THE STRIKE.
It was now the beginning of August, and just "grilling," as Donald
would have expressed it.
It seemed almost as difficult to Barbara to leave the sea as it is to
get out of bed on a winter morning.
"It must be so very nice to be a mermaid--in summer," she said, looking
back at the water, as she and Marie went up the beach one morning.
"Yes," returned Marie, "If they had short hair. It must take such a
lot of combing."
Marie was not so enthusiastic about bathing as her companion. Perhaps
her want of enthusiasm was due to the fact that she was not allowed to
bathe every day, because "it took up so much time that might be devoted
to her studies." At first Mademoiselle Thérèse had tried to persuade
Barbara that it would be much better for her to go only once or twice a
week too.
"There are so many English at the _plage_," she complained, "that I
know you will talk with them; and it is a pity to come to France to
learn the language and waste your time talking with English, whom you
can meet in your own country."
"But I won't talk with them," Barbara had assured her. "You know how
careful I have been always to speak French--even when I could hardly
make myself understood."
The girl's eyes twinkled, for Mademoiselle Thérèse had a mania for
speaking English whenever possible, and at first always used that
language when with her pupil, until Barbara had asked her if she had
got so accustomed to speaking English that it was more familiar to her
than French! Since then, she only used English in public places, or
when she thought English people were near.
"It is such a good advertisement," she explained complacently. "You
never know what introductions it may make for you."
Barbara had used the same argument in favour of bathing every day, and
had prevailed, though she had really been very particular about
speaking French--not, I fear, from the desire of pleasing Mademoiselle
Thérèse, but because of the thought of the home people, and what she
meant to do for them.
"I can't understand how you can bear riding in this weather," Marie
remarked, as they toiled slowly home in the sun. "It would kill me to
jog up and down on a horse in a sun as hot as this."
"Not when you're accustomed to it," Barbara assured her. "You would
want to do it everyday then. I'm going to ride to St. Lunaire this
afternoon."
"Then Aunt Thérèse won't go for the walk after supper. What a
happiness!" Marie cried, for Mademoiselle Loiré was not so strict as
her sister.
The latter had grown quite reconciled to her journeys to Dinard now,
and, as a matter of fact, was looking forward with regret to the time
they must cease. She found the afternoons in the Casino Gardens with
her friend very pleasant, and came back each time full of ideas for
altering everybody's clothes.
This she was not permitted to do, however, for Mademoiselle Loiré had
an unpleasant remembrance of similar plans on a previous occasion,
which had resulted in many garments being unpicked, and then left in a
dismembered condition until Marie and she had laboriously sewed them up
again! This particular afternoon Mademoiselle Thérèse was in a very
complacent mood, having just retrimmed her hat for the second time
since its immersion, and feeling that it was wonderfully successful.
"If I had not been acquainted with the English language, and had so
many pressing offers to teach it," she said, as they were walking up to
the riding-school, "I should have made a wonderful success as a
_modiste_. Indeed, I sometimes wonder if it might not have been less
trying work."
"That would depend on the customers, wouldn't it?" Barbara returned;
but did not hear her reply, for she had caught sight of Monsieur
Pirenne at the _manège_ door, and knew that he did not like to be kept
waiting. Mademoiselle Thérèse always waited to see them mounted,
feeling that thereby she ensured a certain amount of safety on the
ride; moreover, there was a ceremony about the matter that appealed to
her.
Monsieur Pirenne always liked to mount Barbara in the street, and,
before getting on to his own horse, he lingered a while to see that
there were a few people present to witness the departure, for, like
Mademoiselle Thérèse, he had a great feeling for effect. After seeing
Barbara safely up, he glanced carelessly round, flicked a little dust
from his elegantly-cut coat, twirled his mustachios, and leaped nimbly
into the saddle, without the help of the stirrup.
A flutter of approval went round the bystanders, and Mademoiselle
Thérèse called out a parting word of warning to Barbara--just to show
she was connected with the couple--before they moved off. Their
progress down the street was as picturesque as Monsieur Pirenne could
make it; for whatever horse he might be on, he succeeded in making it
caracole and curvet, saying at intervals, with a careless smile--
"Not _too_ near, mademoiselle. Manon is not to be trusted."
"I believe he would do the same on a rocking-horse," Barbara had once
written home; but she admired and liked him in spite of these little
affectations--admired him for his skill in horsemanship, and liked him
for his patience as a master.
This ride was one of the nicest she had yet had, as the road, being
bordered for a great part of the way by the links, made capital going.
It was when they had turned their faces homeward, and were just
entering the town, that something very exciting happened. They had
fallen into a walk, and Barbara was watching the people idly, when she
recognised among the passers-by the face of the "solicitor" of Neuilly!
She felt sure it was he, although he was just turning down a side
street; and after the shock of surprise she followed her first impulse,
and, putting her horse at a gallop, dashed after him.
Monsieur Pirenne, who was in the middle of saying something, received a
great fright, and wondered whether she or her horse had gone mad. He
followed her at once, calling after her anxiously, "Pull up,
mademoiselle, pull up! You will be killed!"
The solicitor did not see her, but just before she reached him he
stepped on to a passing tram and was whirled away, and before Barbara
had decided whether to pursue an electric tram or not, Monsieur Pirenne
had reached her side and seized her reins. He looked really
frightened, and annoyed too, but when Barbara told him that the horse
had only been running in accordance with the will of her mistress, he
composed himself a little, merely remarking that it was hardly _comme
il faut_ to gallop in the streets like that.
"But, Monsieur Pirenne," Barbara said eagerly, "I know you would have
done the same if you had known the story;" and therewith she began to
tell it to him. He was immensely interested, for there is nothing a
Frenchman enjoys more than an adventure, and at the end of the tale he
was almost as excited as she was.
"Could we trace him now?" he questioned eagerly. "But--I fear the
chance is small--the description is so vague, and you did not even see
the name on the tram, and we have no proofs. Yet, mademoiselle, if you
will go to the _préfecture_ with me, I will do my best."
But Barbara shook her head decidedly. The thought of police courts,
especially French ones, alarmed her, and the warnings she had received
to keep out of any more "complications" were still very fresh in her
mind.
"I think I should rather not go to the _préfecture_, monsieur," she
said quickly. "I do not think it would be any good either."
"I agree with you perfectly." And Monsieur Pirenne bowed gallantly.
"Therefore, shall we proceed on our way? Does mademoiselle regret that
she did not catch him?" he asked, after a while.
"I am sorry he is not caught--but I am not sorry _I_ did not catch him,
though that seems rather contradictory, doesn't it?"
"By which mademoiselle means that she does not know what she would have
done with one hand on the miscreant's collar, the other on the reins,
and a crowd around her?" the Frenchman inquired politely.
"That's just it," laughed Barbara. "You have exactly described
it--though I should be glad if _some one_ caught him and made him give
back the money."
"I will keep my eyes open on your behalf, and shall let you know if
anything happens," he said sympathetically; and Barbara, remembering
his kindness, did not like to remind him that, never having seen the
man, he could not possibly be of much service to her.
When Mademoiselle Thérèse heard that she had seen the solicitor again,
she was almost as excited as Barbara had been, and at once proposed
that they should spend the rest of the evening in Dinard, looking for
him; and it was not until the girl pointed out that he might now be on
his way to England, or a long way off in another direction, that she
became reconciled to returning home.
Excitement seemed in the air that evening, and when they arrived at the
St. Servan quay there were more idlers than usual. They wondered what
was the cause, and when Mademoiselle Thérèse, with her customary desire
to get at the bottom of everything, asked the reason, she was told that
the strike among the timber-yard men, which had been threatened for
some time, had begun that afternoon, and that work was suspended.
It was all the more astonishing because it had come so suddenly, and
Barbara could hardly tear mademoiselle away from the spot until she
suggested that those at home might not have heard of it yet, and that
she might be the first to tell it to them. Hurrying through the town,
they heard great shouting from the other side of the quay, which made
mademoiselle nearly break into a run with eagerness. As it happened,
however, the news had already spread to their street, and they found
Mademoiselle Loiré equally anxious to tell the new-comers what _she_
knew of the matter.
As it was the first strike for many years, the townspeople looked upon
it with a strange mingling of pride and fear. It was stirred up by an
agitator called Mars, and had broken out simultaneously in other ports
too. More _gendarmes_ were sent for in case of need, though
Mademoiselle Loiré said it was hoped matters might be arranged amicably
by a meeting between masters and men.
They were still discussing the subject, when a loud shouting was heard,
and they all ran to a disused bedroom in the front of the house and
looked out.
A crowd of men, marching in fours, were coming up the street, led by
one beating a drum, and another carrying a dirty banner with "Liberté,
Equalité, Fraternité" upon it. Barbara's eyes sparkled with
excitement, and she felt almost as if she were back in the times of the
Revolution, for they looked rather a fierce and vicious crew.
"They are some of the strikers," Mademoiselle Thérèse cried. "We must
withdraw our heads from the windows in case the men get annoyed with us
for staring." But she promptly leaned still farther out, and began
making loud remarks to her sister, on the disgracefulness of such
behaviour.
"You will be heard," Mademoiselle Loiré returned, shaking her head at
her sister. "You are a silly woman to say such things so loudly when
the strikers are marching beneath."
But the remonstrance had no effect, and the sight of all the other
windows in the street full of spectators encouraged and inspired
Mademoiselle Thérèse, and made her long for fame and glory.
"It is ridiculous of the mayor to allow such things," she said loudly,
with an evident desire to be heard. "The men should be sharply dealt
with, and sent back to their work."
The result of her words was unexpected; for several of the crowd,
annoyed at the little serious attention they had hitherto received, and
worked up to considerable excitement, by the shouting and drumming
began to pick up stones and fling them at the house. At first they
were merely thrown _against_ the house, then, the spirit of mischief
increasing, they were sent with better aim, and one crashed through the
window above Mademoiselle Thérèse's head.
"We shall all be killed!" shrieked her sister, "and just because of
your meddling ways, Thérèse." But she called to deaf ears, for now
Mademoiselle Thérèse, enjoying notoriety, kept popping her head in and
out of the window, dodging the stones and shouting out threats and
menaces, which were returned by the crowd, till at last Mademoiselle
Loiré cried out pitifully that some one must go and fetch the widower.
"One man even might be a protection," she moaned, though how, and
whether against her sister or the strikers, did not seem very clear to
Barbara. But as that seemed to be Mademoiselle Loiré's one idea, and
as Marie and the maid-servants were all crying in a corner, she thought
she had better fetch him. Running downstairs and across the garden,
she climbed over the wall by the wood pile, and boldly knocked at the
widower's back door, thereby frightening him not a little. He came
very cautiously along the passage, and inquired in rather shaky tones
who was there.
As soon as Barbara had assured him that this was not an attack in the
rear, he flung open the door, and welcomed her most cordially. Barbara
wondered where he had been not to have heard Mademoiselle Loiré's
wailings, and suspected that perhaps he _had_ heard them and had
retired hastily in consequence! He certainly looked a little depressed
when he received the message, which was to the effect that he should
come and address the crowd from the Loirés' window, and bid it to
proceed on its way.
"I think," he said pensively, after some moments' consideration, "that
if I am to go at all, I had better go out by my own front door and
speak to the crowd from the street. They will be more likely to listen
to me there, than if they thought I was one of Mademoiselle Loiré's
household."
"That is _very_ brave of you, monsieur," Barbara said, and the little
man swelled with pride. Perhaps it was the thought of the glorious
part he was about to play before the whole street that upheld him, as
he certainly was rather timid by nature.
"If _you_ are going out to face that mob," said Jean, drawing himself
up, "I will accompany you."
"Noble boy!" cried the little man, embracing him. "We will live or die
together. Come!" And off they went, while Barbara hurried across the
garden and over the wall again, not wishing to miss the spectacle in
the street. But her dress caught in the wood, and, as it took her some
time to disentangle it, the widower had finished his speech by the time
she arrived at the window. But he seemed to have made an impression,
for the crowd was beginning slowly to move on, urged by what
persuasions or threats she could not discover, as the Loirés had not
heard much either.
But as long as the strikers went, the ladies did not much mind how they
had been persuaded, and when the last man had straggled out of sight,
and the sound of the drum was dying away, both the sisters, followed by
Marie, rushed downstairs and flung open the front door.
"Enter!" Mademoiselle Loiré cried. "Enter, our preserver--our
rescuer!" and, as soon as he crossed the threshold, Mademoiselle
Thérèse seized one hand and her sister the other, till Barbara wondered
how the poor little man's arms remained on. Marie, meanwhile, did her
part by the son, and, as they all spoke at once, there was almost as
much noise in the house as previously there had been outside.
"Our noble preserver, what do we not owe to you!" shouted Mademoiselle
Thérèse, trying to drown her sister, who was speaking at his other ear.
"Facing the mob like a lion at bay--one man against a thousand!"
Barbara knew there had not been a hundred, but supposed a poetical
imagination must be allowed free play.
"He stood there as calmly as in church," Marie interpolated, though she
knew that the widower never went there, "with a cool smile playing
about his lips--it was a beautiful sight;" and Barbara regretted
exceedingly that her dress had detained her so long that she had missed
it.
Compliments continued to fly for some time, like butterflies in June;
then, from sheer exhaustion, the sisters released him, and wiped their
eyes from excess of emotion. Barbara was just assuring herself that
the widower's arms _did_ seem to be all right, when he turned round,
and, seizing both her hands, began to shake them as violently as his
had been shaken a few minutes before.
Barbara was much bewildered, not knowing what she had done to deserve
this tribute, and wondering if the widower were doing it out of a
spirit of revenge, and a desire to make somebody else's hands as tired
as his own. But one glance at his glowing, kindly face dispelling that
idea, Barbara concentrated all her attention on the best way to free
herself, and avoid going through a similar ordeal with all the others,
which, she began to fear, might be her fate.
She escaped it, however, for Mademoiselle Loiré had hastened away to
bring up some wine from the cellar, in honour of the occasion, and they
were all invited into the _salon_ to drink to each other's healths
before parting. The widower was called upon to give a speech, to which
Mademoiselle Thérèse replied at some length, without being called upon;
and it was getting quite late before the two "noble preservers" retired
to their own home.
When they had gone, Mademoiselle Loiré suggested that all danger might
not yet be past, and, as the men might return again later, she thought
it would be wiser to make preparations. So the two frightened
maid-servants being called in to assist, the shutters were closed
before all the windows, and heavy furniture dragged in front of them.
When this was done, and all the doors bolted and barred, Mademoiselle
Thérèse proposed to take turns in sitting up and keeping watch.
Barbara promptly vetoed the motion, declaring she was going to bed at
once, and, as no one else seemed inclined to take the part of sentinel,
they all retired.
"I hope we may be spared to see the morning light," Mademoiselle
Thérèse said solemnly. "I feel there is great risk in our going to bed
in this manner."
"Then why don't you sit up, sister?" Mademoiselle Loiré said crossly,
for the last hour or two had really been very tiring. But to this her
sister did not deign to reply, and, taking up her candle, went up to
bed. When Barbara gained the safe precincts of her own room she
laughed long and heartily, and longed that Donald or Frances could have
been there to see the meeting between rescuer and rescued.
In spite of their fears of evil they all spent a peaceful night, the
only result of their careful barricading being that it made the
servants cross, as they had to restore things to their places. The
town was apparently quiet enough too--though Mademoiselle Thérèse would
not allow any one to go out "in case of riot"--and when the additional
_gendarmes_ came in the evening there was little for them to do. It
was supposed that the men and employers had come to some understanding,
and that the strikers would soon return to their work.
"But, you see," Mademoiselle Thérèse said to Barbara, "how easily a
revolution arises in our country. With a little more provocation there
would have been barricades and the guillotine just as before."
"But while the widower and his son live so near us," Barbara replied,
"we need surely have no fear."
And, though Mademoiselle Thérèse looked at her sharply, the girl's face
was so sedate that the lady supposed she was treating the matter with
seriousness.