UNEXPECTED DENOUEMENTS.
That night, it happened that Roland Graeme, harassed by a natural
anxiety as to the results of the strike, with which he well knew public
opinion would be sure to connect his efforts after reform, felt
unusually wakeful, and, fearing a sleepless night unless he took some
means to quiet his nervous excitement, set out for a long walk after his
evening's work had been completed. This was a favorite expedient of his
for securing sleep when wakeful, and sometimes it succeeded.
By a natural sort of fascination, he involuntarily took the direction of
Mr. Pomeroy's mill, which at present occupied so much of his thoughts,
and walked some distance past it, into the open country, till he felt as
if the physical exercise had sufficiently quieted his nerves, and turned
to retrace his steps under the light of a late, waning moon, which
seemed, as such moons are apt to do, to give a sombre and ghostly aspect
to the familiar features of the scene. As he approached the mill, in
doing which he had to pass a long alley that led to a rear entrance
close to a small canal, he heard the thick voices of men, evidently
intoxicated, who seemed engaged in a noisy altercation. He was almost
sure, even in the distance, that one of the voices was Jim Mason's,
which he had often noticed as somewhat peculiar.
"I suppose they have been making a night of it at 'The Haven,' and are
going home 'full,' as they call it," he thought to himself in disgust.
"The Haven" was a drinking saloon, close to the alley which ran to the
rear of the works, and was also a part of Mr. Pomeroy's property; and,
at a distance, he could not be sure whether they had come out of the
saloon, or out of the alley. Just as he reached the alley, however, he
stopped short, as the penetrating odor of burning wood made itself
distinctly perceptible. With a flash, a possibility that had often
occurred to him rushed to his mind, and he turned down the alley in
order to find out its cause. As he proceeded, it grew more and more
distinct. He came at last to a gate leading into the courtyard, and
found that it yielded at once to his strong push, but whether this was
due to its having been previously forced open, or to the unconscious
force he had himself exerted, he did not stop to think, and could never
afterwards be sure. But, once inside, he saw what made his heart stand
still with dismay. An already strong jet of flame was licking its greedy
way along the base of an out-building used for the deposit of rubbish
from the mill, and, as he could see, evidently full of inflammable
material. Just beyond it was a storehouse, which he felt sure must in
all probability contain oil and other combustibles used in the works.
There was not a moment to be lost, and he, single-handed, could do
nothing. He rushed up the alley at full speed--shouting "_Fire!_" as he
ran; smashed in the office windows, till he had fully roused the sleepy
watchman, and sent him off to give the alarm, and then made his way,
breathless, to a street in the near vicinity, in which lived his friend
Turner and many more of the operatives. In less time than he could have
believed possible, he was making his way back, at the head of a
half-clad band of men who flocked after him, more from the irresistible
impulse which draws men to a scene of excitement and danger, than from
any definite purpose of saving Mr. Pomeroy's mill. There must still
intervene some minutes, at least, before the fire-engines could reach
the spot; and they were fateful minutes, for the fire was making rapid
headway, and its lurid glare now overpowered the pallid moonlight.
"Now, Turner, you know all the ropes. Tell us what's best to do," said
Roland.
"That storehouse is full of oil-barrels," said the man, gasping with
breathless excitement. "If the boys would turn to and get them out into
the water,--and there are axes here to tear up the roof and other
connections!"
"Come on, boys!" Roland shouted, tearing off his coat. "Let's get at it
at once! Some of you go and help Turner with the barrels, and I'll help
with the chopping!"
But the men sullenly held back; and Roland, looking round, saw, in the
bright glare of the leaping flames, that Jim and his friends, who must
have heard the alarm and hurried back, were already there, and were
evidently rousing the worst passions of their comrades, by their oaths
and invectives against the owners of the mill. Roland fairly rushed at
the surly, irresolute group of men who stood divided between the
instinctive impulse to save their workshops, and the grudge they had so
long silently nourished against the proprietor, and the "boss." Why
should they toil to save a place in which they might never do another
day's work? For there had been already floating rumors, spread by the
manager, that Mr. Pomeroy intended to send away for non-union men.
But Roland felt the gravity of the crisis, and felt that he _must_ get
them to work, for he could easily see the disastrous consequences that
would result, if it should be represented and believed--as it would
certainly be--that the strike had resulted in an incendiary fire. For
the next few moments, it seemed to him rather as if he were listening to
some one else, than speaking in his own proper person,--that the strong,
burning words, the voice of stern authority, came from some other
personality, so little seemed his conscious volition to be concerned in
it. In ringing tones he commanded them to follow. Were they going to
sacrifice their very livelihood to a childish impulse of vindictive
malice? Had they no concern for the valuable machines they had tended so
long? Would they let the mill become a mass of ruin, ruin to
_themselves_, not to the owner, who, of course, would have his
insurance, and could easily bear any trifling loss?
His tone even more than his words had a prompt effect, and the reference
to the machinery touched a chord of feeling of which they had been
previously unconscious. Roland's words called up a picture of the
wrecked and twisted bars and coils which they had seen, some months
before, in the ruins of a burned mill. Should the familiar machinery,
which had so long been like a part of their daily life, be wrecked like
that? No! they must try to save it! And so the scale turned. That
incalculable element, on which the action of a crowd depends, was swayed
round to Roland's side, as he shouldered his axe, calling the men again
to follow either Turner or himself. And presently, he had the
satisfaction of seeing at work a sufficient force to hack and tear away
the roof of the burning building, so as to prevent the fire from
spreading to the main part of the factory on the one side or to the
store house on the other. "Don't go at it so hard," he heard one and
another exclaim, "you'll hurt yourself, Mr. Graeme!" as he wielded his
axe with the unnatural force of a white-heat of excitement. And, though
he could feel the hot breath of the flames as they rolled up their red
tongues, amid the dense clouds of smoke that now began to rise from the
oil-soaked ruins below that fed the conflagration, Roland felt himself
thrilled with a keener, more passionate sense of delight than he
remembered ever feeling in his whole life before, in the sensation of
encounter with some deadly monster, calling forth all the reserve force
of his being into a hand-to-hand struggle with the fiery foe.
Meantime Turner, with his following, was equally hard at work, rolling
out the oil-barrels, till they were all safely turned over, out of
harm's way, into the little canal in the rear, where Roland could see
them bobbing about, as he came down from the roof with his improvised
body of sappers, to give place to the play of the fire-engine, which had
by this time arrived. Scarcely a moment had been lost from the time when
the fire had been discovered, and, thanks to the preventive efforts of
Roland and the men, the fire was confined to the building in which it
had begun, and was speedily under control. As Roland stood, at length,
relieved from his self-imposed task, and, panting with unaccustomed
toil, watched the hissing stream of water which seemed to meet in mortal
combat the cruel flames that turned, under its charge, into white clouds
of harmless steam, he felt a fierce exultation that surprised himself,
as if in watching the death-throes of some ruthless destroyer. He could,
ever after, better understand the fascination which draws the brave
firemen to their arduous task, or even--what it had previously been
difficult for him to take in--the fierce joy of victory in battle.
"It's well you went for them as you did, Mr. Graeme," said the voice of
Turner, startling him out of his absorption. "If they hadn't set to work
to fight the fire, it would have been all over town by morning that the
strikers had started it!"
"Of course, Turner, I felt that!" replied Roland, who did not feel at
all sure himself, however, that some of them had _not_ done it. "Did you
see Jim Mason helping at all?"
"Oh, yes," he rejoined, "he took a hand at the barrels, in his surly
way, muttering oaths all the time. But he couldn't keep still, if he
wanted to, when there's anything going on--for all his sulkiness."
Roland said nothing more, but thought a good deal, as at last, tired,
and smoked and grimy, he made his way homeward, after all further danger
was over. He could not divest himself of the idea that Jim, in his
present vindictive temper, had had a hand in the business. Still he had
no positive evidence, and it would be most unjust to associate the young
man's name with a grave crime, without any proof. He was heartily glad
that he had none, and that his conscience relieved him of the burden of
what, had he felt it a duty, he would have done so reluctantly. He
talked the matter over with Miss Blanchard, one day when he met her at
Mr. Alden's and walked home with her, after receiving warm
congratulations on his action at the fire. He knew that she could be
trusted to keep as rigid a silence as himself; and it was some relief to
himself to unburden his mind of suspicions, though he carefully pointed
out that they were no more.
"But how do you suppose the fire could have originated, if it was not an
incendiary one?" asked Nora, anxiously.
"Oh, that is not difficult to imagine," he replied. "It might easily
have started from spontaneous combustion. Turner tells me it is by no
means uncommon for fire to originate spontaneously from rubbish of that
kind, soaked with oil and dust, especially when the sun begins to have
more power. He says that there had been gross carelessness on Willett's
part, in not having had that accumulation disposed of long ago."
"Well, I'm glad to know it can be accounted for without Jim's
intervention!" she said. "So, we'll give him the benefit of the doubt."
"Certainly," said Roland; but in his own mind he could not get over the
painful impression, nor, to say truth, could Nora herself.
Of course there was a rumor that the fire had had an incendiary
origin;--favored by Willett, to cover his own carelessness. But there
was no shadow of proof, and the fact that the men had worked so well to
save the property had great weight in preventing the rumor from gaining
any general credence.
Mr. Pomeroy had tranquilly slept through that night, knowing nothing of
the fire till next morning; for Willett, who had not arrived on the
scene till the fire was almost subdued, did not think it worth while to
disturb him about what seemed so trifling an affair, particularly as
even the small damage sustained was covered by insurance. And as the
firemen gave full publicity to the prompt turn-out of _employés_, and
their successful efforts, with Roland at their head, to arrest the
spread of the fire, Mr. Pomeroy could not avoid a certain grudging
recognition of the fact that he owed to their promptness, in all
probability, the prevention of a great deal more inconvenience than any
that the strike itself could have caused. This consideration had, of
course, its effect in bringing the contest to a speedy termination. It
turned out, after all, that the examination of the books, and a
consultation thereupon, satisfied Mr. Pomeroy that the firm could,
without any real inconvenience, afford to pay its operatives at a higher
rate. No doubt his daughter's remarks, taken in connection with Mr.
Jeffrey's lecture, had their effect in bringing him to act on this
knowledge. And another very weighty consideration, of course, had been
the reception of the large orders, already referred to, and the
difficulty and inconvenience of having, on short notice, to import a
sufficient number of skilled workmen from a distance. And thus it came
about that, two or three days after the fire, the leader of the strike
received notice that, if the men would return to work at once, they
should receive both the increase of wages and the Saturday half-holiday
they had asked for. The girls, also, through Miss Pomeroy's urgent
intercession, received a small increase of pay. And the fact that the
firm could well afford to do this, without embarrassment, proved that
the strike had justice on its side.
But, for all that, "public opinion," that is, the opinion of the upper
stratum of Minton intelligence, was decidedly "down" on Roland Graeme
and his troublesome organ. He was generally considered as the
arch-conspirator against the peace and profits of the wealthy
manufacturer, against the "good old ways," in which things had run so
long without any of this tiresome fuss and friction, that over-zealous
champions, false friends of the laborer, were so busy in creating.
The Minton _Eagle_, the most formidable rival of the _Minerva_, began to
see a chance of making capital out of the evident sympathy of the latter
paper with many of the views ascribed to Roland Graeme; and Dick Burnet
soon received strong hints from the other joint-proprietors of the
_Minerva_, that he had better take in sail in that direction, and steer
a safer course, for, naturally, to the proprietors, it was a _sine quâ
non_ that the paper should _pay_.
Dick Burnet had much more of the professional journalist than of the
pure philanthropist in his composition, and though interested in
labor-reform, he was by no means prepared to become a martyr in its
cause. He told Roland, therefore, with regret, that he must not only
discontinue the noticing and reprinting of articles from _The
Brotherhood_, but that he feared it would be necessary to make
arrangements for having it printed elsewhere, as the reputed connection
was considered damaging to the _Minerva's_ interests. This was, of
course, a cause of no little worry and anxiety to Roland, as he had
enough on his hands, without the charge of the mechanical arrangements;
but it was a still greater pain to him to see his friend Burnet, as it
seemed to him, deserting the cause of principle for that of expediency.
However, his genial spirit of charity made allowances for his friend
that he would not have made for himself, could such a descent on his own
part have been conceivable. He talked the matter over with Mr. Dunlop,
and the old Scotchman's practical shrewdness as well as his purse came
to Roland's aid, in devising new arrangements.
This was not, however, the only matter pressing on Roland's mind, as
February passed into March, and the first mild spring-like days came
with their physically relaxing influence. He was sharing the fate of
every idealist in reform, meeting with unlooked for discouragements and
perplexities, pained by frequently encountering precisely the same
spirit of selfishness in the employed that had so disgusted him in the
employers; and when, occasionally, his friends, the "Knights," had a
social entertainment of their own, his taste was jarred by the tone of
the comic songs and recitations which seemed most to tickle the
audience. The material enjoyed by audiences of greater pretension to
"culture" might not, in general, be much more elevated, but at least the
humor was not quite so broad, the wit not quite so coarse; and yet,
while Roland felt jarred and dissatisfied, he admitted that he was
unreasonable, that it was useless to expect fine fruit from ungrafted
trees, and that the low tone of taste which he regretted was a natural
result of lack of opportunity for true cultivation. It only intensified
his desire for a better state of things; but, at the same time, these
experiences often tended to depress and dishearten him. And the long
strain of high pressure was telling on him, also.
He was uneasy, too, about Waldberg, who had of late developed a feverish
anxiety to "make a fortune," quite alien to his former happy,
easy-going, romantic disposition. Roland rightly guessed that a growing
attachment to Miss Farrell was at the root of it, combined with the too
evident fact that she greatly preferred him to her much less interesting
_fiancé_; and that, if he only had money enough, he might easily carry
the day, yet. Mr. Farrell was a broker, who had made his large fortune
mainly by speculation; and young Waldberg had heard from him stories of
"lucky ventures," till he had been inspired with a strong desire to try
the experiment himself. This desire was encouraged and promoted by one
of Mr. Farrell's clerks, and with him for counselor, Waldberg had begun
to gamble in stocks and "margins" to such small extent as he was able,
notwithstanding Roland's strong disapproval and remonstrances.
Roland would, however, seek some respite from these various subjects of
disquietude by a visit to Mr. Alden's house, or by a long walk, in the
bright, lengthening afternoons. One charming and unusually mild
afternoon, the day before the public performance of the oratorio which
had been in preparation so long, he had prolonged his walk by the river,
past even the suburbs of the city, and was returning about sunset. He
had reached the gateway leading to Mr. Pomeroy's handsome residence,
which stood at a little distance from the street, when he noticed, just
inside it, a sight that always made him sick at heart, and seemed like a
dark blot on the brightness of the day. It was the sight of a woman,
apparently young, who had been seated on the ground in the shelter of a
cluster of trees, and whom two policemen were endeavoring to raise to
her feet. Mr. Pomeroy, returning home a few minutes before, had
discovered her sitting there, evidently in a state of intoxication, and,
in his usual bland manner, had handed her over to the first policeman he
espied. As she came out, assisted by the policemen, Roland got a glimpse
of her face, and heard a word or two, in a soft English voice. He was
horrified, as the conviction flashed on him that it was the woman he had
gone to succor, on the December evening when we first made his
acquaintance,--Miss Blanchard's _protégée_, Mrs. Travers.
He hastened up to the policemen, and begged them to let him call a cab
and take her to the hospital. But the men only looked at him sneeringly,
as they remarked:
"Oh, yes, no doubt you'd like to get her off! Expect she's an old
friend. But she's got to go with _us_, now."
Roland drew back, disgusted and shocked, seeing the futility of further
interference. But how could he tell Miss Blanchard of such a
catastrophe!
As he stood watching their departure, something bright on the ground,
glittering in the yellow, slanting sunlight, caught his eye. He picked
it up. It was a small locket, apparently gold, though worn and dim, with
a monogram on one side. It must, he thought, have been dropped by the
poor woman as she came out. He put it into his pocket, to keep it safe
for her, and went home to dinner, considering, as he walked on slowly,
for once, which it would be better to do, to tell Miss Blanchard or to
send word to the hospital. At any rate he would go to the police-station
next day, and endeavor to procure her release.
But, after dinner, as he sat in his room, still undecided, he chanced to
think again of the locket, and, taking it out, examined it more closely.
It opened easily, disclosing two miniature photographs, and a lock of
dark hair enclosed with one of them. He saw that one of the portraits
was that of a lovely girl in whom he easily recognized "Mrs. Travers."
But when he looked at the other he nearly dropped the locket in his
amazement. For, despite the changes that ten years will make in a man's
appearance, he could not doubt that the original of the portrait
was--_Mr. Chillingworth_!