On the day after Marsten’s failure to win a majority of the men to his
side in the strike controversy, the young man went to Wimbledon, hoping
to find consolation for his defeat in the company of the girl he loved.
He felt that he was perhaps taking a rather unfair advantage of Sartwell
in thus making a clandestine appointment with his daughter, but he
justified himself, as lovers have always justified themselves, by
claiming that a man was a fool to lose a trick when he had the card in
his hand to take it. It was evident that Sartwell had no objection to
the visits of Barnard Hope, and that he would be quite willing to have
his daughter marry the son of his employer. If Marsten had known this
the day before, he would not have been so self-denying as to refuse
to see Edna Sartwell, and now that fate had interposed in his behalf,
giving him the knowledge that he had a rival, he was not going to be
idiot enough to throw away his chance.
He entered the vacant plot surrounding the empty house, and looked
anxiously along the glass-topped wall for the signal that Edna had
promised, under compulsion, to display. It was not in sight. He wondered
if, after all, the girl had told her father of his visit. Let Sartwell
get but the slightest inkling of it, and Marsten was certain the whole
particulars would soon be within the manager’s knowledge.
He wandered up and down the wrong side of the wall disconsolately, not
knowing what to do. Once he paused near where he had, on the previous
day, jumped over. He thought he heard a slight cough on the other side.
It might be a warning, or an invitation: the question was, which?
She must know that he would be there, waiting for her signal; or
perhaps--the thought was bitter--she might have forgotten all about him.
At the further end of the garden was a park fence, lower than the
forbidding stone wall, which it joined at right angles. As anything
is better than suspense, the young man resolved to take the risk of
reconnoitering. He mounted the park fence and peered over the wall, but
the trees and shrubbery were so thick that he could not see whether any
one was in Sart-well’s garden or not; even the house was hidden from his
view. Faint heart never climbed a stone wall: Marsten hesitated but a
moment, seized a branch of an overhanging tree, pulled himself up to
the top, chancing the glass, and leaped down among the shrubbery on the
other side. He listened intently for a while, but there was no sound;
then he moved cautiously through the bushes to the open space under the
trees where he had talked with her the day before. No one was there, but
he caught his breath as he saw a red-silk scarf hanging over the back
of one of the chairs. She had at least thought of him, for that was
undoubtedly the unused signal.
He was now in a greater quandary than he had been on the other side of
the wall. She had apparently intended to throw the scarf over the broken
glass, otherwise why had she brought it to their rendezvous; but, as she
had not given the signal agreed upon, might there not be a danger that
her father was at home? The young man knit his brows as he pondered on
what explanation he would give Sartwell if he were discovered standing
under the trees.
Marsten had half made up his mind to return by the way he came, when he
saw Edna approaching from the house. The girl held out her hand to
him with a smile that went to his heart, but her words were not so
reassuring.
“I was watching for you,” she said, “hoping you would not come.”
“Hoping I would not come?” echoed Marsten, with a suggestion of dismay
in his tone.
“At least hoping you would not come, except by the gate. I don’t like
this. It seems secret and mean--as if we were doing something we were
ashamed of. Now, we may not accomplish much good, talking about the
strike, but we are certainly not doing anything either of us would fear
to have the whole world know. There is no reason, now that your plans
of yesterday have failed, why you should not have come to the front door
like any other visitor, is there?”
“I suppose not.”
“Of course not,” cried the girl, eagerly, “and so I intend to tell my
father all about this visit, even if I could not mention yesterday’s.”
“Oh, but you must not do anything of the kind,” pleaded Marsten,
thoroughly alarmed. “You will promise me, won’t you, that you will not
say a word of my being here to-day?”
The girl laughed and shook her head.
“I’ll not make another promise so foolish as yesterday’s. You see, my
promise did no good.”
“What! Did you tell Mr. Sartwell I had been here?”
“No. I said I wouldn’t, and I didn’t; but it made me feel wretchedly
guilty when there was no occasion for it. What I mean is, that your
plans did not succeed in putting an end to the strike, and so it would
have made no difference after all, if I had told my father. Don’t you
see that? No, I won’t make another such promise in a hurry again.”
“Miss Sartwell,” said Marsten, seriously, “you don’t understand all the
circumstances; there are reasons why your father must not know I have
been here. Although negotiations have failed for the moment, they will
come on again shortly. If Mr. Sartwell knew I was here yesterday----”
“Oh, I intend to keep my promise about yesterday. I shall not say a word
about that visit: it is of to-day’s I shall tell him.”
“But don’t you see? Yesterday’s visit led to this one. They are
inseparably joined: you cannot mention one without leading to the other.
Please promise you will say nothing about to-day’s either.”
“I won’t make any more promises. When my father came home late last
night, he told me all that happened--what you had tried to do, and
everything. I felt so guilty at having to keep anything from him, that I
resolved to make no more promises to any one unless he knew of them and
there was no need to feel guilty. I am sure he would have been glad to
know we had talked about the strike, and were trying to help him; yet
all because of that foolish promise I dared not say a word. I think,
if you knew what I suffered, you would not ask me to keep anything from
him.”
“Dear Miss Sartwell,” cried Marsten, with more of his affection for the
girl in his voice than he was aware of, “I would not cause you suffering
for anything in the world!”
Edna looked at him with wide-open eyes, surprised at his vehemence; then
she laughed merrily.
“Why, how serious you are! After all, I shall soon forget about it; and
although I won’t make rash promises again, I’ll think it all over,
and if----but then, what is the use of ‘ifs’? I shall say to my father
tonight that you came to see him, and that I talked with you about the
strike.”
“That wouldn’t be true, Miss Sartwell. I didn’t come to see him; I came
to see you.”
“Oh!”
“Yes, and you would have to tell him I climbed the wall. You can’t go in
for half-truths, you know, and we haven’t talked much about the strike,
have we?”
“Ah, but you came for that, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Oh, yes, of course. Nothing else; but you see it wouldn’t do
to say anything about this visit to your father unless you told him
everything. He would want to know why I came over the wall.”
“And why did you? Iam sure you might just as well have come through the
gate. It would have been much easier.”
“I will next time I come. But you know the wall is there, and I came
over it; so, without making any promise, I beg of you to say nothing
about it to Mr. Sartwell, for he will want all sorts of explanations
that I don’t quite see how I can give.”
“Well, then, I won’t. Oh, dear! that’s a promise, isn’t it? And I
protested I wouldn’t. I suppose you’ll think that it is just like a
woman. But I’ll never make you another promise--never.”
“Oh, don’t say that, Miss Sartwell. I would promise you anything.”
“Very well. Promise me you will tell my father you were here.”
The girl laughed as she saw his discomfiture when she so promptly took
him at his word.
“There,” she cried, gleefully, “you see, you didn’t mean what you said.
I really believe you are afraid of my father.”
“I am.”
“That’s very funny. I should like to tell him that. I can’t imagine any
one being afraid of him.”
“Perhaps you have never seen him when he is angry.”
“Oh, yes, I have; but I just sit quiet and say nothing. He is never
violent, when angry, as some men are, but his eyes half close, and his
lips are set tight, and he doesn’t care to be spoken to just then; so
that’s why I don’t speak. He was angry with you that night, was he not?”
“What night, Miss Sartwell?” asked Marsten, almost holding his breath. .
“The night at the office when I came in. The first time you ever spoke
to me. Don’t you remember?”
“I shall never forget it,” Marsten said, in a hushed voice.
“Oh, you take things too much to heart, I can see that. You shouldn’t
mind a little disappointment, nor think my father hard because he
refused you. I spoke up for you at the time, as I told you yesterday,
and I’m afraid I didn’t further your interests by doing so, for father
thinks women shouldn’t interfere in business.”
They were seated opposite one another, the girl bending forward in
friendly confidential attitude, the young man unable to take his eyes
from her, listening, like one in a dream, to the entrancing murmur of
her speech.
“You spoke up for me?” he repeated, as if soliloquizing.
“Yes, and father said----”
The girl paused, embarrassed, remembering that what had been said had
not been complimentary to her listener.
“What did he say?” asked Marsten, breathlessly.
“Well, you know, he thought you too young and inexperienced for a
responsible position, and you are not very old, are you? But by and
by, when you have more experience, I am sure he will listen to you. The
great thing is to gain his confidence,--at least that is what I should
try to do.”
“Yes, I should like to win his confidence,” said Marsten, dolefully.
“Oh, it’s not difficult. All that is required is to do your duty. I
think it’s nothing against a young man that he is ambitious. That ought
to be in his favour, especially with a man like my father, because he
has always been very ambitious himself: and I think the great drawback
with workingmen is that they do not seem to care whether they better
their positions or not. You can’t do anything for a man who won’t help
himself: and you are ambitious, aren’t you?”
“Very. Too much so, I sometimes think.”
“Oh, one cannot be too ambitious, unless one is a man like Napoleon and
thoroughly base and wicked. Then it’s wrong, of course. Now, if you want
my advice--but perhaps you think I know nothing about these things?”
“Miss Sartwell, I would rather have your advice than any one else’s in
the world, and I will follow it to the letter.”
“You _do_ take things too seriously. What a weight of responsibility you
would place upon my shoulders! No, you must hear the advice first, and
then judge whether it is best to follow it or not. I think you should
work along quietly for a year or two, doing your very best and saying as
little as possible. Father likes a man who does things, rather than one
who says things. He doesn’t believe much in talk. Then, when you see
he trusts you implicitly, perhaps by that time he will offer you the
situation; but if he doesn’t, you let me know, and I will speak to him
about it. Oh, I shall approach the subject very diplomatically. I shall
begin by asking how you are getting on at the works, and if he speaks
well of you, I will suggest that you be given a better position than the
one you are in. How do you like my plan?”
“It is an admirable one, but--but----”
“But what? Where is the objection to it?”
“There is no objection, except that I may get rather discouraged as time
goes on.”
“Oh, that is nonsense. You are interested in your work, are you not?”
“Very much so, but if I could see you now and again, I--well--wouldn’t
become hopeless or despondent, you see. If that could be managed----”
Edna sat back in her chair, and looked straight at him with clear, wide
eyes that seemed puzzled, trying to see beyond what was plainly in view.
Marsten, burdened by the consciousness that he was not dealing honestly
with her, yet afraid to awaken her too prematurely to the realities of
the situation, was as confused as most single-minded persons are when
placed in a false position from which there is no escape without risking
disaster. For a moment there arose in his fast-beating heart an heroic
determination to cast all caution to the winds, and cry out, “I love
you, my girl, I love you; I am poor, and your father has forbidden me to
see you;” but he feared a repulse from the girl, more fatal to his hopes
than the check he had received from her father. He bent his gaze upon
the ground and curbed his impatience. He realized that honesty had not
been the best policy when he had inopportunely confessed his affection
for the girl to her father, although he thought at the time he had taken
a manly and straightforward course. Had he been less impulsive, and
tried to win still farther the confidence of Sartwell, he might perhaps
have ultimately gained a footing in his chief’s house, and then
who knows what would have happened! He had drawn upon the bank of
confidence, and his cheque had been dishonored: he could not risk a
second mistake of that kind.
“I don’t like your word ‘managed,’” said Edna at last, a little wrinkle
of displeasure on her fair brow. “Your visits here do not need to be
managed. You can come as any other friend of my father comes, and we
shall have plenty of opportunities for talk. You persist in thinking
that my father has some feeling against you, when I assure you such is
not the case.”
Before Marsten could answer, the silence was sharply broken by the
emphatic click of the gate, and the young man was dumbfounded by seeing
Sartwell enter, stride up the path leading to the house, stop, turn his
head toward the spot where they sat, then cross the lawn directly to
them. Marsten sprang to his feet; the girl arose more slowly, a roguish
twinkle in her eye. Here was the solution of the problem right to her
hand, at precisely the proper moment. The expression of the three
faces would have interested a student in physiognomy. Anger, delight,
confusion, were reflected from the countenances of Sartwell, Edna, and
Marsten, respectively; but the elder man was the first to control his
emotion, and, as he approached, his face became an impassive mask,
revealing nothing of the passion within. He cast a brief quick glance
at Marsten, who stood there pale, in the attitude of one who has been
trapped, and who sees no avenue of escape. A longer, more searching look
at his daughter showed him at once that she had nothing to conceal.
Her evident undisguised pleasure at his coming was too palpable to
be misunderstood. He drew a deep breath of relief, but recognized
instinctively that the situation required very delicate handling if
the girl’s ignorance was to be maintained. Here the fates fought on his
side, for each man, from directly opposite motives, desired the same
thing: neither wished to have a conflict in Edna’s presence; neither
could run the risk of full knowledge coming to her at that time. Luckily
Edna’s eyes were all for her father, and she gave no look to the young
man, in whose face and attitude were undeniably stamped both guilt and
discomfiture. She was the first to speak.
“Oh, father, I am so glad you came; we were just speaking of you.”
“Yes, Edna, there are one or two adages bearing on the subject:
complimentary and the reverse.”
Edna laughed brightly.
“We have been trying to settle the strike, and Mr. Marsten thought you
would be angry if you knew he had been here--thought you might call it
interference. I told him that was all nonsense, but I could see he was
not convinced; so you come at the proper moment to solve the problem
finally.”
“I see I came just in time. I am only too glad to have assistance
in unravelling this perplexing tangle, and I welcome help from any
quarter.”
“There!” cried the girl triumphantly, turning to her lover, who had by
this time partially recovered his composure. “Isn’t that just what I
said?”
“Mr. Hope told me an hour ago, Marsten, that you had visited him
yesterday, and had done me the honour to call at Wimbledon afterwards;
so I came home, fearing I might miss a second visit. Mr. Hope spoke
very highly of you, and I do not wish to be less cordial than he in
expressing my own opinion of your most disinterested devotion to the
welfare of your fellow-workmen.”
Marsten moistened his dry lips, but made no attempt at reply. Timorous
little Mr. Hope had not kept faith with him, then, and, after counseling
him to silence, had blurted out all the particulars as soon as he
came again under the influence of his masterful servant, and thus had
precipitated this deplorable encounter. Edna looked from one to the
other, a slight shade of apprehension on her face. The words of her
father were all that she could ask, their tone was unexceptionable, and
yet--and yet--there was frost in the air. She spoke with less buoyancy
than before, still with confidence that all was as it should be.
“That was one of the very points which troubled us. Mr. Hope asked Mr.
Marsten to say nothing about the Surbiton visit, while I felt sure you
wouldn’t mind.”
“You did quite right, Marsten, in saying nothing about it when Mr. Hope
asked you not to mention it, but Edna is right also in stating that it
would have made no difference to me.”
“Now,” said Edna to the young man, “you see how groundless all your
fears were, and how a few simple words of explanation clear away all
difficulties. I hope you will visit us whenever you want to talk to my
father--you would be pleased to have him come, wouldn’t you, father? Mr.
Marsten has done his best to settle the strike, even though he failed.”
“I quite appreciate that, Marsten, and my house is always open to you.”
Edna glanced with a smile at Marsten; his eyes were fixed intently on
Sartwell, who continued suavely:
“However, it is only right that I should let you know there will be no
more need to discuss the strike. I have been played with long enough.
It is now my turn to strike. On Monday the works will be going again.
I have on file four times as many applications for work as I have
vacancies to fill. My clerks are at this moment writing out some
hundreds of telegrams, asking the receivers to report for duty on Monday
morning. I shall have no more traffic with the Union.”
“Oh!” cried the girl, in dismay.
“Won’t you give me another chance with the men?” asked Marsten, speaking
for the first time.
“There were only a few votes against us at the last meeting.”
“You have from now until Friday night. I give you up to the latest
moment, and that is why I pay six times as much and use the telegraph
rather than the post. Letters would do quite as well mailed on Friday.
The works open on Monday, with or without you, so you see you have
little time to lose.”
“I shall go at once to London and call a meeting of the men. May I see
you at your office to-morrow?”
“Certainly. My office is always open: but remember, it is an
unconditional surrender now. I’ll have no more parleying.”
“Good-by,” said Marsten briefly, turning on his heel and hurrying to the
gate, father and daughter watching him until he disappeared. Sartwell
sank down in one of the chairs, murmuring as he did so:
“Thank God!”
“Why do you say that, father?”
“Say what? Oh! Because a certain tension has been relaxed. I have seen
Hope and Monkton off together for Germany this morning, and they will be
gone for at least a fortnight. This leaves me a clear field, and I will
crush this strike as I would an eggshell.”
Sartwell nervously clenched his right hand, as if the egg-shell were
within it.
“I am sorry for the men, father.”
“So am I, my dear, if they stand out; but it will be their own fault.
Experience is said to teach a specified class of individuals, and they
are preparing for themselves a bitter dose of it.”
“Will you’ not take him back, even if they hold out?”
“Him? Whom? Oh! Marsten. If they do not come back in a body, I will
never allow another Union man to set foot in the works again. But never
mind the men; I want to talk about yourself.”
“About me?”
“Yes About the situation here at home. It is not exactly what I wish it
to be, and I intend to try an experiment.”
“Do you mean what happened yesterday between mother and me?”
“I mean the whole situation. What happened yesterday was merely an
indication of the tendency--I don’t know just how to put it, but it
isn’t satisfactory.”
“I was at fault, father, as I said last night; I was worried and
anxious--that is no excuse, of course--and then I said things I
shouldn’t have said. I was sorry at once, but I am more sorry now when I
see I have troubled you. It won’t happen again. I shall be very careful
in future, and I am sure if you think no more about it I shall do
better.”
“My dear Edna, I am not blaming you in the least, nor do I think you
were at fault; that is, not entirely. I am not censuring any one; we are
as God made us, and there are differences of temperament which sometimes
cause friction. You are not having a fair chance just now. I care very
little about your mother’s friends, and I have few friends myself; thus
you have no companions of your own age whom you can have here, and whose
visits you can return, as is right and proper. You are thrown too much
on your mother and me for your friendship, and I am not sure that either
of us is suitable. You are at an impressionable time of life, and I want
to do my best for you; so I think I shall send you to some school where
you will meet nice girls and form friendships that you will enjoy. Then
you have a decided talent for music, which will be developed, and--there
are many reasons for such a step.”
“Do you mean that I shall have to leave home?” asked Edna, with a
tremour in her voice.
“I think that will be best. In a year or two you will look upon life
with perhaps more philosophy.”
“A year or two!” cried Edna, as if she spoke of eternity.
Her father smiled.
“The time will pass very quickly,” he said. “In a year or two, when you
come home, both your mother and you will be glad to meet each other. We
sometimes grow to think kindly of the absent.”
The girl buried her face in her hands.
“Tut, tut, Edna, my own little girl!” cried her father, placing his
chair beside hers and taking her almost in his arms. “One would think
you were being sent off to Africa. I imagined you would be glad.”
“It isn’t that,” she sobbed. “It shows how dreadfully wicked you must
think me when you are compelled to send me away.”
“Nonsense, Edna! It shows nothing of the kind. I can’t send your
step-mother to boarding-school, can I? Well, then! I don’t think you
wicked at all. I have not the slightest doubt but you said just what you
were provoked to saying. There now; see what a hopeless admission that
is to make to a rebellious daughter. No, no. I am not blaming you in
the least. As I said before, I am blaming nobody. We are driven by
circumstances, that is all.”
“And am I never to see you except when I come home?”
“My darling girl, that is the delightful part of it. You will see me,
and I will see you, practically more often than we do now. What do
you think of that? I shall select some excellent school, situated in a
bracing spot near the sea. I believe it will be cheaper for me to take
a season ticket on the railway there, I shall go so often. We will take
long walks on the downs entirely alone, and talk of everything. We will
have delightful little dinners at the wayside inns we discover, and now
and then a grand luncheon, at some very expensive place with a window
that looks over the Channel. Edna, it will be the rejuvenating of your
old father. He rarely gets a sniff of ozone as things are now, but
then----”
Edna, with a cry of joy, flung her arms around his neck.
“Oh, father,” she cried, “that is too good to be true! When can I go?”
“This very week, I hope. You see now how everything depends on the point
of view.”