by Ellen Wood
‘Just clear out of this,’ said Sam.
‘When I’ve had my say,’ returned the man, ‘not before. If I would join the Union, I can’t. To join it, I must pay five shillings, and I have not got them to pay. With such a family as mine, you may guess every shilling is forestalled afore it comes in. I kept myself to myself, doing my work in quiet, and interfering with nobody. Why should they interfere with me?’
‘If you have been in full work, five shillings is not much to pay to the Union,’ sneered Sam.
‘If I had my pockets filled with five-shilling pieces, I would not pay one to it,’ fearlessly retorted the man. ‘Is it right that a free-born Englishman should give in to such a system of intimidation? No: I never will. You talk of the masters being tyrants: it’s you who are the tyrants, one to another. What is one workman better than his fellow, that he should lay down laws and say, You shall do this, and you shall do that, or you shan’t be allowed to work at all? That rule you want to get passed — that a skilled, thorough workman shouldn’t do a full day’s work because some of his fellows can’t — who’s agitating for it? Why, naturally those that can’t or won’t do the full work. Would an honest, capable man go in for it? Of course he’d not. I tell you what’ — turning his eyes on the room— ‘the Trades’ Unions have been called a protection to the working man; but, if you don’t take care, they’ll grow into a curse. When Sam Shuck, and other good-for-naughts like him, what never did a full week’s work for their families yet, are paid in gold and silver to spread incendiarism among you, it’s time you looked to yourselves.’
He turned away as he spoke; and Sam, in a dance of furious passion, danced off his tub. The interlude had not tended to increase the feeling of the men in Sam’s favour — that is, in the cause he advocated. Not a man present but wanted to better himself could he do so with safety, but they were afraid to enter on aggressive measures. Indiscriminate talking ensued; diverse opinions were disputed, and the meeting was prolonged to a late hour. Finally the men dispersed as they came, nothing having been resolved upon. A few set their faces resolutely against the proposed strike; a few were red-hot for it; but the majority were undecided, and liable to be swayed either way.
‘It will come,’ nodded Sam Shuck, as he went home to a supper of pork chops and gin-and-water.
But Sam was destined to be — as he would have expressed it — circumvented. It cannot be supposed that this unsatisfactory state of things was unnoticed by the masters: and they took their measures accordingly. Forming themselves into an association, they discussed the measures best to be adopted, and determined upon a lock-out; that is, to close their yards until the firm, whose workmen had struck, should resume work. They also resolved to employ only those men who would sign an agreement, or memorandum, affirming that they were not connected with any society which interfered with the arrangements of the master whose service they entered, or with the hours of labour, and acknowledging the rights both of masters and men to enter into any trade arrangements on which they might mutually agree. This paper of agreement was not relished by the men at all; they styled it ‘the odious document.’ Neither was the lock-out relished: it was of course equivalent, in one sense, to a strike; only that the initiative had come from the masters’ side, and not from theirs. It commenced early in August. Some of the masters closed their works without a word of explanation to their men: in one sense it was not needed, for the men knew of the measure beforehand. Mr. Hunter chose to assemble them together, and state what he was about to do. Somewhat of his old energy appeared to have been restored to him for the moment, as he stood before them and spoke — Austin Clay by his side.
‘You have brought it upon yourselves,’ he said, in answer to a remark from one who boldly, but respectfully, asked whether it was fair to resort to a lock-out, and so punish all alike, contents and non-contents. ‘I will meet the question upon your own grounds. When the Messrs. Pollocks’ men struck because their demands, to work nine hours a day, were not acceded to, was it not in contemplation that you should join them — that the strike should be universal? Come, answer me candidly.’
The men, true and honest, did not deny it.
‘And possibly by this time you would have struck,’ said Mr. Hunter. ‘How much more “fair” would that have been towards us, than this locking-out is towards you? Do you suppose that you alone are to meet and pass your laws, saying you will coerce the masters, and that the masters will not pass laws in return? Nonsense, my men!’
A pause.
‘When have the masters attempted to interfere with your privileges, either by saying that your day’s toil shall consist of longer hours, or by diminishing your wages, and threatening to turn you off if you do not fall in with the alteration? Never. Masters have rights as well as men; but some of you, of late, have appeared to ignore the fact. Let me ask you another question: Were you well treated under me, or were you not? Have I shown myself solicitous for your interests, for your welfare? Have I ever oppressed you, ever put upon you?’
No, Mr. Hunter had never sought to oppress them: they acknowledged it freely. He had ever been a good master.
‘My men, let me give you my opinion. While condemning your conduct, your semblance of discontent — it has been semblance rather than reality — I have been sorry for you, for it is not with you that the chief blame lies. You have suffered evil persuaders to get access to your ears, and have been led away by their pernicious counsels. The root of the evil lies there. I wish you could bring your own good sense to bear upon these points, and to see with your own eyes. If so, there will be nothing to prevent our resuming together amicable relations; and, for my own part, I care not how soon the time shall come. The works are for the present closed.
PART THE THIRD.
CHAPTER I. A PREMATURE AVOWAL.
Daffodil’s Delight was in all the glory of the lock-out. The men, having nothing to do, improved their time by enjoying themselves; they stood about the street, or lounged at their doors, smoking their short pipes and quaffing draughts of beer. Let money run ever so short, you will generally see that the beer and the pipes can be found. As yet, the evils of being out of work were not felt; for weekly pay, sufficient for support, was supplied them by the Union Committee. The men were in high spirits — in that sort of mood implied by the words ‘Never say die,’ which phrase was often in their mouths. They expressed themselves determined to hold out; and this determination was continually fostered by the agents of the Union, of whom Sam Shuck was the chief: chief as regarded Daffodil’s Delight — inferior as regarded other agents elsewhere. Many of the more temperate of the men, who had not particularly urged the strike, were warm supporters now of the general opinion, for they regarded the lock-out as an unwarrantable piece of tyranny on the part of the masters. As to the ladies, they were over-warm partisans, generally speaking, making the excitement, the unsettled state of Daffodil’s Delight, an excuse for their own idleness (they are only too ready to do so when occasion offers), and collected in groups round the men, or squatted themselves on door steps, proclaiming their opinion of existing things, and boasting that they’d hold out for their rights till death.
It was almost like a summer’s day. Seated in a chair at the bottom of her garden, just within the gate, was Mary Baxendale. Not that she was there to join in the gossip of the women, little knots of whom were dotting the street, or had any intention of joining in it: she was simply sitting there for air.
Mary Baxendale was fading. Never very strong, she had, for the last year or two, been gradually declining, and, with the excessive heat of the past summer, her remaining strength appeared to have gone out. Her occupation, that of a seamstress, had not tended to keep her in health; she had a great deal of work offered her, her skill being superior, and she had sat at it early and late. Mary was thoughtful and conscientious, and she was anxious to contribute a full share to the home support. Her father had married again, had now two young children, and it almost appeared to Mary as if she wer
e an interloper in the paternal home. Not that the new Mrs. Baxendale made her feel this: she was a bustling, hearty woman, fond of show and spending, and of setting off her babies; but she was kind to Mary.
The capability of exertion appeared to be past, and Mary’s days were chiefly spent in a quiescent state of rest, and in frequently sitting out of doors. This day — it was now the beginning of September — was an unusually bright one, and she drew her invalid shawl round her, and leaned back in her seat, looking out on the lively scene, at the men and women congregating in the road, and inhaling the fresh air. At least, as fresh as it could be got in Daffodil’s Delight.
‘How do you feel to-day, Mary?’
The questioner was Mrs. Quale. She had come out of her house in her bonnet and shawl, bent on some errand and stopped to accost Mary.
‘I am pretty well to-day. That is, I should be, if it were not for the weakness.’
‘Weakness, ay!’ cried Mrs. Quale, in a snapping sort of tone, for she was living in a state of chronic tartness, not approving of matters in general just now. ‘And what have you had this morning to fortify you against the weakness?’
A faint blush rose to Mary’s thin face. The subject was a sore one to the mind of Mrs. Quale, and that lady was not one to spare her tongue. The fact was, that at the present moment, and for some little time past, Mary’s condition and appetite had required unusual nourishment; but, since the lock-out, this had not been procurable by John Baxendale. Sufficient food the household had as yet, but it was of a plain coarse sort, not suitable for Mary; and Mrs. Quale, bitter enough against the existing condition of things before, touching the men and their masters, was not by this rendered less so. Poor Mary, in her patient meekness, would have subsided into her grave with famine, rather than complain of what she saw no help for.
‘Did you have an egg at eleven o’clock?’
‘Not this morning. I did not feel greatly to care for it.’
‘Rubbish!’ responded Mrs. Quale. ‘I may say I don’t care for the moon, because I know I can’t get it.’
‘But I really did not feel to have any appetite just then,’ repeated Mary.
‘And if you had an appetite, I suppose you couldn’t have been any the nearer satisfying it!’ returned Mrs. Quale, in a raised voice. ‘You let your stomach get empty, and, after a bit, the craving goes off and sickness comes on, and then you say you have no appetite. But, there! it is not your fault; where’s the use of my — —’
‘Why, Mary, girl, what’s the matter?’
The interruption to Mrs. Quale proceeded from Dr. Bevary. He was passing the gate with Miss Hunter. They stopped, partly at sight of Mary, who was looking strikingly ill, partly at the commotion Mrs. Quale was making. Neither of them had known that Mary was in this state. Mrs. Quale was the first to take up the discourse.
‘She don’t look over flourishing, do she, sir? — do she Miss Florence? She have been as bad as this — oh, for a fortnight, now.’
‘Why did you not send my uncle word, Mary?’ spoke Florence, impulsive in the cause of kindness, as she had been when a child. ‘I am sure he would have come to see you.’
‘You are very kind, Miss, and Dr. Bevary, also,’ said Mary. ‘I could not think of troubling him with my poor ailments, especially as I feel it would be useless. I don’t think anybody can do me good on this side the grave, sir.’
‘Tush, tush!’ interposed Dr. Bevary. ‘That’s what many sick people say; but they get well in spite of it. Let us see you a bit closer,’ he added, going inside the gate. ‘And now tell me how you feel.’
‘I am just sinking, sir, as it seems to me; sinking out of life, without much ailment to tell of. I have a great deal of fever at night, and a dry cough. It is not so much consumption as — —’
‘Who told you it was consumption?’ interrupted Dr. Bevary.
‘Some of the women about here call it so, sir. My step-mother does: but I should say it was more of a waste.’
‘Your step-mother is fond of talking of what she knows nothing about, and so are the women,’ remarked Dr. Bevary. ‘Have you much appetite?’
‘Yes, and that’s the evil of it,’ struck in Mrs. Quale, determined to lose no opportunity of propounding her view of the case. ‘A pretty time this is for folks to have appetites, when there’s not a copper being earned. I wish all strikes and lock-outs was put down by law, I do. Nothing comes of ’em but empty cubbarts.’
‘Your cupboard need not be any the emptier for a lock-out,’ said Dr. Bevary, who sometimes, when conversing with the women of Daffodil’s Delight, would fall familiarly into their mode of speech.
‘No, I know that; we have been providenter than that, sir,’ returned Mrs. Quale. ‘A pity but what others could say the same. You might take a walk through Daffodil’s Delight, sir, from one end of it to the other, and not find half a dozen cubbarts with plenty in ’em just now. Serve ’em right! they should have put by for a rainy day.’
‘Ah!’ returned Dr. Bevary, ‘rainy days come to most of us as we go through life, in one shape or other. It is well to provide for them when we can.’
‘And it’s well to keep out of ’em where it’s practicable,’ wrathfully remarked Mrs. Quale. ‘There no more need have been this disturbance between masters and men, than there need be one between you and me, sir, this moment, afore you walk away. They be just idiots, are the men; the women be worse, and I’m tired of telling ’em so. Look at ‘em,’ added Mrs. Quale, directing the doctor’s attention to the female ornaments of Daffodil’s Delight. ‘Look at their gowns in jags, and their dirty caps! they make the men’s being out of work an excuse for their idleness, and they just stick theirselves out there all day, a crowing and a gossiping.’
‘Crowing?’ exclaimed the doctor.
‘Crowing; every female one of ‘em, like a cock upon its dunghill,’ responded Mrs. Quale, who was not given to pick her words when wrath was moving her. ‘There isn’t one as can see an inch beyond her own nose. If the lock-out lasts, and starvation comes, let ’em see how they’ll crow then. It’ll be on t’other side their mouths, I fancy!’
‘Money is dealt out to them by the Trades’ Union, sufficient to live,’ observed Dr. Bevary.
‘Sufficient not to starve,’ independently corrected Mrs. Quale. ‘What is it, sir, the bit of money they get, to them that have enjoyed their thirty-five shillings a-week, and could hardly make that do, some of ‘em? Look at the Baxendales. There’s Mary, wanting more food than she did in health; ay, and craving for it. A good bit of meat once or twice in the day, an egg now and then, a cup of cocoa and milk, or good tea — not your wishy-washy stuff, bought in by the ounce — how is she to get it all? The allowance dealt out to John Baxendale keeps ’em in bread and cheese; I don’t think it does in much else.’ They were interrupted by John Baxendale himself. He came out of his house, touching his hat to the doctor and to Florence. The latter had been leaning over Mary, inquiring softly into her ailments, and the complaint of Mrs. Quale, touching the short-comings of Mary’s comforts, had not reached her ears; that lady, out of regard to the invalid, having deemed it well to lower her tone.
‘I am sorry, sir, you should see her so poorly,’ said Baxendale, alluding to his daughter. ‘She’ll get better, I hope.’
‘I must try what a little of my skill will do towards it,’ replied the doctor. ‘If she had sent me word she was ill, I would have come before.’
‘Thank ye, sir. I don’t know as I should have been backward in asking you to come round and take a look at her; but a man don’t like to ask favours when he has got no money in his pocket; it makes him feel little, and look little. Things are not in a satisfactory state with us all just now.’
‘They are not indeed.’
‘I never thought the masters would go to the extreme of a lock-out,’ resumed Baxendale. ‘It was a harsh measure.’
‘On the face of it it does seem so,’ responded Dr. Bevary. ‘But what else could they have done? Have kept open the
ir works, that those on strike might have been supported from the wages they paid their men, and probably have found those men also striking at last? If you and others had wanted to escape a lock-out, Baxendale, you should have been cautious not to lend yourselves to the agitation that was smouldering.’
‘Sir, I know there’s a great deal to be said on both sides,’ was the reply. ‘I never was for the agitation; I did not urge the strike; I set my face nearly dead against it. The worst is, we all have to suffer for it alike.’
‘Ay, that is the worst of things in this world,’ responded the doctor. ‘When people do wrong, the consequences are rarely confined to themselves, they extend to the innocent. Come, Florence. I will see you again later, Mary.’
The doctor and his niece walked away. Mrs. Quale had already departed on her errand.
‘He was always a kind man,’ observed John Baxendale, looking after Dr. Bevary. ‘I hope he will be able to cure you, Mary.’
‘I don’t feel that he will, father,’ was the low answer. But Baxendale did not hear it; he was going out at the gate, to join a knot of neighbours, who were gathered together at a distance.
‘Will Mary Baxendale soon get well, do you think, uncle?’ demanded Florence, as they went along.
‘No, my dear, I do not think she will.’
There was something in the doctor’s tone that startled Florence. ‘Uncle Bevary! you do not fear she will die?’
‘I do fear it, Florence; and that she will not be long first.’
‘Oh!’ Then, after she had gone a few paces further, Florence withdrew her arm from his. ‘I must go back and stay with her a little while. I had no idea of this.’
‘Mind you don’t repeat it to her in your chatter,’ called out the doctor; and Florence shook her head by way of answer.
‘I am in no hurry to go home, Mary; I thought I would return and stay a little longer with you,’ was her greeting, when she reached the invalid. ‘You must feel it dull, sitting here alone.’