When the two years’ educational course at Eastbourne was finished, Edna
Sartwell returned to Wimbledon, and again took up her position in her
father’s house. As time went on, Sartwell was quietly pleased to see
that there was an absence of that friction between his women-folk which
had been his ostensible reason for sending Edna away. He had had but
faint hope that the interval of two years would soften his wife’s only
partially concealed dislike for the girl; but, now that peace reigned
over the household, he did not inquire too closely into the cause of the
welcome change. He did not know his daughter now bore uncomplainingly
what she had before rebelled against. Mrs. Sartwell’s attitude towards
education in general was one calculated to discourage the friends of
learning. She looked upon a course in school as a sinful waste of
time and money. The Apostles, she held, had never even gone to a Board
school, and who among present-day people were to be compared with the
Apostles? Education was merely a pamperer of that deplorable pride which
was already too great a characteristic of this conceited nation. She had
many texts at her command which went to prove that too much learning
was a dangerous thing, and these quotations she frequently presented to
Edna, in the hope that many repetitions of them would mitigate, in
some measure, the evil that was sure to follow a period spent at a
fashionable and expensive school. Overweening pride was Mrs. Sartwell’s
especial bugbear; it, more than anything else, was driving modern
nations rapidly to perdition. She told Edna, sorrowfully, that she
noticed an unwelcome change in her manner since her return from
Eastbourne. The pride which aped humility was ever the most baneful
variety of that detestable fault, and Edna’s silence in the face of good
counsel showed that her pride had assumed the sullen type which is
so difficult for a good woman to deal with. It was only when Mrs.
Sartwell--offended by absence of retort and cheated out of her just due
of argument by the silence of her adversary--threatened to lay before
her husband the appalling results of over-education upon an already
haughty nature, that some glimmer of the old rebellion flashed out
between them; yet the rebelliousness, like the hauteur, had been changed
by the two years’ residence at Eastbourne. That Edna was angry at this
proposed appeal to her father, was evident; still there was a reserve
and restraint in her indignation which Mrs. Sartwell could not fathom.
The girl stood for a moment looking at her, then said very quietly:
“My father has enough to worry him without being bothered by our small
affairs. He thinks my two years’ absence has made you like me better
than you did before I went away, and I wish him to continue thinking
so.”
“Like you better? My poor child, it is the love I have for you that
causes me to endeavour, in my humble way,--praying that my efforts may
be blessed by a Higher Power,--to correct those faults that will be your
undoing some day.”
“I am speaking of what my father thinks. The moment he finds things are
just as bad as they ever were, then all your hold over me is gone. I am
now trying to bear patiently and uncomplainingly all I have to put up
with in this house, and I do so for no other reason than to save my
father unnecessary trouble. You say I am proud, resentful, stubborn,
and all that. I am far worse than even you have any idea of. It makes me
shudder to think of the kind of woman I shall become if I am much longer
under your sway. I feel like a hypocrite when I remain silent under
your taunts, for I think such things that if I were to put them in
words----well, we won’t talk of that. If you imagine that I have learned
meekness because I have lived in a really Christian family for two
years, you are very much mistaken; but I have learned that true
Christianity does not consist in nagging, with a text at the end of
every exasperating sentence. Now, being a woman, I understand you very
much better than my father does. You said once that, if he chose me
to be mistress of this house, you would lay down your keys and depart
without a murmur. You would do nothing of the kind. You would fight for
your place. Therefore I want you to understand thoroughly what you may
expect if you appeal to my father. The moment you complain of me in any
way, or lead him to think there is the least friction, I shall go to him
and say that I must be mistress here. What will happen then?--you know
as well as I do. So long as he is not troubled with our affairs, I shall
say nothing, and will try to be as dutiful and obedient as if I were
your own daughter.”
Mrs. Sartwell sat down, buried her face in her hands, and wept softly,
as one does whose tenderest feelings are wounded. It was hard that,
after having a lifelong contest with one stubborn person, resulting in
a most uncertain and unsatisfactory victory,--if it could be called a
victory at all,--she should be called upon to face the same problem
over again. She knew that if Edna appealed to her father anything might
happen. He would be brute enough to take another house somewhere, and
live in peace with his daughter. The man was capable of anything, in
spite of all the precepts she had flung away upon him. However, there
was still the consolation that she might save the girl by earnest and
devoted persistence in well-doing, and she knew Edna would not protest
so long as her father was unmolested: so Mrs. Sartwell agreed that her
husband should not be made the referee between them, and Peace once more
folded her white wings over the happy home.
Edna had developed into a beautiful woman; more beautiful, indeed, than
she herself had any idea of. She was more sedate and reserved than when
she had left home, and more prone to sit thoughtfully, chin in hand, and
ponder, with her dreamy eyes trying to peer into the future. Resolutely
as she had set herself to put Marsten forever out of her thoughts, she
never succeeded, and his vibrant, deep-toned voice often came back
to her. Although she had been brought up in a democratic way, and
theoretically held that one person was technically as good as another,
yet she lived in a country where a grocer’s daughter considers it
quite beneath her dignity to be seen in company with a green-grocer’s
daughter; while the daughter of a draper, from her serene social
altitude, would have some difficulty in distinguishing the relative
status of the other two, although she would be well aware that the
adjective “green” carried comparative degradation with it. Edna was the
daughter of a man who had been a workman; yet, when she thought over the
proposal she had received in the school garden, she was slightly shocked
to think that a workman should aspire to the hand of his master’s
daughter. She had conversed with Marsten, and discussed the problems
that had interested them both, yet never for a moment had the thought
of equality between them entered her mind. He was merely a workman,
and, when that was said, a gulf yawned. But love levels all ranks, as
a distinguished man has sung, and, as the young woman meditated on the
subject in all its bearings, the social barriers seemed to become less
and less tangible. She remembered that no thought of social inequality
had ever occurred to her while in his presence. She got no further in
the understanding of her own feelings than the conclusion that she liked
him very much indeed, and had a strong admiration for his manliness and
his determination to succeed.
When the strike came on, and she knew that her father and her lover were
opponents, her state of mind was one of great perplexity. It was hard
that one or the other must be defeated, and she sighed when she thought
of the relentlessness of fate in bringing into savage opposition the two
men who were now dearer to her than all the world beside.
As the contest went on and she saw her father bending under the storm,
ageing perceptibly day by day, becoming more and more silent, her strong
affection for him grew stronger; she yearned towards him, wishing she
could comfort him, yet knowing she was helpless. Sometimes a fierce
resentment against Marsten would spring suddenly up in her heart. He had
all the world to fight against, yet he must choose as his antagonist,
out of the many millions, her father. It disconcerted her to perceive
that this resentment never lasted long; that she found herself
sympathizing too with the younger of the combatants, and making excuses
for him. A partisan has an easy time of it in this world, compared with
one who sees that all the good or all the bad rarely rests with one side
solely, but is interwoven like the cotton and the wool in a piece of
cloth. Sartwell and Marsten each believed he was fighting for the right;
but Edna saw wrong on both sides and right on both sides, although--once
the fight was started--she had not the courage to say this to her
father.
But, as war goes on, the original right or wrong almost invariably sinks
out of sight, and we choose our side from other considerations than
those which appeal in times of peace to thinking beings. He who holds
aloof is branded as a traitor: and yet man, with his marvellous capacity
for self-esteem, flatters himself that he is a reasoning animal.
Sartwell generally came home late, sometimes returning by the last
train. It had come to be recognized that it was Edna’s privilege to sit
up for him, and, although he faintly protested once or twice when he
found her there after midnight, it was quite evident that her presence
was a comfort to him. She had a soothing, restful way with her, moving
silently about the room, anticipating a tired man’s needs without
unnecessary fuss, and with no irritating questions to ask; yet she was a
sympathetic and receptive listener if there was anything to be told.
In the wake of some women inanimate nature seems to clash: doors bang,
plates fall, cups and saucers clatter, and chairs upset, jangling nerves
sensitive to sound; but Edna could deftly set out a supper without
so much as a chink of china. She knew the value of trivialities,--the
setting of the arm-chair at just the right angle so that the light fell
over the shoulder as it should, the placing of the slippers where the
stockinged feet fell into them without effort; and, when her father was
too much fatigued to care for the formality of sitting up to the festive
board late at night, a small gipsy table, covered with spotless linen
and some dainty that might tempt the appetite of a Lucullus, would
appear at his right elbow as if they had come noiselessly up through
the floor. All this came under the general head of “pampering” in Mrs.
Sartwell’s vocabulary, and the good woman, finding that her example was
of no effect in putting a stop to it, retired early to rest, so that she
might not countenance such proceedings by her presence. There was a
time to eat and a time to drink, and if a man presumed to be hungry
at midnight, it was a sin that should be punished by dyspepsia in this
world and goodness knows what in the next.
In spite of the compact between them, Sartwell told his daughter little
about the progress of the strike; and she, seeing him indisposed to
speak, forbore to question him, feeling that no suggestion she might
have to offer could be of any value to him, contenting herself with
protecting him from annoyance at home, and cheering him as much as
possible whenever she had him to herself. But it wrung her heart to
see him failing perceptibly day after day, his step, which she eagerly
listened for, losing more and more its selfreliant tread.
One night she sat in his arm-chair waiting for him, thinking deeply. She
looked suddenly up with a start, and saw her father standing beside the
table gazing down at her. His face was white, gaunt, and haggard, and
the gloom of his countenance was deepened rather than relieved by the
sombre smile that parted his lips as he regarded her. He seemed like
a man on the verge of a serious illness, and so startled was the girl,
that for a moment she looked at him with wide-open eyes, fearing that an
apparition stood before her.
“Father!” she cried at last, springing to her feet. “What has happened?”
“Nothing, my girl, except that you have been asleep in the chair when
you should have been in bed long ago.”
“I don’t think I have been asleep, yet I didn’t hear you open the door.
But you are ill.”
“I’m right enough. A little tired, that’s all. No, I won’t have
anything to eat, thank you. It’s after closing hours, I know; but I’m a
traveller, and I’ll have something to drink, if you don’t mind.”
He tried to laugh a little over this attempted pleasantry, but his
laugh sounded dismal, and it frightened the girl still more, instead of
reassuring her, as was his intention. The neck of the decanter clattered
against the glass like chattering teeth, which seemed to annoy Sartwell;
for he muttered something, and shot a glance at his daughter to see if
she had noticed his unusual nervousness. Then he grasped the vessel more
firmly, pouring the liquor with a steadier hand, but the effort made him
tighten his lips. He drank off the liquid and set down the empty glass.
Edna stood opposite him; he looked up at her with a wan smile on his
lips.
“Well, my girl,” he said, “the game’s up.”
“Has the strike ended, father?” she asked, her voice quavering.
“Actually, no; practically, yes. The firm will give in to-morrow, and I
shall resign. Sorry?”
“I am sorry if you are, father,” said Edna, kneeling beside him. “I am
not sorry that the tension has ended, for I think anything is better
than the anxiety you have been undergoing for the past few weeks. And
you look positively ill to-night.”
“Yes. A man hates to be beaten. Well, I’m fairly knocked out, and if
there is any comfort in a decisive beating, I have it.”
“What has happened?”
“You see, Edna, in the pictures of a battle, we always have the horses
galloping, the men firing, or being shot, or cutting down their enemies
with the sword; but we rarely get a view of the background, and so
people sometimes do not know that it exists: yet the picture shows
merely the front of the fight, as it were, while battles are often won
by perfect arrangements in the rear,--the supply of ammunition, the food
and water carriers and all that sort of thing. Well, a strike is like a
battle; there are other things to consider than the actual fighting, and
these things often decide the day. The direct loss in a struggle of this
kind is nothing to the indirect loss. We see trade slipping away from us
and going to our bitterest rivals. Some of our customers may come back;
others won’t. Then we are unable to fulfil contracts we have made, and,
as a strike can hardly be called an act of God, we are liable to have
damages awarded against us where no strike clause has been inserted
in the agreement. All this I have had to fight as well as the strikers
themselves. Then there is great difficulty in filling up the shops--much
more than I expected. During the last week I have been slowly losing
ground with the directors. They haven’t said very much, but I have felt
it. It was in the air somehow that we were fighting a losing battle, and
so things have been on the balance, and the only reason the directors
did not give in a week ago was they knew I would resign if they did so.
It only required a straw to turn the scales against me. Some time before
the strike began, a steamer sailed for Sydney, New South Wales. It had a
large quantity of our goods on board. To-day I received notice from the
owners that the ship lay there and could not be unloaded because of our
strike. They propose to hold us responsible for the delay, and that
will mean an expensive lawsuit whichever way the verdict goes. This is
serious enough in itself, but the fact that we have been struck from the
remotest ends of the earth while being paralyzed in London will make the
directors give in at once. So, my girl, I’m a beaten man.”
“But might you not have been beaten in any case?”
“No; another week would have seen the men back--I am sure of it. They
are seething with discontent, and have called a meeting for to-morrow
night, in spite of the protests of Marsten. There is sure to be a split,
and all I need is a slight defection to set the works going again.”
“Why need you resign, father? You have done your best, and the directors
know it.”
“Ah, my girl, you are sleepy; I can see that, or you wouldn’t ask such a
question. But now you know all about it, so off you go.”
*****
In the morning Edna walked with her father to the station.
“Is there to be a meeting of the directors to-day?” she asked.
“Yes. It is called for five o’clock this evening.”
“Do you think the strike would end if they gave you another week?”
“I feel morally certain it would. There is sure to be a split at
to-night’s meeting of the men. You see it is called in direct opposition
to Marsten’s wishes, and that shows he is losing whatever hold he ever
had on the strikers.”
“Then wouldn’t you be justified in saying nothing about this
communication from the shipowners until the next directors’ meeting? You
would know by that time what the result of the strikers’ meeting was.”
“My dear Edna, you make proposals that take away a man’s breath. No,
that wouldn’t do. The directors must have full information. I could
not take the responsibility of holding back anything that bore on their
interests, whatever might be the result to myself; but I can’t help
wishing the message had gone astray for a day or two.”
“I am going to the office at six o’clock to-night, father.”
Sartwell laughed, but in a mirthless, despondent manner.
“Hadn’t you better come at five and give the directors your opinion of
them? I’m sure it wouldn’t be very flattering.”
“You mustn’t make fun of me, father. The situation is very serious, and
I couldn’t bear the suspense of waiting until you came home. I must know
what happens, so please don’t forbid me. Besides, it may be your last
night there, and I should like to bring you home with me.”
“Oh, it won’t be my last night. I shall not leave the old firm like
that. I shall stay until the new manager is installed and everything
running smoothly. Even though a man is defeated, Edna, he owes it to
himself to retreat in good order, and sometimes a masterly retreat is
as good a bit of generalship as a victory. As everything is perfectly
quiet, you may come if you are anxious, as of course you are; or I could
telegraph you, if you would rather. But it is a foregone conclusion, I
am sure of that. Whenever they see this message, and learn there has
been little progress made in filling up the works, they will
succumb--and I don’t know that I can blame them. They have vast
interests at stake, and they have backed me well up to the present,
when, if it hadn’t been for me, they would have given in long ago. Then
I shall look for you at six, my dear. Take a hansom from the station,
and ask the man to wait in the yard of the works. Wait for me in my room
if I happen to be absent when you come. I shall tell the commissionaire
to look after you.”
The girl watched the train come in and leave; then, turning, she walked
towards her home with a heavy heart. She went past the house and on to
the Common, unconsciously imitating her father, who, when troubled in
mind, sought its breezy expanse. Several times she paused, and thought
of sending a telegram to Marsten, asking him to meet her in the old
garden at Wimbledon at once. There she fancied herself appealing to
him to put an end to the strike; but she feared the anger of her father
should he discover what she had done, even though it had been done for
his sake. It did not occur to her that perhaps the appeal might be in
vain, for she knew she would do anything asked of her for one she loved,
and she had little doubt that the young man had a true and lasting
affection for her. What, she asked herself, if Marsten made conditions?
Would she be willing to accept a great favour and grant nothing in
return? What would he think if she telegraphed him to come? The answer
was obvious, and, in searching her own heart, she for the first time
admitted to herself that her reply would be different from what it had
been at Eastbourne.
But when it came to the point, she could not bring herself to the length
of sending a message. She shrank from playing so dangerous a card; for,
if it failed to win the trick, how could she face the after-humiliation?
Something in the self-reliant ring of Marsten’s voice, something in the
dogged determination of his manner, something in the compelling glance
of his eye, warned her that not even to please the girl he loved would
he be untrue to the flag under which he fought--and something in her own
heart told her that she herself would think less of him if he did. Yet,
if he refused, she could never speak to him again; she was certain of
that. Having made an appeal in vain, she could never grant one of his
own, or even listen to it. She thought of the pleasure it would be to
her to have him plead his cause once more, and read his answer in her
willing eyes before her lips could speak it; but if he refused her when
she begged him to spare her father the impending humiliation of defeat,
there could be no more friendship between them. Edna at last returned
to her home, bewildered in mind and hesitating to act, and listened to
a homily on the sinfulness of wasting one’s time, although she heard or
understood but little of the admirable discourse.
As evening drew on the girl became more and more anxious, and
impatiently awaited the hour that was to take her to London. She half
expected a telegram from her father, but as none came she knew the
situation had not changed for the better. Shortly after six o’clock her
hansom drove into the yard of the works; the gatekeeper was evidently on
the watch for her, and had the gates open, closing them after her. The
silent, deserted air of the huge place had a most depressing influence
on her as she mounted the stairs that led to her father’s office. He was
standing at his desk as she entered, entirely alone, and looked round
absent-mindedly when he heard the door open.
“Well, my girl,” he said, “you have come to help pack, after all.”
“If there must be packing, I am ready to help, father.”
“I’m afraid that’s all there’s left to do, dear. But we’re not going to
show the white feather, are we? I’ve just been planning a lovely little
tour on the Continent for you and me, where we shall forget, for a time,
that there is such an ugly thing as a strike in the whole world. You’ll
be a princess, and I’ll be the old dethroned king; they always went to
the Continent, you know, after a defeat.”
Sartwell’s attempt at banter was a gloomy failure, and he avoided his
daughter’s eye, pretending to be sorting out some papers. She saw how
hard hit he was, and the tears came into her eyes.
“Is the directors’ meeting over?” she asked at last.
“No. They are in there yet, arranging the terms of surrender--or
hardly that, for there are no terms. They simply give the men all they
ask--which, of course, they might have done a month ago, and saved all
this bother. I knew how it would be when they heard about the ship lying
unloaded in Australia. There was not an ounce of fight left in them,
and I felt sure a blow dealt so far away would appeal to what little
imagination any of them has. It seems to them decisive, but of course
it is nothing of the kind. It is merely a theatrical bit of by-play that
should have no bearing on the result. But there is little use in kicking
against fate. They are at this moment engaged in writing out their
letter of capitulation--as if it made any difference how you worded an
acknowledgment of defeat and a surrender of your interests to a lot
of ignorant, beer-drinking boors who don’t----but what is the use of
cursing? Another week of this indecision would have demoralized me; in
fact, I think it has done so already, for I don’t generally growl.”
“Will you come home with me, father?”
“No, my dear. I shouldn’t have let you come all this distance merely to
hear what we both knew this morning. Run along home, like a good little
girl, and don’t sit up for me to-night. I’ll be late. Of course, in
spite of my scolding, I’ll stay till the last dog’s hung. I’ll see the
thing through, and wave the white flag myself. It wouldn’t be quite
the thing, you know, to have all the fun of the fight and then funk the
submission. I merely came into this room because you were due at six,
and to rest my nerves a bit. I’m going back to the directors, and will
write the letter of surrender myself; for they will never summon up
courage enough to do even that if I am not at their elbows. I’m going
down with the ship, my girl, pretending I like it; so off you go, Edna,
and we’ll feel all right about it next week----perhaps.”
Haggard as he looked the night before, Edna now noticed, with a thrill
of fear, that for the first time he seemed an old man. His usually
well-set shoulders were bent, and even his neatly-fitting clothes hung
loosely about him. The hesitation and the tone in which he said the last
word, “perhaps,” showed her like an electric flash what was in his
own mind, and what had never occurred to her before,--that when he was
suddenly wrenched away from the task that had been his life’s work, he
would break up in idleness like a useless hulk on the rocks.
“Father,” she cried, “don’t let them send that letter till to-morrow. A
day more or less makes no difference, and they will keep it back if you
ask them to.”
Sartwell shook his head.
“There is no use in delay,” he said. “It has always been my habit to
do quickly what had to be done, and I am getting too old to change my
habits. If you must walk the plank, walk it, and get it over.”
The girl did not urge him further, but kissed him and said,
“Good-night.” He saw her into the hansom, and told the cabman to drive
to Waterloo. At the first turning Edna pushed up the little trap-door in
the roof of the cab.
“Do you know where the headquarters of the strikers are?” she asked.
“Yes, miss. At the Salvation Hall, miss.”
“Well, drive me there as quickly as you can.”
The cabby turned his horse and in a short time was making his way
through the crowd of men who were gathering from all quarters to the
meeting. He drew up at the kerb in front of the hall. Edna stepped out,
flushing as she saw the men looking curiously at her. She said to one:
“Where can I find Mr. Marsten?”
“He’s in his room at the back of the ’all, ma’am. This wye, ma’am. I’ll
show you the door.”
Edna followed the man down the long, narrow passage at the side of the
hall.
“For God’s sake, mates, what’s the meaning of this?” cried Gibbons, in
amazement, taking his pipe out of his mouth.
Some of the men laughed, but Gibbons looked serious, and they saw that
there was more in the incident than appeared on the surface.
“Who is it she wants to see?” cried Gibbons, as the man appeared who had
led the girl down the passage.
“She arsked for Marsten. She’s in with him now.”
“Look here, mates,” cried Gibbons. “What have I been telling you? We’re
sold, or I’m a Dutchman! That girl is Sartwell’s daughter, and I’ll
warrant she has come direct from him. I say, cabby, did you drive that
young lady here from the works?”
“What’s that to you? You’re not paying my fare,” answered the cabman,
with characteristic disregard of the threatening crowd.
“He came from the works; I saw him,” said one of the men.
“Let’s get inside, and call this meeting to order,” cried Gibbons,
decisively.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
Edna rapped lightly on the door at the back of the Salvation Hall, and
heard Marsten’s voice shout “Come in.” After a moment’s hesitation she
opened the door and entered. The young man was alone, sitting at the
rough board table, with some papers before him, writing rapidly with a
pencil. He seemed absorbed in his work, and kept his head bent over it,
saying shortly:
“Well, what is it?”
Edna stood with her back against the door; she tried to speak, but could
not. Her heart was beating so rapidly that it seemed to choke her, and
her lips were dry. The murmur of numerous voices came through the thin
board partitions from the main hall, with the noise of the shuffling of
many feet. Marsten continued to write quickly; then suddenly he lifted
his head with a jerk, stared incredulously in the gathering darkness,
and sprang to his feet.
“My God--Edna!” he cried, and seemed about to advance towards her; but
she raised her hand, and he stood by the table with his knuckles resting
upon it.
“I came----” She spoke in a whisper, so husky and unnatural that it
seemed to her the voice belonged to some one else. “I came----to speak
to you----about the strike.”
“Yes?”
“It must stop.”
“It will stop within a day or two. Monkton & Hope are defeated.”
“You mean that my father is defeated. It is killing him, I can see that,
although he tries----He does not know I have come here. I came of my own
accord because you----If you will get the men to go back, I give you my
word that he will grant all you are fighting for. All I ask is that you
will not make it hard for him. The men do not care as long as they get
what they want. Will you do this?”
“Do you mean I am to call the strike off and pretend that the men are
defeated?”
“Yes. It will be all the same in the end.”
“Oh, I cannot do that.”
“Why? The men do not care as long as they get what they ask. With my
father it is different. He is breaking down. I know I am asking a great
deal of you, for you feel as he does, and want to win as badly as he
does; but he is old, and you are young. You have all the world before
you. What need you care, then, whether you win this strike or not?
There are other strikes for you to win, but he--he is fighting his last
battle.”
Her voice had become clearer and more like itself as she earnestly
pleaded for her father. Some one in the main building had started a
rollicking music-hall song then as infectious as an epidemic on the
streets of London. The whole house had joined in the swinging chorus,
beating time with the tramp of many feet. Neither of the two appeared to
hear the song, but both raised their voices slightly to make themselves
heard above the sound.
“I care nothing for any personal triumph--nothing at all,” said Marsten.
“If I could change places with your father and accept defeat for him I
willingly would. But the men have trusted me----”
“The men!” cried Edna, the scarlet chasing the whiteness from her cheeks
as her eyes flashed and her voice rose. “What do the men care? Listen
to them!” She waved her hand toward the hall. “They would sing and shout
like that if their best friend was dying. Who has done more for his men
than my father? He risked his life for them at the fire, and would do so
again. He has built up the works that have given them employment. He has
kept the shops full at a loss when times were bad, so that they might
not starve. Every man was sure of his place as long as he deserved it,
and no master in London was more loath than he to discharge a man.”
She cast down her eyes as she suddenly remembered that one man had been
discharged without cause by her father; then, without raising them, she
pleaded again: “Why will not a real victory, without the name of it,
satisfy you?”
“Because it is not for these men alone who are now shouting that I am
fighting. The eyes of all England are on this strike. An acknowledged
victory over so strong a firm as that of Monkton & Hope will mean
an easier victory for every man who is now earning his bread in this
country, when he is compelled to strike for his just due. It will
hearten every workingman and be a warning to every employer.”
The chorus in the hall was broken by three sharp raps of a mallet on
a table. The sound of the singing subsided, and the voice of some one
calling the meeting to order was heard.
Edna slowly raised her eyes and looked at him, with a flash of fearing
defiance in them. She spoke in an agitated whisper.
“You remember what you said to me in the garden at Eastbourne. If you
will do what I ask of you, I will do as you wish when--when you ask me.”
The young man, his trembling right hand clenching and unclenching
nervously, strode a step forward.
“No, no!” she cried. “Stay where you are. Answer me, answer me!”
“Oh, Edna,” he whispered, “God knows I would do anything to win
you,--anything,--yes, almost what you ask!”
“Yes, or no?” she cried. “Answer me!”
“I cannot be a traitor to the men!”
As if in approval of this sentiment, a cheer rose from the hall. Some
one was speaking, and even in his misery Marsten recognized the voice of
Gibbons.
Edna turned without a word and opened the door. Marsten followed her
out.
“Stay where you are,” she said, with a sob.
“I will see you to the station.”
“No; you must not come near me. I hope never to see you again.”
“I will see you to the station,” repeated Marsten, doggedly.
The girl said nothing more, but walked hurriedly down the narrow
passage, the young man following her. She sprang into the waiting
hansom, crying, “Waterloo; quick!”
The cab whirled away, leaving Marsten standing bareheaded on the kerb.
He remained there for some moments, gazing in the direction the cab had
taken, then turned with a sigh and walked slowly up the passage to his
room. It seemed more bare and empty than ever it had been before, and
he could hardly realize that, a few short moments since, she had stood
within it. He heard, without heeding, the noise from the hall, like
the low growl of some wild beast. He looked at the papers on the table,
wrinkling his brow trying to understand what they were all about. It
appeared ages since he sat there writing--now he heard nothing but the
words “Answer me!” ringing in his ears. He was startled by another knock
at the door and sprang towards it, throwing it eagerly open, hoping she
had returned. Monkton & Hope’s tall, grizzled commissionaire, in his
uniform, with the medal dangling from his breast, stood there, perhaps
astonished at the sudden opening of the door, but not a muscle of his
face showing his surprise. He saluted gravely.
“A letter from the firm, sir.”
“Ah! Step inside. Any answer required?”
“I don’t know, sir,” answered the commissionaire, standing as straight
and as rigid as if on parade.
Marsten tore open the envelope, and the reading of the letter brought
him to his senses. It was a terse communication, and informed him that
Monkton & Hope agreed to the terms of the men. Mr. Sartwell would wait
at his office until ten o’clock to meet M Marsten and arrange for the
opening of the works in the morning.
Marsten dashed off an official reply, and said he would wait on Mr.
Sartwell in half an hour’s time. Giving this note to the commissionaire,
who again saluted and withdrew, Marsten, with the letter in his hand,
opened the door that communicated with the platform and stepped out in
the sight of the meeting. A howl of derision greeted his appearance, and
the howl of an angry mob is a sound that, once heard, a man never wishes
to hear again.
“There he is,” shouted Gibbons, whose speech Marsten’s entrance had
evidently interrupted. “There he is, and let him deny it if he can!”
“Deny what?” cried Marsten.
“Deny that you have been in communication with the enemy! Deny that
Sartwell’s daughter has only this moment left you!”
“That has nothing to do with you, nor with this strike. England is a
free country; a man may talk with whom he pleases.”
“He can’t deny it!” shouted Gibbons, at the top of his voice. “There
were too many witnesses this time. She didn’t know that a meeting was
gathering. Where now is the man at the back of the hall who cried out it
was a lie? I told you I would prove it by Marsten himself.”
“Let me read you this letter,” cried Marsten, waving in his hand the
letter from the firm, to command attention. He saw the crowd was in that
dangerous state of excitement which requires but an injudicious word to
precipitate a riot. His own friends, evidently abashed by his admission,
were at the back of the hall, silent and disconcerted. The Gibbons gang
were massed in front, wildly gesticulating, and vociferous with taunts
and threats. They were loudly calling upon him to get down from the
platform. He saw, too, that the old committee and others of Gibbons’s
partisans were on the platform behind him, many standing up with their
eyes on Gibbons, and the situation reminded him of the time when Braunt
had been kicked off the platform and thrust outside.
“Let me read this letter,” he repeated.
“Presently, presently,” said Gibbons. “You will have your opportunity
later on. I have the floor just now.”
“I am secretary of the Union,” persisted Marsten, “and I demand a
hearing. After that you may do as you please.”
Here the chairman rose and called loudly:
“Order, order! Mr. Gibbons has the floor. I may add for Mr. Marsten’s
information, since he chose to absent himself from the meeting knowing
it was in session, that Mr. Gibbons has been made secretary of the Union
by a practically unanimous vote, and I ask Mr. Marsten to leave the
platform until he is called upon to speak.”
“I have a letter from the firm!” shouted Marsten, trying to lift his
voice above the uproar.
There was a chorus of howls, and roars of “Chair, Chair!” “Come down!”
One of the men behind Marsten pushed him toward the edge of the
platform, crying, “Obey the Chair!” This was the signal for a general
onset, and, Marsten grappling with the foremost of his assailants, both
went down together to the main floor. Instantly the meeting broke into
an unmanageable mob, while Gibbons roared, “No violence, men!” and
ineffectually waved his arms over the turbulent, seething, struggling
mass. His appeals were as futile as Canute’s commands to the sea. The
chairman pounded unheard on the table with his mallet. Once Marsten
shook himself free and rose to his feet. His right hand, with the
tattered letter still clenched in it, appeared above the heads of the
combatants for a moment, then it suddenly disappeared, and he went down
finally under the feet of the maddened, trampling horde.
The police struck in promptly and with effect. The side door was thrown
open, and Marsten was dragged out through it, accompanied by several
struggling, torn, and bleeding rioters who had been nabbed by the law.
Gradually the pounding on the table became audible, and Gibbons’s voice,
now hoarse with useless calling for peace, could be heard.
“I am sorry,” he began, “that there has been even a semblance of a
disturbance here to-night. It will be used by our enemies against us;
but, as you know, it all came about through disobedience to the Chair. I
want to say nothing against an absent man, and I am sure we all hope he
has not been hurt [cheers]; but if our ex-secretary had calmly bowed to
the will of the meeting, and had refrained from laying hands on the man
who merely requested him to obey the Chair, this deplorable event would
not have occurred. When, after the last strike, you lost confidence in
me, I bowed to the will of the majority without a murmur, and, as you
all know, I have done my best, ever since, to assist my successor; and
now that I have been called again to this position, through no wish of
mine, I have but to obey the mandate thus given. I take it that it is
your pleasure that this strike shall now cease. Although I have never
said so, I always looked upon the present strike as an unnecessary one,
and unjust. The firm, a short time since, voluntarily increased our
wages, and this struggle has consequently never had the sympathy of the
public, without which no great struggle can succeed. I do not venture to
offer suggestions, but if any one here has a suggestion to make, I now
give place to him.”
Gibbons did love the sound of his own voice, and it apparently gave
pleasure to the majority present, for they loudly cheered all his noble
sentiments.
A man promptly arose to his feet, and said it had lately been only
too evident that Marsten had brought on this strike to further his own
advancement, using the men, who trusted him, as tools for that purpose.
Gibbons had said nothing on this point, but they all felt sore about it
nevertheless; and although he admired Gibbons’s good heart in refusing
to say a word against a fallen enemy, still the matter ought to be
referred to. He moved that Gibbons be appointed to meet Sartwell as soon
as possible and arrange terms for going back, getting, if he could,
a promise that the “blacklegs” be discharged. There would be general
satisfaction if this promise could be secured.
This was seconded, and carried unanimously. Once more Gibbons rose to
his feet.
“A messenger I sent off a few moments ago reports that Sartwell is still
in his office. He has been staying late for some time past, so it struck
me he might be there now. I will go at once and confer with him,
and will return as soon as possible and give you the result of the
conference. Meanwhile you can transact any other business that may come
before the meeting.”
Sartwell, alone in his office, expecting Marsten, was naturally
surprised when Gibbons entered instead but he greeted the new-comer
without showing that his visit was unlooked for.
“Mr. Sartwell,” began Gibbons, going straight to the point, “I have
again been made secretary of the Union. If I end this strike will you
make me assistant manager?”
Sartwell’s eyes partially closed, and he looked keenly at his visitor
through the narrow slits for a moment or two before answering.
Gibbons fidgeted uneasily.
“We all play for our own hand, you know,” the new secretary added,
laughing uncomfortably, “and I know that with you it is better to say
out what one means.”
“We all play for our own hand,--yes,” said Sartwell, slowly. “_Can_ you
end the strike?”
“I think so.”
“You only think so. Well, Mr. Gibbons, come back to me when you are
sure, and I will talk to you.”
“I am sure, if it comes to that.”
“Ah, that is a different matter. The meeting, then, after making you
secretary, passed a resolution to end the strike?”
“Hardly that, Mr. Sartwell. It has authorized me to negotiate with you.
Now, if you promise me the assistant managership, I will bring the men
back tomorrow.”
“The strike was bound to end soon without any promises from me. I sent
a communication to Mars-ten to-night regarding it. Do you mean to hint
that he has not read it to the meeting?”
“He did not. He tried to, but the men had enough of Marsten, and they
refused to listen.”
“Quite so. Then it is with you alone I have to deal? Marsten is out of
it?”
“That is the state of the case.”
“Well, I am sorry I cannot offer you the assistant managership;
although, of course, I hope the strike will end as speedily as
possible.”
“Marsten said you offered it to him; is that true?”
“I think Marsten generally speaks the truth. Let us stop beating about
the bush, Gibbons. The men to-night have either resolved to come back,
or they have not. If they are coming back, they will come whether I deal
with you or not. If not, then I don’t see how you can say more than that
you will do your best to bring them back. Now, all I shall promise is
this: if you bring the men back to-morrow, I will see that your position
in the works is improved.”
“That’s rather hard lines, Mr. Sartwell. Marsten brought on the strike,
and you offer him the assistant managership. I end the strike, and you
will make no definite terms.”
“I offered Marsten the position before the strike began. Once the fight
was on, it had to be fought to a finish. The finish has come, and I
think you had better accept the only terms I can offer. Don’t you
see that, if I were not a man of my word, I could easily promise you
anything, and then discharge you a month hence?”
“Well, I’ll trust to your generosity, Mr. Sartwell. Now, what will you
promise to the men?”
“What do they ask?”
“They wish you to discharge all the blacklegs you have engaged.”
“I’m afraid, Gibbons, I cannot promise that either. I will, however,
send home all who want to go and can find situations, but your men will
not suffer on account of the new employees. I have work enough for you
all; there will be plenty to do to make up for lost time.”
“You practically offer us nothing, Mr. Sartwell.”
“Oh yes, I do; I am conceding more than you think. I said in my wrath,
when the men went out, that I would never again allow a Union man to set
foot in the works: but now that they have chosen a moderate, sensible
secretary, I am willing to have them come back, allowing them still
to remain in the Union. Is that nothing? I think I have been most
conciliatory under the circumstances.”
“The meeting is still in session, Mr. Sartwell. Would you mind coming
with me and telling the men that you will guarantee every one a place,
and that you will not interfere with their membership of the Union?”
“I don’t mind going with you, but you can probably make more out of
the concessions than I, for you are more eloquent on your feet. I will
simply corroborate what you say, and tell the men the gates will be open
for them to-morrow. Meanwhile, just wait for me at the gate. I have a
few orders to give my commissionaire.”
The uniformed man answered Sartwell’s call, and stood like a statue to
receive his orders. The manager closed the door.
“I am afraid there is not much sleep for you tonight, Commissionaire,”
he said, in a low voice, “but we will make that up to you in some other
way, and when the men come back to-morrow you may sleep the whole of the
following week, if you like. As soon as Gibbons and I are away, and
you have closed the office, I want you to search for Marsten. You will
likely find him in his room. I don’t know where he lives, but that you
will have to find out--quietly, you understand. Ask him from me to give
you back the letter you brought to him this evening. If he refuses, ask
him not to show it to any one until he sees me in the morning.”
The commissionaire brought his heels together sharply, and presently
went forth on his vain search; for Marsten, unconscious, had been taken
in an ambulance to St. Martyrs’ Hospital, with the remnants of the
letter firmly clutched in his clenched fist.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Again it was the last train to Wimbledon; but Sartwell, tired as he
was, strode home from the station with the springy step of a young man.
Edna, waiting for her father in spite of his prohibition, heard the step
with a thrill of hope. When he came in, there was a smile on his face
such as she had not seen for weeks.
“Ah, my girl,” he cried, “you can never guess what has happened!”
“Yes, I can,” she answered; “Marsten has ended the strike.”
“No, the strike has ended Marsten. He has been deposed, and Gibbons has
been elected in his place. Gibbons, unselfish man, at once came to me
to make terms for himself. So the works will be open to-morrow; and when
the next strike comes, let us hope, unlike John Gilpin, I won’t be there
to see.”
“And what does Mr. Marsten say to this sudden change?”
“I didn’t see him. I suppose he has gone to his room to meditate on the
mutability of the workingman.”
“I am glad you didn’t send that letter.”
“Ah, but the funny thing about it is that I did send it. My
commissionaire is probably at this moment scouring London to find
Marsten and get it back. It would be rather a turning of the tables if
Marsten, in revenge, were to publish the letter. I don’t think he will
do it, but one can never tell. I confess it would be a strong temptation
to me, were I in his place; however, I hope for the best, and have
charged the commissionaire to get him to do nothing about it until after
he has seen me.”
“Do you still intend to offer him a place in the works?”
“That will depend. If his experience has driven all the visionary
nonsense about the regeneration of the workingman out of his head, he
will be a most valuable man for any firm to have in its service. I will
see how the land lies when I talk with him.”
“You have no feeling against him then, father?”
“None in the least. Just the opposite. I have the greatest admiration
for the way he conducted the fight.”
“You will not resign, will you?”
Sartwell laughed.
“I think not. There will be a lot to do, and I shall want to be in the
thick of it. No, our Continental trip is postponed, Edna. Why, my girl,
you’ve been crying, all alone here by yourself! Tut, tut, Edna, that
will never do! I thought you had more courage than myself--not that I’ve
had any too much these last few days. Go to bed, girlie, and have a
good sleep. I want to be off early in the morning, so you may have the
privilege of being my sole companion at breakfast. Good-night, my dear,”
he added, kissing her, “and here’s luck to all our future battles!”
Edna was the first afoot in the morning, and the night’s sleep, short as
it was, had smoothed away all traces of the emotion of the night before.
Youth has a glorious recuperative power, and Sartwell, when a little
later he came wearily down the stair, showed that sleep had not dipped
him in the fountain of it. Even the conqueror has to pay some
tribute for the victory. He seemed tired as he took his place at
the breakfast-table and unfolded the morning paper. Years of not too
congenial married life had developed in him the reprehensible habit of
reading his paper while he sipped his coffee, and not even the presence
of his daughter opposite him could break him of the vice; although he
had the grace to apologize, which he sometimes forgot to do when his
wife was pouring the coffee.
“I just want to see if the paper has anything to say about the ending of
the strike, my dear.”
She smiled at him, and asked him to read what the paper said. A moment
later she was startled by an exclamation from him.
“Good heavens!” he cried. “I had no idea of this! There seems to
have been a riot at the meeting--five men arrested, and two in the
hospital--Marsten--by Jove!--trampled under foot--never regained
consciousness--life in grave danger! I say, Edna, this is serious!”
There was no reply, and Sartwell, looking up, saw Edna, standing with
pallid cheeks and lips parted, swaying slightly from side to side.
He sprang up, and supported her with his arm.
“My girl, my little girl!” he cried. “What is the matter? What is this
to you?”
Her head sank against his breast, and she said in a quavering whisper,
broken by a sob:
“It is everything to me, father, everything!”
He patted her affectionately on the shoulder.
“Is it so, my darling, is it so? I was afraid once that was the case,
but I thought you had forgotten. There, don’t cry; it is sure to be all
right. The papers generally exaggerate these things. Come, let us have
breakfast, and we will both go to the hospital together.”
Edna’s desire for breakfast was gone, but she made a pretense of eating
and then hurried to get ready and accompany her father. It was so
early that they had a first-class compartment to themselves, the travel
city-wards not having begun for the day.
Edna was silent, and nothing had been said from the house to the
station. When they were in the train, her father spoke with some
hesitation.
“Edna, have you seen Marsten since the time when I found you together in
the garden?”
“Yes, father; twice.”
“I don’t want you to answer, my dear, unless you care to do so. Where
did you meet him?”
“I will tell you everything; I was willing to tell you any time----if
you had asked me. I didn’t speak of him to you because----I didn’t like
to.”
“Of course, girlie. I understand. You needn’t speak now, if you would
rather not.”
“I should like you to know. The first time was at Eastbourne, shortly
after I went there. He managed to get unseen into the school garden, and
he told me that----he said he hoped----we would be married some day. I
told him it was impossible. I thought so----then.”
“That was two years ago?”
“Yes.”
The ghost of a smile hovered about the firm lips of Sartwell; but the
corners of Edna’s mouth drooped pathetically, and she seemed on the
verge of tears. She kept her eyes on the floor of the carriage.
“There was not much use of an angry father’s precautions, was there,
Edna?”
“I did not know, until he spoke, that you objected to my meeting him. If
you had told me, I would not have spoken to him at Eastbourne.”
“Of course you wouldn’t, my dear. Don’t think I am blaming you in the
least. I was merely thinking that I am not nearly as far-seeing as I
thought. And the second time, Edna?”
“That was last night. I drove to the Salvation Hall and asked him to
stop the strike. I told him-----”
Edna began to cry afresh. Her father, who had been sitting opposite her,
crossed to her side, and put his arm about her.
“Don’t say another word, my dear, and don’t think about it. I’ll not
ask you another question. You mustn’t make people think you have been
crying. They will imagine I have been scolding you, and thus you will
destroy my well-won reputation for being the mildest man in London.”
The girl smiled through her tears, and nothing more was said until they
reached the hospital door.
“How is Marsten, who was brought here last night?” inquired Sartwell, of
the doctor who received him.
“Oh, getting on very well, under the circumstances.”
“The papers say his condition is dangerous.”
“I don’t anticipate any danger, unless there are internal injuries that
we know nothing of. Some of his ribs are broken, and he got a nasty
blow on the back of his head. He seems rather weak and dispirited this
morning, but his mind is clear. I was somewhat anxious about that, for
he was a long time unconscious.”
“There,” said Sartwell to his daughter, who stood with parted lips
listening intently to what the doctor said. “I told you the papers made
the case out worse than it was. Might we see Mr. Marsten?”
“Yes; but I wouldn’t make him talk very much, if I were you.”
“We shall be very careful. I think, you know, it will cheer him up to
see us, but you might ask him if he would rather we came another time.
My name is Sartwell.”
Word was brought back that Marsten would be glad to see them. They found
him in an alcove, curtained off, like other alcoves, from the rest of
the ward. His face was not disfigured, but was very pale. He cast one
rapid glance at the girl, shrinking back behind her father, then kept
his gaze fixed on his old employer.
“Well, my boy,” said Sartwell, cheerily, “I’m sorry to see you on your
back, but I’m glad to learn from the doctor that you will be all right
in a few days.”
“Have the men----have they----gone back?” Marsten asked, in a faint
whisper.
“Don’t bother about the men. I’m looking after them. Yes, they’ve come
back.”
Marsten tried feebly to lift his head, but it sank back again.
“The letter,” he whispered, “what is left of it----is under the pillow,
I think.”
Sartwell put his hand under the pillow and pulled forth the tattered
document.
“You intend me to have this?”
Marsten, with a faint motion of his head, signified his assent, and
Sartwell, with some relief, placed it in his pocket.
“Now, my lad, you must hurry up and get well. There will be stirring
times at the works, and I shall need the best help I can get. I’m
depending on you to be my assistant, you know.”
The young man’s eyelids quivered for a moment, then closed over his
eyes. Two tears stole out from the corners and rolled down his cheeks.
His throat rose and fell.
“I’m a bit shattered,” he whispered at last. “I’m not quite
myself----but, I thank you.”
“That’s all right, my boy. Here’s a young person who can talk to you
more like a nurse than I can. I must see about your having a private
room and all the comforts of the place while you are here.”
Edna took his hand when her father had left the room. Marsten looked up
at her, standing there beside him.
“It came to the same----in the end----didn’t it?” he said, with a faint,
wavering smile.
For answer she bent over him and kissed him softly on the lips.
THE END.