(_Six months later. Interior of Barlow's house at night. Doors on each
side of the roomy window, covered by drawn chintz curtains at the back.
Dark panelled walls. Polished oak floor with squares of carpet, dark
mahogany furniture, square table. Centre with four chairs, chairs by
fireplace and under window; right, basket-grate with high steel fender
and hand-irons. Bright fire._)
(_Ruth, her whole appearance suggesting physical wellbeings sits by fire
reading by the light of four candles on table. She is well dressed in
sober colours. A manservant opens door and Mary enters, dressed as Act
I, with a heavy cloak, mittens, etc., suggesting winter. The servant
goes, closing the door._)
Ruth (_rising_). Well, mother.
Mary (_kissing her_). You're warm in here.
Ruth. We need to be.
Mary. It's bitter cold to-night.
(_Ruth pulls chair from table and sits, putting Mary in her own chair.
Mary looks scornfully at the book placed on table._) Reading, were
you? Well, one way of idling's as bad as another and reading never did
anybody good that ever I heard of. That's what your father's always
doing with his spare time now. Tom Paine's _Rights of Man_ and _The
Age of Reason_. Stuffing his old head with all manner of new-fangled
politics.
Ruth. But this isn't politics, mother. It's poetry. (_Mary sniffs._)
_The Corsair_. Lord Byron's poem.
Mary. I've heard of him and nothing good neither.
Ruth. Nothing good! Why, mother, he----
Mary. A lot of things, I dare say. Well, I've gone for fifty years
without the power of reading and I reckon I'll go through without it to
the end. I've no time to be idle.
Ruth. I've no time to be anything else.
Mary. You've taken to being a lady like a duck to water. Lazybones is
the name I'd give you if you were still Ruth Butterworth, but I suppose
this vain life is right for Mrs. Guy Barlow.
Ruth (_rising_). It isn't right. Idleness is never right, and least
of all for me, because I know my idleness is paid for by the toil of
others. Something has changed me, mother. I can't think of the past.
I've forgotten what I was and what I used to think. I had ideals then,
when I was poor. I'd noble thoughts of my own. The only thoughts I have
to-day are thoughts of other's thinking. (_Picking Byron up._) You're
right, I'm lazy. Bone lazy, and I like it. I like fine clothes and soft
living and hands that aren't work-roughened.
Mary. Small blame to you for that. I'd do the same myself.
Ruth. I'm getting fat. I'm like a pig. I never want to go out. The house
is soft and warm and comfortable, and the sights I see outside are hard
and cold and comfortless.
Mary. You may well say that. Things go from bad to worse, With wages
down and food up it's near impossible to make ends meet. And that's for
us, with your father an overlooker. What it is for the weavers, I don't
know. There's empty hearths and empty bellies this winter time.
Ruth. I know. I know and I don't care. I used to care. Something's gone
dead inside me, killed by the comfort and the ease and the good living
and all the things I used to hate and despise until I had them for my
own.
Mary. Eh, don't you worry! When a lass has got a good husband same as
you have it's little room she has in her mind for thoughts of other
things.
Ruth. That's my punishment. Guy's good to me. (_Changing tone._) Mother,
I'll tell you something. I love my husband.
Mary (_puzzled_). Well, don't tell me that as if it was news to me. What
did you marry him for if you didn't love him?
Ruth. I married him to use him for an instrument. And I don't care now
for the things I cared for then. I only care for Guy, and what Guy does
is right because he does it.
Mary. Well, I never let your father come over me like that. But there's
many wives do think that road of their husbands, especially young wives.
I'm a bit surprised at you being one of them for all that, Ruth. You'd
always a will of your own.
Ruth. My will's asleep.
Mary. Don't let it waken up too sudden.
Ruth. No fear of that. I eat too much.
Mary. There's a-many eat too little, Ruth. There was one you used to
know came in to us the other night. He'd been short of food for weeks
and looked it too, poor lad.
Ruth. A friend of mine? What friend?
Mary (_reluctantly_). Martin Kelsall, if you want to know. There was
him and others. Friends of the People they call themselves, and your
father's joined them now. I never heard such talk in my life. Proper
wild it was. Drilling on the moors, and knocking out the engine boiler
plugs and breaking the machinery and I don't know what.
Ruth. And father, too?
Mary. As savage as the worst of them, the silly old man. Got to threats
before they'd done.
Ruth. Threats?
Mary. Against your Guy. It's him they're bitterest against.
Ruth (_indignantly_). What's Guy done?
Mary. You'd think there was nothing he hadn't done. You'd better tell
him to be careful about going out at night. They've guns amongst them.
Ruth. Guns!
Mary. Oh, don't be frightened, lass. They won't _do_ owt. Men like to
talk. I don't take any notice of them. If they said less I'd fear them
more.
Ruth. Has Martin Kelsall got a gun?
Mary (_contemptuously_). Him! It's bread he wants, not a gun. Gave me a
message for you, Martin did.
Ruth. A message?
Mary. "Tell her to remember me," he says.
Ruth. I understand. What must he think of me?
Mary. What right has he to think of you at all? Impudence I call it.
Ruth. He has the right to think me traitor. I'm a renegade. I'm----
Mary. You're Mrs. Guy Barlow, my lass, and don't you forget it and start
thinking of a famished weaver chap without a shirt to his back or a
mouthful of bread for his belly.
Ruth. Is it as bad as that?
Mary. It's hard times, Ruth, harder every day.
Ruth. The men must be desperate.
Mary. They _talk_ as if they were. But what's talking? They talked
before you wed. They're talking still and I tell you things are worse.
Ruth. What's made them worse?
Mary. They say Guy has.
RutH. But how?
Mary. You'd better ask him. Don't you talk to him of the factory?
Ruth. No. I tried to do at first, but he stopped me, and I thought I'd
bide my time.
Mary. You've a lot more sense than I ever gave you credit for.
Ruth. Then I fell in love with Guy and I haven't cared for anything
since that.
Mary. I don't suppose you'd do a scrap of good. (_Rising as if to
go._) Well, that's how it is. A terrible lot of barking, but not a bite
amongst the lot of them.
Ruth (_detaining her_). But there is danger there, danger to Guy.
Mary. I tell you they, don't mean it.
Ruth. Perhaps all don't. But one man might, and one would be enough. One
man can press a trigger.
Mary. There now! I've upset you.
Ruth. Never mind that. You're sure that's all!
Mary. All what?
Ruth. All Martin said.
Mary. You've got that fellow on the brain. No. _'_Twasn't all, then. He
wants to meet you.
Ruth. Tell him I will.
Mary. I'll tell him no such thing, and you a married woman.
Ruth. You'll tell him I will see him. Not here, though. He mustn't come
here.
Mary. And I'll not have my house put to such a use. So that settles it.
Ruth. There is an old quarry on the moors. Martin knows. It's where
the stone was quarried when they built the factory. I'll meet him there
to-morrow night at eight. Will you tell him that, or must I write?
Mary. Can Martin read?
Ruth. I'm not sure. Tell him, mother.
Mary. It isn't right, but----
Ruth. You will. I'm doing this for Guy. You've stirred me from my sleep
at last. To-morrow night at eight. Mary. Well, I'll tell him.
Ruth. That's right. There's Guy's step now.
Mary. Then I'll be going. God bless you, lass. (_ Kissing her._)
(_Enter Guy._)
Guy (_to Mary_). Good evening.
Mary (_apologetically_). I was just going, sir.
Guy (_warming himself by fire, speaking over his shoulder_). Oh, don't
hurry away. You'll find it cold outside.
Mary. I must go sharp. If you're here it means factory's loosed and
Matt'll be at home looking for his supper. Good night, sir.
(_Exit Mary. Guy goes to Ruth with lover-like attitude. They are on the
best of terms._)
Guy. Well, little wife, how goes it?
Ruth (_tensely_). Guy, I want to talk to you.
Guy (_sitting by fire, lightly_). The sound of your voice is the
sweetest thing on earth. I'm all attention.
Ruth. This is serious, Guy. I've tried before to talk to you about the
factory. You stopped me then.
Guy (_still lightly_). Of course I did. I won't have you worrying your
pretty head about the factory. Besides, think of your long-suffering
husband. Don't you think I get all the business I can stand across the
way there? (_Waving hand towards window._) I want a change at home. Sit
down and tell me what you think of _The Corsair_.
Ruth. No. You must listen to me, Guy. I won't be put off this time.
Guy (_easily_). Oh, well, if I'm in for it, I'm in for it. What's it all
about?
Ruth. You saw mother here. She's been telling me things.
Guy. Really, Ruth, you can't expect me to take any notice of your
mother's old wives' tales.
Ruth. You needn't notice them. But when I'm told you're in danger, I
notice them.
Guy (_still lightly_). Danger? What of?
Ruth. What have you been doing in the factory?
Guy (_sternly_). Leave that alone. That's my affair.
Ruth. And it's my affair if they murder you.
Guy (_rising_). Oh! So they've got to talking about murder have they?
I'll teach them.
Ruth (_taking his arm, pleadingly_). Guy, you must be careful. For my
sake.
Guy. I shall look after myself, Ruth. (_Standing by fireplace, hand on
shelf._)
Ruth. But what have you done to them? I know that since you married me
you've had more power, and your father's done less than he used to. It's
something you've done that's upset the weavers.
Guv (_over his shoulder_). I found it necessary to make economies and
they don't like it.
Ruth. Economies I You mean you've cut their wages down?
Guy. That's it.
RutH. And they were so pitifully low. They'd hardly enough for bread
before.
Guy (_facing her_). I don't fix the price of bread. It's no use
discussing it with you. You can't understand.
Ruth. I'm not thinking of them. At one time I should have done. That's
over now. To-day I only think of you. And you're in danger. I know it. I
know it.
Guy. Nothing's going to happen to me. I've a rough idea of what they
think of me. I've taken my precautions.
Ruth. No precautions are proof against desperate men.
Guy. Then if nothing's any good, why worry?
Ruth. Something would be good. Raise their wages.
Guy. That's impossible. I've told you to drop discussing it.
Ruth. Why is it impossible? They'd more before you reduced them and you
didn't starve.
Guy. No. But I wasn't building another factory then. I want every penny
I can screw to-day.
Ruth. Another factory!
Guy (_with a touch of fanaticism_). Yes. I mean to have another. One
was good enough for my father, but it isn't good enough for me. What
was enterprising ten years ago isn't enterprising to-day. Machinery's
improved since then.
Ruth. Then you're quite sure factories are right?
Guy (_grimly_). I'm quite sure they're money-makers.
Ruth. But money isn't all.
Guy. I keep on telling you not to discuss it. With your upbringing and
your father's views, we're bound to differ, so for Heaven's sake talk
about Byron, or anything under the sun but factories.
Ruth. I'm talking about your danger. You won't believe me.
Guy. You won't believe me when I say there is no danger because I'm
prepared to meet anything.
Ruth. Including bullets? Do you wear a coat of mail?
Guy. That's the worst of reading _The Corsair_. Put this cock-and-bull
story of your mother's on the top of _The Corsair_ and you're ready to
imagine anything. We're in England now.
Ruth. So is Nottingham.
Guy. This is Lancashire. We don't have Luddites here.
Ruth. We have plug riots. I've read it in the newspaper.
Guy. Women shouldn't read newspapers. It's all right, Ruth. Our fellows
won't get out of hand.
Ruth. You're driving them to desperation, Guy. I know the other side.
I've seen. Guy, won't you have mercy on them?
Guy. I'll have another factory out of them.
Ruth. Have mercy on yourself and me. I'm so happy here. You've made me
love you till I would cut off my hand to save you from a scratch upon
your little finger. I shan't know peace again whenever you're away.
Guy. Upon my word, Ruth, it's too bad of your mother. She ought to keep
away, and not come here disturbing you with wild tales that haven't a
spark of truth in them.
Ruth. Are they wild tales?
Guy. They're wild as wind.
Ruth. But you said you'd taken precautions. If there's no truth, why
take precautions?
Guy. I said anything to comfort you. Are you satisfied now?
Ruth. I'm silenced.
Guy. That's good enough.
(_Enter Ephraim and John Heppenstall, another factory owner, resembling
Ephraim in type, dress, and age. He is, however, a more timid man, and
his manner is irresolute._)
Ephraim (_as they enter_). Come in here, Heppenstall. (_Seeing Ruth._)
Ah! you've met my son's wife?
John (_bowing politely, with a touch of courtliness_). Good evening,
Mrs. Guy. (_To Guy._) Good evening.
Guy. Good evening, Mr. Heppenstall. (_Taking Ruth's arm_). Ruth, my
dear, Mr. Heppenstall has called on a matter of business.
Ruth. Oh, mayn't I stay and listen? I'll be as quiet as a mouse.
Ephraim (_genially_). Never knew anybody like this lass of Guy's,
Heppenstall. She's interested in all manner of affairs. (_To Ruth._) You
promise to be quiet?
Ruth (_eagerly_). Oh, yes, yes.
Guy. No. Ruth's more interested in Byron than anything else. (_Holding
the book to her._) You can't read him here with us talking all the time.
Ruth. You want me to go?
Guy. Please.
Ruth (_submissively_). Yes Guy. (_Takes book and exit._)
Guy (_closing door behind her_). That's better. Women are sentimental,
and we've to talk business. Won't you sit, Mr. Heppenstall?
John (_who has been eyeing Guy with disapproval_). Thank you, Mr. Guy, I
will.
(_They sit round table._)
Ephraim (_after clearing his throat_). Now, Heppenstall, I'll tell you
what it's all about.
John. I'm waiting to hear.
Ephraim. You and I are rival manufacturers, but that's no reason why
we shouldn't put our legs under the same table when we find the times
difficult. I suppose there's no denying, they _are_ difficult?
John. They're more than difficult.
Ephraim. Then we agree so far. What threatens us threatens you. In fact,
our interests are identical.
John. Not quite, I think.
Ephraim. Eh? Well, no. What's mine isn't thine. We've each to make a
profit for ourselves. But we get the profit out of weaving, and your
weavers are fractious; so are ours.
John. But mine aren't--or not to anything like the extent yours are.
Ephraim. I'm told the grumbling is universal.
John. It's general up to a point, but there's a dead set at you.
Ephraim. At me?
John. Well, no, not at you, Barlow. It's this young gentleman who's the
mischief-maker.
Guy. The mischief-maker, Mr. Heppenstall?
John (_defending himself_). You reduced wages. You put down fresh
machinery, and got rid of men and----
Guy. And you've done the same.
John. I had to follow suit or see you take my trade away. I didn't want
to do it. I believe in treating men as men.
Guy. I believe in treating men as servants of the machines. It's all
they are.
John. No. By your leave, young gentleman, it is not all they are.
They're flesh and blood. (_To Ephraim._) And I'm surprised, Barlow, at
your allowing your men to be reduced.
Guy. The men can live on what they're paid.
John. They can't.
Guy. They do. I'm getting applications every day from men who want to be
taken on.
John. Yes, so am I. And why? Because the steam power's taken away their
living and half a living's better than none to a starving man. (_To
Ephraim._) You ought to be ashamed of yourself to take advantage of
them.
Ephraim. Well, Heppenstall, it's----
Guy (_interrupting_). I'm responsible, Mr. Heppenstall. If you've
anything to say about the management of Barlow's, say it to me. My
father's virtually retired.
Ephraim (_with spirit_). Have I? I'm not dead yet, my lad. I've given
you a lot of rope, but be careful or you'll hang yourself.
John (_approvingly, turning his shoulder on Guy_). That's better,
Barlow. I mislike seeing you knuckle under to a boy.
(_Guy rises and goes to fireplace, standing with his back to table. John
speaks across table to Ephraim _)
Now, look here, I had to follow your lead when you reduced. Will you
follow mine if I put them up again to what they were three months ago?
Guy (_wheeling round_). And let the weavers fancy we're afraid of them?
John (_not turning_). I'm not afraid of them. I'm sorry for them.
Guy. They know better. Once give in, and they're the masters. Show them
they've only to ask and threaten to get what they ask and they'll ask
for more. They'll not stop at the old level.
John. Oh, we can't go beyond the old figure.
Guy. No. But you'll have to if once you start putting wages on the basis
of a benevolent Charity. I'm in business to buy cheap and sell dear. I
want my labour as cheap as I can get it and, by God, I'll get it cheap.
Ephraim (_thumping table_). Are you the head of Barlow's or am I?
Guy (_impatiently_). Oh, you are, I suppose.
Ephraim. Then you'd better not forget it or I'll turn you out of the
room and finish this talk with Heppenstall alone.
(_Guy throws himself in chair by fire._)
Guy (_sighing to himself_). Oh, my God, these old men!
Ephraim (_to John_). I agree to that. I'll raise them on condition you
do the same.
Guy. I object.
Ephraim. Your objection is overruled.
Guy. I'm your partner.
Ephraim (_hotly_). I am the head of Barlow's and----
(_Manservant enters with port, glasses, etc., places on table, and exit
in silence._)
(_Ephraim pours out wine, and offers John, etc._)
Guy. The old wages won't satisfy the weavers. They grumbled then. But
the point for Mr. Heppenstall is this. It may have hurt his tender
heart, but when we reduced, he did the same, and he needn't cant about
it now, for actions speak louder than words. The thing is that he acts
with us, and we manufacturers can present a solid front and----
John. Yes, but you set the bad example. I'm a business man and I had to
follow or you'd have cut me out with my customers. But as a humane man,
I protest, sir.
Guy. Because you look at the men. I look at the system. The system's
magnificent, and if the factory system demands sacrifices, I shall
sacrifice men without scruple.
John. Will you sacrifice yourself?
Guy. I do sacrifice myself. I've sacrificed my personal security. I risk
my life every day and I value my life, Mr. Heppenstall. I value it so
much that I've taken protective measures at the factory. I've a few
stout fellows there--an odd prizefighter or two, an old soldier from the
French wars, nominally as watchmen, but they're men who can use their
fists and handle a gun too if the worst comes.
John. Ah! You've a pretty good idea of looking after yourself.
Guy. It isn't for my own sake.
John (_sceptically_). No?
Guy. Oh, I've a life I'd like to live. I've a wife and I'm young and so
on--but that doesn't matter. My value is as a factory owner.
Epiiraim. Owner?
Guy. Manager, then. I believe in the system, I'm here to spread
that system, to cover Lancashire with factories and make the county
manufacturing centre of the world. That is my dream, sir, the dream of
cheap production, and the triumph of machinery.
John. You're talking very big, young man. It takes me all my time to run
one factory.
Guy. I know I'm talking big. I'm seeing big, bigger than will come in
your lifetime or in mine. This thing's at the beginning. It's not secure
yet, but I mean to do my part to set it firmly on its legs before I die.
John. There's nothing wonderful in bigness. A thousand factories are no
more wonderful than one.
Guy. Oh, you've no vision.
John. And maybe you've too much. The future isn't here. The present and
those weavers are. And they trouble me.
Guy. They trouble me until they've learnt who's master. After that,
there'll be no trouble.
(_Enter Ruth, excitedly, leaving door open behind her._)
Ruth. Guy! The men. Don't you hear them?
Guy. Men! Where?
Ruth. They're in the hall.
(_Enter Henri, Joseph, Matthew and Martin._)
Henri. No, Madame Barlow, we are no longer in the hall. We are here.
Ephraim (_on his feet_). What's the meaning of this?
Joe (_insolently_). Meaning, Mr. Barlow? The meaning is, you'll either
listen to us here and now or you'll have your factory fired. You can
take your choice.
Guy. Fire then, and be damned to you.
Joe. Is that your answer, Mr. Barlow?
Ephraim. No. Come here and be quiet, Guy. Who am I speaking to?
Matthew. You know us, Mr. Barlow.
Ephraim. You're in bad company, Matt.
Matthew. I told you how _'_twould be if you forced me into factory.
Ephraim. Are you the spokesman? I suppose there's a ringleader. Who is
he?
Henri. We are all leaders.
Guy (_sneering_), I've heard of armies that were all generals and no
privates.
Martin (_quietly_). If you mean by leader who it is that's-kept back the
riot----
John (_badly frightened_). Riot?
Martin. There are hundreds round your factories tonight. They're waiting
there, waiting for us. I'm leader enough to hold them back until we
get your answer. Take care lest I lead them in a different fashion on
another night.
Guy. Mutiny, eh?
Martin. Oh, names don't matter, _Mr_. Guy. We could call you names, and
true ones, if we liked.
Ephraim. So you're their leader, Martin Kelsall?
Martin. At your service, Mr. Barlow.
Ephraim. I have my doubts of that. Well now, we'll just sit down and
talk this over quietly.
Ruth. Father, you amongst the rioters!
Matthew. We're here as peaceful delegates.
Guy. With threats of fire and murder on your tongue.
John (_querulously_). What's it all about? Never mind who they are. What
do they want?
Henri. More wages.
Joe. Less machinery.
Martin. Close the factories.
Matthew. And whatever you do, give a fellow-creature a chance of living,
Mr. Barlow.
Ephraim. Will one of you speak for all? What are your complaints?
Martin. I'll speak, Mr. Barlow. We complain of starvation, of being
driven into your factories and----
Ephraim. Stop there. We drive nobody. There's no compulsion to enter our
factories.
Martin. There's the compulsion of need. You won't have hand-looms and
you've forced us into factories. You've got us there and we've been
helpless before you. We've to work your hours and take your pay, and the
pay's not fit to keep a dog alive. We're tired of factories. We want to
live.
(_Murmurs of agreement from the men._)
Guy (_rising_). Listen to me, men. Everything must have a beginning. A
great system is springing into birth. It isn't perfect yet----
Martin. Perfect! It's----
Guy (_proceeding_). You are suffering the lean years. The fat ones are
coming.
Martin. We've heard all that before. You put it down to the war, not to
the machines that time.
Guy. Even England can't recover in a moment from a war like this one.
Martin. It was all the war last time we made complaint and when the war
was over you promised us fat times, and all of us were going to go hell
for leather for prosperity.
Guy. Just wait a bit. Think what a great thing this system is. We're
going to make calico for the whole world. We've all a share in it.
Henri. You get your share and ours as well.
Guy. Do try to follow me. The cotton comes to us from the sun-kissed
fields of far America, grown there by planters descended from men of our
own blood and----
Martin. The cotton's grown by slaves.
Guy. That's not my business.
Matthew. No. Your business is to make slaves of us here.
Guy. I'll tell you something, Mr. Butterworth. It's this, and it's from
a book you know. "Where there is no vision, the people perish."
Matthew. I don't know about the vision, but I'm sure about the
perishing. And I know where we'll go when we've finished perishing. When
one of us gets up to the Golden Gate, Peter _'_ull ask him what he was
and he'll say a weaver, and Peter 'ull ask him no more questions. He'll
just open the gate quick and say, "Poor devil, get into heaven, you've
had your bellyful of hell on earth."
Guy. You'll have prosperity on earth.
Martin. Aye. So you've said before.
Guy. You complain of the machines. You say they've turned men away.
Joe. Aye.
Guy. Those men will soon find work.
Martin. Where?
Guy. I'm going to build another factory.
Martin. By God, you're not.
Matthew. Another! Isn't one hell on earth enough for you?
Guy. Patience, patience! I'm trying to explain.
Martin. We've no time for patience. We're famishing. And you'll build
no other factory. You'll change your tune or you'll lose the one you've
got. Building new factories is no use to us. We're not builders. We're
weavers.
Ephraim. Hold your tongue, Guy. I'll tackle this.
(_Guy sits sulkily._)
Matthew. We'll hear the old master.
Ephraim. Now, my lads, the factory's there, and it's going to stop
there.
(_Guy takes paper and pencil from his pocket and begins to draw
caricatures of the men._)
Henri. Don't be too sure of it.
Ephraim. Burn it and we build another. And while it's building you'll
have time to think and clear heads to think with, for you'll draw no
wages in the meantime. I'm still waiting to know why you're here.
Matthew. If you'd not reduced wages, maybe we'd not be here.
Ephraim. That's it, is it?
Joe. Yes, that's it.
Ephraim. Will it make you happy if I put the wages up again?
Martin. It won't make us happy. There's been no happy weavers since
machines came in.
John. Is that what you want? Wages back at the old level?
Martin. No. We want more. The old level isn't good enough. Eight
shillings a week won't keep a man, let alone a man's family.
Ephraim. We give your families work. You men aren't the only
wage-earners. Even your children can come to us and be paid. We not
only keep them away from mischief at home, but we pay them for it.
(_Rising._) You can take that answer back. We want willing workers and
if you'll go away and be satisfied with the old wages, we'll try to pay
them, though it's little less than ruin for the manufacturers.
Martin (_scornfully_). This looks a ruined house, and you look badly
fed and all with your wine, and your servants, and your money to build
another factory. To hell with your eight shillings! We want ten.
John. And we want cent, per cent, profits, my man, only we don't get
them.
Ephraim (_sternly_). This is no time for jesting, Kelsall.
Martin. I wasn't jesting. Ten shillings a week is what we want.
Ephraim. Ten is out of the question.
Matthew. I've made double ten with my old hand-loom. Where's the good of
factories to us if that's what they bring us to?
(_Guy rises with his drawings comes round to John and gives it him._)
John (_laughing_). Ha! Very good. I didn't know you drew.
Guy. I've had practice lately. Drawing plans for my new factory.
(_John passes it on to Ephraim._)
Ephraim (_glancing at it_). Pssh! (_To men._) Well, that's what you're
here for, is it? Ten shillings.
Martin. Yes.
Ephraim. We offer eight.
Martin. Then I warn you there'll be consequences.
Guy. We're ready for your consequences.
Ephraim. Guy, I've told you to hold your tongue. (_Reasonably._) We've
made a big concession, Kelsall. Martin. You'll make a bigger if you
want us satisfied. John. We do want you satisfied. We want this valley
peaceful and contented.
Martin. Then you know what to do.
Ephraim. Suppose we talk it over and give you an answer to-morrow?
Joe. We've come here for an answer to-night, Mr. Barlow.
Ephraim. Very well. Stay here and we'll come back with an answer. Come
into the other room, Mr. Heppenstall. (_The men give way sullenly._)
Come, Guy.
(_Heppenstall passes out, as Ephraim holds door open. Guy catches
Ephraim at door._)
Guy. Do you want your silver stolen?
Ephraim. Guy, I'd trust Matt Butterworth with everything I own.
Guy. And the others?
Ephraim. Matt will be there.
(_Exeunt Guy and Ephraim. Neither thinks of Ruth, who now rises from
her chair by fire, crosses, and speaks with Matthew, while the rest
appreciate the fire and examine curiously the fire-irons, etc._)
Ruth. Father, what are you doing with these men? Matthew. Mind your own
business, my lass.
Ruth. I am minding it. I'm minding Guy. If anything happens to Guy,
I shall hold you responsible. Matthew. Guy has the remedy in his own
hands. Ruth. The remedy's in your hands. You have influence with the
men. See how they wanted you on their side. They came to you at home
before I married. They'll listen to you.
Matthew. I've no great influence, Ruth. I'm one of the crowd. Martin
Kelsall's the man they listen to.
Ruth (_glancing at the three who are now gathered round the drawing
Ephraim left on table_). Yes. I'm going to talk to Martin. But not here.
I sent him a message to-night. Can you do nothing, father?
Matthew. I can do nothing but what's right.
Ruth. Violence is never right.
Matthew. Oh, yes, it is. Often. I've counselled peace, but there's a
time for war, and if the time comes, old as I am, I'll do my share.
Joe (_coming across with drawing_). Look here, Butter-worth. See that?
He drew it. Guy Barlow drew that. That's what he thinks of us.
Matthew (_taking it_). A drawing?
Joe (_pointing_). That's me.
Matthew. Nay, never.
Joe. I pin my waistcoat up that road 'cause all the world don't need to
know I haven't got a shirt.
Matthew (_looking at drawing_). Yes. He's spotted that right enough.
Martin (_over Matthew's shoulder_). And that scarecrow's meant for me.
Matthew (_smiling in spite of himself_). Well, he's a clever drawer, Mr.
Guy.
Henri. What is that writing, Matt? You can read.
Matthew (_half turning away_). Yes, I can read.
(_Ruth comes as if to try to secure the paper. Martin turns his shoulder
to her and the three men surround Matthew as he stands C._)
Joe. What is it?
Matthew (_reluctantly_). Something cruel, Joe. It's under your picture.
Joe. I can see that.
Martin. Out with it Matt.
Matthew. No need to cry aloud the shame of what a young man does in his
pride.
Henri. You think to shield him because he is your son-in-law. You are a
traitor, Butterworth.
Joe. Best read it, Matt. We'll get it done outside, in any ease.
Matthew. It isn't much. He's wrote "No shirt but dirt" below you.
Joe (_as the group breaks up_). Dirt! If I'm dirty who's fault is that
but his? I don't like dirt. I'd like to be clean like him. How can a man
wash properly when his belly's crying out for bread and they've put the
tax on soap? I'd like a shirt. I'm weaving yards and yards of Barlow's
cloth and I haven't got a shirt.
Matthew. It's wrong to make a jest of starving men. We've come to ask
for fire for our hearths and clothes to cover our nakedness, and food
for the children. We don't want fine raiment nor grand houses, nor wine
like that. The simple things are good enough for us, and we come here
to ask the masters for them, and all we get is a mocking picture and a
cruel jest, and I'm sick and sorry that the son of Mr. Barlow and the
husband of my lass should be the one that's done it. We're asking for
the right to live, and all we get is contumely and shame.
Martin (_triumphantly_). That's brought you round at last. We'll have no
more peace-preaching from you. You know now what they think of us. We're
dogs and worse than dogs. Well, dogs can bite.
Ruth (_her hand on Martin's arm_). Martin!
Martin (_roughly shaking her off_). I've no word for you. You've gone
wrong. (_Moving._) Let's clear away. No need to wait. We've got their
answer here in this. (_Tapping picture in Matthew's hand._) To-morrow
night we'll meet up on the moors and march down on the factory.
Henri. I said I'd hear you frozen English sing the Marseillaise.
Ruth. The moors!
Matthew. It's not a lawful thing to meet like that. Joe. Lawful! Who
cares for the laws of London here? I'd take the Luddites' oath to-night,
and that's an oath no man can dare to break.
Martin. Swear by your vacant concave belly, man. (_Tapping Joe's
stomach._) You'll find no stronger oath than that.
Matthew. They'll have the law of you.
Martin. The law doesn't care for us. The law lets us starve. We've
finished with palaver now. We've got to _do_.
(_They are reaching the door when Ephraim, John and Guy enter by the
opposite door._)
Ephraim. Where are you going?
Martin. We're tired of waiting.
Ephraim. Come, come! We had to consider our answer. (_The men come
back._)
Joe (_closing door, l._). Well, have you got your answer?
Epiiraim. Yes. Go back to your fellows and tell them this: We will raise
wages to the old figure----
Martin. We've refused that.
Ephraim. Let me finish, my man. And as to a further increase, when
you've tried how you go on and we've all of us thought it over and feel
a little calmer than we do now, well, we'll see if we can't do something
more for you.
Henri. You will see now if you mean to see at all.
Ephraim. That's my last word, men. You've got a lot. Now go away and be
reasonable.
Martin. And this is my last word, Mr. Barlow. You've refused, and
refused with scorn.
Ephraim. Scorn? I've not----
Martin. If you haven't, he has (_pointing at Guy_), and we know which
of the pair is boss. You think you are, but we and Mr. Guy know better.
He's boss and (_taking picture from Matthew_) he calls us dirty and
makes insulting pictures of us for you to laugh at. We shan't do
anything to-night. To-morrow night we're meeting on the moors. Look to
your factory, then.
Guy. If I'm boss, listen to me. I've told you I believe in factories.
Martin. And I tell you you'll have no factory to believe in. We're tired
of machinery.
Guy. The machines are going on. Factories are going on. It's my life's
work to push them on.
Henri. Then look to your life.
Guy. The system's going on. It may break men in the making. It may break
me. But, by God, I'll break you first. Ideas are greater than men. They
conquer men. You can burn and kill and scotch the system _here_, but the
idea will go on in spite of you and anything you rioters can do to us.
You can crush us perhaps, but you can't kill the idea. Factories will
spring up and men will live and die for them and roll themselves against
them like waves against the rocks, but the factories are permanent
because the world is crying for our cloth.
Joe. And I haven't got a shirt.
Guy. A shirt! The world doesn't care for you. It's cloth by the hundred
thousand yards they want. It's not your petty wants the system cares
about. It's----
Martin. Then to hell with the system. We're petty, and, as you say, we
can't do much. We can't stop factories being built elsewhere. But we
can stop them here. We're broken men, but our spirit isn't broken yet.
You've set up your last machine. Your system may be all you think, but
men come first.
Guy. Your men or mine?
Martin. The men you've driven desperate. The starving, ragged men with
wives and children hunger-mad, with everything to win and nowt to lose.
It's men like that that win. Men with the choice of fighting hard or
dying slow. Men with a bitter hatred in their hearts and knowledge
in their heads that machinery's the cause of all. Men fighting for
themselves against the men that fight for money and for you. Your hired
bullies won't last long. We know they're there, and know we'll see them
run.
Guy (_soberly_). You'll waste your blood. You may waste life. I've
got men there. I don't deny it. And I ask you not to break yourselves
against them. You're thinking me a coward, but it isn't that.
Martin (_sneering_). Oh? What is it then?
Guy. It's that I _know_. I won't be you and it won't be I who will win
this fight.
Joe. It must be one of us.
Guy. No. We may have ups and downs, but the system will conquer us both.
Martin. To-morrow night your factory will burn. We meet up on the
moors, not tens or twenties of us, but every man of Barlow's and of
Heppenstall's, and----
Guy. And we'll be glad to see you. Good night.
Matthew (_to Ephraim_). Mr. Barlow----
Ephraim (_shaking his head_). My son speaks for me, Matt.
(_Exeunt Martin, Henri, Joe, Matthew._)
Guy. The blazing fools! To give away their meeting-place.
John. The moors are wide.
Guy. They meet beneath the quarry. I know their place. We'll get them
there. One good surprise attack and we shall hear no more of meetings.
Ruth. Guy, you're going into danger.
Guy. Not I while there are redcoats to fight my battles for me.
Ruth. Soldiers!
Guy. What else are soldiers for? I ride to Blackburn barracks to-night.
We'll teach these rioters a lesson that they'll not forget. Write me the
summons to the barracks, father. You're a magistrate.
Ephraim. It's a heavy responsibility, Guy.
Guy. A flaming factory's the alternative.
Ephraim. Pass me the paper.
(_Sits at table and writes, John bending over him. Guy goes to
fireplace, takes a pair of spurs from mantel and straps them on. Ruth
follows him._)
Ruth. Guy, must you ride yourself? Can't you send somebody you trust?
Guy (_grimly_). I'm sending somebody I trust.
Ruth. It's dangerous.
Guy. Rioting's a dangerous pastime--for the rioters.
Ruth (_appealingly_). But soldiers in the valley, Guy! You'll never be
forgiven. It always will be war between you and the weavers if you bring
soldiers here. They'll be revenged.
Guy (_straightening his back and taking the second spur, bending to put
it on_). Meantime, I've got to save the factory.
Ruth. And I have got to save the factory and you.
Guy. You!
Ruth (_tensely_). Can I do nothing, Guy?
Ephraim (_holding out the paper, without rising_). The summons, Guy.
Guy (_replying to Ruth_). Yes. You can pass me the summons.
(_He bends, fastening the spur. Ruth goes slowly to Ephraim, takes the
paper and hesitates as if intending to tear it, then jerks her head and
takes it to Guy, who accepts, straightening himself and pocketing it._)
Guy. Ah! That's all right.
Ephraim (_who has been filling three wine glasses, rising with glass_).
Here's to your ride, Guy.
Guy (_coming to table and filling a fourth glass_). I'll give you a
better toast than that. The factory. (_Passing Ruth glass._)
Ephraim. (John and Guy). Ruth! (_drinking together_). The factory.
(_Ruth hesitates, meets Guy's eye until he masters her._) Ruth. The
factory.
(_She gulps as if taking poison. Guy drinks his glass off and goes to
door._)
CURTAIN.