IT is one thing for a maiden to invite a young man to a garden, and
quite another to know what to do with him when she gets him there. It
would have puzzled Dorothy to say exactly why she had asked Tom Pinder
to help her cull flowers. The ostensible pretext given had been the
gathering of a bouquet for Lucy; but we all know that a woman's
ostensible pretexts are--well, ostensible pretexts. For one thing
Dorothy had had enough of Nehemiah Wimpenny, and wanted to be decently
free of him for the rest of the day. She had wearied of the mild
pleasure of poking fun at his French. But in truth Dorothy had acted
from impulse and regretted her words all the more when she saw the
sudden light of glad surprise that sprung to Tom's dark eyes. But there
is safety in numbers, reflected Dorothy. The back door of the house was
not locked. Dorothy looked into the kitchen, into the parlour,--neither
Betty nor Peggy was there. She called their names at the bottom of the
staircase, whilst Tom bided in the garden, but there was no answering
cry from Betty or from Peggy, those handmaidens having very properly
conceived that Whitsuntide comes alike for bond and free, and betaken
themselves, in gay attire, to the delights of the field. Peggy, at this
moment, indeed, was flying, with fleet foot, from the outstretched arms
of an amorous young butcher, who 'livered the daily joint at Wilberlee,
and the staider Betty was listening with all too ready ears to the
somewhat halting wooing of the village constable, who, even in plain
clothes, was still a proper man and had, perhaps, a prophetic vision of
a village-inn with himself as keeper of order and the purse-strings, and
Betty as buxom but bustling hostess.
"It is very tiresome," said Dorothy, as she returned to the garden where
Tom was pretending to be wrapt in the contemplation of the beauties of a
_Gloire de Dijon_, "I did so want a cup of tea, but Betty and Peggy have
played me truant. Don't you think, Mr. Pinder, you had better go find
them, and say I want one of them, no matter which, very particularly."
But Tom had taken possession of the handbasket and the scissors, and was
oblivious to hints.
"Some of these blooms want cutting very badly," was his only answer,
"they will fall in another day." Then there was silence save for the
clicking of the scissors, the humming of the bees, the good-night song
of the birds, and the laughter and cries from the field. Unconsciously,
as the basket filled, the steps of Dorothy had turned the gable of the
house. The merry crowd was hid from view. The garden here sloped to the
river side, and by its brim was a rustic seat. Dorothy sank upon it
weariedly.
"I confess I'm tired," she exclaimed "I seem to have been on my feet for
a week," and she put out the tiniest point of a shoe-toe and
contemplated it ruefully. "Now, what do you mean, Mr. Pinder, standing
there swinging that basket like one of those boats in a fair that make
you dizzy to look at them? Can't you find a seat somewhere?"
Tom looked all around. He might have found a seat by climbing on the
branch of an adjacent tree. Some such thought may have crossed his mind,
for by that magic of association that passes the wit of man came to him
the couplet that he had read long ago:
"Fain would I climb, but that I fear to fall,"
with its answering
"If thy heart fail thee, do not climb at all."
Tom did not climb. He sat instead on the edge of the garden seat, as far
from Dorothy as space permitted.
"I wish you wouldn't call me 'Mr. Pinder'," he said. "I never feel quite
sure you are not making mock of me."
Dorothy had taken a rose from the basket and was looking for leaves to
bind it with.
"Well you see, you are getting rather too big for me to call you Tom.
And besides, you are a man now, and besides, oh!--lots of things."
This did not seem very lucid. Tom went on:
"I was never called 'Mr. Pinder' in my life till you called me so. Then
I was very glad and very proud. It put new thoughts into my mind. It was
like a 'new birth,' as the chapel-folk might say. But it has done its
work now, and I should like once more to be plain 'Tom' to you."
"Well, plain Tom then be it, if that will please you; but we really must
be going, or we shall miss Lucy. Hark! many of the people must have left
the ground already. I can hear them talking as they go past the mill.
Bring along the basket, Tom, and don't spill more than you can help."
"I don't think I should take the flowers to Lucy in the field. People
would say you favoured Lucy more than other folk's children."
"And what do I care what people say; I do like Lucy more than any other
girl in the village."
"I was not exactly thinking of what you might care about miss. I was
thinking more of what Lucy would feel."
"Oh! Of course," said Dorothy, not without a suspicion of pettishness in
her tone. Really, this young man was too frank. To say exactly what one
thinks is no doubt commendable in the abstract. But then we should be
careful to think only what will fall pleasingly on the ear, if we wish
to please. "Oh! of course," said Dorothy.
Tom felt he had blundered. "The air comes very sweet and fresh from the
hills" he said, to change the subject. "How clear the stream looks
to-night and how softly it warbles over the stones."
"Yes," assented Dorothy, "I love the river when its waters are crystal
as now; but you know it is so seldom we see it so bright and sparkling.
The dye-water from the mill makes it all the colours of the rainbow, but
you take care the colours are dirty enough."
"There's something I wanted to tell you, Miss Dorothy," said Tom, after
a lull in the conversation which both felt to be embarrassing.
"Well?"
"You see, Miss Dorothy, I shall be of age soon."
"Really! Well that seems to me a thing you need not look so solemn
about. It happens to everyone, more or less, if they live long enough. I
shall be of age myself someday, I dare say, but I will try to bear it
submissively, if not cheerfully. You'll get over it, Tom. You may even
in time get used to it."
"Yes, but it will make a great difference to me. For one thing my
apprenticeship to your uncle will be at an end."
"Oh!" said Dorothy, "Well, I should think you'll be glad of that. Uncle
is sure to want you to stop on at the mill--I know he thinks well of
you."
"It is very good of him" said Tom and smiled as he thought of the day
when his master had lifted his riding whip in quick, passionate anger.
But that was long gone bye. "But I don't think I shall stop on, in fact
I'm sure I shan't."
"You won't leave Holmfirth, will you, Tom?" and she was surprised at the
interest with which she awaited his reply.
"You see," said Tom, slowly, and colouring as if he were confessing to a
crime "I've had a bit of money left and Ben and me, that is Ben and I."
"Oh! bother the grammar" cried Dorothy.
"Ben and me's going into partnership, and there's a little mill at
Hinchliffe Mill where we can get room and power. Higher up the river,
you know. We will try not to send you more dye-water down stream than we
can help. I shall always think when I draw the plugs that the water will
pass your window, Miss Dorothy." Tom was distinctly improving.
"It's a great venture," said Dorothy gravely. "A very great venture. I
don't mean so much for you, you have all life before you, but for Ben,
and what hurts Ben will hurt Lucy. You see other people besides you can
think of Lucy." Now there was a piece of malice here, but Dorothy
thought she could now cry quits.
"Yes, it's a venture, Miss Dorothy, a great venture. It is one that
perhaps would never have been made if you had never called me 'Mr.
Pinder,' so don't throw cold water on our scheme. But it isn't just that
I wanted to talk about. There's something more."
"'Pon my word, Tom, you're worse than the brook. The teachers have come
and the teachers have gone, but you go on for ever. But in for a penny,
in for a pound. What more is there?"
"Well, Ben and I have talked it over and over. Don't think me a
Pharisee, Miss Dorothy, but we're going to try to run the mill on new
lines."
"H'm; that sounds like adding venture to venture, doesn't it?"
"Perhaps: you see, Ben and I both belong to the working class."
Dorothy bent her head in a somewhat hesitating assent. "I suppose so,"
she said.
"And we know something of what working folk have to put up with, how
hard they have to work, and how little they often get in return."
"Come to that," said Dorothy, "I dare say a masters' lot isn't quite a
bed of roses. You'll find that out soon enough for yourselves I'm
afraid."
"Granted," said Tom, "but fat sorrow's better than lean; but I don't
mean to be a master."
Dorothy rose. "It is later than I thought. Betty must have come in by
this, or Peggy. And the field's well-nigh deserted. Whit-Monday's come
and gone, Tom, and I must e'en go too. You must take the flowers home to
Lucy, and give her my love. Say I will call for the basket some fine
day."
But Tom ventured to touch her arm as she made as though to go. "Nay,
Miss Dorothy, I would I might say my say--but, perhaps, you don't care
to know our plans?"--this wistfully.
"Oh! but indeed I do. Just five minutes then. And indeed it is vastly
pleasanter here than indoors. No more romping for me this day," and
Dorothy sat down again.
"I said just now I did not mean to be a master, Ben and I are indeed
going to add venture to venture. You know something about co-operation?"
"Why, what a question! Of course I do. Doesn't Mr. Thorpe tell us every
time he comes to see my aunt that the Co-op's ruining him--and serve
him right, Betty says. Aunt says that things at the Co-op are nasty
without being cheap, for what they give you in 'divvy'--isn't that the
word?--they take out in quality. I hope you're not going to start a
Co-op, Tom. I really cannot fancy you in a white apron, simpering over a
counter and asking me 'what's the next article, miss?'"
"Then you would give us your custom?" he asked with a smile.
"Oh! Perhaps I might sneak in occasionally for a trifle--for Lucy's
sake, you know."
"But you forget, I told you we had taken part of a mill at Hinchliffe
Mill. It's there we're going to have _our_ Co-op."
"Isn't it rather out of the way? Fancy, having to send all that way for
a pound of candles. Oh! I beg Ben's pardon; there'll be no need of
candles with such a luminary as he in the shops. You'll be selling
philosophy by the yard and theology by the stone. But seriously, Tom, I
don't see what a Co-op has to do with a mill."
"And that's just what I want to speak to you about. You see Ben's a
Socialist, and all his life he has been crying out against capitalists
and capital. Now he declares I want to turn him into a capitalist for we
are to be partners in this venture upon a venture."
Dorothy shook her head. "I'm just as much in the fog now as ever," she
said, "I see if I want to know anything about this wonderful new
departure I must ask Lucy. Do get on; you and your Co-op that isn't a
Co-op after all. But you will not be a very bloated capitalist, will
you, Tom?" she concluded mischievously.
"We aren't going to be capitalists at all. I'm just going to start the
concern with my bit of a fortune--it doesn't look so much of a fortune
as it did, now I know what a little way it will go. But any way Ben and
I are going to work in it, side by side with the hands. We are all going
to be hands together. Of course, in a sense, there'll be a master; but
he will be a master in a different sense from what we're all used to.
Every one of us that can do a full man's work is to have an equal share
in the profit, always provided he does the work he is capable of. There
will be shorter hours and less work for the youngsters. But the share of
all will depend on the profits we make, and no one is to have a greater
share than another."
"But that seems ridiculous, Tom. If you are to turn manufacturer like my
uncle, why, you must be a manufacturer. You will have to go to market as
he does, and meet and bargain with your customers, to dress like them,
to mix with them as an equal. How can you do that on the lines you are
laying down? I am only a silly girl, may be, and certainly I don't know
much about business, but go on,--this grows interesting."
"I know the difficulties, Miss Dorothy, but the difficulty will not be
in Ben, and I hope not in me. The difficulty will be in getting a
sufficient number of men, capable, reliable, sober, industrious men who
can be brought to see that in our scheme there will not only be an
escape from the thraldom of the capital they denounce so hotly, but a
realization of that equality and fraternity for which men and women have
gone to their graves like bed. The difficulty will be to persuade men
not merely that they will be better off themselves, but that they must
be content to take part of their wage in seeing a worse workman than
themselves better off too. Labour is just as selfish as capital. But in
our mill no matter what a man's allotted task, so long as he does his
work faithfully, he shall share and share alike."
"But that seems just a little absurd, don't you think?" asked Dorothy,
now genuinely interested. "You must make all this clear to me. You don't
mean to say that if you, say, are the designer or the traveller, you are
to draw no more profit out of the concern than a teamer?"
"That's it, exactly--not a stiver. We're all to be partners together.
We'll know neither master nor man at our mill. We're going to try an
experiment in grim earnest, and oh! Miss Dorothy, for heaven's sake,
don't shake your head and look so glum about it. I feel sure we can
succeed. We _will_ succeed. I am young and there is no hardship, no
sacrifice, no work for which I am not prepared. Perhaps I might get a
situation under another; perhaps in time I might start on the usual
lines and perhaps in time I might make a fortune for myself. But will it
not be a grander thing and in itself a better, a more heart-satisfying
future should we be able to gather round ourselves a band of workers,
all knit together not merely by the selfish bonds of personal interest,
but each rejoicing that he is advancing, too, his brother's welfare, and
that in his well-being and in his well-doing each and everyone of us is
concerned."
Tom had risen in the earnestness of his soul's unburthening, and now
paced the narrow strip of gravelled garden path which skirted the
river-bank. His eyes were lit with unwonted fire, a flush was on his
cheek, his voice gained strength and cadence as the long-pondered
thoughts forced themselves to utterance, and the natural unstudied
motions of his hands kept harmony with the spoken word.
"Oh! Miss Dorothy, it may all be a dream, but if a dream it be, surely
it is such a one as was dreamed by the Lake of Galilee or the slopes of
Olive's Mount. Is it not meet that old men in the time to come should
dream dreams, and the young men see visions. Had Ben Garside, good,
staunch, true man that I know him to be, had not he dreamed dreams and
seen visions could he have had it in his heart to strive and suffer as I
know he did, not for himself but for the oppressed ones of his class.
And shall not we of a newer time have _our_ visions, and mine is of a
glad day when the band of man shall be against his neighbour, when this
unresting, cruel strife of brother seeking to outvie his brother,
building ever the fabric of his success upon the undoing of another
shall cease from the land, and the Kingdom of which seers have dreamed
and prophets foretold shall be indeed at hand."
Dorothy gazed in wrapt regard at the young enthusiast. She drank in the
music of his words with greedy ears, and they sank into her soul. Never
had man so spoken to her before. Words like these, if spoken at all,
were not, in her experience, words for every day life. They should be
reserved to be voiced on Sunday from the pulpit and devoutly ignored and
disregarded on the Monday. But as the unpent stream of cherished
conviction flowed its impetuous course Dorothy felt that she too was
being swept with it, and forgot that she was the daughter of a proud and
exclusive race, and he who paced before her with rapid, agitated stride,
the humblest of her guardian's henchmen.
But withal Dorothy was a practical common-sense young woman, and as
little likely as any of her very practical sex to forget the stern
necessities of work-a-day life, in a momentary abandon to the
transcendental schemes of an enthusiast.
"Don't you think we had better know more about your Co-op?" she said.
"These grand ideas may be all very well as abstract theories. I want to
know how you propose to put them into practice and live. I seem to
remember that St. John not only permits dreams and visions to you men;
he also allows us daughters to prophesy."
"Well?"
"Now I venture to prophesy that if you and Ben set about your new
venture in the manner you seem to have contemplated, it is not only
good-bye to your small fortune, which, perhaps wouldn't matter very
much--but it would be to handicap you at the very threshold of your
life with the deadening sense of failure, and perhaps fill your whole
future with the bitterness of blighted hopes and unrealized aspirations.
Now I think I can suggest to you an attainable Utopia. It would not,
perhaps, be such a neck-or-nothing affair as yours, but it should have
enough of other-worldliness in it for a sane man."
Tom sat down again by Dorothy's side, but this time he did not take the
edge of the seat. His nervous shyness had vanished in the abandonment of
his speech.
"Ben says women can neither see nor feel an inch outside their own
doorsteps," he said with a smile.
"And a good thing for men, whose wives at all events are centred in
their homes and families. But I am not Ben's wife, nor--nor anyone
else's," concluded Dorothy lamely, flushing slightly at some unspoken
thought.
"And what is your attainable Utopia, Miss Dorothy?" asked Tom, very
quietly.
"Well, you must let me think, and, as it were, feel my way to a
conclusion; for to tell the truth I have not read or thought much on
such difficult problems as the subject seems to bristle with. Tell me,
at our village Co-op doesn't a member's dividend depend on the amount of
his purchases?"
"I believe so."
"And, roughly speaking, doesn't a man's spending power bear a sort of
proportion to his earning power?"
"Practically, no doubt."
"Then you see that practical co-operation benefits a man according to
his ability and application."
"Clearly."
"Well, I think that is right. Now if I understand _your_ principle of
Socialism it makes no distinction between the skilled and incapable.
Granting only equality of industry you reward all alike. Now that is not
common justice."
"I think it is," said Tom, stoutly, "a man can but do his best."
"All the same, it isn't. Take the case of a man, a designer, say, in a
mill, or a lawyer, or a doctor. He devotes money, time, and the hard
sweating of his brains to becoming master of his calling. Whilst he is
studying he is earning just nothing at all, in fact less than nothing.
When he is qualified for it he rightly expects to be better paid than a
man who knows how to handle a spade or pickaxe when his life of toil
begins, and knows just as much and no more when his life ends in the
workhouse or the grave."
"You say 'rightly expects,' why rightly?" asked Tom.
"Because when the skilled and educated labourer in whatever sphere you
like _does_ begin to be paid it is common justice that he should be
paid, not merely for the present years of harvest, but also for the
years of seeding, cultivation, and growth. It is merely the analogy of
the farmer. It simply means that the toil of preparation is paid for at
a later day. It is payment deferred, but none the less payment of what
is justly due. Now your navvy or artisan gets his payment from the first
day he touches the mattock or throws a shuttle."
"There seems some justice in what say, Miss Dorothy; but I thought you
were going to show me the way to your attainable Utopia."
"So I am. I should imagine that the current rate of wages is very much
the measure of a man's comparative worth in this life-absorbing
soul-cramping pursuit of wealth you call business. When these are paid
and other outlays deducted, there remains, or doesn't remain sometimes,
what the capitalist calls his profit?"
Tom nodded.
"And it is against this profit your sensitive soul rebels, your dainty
fingers will not touch?"
"If it pleases you to put it so, Miss Dorothy."
"Then quell your soul's rebellion, let not your fingers touch.
Distribute your profit among all the workers in the concern, yourself
and Ben included, for I suppose your stomach will insist on its
elemental right to be filled; but distribute to each a share of the
profits proportioned to his wage. For taking it that a man's wage is a
rough and ready measure of a man's share in building up the wealth, so,
too, would it be a rough and ready method of determine your share in the
profits. And now most potent, grave, and reverend seigneur, thy
hand-maiden hath spoken, and lud-ha'-mercy, 'tis sick to death I am of
long faces and your miserable economics. Did ever before a young man
lure a maiden to flowery bower and discourse to her sweet--political
economy! I warrant you have smoother sayings for Lucy's ear. And, now,
good-night. I heard Betty shouting for me down the paddock this quarter
gone. Don't forget my love to Lucy."
And Dorothy tripped away, and Tom made homewards, carrying the basket
very tenderly; but the rose that Dorothy had toyed with and cast aside
he picked up, pressed to his lips and hid in his pocket-book. Someone
found its yellow leaves years afterwards, and made-believe to be jealous
because of them.
"Law! Betty," said Dorothy that night, as she uncoiled the tresses of
her gleaming locks. "I declare your Tom Pinder is as mad as a hatter;
and faith, I think it's catching."
"Smittling, yo' meean, miss. Well, some ailments be if yo' bide _very_
near them as has 'em."
And Ben and Tom sat long that night talking over their plans for the
near future. Ben conceded there was something in what Miss Dorothy had
said.
"By gow, who'd ha' thowt yon' wench had it in her, to pounce reet daan
on th' weak spot, what yo' may ca' th' flaw o'th system, all in a jeffy
like. But she's a head piece in a hundred. It'll be her uncle 'oo
favvers, for her father had more heart nor yead."
"An' what for should'nt Dorothy see what yo' two men blinked yo'r een
at?" asked Hannah indignantly, "Haven't aw towd yo' scores o' times 'at
a woman 'll lawp ovver a wall whilst a man's gooin' raand gropin' for
th' gate. Aw'm fain someb'dy can ding sense into oather on yo'--it
doesn't matter which, for what one on yo' says t'other 'll swear to. If
'oo's persuaded Tom theer 'at ther's sich a thing as lookin' after other
folks consarns till yo'r own's gone to rack an' ruin, it's more nor e'er
aw could do bi thee, Ben. Happen aw'd ha' had more chance if aw'd tried
afore we were wed i'stead o' after, but ther's no tellin'. Some folk are
born so; an' ther ne'er wer' a fooil brought into th' world but there
wer' a bigger born to match him. But aw see hah it is, we'st burn more
can'les talkin' abaat th' new venture, as yo ca' it, nor th' takkin's
'll run to i' a gooid season. Get thee to bed, Tom, an' dunnot yo'
forget yo're Jabez Tinker's 'prentice lad yet, whativver yo' may be some
day when me an' Ben's both under th' sod."
The end of Tom's apprenticeship drew near. Stories of his project had
already been whispered about the village, and some of the quidnuncs of
the barber's shop, which was the central Exchange of local news tapped
their foreheads significantly. "Talk abaat a slate off," the slubber at
Wilberlee had been heard to say, "yon' Ben Garside's got a whole roof
off, and that d--d young bastard fro' Saddleworth's worse nor Ben." But
in time the real nature of the new enterprise was bruited abroad and was
much discussed. The novel theme was felt to be a perfect godsend in a
community which, like others of its size, becomes more agitated over a
runaway horse in its main street than over a European convulsion. The
landlord of the Croppers' Arms began to feel quite a glow of gratitude
towards the sober, drink-shunning Pinder, so many pints of ale did his
nightly customers feel necessary for the ample criticism of Tom's
scheme.
"Aw know for certain room an' power's ta'en at Hinchliff Mill," said Jim
Thewlis, the landlord. "Th' agent for lettin' Denham's mill, as was,
called in on his way fro' Huddersfilt' other day. We wer' speerin' abaat
this young Pinder. Weel, aw wanted to do fair like so aw said at th'
country talk wor' he'd had a fortin' left; th' worst there wer' agen
him, so far as ivver aw'd heer'd, wer' 'at he wer' a teetotaller. Aw
thowt that wer' enuff, but th' agent seemed no ways taken a-back. Said
it were common as measles nah a days," concluded Jim, heaving a sigh
over the degeneracy of the times.
"But what's all this talk abaat a newfangled road o' payin' th' hands?"
asked the village bellman, whose pimply face and swollen nose seemed to
indicate that "Oyez! Oyez!" were thirsty words.
"They're all to have a 'divvy,' same as they han at th' Co-op,"
explained one.
"There'll be a new job for thi, Bellman," said another.
"Tha'll ha to go round th' village cryin' th' divvy at Co-op Mill"
"Aye, aye," said another, "Oh! yes, Oh! yes, lost, lost and can't be
found, a han'some divvy thowt safe an' sound.'" Thus Josh o' Jonah's,
the village wit and poet.
But the light esteem in which their design was held by the topers of the
Croppers' Arms did not disturb the equanimity of either Ben or Tom. "Th'
more th' job's talked abaat, th' better for it," was Ben's expressed
opinion. "An' if it's nobbut fooil's talk, talk's talk, an' that's why
we want to start a Co-op. When folk get to know th' lines we're bahn to
work on, there'll be plenty ready to throw in wi' us, _yo_' see if ther'
isna, Tom lad. We'll ha' th' pick o'th mill hands i' this village if th'
consarn goes--an' it _mun_ go, Tom; it mun go. Aw'st break mi heart if
it doesn't. We'll mak it gee if we'n to sell ivvery stick we'n got to
buy coil to fire up wi'. But we'st nooan need to do that. Aw've nooan
bin idle, an' what does ta think aw've getten to tell thee?"
Ben had not indeed been idle. It has been said that he was a popular
character in the district. Men knew him for a shrewd, hard-working man,
"wi' his yead screwed on th' reight road, if he _is_ a bit loose i' th'
tongue." Of more moment still their wives knew him for a sober man, and
the daughters of a good many of them evinced a very sympathetic interest
in the scheme in which Tom's name was so prominently associated.
Moreover, Co-ops were appreciated by the housewives. Co-operative
distribution they understood; Co-operative production they had not
before heard of but were quite prepared to take it on trust, as a sort
of twin-brother of the system of trading they were already familiar
with.
"Aw know one thing," many a good dame declared, "it wer' a gooid thing
for yar haase 'at aw put into th' Co-op. Aw allus know th' rent 'll be
theer at th' quarter end, an' there'll be summat to buy cloes wi' at
Whissunday, an' a bit o' summat extra at Kersmas, an' it's all mi eye
an' Peggy Martin abaat th' stuff bein' dear an' nasty. That's Eph.
Thorpe's tale, that is. Ther's nob'dy nah'll go to Eph's bud them as
cannot pay ready brass for their stuff."
More than one good workman, old friends and cronies of Ben's, had
already had long talks with him about the matter. They were men who had
a bit laid by and were ready to join the enterprise.
"We will have no one with us," said Tom emphatically, "but those who
work in the mill. We will have no one's money unless he gives his labour
too. Every worker on the job must have his flesh and blood in it as well
as his money. If we take money at all it must be as a loan at low
interest. The thing is to have every hand a co-operator in production
and a sharer in the profits."
"Tak' as few in as possible till yo' see how th' job frames," was
Hannah's prudent counsel. "If it goes all reet yo'll ha' plenty o'
backers, an' plenty as'll want to ha' a finger i' th' paw (pie). Aw
nobbut hope it winnot be like the gradely 'Holmfirth paw.'"
"What's that?" asked Tom.
"Brokken eggs," said Hannah, shortly, "cow-pie,--custard, for fine."
Of course Jabez Tinker heard of the thing. A few days before the
expiration of Tom's apprenticeship he sent for him into the office. The
indenture was spread on the desk before him.
"Sit down, Tom," his master said in a not unkindly voice. "So I suppose
you are going to shake the dust of Wilberlee Mill off your feet."
"Something like it, sir, I suppose, if you've no objections."
"Nay, it's with my leave or without my leave now. Well, I've had no
fault to find with you. Are your plans settled once for all?"
"I've put my hand to the plough, sir."
"Well, of course it's no concern of mine. But don't you think you might
have consulted me?"
"I should have been glad of your advice, sir," said Tom. Then added
firmly, "but you have never given me any reason to suppose you would
have been willing to give it me."
Mr. Tinker glanced sharply at the youth. He saw nothing of impertinent
suggestion in Tom's face. Tom had spoken, simply and plain, what was to
him a plain and simple matter of fact.
"What do you mean, Pinder? Have you any complaint to make. Haven't I
always done my duty by you?"
"I don't know, sir. If your duty was to let me severely alone, you have
done your duty. You know better than I whether that is a master's duty
to an apprentice. I'm no lawyer. But Mr. Black always told me I was to
be taught your trade."
"Well, it seems you fancy you know enough about it to start for
yourself."
"Little thanks to you," thought Tom, but what use to say?
"But I didn't send for you to-day, Pinder, to discuss my duty or yours.
I think you're foolish to begin on your own account. I have had it in my
mind for some time back to put you forward in the mill. I'm weary of Sam
Buckley and his drunken ways. He gets beyond bearing. I had thought of
putting you in his place--at a lower wage, of course. 'Twould have been
a big lift for you, but I've had my eye on you, and I think you'd have
done."
Tom's feelings at these unexpected words were of mingled pride,
gratitude, and self-reproach. He had never suspected that his conduct in
the mill was observed by the reserved, self-contained master. He had
done his duty as he conceived it, simply because it was his duty.
He knew, of course, that many of the apprentices shirked their work and
gave as much trouble as possible. In acting otherwise Tom had neither
sought nor expected notice and approbation. He was conscious-stricken
both in that he had attributed Mr. Tinker's reserve to callous
indifference, and in that the first use he contemplated making of his
freedom was to start in what might seem to be a competition with one
whom he knew now to have had his advancement in view.
"I am getting older," continued Mr. Tinker, "As you know I have no son.
I must look for a younger man to take some of the work from my
shoulders. Of late I have felt the constant strain more than I used to.
But, there, it's no use talking, I suppose. I think you're a young idiot
all the same to start as they say you're going to. Take an old man's
word for it, Tom Pinder, business and philanthropy don't mix. Make your
money in trade and give what you don't want yourself in charity, if you
like; but business must be run on business lines. It's some of Ben
Garside's hatching, I expect; but then Ben was always crackbrained."
"I am sure I don' know how to thank you, sir," began Tom.
"Oh! I don't want your thanks. I was looking out for myself as much as
you. Nothing for nothing--that's business you'll find. The question is,
are you content to stop on at Wilberlee or 'gang your ain gate,' as the
Scotch say. Yea or nay, or would you like to think it over?"
Now Tom knew if he consulted Ben, just the advice that Ben would
give--stop on at Wilberlee. He knew also that though Ben would say this
promptly, and to all seeming cheerfully, it would be the shattering of
the brightest dream his friend had ever dreamed. Besides, to fill Sam
Buckley's place would bring him very little nearer--he knew what. No!
he could wait and work, and Tom believed in the future foretold for him
who knows _how_ to wait.
Mr. Tinker took up the indenture, and seemed to read it.
"H'm," he said, more to himself than Tom, "I've signed so many of these
things that I forget what they bind a man to. But it's a mere form."
"I'll burn this now, anyway," he said aloud. "Put it into the stove,
Pinder."
Tom did as he was bid, and as the stiff paper caught the flames, and the
smell from the wax seals invaded the stuffy office he felt as though
chains fell from his limbs and incense burned on the altar of freedom.
"Well?" said Mr. Tinker at length.
"I think I must go, sir. But I go thanking you from my heart," was Tom's
reply.
"So be it," said Mr. Tinker, curtly. "When you're done up dish and spoon
don't come here for work, that's all."
"I won't," said Tom, and went.
And as he walked slowly homewards he resolved to keep his own counsel
and say nothing to Ben or Hannah about the offer that had been made to
him. It would disquiet Ben and lead to no good. Best say nothing about
the matter; let it lie between him and Mr. Tinker. Besides if it got
talked of in the village those who believed his statement would call him
a fool, those who didn't a liar.
It was all the easier to dismiss the subject from his mind when he found
the following letter awaiting him:
"Dear Tom,
Seein it will be your berthday nex Sunday, an you will be
twenty-one, me an Mister Redfearn have fixed it up to have a bit
of a do here seein as it wer here you was borne. An Fairbanks
has sent a goos an a turkey, an Moll has maid a puddin an you
are to bring Mester an Missus Garsed wi my respecks to em an
welcome, likewise their dowter too. Also to say as Fairbanks
will send his trap bi Workus Jack for Missus an dowter an yo
an Ben mun cum o Shanks mare. Dinner at nooin an no waitin. So
no more at present hopeing this finds yo well as it leaves me.
Yure affeckshinit,
Betty Schofield"
Go! Of course they would go; all of them. Where else could the
auspicious day be better spent than in the very house he first saw the
light, and among the friends of his infancy. Go! yes though the snow
lay three feet deep on moor and fell, and the wintry wind howled round
Pots and Pans and whirled the stinging atoms in a very blast hurricane
and tornado of blinding blizzard.
"Goa!" exclaimed Hannah, "aw'st goa if aw've to crawl o' mi han's an'
knees. Yo' mun write a letter back, Tom, an' say we'st be theer at
eleven i' th' forenooin if it's convenient to Mrs. Schofield, an' aw'll
gi' a hand wi' th' bastin' an' sarvin' up, so's 'oo can cooil dahn afore
'oo sits dahn to th' table. Aw reckon aw'st want no cooilin' dahn long
afore we're ovver th' top."
And then Hannah and Lucy fell to at such a preparation, adjusting,
re-adjusting, snipping, snipeing, cutting, hemming, tuckering of shawls
and dresses, to such a trimming of hat and bonnet, and such a littering
of the house with female finery, that if a wedding or a coronation had
been afoot, matters could not have been worse.
"Aw'st nivver howd aat till Sunday, Tom," Ben confided to him. "Aw
haven't set tooith into a turkey sin' aw can't remember when an' ivvry
time aw think on it mi maath watters soa aw can hardly speik. Do'st
think there'll be sossidge wi' it? Tha mieet ha' just nudged her abaat
th' sossidge when yo' wrote if yo'd gi'en it a thowt, but aw'm feart
it's too lat' nah. An' gooise an' apple sauce, an stuffin', an' plum
puddin' wi' brandy sauce--eh, lad, it's a pity tha cannot come o' age
onst a week. But aw munnot show greedy. Aw onst knew a felly at a club
supper 'at e't a whull leg o' mutton to his own cheek, wi' capers and
onion sauce an' breead, an' supped two gallon o' ale. They'd to gie him
kester oil for aboon a week at after afore he fair gate shut on it. Nah!
aw ca' that a fair abuse o'th' kindly fruits o'th' earth. Nah! tha'll
ha' studied ettiket nah tha's ta'en to talkin' townified. How mony
helpin's dun yo reely think aw mieet ha' wi' out bein thowt greedy? Aw'm
nooan a glutton, like that chap at Gowcar 'at went to a club
dinner--Bill o' Natt's, aw think they ca'ed him--an' when he gate whom
he rolled o'th' floor, an' all he could say wer' 'Howd, belly, howd, for
if tha brusts awm done.' And Ben looked anxiously at Tom for a reply.
But Tom only smiled, for he knew that Ben was merely talking to let off
steam. So the excited little man went on:
"Tha'll nooan be teetotal that day, Tom. It 'ud be a sort o' slur o'
Missus Schofield. Aw tak' it at goin' to a feeast at a public wi' a
publican an' ca'in' for cowd watter 'ud be just as bad manners as
feedin' wi' a teetotaller an' axin for a pint o' drink. Nah! doesn't it
strike yo' i' that leet, Tom?"
But Tom explained that he had had that point over with his good friend
Betty many a time before and that he wasn't going to begin his manhood
by breaking the pledge he had taken with himself. "You'll have to drink
my share too, Ben."
"An' Lucy's, for 'oo's tarred wi' th' same brush as thee, Tom. Aw do
believe 'at if yo' took to runnin' abaat th' village wi' a caa's tail
atween yo'r teeth like them niggers yo'n read on o'th' banks o'th river
Ganges, yar Lucy 'ud do th' same as well as her legs 'ud let her. An'
thank God!--an' yo', Tom, 'oo can walk wi'out sticks nah." And Ben
pressed Tom's arm as caressingly as ever maiden conveyed message to
favoured swain.
"You'll have to be careful, Ben, if you're going to drink for three."
"Aye, aye, if all's weel aw'st be poorly th' day after, sha'not aw? But
wi' one thing an' another aw just feel as if aw cud turn cart wheels
slap daan th' sides o' Pots an' Pans till aw poo'd up at th' _Hanging
Gate_. It is na th' eitin', lad, nor th' drinkin', though them's nooan
things to be sneezed at, let me tell yo'. It's thowts at' mi Tom's so
well thowt on bi all at's knowd him sin' he wer' a suckin' babe. Aw tell
thee, lad, mi heart's so full aw could blubber like a cawf, if aw didn't
howd missen in." And then Tom knew it was time for him to look intently
in any direction but that of honest Ben's face.
Sunday came, and with Sunday came Workh'us Jack, such a beaming radiant
Jack as never village saw before: Jack, with a great white rosette on
his breast and a white ribbon on the end of the whip with which he
flicked the mare with many a soothing "so-ho, so-ho," and hortatory
"come up;" an older Jack by many a biting Winter's lapse since first we
met him; a stouter, plumper, rosier Jack, but with the same smiling face
and unfailing cheerfulness.
How, with infinite tenderness, Lucy was lifted into the trap, how Tom
smothered her with wraps and shawls, how Hannah declared she would
rather walk through the village because everybody was, she knew,
stopping from chapel on purpose to gaup at her, and how she was hoisted
bodily in under protest; how, as a matter of fact the neighbours and the
neighbour's children turned out into the street braving the whipping of
the gusty snow or peered from chamber window; how it was all over
Holmfirth in no time that Gentleman Tom and Lucy Garside were "off over
th' Isle of Skye to be wed at St. Chad's," how every gossip in the
village insisted that she had expected nothing else these months back,
and called upon her neighbour to testify that she had often been heard
to say so; how the demure young maidens declared that Lucy for all her
quiet ways was a deep one and a sly one, and that it was a shame a fine
strapping young fellow should be trapped into wedding a pale faced
useless thing, little better than a cripple; how Ben and Tom walked far
ahead of the trap all the way up the ascent of road to the Isle of Skye,
but were overtaken just as they reached the inn there: how Ben insisted
on Jack taking "summat short" to keep the cold out, and Tom would have
Hannah drink some hot port-wine negus to keep Jack company, and how Jack
had another drink for the good of the house; how the exhilarating
influence of the liquor passed by some mysterious process from the
driver to the driven so that the old mare rattled down from Bill's o'
Jack's to Greenfield, and from Greenfield to the _Church Inn_, at
Saddleworth; how it stopped there of its own accord and positively
refused to budge till Jack descended from his seat and had another
drink; how Hannah made sure that Ben and Tom would be foolish enough to
try a short cut over the moors and untimely perish like Tom's mother
before them; and how finally the chaise drew up in fine style before the
_Hanging Gate_, and Lucy almost fell into Betty Schofield's welcoming
arms--all this the reader must imagine.
And there, sure enough in the big room upstairs, with its mysterious
cupboard labelled R.A.O.B., the sacred room in which the Royal
Antedeluvian Order of Buffaloes declared every lodge night that they
would "hunt the buff, would hunt the buff, would hunt the buffalo,"
though where to find it thereabouts would have puzzled them to tell. In
this great room a glorious fire roared and cast its welcome warmth and
the walls were hung with the Christmas decorations of the lodge, and the
Christmas holly and mistletoe looked yet fresh and green, and the long
narrow table down the centre was white with Betty's best napery, and
Moll, feigning mighty indignation because Tom had caught her round the
waist and kissed her smackingly under the mistletoe, busied about making
a great clattering of plates and spoons and knives and forks, whilst a
distracting odour of roast goose came up the narrow staircase. Mr.
Redfearn was there betimes, and Aleck, all in his Sunday best. Then came
the down-sitting, Mr. Redfearn at the table-head, Tom at the foot. Aleck
facing Ben, and Hannah, and Lucy supporting the chair and vice-chair.
Moll o' Stute's and Jack had their dinner later on. How many helps of
turkey _with_ sausage and of goose _with_ stuffing and apple sauce, and
of plum-pudding _with_ brandy-sauce Ben had I entirely refuse to tell,
but only say with all his talk he came in a very lame second to Aleck.
"It only wanted Mr. Black to make it just perfect," said Mr. Redfearn,
"but we'll drink in silence to the memory of as good a man as ever
walked i' shoe-leather."
I refuse to tell, too, in what glowing terms Mr. Redfearn proposed the
health of Tom Pinder, and many a happy return of the day, and of how Tom
completely broke down in acknowledging the toast, and of how Ben
proposed Mr. Redfearn's health, and Mr. Redfearn Ben's, and Tom the
ladies, and then how they drank Mrs. Schofield's and the ladies with a
three times three and God bless 'em, and then started the toast list all
over again, till Lucy was more than glad when Moll brought in the
tea-pot and cups, and they all drew round the fire, and the men lighted
their pipes and sobered down to rational talk.
Be sure Tom had to tell of what he was going to do now he was his own
master, and of how Ben had "weighed in" to help him, and he had to
explain till he was nearly hoarse before Betty could understand what a
co-op mill was to be like. And then nothing would satisfy Betty but she
must offer to put £50 "into th' consarn, sink or swim, it were all one
to her if it 'ud do 'em any good;" and then Tom had to begin all over
again and make it clear that only the actual workers were to have any
interest in the mill.
"An' wheer are yo' buyin' yo'r wool?" asked Tom o' Fairbanks.
And Tom and Ben looked grave, for they would have precious little left
for wool-buying when the machinery was bought and set up.
"At Hirst's, the wool stapler, in Huddersfield, I suppose," said Tom.
"Now I don't take it friendly of you, or either of you," commented Mr.
Redfearn. "I've bales and bales left over from th' last shearing,
haven't we, Aleck?"
And Aleck said "To be sure we have, an' fair gettin' maggoty for want o'
usin'."
"You must take it off my hands, Tom and Co.," said Redfearn. "I'll let
you have it cheap, and you can pay me for it when you've had time to
turn yourselves round."
It is very sad that such things should be in a Christian land; but it is
none the less true that the wool which later on Aleck carted to Co-op
Mill had never coated the back of any sheep that grazed on Fairbank's
field or moors, and why, about the same time, Farmer Redfearn should be
buying wool in Huddersfield, Charles Hirst, the Huddersfield wool
stapler, spent many an hour in vain attempt to divine.
It was a glorious feast and a happy gathering, and happy folk those
whose faces shone in the dancing rays of the glowing fire; but happiest
of all the happy there was Workh'us Jack when Ben and Tom offered him
the post of teamer and handy man at Co-op Mill, for Co-op Mill, the low
grey mill at Hinchliffe Mill, had been christened without informal
ceremony.
"Aw'd ha' come mysen an' helped i'th mill," confided Aleck to Tom, as he
walked a part of the homeward way with him and Ben. "But yo' see aw'm th'
only one 'at stan's atween th' mester an' ower mich liquor. It's his
only failin'. Nivver thee tak' to sperrits Tom. Be teetotal off _them_.
Stick to ale an' nivver sup more nor five quarts at a sittin'. Tha'll
nooan get fur wrang on that if th' ale's saand. Gooid neet, lad."