“Edna, where are you?”
“Here, mother.”
“You heard me calling you; why did you not answer?”
“I have answered by coming to you. How is Mr. Hope?”
“In a dreadfully nervous state. He thinks he is not hurt, but I am sure
he has been injured internally, which is far worse than outward wounds,
as I told him. He seems to be strung on wires, and jumps every time
his wife makes the most casual remark to him. I advised him to see a
physician, and know the worst at once. And Mrs. Hope tells me he acts
very queerly. He took scarcely any breakfast this morning yet before
lunch he ordered into the study a simply enormous meal, and devoured it
all alone.”
“Perhaps that was because he had taken so little breakfast.”
“No, child, you don’t know what you are talking about. There are some
things Mr. Hope can never touch without being ill afterwards. Mrs. Hope
is very careful of his diet. There’s pickles, for instance; he hasn’t
touched a pickle for sixteen years, yet to-day he consumed a great
quantity, and drank a whole bottle of beer, besides roast beef and
cheese, and ever so many other things. Mrs. Hope, poor woman, is sitting
with folded hands, waiting for him to die. I never saw such a look of
heavenly resignation on any human face before.”
“As on Mr.. Hope’s?”
“Edna, don’t be pert. You know very well I mean Mrs. Hope.”
“Really, mother, I didn’t. I thought perhaps Mr. Hope was resigned. What
does he say?”
“He says it hasn’t hurt him in the least, but Mrs. Hope merely sighs and
shakes her head. She knows what is in store for him.”
“I’ll warrant the poor man was just hungry, and tired of too much
dieting. I hope he enjoyed his meal.”
“Edna, you have too little experience, and, much as I regret to say
it, too little sense to understand what it means. Mr. Hope’s digestive
organs have always been weak--always. If it had not been for his wife’s
anxious care, he would have been dead long ago. She allowed him out
of her sight for a few minutes this morning, and refused all callers,
except myself and one or two of her own very dearest friends, and
you see what happened. She fears that the excitement of yesterday has
completely ruined his nerves, and that he doesn’t know what he is doing,
although he insists he feels as well as ever he did; but I said to
Mrs. Hope I would have the best medical advice at once if I were in her
place. Who was it called here to see your father while I was away?”
“I have not been in the house since you left.”
“What! In the garden all this time! Edna, when will you learn to have
some responsibility? How can you expect the maids to do their duty if
you neglect yours and never look after them?”
“You train them so well, mother, that I did not think it was necessary
for me to look after them while you were away.”
“Yes, I train them, and, I hope, I do my duty towards them; but you
also have duties to perform, although you think so lightly of them. You
forget that for every hour idled away you will have to give an account
on the Last Great Day.”
“I have not been idling, and, even if I had, one can’t be always
thinking of the Last Great Day.”
They had by this time reached the drawing-room, and Mrs. Sartwell sat
down, gazing with chastened severity at her step-daughter.
“Edna,” she said, solemnly, “I implore you not to give way to flippancy.
That is exactly the way your father talks, and while, let us hope, it
will be forgiven him, it ill becomes one of your years to take that
tone. Your father little thinks what trouble he is storing for himself
in his training of you, and, if I told him you were deceiving him, he
would not believe it. But some day, alas! his eyes will be opened.”
“How am I deceiving him?” cried Edna, a quick pallour coming into her
face.
Her step-mother mournfully shook her head, and sighed.
“If your own heart does not tell you, then perhaps I should be silent.
You have his wicked temper, my poor child. Your face is pale with anger
just because I have mildly tried to show you the right path.”
“You have not shown me the right path. You have said I am deceiving my
father, and I ask what you mean?”
Mrs. Sartwell smiled gently, if sadly.
“How like! how like! I can almost fancy it is your father speaking with
your voice.”
“Well, I am glad of that. You don’t often say complimentary things to
me.”
“That is more of your pertness. You know very well I don’t compliment
you when I say you are like your father. Far from it. But a day will
come when even his eyes will be opened. Yes, indeed.”
“You mean that his eyes will be opened to my deceit, but you have not
told me how I am deceiving him.”
“You deceive him because you take very good care, when in his presence,
not to show him the worst side of your character. Oh, dear no, you take
good care of that! Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth when he is here.
But he’ll find you out some day, to his sorrow. Wait till your stubborn
wills cross, and then you will each know the other. Of course, now it
is all smooth and pleasant, but that is because you don’t demand to know
what he means, and do not tell him that you can’t be bothered about the
Last Great Day.”
“Father never threatens me with the Judgment, as you so often do, nor
does he make accusations against me, and so I don’t need to ask what he
means. I suppose I am wicked,” continued the girl, almost in tears,
“but you say things that seem always to bring out the bad side of my
character.”
“You are too impulsive,” said the lady, smoothly. “You are first
impenitently impudent to me, and then you, say you have a bad character,
which I never asserted. You are not worse than your father.”
“Worse? I only wish I were half as good.”
“Ah, that’s because you don’t know him any better than he knows you. You
think he takes you entirely into his confidence, but he does nothing of
the sort. Why did he so carefully carry away the newspaper with him this
morning?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. Why shouldn’t he? it’s his own.”
“His own,--yes! but he never did it before. He took it away the better
to deceive his wife and daughter,--that’s why. So that we shouldn’t know
how he braved and defied the men yesterday. Oh, I can see him! It was
just the kind of thing that would gratify his worldly pride.”
“Oh, what happened, mother?” cried the girl, breathless with anxiety.
“I thought he didn’t tell you, and I suppose he did not mention that
poor Mr. Hope, and Mr. Monkton too, begged and implored him not to go
to the works to-day,--yes, almost on their bended knees; and he paid not
the slightest attention to their wishes--and they his employers! If for
no other reason he----”
“But tell me what he did? How did he defy the men?”
“Why do you not allow me to finish what I am saying? Why are you so
impatient?”
“Because he is my father. Is that not reason enough?”
“Yes, my poor child, yes,” murmured Mrs. Sartwell, in mournful cadence,
“that is reason enough. Like father, like daughter. It is perhaps too
much for me to expect patience from you, when _he_ has so little.”
“That is not my meaning, but never mind. Please tell me if he was in
danger.”
“We are all of us in danger every moment of our lives, and saved from it
by merciful interposition and not by any virtue of our puny efforts.
How often, how often have I made my poor endeavour to impress this great
truth on your father’s mind, only to be met with scorn and scoffing, as
if scorn and scoffing would avail on the Last----Why are you acting so,
Edna? You pace up and down the room in a way that is--I regret to say
it--most unladylike. You shouldn’t spring from your chair in that abrupt
manner. I say that scoffing will not avail. Surely I have a right to
make the statement in my own house! When I said to your father this very
morning that he should not boast in his own strength, which is but
fleeting, but should put his trust in a higher power, he answered that
he did--the police were on the ground. What is that but scoffing? He
knew I was not referring to the police.”
Edna had left the room before her step-mother completed the last
sentence, and when the much-tried woman, arising with a weary sigh,
followed the girl into the hall, she found herself confronted with
another domestic tribulation. Edna had her hat on, and was clasping her
cloak.
“Where are you going?” asked her amazed stepmother.
“To London.”
“To London! Does your father know of this?”
“He will. I am going to take a hansom from the station to the works.”
“What! Drive through that howling mob?”
“The howling mob won’t hurt me.”
“Child, you are crazy! What is the meaning of this?”
“The meaning is that I am going to hear what danger my father was in
yesterday, and to be with him if he is in danger to-day:”
The good woman held up her hands in helpless dismay. Was ever human
being, anxious to do her duty to all, harassed by two such ungovernable
persons since the world began?--she asked herself. But for once she made
exactly the remark to cope with the situation.
“The time has come sooner than I expected. Your father has forbidden you
to go to the office, and, when he sees that you have disobeyed him at
such a time as this, he will be furious. Then you will know what _I_
have to stand.”
The impetuous girl paused in her preparations.
“Then why do you exasperate me beyond endurance by refusing to tell me
what happened?”
“I refuse! I refuse you nothing. Better would it have been for me if I
had when you were younger; then you would think twice before you flung
all obedience to the winds. You have only to ask what you want to know,
and listen with patience while it is told to you.”
“I have asked you a dozen times.”
“How you do exaggerate! I call it exaggeration, although I might
perhaps be forgiven for using a harsher term. Exactitude of statement is
more----”
“Will you tell me, or shall I go?”
“Have I not just said that I will tell you anything? What is it you want
to know? Your own ridiculous conduct has driven everything out of my
head.”
“You said my father had defied the men and was in danger yesterday.”
“Oh, that! After seeing the police guard Mr. Hope and Mr. Monkton
through the lawless mob, what must your father do but show how brave
he was compared with his superiors. He came out of the gates alone, and
walked through the mob.”
“What did he say?”
“He didn’t say anything.”
“Then how did he defy the men?”
“Good gracious, child, how stupid you are! When men are driven to
extremities, surely his coming out among them--and he the cause of it
all--was defiance enough. But a full account is in the paper I bought
at the station; it is on the hall table, where you would have seen it
if you could have kept your temper. Read it if you want to. It is not me
you are disobeying when you do so. Remember, it was your father who did
not want you to see the paper.”
The day proved a long one to Edna Sartwell, and, when her father did
not return at the usual hour, she became more and more anxious. Her
step-mother said nothing about the delay, as the hours passed, but began
to assume that air of patient resignation which became her so well.
Dinner was served to the minute, and at the accustomed moment the table
was cleared. Once or twice she chided Edna for her restlessness, and
regretted she had to speak, but was compelled to do so because the good
example she herself set was so palpably unappreciated. At last she said:
“Edna, go to bed. I will wait up for your father.”
“He is sure to be home soon. Please let me wait until he comes.”
There was silence for a few minutes.
“I don’t wish to ask you twice, Edna. You heard what I said.”
“Please do not send me away until father comes. I am so anxious! Let me
sit up instead of you. I can’t sleep if I do go to bed. Won’t you let me
sit up in your place?”
The martyred look came into the thin face of her step-mother--the look
which told of trials uncomplainingly borne.’
“I have always sat up for your father, and always shall, so long as we
are spared to each other. For the third time I ask you to go to bed.”
The girl sat where she was, the red flag of rebellion in her cheek. The
glint of suppressed anger in Mrs. Sartwell’s eye showed that a point
had been reached where one or the other of them had to leave the room
defeated. The elder woman exhibited her forbearance by speaking in the
same level tone throughout.
“Do you intend to obey me, Edna?”
“No, I do not.”
Mrs. Sartwell went on with her sewing, a little straighter in the
back, perhaps, but not otherwise visibly disturbed by the unjustifiable
conduct of the girl. In each instance after Edna’s prompt replies there
was silence for a few moments.
“In the earlier part of the day, Edna, you permitted yourself to speak
to me and act towards me in a manner which I hoped you would regret
when opportunity for reflection was given. I expected some expression of
contrition from you. Have you reflected, Edna?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Sartwell threaded her needle with almost excessive deliberation.
“And what has been the result?”
“That I was pleased to think I had said nothing harsher than I did.”
The ticking of the tall clock on the landing echoed through the house.
Edna listened intently for a quick, firm step on the gravel, but all
outside was silent.
“Added to your--if I use the word insolence, it is because I can
think of no other term with which to characterize the remarks you have
addressed to me--added to your insolence is now disobedience. If I
am overstating, the case, no one can be more pleased than I to be
corrected, in the proper spirit.”
“I have no desire to correct you.”
After nipping the thread with her teeth and drawing a deep, wavering
sigh, Mrs. Sartwell said:
“In every household, Edna, some one must command and others obey. When
my time comes I shall gladly lay down the burden of what poor authority
is delegated to me, but until that time comes I shall be mistress in
my own house. Your father freely, and of his own choice, gave me that
authority, and he, not you, is the proper person to revoke it, if
it pleases him to do so. I shall therefore say nothing more until he
returns. Then he must choose between us. If you are to be mistress here,
I shall bow my head without a word, and leave this house, praying that
peace and every blessing may remain within it.”
Something of the self-sacrificing resignation breathing through these
measured words must have touched the hardened heart of the girl, for
she buried her face in her hands and began to weep,--a certain sign
of defeat. But she evidently determined not to give her antagonist the
satisfaction fairly won by so admirable a dissertation upon the correct
conduct of a well-ordered household.
“It is always poor father!” she sobbed. “With all the trouble and
anxiety already on his mind, he must be worried when he comes home by
our miserable squabbles.”
“I never squabble, Edna. Neither do I ever use such an undignified word.
Where you got it, I’m sure I do not know, but it was not from me. If
you wish your father not to be troubled, then you should act so that it
would not be necessary to appeal to him. It is no wish of mine to add to
his cares,--far otherwise. Are you ready to obey me now?”
“Yes.”
The girl rose and went rather uncertainly to the door, her eyes filled
with tears.
“You have not kissed me good-night, Edna.”
She kissed her step-mother on the cheek and went to her room, flinging
herself, dressed as she was, on her bed, sobbing. Yet she listened for
that step on the gravel which did not come. At last she rose, arranged
her hair for the night, and bathed her face, so that her father, if he
came home and saw her, should not know she had been crying. Wrapping
herself in her dressing-gown, she sat by the window and listened
intently and anxiously. It was after midnight when the last train came
in, and some minutes later her quick ear heard the long-expected step
far down the street; but it was not the quick, nervous tread she was
accustomed to. It was the step of a tired man. She thought of softly
calling to him from the window, but did not. Holding her door ajar,
she heard the murmur of her step-mother’s voice and occasionally the
shorter, gruffer note of her father’s evidently monosyllabic replies.
After what seemed an interminable time, her stepmother came up alone,
and the door of her room closed.
Edna, holding her breath, slipped noiselessly out of her room and down
the stairs. The steps were kind to her, and did not creak. She opened
the door of the dining-room, and appeared as silently as if she were
a ghost. Her father started from his chair, and it required all his
habitual self-command to repress the exclamation that rose to his lips.
“Heaven help us, my dearest girl; do you want to frighten your old
father out of what little wits he has left him?” he whispered.. “Why
aren’t you asleep?” She gently closed the door, then ran to him, and
threw her arms about his neck.
“Oh, father, are you safe? You are not hurt?”
“Hurt! Why, what would hurt me, you silly baby?” He ruffled her hair,
pulling it over her eyes. “You’ve been dreaming; I believe you are
talking in your sleep now. Why are you not in bed?”
“I couldn’t sleep till you came home. What kept you so late, father?”
“Now this is more than the law requires of a man. Have I to make
explanations to two women every night I come home by the late train?”
The girl sat down on a hassock, and laid her head on her father’s knee,
he smoothing her hair caressingly.
“What is all this pother about, Edna? Why are you so anxious at my being
out late?”
“I was afraid you were in danger; I read what was said in the paper
about your defying the men, and--and----”
Sartwell laughed quietly.
“My dear girl, if you are going to begin life by believing all you
see in the papers, you will have an uneasy time of it. I can tell you
something much more startling which has not yet appeared in print.”
“What is that, father?” asked the girl, looking up at him.
“That you have been a most unruly child all day, causing deep anxiety to
those responsible for your upbringing.”
Edna sank her head again upon her father’s knee.
“Yes,” she said, “that is quite true. I have been dreadfully wicked and
rebellious, saying things I ought not to have said.”
“And leaving unsaid the things,--ah well, none of us is quite perfect.
It is a blessing there is such a thing as forgiveness of sins, otherwise
most of us would come badly off.”
“Somehow, when you are here, nothing seems to matter, and any worries of
the day appear small and trivial, and I wonder why they troubled me; but
when you are away--well, it’s different altogether.”
“That is very flattering to me, Edna, but you mustn’t imagine I’m to be
cajoled into omitting the scolding you know you deserve. No, I can see
through your diplomacy. It won’t do, my dear girl, it won’t do.”
“It isn’t diplomacy or flattery; it’s true. I’ll take my scolding most
meekly if you tell me what happened to-day.”
“I refuse to bargain with a confessed rebel; still, as I must get you
off to bed before morning, I will tell you what happened. An attempt was
made to settle the strike to-day. The men had a meeting to-night,
and I waited at my club to hear the outcome. I had a man at the meeting
who was to bring me the result of the vote as soon as it was taken.
A young man--one of the strikers, but the only man of brains among
them--saw me this afternoon, and made certain proposals that I accepted.
Gibbons was to be renounced, and a deputation of the men was to come to
me. We should probably have settled the matter in ten minutes, if it had
come off.”
“Then he failed, after all his trouble?”
“Who failed?”
“The--the young man you speak of?”
Edna found her _rôle_ of deceiver a difficult one. She was glad her
father could not see her face, and bitterly regretted giving Marsten a
promise not to tell of his visit.
“Yes, he failed. Of course there was not time to canvass the men
properly, and at the meeting Gibbons, who is a glib talker, won over
enough to defeat the efforts of the others. It wasn’t much of a victory,
but sufficient for the purpose. They had, I understand, a very stormy
meeting, and Gibbons won by some dozen votes or thereabouts.”
“And what is to be done now?”
“Oh, we are just where we were. I’ll wait a few days more, and, if the
men do not come back, I’ll fill their places with a new lot. I don’t
want to do that except as a last resort, but I won’t be played with very
much longer. Now, dear girl, you know all about it; so to bed, to bed,
at once, and sleep soundly. This dissipation cannot be allowed, you
know.”
He kissed her and patted her affectionately on the shoulder. The girl,
with a guilty feeling in her heart, crept up stairs as noiselessly as
she had descended.