A CLIMAX.
The same night Mr. Briarley came home in a condition more muddled and
disheveled than usual. He looked as if he had been hustled about and
somewhat unceremoniously treated. He had lost his hat, and was tremulous
and excited. He came in without the trifling ceremony of opening the
door. In fact, he fell up against it and ran in, and making an erratic
dive at a chair, sat down. Granny Dixon, who had been dozing in her
usual seat, was roused by the concussion and wakened and sat up, glaring
excitedly.
"He's been at it again!" she shouted. "At it again! He'll nivver ha'
none o' my brass to mak' way wi'. He's been at----"
Mrs. Briarley turned upon her.
"Keep thy mouth shut" she said.
The command was effective in one sense, though not in another. Mrs.
Dixon stopped in the midst of the word "at" with her mouth wide open,
and so sat for some seconds, with the aspect of an ancient beldam
ordinarily going by machinery and suddenly having had her works stopped.
She would probably have presented this appearance for the remainder of
the evening if Mrs. Briarley had not addressed her again.
"Shut thy mouth!" she said.
The works were set temporarily in motion, and her countenance slowly
resumed its natural lines. She appeared to settle down all over and sink
and become smaller, though, as she crouched nearer the fire, she had
rather an evil look, which seemed to take its red glow into her
confidence and secretly rage at it.
"What's tha been doin'?" Mrs. Briarley demanded of her better half. "Out
wi' it!"
Mr. Briarley had already fallen into his favorite position. He had
placed an elbow upon each knee and carefully supported his disheveled
head upon his hands. He had also already begun to shed tears, which
dropped and made disproportionately large circles upon the pipe-clayed
floor.
"I'm a misforchnit chap," he said. "I'm a misforchnit chap, Sararann, as
nivver had no luck."
"What's tha been doin'?" repeated Mrs. Briarley, with even greater
sharpness than before; "out wi' it!"
"Nay," said Mr. Briarley, "that theer's what I've getten mysen i'
trouble wi'. I wunnot do it again."
"Theer's summat i' beer," he proceeded, mournfully, "as goes agen a man.
He towd me not to say nowt an' I did na mean to, but," with fresh
pathos, "theer's summat i' beer as winds--as winds a chap up. I'm not
mich o' th' speakin' loine, Sararann, but afore I knowed it, I wur
a-makin' a speech--an' when I bethowt me an' wanted to set down--they
wur bound to mak' me--go on to th' eend--an' when I would na--theer wur
a good bit--o' public opinion igspressed--an' I did na stop--to bid 'em
good-neet. Theer wur too much agoin' on."
"What wur it aw about?" asked Mrs. Briarley.
But Mr. Briarley's voice had been gradually becoming lower and lower,
and his words more incoherent. He was sinking into slumber. When she
repeated her question, he awakened with a violent start.
"I'm a misforchnit chap," he murmured, "an' I dunnot know. 'Scaped me,
Sararann--owin' to misforchins."
"Eh!" remarked Mrs. Briarley, regarding him with connubial irony, "but
tha art a graidely foo'! I'd gie summat to see a graidelier un!"
But he was so far gone by this time that there was no prospect of a
clear solution of the cause of his excitement. And so she turned to
Granny Dixon.
"It's toime fur thee to be i' bed," she shouted.
Granny Dixon gave a sharp, stealthy move round, and a sharp, stealthy
glance up at her.
"I--dunnot want to go," she quavered shrilly.
"Aye, but tha does," was the answer. "An' tha'rt goin' too. Get up,
Missus."
And singularly enough, Mrs. Dixon fumbled until she found her stick, and
gathering herself up and leaning upon it, made her rambling way out of
the room carrying her evil look with her.
"Bless us!" Mrs. Briarley had said in confidence to a neighbor a few
days before. "I wur nivver more feart i' my life than when I'd done it,
an' th' owd besom set theer wi' her cap o' one side an' her breath gone.
I did na know but I'd put an eend to her. I nivver should ha' touched
her i' th' world if I had na been that theer upset as I did na know what
I wur doin'. I thowt she'd be up an' out i' th' street as soon as she'd
getten her breath an', happen, ca' on th' porlice. An' to think it's
been th' settlin' on her! It feart me to see it at th' first, but I wur
na goin' to lose th' chance an' th' next day I give it to her up an'
down--tremblin' i' my shoes aw th' toime. I says, 'Tha may leave thy
brass to who tha loikes, but tha'lt behave thysen while tha stays here
or Sararann Briarley'll see about it. So mak' up thy moind.' An' I've
nivver had a bit o' trouble wi' her fro' then till now. She conna bide
th' soight o' me, but she dare na go agen me fur her life."
The next day Haworth went away upon one of his mysterious journeys.
"To Leeds or Manchester, or perhaps London," said Ffrench. "I don't know
where."
The day after was Saturday, and in the afternoon Janey Briarley
presented herself to Mrs. Murdoch at an early hour, and evidently with
something on her mind.
"I mun get through wi' th' cleanin' an' go whoam soon," she said. "Th'
stroikers is over fro' Molton an' Dillup again. Theer's summat up among
'em."
"We dunnot know nowt about it," she answered, when further questioned.
"We on'y know they're here an' i' a ill way about summat they've fun
out. Feyther, he's aw upset, but he dare na say nowt fur fear o' th'
Union. Mother thinks they've getten summat agen Ffrench."
"Does Mr. Ffrench know that?" Mrs. Murdoch asked.
"He'll know it soon enow, if he does na," dryly. "They'll noan stand
back at tellin' him if they're i' th' humor--but he's loiker to know
than not. He's too feart on 'em not to be on th' watch."
It was plain enough before many hours had passed that some disturbance
was on foot. The strikers gathered about the streets in groups, or
lounged here and there sullenly. They were a worse-looking lot than they
had been at the outset. Idleness and ill-feeling and dissipation had
left their marks. Clothes were shabbier, faces more brutal and habits
plainly more vicious.
At one o'clock Mr. Ffrench disappeared from his room at the bank, no one
knew exactly how or when. All the morning he had spent in vacillating
between his desk and a window looking into the street. There was a rumor
among the clerks that he had been seen vanishing through a side door
leading into a deserted little back street.
An hour later he appeared in the parlor in which his daughter sat. He
was hot and flurried and out of breath.
"Those scoundrels are in the town again," he said. "And there is no
knowing what they are up to. It was an insane thing for Haworth to go
away at such a time. By night there will be an uproar."
"If there is an uproar," said Miss Ffrench, "they will come here. They
know they can do nothing at the Works. He is always ready for them
there--and they are angrier with you than they are with him."
"There is no reason why they should be," Ffrench protested. "_I_ took no
measures against them, heaven knows."
"I think," returned Rachel, "that is the reason. You have been afraid of
them."
He colored to the roots of his hair.
"You are saying a deuced unpleasant thing, my dear," he broke forth.
"It is true," she answered. "What would be the use in _not_ saying it?"
He had no reply to make. The trouble was that he never had a reply to
make to these deadly simple statements of hers.
He began to walk up and down the room.
"The people we invited to dine with us," she said, "will not come. They
will hear what is going on and will be afraid. It is very stupid."
"I wonder," he faltered, "if Murdoch will fail us. He never did before."
"No," she answered. "_He_ will not stay away."
The afternoon dragged its unpleasant length along. As it passed Ffrench
found in every hour fresh cause for nervousness and excitement. The
servant who had been out brought disagreeable enough tidings. The small
police force of the town had its hands full in attending to its business
of keeping order.
"If we had had time to send to Manchester for some assistance," said Mr.
Ffrench.
"That would have been reason enough for being attacked," said Rachel.
"It would have shown them that we felt we needed protection."
"We _may_ need it, before all is quiet again," retorted her father.
"We may," she answered, "or we may not."
By night several arrests had been made, and there was a good deal of
disorder in the town. A goodly quantity of beer had been drunk and there
had been a friendly fight or so among the strikers themselves.
Rachel left her father in the drawing-room and went upstairs to prepare
for dinner. When she returned an hour afterward he turned to her with an
impatient start.
"Why did you dress yourself in that manner?" he exclaimed. "You said
yourself our guests would not come."
"It occurred to me," she answered, "that we might have visitors after
all."
But it was as she had prophesied,--the guests they had expected did not
come. They were discreet and well-regulated elderly people who had lived
long in the manufacturing districts, and had passed through little
unpleasantnesses before. They knew that under existing circumstances it
would be wiser to remain at home than to run the risk of exposing
themselves to spasmodic criticism and its results.
But they had visitors.
The dinner hour passed and they were still alone. Even Murdoch had not
come. A dead silence reigned in the room. Ffrench was trying to read and
not succeeding very well. Miss Ffrench stood by the window looking out.
It was a clear night and the moon was at full; it was easy to see far up
the road upon whose whiteness the trees cast black shadows. She was
looking up this road toward the town. She had been watching it steadily
for some time. Once her father had turned to her restlessly, saying:
"Why do you stand there? You--you might be expecting something to
happen."
She did not make any reply and still retained her position. But about
half an hour afterward, she turned suddenly and spoke in a low, clear
tone.
"If you are afraid, you had better go away," she said. "They are
coming."
It was evident that she at least felt no alarm, though there was a
thrill of excitement in her voice. Mr. Ffrench sprang up from his seat.
"They are coming!" he echoed. "Good God! What do you mean?"
It was not necessary that she should enter into an explanation. A clamor
of voices in the road told its own story. There were shouts and riotous
cries which, in a moment more, were no longer outside the gates but
within them. An uproarious crowd of men and boys poured into the garden,
trampling the lawn and flower-beds beneath their feet as they rushed and
stumbled over them.
"Wheer is he?" they shouted. "Bring the chap out, an' let's tak' a look
at him. Bring him out!"
Ffrench moved toward the door of the room, and then, checked by some
recollection, turned back again.
"Good Heaven!" he said, "they are at their worst, and here we are
utterly alone. Why did Haworth go away? Why----"
His daughter interrupted him.
"There is no use in your staying," she said. "It will do no good. You
may go if you like. There is the back way. None of them are near it."
"I--I can't leave you here," he stammered. "Haworth was mad! Why, in
Heaven's name----"
"There is no use asking why again," she replied. "I cannot tell you. I
think you had better go."
Her icy coldness would have been a pretty hard thing to bear if he had
been less terror-stricken; but he saw that the hand with which she held
the window-curtain was shaking.
He did not know, however, that it was not shaking with fear, but with
the power of the excitement which stirred her.
It is scarcely possible that he would have left her, notwithstanding his
panic, though, for a second, it nearly seemed that he had so far lost
self-control as to be wavering; but as he stood, pale and breathless,
there arose a fresh yell.
"Wheer is he? Bring him out! Murdoch, th' 'Merican chap! We're coom to
see him!"
"What's that?" he asked. "Who is it they want?"
"Murdoch! Murdoch!" was shouted again. "Let's ha' a word wi' Murdoch! We
lads ha' summat to say to him!"
"It is not I they want," he said. "It is Murdoch. It is not I at all!"
She dashed the window-curtain aside and turned on him. He was stunned by
the mere sight of her face. Every drop of blood seemed driven from it.
"You are a coward!" she cried, panting. "A coward! It is a relief to
you!"
He stood staring at her.
"A--a relief!" he stammered. "I--don't understand you. What is the
matter?"
She had recovered herself almost before he had begun to speak. It was
over in a second. He had not had time to realize the situation before
she was moving toward the window.
"They shall see _me_," she said. "Let us see what they will have to say
to _me_."
He would have stopped her, but she did not pay the slightest attention
to his exclamation. The window was a French one, opening upon a terrace.
She flung it backward, and stepped out and stood before the rioters.
For a second there was not a sound.
They had been expecting to see a man,--perhaps Ffrench, perhaps Murdoch,
perhaps even a representative of the small police force, looking as if
he felt himself one too many in the gathering, or not quite enough,--and
here was simply a tall young woman in a dazzling dress of some rich
white stuff, and with something sparkling upon her hands and arms and in
her high-dressed blonde hair.
The moonlight struck full upon her, and she stood in it serene and bore
unmoved the stupid stare of all their eyes. It was she who spoke first,
and then they knew her, and the spell which held them dumb was broken.
"What do you want?" she demanded. "I should like to hear."
Then they began to shout again.
"We want Murdoch!" they said. "We ha' summat to say to him."
"He is not here," she said. "He has not been here."
"That's a lee," remarked a gentleman on the outskirts of the crowd. "A
dom'd un."
She made no answer, and, singularly enough, nobody laughed.
"Why do you want him?" she said next.
"We want to hear about that contrapshun o' his as is goin' to mak' th'
mesters indypendent. He knows what we want him fur. We've just been to
his house and brokken th' winders. He's getten wind on us comin', an' he
made off wi' th' machine. He'll be here afore long if he is na here now,
an' we're bound to see him."
"He'll be up to see thee," put in the gentleman on the outskirts, "an' I
dunnot blame him. I'm glad I coom mysen. Tha's worth th' trip--an' I'm a
Dillup chap, moind yo'."
She stood quite still as before and let them look at her, to see what
effect the words had produced. It seemed as if they had produced none.
"If you have come to see him," she said, after a few seconds, "you may
go away again. He is not here. I know where he is, and you cannot reach
him. If there has not been some blunder, he is far enough away."
She told the lie without flinching in the least, and with a clever
coolness which led her to think in a flash beforehand even of the clause
which would save her dignity if he should chance to come in the midst of
her words.
"If you want to break windows," she went on, "break them here. They can
be replaced afterward, and there is no one here to interfere with you.
If you would like to vent your anger upon a woman, vent it upon _me_.
_I_ am not afraid of you. Look at me!"
She took half a step forward and presented herself to them--motionless.
Not a fellow among them but felt that she would not have stirred if they
had rushed upon her bodily. The effect of her supreme beauty and the
cold defiance which had in it a touch of delicate insolence, was
indescribable. This was not in accordance with their ideas of women of
her class; they were used to seeing them discreetly keeping themselves
in the shade in time of disorder. Here was one--"one of the nobs," as
they said--who flung their threats to the wind and scorned them.
What they would have done when they recovered themselves is uncertain.
The scale might have turned either way; but, just in the intervening
moment which would have decided it, there arose a tumult in their midst.
A man pushed his way with mad haste through the crowd and sprang upon
the terrace at her side, amid yells and hoots from those who had guessed
who he was.
An instant later they all knew him, though his dress was disordered, his
head was bare, and his whole face and figure seemed altered by his
excitement.
"Dom him!" they yelled. "Theer he is, by----!"
"I towd thee he'd coom," shouted the cynic. "He did na get th'
tellygraph, tha sees."
He turned on them, panting and white with rage.
"You devils!" he cried. "You are here too! Haven't you done enough?
Isn't bullying and frightening two women enough for you, that you must
come here?"
"That's reet," commented the cynic. "Stond up fur th' young woman,
Murdoch. I'd do it mysen i' I wur o' that soide. Allus stond up fur th'
sect!"
Murdoch spoke to Rachel Ffrench.
"You must go in," he said. "There is no knowing what they will do."
"I shall stay here," she answered.
She made an impatient gesture. She was shuddering from head to foot.
"Don't look at or speak to me," she said. "You--you make me a coward."
"They will stand at nothing," he protested.
"I will not turn my back upon them," she said. "Let them do their
worst."
He turned to the crowd again. Her life itself was in danger, and he knew
he could not move her. He was shuddering himself.
"Who is your leader?" he said to the men. "I suppose you have one."
The man known as Foxy Gibbs responded to their cries of his name by
pushing his way to the front. He was a big, resolute, hulking scamp who
had never been known to do an honest day's work, and was yet always in
funds and at liberty to make incendiary speeches where beer and tobacco
were plentiful.
"What do you want of me?" demanded Murdoch. "Speak out."
The fellow was ready enough with his words, and forcible too.
"We've heard tell o' summat goin' on we're not goin' to stond," he
said. "We've heerd tell o' a chap 'at's contrivin' summat to do away wi'
them as does th' work now an' mak's theer bread by it. We've heerd as
th' mesters is proidin' theersens on it an' laughin' in their sleeves.
We've heerd tell as theer's a chap makkin' what'll eend i' mischief--an'
yo're th' chap."
"Who told you?"
"Nivver moind who. A foo' let it out, an' we wur na in th' humor to let
it pass. We're goin' to sift th' thing to th' bottom. Yo're th' chap as
was nam't. What ha' yo' getten to say?"
"Just one thing," he answered. "It's a lie from first to last--an
accursed lie!"
"Lee or not, we're goin' to smash th' thing, whatever it is. We're noan
particular about th' lee. We'll mak' th' thing safe first, an' then
settle about th' lee."
Murdoch thrust his hands in his pockets and eyed them with his first
approach to his usual _sang-froid_.
"It's where you won't find it," he said. "I've made sure of that."
It was a mad speech to have made, but he had lost self-control and
balance. He was too terribly conscious of Rachel Ffrench's perilous
nearness to be in the mood to weigh his words. He saw his mistake in a
second. There was a shout and a surging movement of the mob toward him,
and Rachel Ffrench, with an indescribable swiftness, had thrown herself
before him and was struck by a stone which came whizzing through the
air.
She staggered under the stroke but stood upright in a breadth's time.
"My God!" Murdoch cried out. "They have struck you. They have struck
you!"
He was half mad with his anguish and horror. The sight of the little
stream of blood which trickled from her temple turned him sick with
rage.
"You devils!" he raved, "do you see what you have done?"
But the play was over. Before he had finished his outcry there was a
shout of "th' coppers! th' coppers!" and a rush and skurry and tumble of
undignified retreat. The police force with a band of anti-strikers
behind them had appeared upon the scene in the full glory of the uniform
of the corporation, and such was the result of habit and the majesty of
the law that those who were not taken into custody incontinently took to
their heels and scattered in every direction, uttering curses loud and
deep, since they were not yet prepared to resist an attack more
formally.
In half an hour the trampled grass and flower-beds and broken shrubs
were the only signs of the tumult. Mr. Ffrench was walking up and down
the dreary room in as nervous a condition as ever.
"Good heavens, Rachel!" he said. "You must have been mad--mad."
She had persistently refused to lie down and sat in an easy-chair,
looking rather colorless and languid. When they were left alone, Murdoch
came and stood near her. He was paler than she, and haggard and worn.
Before she knew what he was about to do he fell upon his knees, and
covered her hands with kisses.
"If any harm had come to you," he cried--"if any harm had come to
you----"
She tried to drag her hands away with an angry face, but he clung to
them. And then quite suddenly all her resistance ceased and her eyes
fixed themselves upon him as if with a kind of dread.