THE BEGINNING.
For some time there had hung over the conduct of Mr. Briarley an air of
deep mystery. The boon of his society had been granted to his family
even less frequently than ever. His habit of sudden and apparently
unaccountable disappearance from the home circle after or even in the
midst of an argument had become more than usually pronounced. He went
out every night and invariably returned under the influence of malt
liquor.
"Wheer he gets th' brass bangs me," said Mrs. Briarley. "He does na tak'
it out o' his wage, that's certain, fur he has na been a ha'penny short
fur three week, an' he does na get it o' tick, _that_ I know. Bannett at
th' 'Public' is na a foo'. Wheer does he get th' brass fro'?"
But this was not easily explained. On being catechised Mr. Briarley
either shed tears of penitence or shook his head with deep solemnity of
meaning. At times when he began to shake it--if the hour was late and
his condition specially foggy--he was with difficulty induced to stop
shaking it, but frequently continued to do so with protracted fervor and
significance gradually decreasing until he fell asleep. When he was
sober he was timorous and abstracted. He started at the sound of the
opening door, and apparently existed in a state of secret expectation
and alarm.
"I conna tell thee, Sararann," he would say. "At least," with some
tremor, "I wunnot tell thee just yet. Thou'lt know i' toime."
He did not patronize the "Who'd ha' Thowt it" as much as formerly, in
these days, Janey discovered. He evidently got the beer elsewhere, and
at somebody's expense. His explanation of this was a brilliant and happy
one, but it was only offered once, in consequence of the mode of its
reception by his hearers. He presented it suddenly one night after some
moments of silence and mental research.
"Theer's a gentlemon as is a friend o' moine," he said, "as has had
uncommon luck. His heirs has deed an' left him a forchin, an' he's come
into it, an' he's very mich tuk wi' me. I dunnot know as I ivver seed
ony one as mich tuk wi' me, Sararann--an' his heirs deein' an' leavin'
him a forchin--that theer's how it is, Sararann,--that theer's how it
is."
"Tha brazant leer!" cried Mrs. Briarley, aghast. "Tha brazant leer! Get
out wi' thee!" in an outburst of indignation. "Thee an' thy forchins an'
heirs deein'--as if it wur na bad enow at th' start. A noice chap tha
art to set thysen up to know gentlefolks wi' heirs to dee an' leave 'em
brass. Eh! Bless us! what art tha comin' to?"
The result was not satisfactory, as Mr. Briarley felt keenly.
"Tha hast getten no confydence i' me, Sararann," he said in weak
protest. "Tha has na no faith--nor yet," following the train of thought
with manifest uncertainty,--"nor yet no works."
The situation was so painful, however, that he made no further effort of
the imagination to elucidate the matter, and it remained temporarily
obscured in mystery.
Only temporarily, however. A few weeks afterward Ffrench came down to
the Works in great excitement. He went to Haworth's room, and finding
him there, shut the door and almost dropped into a chair.
"What's up?" demanded Haworth, with some impatience. "What's up, man?"
"You haven't heard the report?" Ffrench answered, tremulously. "It
hasn't reached you yet?"
"I've heard nowt to upset me. Out with it! What's up?"
He was plainly startled, and lost a shade of color, but he held himself
boldly. Ffrench explained himself with trepidation.
"The hands in Marfort and Molton and Howton are on the strike, and those
in Dillup and Burton are plainly about to follow suit. I've just got a
Manchester paper, which says the lookout is bad all over the country.
Meetings have been going on in secret for some time."
He stopped and sat staring at his partner. Haworth was deathly pale. He
seemed, for a moment, to lack breath, and then suddenly the dark color
rushed to his face again.
"By----" he began, and stopped with the oath upon his lips.
"Don't swear, for pity's sake," broke forth Ffrench, finding courage for
protest in his very desperation. "It's not the time for it. Let's look
the thing in the face."
"Look it in the face," Haworth repeated. "Aye, let's."
He said the words with a fierce sneer.
"Aye, look it in the face, man," he said again. "That's th' thing to
do."
He bent forward, extending his hand across the table.
"Let's see th' paper," he demanded.
Ffrench gave it to him, and he read the paragraphs referred to in
silence. When he had finished them, he folded the paper again
mechanically.
"They might have done it last year and welcome, blast 'em!" he said.
Ffrench began to tremble.
"You've ventured a good deal of late, Haworth," he said, weakly. "You've
done some pretty daring things, you know--and----"
Haworth turned on him.
"If I lose all I've made," he said, hoarsely, "shall I lose aught of
yours, lad?"
Ffrench did not reply. He sat playing with his watch-chain nervously. He
had cause for anxiousness on his own score, and his soul quaked within
him.
"What is to be done?" he ventured at last.
"There's only one thing to be done," Haworth answered, pushing his chair
back. "Stop it here--at th' start."
"Stop it?" Ffrench echoed, in amazement.
"Aye, stop it."
He got up and took his hat down and put it on.
"I'm going round th' place and about th' yards and into th' town," he
said. "There's naught for you to do but keep quiet. Th' quieter you keep
th' better for us. Go on as if you'd heard naught. Stay here a bit, and
then walk over to th' bank. Look alive, man!"
He went out and left Ffrench alone. In the passage he came upon a couple
of men who were talking together in low voices. They started at sight of
him and walked away slowly.
He went first to the engine-room. There he found Floxham and Murdoch
talking also. The old engineer wore an irritable air, and was plainly in
a testy mood. Murdoch looked fagged and pale. Of late he was often so.
As Haworth entered he turned toward him, uttering an exclamation.
"He is here now," he said. "That is well enough."
Floxham gave him a glance from under his bent, bushy brows.
"Aye," he answered. "We may as well out wi' it."
He touched his cap clumsily.
"Tell him," he said to Murdoch, "an' ha' it over."
Murdoch spoke in a cool, low voice.
"I have found out," he said, "that there is trouble on foot. I began to
suspect it a week ago. Some rough fellows from Manchester and Molton
have been holding secret meetings at a low place here. Some of the hands
have been attending them. Last night a worse and larger gang came and
remained in the town. They are here now. They mean mischief at least,
and there are reports afloat that strikes are breaking out on all
sides."
Haworth turned abruptly to Floxham.
"Where do you stand?" he asked roughly.
The old fellow laid his grimy hand upon his engine.
"I stand here, my lad," he answered. "That's wheer-an' I'll stick to it,
unions or no unions."
[Illustration: "I STAND HERE, MY LAD," HE ANSWERED.]
"That's the worst side of the trouble," said Murdoch. "Those who would
hold themselves aloof from the rest will be afraid of the trades unions.
If worst comes to worst, their very lives will be in danger. They know
that, and so do we."
"Aye, lad," said Floxham, "an' tha'rt reet theer."
Haworth ground his teeth and swore under his breath. Then he spoke to
Murdoch.
"How is it going on here?" he asked.
"Badly enough, in a quiet way. You had better go and see for yourself."
He went out, walking from room to room, through the yards and wherever
men were at work. Here and there a place was vacant. Where the work went
on, it went on dully; he saw dogged faces and subdued ones; those who
looked up as he passed wore an almost deprecatory air; those who did not
look up at all, bent over their tasks with an expression which was at
least negatively defiant. His keen eye discovered favorable symptoms,
however; those who were in evil mood were his worst workmen--men who had
their off days of drunken stupor and idleness, and the heads of
departments were plainly making an effort to stir briskly and ignore the
presence of any cloud upon their labor.
By the time he had made the rounds he had grasped the situation fully.
The strait was desperate, but not as bad as it might have been.
"I _may_ hold 'em," he said to himself, between his teeth. "And by the
Lord Harry I'll try hard for it."
He went over to the bank and found Ffrench in his private room, pale and
out of all courage.
"There will be a run on us by this time to-morrow," he said. "I see
signs of it already."
"Will there?" said Haworth. "We'll see about that. Wait a bit, my lad!"
He went into the town and spent an hour or so taking a sharp lookout.
Nothing escaped him. There were more idlers than usual about the ale
houses, and more than once he passed two or three women talking together
with anxious faces and in undertones. As he was passing one such group
one of the women saw him and started.
"Theer he is!" she said, and her companion turned with her and they
both stopped talking to look after him.
Before returning he went up to his partner's house. He asked for Miss
Ffrench and was shown into the room where she sat writing letters. She
neither looked pleased nor displeased when she saw him, but rose to
greet him at once. She gave him a rather long look.
"What is the matter?" she asked.
Suddenly he felt less bold. The heat of his excitement failed to sustain
him. He was all unstrung.
"I've come to tell you not to go out," he said. "There's trouble
afoot--in the trade. There's no knowing how it'll turn out. There's a
lot of chaps in th' town who are not in th' mood to see aught that'll
fret 'em. They're ready for mischief, and have got drink in 'em. Stay
you here until we see which way th' thing's going."
"Do you mean," she demanded, "that there are signs of a strike?"
"There's more than signs of it," he answered, sullenly. "Before night
the whole place will be astir."
She moved across the room and pulled the bell. A servant answered the
summons instantly.
"I want the carriage," she said.
Then she turned to Haworth with a smile of actual triumph.
"_Nothing_ would keep me at home," she said. "I shall drive through the
town and back again. Do you think I will let them fancy that _I_ am
afraid of them?"
"You're not afraid?" he said, almost in a whisper.
"I afraid?" she answered, "_I_?"
"Wait here," she added. She left the room, and in less than ten minutes
returned. He had never before seen in her the fire he saw then. There
was a spark of light in her eyes, a color on her cheek. She had chosen
her dress with distinct care for its luxurious richness. His
exclamation, as she entered buttoning her long, delicate glove, was a
repressed oath. He exulted in her. His fear for her was gone, and only
this exultation remained.
"You've made up your mind to that?" he said. He wanted to make her say
more.
"I am going to see your mother," she answered. "That will take me
outside of the town, then I shall drive back again--slowly. They shall
understand me at least."
She let him lead her out to the carriage, which by this time was
waiting. After she was seated in it, she bent forward and spoke to him.
"Tell my father where I am going and why," she said.