by Ellen Wood
‘How am I to exist till spring, sir?’ he burst forth in a voice that was but just kept from tears. ‘And the wife and the children?’
‘I wish I could help you, Dunn. Your case is but that of many others.’
‘There have been so many strangers took on, sir!’
‘Of course there have been. To do the work that you and others refused.’
‘I have not a place to lay my head in this night, sir. I have not so much as a slice of bread. I’d do the meanest work that could be offered to me.’
Austin felt in his pocket for a piece of money, and gave it him. ‘What misery they have brought upon themselves!’ he thought.
When the announcement reached Mrs. Henry Hunter of Florence’s engagement, she did not approve of it. Not that she had any objection to Austin Clay; he had from the first been a favourite with her, though she had sometimes marked her preference by a somewhat patronizing manner; but for Florence to marry her father’s clerk, though that clerk had now become partner, was more than she could at the first moment quietly yield to.
‘It is quite a descent for her,’ she said to her husband privately. ‘What can James be thinking of? The very idea of her marrying Austin Clay!’
‘But if she likes him?’
‘That ought not to go for anything. Suppose it had been Mary? I would not have let her have him.’
‘I would,’ decisively returned Mr. Henry Hunter. ‘Clay’s worth his weight in gold.’
Some short while given to preliminaries, and to the re-establishment (in a degree) of Mr. Hunter’s shattered health, and the new firm ‘Hunter and Clay’ was duly announced to the business world. Upon an appointed day, Mr. Hunter stood before his workmen, his arm within Austin’s. He was introducing him to them in his new capacity of partner. The strike was quite at an end, and the men — so many as could be made room for — had returned; but Mr. Hunter would not consent to discharge the hands that had come forward to take work during the emergency.
‘What has the strike brought you?’ inquired Mr. Hunter, seizing upon the occasion to offer a word of advice. ‘Any good?’ Strictly speaking, the men could not reply that it had. In the silence that ensued after the question, one man’s voice was at length raised. ‘We look back upon it as a subject of congratulation, sir.’
‘Congratulation!’ exclaimed Mr. Hunter. ‘Upon what point?’
‘That we have had the pluck to hold out so long in the teeth of difficulties,’ replied the voice.
‘Pluck is a good quality when rightly applied,’ observed Mr. Hunter. ‘But what good has the “pluck,” or the strike, brought to you in this case? — for that was the question we were upon.’
‘It was a lock-out, sir; not a strike.’
‘In the first instance it was a strike,’ said Mr. Hunter. ‘Pollocks’ men struck, and you had it in contemplation to follow their example. Oh, yes! you had, my men; you know as well as I do, that the measure was under discussion. Upon that state of affairs becoming known, the masters determined upon a general lock-out. They did it in self-defence; and if you will put yourselves in thought into their places, judging fairly, you will not wonder that it was considered the only course open to them. The lock-out lasted but a short period, and then the yards were again opened — open to all who would resume work upon the old terms, and sign a declaration not to be under the dominion of the Trades’ Unions. How very few availed themselves of this you do not need to be reminded.’
‘We acted for what we thought the best,’ said another.
‘I know you did,’ replied Mr. Hunter. ‘You are — speaking of you collectively — steady, hard-working, well-meaning men, who wish to do the best for yourselves, your wives, and families. But, looking back now, do you consider that it was for the best? You have returned to work upon the same terms that you were offered then. Here we are, in the depth of winter, and what sort of homes do you possess to fortify yourselves against its severities!’ What sort indeed! Mr. Hunter’s delicacy shrank from depicting them. ‘I am not speaking to you now as your master,’ he continued, conscious that men do not like this style of converse from their employers. ‘Consider me for the moment as your friend only; let us talk together as man and man. I wish I could bring you to see the evil of these convulsions; I do not wish it from motives of self-interest, but for your sole good. You may be thinking, “Ah, the master is afraid of another contest; this one has done him so much damage, and that’s why he is going on at us against them.” You are mistaken; that is not why I speak. My men, were any further contests to take place between us, in which you held yourselves aloof from work, as you have done in this, we should at once place ourselves beyond dependence upon you, by bringing over foreign workmen. In the consultations which have been held between myself and Mr. Clay, relative to the terms of our partnership, this point has been fully discussed, and our determination taken. Should we have a repetition of the past, Hunter and Clay would then import their own workmen.’
‘And other firms as well?’ interrupted a voice.
‘We know nothing of what other firms might do: to attend to our own interests is enough for us. I hope we shall never have to do this; but it is only fair to inform you that such would be our course of action. If you, our native workmen, brothers of the soil, abandon your work from any crotchets — —’
‘Crotchets, sir!’
‘Ay, crotchets — according to my opinion,’ repeated Mr. Hunter. ‘Could you show me a real grievance, it might be a different matter. But let us leave motives alone, and go to effects. When I say that I wish you could see the evil of these convulsions, I speak solely with reference to your good, to the well-being of your families. It cannot have escaped your notice that my health has become greatly shattered — that, in all probability, my life will not be much prolonged. My friends’ — his voice sunk to a deep, solemn tone— ‘believing, as I do, that I shall soon stand before my Maker, to give an account of my doings here, could I, from any paltry motive of self-interest, deceive you? Could I say one thing and mean another? No; when I seek to warn you against future troubles, I do it for your own sakes. Whatever may be the urging motive of a strike, whether good or bad, it can only bring ill in the working. I would say, were I not a master, “Put up with a grievance, rather than enter upon a strike;” but being a master, you might misconstrue the advice. I am not going into the merits of the measures — to say this past strike was right, or that was wrong; I speak only of the terrible amount of suffering they wrought. A man said to me the other day — he was from the factory districts— “I have a horror of strikes, they have worked so much evil in our trade.” You can get books which tell of them, and read for yourselves. How many orphans, and widows, and men in prisons are there, who have cause to rue this strike that has only now just passed? It has broken up homes that, before it came, were homes of plenty and content, leaving in them despair and death. Let us try to go on better for the future. I, for my part, will always be ready to receive and consider any reasonable proposal from my men; my partner will do the same. If there is no attempt at intimidation, and no interference on the part of others, there ought to be little difficulty in discussing and settling matters, with the help of “the golden rule.” Only — it is my last and earnest word of caution to you — abide by your own good sense, and do not yield it to those agitators who would lead you away.’
Every syllable spoken by Mr. Hunter, as to the social state of the people, Daffodil’s Delight, and all other parts of London where the strike had prevailed, could echo. Whether the men had invoked the contest needlessly, or whether they were justified, according to the laws of right and reason, it matters not here to discuss; the effects were the same, and they stood out broad, and bare, and hideous. Men had died of want; had been cast into prison, where they still lay; had committed social crimes, in their great need, against their fellow-men. Women had been reduced to the lowest extremes of misery and suffering, had been transformed into viragos, where they once had been pleasant and pea
ceful; children had died off by scores. Homes were dismantled; Mr. Cox had cart-loads of things that stood no chance of being recalled. Families, united before, were scattered now; young men were driven upon idleness and evil courses; young women upon worse, for they were irredeemable. Would wisdom for the future be learnt by all this? It was uncertain.
When Austin Clay returned home that evening, he gave Mrs. Quale notice to quit. She received it in a spirit of resignation, intimating that she had been expecting it — that lodgings such as hers were not fit for Mr. Clay, now that he was Mr. Hunter’s partner.
Austin laughed. ‘I suppose you think I ought to set up a house of my own.’
‘I daresay you’ll be doing that one of these days, sir,’ she responded.
‘I daresay I shall,’ said Austin.
‘I wonder whether what Mr. Hunter said to-day will do any of ’em any service?’ interposed Peter Quale. ‘What do you think, sir?’
‘I think it ought,’ replied Austin. ‘Whether it will, is another question.’
‘It mostly lies in this — in the men’s being let alone,’ nodded Peter. ‘Leave ’em to theirselves, and they’ll go on steady enough; but if them Trade Union folks, Sam Shuck and his lot, get over them again, there’ll be more outbreaks.’
‘Sam Shuck is safe for some months to come.’
‘But there’s others of his persuasion that are not, sir. And Sam, he’ll be out some time.’
‘Quale, I give the hands credit for better sense than to suffer themselves to fall under his yoke again, now that he has shown himself in his true colours.’
‘I don’t give ’em credit for any sense at all, when they get unsettled notions into their heads,’ phlegmatically returned Peter Quale. ‘I’d like to know if it’s the Union that’s helping Shuck’s wife and children.’
‘Do they help her?’
‘There must be some that help her, sir. The woman lives and feeds her family. But there was a Trades’ Union secretary here this morning, inquiring about all this disturbance there has been, and saying that the men were wrong to be led to violence by such a fellow as Sam Shuck: over eager to say it, he seemed to me. I gave him my opinion back again,’ concluded Peter, pushing the pipe, which he had laid aside at his young master’s entrance, further under the grate. ‘That Sam Shuck, and such as he, that live by agitation, were uncommon ‘cute for their own interests, and those that listen to them were fools. That took him off, sir.’
‘To think of the fools this Daffodil’s Delight has turned out this last six months!’ Mrs. Quale emphatically added. ‘To have lived upon their clothes and furniture, their saucepans and kettles, their bedding and their children’s shoes; when they might, most of ‘em, have earned thirty-three shillings a week at their ordinary work! When folks can be so blind as that, it is of no use talking to them: black looks white, and white black.’ Mr. Clay smiled at the remark, though it had some rough reason in it, and went out. Taking his way to Mr. Hunter’s.
‘Austin! You must live with me.’
The words came from Mr. Hunter. Seated in his easy chair, apparently asleep, he had overheard what Austin was saying in an undertone to Florence — that he had just been giving Mrs. Quale notice, and should begin house-hunting on the morrow. They turned to him at the remark. He had half risen from his chair in his eager earnestness.
‘Do you think I could spare Florence? Where my home is, yours and hers must be. Is not this house large enough for us? Why should you seek another?’
‘Quite large enough, sir. But — but I had not thought of it. It shall be as you and Florence wish.’
They both looked at her; she was standing underneath the light of the chandelier, the rich damask colour mantling in her cheeks.
‘I could not give you to him, Florence, if it involved your leaving me.’
The tears glistened on her eyelashes. In the impulse of the moment she stretched out a hand to each. ‘There is room here for us all, papa,’ she softly whispered.
Mr. Hunter took both their hands in one of his; he raised the other in the act of benediction; the tears, which only glistened in the eyes of Florence, were falling fast from his own.
‘Yes, it shall be the home of all; and — Florence! — the sooner he comes to it the better. Bless, oh, bless my children!’ he murmured. ‘And grant that this may prove a happier, a more peaceful home for them, than it has for me!’
‘Amen!’ answered Austin, in his inmost heart.
THE END
MRS. HALLIBURTON’S TROUBLES
CONTENTS
PART THE FIRST.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
PART THE SECOND.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
THE END
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
PART THE THIRD.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
PART THE FIRST.
CHAPTER I.
THE CLERGYMAN’S DAUGHTER.
In a very populous district of London, somewhat north of Temple Bar, there stood, many years ago, a low, ancient church amidst other churches — for you know that London abounds in them. The doors of this church were partially open one dark evening in December, and a faint, glimmering light might be observed inside by the passers-by.
It was known well enough what was going on within, and why the light was there. The rector was giving away the weekly bread. Years ago a benevolent person had left a certain sum to be spent in twenty weekly loaves, to be given to twenty poor widows at the discretion of the minister. Certain curious provisos were attached to the bequest. One was that the bread should not be less than two days old, and should have been deposited in the church at least twenty-four hours before distribution. Another, that each recipient must attend in person. Failing personal attendance, no matter how unavoidable her absence, she lost the loaf: no friend might receive it for her, neither might it be sent to her. In tha
t case, the minister was enjoined to bestow it upon “any stranger widow who might present herself, even as should seem expedient to him:” the word “stranger” being, of course, used in contra-distinction to the twenty poor widows who were on the books as the charity’s recipients. Four times a year, one shilling to each widow was added to the loaf of bread.
A loaf of bread is not very much. To us, sheltered in our abundant homes, it seems as nothing. But, to many a one, toiling and starving in this same city of London, a loaf may be almost the turning-point between death and life. The poor existed in those days as they exist in these: as they always will exist: therefore it was no matter of surprise that a crowd of widow women, most of them aged, all in poverty, should gather round the church doors when the bread was being given out, each hoping that, of the twenty poor widows, some one might fail to appear, and the clerk would come to the door and call out her own particular name as the fortunate substitute. On the days when the shilling was added to the loaf, this waiting and hoping crowd would be increased four-fold.
Thursday was the afternoon for the distribution. And on the day we are now writing about, the rector entered the church at the usual hour: four o’clock. He had to make his way through an unusual number of outsiders; for this was one of the shilling days. He knew them all personally; was familiar with their names and homes; for the Rev. Francis Tait was a hard-working clergyman. And hard-working clergymen were more rare in those days than they are in these.
Of Scottish birth, but chiefly reared in England, he had taken orders at the usual age, and become curate in a London parish, where the work was heavy and the stipend small. Not that the duties attached to the church itself were onerous; but it was a parish filled with poor. Those familiar with such parishes know what this means, when the minister is sympathising and conscientious. For twenty years he remained a curate, toiling in patience, cheerfully hoping. Twenty years! It seems little to write; but to live it is a great deal; and Francis Tait, in spite of his hopefulness, sometimes found it so. Then promotion came. The living of this little church that you now see open was bestowed upon him. A poor living as compared with some others; and a poor parish, speaking of the social condition of its inhabitants. But the living seemed wealth compared with what he had earned as a curate; and as to his flock being chiefly composed of the poor, he had not been accustomed to anything else. Then the Rev. Francis Tait married; and another twenty years went by.