NORA'S STRATEGY.
Roland Graeme's full report of Mr. Jeffrey's lecture appeared the
following evening in the _Minerva_. It was not strange, all things
considered, that Mr. Pomeroy threw down the paper with disgust,
declaring that if such stuff was scattered broadcast among the men, it
was no wonder that he had so much trouble.
"What's the matter?" asked his daughter, looking up anxiously.
He did not answer at once, and her brother, who was examining the
contents of his gold-mounted cigar-case, replied nonchalantly:
"Oh, only what might have been expected, after last night! The men have
been making another row about higher pay, and when father told them that
he proposed to run his works himself, they had the impudence to tell him
that he could run them by himself. So I suppose that means that they
won't put in an appearance to-morrow; and just when there's a lot of
work on hand to finish, too!"
"Oh," exclaimed Mrs. Pomeroy, "how disgraceful! And after what you did
for them a little while ago!"
"That wasn't for the men, mamma!" said Miss Pomeroy.
"Oh, I knew no good would come of doing anything to please them!" said
the young man. "I consider you're responsible for it, Clara, for coaxing
father into it."
"Well," said Miss Pomeroy, "I wonder, Harold, after all you heard last
night, you can talk like that! Why should we have so much _more_ than we
need, and all these people so much less?"
Young Pomeroy whistled. "Well, I declare!" he exclaimed. "Do you hear
that, father! Here's Clara out on the 'Rights of Labor'! The reason we
have so much more, is because father had so much more to begin
with,--the money to buy the machinery, and the head to use it!"
"But that's no reason why the men who help him to use it mightn't be
better paid! _You_ like a good salary for what you do to help, and I
don't suppose that's worth a great deal!" she retorted, coolly.
"Much you know about it! But if all these people get only a little more
every week, it would make a big difference to father, don't you see?
And, you know, even Mr. Jeffrey said that single firms couldn't afford
to raise the wages, or they'd be crowded out. And you like as well as
anybody to have your trips to Europe and Newport, and all the rest of
it."
"I am sick of Newport," she replied. "And I'd rather never see Europe
again, than think I was going at the expense of keeping other people
drudging for a pittance! But you know very well father can afford a good
deal of extra pay, end never feel it. You know you can--papa?"
Mr. Pomeroy had been listening to the discussion in silence. It rather
amused him that his daughter should come out in such distinct opposition
to her own interests; and, as she was decidedly his favorite, he did not
care to take sides with Harold against her. Moreover, it always
gratified his purse-pride to have his wealth put at a high estimate. So
he only stretched himself out in his easy-chair, remarking, drily:
"It's well you haven't the business to manage, my dear. However, I am
going to have a long talk with Willett to-morrow, and if it seems to me
that the concern can stand it, I don't mind a little extra pay. Only
don't complain if you can't get quite so many new dresses."
"I don't care for that," she said. "I've always had more than I could
wear, and lots of people have to go without enough to keep them warm. It
makes one feel mean, just to think of it."
Mrs. Pomeroy looked annoyed. She always wore grave colors, having some
vague idea that these were more "consistent" than bright ones, but she
loved rich and handsome materials, and as she "took an interest" in the
Clothing Club, she did not see any reason for "feeling mean." And was
she not at that moment embroidering an expensive cushion for a
charitable bazaar--intended to coax a few dollars out of some one who
had no idea of "_giving_, hoping for nothing again"?
"I wish you wouldn't take up these socialistic ideas, Clara," she said.
"I do hope you haven't been talking to that young Graeme that Philip
talks about! Why, Harold tells me Nora Blanchard actually bows to him,
and that he's been at the house. I think it's very queer! I told Philip
he mustn't think of bringing him _here_."
"Oh, you needn't be alarmed, mamma," the young lady replied. "I haven't
the honor of even a bowing acquaintance with Mr. Graeme, and I don't
suppose he's in the least anxious to visit here!"
Miss Pomeroy knew very well, from Roland's lecture, that he was better
bred, better read, more thoughtful, and better worth knowing than half
the people who did visit them; but where would be the use of trying to
convey this impression to her mother, in whose eyes Roland was little
better than a "communist" and therefore "worse than an infidel"?
"If you're going out, Harold," said Miss Pomeroy, "will you call a cab
for me?"
"Where are you going to-night, then?" asked her mother.
"Oh, only to the Girls' Club," she replied, carelessly. "We're having a
little informal sort of concert for them to-night, and I promised to
go."
"Well," said Mrs. Pomeroy, "I wonder what we shall have next. When I was
young, girls thought tract distribution and collecting for missions good
enough for them. Now, they must have all sorts of new-fangled ideas!
Where's the use of taking these girls out of their homes at night, when
they've been out all day?"
"If you saw some of their homes!" Miss Pomeroy replied. "And some of
them have _none_!"
"I say, Clara," said her brother, lingering a little, "suppose you take
me with you to help! I don't mind sacrificing myself to that extent.
I'll read them the "Bad Little Boy," or anything else you like."
"Thank you for nothing! We don't have _any_ boys there," she replied,
severely.
"Well, that's gratitude, I must say. But still, I'll come for you if you
like. What time? Ten? or half-past nine?"
"Half-past nine will do," she replied. "Really, Harold is in a
wonderfully obliging mood, to-night!" she remarked, as she left the room
to get ready.
"You don't half do your brother justice," said the fond mother.
At the concert, the girls were whispering among themselves about the
rumored strike, but of course nothing reached Miss Pomeroy's ears.
Neither did she observe a little stolen talk between her brother, as he
waited for her at the door, and Nellie Grove, as she went out alone,
avoiding Lizzie, who looked very sad and downcast.
"May I come to see you to-morrow, Miss Blanchard?" said Lizzie, watching
her opportunity. "You know there isn't going to be any work at the mill,
and there's something I want to speak to you about."
"Why, are _you_ all going to strike too?" asked Nora, who had heard that
the crisis was imminent.
"Oh no, miss! but there's no use our going when there's no one to work
the machinery. So we'll have a whole holiday, and that is splendid!"
"Oh, I see," said Nora. "Well, come whenever you like. I shall be in all
the morning."
The next day was one of those exquisite winter days that are most apt to
come in February, when the sun rises softly through a light haze that
idealizes the commonest objects. Even Pomeroy & Company's mill looked
almost poetical in the early morning sunshine; but it stood still and
silent, no whirr of machinery breaking the morning stillness, no troops
of workers hastening toward it from their hurried breakfast.
A few girls who had not heard of the strike arrived; but turned away
again, as they knew, by the unwonted stillness, that there was no work
going on. Willett, the manager, himself once a workingman, now turned
into a petty tyrant, very willing to mete to others the measure he had
himself received, walked about grumbling, or scolding the little
message-boys, who lingered about the place. He read the letters that
came in, and then grumbled again, because some of them contained large
orders for a particular kind of mixed silk and woolen goods, of which a
large quantity was wanted immediately. Finally, on receipt of a note
from Mr. Pomeroy, he settled down with a frown to a series of elaborate
calculations, made from the pages of the great folios of accounts that
lay on the office table. Meantime, the men at their homes enjoyed their
unusual holiday, slept in, or lounged about aimlessly, discussing the
prospects of speedy success, while they wondered wistfully, at times,
how long this unproductive idleness was likely to last.
Lizzie, however, did not arrive till pretty late in the afternoon; just
as Nora, despairing of her coming, was going out for a long walk, to
enjoy the unusual beauty of the exquisite winter day.
"I'm so sorry, miss," she said, "that I couldn't come sooner. But I've
been awful worried all day--about Jim! He's been out drinkin' with some
roughs; an' they've been puttin' him up to all sorts of mischief. An'
he's been hearin' about Nelly bein' out walkin' the other night--with
young Mr. Pomeroy--and it's just set him crazy; he's vowin' he'll do him
a mischief _sure_!"
"Was it Mr. Pomeroy, then, that you told me about before?" asked Nora,
dismayed at this proof of what she had hoped was mere talk.
"Yes. But indeed I wouldn't have told you now, only I'm dreadful 'fraid
there'll be a row! My little brother's an errand-boy in the mill, an' he
happened to tell Jim that young Mr. Pomeroy was in the office, goin'
over accounts with Mr. Willett; an' now Jim has got a plan in his head
of goin' with two or three of his comrades, to wait for him, when he
goes home at dusk, and give him an awful thrashin', you know there's one
place that's pretty lonely on the road. An' there's no knowin' what Jim
will do when his blood's up--an' the drink in his head! I seen him,
lately, foolin' with a revolver, though where he got it, I don't know."
"And why can't you go and warn the police to look out?" asked Nora,
hastily, too much shocked at this unexpected turn of things to consider
it calmly.
"Oh, Miss Blanchard! how could I do that, an' have Jim 'run in' again
the first thing? If he knew I came an' told _you_, even, he'd half kill
me, the way he's in now! I've been thinkin' an' thinkin', an' there's
only one way I can see to stop mischief, and that is, if you could only
manage to walk home with Mr. Pomeroy this evenin'."
"I?" asked Nora, much startled at such a proposition.
"Yes, miss, if you were there, I _know_ Jim wouldn't lay a hand on him.
He thinks an awful lot of you mostly for the notice you've took of
Nelly--for all he's so mad at her just now. If you were walkin' with Mr.
Pomeroy he'd never think of makin' any row. You could keep talkin' with
him all the way, so they'd know you were there. And then no one need
ever know anything about it. And when Jim's sober to-morrow, you might
come and talk to him a bit. But if you could only get Mr. Pomeroy to
stop hangin' round Nelly, it would be best of all. That was what I
wanted to ask you, any way. For I do think he would, if you spoke to
him."
Nora had been rapidly thinking the matter over, as Lizzie spoke. At
least, she thought, she could _try_. And the crisis, such as it was,
appealed to a natural, chivalrous love of adventure, that she doubtless
inherited from her brave pioneer ancestors.
"Well, Lizzie," she said, "I'll do what you ask, and I only hope it will
prove effectual."
And then she stopped Lizzie's torrent of warm gratitude by making some
inquiries about Mrs. Travers. Lizzie was evidently unwilling to say
anything about her friend's weakness, but Nora drew from her enough to
show that the poor young woman was subject to fits of restless
excitability, when it seemed as if she _must_ have the stimulus she
craved.
"She's told me she could jump over a ten-barred gate to get it, at such
times," Lizzie said, sorrowfully. "And then she'd be down in the depths
of misery afterwards. An' the poor little thing would look so scared,
when her mother took these turns! She wouldn't know what to make of it,
though she did get kind of used to it, too."
Nora had not, just then, much time to think of Mrs. Travers, however. As
soon as Lizzie left her, she began to arrange her plan of operation. She
would have to do something that would surprise Mr. Harold Pomeroy a
little, but that could not be helped. Had her brother been there, she
would have solved the problem by asking _him_ to call for Mr. Pomeroy
and drive him home, giving him a hint of her reason; but he was out on
his rounds, and there was no knowing how long he might be away. And Nora
knew that it would not do to risk anything; for, independently of the
consequences to those chiefly concerned, any lawless act of violence of
this kind would seriously complicate matters, and, moreover, bring
additional odium on Mr. Graeme and on the cause in which she had become
so strongly interested.
She took a long walk alone, in the dreamy slanting sunshine of the mild
winter afternoon, the genial balmy air, and the soft purplish haze
seeming like a presage of the coming spring. The calm beauty of the
approaching evening, the rose and amber tints of the western sky as the
sun set red through the haze, soothed the slight nervous excitement that
her errand naturally produced. She walked a long way past the Pomeroy
mill, noting, in her walk, how many wretched-looking houses there were,
just like Lizzie's, in its close vicinity; and thinking that these were,
doubtless, the places where her brother apprehended an outbreak of some
epidemic, as soon as the warm weather of spring should have set in.
She took good care, however, to be back at the mill, before Harold
Pomeroy should be likely to think of returning. It was getting near
dusk, and the office windows alone were lighted, the rest of the
building looming up, dark and blank--a contrast to its usual effect at
this hour. Nora walked up, unhesitatingly, and knocked at the office
door.
"I should like to speak to Mr. Harold Pomeroy, if he is here," she said
to the manager, who opened the door and looked much surprised at seeing
his visitor.
"Miss Blanchard!" exclaimed young Pomeroy, as he recognized her? "Why,
what----"
Nora did not give him time to go on. "I've been taking a long walk," she
said, "and am rather late in getting home. I was told you were here, and
thought I would ask for your escort back."
"I shall be only too happy," he said, though not without some natural
surprise at the direction she had chosen for her walk. But Miss
Blanchard was evidently a young lady of peculiar fancies, and, no doubt,
she had been looking up some of her queer acquaintances.
"We'll do the rest of these to-morrow, Willett, and I'll report
progress, so far," he said, with an air of satisfaction. "Now, Miss
Blanchard, I'm at your service. Will you take my arm?"
Nora accepted it, a thing she had never done before, and they walked on
together through the still, clear twilight, while bells were chiming and
lights gleaming out through the winter dusk.
"What a lovely evening, and how it makes one begin to think of spring!"
said Miss Blanchard, as they came out.
And then she went on talking in a somewhat louder tone than usual, about
everything she could think of, making young Pomeroy wonder no less at
her very unusual loquacity, than he had done at her unexpected
appearance. He never knew the reason of either, nor did he notice the
strained attention of his companion during the whole walk; how she
scrutinized every corner and archway they passed, till she began to be
afraid lest her companion should notice her anxiety and hear the loud
beating of her heart. They had come about a third of the way, when
Nora's quick eye caught sight of some dark figures hovering in the
shadow of a line of warehouses with open gateways, and her strained ear
caught something like a muttered consultation. She talked on in a still
louder tone, not allowing her companion time to put in a word, lest he
might, by any chance, say something that might aggravate or enrage the
men. As they drew near, she saw that they seemed to move back a little,
then edged off to a corner near; and, as Nora and her companion reached
it, they saw them clattering heavily away, growling out oaths, all but
_one_, who stood still in the shadow, and whom Nora's quick ear could
hear, as he hissed out, between his teeth:
"You ---- white-livered coward! You must get a woman to take care of
you!"
"There go some of Graeme's amiable 'Knights'!" sneered Harold Pomeroy,
who had not caught the words, but knew that something abusive had been
said. "That's what comes of strikes. The men loaf about and get drunk
and then they get into rows and riots! That's making things better, I
suppose!"
Nora had suddenly collapsed into silence in the middle of a sentence.
The nervous strain had been too much for her, and she could not think of
anything more to say, just at that moment.
She only replied to her companion's remark, in a dreamy way--"Yes, it's
a pity when such things have to be."
Harold Pomeroy went on talking, but she scarcely listened to him. She
was bracing herself for the latter part of her task, not less difficult
than the first. If her companion was puzzled by her sudden change of
manner, he was still more surprised at her next speech.
"Mr. Pomeroy," she began, in a voice low, and somewhat tremulous, from
the effort it cost her to speak at all; "do you remember an old Bible
story about a rich man who had great flocks and herds, yet sent and took
away a poor man's lamb that he prized very much; and what was said about
him?"
"Yes, I believe I have some such vague recollection," he replied.
"Well, then," she continued, "suppose that you were a poor young man who
had to work at some steady, monotonous, uninteresting labor from early
morning till late at night. And suppose Kitty were a poor girl slaving
away for so many long hours a day----"
"What a horrible supposition!" he broke in; but she went on without
noticing the interruption.
"And, suppose that some rich young man, like _you_, for instance, who
was engaged to a rich and beautiful young lady, were to try to come
between you and Kitty, and flatter her into thinking she was too good
for you----"
"Perhaps she'd be about right!" he muttered.
"And break up, perhaps, her and your happiness for life. How do you
think you'd like it?"
"Oh, I see what you're hinting at," he replied, having by this time got
over his momentary discomposure. "I see some one's been gossiping,
making much ado about nothing! What harm is there in a little fun and
nonsense with a pretty girl, even if she _is_ silly?"
"Mr. Pomeroy," exclaimed Nora, in a voice unsteady with indignation,
"did you ever read the fable of the boys and the frogs?"
"Miss Blanchard," he replied, now in a tone half apologetic, "you
high-strung young ladies are always making mistakes, when you try to
judge about other people who don't feel like you. That girl hasn't any
heart at all; all she cares about is to have a good time; so what amuses
me doesn't hurt her; and if it did set her against marrying a lout like
that surly young Mason, so much the better for her, and for him, too!
She can do better for herself if she likes, and if she ever marries him
she'll lead him a dance, I can tell you!"
"Mr. Pomeroy," said Nora, severely, "you know in your heart better than
that. I want you to promise me to have nothing more to do with Nelly
Grove."
He began to whistle, then checked himself. "And what if I don't?" he
asked.
"Then I shall have to tell Kitty," she said, decidedly.
"And if I do promise, you'll promise to say nothing about it, will you?
I suppose _some_ women can keep a secret!"
"Yes, I am quite willing to promise that," she said.
"Well then--honor bright--I hereby promise to renounce Nelly and all her
works; will that satisfy you?"
"Yes," said Nora, shortly.
"And Kitty is never to hear a word about it! I don't want to give her a
good excuse, or what she might think a good excuse, for her flirtation
with Waldberg. You might reverse your story on my behalf; for it seems
to me that a poor young man is trying to poach on my preserves. You'd
better give him and Kitty a little of the admonition you've been good
enough to bestow on me!"
Through Nora's mind there had been running, since Lizzie's visit, that
afternoon, some lines she had long ago learned by heart, in one of
Macaulay's Lays. They were from "Virginia," and she just remembered
snatches of them.
"Our very hearts that were so high sank down beneath your will;
Riches, and lands and power and state--ye have them;--keep them still;
But leave the poor Plebeian his single tie to life--
The sweet, sweet love of daughter, of sister, and of wife.
Spare us the inexpiable wrong, the unutterable shame,
That turns the coward's heart to steel--the sluggard's blood to flame
Lest, when our latest hope is fled, ye taste of our despair,
And learn by proof, in some wild hour, how much the wretched dare!"
But her cheek burned a little as she felt that it would be "casting
pearls before swine" to appeal further to Harold Pomeroy's
sensibilities, hardened--almost atrophied--as these were, by a life of
unrestrained self-indulgence. A young man, who had never learned to
consider the feelings of an animal, but regarded it merely as an
instrument for his own amusement, who "went in" for pigeon-matches when
he had the chance, and docked his horse's tail, and tortured him with a
cruel check rein, without an atom of compunction for the creature's
suffering, was not likely to be over-particular when he came to deal
with human beings whom he also looked upon as an inferior order of
beings at that. To Nora, he was a puzzle, and she gave him up in
despair.
Yet the young man was, after all, a little impressed by her earnest
appeal. "She really does seem to take an awful lot of trouble about
other people!" he thought, wonderingly, as he walked homeward, after
leaving Miss Blanchard at her brother's door. "I really believe she
walked out all that way to-night, just to have the chance of giving me
that lecture. Too bad I can't tell Kitty about it!" and he laughed a
little over the adventure.
He never knew the real meaning of Miss Blanchard's unusual procedure. It
had the effect, however, of preventing an act of violence which would
have seriously imperilled the success of the strike and even of the
labor movement in Minton, as well as what Mr. Harold Pomeroy would have
thought of much more consequence,--his own preservation of a whole skin.