THE BLUE MARK
From the rag house, through trap doors, the rag descended from Lydia
and her fellow workers to a huge object like a mowing machine. The rags
came to this monster and passed through its whirling knives. Then,
having been clipped pretty small, they were carried on an endless
ribbon up again to the magnet. Two great magnetized rollers revolved,
and, in a dingy niagara, every fraction of the old rag tumbled over
them, to run an electric gauntlet and receive a challenge. The bossy
rollers were even quicker than the women’s fingers, and a fraction of
metal, however small, responded to their attraction instantly. There
was a click and instead of falling with its neighbours, the offending
rag found itself arrested and pilloried on a boss. It clung to the
roller, and, as the cylinder turned, became de-magnetized again and
fell in a place apart. The danger to future processes was thus lessened
materially and but little foreign matter in shape of metal escaped to
be a nuisance later on.
To the duster then came the harassed rag and in open wire barrels amid
revolving wooden prongs it was whirled round and round and further
cleansed.
Then to Henry Barefoot it went, and Henry always declared that in his
hands the material received first serious treatment.
“The rag don’t know it’s born till it gets to the boilerman,” he was
wont to say.
The boiler-house lay under an arched roof of corrugated iron. It was
a damp place, full of hot air and the heavy scent of washing. The
steam thinned and feathered away through holes in the roof. In the
floor were deep square hollows and here the boilers revolved, with
a solemnity proper to their size. They were huge metal receptacles
capable of holding a ton each; and when the rag was packed, with water
and alkalies to cleanse it, the loaded giant turned ponderously over
and over, churning the mass for three or four hours. Then the seething
clouts were dragged forth, their pollutions drained away and further
stages of lustration entered upon.
Thus far the rag had come under rough control and reign of law. By air
and water and chastening of many blows it was reduced to a limp and
sodden condition, amenable to discipline, more or less prepared for the
tremendous processes between its final disintegration as rag and its
apotheosis as paper.
A paper man will tell you he turns “old shirts into new sheets”: and
that indeed is what he does; but a long and toilsome journey lies
between the old shirt and its apotheosis.
Henry Barefoot was a placid man, as long as the rag came to him exactly
when he wanted it. Under ordinary circumstances he accomplished his
part in the great machine as obscurely as any invisible wheel, or
steam pipe. But if the women delayed, or he was “hung up,” as he put
it, then his chivalry broke down and he swore long and loud at those
who interfered with his activities. At such times he became tragic and
exceedingly profane. He expanded and broke into uncouth gestures and
simian scowls. He appealed to Heaven in these great moments and asked
of the sky why women had been created. Sometimes his sister, Alice, was
sent for from the thresher to pacify him, and when she failed, Lydia
Trivett, at the sound of Henry’s roaring in the boiler-house, would
slip from her lattice and strive to calm his fury.
The women had fled before him at one of these explosions and Alice
having also failed, approached Mrs. Trivett and begged her to
intervene.
She went, to find Mr. Barefoot standing with steam about him and his
hand lifted to the corrugated iron roof above his grey head.
“Oh, my God, my God!” he said. “What have I done to be the prey of a
lot of worthless females—”
“Your rag’s waiting, Henry,” interrupted Lydia.
“His rag’s out, I should think,” said a woman from behind Lydia. “An
evil-speaking toad—always blasting us. And how can we help it?”
“You know very well, Henry, there must be a hitch sometimes with such a
lot of dirty rag,” explained Lydia. “We’ve all got to keep going, and
it’s no more good or sense cussing us than it is for them in the engine
house to cuss you. And men wouldn’t do this work half as well as women,
as you’d very soon find if we were gone. And it’s a very ill-convenient
thing for you to lose your temper, and nobody will be sorrier than you
in an hour’s time.”
As the rag now awaited him, Henry subsided.
“It’s a plot against me,” he said, “and I’ve no quarrel with you,
Lydia. It ain’t your department. It’s they baggering women at the
magnet, and they want for me to get the sack as I very well know. But
they’ll get fired themselves—every trollop of ’em—afore I shall.”
“They don’t want you to get fired. Why should they? What have you done
to them? Why, you haven’t even asked one of ’em to marry you,” said
Lydia.
“No—they needn’t hope that,” he answered. “I’ve seen too much of woman
since I came here ever to want one for my own.”
So the breeze subsided and Henry filled his empty boiler, growling
himself back to his usual calm the while. It was characteristic of
him that between these dynamic discharges, he preserved an amiable
attitude to those among whom he worked, and when a storm had passed, he
instantly resumed friendly relations.
Within an hour of this scene, when dinner time came, he descended to
the ground floor and cautioned two girls who were skipping off down a
flight of steps that led from the rag house to the ground below.
“Don’t you go so fast,” he said. “When slate steps are wet with rain,
they’re beastly slippery, and some day one of you maidens will fall and
break yourselves.”
Mrs. Trivett put on her old black bonnet, for she was going out
to dinner with another woman; but as she prepared to depart, her
son-in-law met her.
“It’s important,” he said. “I want half an hour with you, mother, and
I dare say Mrs. Ford won’t mind if you go along with her to-morrow
instead.”
Mrs. Ford made no difficulty and Lydia returned to the rag house with
Ned, who brought his meal with him.
“I’ve got a tid-bit for you here,” he explained. “A bit of jugged hare
which you’ll like. And I wouldn’t trouble you but for a very good
reason.”
They sat in a corner among some rag bales, beyond earshot of others who
were eating their meal in the rag house.
“Where’s Medora?” asked Mrs. Trivett.
“She’s having dinner in the glazing room to-day. So I took the
opportunity. It’s about her I want to talk. But eat first. I don’t want
to spoil the jugged hare.”
He brought out a small pudding basin containing the delicacy and his
mother-in-law ate heartily and declared the dish very good.
“Medora can cook, whatever she can’t do,” said Lydia.
“There’s nothing she can’t do,” he answered; “but there’s a damned lot
of things she won’t do. And that’s the trouble to me. Time was when we
saw alike every way and never had a word or a difference of opinion;
but that time’s past seemingly, and I want to know why; and if you
know, I wish you’d tell me. It’s all in a nutshell so far as I can
see. What am I doing to vex her? God’s my judge I don’t know. I’m the
same as I always have been. A chap like me don’t change. I only want
to be patient and cheerful and go on with my life as I’m going. It’s
her that’s changed. She used to love a bit of fun and laughter and be
friendly and easy-going and jolly and kind. That’s what she was when
I married her anyway. But she’s changed and I’m getting fairly fed
up, because I don’t know of any fault in myself to explain it. If I’d
pretended to be different from what I am before we were married and
deceived her in anything, then she’d have a case against me. But nobody
can say I did. She knew just what I was, and I thought I knew just what
she was.”
“You did, Ned,” said Mrs. Trivett earnestly. “You take my word that you
did know just what she was. And what she was, she is still under her
skin. She can’t change really, any more than you can, or anybody else.
She took you because you suited her and she knew she’d be happy with
you. And what’s happening to her just now is a passing thing calling
for patience. Women have their funny moods and whims—Medora like the
rest.”
“I grant that, but how long is it going to last? I know they get queer
in their heads sometimes, but she’s down in the mouth always now. I
can’t pleasure her, do what I may, and the things that always delighted
her a year ago bore her now. Damn it! She looks at me sometimes as if
she was a schoolmistress and I was a wicked boy.”
“It’s like this with her; and it’s the same with lots of people who
have had nothing but a good time all their lives. Instead of knowing
their luck, they take their luck to be just the usual state of things,
and they don’t look round and see the scores of people without their
good fortune: they only fancy that other people are more fortunate
than them. They get so bored with the good that they begin to picture
something better. Everybody wants better bread than is made of wheat
sometimes, and especially them that have never tasted worse. We, that
have had to eat barley bread, know our luck—t’others don’t. The thing
for you is to be patient. You’re all right and you’re going on all
right so far as I can tell. I’ll take your word of that and I very
well understand your difficulties. But you’re a man and you’ve got the
brains.”
“She says not,” he answered. “That’s one of the nice things I’m called
to hear now. She didn’t quarrel with my sense or my nonsense a year
ago. Now she says right out that she wishes I had more intellects.
Not a very nice thing to hear. I might be a stone-breaker, or a
hedge-tacker with no sense at all.”
“Be patient with her. It’s a whim, and what’s responsible for it I
don’t know more than you. But it will pass. She can’t go on pretending
she’s an unhappy woman—”
“No, and she shan’t,” he said. “I’m only a human man myself, and it’s a
proper outrage for her to make out she’s being bullied and evil treated
by a chap that worshipped the ground under her feet and would again.
She’s mean, mother.”
“No, Ned, she’s foolish; she ain’t mean.”
“She is mean. List to this. Two night ago Kellock came to supper with
us—to help eat that jugged hare—and the talk was serious to death,
as it always is with him—him being such a serious man. And presently,
among a lot of other soaring notions, Medora wondered what was the
height of bliss. And she said the height of bliss was to feel she was
doing good, noble work in the world and helping to make people happier.”
Mrs. Trivett sniffed, but did not respond.
“Well,” continued Ned, “I didn’t say nothing to that, though it sounded
a bit thin to me; but Kellock declared it was a very grand thought, and
for his part the height of bliss was to feel you’d got a move on, and
was leaving a mark and doing solid spade work, that would lift the next
generation to more happiness. And, of course, Medora purred over that.
And then she asked me what my height of bliss was—in a pitying tone of
voice, as though she and Jordan belonged to another world. Well, I said
my height of bliss was lying in my new bath-room of a Saturday night,
with the hot water up to my chin, thinking of my savings in the bank.”
“You didn’t, Ned!”
“I did—just to give ’em a shake up. And just to remind Medora I built
that bath-room on to my house—not because I wanted it, but because she
did. Well, I knew Kellock wouldn’t see the joke, because he ain’t built
to; but, damn it—I did think Medora would. I expected she’d laugh
and lighten up the talk a bit. But not her. She pulled a long face,
and said I ought to be ashamed to confess such ideas. And that was
mean—you can’t deny it.”
“It was,” admitted Medora’s mother. “Her sense of fun’s deserted her;
or else she’s hiding it of a purpose.”
“Another thing,” grumbled Mr. Dingle, “that same night when Kellock
was gone, I got a bit angered with her, God forgive me, and I took her
rough by the arm, and it left a bit of a blue mark on her skin. I very
nearly went on my knees for sorrow after, and she forgave me, and made
it up. Well, you’d think a decent woman would have kept her sleeve down
for a day or two till the mark was gone; but I went to speak to her in
the glazing room yesterday, and there was her forearm bare for all the
women to see, and the chaps at the presses. And when they asked her
how she came by it, as they did, she made a business of not telling
them—which, of course, did tell them. And that was mean, too.”
Mrs. Trivett looked anxious, and put her hand on his arm.
“Don’t you knock her about, Ned. I know how aggravating a woman can be;
but don’t you do that. I’m not standing up for her, and I’ll talk to
her again and try to show her what she’s doing; but don’t you give her
a shadow of excuse for this silliness, because, in her present mood,
she’ll be very quick to take advantage of it. I know you very well, and
I was properly glad when Medora took you and not the other, because I
knew her, too, and felt she’d be happier with you in the long run. But
I only say again, be patient until seventy times seven, there’s a good
man, for that’s all you can do about it at present.”
“So I will then,” he promised, “and we’ll leave it at that. And if
you’ll take your chance to talk sense to her, I’ll be a good bit
obliged.”
The rain had ceased, and Lydia went out for a breath of air, while Ned
lighted his pipe and accompanied her. A good few of the workers were
at hand, and Mr. Knox, seeing Mrs. Trivett and her son-in-law, joined
them. Kellock passed, but did not stop, and Philander Knox praised him.
“Now, there’s a chap that’ll go far—either here or somewhere else,”
he said. “Most of you Devon people I’ve yet met with are pretty
easy-going, like myself; but that man is not. He’s more than a paper
maker. Dingle here, and Life, and old Pinhey, the finisher, and Trood
are content to go on their way, and leave other people to do the same.
Kellock is not.”
“He’s got ideas,” said Lydia.
“He has. I’ve took a room in the same house where he lodges, and I’ve
heard him air his notions. They’re commonplace talk where I come from,
but a bit ahead of the times in the West Country. We middle-aged folk
ain’t interested in ’em, but the rising generation is. He told me
straight out that we ought to have shop stewards in the Mill.”
“Not at all,” said Dingle. “We don’t want nothing of that here.”
“A burning mind for the rights of labour,” continued Knox, “and though
you may think we don’t want shop stewards, and I may think so, and the
boss may think so, shop stewards are a sign of the times, and they’ll
come everywhere before long.”
“I hope not,” said Lydia.
“And shop stewardesses,” added Philander; “and if that happened, you’d
have to rise to it, Mrs. Trivett, for the good of the young women.”
Lydia laughed.
“They might be wanted in some places—not here,” she said. “We all
work very comfortably and steady, and there’s none discontented in my
department, that I know about.”
“Just because you’re the head of it and are a very clever and human
sort of woman,” answered Mr. Knox. “You’ve got the touch, and you
understand the nature of the female and how to keep her in a good
temper, and how to get a fair day’s work for a good day’s wages.”
Ned left them at this juncture, and Mr. Knox proceeded. Much to her
surprise he praised Mrs. Trivett in good set terms.
“Well, well!” she said. “It ain’t often I hear my virtues mentioned,
and I’m afraid you’ve named a good few I can’t lay claim to. Women’s
only a greater puzzle than men, in my experience, and I don’t pretend
that I know half that goes to either sort.”
“Character is a great mystery,” he added.
“So it is then, and I don’t want to look farther than at home to know
it.”
Mrs. Trivett was speaking to herself rather than Philander in this
speech; she did not design any confession, but he appeared to guess
what was in her mind. Indeed, he did, for he had seen her in company
with Dingle, which was an unusual incident at the Mill, and he heard
much of the rumour that Ned and his wife were out. He had also heard
of the blue mark on Medora’s arm, from Mr. Pinhey, whose operations as
finisher took place in the glazing room.
“And if there’s a blue mark on her arm, who knows what marks there may
be hidden elsewhere?” murmured Mr. Pinhey, with horrified eyes, behind
his spectacles.
“As a man once married, though without a family, I can understand
that,” answered Knox to Lydia. “And if I may say so, I venture
respectfully to sympathise with what’s in your mind. I’ve heard about
Mrs. Dingle, and nothing but kindness, for I’m sure everybody likes
her, though not as well as they like you. And if it’s not pushing in,
which is the last thing I would do, I should be interested to know
if, between Kellock and her husband, she took the right one in your
opinion.”
Mrs. Trivett felt some concern that a newcomer should have learned so
much of the family history. But he spoke with such propriety that she
could not be annoyed. She liked Mr. Knox, and found him, as everybody
else did, a good-natured and amiable person. It was true that Mr. Trood
had said that Knox was “downy,” but his downiness had not yet appeared
to simpler eyes.
She parried his question.
“You know them both—what do you think?”
“I know them, but I can’t say I know her,” he answered. “However, I
know her mother, if I may say so, without offence, and if Mrs. Dingle
favours you, then I’d say without hesitation that she chose the right
party.”
“She’s like me and not like me,” explained Lydia. “I was pretty near
what she is at her age.”
“Better looking, I expect,” he interrupted.
“No, nothing like so fine—just a little go-by-the-ground woman, same
as I am now. But in character, not unlike her. And if I’d had so good a
time as she has had, no doubt I should have made the same mistakes and
not known reality better than her.”
“You can have too much reality,” declared Philander. “Most of us poor
people have such a deuce of a lot of reality that we get tired of it.
There’s thousands for that matter that never have anything else; and
reality ain’t fattening if you belong to the labouring classes. But if
she’d took Jordan Kellock, then she’d have known what reality was, and
very likely gone down under it, like a mole under a cart wheel. He’s a
wonderful good, earnest man—worth all the rest of us put together,
I dare say; but as a husband for a young, pretty, laughter-loving
woman—no. He ain’t built that way, and if your Medora finds that
Dingle isn’t all she dreamed—as what man is after the gilt’s off the
gingerbread?—then let her be sure she’d have done still worse along
with Kellock.”
Mrs. Trivett was moved, and nodded vigorously. “Very good sense, and
you echo me,” she answered. “I’ve thought much the same. You’re an
understanding man, and kind-hearted seemingly, and have been married
yourself, so you see things in a large spirit. I think my girl took the
right one.”
“Then she did, for you’d make no mistake,” declared Knox. “And if the
right one, then we can trust time to prove it. I’m a great believer in
the marriage state myself. It’s a power for good most times, and so I
hope you found it.”
But Mrs. Trivett was not prepared for any further confidences on this
occasion. She did not answer his question, though she expressed herself
a believer in marriage.