, who
knows nothing of this business, come up here and spout his nonsense.
It’s a matter of principle with me as well as with the men.”
Marsten sighed.
“I’m afraid there is nothing for it then but a fight,” he said.
“Perhaps not. One fool makes many. Think well, Marsten, which side you
are going to be with in this fight. I left a Union, and although I was
older than you are at the time, I never repented it. It kept me out of
employment, but not for long, and they kept me out of it in the very
business of which I am now manager. The Union is founded on principles
that won’t do, you know. Any scheme that tends to give a poor workman
the same wages as a good workman is all wrong.”
“I don’t agree with you, Mr. Sartwell. The only hope for the workingman
is in combination. Of course we make mistakes and are led away by
demagogues, but some day there will be a strike led by an individual
Napoleon, and then we will settle things once for all, as you said a
while ago.”
Sartwell laughed, and held out his hand.
“Oh, that’s your ambition is it? Well, good luck attend you, my
young Napoleon. I should have chosen Wellington, if I had been you.
Good-night. I am waiting for my daughter, to whom I foolishly gave
permission to call for me here in a cab.”
Marsten held the hand extended to him so long that the manager looked at
him in astonishment. The colour had mounted from the young man’s cheeks
to his brow and his eyes were on the floor.
“Mr. Sartwell,” he said, with an effort, “I came tonight to speak with
you about your daughter and not about the strike.”
The manager dropped his hand as if it had been red-hot, and stepped back
two paces.
“About my daughter?” he cried, sternly. “What do you mean?”
Marsten had to moisten his lips once or twice before he could reply. His
released hand opened and shut nervously.
“I mean,” he said, “that I am in love with her.”
The manager sat down in the office chair beside his table. All the
former friendliness had left his face, and his dark brows lowered over
his keen eyes, into which their usual cold glitter had returned.
“What folly is this?” he cried, with rising anger. “You are a boy, and
from the gutter at that, for all I know. My daughter is but a child yet;
she is only----” He paused. He had been about to say seventeen when it
occurred to him that he had married her mother when she was but a year
older.
Marsten’s colour became a deeper red when the manager spoke so
contemptuously of the gutter. He said slowly, and with a certain
doggedness in his tone:
“It is no reproach to come from the gutter--the reproach is in staying
there. I have left it, and I don’t intend to return.”
“Oh, ‘intend’!” cried the manager, impatiently. “We all know what is
paved with intentions. Why; you have never even spoken to the girl!”
“No, but I mean to.”
“Do you? Well, I shall take very good care that you do not.”
“What have you against me, Mr. Sartwell?”
“What is there for you? Perhaps you will kindly specify your
recommendations.”
“You are very hard on me, Mr. Sartwell. You know that if I came from the
gutter, what education I have, I gave to myself. I have studied hard,
and worked hard. Does that count for nothing? I have a good character,
and I have a good situation----”
“You have not. I discharge you. You will call at the office to-morrow,
get your week’s money, and go.”
“Oh!”
“Yes, ‘oh!’ You did not think that of me, did you?”
“I did not.”
“Well, for once you are right. I merely wish to show you how your good
situation depends on the caprice of one man. I have no intention of
discharging you. I am not so much afraid of you as that. I’ll look after
my daughter.”
Marsten said bitterly:
“Gibbons, ass as he is, is right when he says that no one is so hard on
a workman as one who has risen from the ranks. You were no better off
than I am, when you were my age.”
Sartwell sprang to his feet, his eyes ablaze with anger.
“Pay attention, young man,” he cried. “All the things you have done, I
have done. All the things you intend to do, I have already done. I have,
in a measure, educated myself, and I have worked hard night and day.
I have attained a certain position, a certain responsibility, and a
certain amount of money. I have had little pleasure and much toil in my
life, and I am now growing old. Yet as I look back I see that there was
as much luck as merit in what success I have had. I was ready when the
chance came, that was all; if the chance hadn’t come, all my readiness
would have done me little good. For one man who succeeds, a dozen,
equally deserving, fail.
“Now, why have I gone through all this? Why? For myself? Not likely.
I have done it so that she may not have to be that tired drudge--a
workman’s wife--so that she may begin where I leave off. That’s why. For
myself, I would as soon wear a workman’s jacket as a manager’s coat. And
now, having gone through all this for her sake--you talk of love! What
is your love for her compared to mine? When I have done all this that
she might never know what it means, shall I be fool enough, knave
enough, idiot enough, to thrust her back where I began, at the beck of
the first mouthing ranter who has the impudence to ask for her? No, by
God, no! Now you have had your answer, get out, and don’t dare to set
foot in this office until you are sent for.”
Sartwell in his excitement smote the desk with his clenched fist to
emphasize his sentences. Marsten shrank before his vehemence, realizing
that no workman had ever seen the manager angry before, and he dreaded
the resentment that would rise in Sartwell’s heart when the coldness
returned. He felt that he would have been more diplomatic to have left
sooner. Nevertheless, seeing that things could be no worse, he stood his
ground.
“I thought,” he said, “that it would be honourable in me to let you
know----”
“Don’t talk to me of honour. Get out.”
At that moment the door from the private stairway opened and a young
girl came in. Her father had completely forgotten his appointment with
her, and both men were taken aback by her entrance.
“I knocked, father,” she said, “but you did not hear me.”
“In a moment, Edna. Just step into the hall for a moment,” said her
father, hurriedly.
“I beg of you not to leave, Miss Sartwell,” said Marsten, going to the
other door and opening it. “Good-night, Mr. Sartwell.”
“Good-night,” said the manager, shortly.
“Good-night, Miss Sartwell.”
“Good-night,” said the girl sweetly, with the suggestion of a bow.
The eyes of the two men met for a moment, the obstinacy of the race in
each; but the eyes of the younger man said defiantly:
“I have spoken to her, you see.”