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THE MUTABLE MANY rnK'i % •^^■-■■^E ae« BY THE SAME AUTHOR In the Midst of Alarms A Woman Intervenes In a Steamer Chair From Whose Bourne THE MUTABLE MANY BY ROBERT BARR Regard me as I do not flatter, and Therein behold themselves' CORIOLANUS METHUEN & CO. 36 ESSEX STREET, W.C. LONDON 1897 ^f ?^^'it^'A7smi m-] At : -r- . .fit ■r^t ^ -f »fc *. S ; -vS*/. *' -A" ./"■:. HORACE HART, FRINTBR TO THS UNIVBRSITT Or ha,l,tone in the sni.. Vo,r virtue is. Upon yoor favo,„ .„in./S' finfonL"'""'^ Ana Jiews down oaks with rushps «•„« . «, Wi«. every „>in„te you'do SfnS a'^Tn! ^^' ^"^* ^^^ And ca 1 him noble that was now your hate Him vile that was your garland. ^ ' CORIOLANUS i/3^^^4 ■fc.^' A '^ :. t 'j-'^ yny THE MUTABLE MANY -M- '1 •' CHAPTER I ■' ^ The business offices of Messrs. Monkton and Hope's great factory literally hung between heaven and earth. Heaven, from this point of view, consisted of a brood- ing London fog, hovering a hundred feet above the city, hesitating to fall ; while earth was represented by a sticky, black-cindered factory-yard, bearing the imprint of many scores of boots. The offices were built between the two huge blocks known as the * Works.' The situation had evidently been an after-thought, for this addition was constructed of wood and glass; while the two great buildings which were thus joined together, like Siamese twins of industry, were of brick. Although no architect had ever foreseen the erection of such a structure between the two buildings, yet necessity, the mother of inven- tion, had given birth to what the manager of the factory always asserted to be the most conveniently situated offices in London. More and more room had been required in the big buildings as business increased, and the offices — the soul of a vibrating mass of energetic mechanism — had, as it were, to take up a position outside the body, ; B - - ^ ■ 't ■ ' ' ''' ■ ■■■■' U twMl L THE MUTABLE MANY The addition, then, hung over the roadway which ran between the two buildings ; it commanded a view of both front and back yards, and had, therefore, more light and air than the office which John Sartwell, the manager aforesaid, had formerly occupied in the left- hand building. Its unique situation caused it to be, to a large extent, free from the pulsation produced by the machinery; and as a door led into each wing of the Works, the offices gave easy access to both. Sart- well was very proud of these rooms and their position, for they were of his planning, and he had tHus given the firm much additional space, with no more ground occupied than had been occupied before — a most desirable consideration in a crowded city like London. Two rooms at the back were set apart for the two members of the firm, while Sartwell's office in front was twice the size of either partner's loom, and ex- tended across the whole space between the two buildings. This was as it should be, for Sartwell did double the amount of work the owners of the business accomplished ; and, if it came to that, had twice the brain-power of the two members of the firm combined, who were there simply because they were the sons of their fathers. The founders of the firm had, with hard work and shrewd management, established the large manufactory, but its present prosperity was due to Sartwell, and not to the men whose names were known to the public as the heads of the business. Monkton and Hope were timid, cautious, somewhat irresolute men, as capitalists should be all the world over. They had unbounded confidence in their manager, and generally shifted any grave responsibility or unpleasant decision to his shoulders, which bore the burdens placed upon them with equanimity. Sartwell was a man of iron, with firm, resolute lips, and steely-blue eyes of a sort that were most discon- certing to any one who had something not quite straight THE MUTABLE MANY to propose. Even the two partners quailed under these eyes, and gave way before them if it came to a con- flict of opinion. Sartwell's rather curt * It won't do, you know/ always settled things. Sartwell knew infinitely more about the works than they did ; for while they had been at college, the future manager was working his way up into the confidence of their fathers, and every step he took advanced his position in the factory. The three men were as nearly as possible of the same age, and the hair of each was tinged with grey ; Sartwell's, perhaps, more than the others. It is difficult to think of love in conjunct.'on with the two partners, yet it is pleasing to know that when love did con tc Lo them at the proper time of Hie, it arrived with gold and a rigid Nonconformist con- science. The two had thus added wealth to wealth by marrying ; and, as their wives were much taken up with deeds of goodness, done only after strict and conscientious investigation, so that the unworthy might not benefit, and as both Monkton and Hope were somewhat timorous men who were bound to be ruled by the women they married, some of their wealth found its way into the coffers of struggling societies and organizations for the relieving of distress. Thus there came to impregnate the name of Monkton and Hope (Limited) a certain odour of sanctity which is most unusual in business circles in London. The firm, when once got at, could be counted on for a sub- scription almost with certainty ; but alas ! it was not easy to get at the firm. The applicant had to come under the scrutiny of those searching eyes of Sartwell's, which had a perturbing habit of getting right at the heart of a matter with astonishing quickness ; and when once he said, * It won't do, you know,' there was no going behind the verdict. A private stair-way led from the yard below to the hall in the suspended building, which divided the large Ba a THE MUTABLE MANY office of the manager from the two smaller private rooms of the firm. This stair-way was used only by the three men. The clerks and the public came in by the main entrance, where a watchful man sat behind a little, arched, open window, over which was painted the word * Inquiries.' Outside in the gloom the two great lamps over the gate-posts flared yellow light down on the cindery roadway and into the narrow street beyond. Through the wide-open gateway into the narrow stone-paved street poured hundreds of working-men. There was no jostling, and they went out silently, which was unusual. It seemed as if something hovered over them even more depressing than the great fog-cloud above their heads. Sartwell, alone in his office, stood somewhat back from the window, unseen ; and watched their exit grimly, sternly. The lines about his firm mouth tightened his lips into more than their customary rigidity. He noticed that now and then a workman cast a glance at the windows ; and he knew they cursed him in their hearts as standing between them and acquiescence in their demands, for they were well aware that the firm would succumb did Sartwell but give the word. The manager knew that at their meetings their leader had said none was so hard on working-men as a workman who had risen from the ranks. Sartwell's name had been hissed, while the name of the firm had been cheered ; but the manager was not to be deterred by unpopularity, although the strained relations between the men and himself gave him good cause for anxiety. As he thought over the situation, and searched his mind to find whether he himself were to blame in any way, there was a rap at the door. He turned quickly away from the window, stood by his desk, and said sharply, ' Come in.' 4 J I ■•m* ,mm THE MUTABLE MANY There entered a young man in workman's dress, with his cap in his hand. His face was frank, clear cut, and intelligent ; and he had washed it when his work was done — a weakness not indulged in by the majority of his companions. ' Ah, Marston,* said the manager, his brow clearing when he saw who it was. * Did you get that job done in time?' ' It was off before half-past five, sir.* * Right. Were there any obstacles thrown in your way ? ' ' None that could not be surmounted, sir.* * Right, again. That's the way I like to have things done. The m-in who can accomplish impossi- bilities is the man for me, and the man who gets along in this world.* The young fellow turned his cap over and over in his hands, and, although he was evidently pleased with the commendation of the manager, he seemed embar- rassed. At last he said, hesitatingly, — ' I am very anxious to get en in the world, sir.* * Well, you may have an opportunity shortly,' replied the manager. Then he suddenly shot the question : * Are you people going to strike ? ' * I'm afraid so, sir.* ' Why do you say afraid ? Are you going out with the others, or do you call your soul your own ? ' ' A man cannot fight the Union single-handed.* ' You are talking to one who is going to.' The young man looked up at the manager. * With you it is different,' he said. * You are backed by a wealthy company. Whether you win or lose, your situation is secure. If I failed the Union in a crisis, I could never get another situation.' Sartwell smiled grimly when Marston mentioned the firm. He knew that there lay his weakness rather than his strength ; although the firm had ss.id he was to have a free hand, he was certain the moment ■fr wmmm. THE MUTABLE MANY the contest became bitter Monkton and Hope would be panic-stricken. Then, if the women interfered, the battle was as good as lost Had the strikers known on which side their bread was buttered they would have sent a delegation of their wives to Mrs. Monkton and Mrs. Hope. But they did not know this, and Sartwell was not the man to show the weakness of his hand. ' Yes,' said the manager, * I have the entire confi- dence of Mr. Monkton and of Mr. Hope. I wonder if the men appreciate this fact ? ' ' Oh yes, sir, they know that.* 'Now, Marston, have you any influence with the men?* * Very little, Tm afraid, sir.* ' If you have any, now is the time to exert it ; for their sakes, you know, not for mine. The strike is bound to fail. Nevertheless, I don't forget a man who stands by me.' Marston shook his head. ' If my comrades go, I'll go with them. I am not so sure that the strike is bound to fail, although I am against it. The Union is very strong, Mr. Sartwell. Perhaps you do not know that it is the strongest Union in London.' The manager allowed his hand to hover for a moment over a nest of pigeon-holes, then he drew out a paper and gave it to Marston. 'There is the strength of the Union,' he said. * Down to the ;^ 1 7 Ss. %d. they put in the bank yester- day afternoon. If you want any information about your Union, Marston, I shall be happy to oblige you with it' The young man opened his eyes widely as he looked at the figures. ' It is a very large sum,* he said. •A respectable fighting fund,' remarked Sartwell, impartially. ' But how many Saturdays do you think t' THE MUTABLE MANY ATOuld d,the :nown would nkton s, and of his confi- /onder th the it; for :rike is an who im not h I am irtwell. ■ongest Loment paper vl 1 said. i^ester- ■ about Ire you 1 ■ * looked twell, think it would stand the drain of the pay-roll in this esta- blishment ? ' * Not very many, perhaps.' *It would surprise you to know how few. The men look at one side of this question only, while I am compelled to look at both sides. If on any Saturday their pay were not forthcoming, they would not be pleased, would they? Now I have to scheme and plan so that the money is here every Saturday, and, besides, there must be enough more to pay the firm for its investment and its risk. These little details may not seem important to a demagogue who knows nothing of business, btit who can harangue a body of men and make them dissatisfied. I should be well pleased to give him my place here for a month or two while I took a rest, and then we would see whether he thought there was anything to be observed from my point of view.' ' Mr. Sartwell,' said Marston, looking suddenly at the manager. ' Some of the moderate men asked me to-night a similar question to one of yours.' ' What question was that ? * V ' They asked if I had any influence with you.' ' Yes ? And you told them ? ' ' That I didn't know.* 'Well, you will never know until you test the matter. Have you anything to suggest ? ' 'Many are against a strike, but even the more moderate think you are wrong in refusing to see the delegation. They think the refusal seems high-handed, and say that if you were compelled to reject any requests made, you ought not to let things come to a crisis without at least allowing the delegation to present the men's case.' ' And do you think I am wrong in this ? * . . •I do.' S . ' Very well. I'll settle that in a moment. You get some of those men together, head the delegation your- 7 THE MUTABLE MANY r K self, I will make an appointment with you, and we will talk the matter over.' The young man did not appear so thoroughly satisfied with this prompt concession as might have been expected. He made no reply for some moments, while the elder man looked at him critically, with his back against the tall desk. At last Marston spoke. * I could not lead the deputation, being one of the youngest in the employ of the firm. The secretary of the Union is the leader the men have chosen.' * Ah ! The secretary of the Union ! That is quite a different matter. He is not in our employ. I cannot allow outsiders to interfere in any business with which I am connected. I am always willing to receive our own men either singly or in deputation, and that is no small concession where so many are at work ; but if I am to open the office doors to the outside world — well, life is too short. For instance, I discuss these things with you, but I should decline to discuss them with any man who dropped in out of the street.* ' Yes, I see the difficulty ; but don't you think you might make a concession in this instance to avoid trouble?' * It wouldn't be avoiding trouble ; it would merely be postponing it. It would form a precedent, and I should have this man or that interfering time and again. I should have to make a stand sooner or later, perhaps when I was not so well prepared. If there is to be a fight, I want it now. We need some new machinery, and could do with a week's shut-down.' Marston shook his head. ' The shut-down will be for longer than a week,' he said. 'I know that. The strike will last exactly three weeks. A mOnth from now there will be no Union.' * Perhaps there will also be no factory.' ' You mean there is danger of violence ? Very well. In that case the strike will last but a fortnight. You 8 r THE MUTABLE MANY see, my boy, we are in London, and there are not only the police within a moment's call, but at the back of them the soldiers, and at the back of the soldiers the whole British Empire. Oh no, Marston, it won't do, you know, it won't do.' * The men are very determined, Mr. Sartwcll.' *A11 the better. I like a determined antagonist, for he knows when he's beaten, and so we get things settled once for all. I don't object to a square stand-up fight ; but eternal haggling and higgling and seeing deputations and arbitrators, and all that sort of thing, I cannot endure. Let us know where we are, and when that's clear let us get on with our work.' * Then you have nothing to propose, Mr. Sartwell ? Nothing conciliatory, I mean.* 'Certainly I have. Let the men tell that blatant ass Gibbons to attend to his secretarial duties, and when a deputation from our own workshops comes up to see me, we'll discuss the situation. If they have any just grievance I will remedy it for them. What can be fairer than that ? ' ' It's got to be a matter of principle with the men now — that is, the inclusion of Gibbons has. It means recognizing the Union.' * Oh, I'll recognize the Union, and take oflf my hat to it — that is, so far as my own employes are concerned ; but I will not have an outsider, who knows nothing of this business, come up here and spout nonsense. It's a matter of principle with me as well as with the men.' Marston sighed. ' I'm afraid there's nothing for it then but a fight,' he said. ' Perhaps not. One fool makes many. Think well, Marston, on which side you are going to be in this fight. I left a Union, and although I was older than you are at the time, I never repented it. It kept me out of employment, but not for long ; and I was kept 9 I » , THE MUTABLE MANY out of it in the very business of which I am now manager. The Union is founded on principles that won't do, you know. Any scheme which tends to give an inferior workman the same wages as a good work- man is all wrong.' * I don't agree with you, Mr. Sartwell. The only hope for the working-man is in combination. Of course, we make mistakes, and are led away by demagogues, but some day there will be a strike led by an industrial Napoleon. Then we will settle things once for all, as you said a while s^o.' Sartv jll laughed and held out his hand. *0h, that's your ambition, is it? Well, good luck attend you, my young Napoleon. I should have chosen Wellington, if I had been you. Good-night. I am expecting my daughter, and have no more time to spare.' Marston held the hand extended to him so long that the manager looked at him in astonishment. The colour had mounted from the young man's cheeks to his broWj and his eyes were on the floor. 'Mr. Sartwell,' he said, with an effort, 'I came to-night to speak to you about your daughter, and not about the strike.' The manager dropped the hand as if it had been red-hot, and stepped back two paces. * About my daughter?' he cried, sternly. *Whitit do you mean ? ' Marston had to moisten his lips once or twice before he could reply. His released hand opened and shut nervously. * I mean,' he said, ' that I am in love with her.* The manager sat down in the office-chair beside his table. All the former friendliness had left his face, and his dark brows lowered over his keen eyes, into which their usual cold glitter had returned. ' What folly is this ? ' he cried, with rising anger. * You are a boy, and may have risen from the gutter. 4_^ THE MUTABLE MANY for all I know. My daughter is but a child yet ; she is only * He paused. He had been about to say ' seventeen,* when it occurred to him that he had married her mother when she was but a year older. Marston's colour became a deeper red when the manager spoke so contemptuously of the gutter. He said slowly, and with a certain doggedness in his tone, — •It is no reproach to come from the gutter; the reproach is in staying there. I have left it, and I don't intend to return.' 'Oh, intend!' cried the manager, impatiently. " We all know what is paved with intentions. Why, you have never even spoken to the girl ! * ' No, but I mean to. ' Do you ? Well, I shall take very good care that you do not.' ' What have you against me, Mr. Sartwell ? * ' What is there for you ? Perhaps you will kindly specify your qualifications.' •You are very hard on me, Mr. Sartwell. You know that if I did come from the gutter, I have studied hard and worked hard. What education I have I gave to myself. Does that count for nothing? I have a good character, and I have a good situa- tion ' •You have not. I discharge you. You will call at the office to-morrow, get your week's money, and go.' 'Oh.' 'Yes, "Oh." You did not think that of me, did you?' 'I did not' ' Well, for once you are right. I merely wish to show you that your good situation defends on the caprice of one man. I have no intention of discharging you. I am not so much afraid of you as that. I'll look after my daughter.' n THE MUTABLE MANY I Marston said, bit1:erly, — ' Gibbons, ass as he is, is right when he says that no one is so hard on a workman as one who has risen from the ranks. You were no better oflf than I am, when you were my age.' '^ Sartwell sprang to his feet, his eyes ablaze with anger. *Pay attention, young man,* he cried. *A11 the things you have done, I have done. All the things you intend to do, .1 have already done. I have, in a measure, educated myself, and I have worked hard night and day. I liave attained a certain positi , a certain responsibility! and have acquired a cer t i amount of money. I have had little pleasure and much toil in my life, and I am now growing old. Yet as I look back, I see that there was as much luck as merit in my success. I was ready when the chance came ; that was all ; if the chance hadn't come, all my readiness would have done me little good. For one man who succeeds, a dozen, equally deserving, fail. Now, why have I gone through all this ? Why ? For myself? Not likely. I have done it so that my daughter may not be that tired drudge, a workman's wife — so that she may begin where I leave off. That's why. For myself, I would as soon wear a workman's jacket as a manager's coat. And now having gone through all this for her sake — ^you talk of love ! What is your love for her compared with mine? — When I have done all this that she may never know what want means, shall I be fool enough, knave enough, idiot enough, to thrust her back where I began, at the beck of the first mouthing ranter who has the impudence to ask for her ? No, by God, no ! Now you have had your answer, get out, and don't dare to set foot in this office till you are sent for.' Sartwell, in his excitement, smote the desk with his clenched fist to emphasize his sentences. Marston shrank before his vehemence, realizing that no work- THE MUTABLE MANY man had ever seen the manager angry before, and he dreaded the resentment that would rise in Sartwell's heart when the coldness returned. He felt that it would have been more diplomatic if he had left sooner. Nevertheless, seeing that things could be no worse, he stood his ground. *I thought,' he said, 'that it would be more honourable in me to let you know- — * ' Don't talk to me of honour I Get out.* At that moment the door from the private stair- way opened, and a young girl came in. Sartwell had completely forgotten his appointment with his daughter, and both men were taken aback by her entrance. ' I knocked, father/ she said, ' but you did not hear me.' 'In a moment, Edna. Wait in the hall for a moment,* said her father, hurriedly. ' I beg of you not to leave. Miss Sartwell,' said Marston, going to the door and opening it. ' Good- night, Mr. Sartwell.' ' Good-night,' said the manager, shortly. * Good-night, Miss Sartwell.' ' Good- night,' said the girl, sweetly, with the sug- gestion of a bow. The eyes of the two men met for a moment ; in each challenging glance was the obstinacy of their race ; but the eyes of the younger man seemed to say defiantly : * I have spoken to her, you see.* . ^ ';■-«) * ■ ■ K' 5 ;; .^ I )p^ '^ CHAPTER II Men speak of their individuality as if such a thing really existed — as if they were actually themselves, forgetting that all men are but the sum of various qualities belonging to ancestors, most of whom are dead, and gone, and forgotten. The shrewd business man in the City imagines that his keen instincts are all his own ; he does not recognize the fact that those attributes which enable him to form a joint-stock company, helped an ancestor of his in the Middle Ages to loot a town, or a highwayman of a later day to relieve a fellow-subject of a full purse on a lonely heath. Edna Sartwell possessed one visible, undeniable, easily recognized token of heredity; she had her father's eyes, but softened and luminous and dis- turbingly beautiful; eyes to haunt a man's dreams. They had none of the searching, rapier-like incisive- ness which made her father's eyes weapons of offence and defence. But they were his, nevertheless, with a kindly womanly difference ; and in that difference lived again the dead mother. ' Edna,* said her father, when they were alone, * you must not come to this office again.' There was more of sharpness in his tone than he was accustomed to use toward his daughter, and she looked up at him quickly. THE MUTABLE MANY ' Have I Interrupted an important conference ? ' she asked. ' What did the young man want, father ? ' 'He wanted something which I was unable to grant.' 'Oh, I am sorry. He appeared so disappointed. Was it a situation?' ' Something of the sort.' ' And why couldn't you give it to him ? Isn't he worthy ? * ' No, no ! No, no I ' ' He seemed to me to have such a good face — he looked honest and straightforward.' 'Good gracious, child, what do you know about faces? Do not interfere in business matters; you don't understand them. Don't chatter, chatter, chatter. One woman who does that is enough in a family — ^as much as a man can stand.' The daughter became silent; the father pigeon- holed some papers, took them out again, rearranged them, and placed them back. He was regaining control over himself. He glanced at his daughter and saw tears in her eyes. * There, there, Edna,' he said. * It is all right. I'm a little worried to-night, that's all. I'm afraid there's going to be trouble with the men. It is a difficult situation, and I have to deal with it alone. A strike seems inevitable, and one never can tell where it will end.' 'And is he one of the strikers? It seems im- possible.' A look of annoyance swept over her father s face. ' He ? Why the Edna, you return to a subject with all the persistency of a woman. Yes. He will doubtless go on strike to-morrow with all the rest of the fools. He is a workman, if you want to know ; and furthermore he is going on strike when he doesn't believe in it — going merely because the others go. He admitted as much to me shortly before you came THE MUTABLE MANY IW i I'M in. So you see how little you are able to read in a man's face.' 'I shouldn't have thought it,' said the girl, with a sigh. 'Perhaps if you had given him what he wanted he would not go on strike.' ' Oh, now you are making him out worse than even I think him. I don't imagine he is bribable, you know.' • Would that be bribery ? * ' Suspiciously like it ; but he can strike or not as he wishes — one more or less doesn't matter to me. I hope if they go, they will go in a body ; a few remaining would only complicate things. Now that you understand all about the situation, are you satisfied? It isn't every woman I would discuss it with, you know, so you ought to be flattered.' Sartwell was himself once more, and he was mentally resolving not to be thrown off his guard again. ' Yes, father, thank you,' said the girl. ' The cab is waiting,' she added, more to let him know that, so far as she was concerned, the discussion was ended, than to impart the information conveyed in her words. * Let it wait. That's what cabs are for. The cabby usually likes it better than hurrying. Sit down a moment, Edna. I'll be ready presently.' The girl sat down beside her father's table. Usually, Mr. Sartwell preferred his desk to his table, for the desk was tall, where a man stands when he writes. This desk had three compartments, with a lid to each. These were always locked, and Sartwell's clerks had keys for two of them. The third was supposed to contain the manager's most private papers, as no one but himself ever saw the inside of it. The lid locked automatically when it was shut down, and the small key which opened it dangled at Sartwell's watch-chain. Edna observed her father as he unlocked one after another of the compartments, and apparently re- i6 i' ' 1 ;,_4 THE MUTABLE MANY arranged his papers. There was always about his actions a certain well-detined purpose, but the girl could not help noticing that now he appeared irresolute and wavering. He seemed to be marking time rather than making progress with any definite work. She wondered if the coming strike was worry- ing him more than he had been willing to admit. She wished to help, but knew that nothing would be more acceptable to him than simply leaving him alone. She also knew that when her father said he would be ready to go home with her at a certain hour, he usually was ready when that hour came. Why, then, did he now delay his departure ? At last Sartwell closed down the lid of one desk, and locked it as if he were shutting in his wavering purpose ; then he placed the key from his watch-guard in the third lock and threw back the cover. An electric light dangling by a cord from the ceiling threw down into the desk rays reflected by a circular opal shade which covered the lamp. The manager gazed for a few moments into the desk, then, turning to his daughter, said — ' Edna, you startled me when you came in to-night.* * I am very sorry, father. Didn't you expect me? * ' Yes, but not at that moment, as it happened. You are growing very like your mother, my girl.' There was a pause, Edna not knowing what to say. Her father seldom spoke of his dead wife, and Edna could not remember her mother. ' Somehow I did not realize until to-night — that you are growing up. You have always been my baby to me. Then — suddenly — you came in. Edna, she was only four years older than you are now when she died. You see, my dear, although I grow older, she always remains young — ^but I sometimes think that the young man who was her husband is dead too, for there is not much likeness to him r'^maining in me.* Sartwell had been drumming lightly with his fingers c ly ■^■ipi w^mrTmF^i^ THE MUTABLE MANY on the desk-top as he spoke ; now he reached up and turned off the electric light as if its brilliancy troubled him. The lamp in the centre of the room was sufficient, and it left him in the shadow. ' I suppose,' continued Sartwell, * there comes a time in the life of every father when he learns with some- thing of a shock that the little girl who has been play- ing about his knee is a young woman. It resembles what a man feels when he hears himself alluded to as old for the first time. I well remember how it made me catch my breath when I first heard myself spoken of as an old man.' ' But you are not old,' cried the girl, with a little indignant half-sob in her voice. She wished to go to her father and put her arms round his neck, but she felt intuitively that he desired her to stay where she was until he finished what he had to say. 'I am getting on in that direction. None of us grow younger — but the dead. I suppose a daughter is as blind to her father's growing old, as he to her advancing womanhood. However, we won't talk of my age. We are welcoming the coming rather than speeding the going, to-iiight. You and I, Edna, must realize that we, in a measure, begin life on a new line wiih each other. We are both grown-up people. When your mother was a little older than you are, I had her portrait painted. She laughed at me and called me extravagant ; you see, we were rather needy then, and she imagined, poor girl, that a portrait of herself was not exactly a necessity. I have thought since that it was the only necessary thing I ever bought. I had it copied when I got richer by a noted painter, who did it more as a favour to me than for the money — for painters do not care to copy other men's work. Curiously enough, he made a more striking likeness of her than the original picture. Come here, my girl.' Edna sprang to her father's side, and rested her i8 THE MUTABLE MANY hand lightly on his shoulder. Sartwell turned on the electric light. At the bottom of the desk lay a large portrait of a most beautiful woman. The light shone down on the face, and the fine eyes looked smilingly up at them. 'That was your mother, Edna,' said the father, almost in a whisper, speaking with difficulty. The girl was crying softly, trying not to let her father know it. Her hand stole from the shoulder next her, to the other ; his hand caressed her fair hair. 'Poor father,' she said, trying to speak bravely. * How lonely you must have been ! I seem to — to understand things — that I didn't before — as if I had suddenly grown old.' They looked at the picture for some time together in silence ; then she said — * Why did you never show me the portrait before ? ' ' Well, my dear, it was here and not at the house ; and when you were a little girl, you did not come to the office, you know. Then, you see, your step- mother had the responsibility of bringing you up — and — and — somehow I thought it wouldn t be giving her a fair chance. The world is rather hard on step- mothers.' He hurriedly closed the desk. 'Come, come,' he cried, brusquely, ' this won't do, you know, Edna. But this is what I wan .ed to say. I would like you to remember — to understand, rather — that you and I are, as it were, alone in the world — there is a bond between us in that, as well as in the fact that we are father and daughter. I wan^ you always to feel that I am your best friend, and there must never come any misunderstanding between us.' ' Ther if I 4 1. THE MUTABLE MANY not approve of this pampering, she nevertheless pro- vided well for him, for is not a woman helpless in such a case ? As the man of the house ate in silence, she looked at him once or twice over her sewing, and finally said, pathetically, — ' I am sure Edna was hungry, but she was afraid to say so ; you were so gruff with her. One would think that, if you had no feeling for your wife, you would have some for your only daughter.* Sartwell cut another slice from the cold joint, and transferred it to his plate. * I am accustomed to it, I hope, by this time ; but she is young, and nothing warps the character of the young like uncalled-for harshness and unkindness. You are blind to her real faults, and then you are severe when there is no occasion for severity. What had the child done that you should order her off to bed in that fashion ? ' There was a pause for a reply, but no reply came. Mrs. Sartwell was accustomed to this, as she had said, for there is a brutality of silence as well as a brutality of speech, so she scanned her adversary as one does who searches for a joint in the armour where the sword's point may enter. Then she took a firm grasp of the hilt and pressed the blade gently forward. Turning over her sewing, and sighing almost inaudibly to it, she remarked, quietly, — 'As I said to Mrs. Hope when she called ' ' Said to whom ? ' snapped Sartwell, turning round suddenly. *0h, I thought you were never interested in my callers. I suppose I am allowed to have some private friends of my own. Still, if you wish me to sit in the house all day alone, you have but to say so, and I will obey.' 'Don't talk nonsense, if you can help it. What was Mrs. Hope doing here ? ' ' She was calling on me.* 26 THE MUTABLE MANY 'Quite so. I think I understand that much. What was her mission? What particular fad was on this time ? ' ' I should think you would be ashamed to speak like that about your employer's wife, when she did your wife the honour to consult her ' ' About what ? That is the point I want to get at.' ' About the strike.' ' Ah 1 * A glint of anger came into Sartwell's eyes, and his wife looked at him with some uneasiness. * Mrs. Hope is a woman who goes about doing good. She is much interested in the men at the works, and thinks of calling on their wives and families to see for herself how they live. She thinks, perhaps, some- thing may be done for them.' ' Does she ? ' 'Yes. She wonders if you are quite patient and tactful with them.' * And came to find out ? You told her, no doubt, that I studied tact from you, and was, therefore, all right so far as that is concerned.' * I told her the truth,' cried Mrs. Sartwell, hotly. ♦Which was ?' 'That you were an obstinate, domineering man, who would brook no opposition.' 'You hit the bull's-eye for once. What did she say?' 'She said she hoped you considered the men's helpless families.' ' And you answered that not having any considera- tion for my own, it was not likely I would give much thought to the wives and families of the men.* ' I didn't say so, but I thought it.' * Admirable self-restraint 1 Now, look here, Sarah, you're playing with fire and haven't the sense to know it. Mrs. Hope is a meddling, hysterical fool, and ' * You wouldn't dare say that to your employer.' ' Now, such a remark shows that a woman of your 27 iM^i*j*p-aaMa^<^g'^ag?_'' WT !»' I THE MUTABLE MANY calibre may live for years with a man and not begin to understand him. The trouble is that I shall say that very thing to my employer, as you delight to call him, the moment his wife puts her finger in the pie. Then what follows ? * * You will lose your situation.' * Exactly. Or to put it more truthfully, I resign — I walk out into the street.' ' You surely would do nothing so foolish.* * That follows instantly when I am compelled to give Mr. Hope my opinion regarding his domestic relations. Then what will become of your income? Will Mrs. Hope contribute, do you think ? Do you aspire to a place on her charity list ? Whatever your opinion has been of me, privately held or publicly expressed, you must admit that I have at least provided money enough to keep the house going; and you have surely the sense to appreciate that. You never could see an inch ahead of your nose, or realize that effect follows cause as inevitably as fate. How a woman can describe a man as obstinate and domi- neering, impatient of all control, and then deliberately wag her tongue to bring about the very interference which, she must know, if she believes what she has said, he will not stand, passes my comprehension. The result of your gor>sip to-day may be that I shall be looking for another situation — as you call it — to-morrow.* Mrs. Sartwell had been weeping during the latter part of this harangue. ' It is always I,' she sobbed, * who am to blame for everything wrong. Your hasty, ungovernable temper is never at fault. If you made me more of a con- fidante in your affairs — other men consult their wives, better men than you, and richer than you will ever be. Mrs. Hope says that her husband ' * I don't want to hear any more about Mrs. Hope.* 'You insisted on talking about her. I didn't want a8 I . THE MUTABLE MANY to say anything, but you cross-questioned me till I had to, and now you blame me.' 'Very well, let it rest there. Will you get me a glass of milk, if you please ? ' 'You are surely not going to drink milk after beer?' ' I claim the liberty of a British subject to drink any mortal thing I choose to drink. Don't let us have an argument over it.' ' But you won't sleep a wink, John, if you do. It's for your own good I speak.' ' Everything is for my own good, Sarah ; perhaps that's what makes me so impatient.' ' Well, you know how you are after a bad night.' ' Yes, yes. I think I have earned my bad night, anyhow. Get the milk, or tell me where to get it.' Mrs. Sartwell always rose when her husband offered to help himself from the larder. She placed the glass of milk at his elbow. ' I've got a number of things to think over,' he said. ' I want to be alone.' She stood by the table looking at him. * Good-night, John,' she faltered at last. ' Good-night,' he answered. She gazed at him reproachfully in silence, but he did not raise his head ; so turning at last, with a long- drawn sigh, she left him to his meditations. Sartwell sat there with deep anxiety on his brow. Silence fell on all the house. At last the master roused himself and turned to the table. He buttered two slices of bread and cut a piece of dainty cake, placing them on a plate with the glass of milk. Lighting a candle and turning out the gas, he set himself to accomplish the acrobatic feat of carrying plate, tumbler, and candle. First, he opened the door inaudibly and kicked off his slippers. Awkwardly laden, he mounted the stairs with the stealthy tread of a burglar, but in spite of his precautions the stairs »9 i w J I: ''I ' f? r I J \ THE MUTABLE MANY creaked ominously in the stillness. He noiselessly entered a room, and, placing the difficult load on the table, softly closed the door. When the light shone on the sleeping girl's face she opened her eyes very wide, then covered them with her hand, laughing a quiet, sleepy little laugh, and buried her face in the white pillow. ' H — s — sh,' said her father. Instantly she was wide awake. ' I was afraid you were hungry after all,' he whispered. ' I wasn't then, really, but I am now, a little.* 'That's good.* He placed a small round gipsy- table near the bed, and put the plate and glass of milk upon it. * You knew, of course, when I spoke, that— I merely wanted you to get a long night's rest. You were tired, you know.' ' Oh, I know that, father.' * Then, good-night, my dear ; perhaps it was foolish to wake you up, but you will soon drop off to sleep again.* ' In a minute, and this does look tempting. I just wanted a glass of milk. It's so good of you, father.' She drew his head down and kissed him. ' I hope you'll sleep well,' she added. * I'll be sure to.' At the door he stopped^ thj^n, after a moment, whispered cautiously : ' Edna, you'll take the things down in the morning yourseil', quietly. The servants, you know — well, they don't like extra trouble some- times.' * Yes, father, I understand.' Sartwell stole silently out of the room like a thief in the night. 30 \i CHAPTER IV. Barnard Hope, cummonly known as Barney, never quite got over his surprise at finding himself the son of James Hope and Euphemia his wife. James Hope, the junior member of the firm of Monkton and Hope, was an undersized man, with an obvious baldness and an air of constant apology. He seemed to attach a mental reservation to every hesitating opinion he uttered, so that he might in- stantly call the opinion back if necessary. Meeting him in the street one would take him for a very much bullied, very much underpaid clerk in the City. In his business office he lived in fear of his manager ; at home he lived in fear of his wife. The chief characteristic of Mrs. Hope was uncom- promising rigidity. She was a head taller than her husband ; and when one met them on the way to church, he had the meek attitude of an unfortunate little boy who had been found doing something naughty, and was being taken to church as a punish- ment by a just and indignant school-mistress. Mrs. Hope joined in none of the fashionable frivolities of Surbiton, where she lived. She had a mission and a duty towards her fellow-creatures — that is, towards those who were poor, and who could not very well resent her patronage. She had an idea that if all 3» rim 1/ ^mmm f ■ \ 'fii THE MUTABLE MANY the well-to-do did their duty, the world would be a brighter and a better place — which is doubtful. But it was perhaps best, on the whole, that Mrs. Hope had not been intrusted with the task of making the world over again ; many interesting features would in that case have been eliminated. Hope, himself, was not an example of unmitigated happiness. The lady always had a number of proteges on hand, whom she afterwards discovered to be undeserving; which discovery caused them to be thrown over for new cases which in turn went bad. She was also constantly in demand by organizations needing members with long purses; but Mrs. Hope had a wonderful talent for managing, which was not always recognized by those with whom she associated. This often led to trouble, older members claiming, aa they vulgarly put it, that she wanted to * run the whole show,* and one out- spoken person advised her to ameliorate the condition of her husband's workmen, if she desired fit subjects for her efforts. This remark turned Mrs. Hope's attention to the manufactory of Monkton and Hope, and led to her calling upon Mrs. Sartwell in the neighbouring suburb of Wimbledon. Now, the son of these two dissimilar but estimable persons ought to have been a solemn prig, whereas he was in fact a boisterous cad. Thus does Nc'ure revel in unexpected surprises. Barney was a broad-shouldered, good-natured giant, who towered over his shrinking father as the Monument towers over the nearest lamp-post. He was ' hail fellow, well met,' with everybody ; and could not shake hands like an ordinary mortal, but must bring down his great paw with an over-shoulder motion as if he were throwing a cricket-ball, and after a resounding thwack of palm on palm, crunch the hand he held until its owner winced. Friends of the young fellow on meeting him got into the habit of placing their hands behind them and saying, 'I'm 8* THE MUTABLE MANY quite well, thank you, Barney;' whereupon Barney laughed and smote them on the shoulder, which, though hard to bear, was the less of two evils. ' Boisterous brute,' his comrades said, behind his back ; but the energetic shoulder-blow or hand-clasp merely meant that Barney was very glad indeed to meet a friend, and to let the friend know that, although he was very poor and Barney very rich, this circumstance need not make the slightest dif- ference between them. It is possible that in the Far West, or in the Australian bush, where muscle counts for something, there was a place yawning for Barney ; perhaps the place awaited him even in London ; but if that were so, fate and Barney's own inclinations removed him as far as possible from it. Barney was an artist ; that is to say, he painted, or rather he put certain colours on canvas. For some years Barney had been the amazement of Julian's school in Paris. He had a suite of rooms at the Grand Hotel, and drove to the school in the Rue du Dragon every morning with a coachman and footman ; the latter carrying Barney's painting kit, while the former sat in statuesque dignity on the box with his whip at the correct angle. Of course, the art students were not going to stand that sort of thing ; so they closed the gates one day and attacked the young man in a body. Barney at first thought it was fun, for he did not understand the language very well, and his good-natured roar sounded loud over the shrill cries of his antagonists. He reached for them one by one and placed them on the ground horizontally in a heap; then he rolled them over and over, flattening any student who at- tempted resurrection with a pat of his gigantic paw. Whatever admiration they may have had for art at Julian's, they certainly evinced a deep respect for muscle, and so left Barney alone after that. He o 33 FT aam^ ^m fi V f ,\ THE MUTABLE MANY invited them all to dinner at the Grand Hotel, and they went. When his meteoric career as an art student in Paris was completed, he set himself up in an immense studio in Chelsea. The studio was furnished regard- less of expense; there was everything in it that a studio ought to have : rich hangings and rugs from the East, tigers' skins from India, ancient armour, easels of every pattern, and luxurious lounges covered with stuffs from Persia. 'There,' cried Barney to Hurst Haldiman, with a grand sweep of his hand. ' What do you think of that?' Haldiman, one of the most gifted students he had met in Paris, had now a garret of his own in London, where he painted when he had time, and did black- and-white work for the magazines and illustrated weeklies to keep himself in money. Barney had in- vited all his old Parisian friends, one by one, to see his new quarters. ' * Wonderful,* said Haldiman. * I venture to say there is not another studio in London like it' ' That was my intention,' replied Barney. ' They told me that Sir Richard Daubs had the finest studio in London. I said nothing, but went to work, and here I am. Have you ever seen Daubs 's studio, Hurst?' * No. He is not so friendly as you are, Barney ; he has never invited me.' * Well, I'll get you an invitation, and I want you to tell me candidly what you think of mine as com- pared with his.' ' Thanks, old man, but don't trouble about an in- vitation for me. I haven't any time to spare ; merely came up here, you know, because we had been in Paris together. Daubs's studio has one great ad- vantage over many others : it contains a man who can paint.' V'JJ^ &.,, tel, and in Paris mmense regard- it that igs from armour, covered an, with think of to say it.' ♦They St studio rork, and studio, It an m- ; merely been in reat ad- ^I^ THE MUTABLE MANY *0h yes, Haldiman, that's all right. That's the old Paris wheeze, you know. Ever since I heaped those chaps one on the top of the other, they have revenged themselves by saying I can't paint ; but you should be above that sort of thing, Haldiman, you should, really. You see, I'm a plain, straightforward fellow, and I've got what is admitted to be the finest studio in London ; but does that make any difference between me and my old friends ? Not a bit of it, 'ind the fact that you are sitting there proves it. I'm a born Bohemian ; I despise riches, and my very best friends are fellows who haven't a sou-markee. You know ^hd Haldiman.' haldiman lit another of Hope's excellent cigarettes. Barney imported them from Egypt himself, and declared that they were the same brand as those which the Khedive smoked, until one of the war correspondents informed him that the Khedive was not a smoker. Then Barney slightly varied the phrase. ♦ Help yourself, dear boy. You'll find they're not half bad, as cigarettes go. I get them direct, for you can't trust these rascally importers. The Khedive is not a st;ioker himself ; still, he keeps nothing but the best for Lis guests, and this is the identical brand, as suprl erl to aim. ' Jow, about this painting business,' continued Barney. ' I venture to say that there was a time when Daubt^ was utterly unknown. Very well. Here, also, am I — utterly unknown. The public won't buy my pictures. I don't conceal that fact. Why should I ? I sent a picture to the Birmingham Exhibition — I don't say it was ^reat, but I do claim it had indi- viduality. They rejected it ! ' * y^ amaze me 1 ' I -'ve you my word of honour they did, Haldiman. Birnr; ium ' Think of that! A town that manu- lacturts nails and gun-barrels.' D a U / ' I u ? 4 ?l THE MUTABLE MANY * Oh, art in England is going to the dogs,* said Ilaldiman, dejectedly. 'Now, I don't go so far as to say that. No; I laughed when my little effort came back, with regrets. I said, " I can bide my time," and I can. The people will come to me, Haldiman, you see if they don't.' * They do already, Barney — those who want to borrow money.' ' Now look h .t^^, Hurst, don't throw my beastly cash in my teeth. * \ I to blame if I am rich? Do I allow it to make a ference between man and man ? We were talking about art, not money.' * So we were. About your pictures. Go on.* ' I only wanted to point out to you that one must take things philosophically. Now, if Birmingham had rejected one of your pictures it would have depressed you for a week.' ' Birmingham has treated me quite differently, Barney. It has accepted two of mine. Hence my gloom after what you have told me.' Barney beamed on his visitor. Here was his argument clinched ; but he repressed his desire to say, * I told you so.* Still, he could not allow the occasion to pass without improving it with a little judicious counsel. 'There you are, Haldiman, there you are. Does not the fact that you are accepted of Birmingham make you pause and think ? ' ' I m staggered. It's a knock-down blow. I'll be in the Academy next.* ' Oh, not so bad as that. You see, Haldiman, you have talent of a certain kind ' ^ ' Now, Barney, you lay it on too thick. I like flattery, of course, but it must be delicately done. You are gross in your praise.* ' I am not flattering you, Haldiman, 'pon my soul I'm not. Most other fellows would be offended THE MUTABLE MANY at what Vm going to say, but you're a sensible man * * There you go again.' * Listen to me. You have a certain talent — technique, perhaps, I should call it ; a slight skill in technique.' ' Ah, that's better. Now, go on.' ' You got the praise and the prizes in Paris because of your technique, and that set you on the wrong tack. You are merely doing well what hosts of other men have done well before you. You are down among the ruck. Now, I strive after individuality.' ' You get it, Barney.' ' That's not for me to say ; anyhow, individuality and strength are what I want to see in my pictures, and there will by-and-by come a critic with a mind unbiassed enough to recognize these qualities. Then my day will have arrived. You mark my words, I shall found a school.' ' Like Julian's.' 'No, like Whistler's. You know very well what I mean. That's your nasty way of showing you are offended because I'm frank enough to tell you the truth.' ' I suppose none of us like the candid friend, how- ever much we may pretend to. Well, I must be going. I've got some technique to do for one of the magazines.' ' Don't go just yet. I have not half finished. Here is what I have to propose. Give up your room and come with me. You see the great advantage I have over you is that I can wait. If a magazine asked me to do black-and-white work for it I would say, " No, go to those poor devils who must work or starve. I'm working for the future, not for the present." That's what I'd say. Now, I'll give you a bedroom, rent free, and a corner of this studio. It won't cost you a penny — nor your board either. You can paint just 37 f r mm iff f THE MUTABLE MANY what you like and not what the public demand. Then you will be independent.' 'We have dififerent views about things, Barney. That would seem to me the worst form of dependence. It is very generous of you, but utterly impracticable ; besides, you haven't thought of the danger of my becoming a mere copyist of you — a shadow of the new individualist. I couldn't risk that, you know.' ' Better become the shadow of one man than the shadow of many, which you are now.' 'Perhaps; but each must fight his own battle in his own way. Good-bye, Barney.' Haldiman went downstairs, not cheered as much as might have been expected by Hope's overflowing good-nature and generosity. He met Barney's mother on the stairs, who gave him a head-to-foot glance of evident disapproval. She did not admire the set with which her son had thrown in his lot, and feared the influence on him would not be beneficial. 'Oh, Mater I' cried Barney, when she entered, 'I did not expect you to-day. How did you find the place?' His mother raised her eye-glasses, and surveyed the room in silence. 'So this is the studio, Barnard,' she said at last. ' I don't think much of it. Why is it all untidy like this, or haven't you had time to get it in order yet ? * 'This is the kind of thing we artists go in for, Mater. It is as much in order as it ever will be.' 'Then I don't like it. Why could you not have had a man in to lay one carpet as it should be laid ? These rugs all scattered about in this careless way trip one up so. What's this old iron for ? ' ' That's armour, Mater.' ' Oh, is it? I don't see how any one can do useful work in a room like this ; still, I suppose it is good enough to paint in. I found the place easily enough. Trust a neighbourhood to know where there is any THE MUTABLE MANY extra foolishness going on. Of course, you have been cheated m everything you bought. But that's neither here nor there. I came to talk with you about the business.' * What business, Mater ? * v ^ * What business ? The business, of course. Your father's business and yours, for I hope the time will come when you will take more interest In it than you do now. The men, it seems, talk of going on strike.' 'Foolish beggars! What are they going to do that for, and what do you expect me to do? Not to talk to the men, I hope, for I detest the working- man. He's an ass usually, otherwise he wouldn't work for the wages he gets. Then he spends what he does make on bad beer, and goes home and beats his wife. I can't reason with the working-man, you know, Mater.' ' * No, I don't suppose you can. I sometimes doubt whether you can reason with anybody. It is because the working-man labours, that you can idle away your time in a place like this. There are many deserving characters among the working classes, although they are often difficult to find. The men have made some demands which Sartwell, the manager, won't even listen to. It seems to me that he is not treating them fairly. He should, at least, hear what they have to say; and if their demands do not cost the firm anything, he should grant them.' 'Mater,' cried the young man, with enthusiasm, • what a head for business you have ! ' *I am of a family which became rich through having heads for business,* replied the lady, with justifiable pride. *Now, what I want you to do is to see this man Sartwell — he will pay attention to you, because he knows that in time you will be his master, and so he will be civil to you.' * I'm not so sure of that,' said Barney, doubtfully. ' I imagine he thinks me rather an ass, you know.' 39 m li THE MUTABLE MANY t 'Well, now is your opportunity for showing him that you are not, if he has the impertinence to think such a thing. You had better see him at his own house, and not at the Works— here is his address. Tell him to receive the men and compromise with them. He is to make concessions that are unim- portant, and thus effect a compromise. A little tact is all that is required.' ' From me, or from Sartwell ? ' 'From both of you. I expect tact from you because you are my son.* ' But why doesn't father talk to Sartwell ? I know nothing of the business and father does ; it seems to be entirely in his line, don't you know.' ' Your father, Barnard, is a timorous man, and he actually is afraid of his manager. He thinks it is interference, and doesn't want to meddle, so he says ; as if a man were meddling in looking after his own affairs ! He fears Sartwell will resign, but that kind of man knows where his own interest lies. I'll risk his resigning, and I want you to see him at his house, for it is of no use bothering your father about these . things.* *I don't like the job, Mater; it does look like interference.' Mrs. Hope again raised her eye-glasses by their long tortoise-shell handle, and once more surveyed the studio. ' This must have cost you a good deal of money, Barnard,' she said, impressively. * It did/ admitted the young man. * I suppose I shall soon have to be writing another cheque for you. For how much shall I make it ? * ' It is such a pity to trouble you so often, Mater,* replied the young man, ' that, perhaps, we had better say three hundred.' 'Very well,' said the Mater, rising. 'I will have it ready for you when you come to Surbiton, after 40 THE MUTABLE MANY having seen Sartwell at WimbleH™ u ■ way, you know.' """""edon. It is on your awkward .^t^tJdeatw^j:^''^ but Sartwell's an < 1 r,. M , , . . I I t \ -I 'I I J ^ CHAPTER V When Mrs. Hope departed, Barney sat down on a luxurious divan in his studio and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. * I may as well have that cheque as soon as possible,' he said to himself. * It is of no use delaying important matters ; besides, delay might injure the scheme the Mater has on her mind. What a blessing it is father asks ne not to mention the cheques he gives me. Between the two you manage to rub along, Barney, my boy. Well, here goes for Wimbledon ! ' The young man arrayed himself with some care, jumped into a hansom, and was driven to Sloane Square Station, where, in due time, a deliberate train came along that ultimately landed him in Wimbledon. If Barney had been a man of deep thought, or one experienced in the ways of working people, or had been able to reason by induction, he would have arrived at the fact that there was not the slightest chance of finding Mr. Sartwell in his house at that hour of the day. It must not be supposed that Barney was an unthinking person, however ; for when the servant informed him that Mr. Sartwell was never at home except in the evening or early morning, Barney at once accused himself mentally of heedless- ness in having come all the way from Chelsea to Wimbledon to learn so self-evident a fact. He thus 4* THE MUTABLE MANY admitted to himself his own ability to have reasoned the matter out, had his mind been unobscured by the shadow of a coming cheque. Still, he was not quick at grasping unexpected details; and he stood at the door hardly knowing what to do next, while the servant watched him with obvious distrust, wondering whether he came to sell something or merely to ask for a subscription ; how- ever, the fact that he was keeping a hansom waiting at the gate told in his favour, so she broke the silence by saying — ,., , . * Any message, sir ? * He ignored this question, which raised him still higher in the servant's estimation, and ventured the perfectly accurate opinion — * He will not be home for some hours, I suppose ? ' •No, sir.* Barney pondered for a while, and suddenly delivered himself of a resolution that did credit to his good sense. ' Then I won't wait,' he said. 'What name shall I say, sir?' asked the maid. ' Oh, it's of no importance. I will call again ; still, here is my card. I am the son of Mr. Hope, one of the proprietors of the Works.' The maid took the card, and Mrs. Sartwell appeared in the hall, almost as if she had been listening to the words of the speaker — which, of course, she had a per- fect right to do, as one generally wishes to know who calls at one's front door. 'Did I hear you say that you were Mr. Hope?' she asked. . ». . . ' I am his son, madam,' said Barney, modestly, and with that politeness which he had learned in Paris. 'Won't you come in? Vm sorry my husband is not at home. Is it on account of the strike you come? I feel very anxious. Your mother called yesterday, and we had a long conversation about it.* 43 i / ( I 'J ■l I y THE MUTABLE MANY ' Yes, the Mater takes a great interest in the work- ing-man, although I can't say I do myself. I merely wished to have an informal chat with Mr. Sartwell on the situation, and that is why I called at the house rather than at the Works.' Barney stepped into the hall and kept his h. *- in his hand to show he had a hansom waiting. s had no intention of staying more than a moment or two. He thought it best to have something to tell his mother about his visit to Wimbledon, for she was a relentless cross-questioner, and if he could have a conversation to report, she might take the will for the deed and give him the cheque. The door of the drawing-room was thrown ope", and, when the two entered, they found Edna Sart- well sitting there in a deep chair, reading a book with such interest that she evidently had not heard a word of the colloquy at the door. She rose in some con- fusion, colouring deeply as she saw a stranger come in with her step- mother. The latter said nothing to the girl, but directed a glance at her that, speaking as plainly as words, to''' her to leave the room. Barney's first thought on seeing Edna was that she was about to escape, and his second, that this desertion must be diplomatically prevented. Barney's great burden in life, so he often told his friends, was that the young ladies of England were in the habit of throwing themselves at his head, which remark caused Haldiman once to say they had a quick eye for his weakest point of defence. Now here was a 'stunning' girl, to use Barney's own phrase about her, who was actually about to walk out of the room without casting a second glance at him. A young man always likes the unusual. ' Not your daughter, Mrs. Sartwell ? ' said Barney, in his most winning manner. ' My step-daughter,' answered the lady, coldly. Ah, I thought you could not have a grown-up 44 THE MUTABLE MANY B work- merely ;well on 5 house i h.* «n Ig. 5 ment or r to tell she was iM have ; will for vn ope", na Sart- ook with d a word Dine con- ger come jthing to caking as was that that this Barney's i friends, in the d, which a quick here was se about he room young Barney, ^dly. rrown-up daughter,' murmured Barney, delicately. He always found this particular kind of compliment very success- ful with ladies well past middle age, and in this case his confidence was not misplaced. * Do not let me drive you away. Miss Sartwell,' he continued. ' I am Barnard Hope/ he added, seeing that Mrs. Sartwell did not intend to introduce him, 'and I called to see your father and talk with him regarding the strike. So, you know, it is a matter which interests us all, and I beg of you to join in the conference.' The moment her father and the strike were men- tioned, he saw the attention of the girl was instantly aroused, for she paused and looked inquirinf^ly at her step-mother. That perplexed lady was in a quandary. She did not wish to offend Mrs. Hope's son, and she did not want her step-daughter to remain in the room. She hesitated, and was lost. * Pray let me offer you a chair,* said Barney, with that gallantry which he always found irresistible. 'And you, Miss Sartwell. Now we will have a comfortable informal chat, which I know will be of immense assistance in my talk with Mr. Sartwell, for I confess I am a little afraid of him.' Edna opened her eyes at this ; she had several times heard people say they stood in awe of her father, and never could understand why. Mrs. Sartwell sat bolt upright and folded her hands on her lap, frowning at her step-daughter when she got a chance unseen by Barney. She did not at all like the turn events had taken, but she saw no way of interfering without seeming to be rude to her guest. 'You see,' chirruped Barney, 'the Mater takes a great interest in the working-man ; so do I.' He thought this noble sentiment would appeal to Edna Sartwell. * I think we all — we all — ^as it were — should feel a certain responsibility, don't you know. You see what I mean, Mrs. Sartwell?' > ^ 45 THE MUTABLE MANY I ( I ? i < ,i» . 't. .1:^ ' Certainly. It doc* you great credit, Mr. Hope,' replied the lady appealeo to, although she uttered the phrase with some severity, as if it were an aspersion. ' Oh, not at all. I suppose it was born in me. I think it natural for all rightly brought up persons to take a deep interest in their fellow-creatures. Don't you think so. Miss Sartwell ? ' ' Yes,' said Edna, fPiintly, without looking up. * For workmen are our fellow-creatures, you know,* cried Barney, with all the enthusiasm of a startling discovery. 'Am I my brother's keeper?' said Mrs. Sartwell, in gloomy tones. ' Quite so, quite so,' assented Barney, who took the remark as oHginal. * I couldn't have stated the case better if I had thought all day about it. Now, the Mater imagined that perhaps Mr. Sartwell would con- sent to meet the men and talk it over, making, let us say, some trifling concessions, and then everything would be lovely. You see what I mean ? ' ' It seems a most reasonable proposal,' said Mrs. Sartwell, with a sigh ; * but my opinion is of no value, especially in my own house.' 'Oh, don't say that, Mrs. Sartwell. I am sure every one must value your opinion most highly — every one who has the privilege of hearing it. I assure you I do. Now, what do you think. Miss Sartwell ? " The young man beamed on the girl in his most fascinating manner ; but his charming facial expres- sion was in a m,.asure lost, for Edna was looking at the carpet, apparently perplexed. * I think,' she said, at last, ' that father, who spends nearly all his time among the men, must understand the situation better than we do. He has had a great deal of experience with them, and, as I know, has given much thought to the difficulty ; so, it seems to me, our advice may not be of any real value to him.' Barney could scarcely repress a long whistle. So 4^ THE MUTABLE MANY this was how the land lay. This demure miss actually had an opinion of her own, and was plainly going to stand with her father against the field. Heretofore everybody had always agreed with Barney, except- ing, of course, those rascally students, who were no respecters of persons; and more especially had all women agreed with him, therefore this little bit of opposition, so decorously expressed, had a new and refreshing flavour. The wind had shifted ; he must trim his sails to suit the breeze. ' There, Miss Sartwell, you have touched the weak point in our case. Just what I said to the Mater. "Mr. Sartwell's on the spot," said I, "and he ought to know." Almost your very words. Miss Sartwell.' An ominous cloud rested on Mrs. Sartwell's brow. * Surely,' she said, severely, ' the owners of a busi- ness should have something to say about the way it is to be conducted.' ' The tendency of modern times,' cried Barney, airily, waving his hand, 'appears to be entirely in the opposite direction, my dear madam. It is getting to be that, whoever has a say in a business, the owners shall have the least. And I am not sure but this is, to a certain extent, logical. I have often heard my father say that Mr. Sartwell was the real maker of the business. Why, then, should he be interfered with ? ' Edna looked up gratefully at the enthusiastic young man, for she not only liked the sentiments he was beginning to express, but she liked the manly ring in his voice. Barney had frequently found this tone to be very taking, especially with the young and inex- perienced, and he knew that he appeared at his best when assuming it, if none of his carping comrades were present. He could even work himself up into a sturdy state of indignation, if his audience were sympathetic, and he were free from the blighting influence of the pessimistic young men he met in Bohemia. . IB1C3. ^SSBBm THE MUTABLE MANY ; / .'l i li *And propose. now, Miss Sartwell, I'll tell you what I Have a talk with your father; then, if Mr. Sartwell will allow me, I will call again, and I can judge, from what you say, whether it will be worth while troubling Mr. Sartwell with our advice. You see, we all have the same object in view ; we wish to help Mr. Sartwell if we can. If we can't, then there is no harm done. You see what I mean ? ' Mrs. Sartwell rather grudgingly assented to this. Edna said nothing. * You see, ladies, I am an artist ; a painter of pictures. I work, as it were, in the past and in the future. I feel that I do not belong to the present, and these little details I know I ought to leave to those who under- stand how to deal with them. I told the Mater so. But whether we are able to help Mr. Sartwell or not, you must allow me to thank you for a very charming interview. My studio is in Chelsea, and is said to be the finest in London ; but, of course, I care nothing about that; to me it is merely my workshop. But there are relaxations even in artistic life, and every Tuesday afternoon, from three o'clock till five, I am at home to my friends. I expect the Mater to receive my guests, and you must promise to come, Mrs. Sartwell, will you not? I will send you cards, and you are sure to meet some nice people. May I count on you? I know the Mater will be pleased.' * I shall be very happy to accept your invitation,' said Mrs. Sartwell, softening under the genial influence of the young man. >, ' And you too. Miss Sartwell ? ' Edna looked somewhat dubiously at her step- mother. ' You will bring Miss Sartwell with you, will you not ? ' persisted the young man. ' I am always glad to do anything that may add to Edna's pleasure,' said Mrs. Sartwell, a trifle less cordially, * but it must be as her father says.' 48 THE MUTABLE MANY * Then you will use your influence with him, Miss Sartwell, won't you, and get him to consent ? I am sure he will not refuse if you care to come.' * I should like very much to come/ said Edna. ' Then we will look on it as settled.' When the young man stepped into his waiting hansom, he said to himself : " Ah, Barney, my boy, you light on your feet as usual. What a lovely girl I And a mind of her own, too, if she is so shy. Who would ever have suspected grim old Sartwell of having such a pretty daughter ? I must persuade the Mater to come off that particular hobby-horse of hers, for it is easy to see the girl doesn't want any one to interfere with her father. If I can bring the Mater round, and get the cheque too, I'm a diplomatist.' \ . 49 \'V \ f ) CHAPTER VI I From Wimbledon to Surbiton is comparatively but a step. An enterprising train, bent on accomplishing the feat, can cover the distance in seven or eight minutes, and even the slowest of * locals * takes but twelve. Barney was an energetic young man, and where a cheque was concerned, knew the danger of delay ; so he resolved, being in the neighbourhood, to go to Surbiton, see his mother, and settle the business. The young man often reassured himself by saying inwardly that he was no fool, and the opportunity afforded him to meditate on the situation, as he paced up and down No. 3 platform waiting for the train, enabled him to formulate a course of action. Barney had a well-defined mental process by which he arrived at any plan of procedure. 'The great thing, my boy,* he used to say, ' is to know exactly what you want, and then go for it.* In going for it, the young fellow trampled on anything that came in his path ; truth, for example. His one object was success — the kind that succeeds. Having attained that, he was careless of the means. In this instance, what he wanted was to prevent any interference with Sartwell, and he knew that if he boldly opposed his mother's scheme, such opposition would inevitably bring about the meddling which he desired to avoid, at the same time placing himself in her bad books ; and this was financially undesirable. i9 THE MUTABLE MANY 'It will take a bit of thinking,' said Barney to himself, thus showing that he correctly estimated the difficulties of the situation, and realized the shortness of the distance between Wimbledon and Surbiton. Surbiton is a most attractive Surrey suburb with an excellent service of trains. The houses are large, detached, and of the class known in the estate agents' vocabulary as * desirable.' Stockbrokers in the City are attracted thither as much by the rapid train service as by the desirable residences. The rich and retired tradesman and the manufacturer in a large way, have given the place an exclusiveness which it could never have attained had it been a mere resort of noblemen, or a place for the housing of the working classes. It is the rich and retired tradesman who has given England its reputation as a cold and dignified nation. Nothing can compare with a first-class compartment from Surbiton — 'Vauxhall and Waterloo only' — for frigid exclusiveness. Sometimes an unfortunate duke or marquis, coming from his estates in the south-west, chances upon the Surbiton contingent, and makes an innocent and friendly remark, to be frozen into silence by the icy stare of the other five occupants of the compartment. Surbiton, to a stranger, has the look of a seaside place. Some of the streets are broad, and divided by narrow, railed-in parks. There are benches here and there, and trees everywhere ; while an assembly hall in the centre of the town, and a sort of marine parade along the river, with a band-stand, and military concerts on certain evenings during the summer, give to this charming suburb the air of a coast resort, lacking only the long, spidery, cast-iron pier, which Surbiton may yet build over the river into the Hampton Court grounds, where in spring the waters lie like a broad, yellow ocean. When that pier is built the charge for admission E a ^i I 11 i yd] THE MUTABLE MANY will doubtless be double Brighton price, for Surbiton is prone to attest its exclusiveness in a manner that' appeals to the financial imagination. It is proud of the fact that its local rates are high, and that a first- class season ticket costs more than to any other place an equal distance from London. The Hope residence was a large, square, yellow house, rather old-fashioned — 'an imposing mansion,' was the phrase that caught Mrs. Hope's eye in the Times^ before she induced her husband to buy it — and it stood in extensive, well-wooded grounds. Barney drove up to it in one of the open victorias which stand for hire at the station, a class of vehicle that adds to the seaside appearance of 3«irbiton. Telling the n^an to wait, he sprang up the steps and knocked, for there was nothing so modern as a bell at the front door. He found his mother in the drawing- room, and with her Lady Mary Fanshaw, who had driven over from her father's country place, which lay in the direction of Dorking. Lady Mary was a nice girl, rather shy, who blushed prettily when Barney came in, and had a great admiration for the young man's hitherto unappreciated artistic talents, liking a painter better than a manufacturer. Her father, having ascertained definitely that Barney's possession of a studio would in no way interfere with his ultimate coming into the proprietorship of the remunerative factory, made no objection to the acquaintanceship between the Hope family and his own. * How d'ye do, Lady Mary ? ' cried the young man, shaking hands with her. 'How are you. Mater?' he added to his mother, kissing her on the cheek. 'Barnard,* said the elder lady, with a touch of severity in her tone, * I did not expect to see you in Surbiton so soon. I thought you would attend to the business I spoke of.' . * It's all been attended to, Mater. I don't let the H THE MUTABLE MANY gras5 grow under my feet— not that it's a good day for grass either,' continued the young man, cheerfully, warming his hands at the fire. 'Beastly weather,' he remarked to Lady Mary, who assented to the terse statement. * Yes, Mater, my motto is : What is worth doing is worth doing quickly. Speedily done is twice done — I think there's a proverb to that effect, don't you know. If there's not, there ought to be.' Lady Mary rose to leave the room, as mother and son had evidently something to discuss together. ' Sit down, child,' said Mrs. Hope. ' It is nothing private. The men at the Works talk of going on strike. The manager is a stubborn, unyielding man, given to browbeating even his employers ' ' Bullying, I call it,' interrupted Barney, who now stood with his back to the fire, his feet well apart on the hearthrug. His mother went on calmly, without noticing her son's interpolation. ' So it seems to me that such a man, utterly lacking in tact, might not, perhaps, be mindful of the feelings of those under him. We all have our duties towards the working class ; a fact which many, alas ! appear to forget.' Lady Mary said softly, with her eyes cast down, that this was indeed the case. 'So you saw Mr. Sartwell, Barnard ? ' ' Oh yes, I saw Sartweh. and had a talk of the men — with the — ah — ringleaders, know.' * You mean the leaders, Barnard.' * Yes, something of that sort. I don't pretend to understand the working-man, you know, but there's lots of sense in what they say. They know what they want.' ' Did you find Mr. Sartwell obdurate ? ' *0h, bless you, no, Mater. Sartwell's the most reasonable of men.' 63 with some don't you THE MUTABLE MANY ' Indeed ? It never occurred to me to place him in that category.* * Don't you make any mistake about Sartwell, Mater ; you won't find him stand in your way at all. He's perfectly willing to do whatever you want done. "Barney, my boy," he said to me, when I told him what you thought about this trouble — " Barney," says he, ** after all is said and done, it's the women's afTair more than ours." * *The women's affair!* said Mrs. Hope, drawing herself severely up. ' Do I understand you to mean, Barnard, that the man was referring to Mrs. Monkton and myself?* 'Well, Mater, you see we were talking freely together as man» to man — and — hang it all, you know, it is your affair and Mrs. Monkton 's, more than old Monkton's and father's. I don't suppose they care so very much.' Mrs. Hope slowly raised her glasses to her eye§ and stared at her son, who was looking at the hearth- rug, now resting his weight on his toes and then coming down on his heels. ' *I haven't the least idea what you are talking about, Barnard.' *I am talking about the proposed strike, Mater; about the demands of the men.' ' Requests, my son. The men request an audience with Mr. Sartwell, and he refuses it, as if he were Prime Minister.* * That's just what I said to Sartwell. " Sartwell," said I, "you're high* handed with the men." He admitted it, but held that if he had a conference with them, no good would be accomplished unless he acceded to their dem — requests.' * He could compromise — he could make some con- cessions — and then everything would go smoothly again. He has no tact.' 'Quite so, quite so. But you see the men want 54 THE MUTABLE MANY only one thing, not several. They are perfectly logical about it. I had a talk with them, and they were very much gratified to hear that you were on their side. There will be no trouble with them in future if Sart- well is only reasonable. They look at it like this: they work ten hours a day, and get on an average a pound a week — or — ah — something like that — I forget the exact amount, although they had it in shillings and pence. Now, father and Monkton work four or five hours a day, not very hard either, and go to Switzerland in the summer and Algiers in the winter, yet they draw twenty thousand pounds a year each out of the business. This, the men claim to be unjust, and, of course, I quite agree with them. It's outrageous, and I said so. Well, the men are prepared to do the most generous things. In order to com- promise, they will allow the partners ten times what the real workers get ; Monkton and father are each to draw five h idred pounds a year out of the business, and the foity thousand pounds are to be divided among the workers. I thought that it was an exceed- ingly liberal proposal, and I told them so.' During this able, if mythical, exposition of the work- men's views, Mrs. Hope gazed at her son with ever in- creasing amazement. When he had concluded, she was standing up, apparently speechless, with an ominous frown on her brow. Lady Mary looked with timid anxiety from one to the other. There seemed to be a sweet reasonableness in the young man's argument, and yet something hopelessly wrong about the pro- position. 'Five hundred pounds a year! — to me\* cried Mrs. Hope, at last. ' Well — to father, technically— same thing, of course.' ' Five hundred a year ! Barnard, if any one had told me an hour ago that you were a fool, I Five hundred a year I How can people exist on five hundred a year?' ■ 65 THE MUTABLE MANY Barney looked reproachfully at his mother. He was evidently hurt. * That's just the way Sartwell talks ; and I suppose he thinks I'm a fool too, merely because I'm trying to understand the labour problem. It seems to me that if a workman with twelve children to support can live on Bfty pounds a year, an elderly pair with but one child, and he about to make a fortune in painting, could get along on ten times that amount.' ' Oh, I've no patience with you, Barnard.' 'And then Sartwell says: "Look at the capital invested ! " * ' Certainly. He is perfectly right, and any one with a grain of sense would zee that. Thousands and thousands of pounds have been expended on the buildings and in the development of the business. The workmen never think of that — nor you either, it appears.' 'You see, Mater, it's out of my line. But what Sartwell said about investment made me think.' ' Think ! ' exclaimed his mother with withering contempt. * Yes,' continued Barney, placidly ; * so I went to the workmen to see what fAey had to say about it. They said at once that the capital had been refunded over and over again. I went back to Sartwell to see if this were true, and it was true. Well, then ' * What then ? ' * Under the circumstances it seemed to me that the workmen had made a most magnanimous proposal. If a man would paint a picture for me which I could sell for five hundred pounds, and he was content to take fifty for it and leave me the other four hundred and fifty, I should think him the most generous of men.' * Stop talking nonsense, please. Is Sartwell going to receive the men ? ' * I suppose so.' THE MUTABLE MANY ' Then you must instantly go back to the City and tell him he is to do nothing of the sort.' ' But, Mater,' protested the young man. He looked uneasily round the room and saw that Lady Mary had slipped away unperceived, into the conservatory. ' Don't talk. You've done enough harm already. Try and undo it.' •But, I say! It's rather rough on me. Mater. When you promised me a cheque for three hundred, I didn't imagine I should have to see old Sartwell a second time, and take back all I said. He will think me an ass.' ' He thinks it already. But it doesn't matter what he thinks ; it is what he does that you have to deal with. You must see him at once, and stop this non- sense about a conference.' Barney shook his head dolefully. ' I don't see how I can face him again, Mater. I'd rather lose the three hundred pound cheque.' ' The cheque has nothing to do with the question. I should hope you are not attending to this for the three hundred pounds. But I'll write you a cheque for five hundred if that will satisfy you. Then I hope to hear no more about five hundred a year. Be consistent at least, Barnard.' 'Thanks, Mater, I'll try. And while you are writing out the cheque I'll have a word with Lady Mary. ' Very well,' said his mother, rising. The request did not seem to displease her. So Barney went to find Lady Mary, which apparently was not a difficult task. When the two returned, Barney was wonderfully bright notwithstanding his long discussion. ' I was afraid I was in the way,* said Lady Mary, addressing Mrs. Hope, modestly. 'I don't know much about work-people.' 'The labour question,' interposed Barney, 'is an m 4 5 ► li ^ THE MUTABLE MANY exceedingly intricate one, and I am afraid I don't quite understand it in all its bearings myself, but it's most interesting, I assure you, most interesting. I'm a labouring man myself now. I've got my studio all fitted up, and I work like a — let's see, is it a Turk or a nigger ? ' ' I think a nailer is the simile you want.' * Very likely. I don't suppose a Turk works if he can help it. Oh, by the way, Lady Mary, I have ' At Homes ' at my studio every Tuesday, from three till five. I wish you would come. Get your father to bring you. I want a real live lord, don't you know, to — well, to give tone to the gathering.' Lady Mary laughed. ' I should like very much to come. I was never in a studio since I had my portrait paizited. I'll ask my father ; but he doesn't go out very often.* ' Oh, 1 know you can get him to come ; so that's a promise.' In the hall, his mother handed Barney a cheque. ' Be sure you go at once to Sartwell,' she said, ' and see that you don't bungle the business a second time.' And yet the poor boy had merely pretended that her former orders had been carried out ! Barney made no remark about the inconsistency of woman ; he kissed her on both cheeks, as a dutiful son should, and departed. 58 CHAPTER VII In almost any country except England, the name by which the evil-smeUing cul-de-sac off Light Street was known, might be supposed to have been given to it by some cynical humorist. It was called Rose Garden Court. As there is a reason for almost every- thing in this world, the chances are that, once upon a time, a garden bloomed there, and roses probably flourished in it. The entrance to the court was through an archway, over which, on the Light Street side, was the name of the court. At the right hand of this tunnel stood the Rose and Crown, locally known as the 'pub.,' and the door of the jug and bottle department opened into the passage, which was convenient for the inhabitants of the court. On the left of the archway there was a second-hand clothing shop, the wares, which were, so to speak, exceedingly second-hand, hanging in tattered festoons about the door. A street lamp stood at the edge of the pave- ment opposite the entrance to the court, and threw its rays under the archway, which somewhat feeble illumination was supplemented by a gas-jet over the door of the jug and bottle department. At the blind end of Rose Garden Court there was another lamp- post. The court was unevenly paved with large slabs of stone, sloppy as a rule, from the overflow of a tap which supplied the inhabitants with water. 59 THE MUTABLE MANY The court was walled about by five-story build- ings ; and in the oblong well formed by these rather dilapidated edifices the air hung dank and heavy, laden with many smells. Breezes blowing over London from the south, or the north, or the west, produced no movement of the noxious air in Rose Garden Court. ' Come out,' the gale from the Surrey hills might cry as it whistled merrily over the house- tops, * come out, and give the people a chance to breathe,' but there was no answering rustle in the court : the air there was silent an 1 sullen, as if it had taken its temper from the inhabitants of the place. Sometimes, in early spring, the insistent east wind roared boisterously through the tunnel, catching the mephitic atmosphere unawares and flinging it head- long over the roofs, filling the court with a biting whirlwind, scattering loose bits of paper and rags skywards ; but the inhabitants did not like it. They closed their windows, shivered, and wished the gale would cease. Next day the air would settle down again quietly, absorb its odours once more, and then everybody felt that things were as they should be. The court was a property that paid handsomely. No one residing there knew who owned the buildings or the ground. A man collected the room rents promptly in advance ; and he had once told the land- lord of the Rose and Crown that the court was more lucrative as an investment than if it had been situated in the Grosvenor Square district. The owner was popularly supposed to have farmed the property to a company, and the rent-collector represented this organization. The company could not be expected to spend money on repairs, the owner could not be reached, and apart from all that, the rooms were in constant demand, so, if a tenant did not like the arrangement, he could get out : there were a dozen others ready to take his place. 60 THE MUTABLE MANY The people who lived in this human warren were not criminals. Most of them did something useful for a living. Criminals, when convicted, are housed in a much more sanitary manner ; and they are sure of enough to eat, which the denizens of the court were not. If any prison in the kingdom were as fetid as Rose Garden Court, the great heart of the nation would be stirred with wrath, and some wretch in authority would feel the lash of righteous public scorn. The court was merely representative of the home of the British working-man in the wisest, largest, proudest, most wealthy city in the world, at the end of the nine- teenth century — after a thousand years, more or less, of progress. Some homes of the working-man are better, but then some are worse ; for we must never forget that we have the artisans' improved dwellings amongst us. The occupants of the improved dwell- ings are fenced about with restrictions ; but in the court was f. "^edom — freedom to come and go as you liked, freedom to get drunk, freedom to loaf or work, freedom to starve. The personal predilections of the courtites were much the same as those of habitues of first-class West-End clubs. They liked to drink and gamble. The * pub.' was at the entrance ; and there, or at the barber's shop, they could place a little on a horse of which they knew nothing. One of the advantages of a free country is that a man may get quite as drunk on beer as he can on champagne, and at a much less cost. The results are wonderfully similar. It is popularly believed that a policeman in Piccadilly is kinder to a client in a dress-coat than a fellow-officer on Waterloo Road is to a man in moleskin. Rose Garden Court had little trouble with the police, although the court — especially the femi- nine portion of it — looked somewhat askance at the force. All a policeman asked of a drunken dweller was, that if he wanted to fight he should fight in the 61 ^F mmm I THE MUTABLE MANY court, and not in a busy thoroughfare like Light Street. The wives of the combatants usually took charge of them before the battle had been fought to a finish ; and sometimes a tall policeman watched over the separation of temporary foes, saying little unless one of the fighters resisted the wife who was vociferously shoving him towards his own doorway. Then the officer would say, * Come, now, my man, none of that ' ; whereupon, strangely enough, it was the woman who resented the officer's interference for her protection ; though, when her man proceeded to abuse a member of the force also, she quickly told him to shut his mouth, prefixing to the noun an adjective which was at ofice sanguinary and descriptive. Often a stalwart policeman would take by the scruff of the neck an inhabitant of the court who was staggering along Light Street, filling the air with melody or defiance, and walk him rapidly down the street, the man's legs wabbling about uncertainly as if he were a waxwork automaton, until they were opposite the entrance of the place. Then, having received the required impetus from the officer, the man shot under the archway, and was presumably taken care of when he got inside ; anyhow, once in the court he could not get out again except by the way he had entered ; and few ever became drunk enough to forget that there was always a policeman in the neighbourhood. The thrust under the archway was merely the friendly Light Street way of doing the Piccadilly act of placing a man tenderly in a cab and telling the driver where to go. Few were ever actually arrested in the Light Street district ; and their conduct had to be particularly flagrant to bring them to this last resort of the force. Along Light Street came Marston, with the elastic, springy, energetic step of a young man in good health, who takes this world seriously and believes there is 6a Light liarge to a tched little 3 was irway. man, it was ice for led to Id him jective : scruff 10 was r with down rtainly y were having e man taken n the le way knough lin the was ig the Lb and ptually )nduct [o this plastic, lealth, iere is THE MUTABLE MANY something to be done in it. He paused for a moment opposite the Rose and Crown, and nodded to some men who were lounging there. 'Are you all going to the meeting to-night?' he asked. One shook his head, another shrugged his shoulders ; it was evident, at a glance, that none of them had any interest in the meeting while the * pub.' remained open. ' It's important,* said Marston. ' The committee reports to-night, and " strike or no strike " will likely be put to vote. You are not in favour of a strike, surely ? Then come along and vote against it.* ' I dunno' 'bout that,' said one, removing his pipe. ' Strike pay is as good as marster's pay, an' less work to get it. I could do with a bit of an 'oliday.' * Strike pay may be as good as master's while it lasts, but it won't last,' rejoined Marston. * When it gives out we'll go back to work,' returned the man. The others laughed. 'Some of you won't get back,' said Marston. 'That's always the way after a strike. Better keep a good job while we have it.' ' Oh, I could do with a bit of an 'oliday,' repeated the spokesman of the ' pub.' crowd, indifferently. 'Good heavens!* cried Marston, indignantly, 'if you take no more interest in your condition than that, how can you ever expect to better it ? ' ' Well, I thort,' answered the other, good-naturedly, ' when I sees you a-comin* along, as *ow you'd better it by arstin* us to have a drop o' beer with you.' ' You're muddled with beer already,* said the young man, shortly, as he turned and disappeared up the court. The crowd smoked on in silence for some minutes after he had left them. ' Cocky young chap, that,' said one at last, jerking his pipe over his shoulder in the direction Marston had gone. 63 ;*> THE MUTABLE MANY *0h, 'e knows a bit, 'e docs,' remarked another, sarcastically. There was a longer pause, when the spokesman, who had been ruminating over the matter, said — * Wot d'ye s'y t' 'avin' another pint insoide ? • Then we go t' th' meetin' and wote for th' stroike. Lam 'im a lesson. I like 'is impidence, I do. Tork 'bout muddlin', we'll show 'oo's muddled.' This was unanimously agreed to as illuminating the situation. It is, perhaps, a pity that Marston did not know the result of his brief conversation with his fellow-workmen. He was young, and had to learn many things. He did not know that the desire for improving one's condition is not at all universal ; and that even where there may be the germ of a desire, people do not wish to be dragooned into bettering themselves. Tact, as Mrs, Hope might have told him, goes further than good intentions. A glass of beer and a friendly smite on the shoulder would have got him several votes against the strike. As it was, he had merely strengthened the hands of • that ass Gibbons,' from making the mistake of sup- posing that the average human being is actuated by reason. Meanwhile the young man had passed under the archway and up the court, until he came to doorway No. 3. The hall and the five pairs of grimy stairs were only less public than the court, which in its turn was only less public than Light Street, because fewer feet trod thereon. He ascended the first flight of stairs and paused at one of the doors on the landing. From within came the droning notes of a harmonium, and Marston forbore to knock as he listened to the sound. A slatternly woman came down the second flight with a water-jug in her hand. She stopped, on seeing a stranger standing there, and listened to the music also. The dirge which was being played did not soothe whatever savageness there was within the 64 THE MUTABLE MANY breast of the woman, for she broke out against the inmates of the room. * Oh yes/ she cried ; ' fine goings-on for the likes of them. A harmonyum, if you please. 'Evin save us, we ain't good enough for the likes o' 'im. A har- monyum ! In Garden Court ! No good can come o* 'stravagance like that. Wot's 'e, I'd like to know? Bah!' The woman, with a wave of her hand, expressed her contempt for such goings-on, and departed down the stairs with her jug. Her husband spent his spare cash at the ' pub.,' as a man should, and not in such vanities as a second-hand musical instrument. She had, very properly, no patience with extravagance. Marston rapped when the playing ceased, and Joe Braunt himself came to the door. * Come in, my lad/ he said, cordially, and Marston went in. A tall girl, who might have been fourteen, or six- teen, or eighteen, rose from a chair at the harmonium. She was pale and thin, with large, pathetic eyes which gave a melancholy beauty to her face. * How are you, Jessie ? * said Marston, shaking hands with her. * Is the cough any better ? ' * I think it's always about the same/ replied the girl. * It is hard to get better in this hole/ said her father, gruffly. Braunt spoke with the accent of a Yorkshireman. He was a man who in stature and build did credit to his county ; and it was difficult to believe that the slender girl was his daughter. However much Joe Braunt's neighbours disapproved of his putting on airs and holding himself and his slim useless daughter above their betters, they took good care not to express their opinions in his hearing, for he was a rough, masterful man, taciturn and gloomy, whose blow was readier than his speech ; not only prompt, but effective. The r 6i i 1 kS jp IH K'. pH t' 1 f. 1 r i: »f •» f , h " ', ; ill i 1 h THE MUTABLE MANY whole court was afraid of him, and it acted on the principle of letting sleeping dogs lie. The woman with the jug in her hand had good cause for resentment against Joe Braunt. She had been getting her man home one evening from the * pub.,' with difficulty, and in spite of many breakings away on his part. She had succeeded in pushing and hauHng him as far as the first landing, when he — over- come by a sudden realization of her unnecessary cruelty, in dragging him from the brilliantly lighted public bar, filled with jollity, gin, and good comrade- ship, to the dismal back-room, two flights up, with nothing but her own bitter tongue for company — clenched his fist and felled her to the floor, the back of her head striding against Braunt's door as she went down. Braunt, pulling open his door, found the husband walking over, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say staggering over, the prostrate body of his wife. Joe clutched the drunkard and flung him airily over the landing rail. The ill-used man rolled down the stairs and out into the court, where he lay in a heap and groaned. Braunt lifted the woman and carried her to her room. She had a dazed idea of what had happened, and at once, rather incoherently at first, began to give the rescuer her opinion of him. Who was he, she would like to know, to interfere between man and wife, great strong brute that he was ? If her man had been sober he'd have given him what for ; takin' advantage of a pore man wot 'ad a drop too much. Braunt went downstairs and lifted the 'pore' man, who had certainly had one drop too much, carried him up, and laid him in his room with his wife. ' You've killed the pore man, as never did no 'arm to you,' screamed the wife. * No such luck,' said Braunt ; * he's too drunk to hurt.' 66 --'* -'-'"■■■■ THE MUTABLE MANY arm k to Which was indeed the case. Joe gently shut the door behind him, and left them to fight it out, if they wanted to. Mrs. Scimmins had much sympathy from the court, when she related the incident. The women were more indignant than the men. It was a fine state of things if a great, hulking, sulky brute like Braunt was to interfere in little matrimonial discussions that happeri in all well-regulated families. Much as they disliked the police, it seemed that now, if ever, their aid should be invoked. * If he'd tried to break every bone in my man's body, Mrs. Scimmins,' said one bulky woman, * I'd *a 'ad 'im by the 'air.' 'I dunno 'baht that, Sarah,' said Mrs. Scimmins, who did not wish to rest under the imputation of not doing all she could for her husband in his compara- tively helpless state. * Wot with being 'it in the 'ead, and the face and the back, and then my 'ead strikin' the door, and one eye as I couldn't see out on, and yer 'usban' a-tramplin* of yer, yer wouldn't 'ave breath enough to *ave anybody by the 'air.' Mrs. Scimmins pressed tenderly the bruised and still swollen portion of her face under the eye, and felt that she had made out her case ; in fact, her defence was accepted as a strong plea that only made Braunt's inhuman and uncalled-for conduct stand out the darker by comparison. The men were astonished, of course, but not so emphatic in their denunciation of Braunt as the wives had been. Scimmins bore no particular malice against his assailant ; although what he had thrown him over the stairs for, he expressed himself as unable to con- ceive. In answer to sympathetic inquiries from his friends at the public bar of the Rose and Crown, he informed them that, although shaky, he was still in the ring. * Lord 'elp us ! ' he went on, more in sorrow than in 6? F 2 l! THE MUTABLE MANY anger. ' Wot's this world a-comin' to ? If you arsts me, I gives it up. Wot with Braunt and the police both on a chap's shoulders if he raises 'is 'and to 'is own wife, the court's no fit place for a pore, 'ard- workin' man to live in.' But nobody ventured to remonstrate with the Yorkshireman, least of all Scimmins, although the court as a community held more aloof from Braunt than ever. 'Are you coming to the meeting to-night, Mr. Braunt ? asked young Marston, when he had greeted father and daughter. ' Not me.' 'Why not?' * Why go?' ' Well, you' see, Mr. Braunt, there is a crisis on. The committee is to report. Mr. Sartwell has refused to meet them, and this will likely anger Gibbons and the others. * Strike or no strike will be put to vote, and I for one don't want to see a strike — at least, not just now.* w *No more do Ah,' said Braunt. ' Then come on to the meeting and speak up against a strike.' * Ah'm no speaker. Ye speak.' 'They won't listen to me, but they would pay attention to what you said.' ' Not a bit of it, ma lad. But it doesn't matter to me, not a ha'porth.' * What doesn't ? Whether there is a strike or not ? * * Ah'm not goin' to strike. They can do as they've a mind.' ' But if the Union orders us out, we'll have to go.' ' Not me.' * Supposing the strike succeeds, as it may, the Union's very strong — what will you do then ? ' ' Stick to ma work and mind ma own business.' * But the Union won't let you. If the strike fails, 68 THE MUTABLE MANY yoon^ , you'll merely get the ill-will of all the men ; if it suc- ceeds, they'll force you out of the Works. There's no use running your head against a brick wall, Mr. Braunt.* * Ye speak ; yeVe got the gift o* th' gab,* said Braunt. * I'm too young. They won't listen to me now. But a day will come when they will — aye, and the masters, too. I'd willingly devote my life to the cause of the working-man.' Marston spoke with the fire of youthful enthusiasm, and was somewhat disconcerted when the other took his pipe from his mouth and laughed. ' Why do you laugh ? ' * Ah'm laughin' at ye. Ah'm glad to know there's some one believes in us ; but as thou says, thou'rt thou'll know better later on.' 'Don't you believe in yourself and your fellow- workers ? ' ' Not me. Ah know 'em ta well. " By the sweat of thy browshalt thou earn thy bread." Them's not the right words, happen, but that's the meaning. It has been, is now, and iver shall be. Amen.' ' I don't object to that, Mr. Braunt,' cried the young man, rising and pacing the floor in his excitement. ' Don't think it. But I want to see everybody work. What I object to is earning your bread by the sweat of the hired man's brow, as some one has said. Bless me ! look at our numbers. We outnumber the loafers ten to one — yes, a hundred to one — in every country in the world. Ail wc need is an unselfish leader.' The elder man looked at him with a quizzical smile on his stern lips. ' Think o' the number of the sands on the seaside. Will any leader make a rope oot o' them ? Numbers are nothing, ma lad. Tak care o' yerself, Marston, and niver mind th' workers — that's th' rule o' th' 69 'N« THE MUTABLE MANY world. Ye ma pull yerself oop, but yc can't lift them wi' ye. They've broken the hearts — aye, and the heads too— o' many a one that tried to better them. Ye think ye'vc only the masters and capital to fight. The masters won't hurt ye ; it's the men ye'rc fighting for that will down ye. Wait till yer head is an inch above the crowd, then yc'll catch it from the sticks of every rotten one o* them that thinks he's got as much right as ye have to be in command. It isn't the money that helps the masters; it's because they've the sense to know a good man when thty see him, and to stand by him when they've got him. Don't be fooled by numbers, ma lad. What's the good o' them ? One determined man who doesn't need to bother about his backing — who knows his principles will support him through thick and thin — will beat any mob. Why can a small company of soldiers put down a riot ? It's because they're commanded by one man. When he says " Jump," they jump ; when he says " Shoot," they shoot. That's the whole secret of it.' Braunt resumed his pipe and smoked vigorously to get back to his usual state of taciturnity. Marston had never heard him talk so long before, and he stood pondering what had been said. Braunt was the first to speak. ' Play the " Dead March," Jessie,* he said, gruffly. The girl hesitated a moment, evidently loth to begin when Marston was in the room, a slight hectic colour mounting to her cheek, but obedience was strong in her : her father was not a man to be disobeyed. She drew up her chair and began Chopin's * Funeral March,' playing it very badly, but still recognizably. Peace seemed to come over Braunt as he listened to the dirge. He sat back in the chair, his eyes turned towards the ceiling, smoking steadily. Marston sat down meditating on what Braunt had said. He was not old enough to have his opinions fixed, and to be 70 iffly. begin :olour )ng ill She [arch/ THE MUTABLE MANY impervious to argument ; so Braunt's remarks troubled him. He hoped lliey were not true, but feared that they might be. The mournful cadence of the music, which seemed to soothe the soul of the elder man, wound itself among the younger man's thoughts, and dragged them towards despair. The indiffVrence of the men in front of the public-house flashed across his memory and depressed him. He wished Jessie would stop playing. ' Ah ! ' said Braunt, with a deep sigh, when she did stop. • That's the grandest piece o' music ever made. It runs in ma head all day. The throb o' the ma- chinery at the Works seems to be tuned to it. It's in the roar of the streets. Coom, ma lad, Ah'll go wi' ye, because ye want me to — not that it will do any good. Ah'll speak if ye like ; not that they'll care mooch for what Ah say — nor hearken, very like But coom along, ma lad.' 7» 1 ► r 1 i , • M' ■4« ■ CHAPTER VIII .->■■,■' •"< ' ' ' Braunt and Marston passed from the dimness of Rose Garden Court into the brilliancy of Light Street, which on certain nights in the week was like one pro- longed fair, each side being lined with heaped-up costers' barrows, radiant with flaring naphtha. Incense was being burned— evil-smelling incense — to the God of Cheapness. Hordes of women, down at the heel, were bargaining with equally impecunious venders — meeting and chaffering on the common level of poverty. Turning into a side street, and then into a narrower lane, the two men came to a huge building, where a branch of the Salvation Army held its services — a building let temporarily to the workmen of Monkton and Hope for the discussion of their grievances. The place was crowded to the doors, and the latest comers had some difficulty in making their way along one of the walls, towards the front platform, where they at last found room halfway between the doors and the speakers. Scimmins was in the chair, looking very uneasy and out of place, not knowing exactly what was expected of him, smiling a wan, deprecatory smile occasionally as some of his friends in the crowd made audible remarks about his elevation, and the native dignity he brought to bear on his office. One gave it as his 7» THE MUTABLE MANY opinion (if you asked him) that Scimmins would have looked more natural with a pint pot in his right hand, instead of the mallet with which he was supposed to keep order. On chairs in a row at the back of the platform sat the members of the committee, looking, most of them, quite as uncomfortable as the chairman. A few re- porters were writing at a table provided for them. Sometimes one whispered a question to the chairman or a member of the committee, and received the almost invariable answer, ' Blest if know ; arsk Gibbons.* Gibbons was quite palpably the man of the hour. He was on his feet by virtue of his position as chair- man of the committee and secretary to the Union, and was just finishinff the reading of the committee's report as Braunt and Marston found standing-room at the side of the hall. * And finally your committee begs leave to report that, Mr. Sartwell having rejected all overtures from your committee, refusing to confer with it either through its chairman or as a body, it was resolved that this report be drawn up and presented to you in order that definite action may be taken upon it.' Mr. Gibbons, when he had finished reading the document, placed it upon the reporters' table for the closer inspection of the pressmen. He had drawn up the report himself, and was naturally rather proud of the wording, and he hoped to see it printed in the newspapers. He turned to his audience, after saluting the chairman. ' Now, gentlemen, you have heard the report. The committee appointed by you, empowered by you, acting for you, vested with your authority, has done all in its power to bring this matter to an amicable conclusion. It has left no stone unturned, shrunk from no honourable means, spared no trouble, to bring about an understanding, fair alike to employer and employed. But, gentlemen, your committee has been 73 ^»» I I. ■;. ,» THE MUTABLE MANY met at the very threshold with a difificulty which it could not surmount ; a difficulty which has rendered all its efforts abort! *^e. The firm of Monkton and Hope refers the committee to Mr. Sartwell, the mana- ger ; and Mr. Sartwell absolutely refuses to see the committee and discuss anything with it. This man, who was once a workman himself, now arrogates ' Here one of the reporters pulled Gibbofis' coat-tail, and a whispered colloquy took place. Wiien it was over, Mr. Gibbons continued, — * A gentleman of the Press has asked me a question — and a very proper question it is. He'asks if we threatened Mr. Sartwell in any way with a strike, as has been rumoured. G ^ntlcmen, no threats of any kind whatever have been used. (Cheers.) We have approached Mr. Sartwell with the same deference that we would have approached a member of Her Majesty's Government if we had a petition to present. The sum and substance of the whole business is, that Mr. Sartwell absolutely refuses to treat with his own men when they have ' 'That is not true,' said .1 voice from the side of the hall. The crowd turned their heads towards the sound, noticeably gleeful at an interruption, which promised liveliness ahead. There was a murmur of pleasurable anticipation. Gibbons turned sharply towards the point from which the voice came. ' What is not true ? ' he demanded. ' It's not true that Mr. Sartwell refuses to see his own men.' ' Are you one of them ?' ' Yes. Are you ? * There was a rustle of intense enjoyment at this palpable hit at Gibbons. The glib speaker him- self was taken aback by the retort, but only for a moment. ' I thought,' continued the secretary, ' that it might 74 THE MUTABLE MANY have been some one sent here to interrupt this meet- ing. Such may still, be the case, but we waive that point. We will not follow Mr. Sartwell's example ; and if there is any friend of his present we shall be pleased to hear from him at the proper time. As I was about to say when I was int ' * I answered your question ; answer mine ! ' cried the voice. Gibbons glanced appealingly at the chair for pro- tection, and Scimmins rapped feebly with his gavel on the table in front of him, saying * Order, order ! ' but in a tone that he apparently hoped nobody would hear. 'What is your question?' asked Gibbons, with an angry ring in his voice. ' Are you employed by Monkton and Hope ? * ' I am secretary of the Union of which the firm's men are a part — the strongest Union in London. I am chairman of this committee composed of that firm's men. I did not seek the position, but was unanimously elected to it ; therefore I claim that prac- tically I am employed by Monkton and Hope, and that no man here has a better right to speak for their workfTi a — aye, or to stand up for them against op- pression — than I have. And I will tell the man who interrupts me — I'll tell him to his face — that I am not to be browbeaten from the path of duty, by him or by Mr. Sartwell either, so long as I retain the confidence of the men who put me where I am. I acknowledge no other masters. If you want to address this meet- ing, come up on the platform and face it like a man, and don't stand barking there like a dog. Let's have a look at you.' There was wild cheering at this. The fight .vas on, and the crowd was jubilant. This was the kind of talk they liked to hear. Rraunt smote young Marston on t!ie back and pushed him forward. * Tak oop the challenge, lad,' he criid. ' Oop wi' 75 r ,, t, THE MUTABLE MANY ye. Ah'll follow ye and give them some facts aboot the unemployed. We've got this meeting if we work it right. Oop wi' ye, mate.* Marston went towards the platform, the crowd making way for him. Gibbons stood for a moment apparently surprised at this unexpected opposition, then walked back to his seat at the head of the com- mittee. The good-natured gathering cheered when they saw the young man standing before them. ' Fellow working-men,' he began. * Address the chair/ admonished some one in the middle of the hall ; whereat there was a laugh, Scim- mins himself indulging in a sickly smile. The speaker reddened slightly, and in jonfused haste said — * Mr. Chairman and fellow-workers ' The crowd cheered lustily, and it was some moments before Marston could again get a hearing. A feeling of despair came over him as he stood facing them. It was only too evident that they all looked upon the proceedings as a great piece of fun ; something in the way of a music-hall entertainment, without any beer — which was a drawback, of course ; but also without any charge for admission — which was an advantage, for it left so much more cash to spend in stimulants after the fun was over. He wondered as he looked at the chaffing, jocular assemblage whether he was not taking too serious a view of the situation. There flashed across his mind a sentence which he had heard in a lecture on Socialism. ' It is not the capitalist nor the Government you have to conquer,' the lecturer had said, ' but the workmen themselves.' When the disorder had subsided so that his voice could be heard, Marston went on — ' Mr. Gibbons asserted that the manager had refused to consult with hi5; workmen, and I replied that such a statement was not true. Mr. Sartvvell told me him- self that he was willing to receive a deputation from the men of the Works. He said ' 74 THE MUTABLE MANY ' What's that ? ' cried Gibbons, springing to his feet, and taking a step forward. ' Doan't interrupt th' speaker,' shouted Braunt, from the body of the hall. ' He interrupted me ! ' roared Gibbons^ now tho- roughly angry. Turning to the young man, who stood there, silently waiting for statement and retort to cease, the secretary demanded — * When did Sartwell tell you that? ' ' On Tuesday night.' ' On Tuesday night ! ' repeated Gibbons, coming to the front of the platform. ' On Tuesday night ! And you have the brazen cheek to stand here and admit it.' * Why shouldn't I ? ' asked Marston, with percep- tible self-control, but whitening round his tightened lips. ' Why shouldn't you ? I'll tell you why. Because you sneaked in behind the backs of the committee you had helped to appoint. That's why.' ^ I had no hand in appointing the committee.' ' Every man in the Works had a hand in appointing the committee. If you didn't vote, then you neglected your duty. If you voted against the committee, you were bound by the result just as the committee would have been bound if it had been defeated. That's trade unionism — stand together or fall together. You, knowing a committee had been appointed to deal with this very business, must go crawling to Sartwell, and undermine the work of your fellow-unionists ' ' That's a lie ! ' hissed Marston, through his set teeth, in a low but intense tone of voice, which was heard at the further end of the hall. The young man strode towards his antagonist, his right hand nervously clenching and unclenching. It was an electric mo- ment : the crowd held its breath. All expected the next move would be a blow. Gibbons stood his ground without flinching. Not a muscle of his face moved except his eyelids, which 77 1; 1 . If ♦ i J t i ♦n THE MUTABLE MANY partially closed over his eyes, leaving a slit through which a steely glance was shot at Marston, but his answer was not so truculent as his look. ' If it's a lie/ he said, calmly, to the evident disap- pointment of his hearers, M.hsn the lie is not mine. I was merely putting your own statement in a little terser language ; that's all.' Braunt, who had with difficulty kept his hot temper in hand during this colloquy on the platform, now roared, at the top of his voice : * Give t* lad a chance to speak, and shut yere silly mouth. He's called ye a liar like a man, and ye dar'n't take him oop like a man. Sit down, you fool 1 ' ' I must really ask the protection of the chair,' pro- tested the secretary, turning to Scimmins. The latter, feeling that something was expected of him, rose rather uncertainly to his feet, and struck the table three or four times with his mallet. ' Order, order ! ' he cried. ' If there is any more disturbance down there, the man will be put out of the meeting.' * What ? ' shouted Braunt. * Put me oot I Egod, Ah'll give 'e th' chance.' The big man made his way towards the platform, brushing aside from his path a few who, in the interests of peace, endeavoured to oppose him. The majority of those present, however, were manifestly of opinion that the progress of the angry man should not be barred ; so they cheered his intervention and made encouraging remarks. Braunt sprang upon the platform, advanced to the chair, smote his clenched fist on the table, and cried — * Here Ah am, Scimmins. Now put me oot ; d'ye her ; ' He paused for a reply, but there was none ; Scim- mins shrinking from him, obviously prepared for flight if Braunt attempted to storm the position. The York- shireman glared about him, but those on the platform 78 THE MUTABLE MANY 'god, the id— 'ye :im- |ight )rk- )rin appeared to think that the time for protest had not yet arrived. Meanwhile, several in the audience were calling loudly for a speech. * Ah haven't mooch to say, mates,* said Braunt, calm- ing down through lack of opposition, 'and Ah'm no man at th' gab. Ah'm a worker, and all Ah want is a chance to earn ma bread. But Ah'U say this — Ah saw in t' papers not so long ago that there's twenty-seven thou- sand men of oor trade oot o' work in England to-day. Twenty-seven thousand men anxious for a job I Now, what is this man Gibbons asking ye to do? He's asking ye to choock oop yere jobs and have yere places taken by some o* them twenty-seven thousand. Sartwell has only to put an advertisement in the papers, and he can fill the shops five times over in two days. It's always easier to choock oop a job than to get a new one these times. Ah know, because Ah've tried it. So have most of ye. Tak ma advice and go no further wi' this nonsense. If Sartwell, as Marston says, is willing to talk over grievances, then. Ah say, let us send him a deputation o* oor own men, with no outsiders among 'em. What's the Union done for us ? Taken oor money ivery week, that's all Ah can see. And now they have got so mooch o' it they want to squander it fighting a strong man like Sartwell.' Marston had sat down on the edge of the platform. People are always quicker to perceive the mistakes of others than to recognize their own ; and he did not like Braunt's talk against the Union. He felt that it would be unpopular ; besides, he believed in the Union if it were properly represented ; his fight was against Gibbons, not against the organization. Gibbons had rapidly taken the measure of the speaker. He saw that the address was having its effect, and that the crowd was slipping away from his own control. It was a risky thing to do in regard to such a powerful man, but he made up his minxd that Braunt must be angered, when he would most likely, in his THE MUTABLE MANY violence, lose the ground which he had gained ; so Gibbons quietly, by a slight movement of the head, called up his trusty henchmen who were scattered in different parts of the hall, to give an appearance of unanimity to the shouting when the proper time came ; and these men now gradually edged to the front. One or two silently mounted the platform and held a whispered conference with the secretary, after which they and some others took up a position behind the seated committee. When Sartwell was alludcu to, Gibbons arose. ' Mr. Chairman,' he said, ' I cannot allow ' Braunt turned on him like a raging lion. 'Don't ye interrupt me,' he cried, rolling up his sleeves, ' or Ah'll bash ye through that window.' ' Order, order ! ' said the chairman, faintly. *Yes, an' ye atop o' him,' shouted the infuriated man. ' Ah've done that sort o' thing before.' ' Respect the meeting, if you have no regard for the chair,' said Gibbons, calmly. ' You talk to us as if we were a parcel of fools,' cried a man in front. Braunt, like a baited bull, not knowing in which direction to rush, turned his eyes, blazing with rage, upon the last speaker. He shook his clenched fist and bared arm at the audience. * What else are ye ? ' he roared, at the top of his voice. ' A parcel o' domned fools, the lot o' ye. Led by the nose by a still bigger fool than any o' ye. Yes. A set o' chattering idiots, that's what ye are, with not enooph brains among the lot o' ye to turn a grindstone. Ah know ye, a beer-sodden gang, with just enooph sense to see that your pint moog's full.* By this time those in the hall were in a state of exasperation bordering on frenzy. A small door, to the right of the platform, giving egress into an alley, had been opened, and a number of the more timid, seeing a storm impending, had quietly slipped out. 80 ik.i.i THE MUTABLE MANY The meeting had now become a seething mob, crying for the blood of the man who stood there defying and heaping contumely upon it. Gibbons, his lips pale but firm, took a step forward. ' We have had enough of this,' he said. * Get off the platform.' Braunt turned as if on a pivot, and rushed at the secretary. The latter stepped nimbly back ; and one of his supporters, with a running jump and hop, planted his foot squarely in Braunt's stomach. The impetus was so great, and the assault so sudden and unexpected, that Braunt, powerful as he was, doubled up like a ' two-foot ' rule, and fell backward from the platform to the floor. Instantly a dozen men pounced upon him, and hustled him, in spite of his striking out right and left, through the open door into the alley. The door was then closed and bolted in the twinkling of an eye, Braunt outside and his assailants within. It was all so neatly and so quickly done, that the police, who had been on the alert for some time, only reached the spot when the door was bolted. The crowd, with but the vaguest general notion of what had happened, excepting that they had seen the sudden backward collapse of Braunt, raised a wild cheer, for which Gibbons was thankful. He did not wish them to know that Braunt had been taken in hand by the police outside ; and he had been very anxious, if an arrest were inevitable, that it should not take place in the hall, for then even Braunt's violent tirade would not have prevented universal sympathy turning towards him. While the cheer was ringing up to the roof, Gibbons heard a terrific blow delivered against the door — a blow which almost broke off the bolt, causing the faces of those standing near to turn pale. Another crashing stroke shattered the panel and gave a glimpse for the moment of bleeding knuckles. Then there was an indication of a short sharp struggle in the G Si HP THE MUTABLE MANY alley, and all was quiet save the reverberating echo of the cheer. Gibbons strode to the front of the platform and held up his hand for silence. *I am very sorry,* he said, 'that the last speaker made some remarks which ought not to have been made ; but let us all remember that hard words break no bones. However, there has been enough talk for one night, and it is time to proceed to business. Gentlemen, you have heard the report of the com- mittee — what is your pleasure ? ' ' I move,' said a man, rising in the middle of the hall, ' that we go on strike.' ' I second that motion,* cried several voices. * Put the motion,' whispered Gibbons to the bewil- dered chairman. Scimmins rose to his feet. * You have all heard the motion/ he said. ' All in favour say " Aye." * A seemingly universal shout of ' Aye ' arose. The chairman was on the point of resuming his seat when Gibbons, in a quick aside, said, * Contrary.* 'All to the contrary?* called out the chairman, hovering between sitting and standing. There was no dissent, for Marston had left the place to see what had become of his friend, and the timorous men had stolen away when they had detected signs of disturbance. * Motion's carried,* said Scimmins, seating himself, with every indication of relief. 'Unanimously,' added Gibbons, loudly, unable to conceal his satisfaction with the result. > :,» 8a CHAPTER IX There are streets in Chelsea practically abandoned to studios. Long, low buildings of one story, with many doors in front, and great broadsides of windows at the back — multi-paned windows letting in from the north the light that artists love — line these thoroughfares, which Barney in his jocular, off-hand manner called Aurora Borealis streets, because, as he always explained, they were so full of Northern Lights. Such studios are all very well for the ordinary everyday artist who exhibits at the Royal Academy and places of that sort ; but a painter with a soul (and, incidentally, a reliable bank account) desires something better than one of these barns, so Barney had taken a house and fitted it up to meet his require- ments. Craigenputtock House, as Barney called it, in tardy recognition of the genius of Thomas Carlyle, was a building of three stories, standing back from the street in grounds of its own. The rooms on the upper floor were allowed to remain as they were, and gave Barney bedrooms for himself and his friends — his hospitality being unique and unlimited. All the partitions on the first floor had been taken away, so that this portion of the house was formed into one vast apartment, with the exception of a space for a noble landing, up to which, in dignified manner G3 83 -1^! ¥' SI I THE MUTABLE MANY befitting a temple of art, rose a broad flight of stone steps that replaced the ordinary wooden stair-way which had contented the former occupants of the house. To afford the support necessary for the upper floor, now that the partitions were taken away, huge square beams of timber had been put in, and these gave the ceiling of the roomy studio that barn-roof appearance so necessary to the production of works of the higher art. Barney's mother objected to the bare coldness of the uncovered stone stairs. As they were inside the house, she said, and were not the steps that led up to the front door, they should have a carpet on them. Barney admitted that under ordinary circumstances this was so, and willingly offered to make a certain concession should the occasion arise. If Royalty visited him, he would put down the customary red carpet upon which the feet of Royalty were in the habit of treading. In fact, he admitted to his mother that a roll of red carpet had already been purchased, and was at that moment in the closet under the stairs to be ready at a moment's notice. But for everyday wear the steps should remain uncovered, because the stone stair-ways of the Pitti Palace were always bare, and as Barney intended ultimately to make Craigen- puttock House quite as celebrated in the world of art as the Florentine Gallery, he would follow its precedent so far as stairs were concerned. There is nothing like beginning right. On the ground-floor were dining-room and kitchen, below that a well-filled cellar. The hall was toned a rich Pompeian red, and was lighted by two windows of brilliant stained glass, which had been put in when the building was transformed from a residence into a studio. ' Oh yes,' Barney would say, when he was com- plimented on these windows ; ' they are all very well in their way, but not original, don't you know — not 84 THE MUTABLE MANY :chen, oned two been Dm a original. No ; they are simply nicely executed copies of a portion of a window in Cologne Cathedral, done in 1508. I placed them there temporarily, because I have been so busy that I have not had time to design anything better myself, which I shall do later on, don't you know.* But of all the ornamental appendages to this studio, perhaps the most striking was Barney's 'man,* attired in a livery of blue, crimson, and silver which was exceedingly effective. Although Barney had not had time to design a stained -glass window which would excel those of Cologne, he had been compelled to sketch out this livery — for it was hardly a thing that one could copy from abroad, and the Hope family had not been established long enough to have a recognized livery of its own. Nothing gives character and dignity to a place so much as a 'man* sumptuously fitted out in a style that is palpably regardless of cost ; and if it may be plainly seen that the ' man ' performs no needful function whatever, then is the effect heightened, for few human beings attain the apex of utter useless- ness. The great hotels of this country recognize the distinction reflected upon them by the possession of a creature of splendour at their doors, who grandly wafts the incoming guests with a hand-wave towards the hall. But these persons of embellishment often demean themselves by opening the doors of cabs and performing other useful acts, thus detracting from their proper function, which was, Barney insisted, to content themselves with being merely beautiful. When a visitor once complained that the man at the top of the stairs had refused to direct him into the studio, Barney laid his right hand in friendly brother- liness on the visitor's shoulder and said — ' He knew, dear boy, that I would discharge him instantly if he so far forgot himself as to answer a question.' 85 IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) k ■ ^0 jf /'A.^ '• \5^ L«-4S03 Ik 4s iV , 4 r THE MUTABLE MANY 'Then what is he there for?* asked the visitor, with some indignation ; * I don't see the use of him.' * Quite so, quite so,' answered Barney, soothingly. * If you did, I would have to get rid of him and engage another ; and I can assure you that perfectly useless persons six feet two in height are not to be picked up at every street corner. No, dear boy, they are not, I give you my word. People are so un- thinking that they will ask foolish questions. I intend to discourage this habit as much as possible. You want to know what he is there for ? Now, if I had placed a marble statue at the top of the staircase, you would not have been offended if it did not answer your query, don't you know ; and you would not have asked what it ^vas there for, don't you know. There are so many useful things in this world, that something untainted with utilitarianism ought to be welcomed by every thinking man; and if this deplorably practical country is ever to be redeemed, we artists must lead the way, don't you see ? * The grand individual at the head of the stairs had his uses, nevertheless ; for when Haldiman and another, accepting Barney's effusively cordial invita- tions to attend one of his 'At Homes,' entered the hall below and saw this magnificent person standing like a resplendent statue before and above them, Haldiman gasped, 'Great heavens I' and groped his way out on to the pavement again, followed by his no less astounded companion, an artist who was also strug- gling along in the black-and-white line. The two exchanged glances when at a safe distance from the studio, pausing as they did so. Their amazement was almost too great for words, yet Haldiman remarked, solemnly, — *I might have expected something of that sort. Imagine us dropping in there with these clothes on ! Lucky escape. I know a place on the King's Road where they sell good drinks. Let us go there and 86 . ffw f f' i^ w '■ > Mm* THE MUTABLE MANY iman out less :rug- two the was :ked, sort. on! load and see if we can recover from this blow. Oh, Barney, Barney, what deeds are done in thy name ! ' So the living statue silently warned off Barney's Bohemian friends, who are all right in Paris, don't you know, but not at all desirable when a man settles down to serious work and expects nobility at his receptions. The calm dignity of Barney's man was set off in a measure by the energetic activity of a boy in buttons who threw open the door with a flourish. * Buttons ' might be likened to a torpedo-boat darting hither and thither under the shelter of a stately ironclad. While the left hand of the small boy opened the door, his right swept up to his cap in a semi-military salute, which welcomed the coming and sped the parting guest. Barney's 'afternoon' was at its height when the doorbell was rung by a young man who had not received an invitation ; still ' Buttons ' did not know that, and he swung open the door with as grand a flourish as if the visitor had been a duke. The incomer was as much taken aback by the sight of Barney's ' man ' — that triumph of nature and art — at the head of the stairs, as Haldiman had been ; but although he paused for a moment in wonder, he did not retreat. He had a vague notion for an instant that it might be Barney himself, but reflection routed that idea. The latest visitor was entering a world unfamiliar to him, but his common sense whispered that the inhabitants of this world did not dress in such a fashion as the 'man' whom Marston saw before him. ' Is Mr. Barnard Hope at home ? ' he asked. * Yes, sir,* answered the boy, with a bow and a wave of his hand. ' This is his day. What name, sir ? ' 'Marston.' * Mr. Marston ! ' shouted the boy up the stair-way. The decorated sphinx at the top remained un- 87 THE MUTABLE MANY influenced by the announcement ; but a less resplen- dent menial appeared, who held back the heavy curtains as Marston mounted the stairs; and, when he entered, he heard his name repeated ahead of him amid the murmur of conversation. The sight that met Marston's eyes as he entered the studio was rather disconcerting to a diffident man, but he was relieved to notice, after a moment's breathless pause upon the threshold, that nobody was paying the slightest attention to him. The large room seemed bewilderingly full of people, and a number of men were standing with their backs against the walls as if they formed part of the mural decorations. Many of them held teacups in their hands, and all of them looked more or less bored. 1 he divans and chairs had been arranged in rows, as if they were to be used by the guests for the viewing of some spectacle ; and every seat was taken, most of the occupants being ladies. Two men-servants were handing round tea and cake, while Barney himself flitted hither and thither like a gigantic butterfly in a rose garden, scattering geniality and good humour wherever he went. The steady hum of conversation was enlivened constantly by silvery laughter. It was evident that the gathering, with the possible exception of that part of it which was standing pensively round the walls, was enjoying itself. As the eyes of young Marston became accustomed to the throng, his heart suddenly stopped, and then went on beating with increased speed as he recognized Edna Sartwell sitting on one of the front chairs, smiling at some humorous remark which Barney, leaning over her, was making. A moment before Marston had been conquering his impulse to retreat, by telling himself that all these idle persons were nothing to him ; but now, when he had recognized one person who was everything to him, he had to quell his abating panic with a new formula. 88 i THE MUTABLE MANY Although out of his element and ill at ease, he now felt that he could not quit the field in a fright before the task which he had set himself to perform was begun. In the depths of his nature there was a certain bulldog obstinacy, the limitations of which had never yet been reached ; although this unexpected meeting with a number of his fellow-creatures in a social station evidently higher than his own, put a severe strain upon his moral bravery. In vain he told himself that he was as good as any of them ; for in his heart he did not believ i that he was, and the mute assertion was of little value to him. Finally he took courage, and spoke to the servant who had held aside the curtains for him. ' Would you tell Mr. Hope that I wish to speak with him for a moment ? ' Barney approached the young man with smiling face and extended hand. ' Oh, how d'ye do, how d'ye do ? I am so glad you were able ^.o come to my little affair. You are just in time — ^just in time, don't you know.' Then as Barney's artistic eye rapidly took in the appearance of his guest, he realized that the new- comer's clothes had not quite the air of Bond Street about them, in spite of the fact that they were obviously the best his visitor possessed. The smile faded from the artist's face. *0h, pardon me!' he added; *I thought I recog- nized you, but I don't think I've had the pleasure of ' * No. We are not acquainted, Mr. Hope. I am one of the workmen in your father's factory.* * Really! You have some message for me, perhaps ?' * I came of my own accord. I wished very parti- cularly to speak with you on business.* •Oh, but really, my good fellow, don't you know, this is my * At Home ' day. I never talk business on these days — never. If you want to buy any of my 89 I ' It " 1 THE MUTABLE MANY pictures, or anything of that sort, don't ; ou know, you must come another day.' * I did not come about pictures, but about some- thing vastly different and more serious.' * My good fellow — you'll excuse my interrupting you, won't you ? There is no serious business except art, and to-day I don't even talk art.' 'Human lives,' said Marston, hotly, *are more serious than art.' ' Please don't raise your voice. You are certainly wrong about things; but I haven't time to correct you to-day, don't you know. All one needs to say about your last remark is that human lives are ephemeral, while art is everlasting. Therefor e is art the more important of the two. But we'll let that pass. Can't you come and talk another day? I'm sure I shall be delighted to see you at any time.' 'Couldn't you give me five minutes out on the landing?' * It is impossible. I cannot leave my guests. You see, we have the dancing Earl on in a few moments. His Lordship is just now arranging his skirts. I really must go, don't you know.' 'Then I will stay until the Earl has done his dancing, if that is what he is here for.' ' Do, my dear fellow, do. A most excellent idea. I am sure you will like it, for, though I have not seen the dance myself, I understand it is quite unique. Have a cup of tea ? I would have sent you a card if I had thought that any of my father's workmen were interested in the latest movements of art; but never mind the lack of invitation — if you care to stay with- out it, I shall be delighted. It is really good of you to drop in, in this unexpected way ; it is the kind of thing I like ; so Bohemian, don't you know. You'll excuse me, now, I'm sure.' And Barney tripped away to see that all arrangements for the appearance of the Earl were complete. 90 THE MUTABLE MANY The model-stand had been pushed to one end of the room fronting the audience ; heavy curtains had been drawn across the big north window, leaving the place in semi-darkness; there was the hissing and sputtering of a lime-light in the gallery, causing inquisitive people to turn their heads to see what it was. Marston stood against the wall beside another guest, who said to him, in a weary tone, — * Who is this man, Barnard Hope ? * ' He is an artist,' answered Marston, astonished that one guest should question a stranger regarding their mutual host. ' Evidently,' replied the other. ' But who are his people, or has he any ? ' * His father is one of the richest manufacturers in London.* ' Egad, I was sure of it. I knew there was a shop somewhere in the background ; the fellow is so beastly civil.' Conversation was here interrupted by a figure leaping on to the model-stand, while at the same instant a blinding white light was thrown from the gallery upon it. There was a ripple of applause, and the Earl, a beardless youth of perhaps twenty, bowed, looking like a girl in his clinging fluted skirts. He was a scion of a noble family, founded by an affectionate dancer of the opposite sex in the reign of the Second Charles ; and it is quite in the regular order of things that there should be a recrudescence of terpsichorean ability in the latest member of the house. The white light changed to red, and the skirt-dance began. As it went '^n it was received with tumultuous applause; for a London audience is always easy to please, especially when there is no charge for admission at the doors. Moreover, it must be admitted that the sprightly little Earl deserved the warmth of his THE MUTABLE MANY reception, for his exhibition was a model of grace and agility, while his manipulation of the voluminous skirts left little to be desired. The variegated colours thrown on the fluttering, whirling drapery gave a weird, unearthly effect to the rapid movements of his Lordship ; and the grand finale, when a crimson light was flung upon the flimsy silk waving high above the dancer's head, gave the agile young nobleman the appearance of one of the early martyrs wrapped in flames. * The curtains were drawn back ; the entranced assemblage rose to its feet, and, gathering about the host, congratulated him upon the success of his entertainment. Barney received these felicitations with exuberant gratification; and the young Earl, finally emerging from behind the scenes — clothed and in his right mind, but a trifle breathless — accepted modestly his well-earned share of the compliments ; for, let cynics say what they will, true merit is always sure of appreciation in the Great City. Edna Sartwell lingered for a moment on the out- skirts of the throng which pressed round Barney and the Earl, then leisurely made her way towards the door, waiting for her step-mother, who lingered to thank her host. The men who had stood along the walls were already in the street, and the other visitors had nearly all departed. Marston remained where he had been standing while the entertainment was going on, gazing with beating heart upon the girl he loved. She came slowly towards him, her head averted, watching her step- mother in the fast thinning group about Barney. There was a certain unconsciousness about her move- ments, as if the young man had hypnotized her and was drawing her to him by mere force of will. At last her dress touched him, and his nerves tingled to his finger-ends. Almost involuntarily he murmured — 'Miss Sartwell.' 9» U 1 THE MUTABLE MANY ( r The girl turned her head quickly, and for a moment met his gaze without recognizing him. * My name is Marston/ he said, huskily, seeing that she did not know him. * I met you the other evening at your father's office, when he and I were talking of the strike.* * Oh yes/ she replied ; ' at first I did not remember you. I— I did not expect to ' She paused, and seemed confused, looking away from him. ' To find me here,' said the young man, completing the sentence for her; gathering courage as the de- lightful fact that he was actually talking to her, impressed its almost unbelievable reality upon him. * I did not know there was anything like this going on. I came to consult Mr. Hope on the same subject ' He flushed as the memory of an entirely different subject arose in his mind, and he felt his newly acquired courage beginning to ebb again. He pulled himself together and ended, lamely: 'About the strike, you know.' *Oh!' said Edna, instantly interested. 'Is there anything new about the strike ? * ' Yes. There was a meeting last night, and it was unanimously resolved to stop work.' The colour left the girl's cheeks. ' And are the men out ? Is that why you are here to-day?' 'No. They do not go out until a week from Saturday. I did what I could to prevent it, but with- out success. I applied to the head of my department for this afternoon off. It seemed to me that, in the few intervening days before the men go out, some- thing might be done, when the enthusiasm of the meeting has died down. That's why I came, but I'm afraid there is not much to look for here.' * Does Tiiy father know ? ' ' About the strike ? Oh yes.' The girl's winsome face clouded with apprehension. H THE MUTABLE MANY ' t: ! /' ( ' I am SO sorry,' she said, at last. ' I am sure it is not my father's fault, for he is kind to every one. Even if he is sometimes severe' — she cast a shy upward glance at the young man that made his heart beat faster — * he is always just.* ' Yes, I know that is true. He will certainly beat the men, and that is why I want moderate counsels to prevail. In a trade dispute, the working-man is always at a disadvantage. Most of his mouthing friends are fools, and he himself is the greatest fool of all.' * Don't you think that you are a little hard on the working-man? Were you here in time to see the dancing Earl ? ' She looked at him with a frank smile, and Marston smiled in coimpany with her — it brightened his face wonderfully, and seemed to establish an evanescent bond of comradeship between them. ' I had forgotten the Earl,' he said. ' I must go now. I see my step-mother looking for me. I hope you will be successful in averting trouble at the Works.' She extended her hand to him, and he took it tenderly, fearing that he might grasp it too closely and so betray himself. Mrs. Sartwell and her step-daughter were among the last to go. When none remained but Marston, Barney threw himself on a divan and lighted a cigarette. * Well, my young friend, here we are alone at last. Help yourself to the cigarettes, and allow me to offer you something stronger than the tea with which we regale the ladies. We have several shots in the locker, so just name your particular favourite in the way of stimulant while I order a B. and S. for myself. You might not believe it, but one of these afternoons takes it out of a fellow more than a day's work at the factory. Not that I ever indulge in factory work myself, but I think you said it was in your line.* 94 THE MUTABLE MANY * Yes,' said Marston, after declining the offerings of his host. * It is about the factory that I wished to speak with you. The men resolve J last night to go out on strike.* * Foolish beggars ! * *I quite agree with you. Their action is worse than foolish ; that is why I came to see if you would intervene in any way so that a better state of feeling might be brought about.* ' Well, now — let's see, I believe I have forgotten your name, or did you tell me?— ah, Marston — thanks — so many things on my mind, don't you know. You see, Mr. Marston, it's really no business of mine, although I must admit that your offer of the position of arbitrator flatters me. This makes twice I have been asked within a few days, so I think I must really be a born diplomat, don't you know. But you see, there's nothing I enjoy so much as minding my own business, and this strike is no affair of mine.* *I think it is. All the luxury you have here is surely earned by the men I am now speaking for.' ' My dear fellow, you are not in the least flattering ; you are not, I assure you. You are saying, in other words, that my pictures do not sell.* * I had no intention of suggesting anything of the kind. I have no doubt you can sell anything you paint.' 'Ah, now you go to the other extreme, and are commending the artistic discernment of the British Public, which, at present, is a compliment the B. P. does not deserve. It will come round ultimately; the great B. P. always does, but not yet, my boy, not yet. Give it time, and it will pour cash into your lap. I regret that the moment — how shall I put it? — well, up to date, the time has not arrived. The workmen, whom you honour by asso- ciating with, at present supply — ^as you state it, 95 I m I )i ' J , 1' THE MUTABLE MANY with unnecessary bluntness, perhaps— the financial deficiency. But the public will pay for it all in the end, every penny of it, my boy. 'You see these pictures round the walls. Very well ; I hold them at two thousand pounds each. I find little difficulty in so holdinfj them, for no section of the great British Public has, up to the present time, evinced any dogged desire to wrench them from me in exchange for so much gold. What is the consequence? I shall increase the price five hundred pounds every year, and the longer they hold off, the bigger sum they will have to pay ; and serve them jolly well right, say I. Ten pictures, twenty thousand pouiids — this year. Next year, twenty-five thousand pounds, and so on. With property on my hands increasing at that rate, I should be an idiot to urge people to buy. Ground-rents in Belgravia arc not in it with my pictures as investments. So you see, Marston, when my day comes, the factory will be a mere triviality as an income-producer compared with my brush, don't you know.' ' But in the meantime ? ' ' In the meantime, I am getting along very nicely, thank you. The strike will not affect me in the least. The men may have to diminish their amount of shag or whatever awful mixture they smoke, but I shall not consume one cigarette the less. I have done nothing to bring on this struggle, so if the men want to fight, then, by Jingo, let them, say I.' ' The fight is not yet actually begun, and won't be until a week from Saturday. Now is the time for a cool-headed man to interfere and bring about an amicable understanding. Won't you at least make the attempt, Mr. Hope ? * * My dear Marston, the way of the self-appointed arbitrator is hard. I was reading in this morning's paper about your charming meeting last night ; and I noticed that one man who interfered was kicked ^ I THE MUTABLE MANY off the platform and thrown out into a side street. That is the working-man's idea of how an intellectual discussion should be terminated. I love the working- man myself, but I sometimes wish he would not argue with his hob-nailed boot. By the way, did you witness that interesting episode? You were there, I suppose ? ' ' Yes. Braunt, who was kicked out, is one of the best workmen in the factory, but very hot-tempered. He lost control of himself last night, under strong provocation, and when he was outside tried to batter in the door. The police interfered, and he knocked down three of them. That was disastr'^us, for he was fined five pounds this morning, and '. have been trying to raise the money so that he need not go to prison ; but he and I are on the side of the minority; he exasperated our fellow-workmen, and I am not getting on well with the subscription list.' Barney sprang to his feet. ' Knocked down three, did he ? Good man I That's something like. It's a most deplorable trait in my character that I somehow enjoy an assault on the police, and yet I recognize the general usefulness of the force. Five pounds, did you say? Then there will be the costs? I don't understand much about these things, but I believe there are usually costs — on the principle of adding insult to injury, I suppose. Will a ten-pound note see him through? Good Here it is. Three pounds odd a policeman is no' expensive when you think how much some of our luxuries here below cost, don't you know. No thanks, Marston, I beg of you j it's a pleasure, I assure you.' As Marston took the money which was to release Braunt a servant came in and said, in a low voice,— ' Simpson wants to know if he may go, sir.' ' Bless me, yes. I thought he haci gone long ago. — Simpson is my ornamental six-footer at th*^ head of the stairs ; perhaps you noticed him as you came in ? H 97 (i r 1 i 1 J. " t i i< t\ 1 '1 i I ! \ THE MUTABLE MANY Poor fellow, he's not allowed to do anything but stand there and look pretty, so I suppose it gets weari- some. Imagine such Boy-stood-on-the-Burning-Deck devotion at this end of the nineteenth century ! I had forgotten him, being absorbed in your interesting con- versation. Well, Marston, I'm sorry I can't arbitrate ; but drop in again and let me know how things go on. Good afternoon.' CHAPTER X On Saturday, when the notices expired, the men took their well-earned pay, one by one, and went out of the gates quietl/, if sullenly. During the time which had intervened between the date of the meeting and the hour at which the men actually struck work, neither side made advances to the other. If Sartwell had been preparing for the struggle, his preparations had been made so secretly that Gibbons failed to learn of them. The secretary of the Union issued a manifesto to the Press, setting forth the position of the men in temperate phrase, which had the effect of bringing public sympathy largely to the side of the workers. The manifesto was an admirable document, and most of the papers published it, a few of them editorially regretting the fact that in this enlightened country and in this industrial age, some hundreds of men, the bone and sinew of the land, willing to work, were forced to go into the streets in protest against a tyranny which refused even to discuss their alleged wrongs. The newspapers pointed out that whether their grievances were just or not was beside the question, as the point was that the manager had refused to see a deputation; and this high-handed conduct the newspapers expressed themselves as forced to deplore. Ha 99 \! • i %*'■ J. THE MUTABLE MANY Both members of the firm thought Gibbons' mani- festo should be answered, but the manager did not agree with them ; so it was not answered. Pickets were placed before the gates, and a few extra policemen appeared, as if by accident, in the neighbourhood, but there was nothing for either policemen or pickets to do. On Monday some of the men lounging round the place looked up at the tall chimneys, and saw them, for the first time during their i'emembrance, smokeless. The workmen had never noticed the smoke before, but now its absence created an unexpected void in the murky outlook. It was as if the finger of Death had touched those gaunt, lofty stacks ; and the unusual silence of the place which the men had always known to be so busy, seemed to give to the situation a lonely solemnity which they had not looked for. On Tuesday some dray-loads of new machinery arrived at the Works ; and these the pickets attempted to stop, but without success. Gibbons, on being con- sulted, took a sensible and liberal view of the matter. ' Let them put in all the new machinery they wish. That v/ill mean employment for more men when we go back. We will not interfere with Sartwell until he tries to fill the Works with new men.' For the remainder of the week the shops echoed with the clang of iron on iron, but no smoke came from the tall chimneys. ' Call this a fight ? ' said one of the men over his mug of beer ; ' I call it a beanfeast.' On Saturday strike pay was given out at head- quarters, each man getting- -not indeed his usual wage, but still a comfortable sum— for the Union was rich. It was truly a beanfeast — all pay and no work. The first week had enabled Sartwell to make repairs and to add machinery that had long been needed ; but it had another effect, which he considered xoo THE MUTABLE MANY more important still. It allowed Mr. Monkton and Mr. Hope time to recover their second wind as it were. These good but timorous men had been panic- stricken by the going out of their employes, and by the adverse comments of the Press. As nothing happened during the week, they gradually regained what they called their courage; and, although they perhaps did not realize it, they were more and more committed to the fight, which was now actually begun. They could hardly with decency, after keeping silence for a week, during which there was peace, give way afterwards should there be violence. The vigilance of the pickets, perhaps, relaxed a little as time went on and there was nothing to do, but one morning they had a rude awakening. When they arrived at the gates they saw smoke once mor^ pouring from the chimneys ; there was a hum of machinery ; the Works were in full blast. Bat the former workers were outside the walls. The news spread quickly, and the men gathered to the gates from all quarters. Gibbons was early on the ground, like an energetic general ready to lead his men in the fray. He saw that the fight was now on, and he counselled moderation when he spoke to the excited men. It was all right, he answered them ; he had expected this and was prepared fjr it. The gates remained closed, and when Gibbons asked admittance to speak with the manager, his request was curtly refused. This refusal did not tend to allay the excitement, or to improve the temper of the men. The police kept the throng on the move as much as possible, but the task became more and more difiicult as its numbers increased. At noon a van, evidently loaded with provisions, drove down the street; and when the mob learned that its destination was the Works, a cry went up that the vehicle should be upset. Again the pacifying influence of Gibbons made itself felt ; and the van, lot 1 1 i^ ' (; i i i THE MUTABLE MANY amid the jeers of the bystanders, drove in, the gates being promptly closed after it. Gibbons retired with his captains to head-quarters, where a consultation was held. There was a chance that Sartwell, during the first week, when he was supposed to be putting in new machinery, had also been building dormitories for his new workers, and that he was fijoing to keep them inside the gates, free from the influence of the Union. This plan had not been foreseen by Gibbons, and he was unprepared for it. 'Well, they must come out sooner or later, and when they do we will have a talk with them,* said the secretary. * My own opinion is that they will come out to-night at the usual hour, and I propose to act on that supposition. If I find I am wrong, we will meet again to-night, and I may have some proposals to make. In a short time we shall be able to learn whether the " scabs " are coming out or not. There is no mystery about their getting in. Sartwell has evidently chartered a steamer, and landed them at high tide on the river front of the Works. Meanwhile, you get back among our own men, and advise them not to make any hostile demonstration when the blacklegs appear; and when they do come out, let each man of you persuade as many as you can to come to the big hall, where we can have a talk with them. Tell our men that if there is any violence they will merely be playing into Sartwell's hands. We don't want the police down on us, and, until there is a row, they will at least remain neutral.' This advice commended itself to all who heard it, and, the details of the programme having been arranged, they all departed for the scene of con- flict. Promptly at six o'clock the gates were thrown open, and, shortly after, the * blacklegs ' began to pour forth ;into the street. There were no hootings or jeerings ; loa THE MUTABLE MANY but the strikers regarded the new-comers with scowl- ing looks, while the latter seemed rather uncomfort- able, many of them evidently apprehensive regarding their reception. * Men,' cried Gibbons, ' who is your leader ? I want a word with him.* The stream of humanity paused for a moment in spite of the commands of the police to move along. The men looked at one another, and Gibbons quickly recognized the state of things — they were strangers to each other, coming as they did from all parts of England. This surmise was confirmed by one man who spoke up. * We've got no leader,' he said. 'Then you be the spokesman,' cried Gibbons. 'Did you men know, when you came here, that there was a strike on ? ' ' Something of that sort,' replied the spokesman, sullenly. ' Do you belong to a Union ? ' ' The Union never did nowt for us.* ' Do you know that you are taking bread from the mouths of other workers ? ' ' We must put bread into our own mouths.' At this point the police sergeant touched Gibbons on the shoulder. ' I can't allow this obstruction,* he said. ' Give me two minutes,* pleaded Gibbons. ' No, nor one.' Gibbons turned savagely upon him. ' J^ook here,' he cried. ' Have some tact and sense. Don't you know that I have merely to raise my hand and this crowd will sweep you and your men off the face of the earth ? ' 'That won't prevent me from sweeping you into prison.' ' Certainly not. But you can arrest me quietly when you like, or I'll meet you at the police-station 103 I THE MUTABLE MANY *■ ■ ■ . i any hour you name ; if you attempt to interfere now, you'll have a riot on your hands, fm holding this crowd in check ; it is not their fear cf you. There's no traffic coming through this street, or likely to come. We're therefore obstructing nothing, and I'm as anxious as you are to keep the men within the law. Good heavens 1 you may have your hands full at any moment, so don't push patient people over the line. Remember, you are not in Sartwell's employ. I only want a few words with these men ; then we il leave the street to you.' The sergeant hesitated a moment. It was an ominous .nob. ' Look sharp, then,' he said, stepping back. * Come with us,' cried Gibbons ; ' we can't talk here. Come to the big hall, and if you don't like what we say, there will be no harm done. This is a free country.* The secretary turned as if he had no doubt that the crowd would follow, and the leaderless men walked after him. Gibbons' assistants mixed with them and talked persuasively to the strangers. Then it was found that Gibbons had been right in his surmise; the new men had been brought into the Works by the river front! Before half an hour all the 'blacklegs' were in the Salvation Army hall, signing the Union roll and being put on the strike- pay list. It was a notable triumph for Gibbons— first blood, as a sporting man would say. Next morning when the gates were opened not a man entered, and Sartwell once more found himself without an employ^. After the gates had remained invitingly open for half an hour, they were closed again, and a great cheer went up as the two big iron- bolted leaves came together. Sartwell's resources, however, were not yet ex- hausted. Two days later the factory was thronged X04 THE MUTABLE MANY n- with workmen once more, and these also Gibbons bought for the Union, in spite of the manager. Thus the game went on, and it convinced the men that their secretary knew a thing or two, being more than a match for the manager. Gibbons carried himself confidently, and talked with a grand assurance which he was perhaps far from feeling, for he became more and more haggard and anxious as the fight con- tinued. He alone knew the seriousness of the in- creased drain on the sources of the Union, through the enforced support of the new hands whom he had lured away from Sartwell's employ, and which had upset all his previous calculations. An attempt had been made to lighten the burden by persuading the new men to return to their homes ; and this had been partially successful with the first lot; but the others obstinately insisted on getting their share of the strike pay, and refused even to con- sider the advisability of returning. They demanded what was promised them, and in default threatened to re-enter the Works in a body, which action would have speedily put an end to the contest. Gibbons was well supported by that section of the Press which gave more than a few lines each day to the progress of the strike. One morning the chief of these newspapers came out with an appeal to the public for aid. The case of the strikers, battling, it might be, first for their own rights, but fighting in reality for all working humanity, was most convincingly and tersely put in a ' double-leaded ' leader, and the journal itself headed the list with a handsome con- tribution. Would the people of England hold aloof, and reduce these workers to slaves, using the weapon of grim starvation against them ? The journal did not believe such apathy existed, and its belief was amply justified, for subscriptions poured vapidly in, together with indignant letters from all parts of the country, which were duly printed in its columns. 105 THE MUTABLE MANY * The first pinch of the strike came on the men when it was suddenly announced that strike pay would the next Saturday be cut down to one quarter the amount they were then receiving. There was a good deal of grumbling and many inquiries as to what they were fighting for; but on the whole the disastrous pro- clamation was received quietly, if somewhat grimly. * We are bound to win/ said Gibbons, when he was reluctantly compelled to tell the men of the reduction. * The firm is losing nearly a thousand pounds a week by the factory remaining idle, and it is not likely they will stand that long, even to oblige Sartwell.' Gibbons had not the courage to add that, even v i the reduction, the Union could not hold out n.^.e than a week longer; that it was practically at the end of its resources, and that future strike pay would have to depend on the subscriptions received from outside — a most precarious source of revenue, for every one knows how short-lived enthusiasm is, and how the collection of hard cash destroys it. There is much in good generalship, and one of its axioms is that you should endeavour to discover your enemy's weakest point. Never once did it dawn on Gibbons or any of his lieutenants that the fortress they were attacking had only to be approached in one direction, when the walls would crumble like those of Jericho. Never did it occur to him that Sartwell was fighting, at the same time, two battles, one with the men and one with the masters ; and of the two contests he feared the result of the latter most. Sartwell was between two fires ; he had urged both Monkton and Hope to quit England until the struggle was over, and leave the conducting of it to him. They vacillated ; in the evening Sartwell would have their promise, but in the morning they had changed what they were pleased to call their minds. They always feared the worst. They saw the factory in flames and the mob io6 THE MUTABLE MANY shot down by troops. They implored Sartwell to come to some agreement with the men ; he had said the strike would be over in three weeks, and here it was still dragging on, the men as determined as ever. If he were wrong about the duration of the fight, might he not be wrong also in his treatment of the men r Was no compromise possible ? This sort of thing Sartwell had to contend with, and it wearied him more than the strike itself. He opened the newspapers in daily fear that he would find there some letter from the firm in answer to the strictures of the day before, which would show the public at once how the land lay. Gibbons believed the backbone of a fight was money — as in many cases it is ; but a moment's reflection might have shown him that if the contest was to be conducted on a financial basis the strikers had not the ghost of a chance, because the firm of Monkton and Hope was much richer than the Union. He believed in fighting the devil with fire. Adages are supposed to represent the condensed wisdom of the ages, whereas they too often represent condensed foolishness. If one has to meet an expert swordsman on the field of honour, he should select a pistol if he has the choice of weapons. Fight the devil if you like, but never with fire. When Marston had said to Gibbons, ' Mr. Sartwell knows to a penny how much you have in the bank,* the secretary had answered grandly that Sartwell might see the books of the Union for all he cared, and much good might it do him. The fact that a man like Sartwell thought it worth his while to find out what the enemy was doing, did not suggest to Gibbons that it might not be a bad plan to have a look over Sartwell's shoulders, and discover just how things were going in the privacy of the manager's office. When Marston ferreted out various things as the fight progressed, and brought his information to Gibbons, 107 -"■' THE MUTABLE MANY I ('. » 4 ' ' the latter waved it aside as of no consequence, treat- ing Marston throughout as an enemy in the camp. Timid little Mr. Hope passed through the gates each day to his office, scarcely ever glancing at the crowd, which hooted him and made remarks not pleasant to hear. He dreaded the moment of arriv- ing and that of leaving, but thought it courageous to keep up his daily attendance, imagining he would be neglecting his duties as a free-born Briton if he deserted his post at this time of danger. If Gibbons had been a shrewd man, he would have called upon Mr. Hope at Surbiton ; and ten minutes' conversation there would have shown him the true state of affairs, for the timid little manufacturer was as transparent as crystal. If the secretary had lured one of the partners to the strikers' place of meeting, which might have been accomplished as easily as with the * blacklegs ' from the country, he would in all pro- bability have secured a public statement which would have made Sartwell's resignation inevitable. Thus might Gibbons have led his army to victory, and at the same time have placed his enemy where his army then was — outside the gates. But Gibbons failed to do any of these things — chiefly because in a great factory, con- trolled as this was by a strong general manager, the men all knew the manager, but hardly one of them had ever spoken to the partners; and Gibbons was not even one of the workmen. And to approach directly the members of the firm was merely one of the methods by which a clever general could have triumphed. If Gibbons had taken the trouble to inform himself about the effect which the few newspaper articles had produced in the minds of the partners, he would have endeavoured to make arrangements for the publication of a series of such articles, dealing with the well-known philanthropy of the firm, and containing some moral reflections about charity beginning at home. This undoubtedly would zo8 'I , treat- inp. ; gates at the ks not f arriv- eous to >uld be eserted id have [linutes* he true irer was d lured meeting, as with all pro- \i would Thus d at the ny then do any ry, con- fer, the >f them »ns was THE MUTABLE MANY have caused the ground to crumble away beneath the feet of Sartwell ; for Monkton and Hope were proud of the good their benefactions were supposed to do ; and, until this trouble had arisen, they had thought themselves just employers, who treated their men with fairness — as indeed they were, and as indeed they did. Now they were in doubt about the matter, and had an uneasy feeling that they had been perhaps remiss in their duties towards their employes. Sartwell dominated them when he was in their presence ; and they knew his value too well to run the risk of losing him. They knew also, that if they gave way to the men without his sanction, they would certainly lose him ; and they had rivals in London who would be only too glad to take him into their employ ; yet, in spite of this knowledge, they wavered, and it required but a little tact and diplomacy on the part of Gibbons to win a victory all along the line. :'•^•^■ 1 le firm clever taken which minds make )f such [opy of about would m$ >» CHAPTER XI « Sartwell showed no sign of the wear and tear of the struggle. He walked from the station to his office every morning at the usual hour, as if everything were going on to his entire satisfaction. He was always dressed witli scrupulous neatness, and he invariably carried in his hand a trimly folded umbrella, which no one had ever seen him undo, for when it rained he took a cab. The umbrella seemed a part of him, and a purely ornamental part ; he was never met in the street without it. No man could say when Sartwell purchased a new suit of clothes ; each suit was pre- cisely like the one which had preceded it, and it was always put on before its predecessor began to show signs of wear. There was as little change in Sartwell's demeanour towards the men as there was in his clothes. He did not keep his eyes turned towards the ground as he passed along the street to the gates, nor was there, on the other hand, any belligerency in his manner. The men had gone out ; that was their affair ; he nodded to them or bade them a curt ' Good morning,' as had been his habit before the trouble. Few of them had the presence of mind to do otherwise than raise a finger to their caps ; or to omit to answer with the customary mumble, ' Mornin', sir.' Habit is strong in the human animal, as has often been pointed out. No one of all those concerned was more anxious for no THE MUTABLE MANY the strike to end than Sartwell, but none the leps was he determined that it should end in his way. He knew that there were openings in his armour, through which, with a bh'ndness not to be explained by the manager, Gibbons neglected to thrust. Curiously enough, it was not Gibbons whom Sart- well feared in this contest, but Marston. He knew the young man had been strongly against the strike, but he also knew that he had thrown in his lot with the men ; and although the leaders of the strike, up to that time, had held aloof from Marston, pretending to look upon him as a covert traitor to the cause, still Sartwell feared that they might take him into their counsels at last, and that he would show them the way out of their difficulties. The manager had made it his business to learn all he could of what was done by his opponents ; and in this he had been amazingly successful. He knew of Marstor s visit to Barney, and of the practically futile result of that conference ; but he had such slight con- fidence in Barney's good sense that he feared some hint might have been dropped by the artist, which would show the men how anxious Monkton and Hope were for a settlement on almost any terms. As time passed, and Sartwell saw that Gibbons still held Marston at arm's length, he became less and less anxious. Affairs were rapidly approaching a crisis when Marston's aid would be useless. A few days after the announcement of the reduction in strike pay had been made, Sartwell, approaching the gates in the morning, saw Marston standing alone at the street corner. The manager had almost passed him without greeting on either side, when the elder man suddenly stopped, turned half round, and said, sharply, — • On picket duty, Marston ? ' ; . «No, Mr. Sartwell' * Not in their confidence, perhaps ? * in * THE MUTABLE MANY ^ ' I suppose I am neither in their confidence nor in yours, Mr. Sartwell.' 'Rather an uncomfortable position, is it not? I should like to be one thing or the other if I were in your place, Marston.' ' I am one thing. I am entirely with the men.* ' Perhaps in that case you are afraid to be seen talk- ing with me ? Some of the men might happen to pass this way.' * I am not afraid to be seen speaking with anybody, Mr. Sartwell.' ' Ah, you are young ; therefore you are brave. I have known a smaller thing than this conversation to cost a man his life ; but perhaps times and methods have changed since my early days. It is a pity you are on the wrong side for your bravery to be appre- ciated. The masters in these days always value talent and courage, and pay well for them. The men do neither. That is why they are usually beaten in a fight, and it is one of the many reasons why they should be. I have a few words to say to you : the street corner is not a good place for a private con- versation ; will you come to my office in an hour's time ? ' ' Do you wish to speak about the strike ? ' * Yes,' said Sartwell, looking with some intentness at the young man. *We have no other subject of mutual interest that I know of.' 'Very good. I merely asked, because whatever you may have to tell me I shall use in the interests of the men.* Sartwell shrugged his shoulders. ' You are quite welcome,' he said, ' to make what use you please of the information which I shall give you. I am well aware that your advice is in demand by the men and their leaders.* The elder man walked briskly on ; the younger red- dened at the hidden sneer in his last remark. iia THE MUTABLE MANY lor in not? ere in 1.' i talk- opass rbody, brave, •sation ethods ty you appre- ) talent len do ten in y they u : the con- lour's ntness ect of latever ests of what 1 give emand er red- ' God ! * he cried in sudden rage. * How I would like to fight that man ! ' Marston turned and walked rapidly to the strike head-quarters. There he found Gibbons and the committee in consultation, while a few of the men lounged about the place. The talk ceased as Marston entered the room ; the committee and its chairman looking loweringly at him. * What do you want ? ' asked Gibbons, shortly. ' I met Mr. Sartwell a moment ago, in the street, and he said he had something to tell me about the strike. He asked me to call at his office in an hour's time. I promised to do so, but told him that any in- formation he gave to me I should use in the interests of the men.' 'And so you came here, I suppose, to get some information to give in return ? * Marston had resolved not to allow himself to be taunted into anger, but he saw he had no easy task before him. He was going to do his duty, he said to himself, and help his comrades if he could ; the situa- tion was too serious for recrimination. * No. I shall tell him nothing. If he wants infor- mation I shall refer him to you. I thought perhaps he might say something that would be of value for us to know, and so I came to tell you that I am going to his office.* ' Us ? Whom do you mean by us ? ' ' The men on strike. I am on strike as well as the others. I have lost a situation even if you haven't,' retorted the young man, knowing as he spoke that he was not keeping to his resolution. * Well,' said Gibbons, taking no notice of the other's insinuation, ' you don't need to come here for permis- sion to visit Sartwell's office. I suppose you have often been there before.' ' I have not been there since the strike began.' ' On, haven't you ? ' I ti3 THE MUTABLE MANY il *No, I haven't. Do you mean to assert that I have?' * I assert nothing. It merely seems strange that you should come bawling here, saying you are going to consult Sartwell. It has nothing to do with us. Go and come as you please, for all I care.' The members of the committee murmured approval of the chairman's firm stand, and Marston, seeing that there was little use in further delay, turned on his heel and left them. The men lounging round the door nodded to him in a friendly manner as he went out, and the committee presumably continued its deliberations, untroubled by the interruption. The young man walked down the street, looking neither to the right nor to the left, sick at heart, rather than angry, with the fatuous pettiness of Gibbons' resentment, who would rather wound and humiliate a man he disliked, than accept help when it was freely offered. ' How different/ said Marston to himself, ' is the conduct of Sartwell. He has more cause to detest me than Gibbons has, yet he asks me to confer with him. He does not despise the smallest card in his hand, while Gibbons may be throwing away a trump ; if I were mean enough, and traitor enough, to the men, I would refuse to tell what I may learn. Sartwell, parting with me in anger, hails me in the street, merely because he thinks he can use me to serve his employers. That he likes me no better than he did when I left him, is shown by the sting in his talk ; yet he puts down his personal feelings, hoping to win a trick ; while Gibbons, the fool, although approached in a friendly way, does his sneaking little bsst to drive a man over to the enemy. I wonder what Sartwell wants to discover ? I'll tell him nothing ; but what a man he is to fight for — or against ! ' 'Hold hard, youngster. Where are you going?' cried the picket at the gate. 114 i THE MUTABLE MANY [oping lough little fonder Ihing ; * I'm going to see Mr. Sartwell/ ' Oh no, you're not.' 'It's all right, mate; I've just come from head- quarters. I am going with the committee's consent, and Gibbons' permission.' * What's on ? ' asked the picket, in a whisper, while others of the strikers crowded round. ' Is the game up ? Are we going to give in ? ' ' There's nothing new. I'll know more when I come out. Perhaps Sartwell has something to propose ; we haven't.' The men drew back with a simultaneous sigh, which may have indicated relief, or perhaps disappointment. The sternness of their resolution to hold out did not increase under reduced strike pay. Their organiza- tion was disintegrating, rotting ; each man knew it, and was suspicious of his comrades. The heart had gone out of the fight. Marston, crossing the deserted and silent yard, mounted the stairs and rapped at the manager's door. He found Sartwell alone, standing at his desk, with some papers before him. ' Now, Marston,' began the manager, briskly, turn- ing from his desk. ' You think I've asked you here to learn something from you, and you have firmly resolved to tell me nothing. That's right. I like to see a man stick to his colours. We save the ship if we can ; if she sinks, we go down with her. You may be surprised then to know that I am not going to ask you a single question. That will relieve your mind and enable you to give full attention to what I have to tell you. I hope, however, that you will keep your word and remember the promise you made me a short time since in the street.' * What promise ? ' ' Have you forgotten it ? Perhaps you thought it was a threat. You said you would give the men the information you received. I hold you to that. To I a u$ THE MUTABLE MANY [i^ tell Gibbons is not necessarily to tell the men. You said you would let the men know.' ' I will repeat your conversation to Gibbons and the committee.' 'Ah, that's not what you said. Neither Gibbons nor the committee was mentioned in our talk this morning.* \ 'As near as I can recollect, I said I would use what information I received in the interests of the men.' ' Quite so. I am as anxious about the men's welfare as you are, and what I have to say to you must reach them. If you tell it to Gibbons and the committee, and if they do not pass it on to the men — as they will take precious good care not to do — I shall then learn whether you are a man of your word or not. The strikers meet to-night at the Salvation Hall. If Gibbons does not inform them what he will then know, I shall expect you to stand up in your place and add to the enlightenment of the situation. When you were here last, I showed you a sheet of paper, at the top of which was written the resources, for the moment, of the Union. The remainder of the sheet was blank, but it is now filled up. It shows the expenditure week by week up to the last payment made to those on strike. If you cast your eye over this sheet you will see that the Union is now bankrupt.' ' If that is all you have to tell me, Mr. Sartwell, it is no news. The men already know they are depending on public subscriptions.' ' And they still believe in Gibbons as a leader ? ' ' Yes.' * Very good. Now I come to what is news — news to you, to Gibbons, and to the men. Most of this money has gone to loafers from the East End of London. I had such unlimited confidence in Gibbons' foolishness and in the stupidity of the committee, that I have sent through the gates, to become members of zi6 THE MUTABLE MANY your Union, not skilled artisans like you, but half- trained labourers who never were apprenticed to any trade, but picked up a smattering of it by carrying the tools of the real mechanic, and looking on while he did the work ; — unfortunate wretches who were out of work and willing to absorb strike pay merely on condition that they would keep their mouths shut. It never seemed to occur to Gibbons that, if I were able to fill up the Works with men transported to our river steps on a steamer, I could either have fed and lodged them here, or taken them back and forth in the same way they came. He gathered them into the Union with eagerness, which was just what I expected him to do; but he never tried to find out whether they were genuine workmen or not.* ' You mean, then, that by r trick you have bank- rupted the Union ! ' Sartwell shrugged his shoulders. ' Call it a trick if you like. A strike is war ; you must not expect it to be fought with rose leaves. But apart from that, I have borne in mind the real interests of the men. I could have filled the Works with com- petent men— yes, ten times over. If I had done so, where would the strikers be at the end of the fight ? Some would be in prison ; some would have broken heads ; all would be out of employment. I want my own men back here. I want them to understand they have got a fool for a leader. They have had a nice little play spell; they have eaten and drunk their money ; the holiday has come to an end. If they return to work now, there is work for them ; if they delay much longer, I shall fill the shops with genuine workmen, and the Union has no money now to bribe them with.* ' If I tell the men all this there will be a riot. They will mob the bogus workmen who have taken their money.* ' Oh no, they won't. I have told the bogus work- THE MUTABLE MANY :! \ -Iff men just how long the money would continue to be paid if they held their tongues. With last week's reduced payment the loafers have scattered. The men may mob Gibbons, and I think he richly deserves it.* ' They will be much more likely to attack you.* * They are welcome to try it. Now, I think that is all I have to say, Marston. I have required no answers from you, and I imagine I have given you some interesting information. I am ready to get to work, with the former employes of the firm, or with- out them, just as they choose. The best friend of the men will be he who advises them to stop this foolish strike and buckle down to business once more.' ' k ; »i no :. » - I •,■ ■> . ;i -.;. » CHAPTER XII The works of Messrs. Monkton and Hope were situated in the parish of St. Martyrs'- in-the-East. The church of St. Martyrs' afforded a very good living to its vicar and a somewhat poorer one to its organist. Albert Langly was the organist ; and just now he found himself compelled to search for a cheaper lodging. The thin young man bitterly re- gretted that good money had to be wasted on food, clothes, and rent. A person cannot live without food ; Langly had tried it, not as an economical experiment, but largely through forgetfulness, and he found, to his astonishment, that hunger actually forced itself upon his attention, after a sufficient lapse of time. The changeable English climate, not to mention the regulations of that moral body, the police force, com- pelled him to cover himself; and a room he needed mainly to keep his stacks of music dry. Langly never applied to his vicar for more remu- neration, because deep down in his musical soul he knew he was already taking advantage of the generosity of the church authorities, and he lived in constant fear that some day they would discover this and righteously dismiss him. To be allowed to play on that splendid instrument, erected at the cost of a fabulous amount of money, was a privilege which he felt he ought to pay for, if he were the honest man the churchwardens thought him to be. 119 f- THE MUTABLE MANY He tried to soothe his troubled conscience by telling it that he would refuse to take money were it not that sheet music was so dear, even when bought from the man who gave the largest discount in London, to whose shop Langly tramped miles once a week ; but thus the guilty have ever endeavoured to lull the inward monitor, well knowing while they did so the sophistry of their excuses. The consciousness of deceit told on Langly's manner; he cringed before the vicar and those in authority. Never did one of the kindly but deluded men accost their organist without causing a timorous fear to spring up in his heart that the hour of his dismissal had arrived. Yet, let moralists say what they will, the wicked do prosper sometimes on this earth when they should not, wiiile the innocent suffer for the misdeeds done by others. There was the case of Belcher, for example, and although it must in justice be admitted that Belcher's hard luck caused the organist many twinges of con- science, still, of what avail are twinges of conscience when the harm is wrought ? If, in our selfishness, we bring disaster on a fellow-creature, after-regret can scarcely be called reparation. Belcher was the hard-working, industrious man who pumped wind into the organ in St. Martyrs', and, besides labouring during the regular service, it was also his duty to attend when the organist wished to practise the selections which afterwards delighted the congregation. This was Belcher's grievance. Langly had no 'mussy,' as the overworked pumper told his sympathizing comrades at the Rose and Crown. He would rather follow the vestry cart all day with a shovel, would Belcher, than suffer the slavery he was called upon to endure by the un- thinking organist; who never considered that bending the back to a lever was harder work than crooking the fingers to the keys. Besides, Langly could sit 190 THE MUTABLE MANY aper and all the un- fing sit down to his labour, such as it was, while Belcher could not. Naturally, the put-upon man complained, and Langly at once admitted the justice of the complaint, at the same time exhibiting a craven fear lest a rumour of his unjustifiable conduct might reach the ears of the church authorities. The honest Belcher now regretted that he had borne his burden so long, for the reprehensible organist immediately offered to compound with the blower by paying him something extra each week, if he would say nothing about the additional labour. It was Belcher's misfortune rather than his fault that mathematical computation was not one of his acquirements, and he failed to appreciate the fact that there was a limit to the musician's income ; a limit very speedily reached. Belcher was an ill-used man, and he knew it, so he struck often for higher pay and got it, up to the point where Langly found there was not enough left to keep body and soul together, not to speak of the purchase of music. Belcher yearned for the tail of the vestry cart, and threatened to complain to the vicar, which at last he did — not mentioning, however, that he had received extra remuneration, because he did not wish to exhibit the organist's culpability in all its repulsiveness. He told the vicar that he would rather accompany the vestry cart in its rounds than accompany an organist who had no ' mussy ' on a * pore ' man. He was always ready to pump a reasonable quantity of air, but if an organist knew his trade so badly that he needed to practise so much, it was hard that the man at the lever should bear the brunt of his incompetence. The clergyman thanked Belcher for his musical criticism, and said he would see about it. While the virtuous Belcher took his walks abroad with his chin in the air, as befits one who has done his duty, the transgressor crept along byways and I lai THE MUtABLE MANY scarcely dared to enter the silent church. He dodged the vicar as long as he could, but was at length run to earth. The kindly old man put his hand on the culprit's shoulder, and said, — • You have been overworking Belcher, I hear.' ' I shall be more thoughtful in future, sir,' murmured the nervous organist, in excuse. ' I'm afraid I've been playing too much, but it is a difficult art ' * Of course it is,' interrupted the clergyman. ' I have made arrangements to satisfy the ambition of Belcher, which appears to tend in the direction of a vestry cart ; and we have ordered a hydraulic blower which we should have put in years ago. You will find it a great convenience in your practice, Mr. Langly, for it is always ready ^nd never complains.' The organist tried to thank the vicar, but his throat seemed not at his command for other effort than a gulp or two. The good man smiled at the gro- tesque twistings of Langly's mouth and the rapid winking of his eyelids; then the organist turned abruptly and walked away, tortured afterwards by the fear that the vicar might have thought him rude and ungrateful ; but the old man knew the musician much better than the musician knew himself. After that, when Langly chanced upon the in- dignant and gravely wronged Belcher at the tail of his oft-mentioned, but entirely unexpected, cart, the young man shrank from the encounter, and felt that inward uneasiness which is termed a troubled conscience. ' Call that Christianity ! ' Belcher would say to his mate, when their rounds took them near St. Martyrs', ' a-puttin' a squirtin' water-pump in there, to tyke th' bread out o' a pore man's mouth, an' a-cuttin' down o' 'is livin' wygel Yus, an' the lawr a-forcin' us to support the Church, too.* But Belcher was really of a forgiving spirit, and should not be judged by his harsh language towards 122 THE MUTABLE MANY the establishment which he was under the impression a rigorous legal enactment compelled him to subsidize, for he so far overlooked Langly's conduct as to call upon him occasionally and accept a few pence as conscience money. ' I don't blime 'im/ said Belcher, magnanimously, over his pot of beer, ' as much as I do the mean old dufifer wot preaches there ; 'e put me on the cart.' Langly, as has been said, found it necessary to secure cheaper lodgings, and this was his own fault as much as it was the fault of his limited income. A London landlady in the more impoverished districts carries on a constant fight against circumstances. Her tenants pay her as seldom and as little as they can ; sometimes they disappear, and she loses her money ; while, if they stay, there are no chances of extracting extras, those elastic exactions which often waft a West- End boarding-house keeper to affluence. The organist's conduct towards his numerous and successive landladies admits of no defence. These good women, when he had taken his departure, spoke bitterly of his sneaky and deceptive ways, as indeed it would appear that they had cause to do. On first arriving at a new place, he was so apologetic and anxious not to give any trouble ; so evidently a person who did not really live in bustling, elbowing London, but in some dreamy, mental world of his own, that his good hostess, merely as an experiment and entirely without prejudice, as the legal man puts it, tentatively set down in his bill for the week some trifling item which, strictly speaking, was merely placed there to be taken off again if complaint were made, or was allowed to stand if overlooked. Of course, under these circumstances the landlady was in expectation of a row, during which epithets reflecting upon her financial probity might be hurled at her ; when she, with voluble excuses for her un- fortunate mistake, would correct the error and assure 133 i THE MUTABLE MANY the lodger that such a thing would not occur again. After a few essays of this kind, all perfectly just and proper in a commercial country, and, in fact, the only means of discovering to what extent the lodger could be depended upon as an asset, life would flow on with that calm serenity which adds so much to the comfort and enjoyment of a furnished apartment in the Borough or a palace overlooking the Park. But Langly never took a straightforward course with his landladies. Instead of finding fault at the proper time, he meekly said nothing and paid the bills as long as he was able — bills which mounted higher and higher each week. Thus the deluded woman had no chance, as she could not be expected to know when she had reached the limit of his weekly income. At last, the organist would take his bundle of music under his arm, and would sneak away like a thief in the night to search for a cheaper abode ; after leaving a week's money in lieu of notice, wrapped in a piece of paper, in a conspicuous place ; for he never had the courage to face a landlady and boldly tell her he was going. In Rose Garden Court there was more than one fpmily circle that might be likened to an accordion, because of the facility with which it could be com- pressed or extended. The Scimmins household could occupy the three rooms it rented in the court, or it could get along with two, or even one if need be. The spare space was sub-let Vvhenever opportunity offered ; and here Langly fo'unJ lodging that had at least the merit of cheapness. The policeman at the entrance of the court looked suspiciously after the new-comer, and resolved to keep an eye on him. The organist had a habit of muttering truculently to himself as he walked along the streets ; and his nervous hands were never a moment at rest, the long, slim fingers playing imaginary keys or chords inaudible outside of his own musical imagination. "4 THE MUTABLE MANY be. inity had )ked ceep [ring lets ; rest, >rds When the already suspicious policeman at the entrance of the court saw the musician come out, clawing the empty air with the two forefingers of either hand crooked like talons, a fearful frown on his brow, and an ominous muttering in his throat, the officer said to himself, — 'There goes a hanerchist, if ever there was one,' not knowing that the poor little man was merely pulling out the stops of a mythical organ, immense in size and heavenly in tone. The police always looked askance at Langly when he moved into a new locality, until they learned that he was merely the organist at St. Martyrs'- in- the- East. One nightj shortly after he took the back room two flights up at No. 3, Langly came down the com- mon stair-way, and paused in amaze at the landing opposite Braunt's door. He heard some one within slowly and fearfully murdering Chopin's 'Funeral March,' Part First. The sound made him writhe ; and he crouched by the door, his fingers mechanically drumming against the panel, repressing with difficulty a desire to cry out against the profanation of a har- mony that seemed sacred to him. The drone stopped suddenly ; and next instant the door was jerked open, causing the amazed listener to stumble into the room, where, as it seemed to him, a giant pounced down, clutched his shoulders, and flung him in a heap on the floor by the opposite wall. Then kicking the door shut, the giant, with fists clenched and face distorted with rage, towered over the prostrate man. ' Ye miserable, sneakin* scoundrel ! ' cried Braunt. * So that's why ye took a room with Scimmins — to ferret and spy on me. Ah've seen ye crawlin' oop these stairs afraid to look any honest man in the face. Because Ah took no strike pay Gibbons wants to know how Ah live, does he ? Ah'm oop to his tricks. Ye're Gibbons' spy, and he has sent ye to live with that "6 THE MUTABLE MANY other sneak Scimmins. Sclmmins himself was afraid, for he knows already the weight o' ma hand. Now,' continued Braunt, rolling up his sleeves, * Ah'll serve ye as Ah did Scimmins. Ah'll throw ye over the banisters, and ye can report that to Gibbons, and tell him to coom himself next time, and Ah'll break ivery bone in his body.' Jessie clung to her father, begging him in tears not to hurt the poor man. Braunt shook her off, but not unkindly. 'Sit thee down, Jessie, lass, and don't worrit mc. Ah'll but drop the bag o' bones on the stairs ; and serve him right for a sneak.' Langly, encouraged by his antagonist's change of tone in speaking to the girl, ventured to falter forth, — ' I assure you, sir ' 'Don't "sir" me, ye hound,' cried Braunt, turn- ing fiercely upon him, 'and don't dare to deny ye are one o' Gibbons* spies. I caught ye at it, remember.' ' I'll deny nothing if it displeases you, but I never heard of Gibbons in my life, and I'm only a poor organist. I stopped at the door on hearing the harmonium. For no other reason, I assure you. I know I oughtn't to have done it, and I suppose I am a sneak. I'll never do it again, never, if you will excuse me this time.' There was something so abject in the musician's manner that Braunt's resentment was increased rather than diminished by the appeal. He had a big man's contempt for anything small and cringing. 'Oh, ye're an organist, are ye? Likely story. Organists don't live in Garden Court. But we'll see ; we'll see. Get oop.' Langly gathered himself together and rose un- steadily to his feet. Every movement he made augmented the other's suspicion. ' Now,' said Braunt, with the definite air of a man ia6 THE MUTABLE MANY who has his opponent in a corner, ' sit thee down at the harmonium and play. Ye're an organist, remember.* ' Yes,' protested Langly ; * but I don't know that I can play on such an instrument at all. I play a church organ.* ' An organ's an organ, whether it is in church or oot. If ye can play the one, ye can play the other.' The young man hesitated, and was nearly lost. Braunt's fingers itched to get at him, and probably only the presence of the girl had restrained him so far. * Have you any music ? ' asked Langly. ' No, we haven't. She plays by ear.' ' Will you allow me to go upstairs and bring some sheet music ? ' This was a little too transparent. *Now, ba God!' cried Braunt, bringing his fist down on the table, 'stand there chattering another minute and Ah'll break thy neck down the stairs. Sit thee down, Jessie, an' don't interfere. The man plays or he doesn't. I knew he was a liar, an* he quakes there because it's to be proven. Now, coward, the organ or the stairs — make thy choice quickly.' The musician reluctantly took the chair before the instrument. He had played on a harmonium in his early days, and knew it was harsh and reedy at the best. But under his gentle touch the spirit of all the harmonies seenrcd to rise from it and fill the squalid room. Braunt stood for a moment with fallen jaw, his hands hanging limply by his sides, then he sank into his arm-chair; Jessie gazed steadfastly, with large, pathetic eyes, at their guest, who seemed himself transformed, all the lines of dismay and appre- hension smoothed away from his face, replaced by an absorbed ecstasy, oblivious of every surrounding. He played symphony after symphony, one ap- parently suggesting and melting into another, until at last a minor chord carried the music into the solemn rhythm of Chopin's March. Then the har- fi la: THE MUTABLE MANY hi . \ monium, like a sentient creature, began to sob and wail for the dead. The girl's eyes, never moving from the wizard of the keys, filled with unshed tears, and her father buried his face in his hands. When at last the organist's magic fingers slipped from the keys, and the exultant light faded from his face as the dying music merged into silence, Braunt sprang to his feet. ' Curse me for a brutish clown,' he cried, * to think that Ah mishandled thee, lad, and thou playest like an angel. Ah niver heard music before.' He laid his huge hand on the other's shoulder — gently and kindly — although the youth, hardly yet awake from his dream, timidly shrank from the touch. ' Forgive me, lad. Ah misdoubt Ah hurt thee.' * No, no. It is all as nothing, if you like the music' * The music ! Ah shall niver forget it ; niver. That March will ring in ma head all day. The whole world seems trampin* to it.' The young man for the first time looked up at him, the light of brotherhood in his eyes. ' I feel it, too,* he said, ' that there is nothing around us but good music. It smooths away the ruder sounds of earth, or uses them as undertones — as--"s a back- ground. I sometimes fancy that the gates of Heaven are left ajar, and we — a few of us — are allowed to listen, to compensate us for any trouble we have, or to show us the triviality of everything else.' The young man's thin face flushed in confused shame at finding himself talking thus to another man, although what he said was merely the substance of many a former soliloquy. With a hasty, apologetic glance at the girl, who regarded him like one in a trance, with wide, unwinking eyes, Langly continued, hurriedly, — 'The March is a difficult one, and should not be attempted as a whole, except after many lessons. laS THE MUTABLE MANY I and oving tears, ipped from ilence, think jt like Ider— ly yet n the ee.' music' That whole v^ I shall be pleased to teach your daughter, if you will allow me. She has a correct ear.' Braunt shook his head. 'We've no money for music lessons,' he said. * I have very little myself. I am poor, and, there- fore, need none,' said the organist, as if that were a logical reason. 'The poor should help the poor. If they don't, who else will? The poor have always been kind to me.* He thought of his many land- ladies, and how they had robbed themselves to sustain him, as they had often admitted, little thinking he would desert them one by one. ' Aye, and the rich too,* he added, remembering the hydraulic motor in the church, and the continued endurance of the authorities with their organist. . ' Well, lad,' said Braunt, with a sigh, * coom in when ye can, and if nowt else ye'U be sure of a hearty North Country welcome.* 1 It him. laround bounds back- eaven ed to ave, or )nfused ^r man, ince of (logetic me in Itinucd, Inot be lessons. 199 t .' ^ ^ lAPTER XIII Sartwell prided himself on being a man who made few mistakes. He was able to trace an event from cause to effect with reasonable certainty ; and this slight merit made him, perhaps, a trifle impatient with others who could not be credited with similar foresight, as his own wife would not have hesitated to bear witness. It would probably have filled that just woman with subdued, if pardonable, gratification had she known how wide of the mark her husband was in his estimate of the result on the strikers of the news he had committed to the care of Marston. Sartwell imagined that the men, in their fury at being outwitted, would turn on Gibbons and rend him. He believed that Gibbons would not dare to tell his dupes, as Sartwell persisted in calling them, how the Union had been befooled into supporting for weeks the bogus workmen whom the manager had flung into its lap. After wreaking their vengeance on Gibbons and deposing him, they must return to the Works, reasoned the manager. Their money was gone, intercF. in the strike had all but died out, fresher events had compressed the reports of its progress into a short paragraph in the papers, sub- scriptions had practically ceased : what then was there left but a return, or starvation, that powerful ally of masters all the world over ? t9» THE MUTABLE MANY But Sartwell forgot that the Englishman knows how to starve. No Indian ever tightens his belt another notch with grimmer determination to com- press hunger, than does an Englishman set his teeth and starve, if need be. He has starved on the ice near the Pole, and under the burning sun in the desert. He has met famine face to face in beleaguered fort with no thought of surrender; and has doled with scrupulous exactitude the insufficient portions of food, on a raft in mid-ocean. The poet has starved in his garret, making no outcry, and the world has said, * If we had only known.* In the forests and on the plains, in the jungle and on the mountains, and perhaps worst of all, in the great cities, amidst plenty, the Englishman has shown he knows how to starve, saying with the poet — 'I have not winced nor cried aloud.' When Gibbons heard what Marston had to tell, he promptly said, ' It is a lie ' ; but the committee looked one at the other with apprehension in their faces, fearing it was the truth. ' The question is,* said Marston, ' are you going to let the men know this ? * ' Certainly, if I find it is true ; but I don't believe a word of it. Perhaps you want to have the pleasure of being the bearer of bad news to the men ? ' ' I intend to tell them if you do not' * Of course. I'm sorry we can't gratify you.* The committee dismissed Marston, and went into secret session ; shortly afterwards separating to meet again in the evening, just before the large gathering in the Salvation Hall. In the interval Gibbons and his fellow-members made active search for the alleged fraudulent workmen, but they found none — the birds had flown. It was evident the word had been passed round ; and that, fearing the vengeance of the legiti- mate claimants to the Union funds, the former K a 131 3 mmmmmm THE MUTABLE MANY • blacklegs ' had taken themselves off, out of the reach of possible harm. When the committee met for the second time that day, the members were divided among themselves as to the advisability of taking the men fully into their confidence. Some thought it best to break the doleful news gradually; others that the worst should be known at once. Gibbons, however, said there was in reality no choice; the men must be told the whole truth, for if the committee tried any half measures, Marston would undoubtedly rise in his place and relate what Sartwell had told him. So to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth was resolved upon. When Gibbons faced his audience that night in the large hall, he saw he had to deal with a body of men whose mood was totally different from that of the crowd which had light-heartedly voted, with a hurrah, to go on strike. There was now little jocularity among the men; they sat in their places in sullen silence. A feeling that something ominous was in the air seemed to pervade the hall; and as Gibbons stepped to the front of the platform, he felt that the moral atmosphere of the place was against him ; that he had to proceed with great caution, or his hold on the men would be lost. He knew he was a good speaker, but he knew, also, that the men were just a trifle impatient with much talk and such small result from it all. ' Combination,* he began, * is the natural consequence of the modern conditions of labour. A working-man of to-day may be likened to a single pipe in a large organ. He can sound but one note. He spends his life doing part of something. He does not begin any article of commerce, go on with it, and finish it, as did the workmen of former days ; he merely takes it from a fellow-workman who has put a touch on it, puts his own touch on it, and passes it on to another; and 13a THE MUTABLE MANY thus the article travels fron hand to hand until it reaches the finisher. The workman of to-day is merely a small cog on a very large wheel, and so, if he does not combine with his fellows, he is helpless. *The workman of former times was much more independent. He began his work and completed it. If he was a cooper he made the whole barrel ; hooping it and heading it. If one of us may be compared to a single pipe in an organ, the workman of yesterday might be likened to a flute, on which a whole tune could be played. He ' 'Ah, chuck itl' cried a disgusted man in front. * We don't want no philosophy ; we wants strike pay, or marster's pay.' Gibbons stood sikiit for a second or two. ' Yes,' he cried, his voice like a trumpet call. * I will chuck it. This is not the time for philosophy, as our friend said ; it is the time to act. When a man strips to fight, what does he expect ? ' 'A jolly good thrashing!' was the unlooked-for reply. It is never safe for an orator to depend on his audience for answers to his questions, but the laugh that went up showed Gibbons that the meeting was getting into better humour, which was what he most desired. * When an Englishman takes off his coat to fight,' continued Gibbons, 'he asks no favour from his opponent, but he does expect fair play ; and if Englishmen are the onlookers he gets it, whether they like him or whether they dont. He doesn't expect to be struck below the belt ; he doesn't expect to be strangled on the ropes ; he doesn't expect to be hit when he is down. We stripped for a square and fair fight with manager Sartwell, and we have fought as men should. We have broken no law ; we have raised no disturbance. The police, always eager enough to arrest a striker, have laid hands on none 133 I ! •; .: / THE MUTABLE MANY of us. It has been a square, stand-up, honourable fight. It has been a fair fight on our side, and I am proud to have been connected with it. But in this struggle I ^ve made one mistake. I made the mistake of thinking we were fighting an honourable opponent — a man who would not break the rules of the ring. I was not on the outlook for foul play — for trickery. 'Knowing what I do to-night, I say — and I am ready to take the consequences of my words — that Sartwell is a thief, and a cowardly thief, in the estimation of any honest man. He knew that the life of our fight was our money. He knew that starvation for the helpless wives and families of our men was hiis most powerful ally. He did not dare to break in and steal our money, because he was afraid of the law, but he took a meaner and more cowardly way of accomplishing the robbery. He appealed to the cupidity of men out of work — poor devils, I don't blame them; they were doubtless starving — and he told them that if they masqueraded as workmen of his, the Union would take them in, and pay them wages as long as there was no suspicion aroused — that is, if these men kept their mouths shut they could draw strike pay. ' Although I have never liked Sartwell, I did not think he would stoop to play us a trick like this. A man who robs a bank has some courage; but a man who tempts poverty-stricken wretches to commit the crime, while he stands safely aside and reaps the benefit — there is no decent word in the language to characterize him. Now, fellow-workers, you know what has been done, and the result is that our treasury is as empty as if Sartwell had broken into it with a jemmy. The manager is waiting expectantly for the proceeds of the burglary. He will throw the gates of the Works open to-morrow for you to enter and complete his triumph. The 134 THE MUTABLE MANY question before the meeting to-night is, Are you going in?' A universal shout of ' Never ! We'll starve first I ' rose to the rafters of the building. When he first confronted the meeting that night Gibbons feared that he could not rouse the men from their evident coldness towards him. As the speech went on, increasing murmurs among the men, and at length savage outbursts of rage, showed him that he held them in the hollow of his hand ; at the end, a word from him, and all the police in that part of London could not have saved the Works from wreck and fiames. * To the Works ! ' was the cry, and there was a general movement in response to it. *No, no!' shouted Gibbons, his stentorian voice dominating the uproar. ' Not to the Works. Every man home to-night, but be on the ground in the morning. We must not play into the enemy's hands by any attempt at violence. To-morrow we will intercept Monkton and Hope, and demand our rights from them in person. Let them refuse at their peril. We'll have no more dealings with Sartwell.' There was a cheer at this, and the meeting dis- banded quietly. Next morning the men were out in force at the still closed gates, and there were angry threats against the manager. It was all right enough, they said, for Gibbons to counsel moderation, but the time for moderation was past. There was an increased body of police, who kept the crowd moving as much as was possible, having, for the first time during the strike, a most difficult task to perform. The strikers were in ugly temper, and did not obey orders or take pushes with the equanimity they had formerly displayed ; but the police showed great for- bearance, and evidently had instructions not to use their truncheons except as a last resort. Sartwell, knowing a crisis was at hand, had slept in 135 i i It Hi ii 7 I 1 THE MUTABLE MANY his office, and the ever increasing mob hooted when he did not appear at his usual time. Gibbons, by word and action, moving about every- where, tried to keep his men in hand and prevent a conflict. They cheered him, but paid little attention to what he said. Shortly after ten o'clock a hansom was driven up to the outskirts of the mob, and was received with a chorus of groans. Gibbons quickly stepped in front of it, and addressed the occupant. ' Mr. Hope,' he began. ' Stand back there,' cried the officer in charge. *Mr. Hope,' cried Gibbons, *I want ten words with you.' Little Mr. Hope shrank into a comer of the hansom, speechless, his face white as a sheet of paper. 'Stand back, I say.' The officer pushed Gibbons, striking him with some force on the breast. ' Let him answer. Will you speak for one minute with your men — the men who have made you rich ? * 'Stand back,' reiterated the officer, pushing him a step further. The hansom moved inch by inch nearer the gates. The crowd seethed like an uneasy sea, and every man held his breath. * Listen to me, Mr. Hope. Your men are starving. They ask only- ' The officer pushed the speaker back once more; Gibbons' heel caught on a cobble-stone, and he went down backwards. The crowd broke like a wave, submerging the police for a moment, flooding the street as if a dam had given way. The driver on his lofty seat, trying to control his frightened horse, looked like a castaway perched on a buoy in an angry ocean. He made the tactical mistake of lashing round him with his whip. In an instant the hansom was over and down, with 136 THE MUTABLE MANY a crash of splintering glass. The police, edging together, struck right and left with a fury that quite matched the less disciplined rage of the mob. The officers fought their way until there was a ring round the prostrate cab ; two of them picked up Mr. Hope , who was helpless with fear and horror; and these two, with the little man between them, surrounded by a squad which stood shoulder to shoulder, simply clove their way through the dense mass to the gates, where the small door in the large gate was quickly opened and shut, with Mr. Hope and one suppciting policeman inside. Gibbons, his hat gone, his coat in rags, and his face smeared with blood — a wild, unkempt figure, rose above the struggling mob, and stood on the top of the fallen cab. ' For God's sake, men,' he screamed, * don't resist the police. Fall back I Fall back I * He might as well have shouted to the winds. The police laid about them like demons, and the crowd was rapidly falling back, but not because of Gibbons' orders. In an incredibly short space of time, the police in a body marched down the street, and there was TXStBL to oppose them. The remnants of what a few mintites before seemed an irresistible force, lay on the pavement and groaned, or leaned against the walls ; the more seriously wounded to be taken to the hospitals, the others to the police-station. In spite of their defeat in the morning, the men gathered once more about the Works in the afternooii , and the threatening crowd was even greater than before ; because the evening papers had spread over London startling accounts of the riot, as they called it, and the news had attracted idlers from all parts of the Metropolis. The wildest rumours were afloat : the men were going to wreck the Works ; they were going to loot the bread-shops in Light Street ; they had armed themselves, and were about to march to '37 i • l« . 1 1 H I THE MUTABLE MANY Trafalgar Square. With a resolute and desperate leader there is no saying what they might have attempted ; but Gibbons, who had put another coat on his back and much sticking-plaster on his face, moved about counselling moderation and respect for the law. They would forfeit public sympathy, he "'"'d, by resorting to violence, although some of his hea» i growled that ' a blooming lot o' good ' public sympatiiy had done for them. * What we want, and what we mean to have,' said Gibbons, * is a word with the owners. They are bound to come out soon.' They did come out ultimately together^ and two more frightened men than Monkton and Hope it would have ibeen hard to Bnd in all England that day. They were surrounded by a dozen policemen, whose resolute demeanour showed that they were not to be trifled with. The gates immediately closed behind this formidable procession ; and it quickly made its way up the street, the crowd jeering and groaning as it passed through. 'We've got nothing against them,* shouted one. * Bring out Sartwell, and we'll show you wot for.' Hatred of the manager rather than of the owners was plainly the dominant sentiment of the gathering. They cheered the remark, and gave three groans for the unpopular manager. When the protected men disappeared, the vigilance of the force relaxed, and the crowd surged into the gap which the police had cleared. With the masters safe and out of reach, the critical moment of the day seemed to have passed. The police could not be expected to know that the real resentment of the mob was not directed against the man whose cab had been overturned that morning. * I hope Sartwell won't venture out to-night,' said Marston to Braunt. ' It will take more than twelve policemen to guard him if he does.' 138 THE MUTABLE MANY ' He has some sense,* replied Braunt, ' and will stay where he is.' Neither Braunt nor Marston had been present during the morning's battle ; but they, like many others with nothing to do, had come in the after- noon. As Braunt spoke the small door in the gate opened, and Sartwell, entirely alone, stepped out. He had no more formidable weapon in his hand than his customary slim and trim umbrella. His silk hat was as glossy and his clothes as spick and span as if they were upon a tailor's model. He seemed to have aged a trifle since the strike began ; but his wiry, well-knit body was as erect as ever, and in his eye was that stern look of command before which, at one time or another, every man in his employ had quailed. An instantaneous hush fell upon the crowd. The cry of a hawker in a distant street was heard. Every man knew that the flinging of a missile, or the uprais- ing of an arm even, would be as a spark in a powder- mine. Let but one stroke fall, and all the police in London could not have saved the life of the man who was walking across the cleared space from the gates towards the crowd. The mass of silent humanity had but to move forward, and Sartwell's life would be crushed out on the paving-stones. But the manager, without pause, yet without hurry, walked across the intervening area with evident con- fidence that the men ivould make way for him. There was no sign of fear in his manner, nor, on the other hand, was there any trace of swaggering authority about him ; but there was in the glance of his steely eye and the poise of his head that indefinable something which stamps a man with the air of master; which commands obedience, instant and unquestioned. The crowd parted before him, and he cast no look over his shoulder. Habit being strong, one or two 139 w M' I * THE MUTABLE MANY raised hand to forelock as he passed, getting in return the same curt nod with which Sartwell had always acknowledged such salutation. The human ocean parted before him as did the Red Sea before the Hebrew leader, and the manager passed through unscathed. * God A'mighty I ' cled Braunt, towering above his fellows and shaking his fist at the unoffending sky ; ' Ah've seen in ma IVie one brave man.' »4» I I f 1 CHAPTER XIV ' COOM wi' me, Marston/ said Braunt. * Let's get oot of this crowd ; Ah want a word with ye.' The two made their way to a quieter street, and walked together towards Rose Garden Court, talking as they went. * This foolish strike'll ha' to stop,' began the York- shireman, * and now's the time to stop it. The men be tired, and the marsters be sick, but neither'U give in; so a way must be found oot o' t* tangle, and ye're the man to find the way.' ' How ? The men won't throw over Gibbons, and Sartwell will resign before he will confer with him. Remember how Gibbons swayed the men last night, in spite of the grumbling there had been against him before the meeting opened.* ' Yes, Ah know. But, ma lad, there's rooctions in the other camp as well's in ours. Sartwell'; cooming oot as he did just now was as much in defiance of t' marsters as of t' men. If we knew the truth on't, both Monkton and Hope wanted him to coom with them and their bodyguard ; but he wouldn't. From what Ah hear, Mr. Hope was so afeard this morning that he couldn't ha' spoken if his life had depended on't. There must ha' been some hot talk between the three to-day. Sartwell don't see the danger, and the two marsters don't see it neither. What i4« 1:4! ■ I' il II 5 / ^H . I < THE MUTABLE MANY Ah'm sure of is, that there's a split between Sartwell and t' marsters, and when they hear that he came out alone to-night while they were guarded by twelve policemen, they'll be more angry than ever, if there's any spirit in either of them. 'Now, what ye must do to-morrow is to meet either Monkton or Hope, or both. Ye'll see they won't go near the Works again till this strike's ended. Ah'd go to Mr. Hope first ; he's had the worst fright. Tell him ye want to end the trouble, and he'll listen willing enooph. Very likely he's some plan of his own which Sartwell won't let him try. If you get him to promise to give us what we want if we throw over Gibbons — we'll spring that on the meetin'; and you'll see, if we work it right, Gibbons will be thrown over. Then there'll be no trouble with Sartwell.* * It seems a treacherous thing to do,' said Marston, with some hesitation. 'God's truth, lad,' cried Braunt, with some im- patience, ' haven't they been treating ye like a traitor ever since this strike began ? What's the difference, if't does look like treachery? Think of t' wives and bairrs of t* men, if not of t' men themselves. Think of them that no one has given a thought to all these weeks, the women-workers in the top floor of the Works. They've had little strike pay. They ha' no vote at the meetin's, and they ha' to suffer and starve when they're willing to work. Treachery ? Ah'd be a traitor a thoosand times over to see the Works goin' again.' ' I'll do it,' said Marston. The young man had no money to waste on railway fare, so next morning early he set his face to the west and trudged along the Portsmouth Road the vwelve miles' distance between London and Surbiton. As he walked up the beautifully kept drive to the Hope mansion, he thought he saw the owner among 14a THE MUTABLE MANY the trees at the rear, pacing very dejectedly up and down a path. Marston hesitated a moment, but finally decided to apply formally at the front door. The servant looked at him with evident suspicion, and, after learning his business, promptly returned, saying that Mr. Hope could not see him. The door was shut upon him, but Marston felt sure Mr. Hope had not been consulted in the matter ; so instead of going through the gate by which he had entered, he went round the house to the plantation beyond, and there came upon Mr. Hope, who was much alarmed on seeing a stranger suddenly appear before him. •I am one of your workmen, Mr. Hope,' began Marston, by way of reassuring the little man ; but his words had an entirely opposite effect. Mr. Hope looked wildly to right and left of him, but seeing no chance of escape, resigned himself, with a deep sigh, to dynamite or whatever other shape this particular working-man's arguments might take. *What do you want?* faltered the employer, at last. * I want this strike to end.' * Oh, so do I, so do I,' cried Mr. Hope, almo*^ in tears. ' Then, Mr. Hope, won't you allow me to speak with you for a few moments, and see if we cannot find some way out of the difficulty ? ' ' Surely, surely,' replied the trembling old man, visibly relieved at finding that his former employ^ did not intend to use the stout stick, which he carried in his hand, for the purpose of a personal assault. * Let us walk a little further from the house, where we can talk quietly. Have you anything to propose ? ' * Well, the chief trouble seems to be that Mr. Sart- well will not meet Gibbons.' ' Ah, Sartwell ! ' said the old man, as if whispering to himself. ' Sartwell is a strong man — a strong man ; difficult to persuade — difficult to persuade.' Then, 143 I' .1 '1 fl f THE MUTABLE MANY turning suddenly, he asked, ' You're not Gibbons, are you?' ' No, my name is Marston. Gibbons is the man who tried to speak with you yesterday at the gates.' The old man shuddered at the recollection. ' There were so many there, that I did not see any one distinctly, and it all took place so suddenly. I don't remember Gibbons. It was dreadful- dreadful.* * I hope you were not hurt.' * No, no. Merely a scratch or two. Nothing to speak of. Now, what can be done about the strike?' ' Would you be prepared to grant the requests of the men if they were to throw over Gibbons and send a deputation to Mr. Sartwell ?' 'Oh, willingly, most wilh'ngly. I don't at all re- member what it is the men want, but we'll grant it ; anything to stop this suicidal struggle. Does Sartwell know you?' * Yes, sir.' *0f course he does. He knows every one in the works, by name even. A wonderful man — a wonder- ful man. I often wish I had more influence with him. Now, if you would go and see Mr. Sartwell — he lives at Wimbledon, it's on your way ; I asked him not to go to the Works to-day, so, maybe, you will find him at home — you might possibly arrange with him about receiving a deputation. Perhaps it would be best not to tell him that you've seen me — yes, I'm sure it's best not. Then I'll speak to him about granting the men's demands. I'll put my foot down; so will Monkton. We'll be firm with him.' The old man glanced timidly over his shoulder. * We'll say to him that we've stood at his back about Gibbons, and now he must settle at once with the men when they've abandoned Gibbons. Why will he not see Gibbons, do you know ? Has he a personal dislike to the man ?' m THE MUTABLE MANY >il ir. back with |y will rsonal * Oh no. It is a matter of principle with Mr. Sart- well. Gibbons is not one of your workmen.' 'Ah, yes, yes. I remember now. That's exactly what Sartwell said. Well, I'm very much obliged to you for coming, and I hope these awful occurrences are at an end. Good-bye. There's a train in half an hour which stops at Wimbledon.' * Thank you, Mr. Hope, but I'm on foot to-day.' ' Bless me, it's a long distance and roundabout by road. The train will get you there in a few minutes.' Marston laughed. * I don't mind walking,' he said. The old man looked at him for a few moments. ' You don't mean to tell me you have walked all the way from London this morning?' ' It's only twelve or thirteen miles.' * Dear, dear ! dear, dear ! I see, I see. Yes, Sartwell's right. I'm not a very brilliant man, although I think one's manager should not say so before one's partner. Come with me to the house for a moment' ' I think I should be off now.' ' No, no, come with me. I won't keep you long ; I won't take a refusal. I am going to put my foot down, as I said. I have had too little self-assertion in the past. Come along.' Mr. Hope led the way courageously towards his dwelling, keeping the trees as a screen between him- self and the house as much as possible and as long as he could. He shuffled hastily across the open space and walked gingerly up the steps at the back of the building, letting himself into a wide hall, and then noiselessly entered a square room which gave outlook upon the broad lawn and plantation at the rear. The room was lined with books ; a solid oak table stood in the centre, flanked by comfortable arm-chairs. Mr. Hope rang the bell, and held the door slightly ajar. t L 145 •i I* \ ^ fi S I THE MUTABLE MANY ' Is there any cold meat downstairs, Susy ? ' he whispered to the unseen person through the opening. 'Yes, sir.' * Well, bring up enough for two ; sonne pickles, bread and butter, and a bit of cheese.* Then turning to Marston, he asked, — ' Will you drink wine or beer?' "^ ' Really, Mr. Hope,' said the young man, moistening his lips and speaking with diflficulty, ' I'm not in the least hungry.' Which was not true, for the very recital of the articles of food made him feel so faint that he had to lean against the bookcase for support. ' Bring a bottle of beer, please,' said the host, softly closing the door. ' Sit down, sit down,* he said to Marston. ' Not hungry ? Of course you're hungry, after such a walk, no matter how hearty a breakfast you took before you left.* While Marston ate, Mr. Hope said nothing, but sat intently listening with apparent anxiety. Once he arose and cautiously turned the key in the door, and seemed to breathe more easily when this was done. ' Now,' said the old man, when Marston had finished his meal, * you must go by rail to Wimbledon. Time is of importance — time is of importance. Here is a little money for expenses.' ' I cannot take the money from you, Mr. Hope, but thank you all the same.' * Nonsense — nonsense. You are acting for me, you know.' * No, sir, I am acting for the men.' 'Well, it's the same thing. Benefit one, benefit all. Come, come, I insist. I put down my foot ; call it wages if you like. No doubt you didn't want to strike. * I didn't want to ; but I struck.' 146 THE MUTABLE MANY J, but „you ;nefit call It to * Same thing — same thing. You must take* the money.' ' I'd much rather not, sir.' Marston saw the anxiety of his host, who acted as a man might over whose head some disaster impended ; and it weakened the resolution which he had formed not to take the money. He understood that for some reason Mr. Hope wanted him to take it, and be gone. *Tut, tut,' persisted the old man, eagerly. 'We mustn't let trifles stand in the way of success.' As he was speaking an imperious voice sounded in the hall — the voice of a woman. A sudden pallor overspread Mr. Hope's face, which reminded Marston of the look it had worn when the twelve police- men escorted him and his partner through the crowd. ' Here, here,' said the old man, in a husky whisper ' take the money and say nothing about it — nothing about it.' Marston took the money and slipped it into his pocket. The voice in the hall rang out again. * Where is Mr. Hope, Susan ? ' it asked. ' He was in the back walk a few minutes ago, mum.* Firm footsteps passed down the hall, the outside door opened and shut, and, in the silence, the crunch of feet on the gravel was distinctly heard. The anxiety cleared away from Mr. Hope's face like the passing of a cloud, and a faint smile hovered about his lips. He seemed to have forgotten Marston's presence in the tension of the moment. ' Clever girl, Susy 1 So I was — so I was,' he mur- mured to himself. * Good-bye, and thank you, Mr. Hope,' said Marston, rising. * I will go at once and see Mr. Sartwell.' ' Yes, yes. In a moment — in a moment,' said the old man, with a glance out of the window. His voice fc t 147 ' H 4' 1 i THE MUTABLE MANY I ! ll% sank into an apologetic tone as he added, as if asking a favour : ' Won't you take some money with you to be given anonymously — anonymously, mind — to the committee for the men? You see, the negotiations may take a few days, and I understand they are badly off— badly off.' Even Marston smiled at the suggestion. ' I don't see how that could be managed. I shall have to tell the men that I have been to see you, or at least some of them ; and they might misunder- stand. I think, perhaps * *I see — I see. There is a difficulty, of course. I shall send it in the usual way to the papers. That's the best plan.' ' To the papers ? ' said Marston, astonished. The old man looked at him in alarm, i • I didn't intend to mention that. As you say, it might be misunderstood — misunderstood. The world seems to be made up of misunderstandings. But you'll not say anything about it, will you ? I did it in a roundabout way, so as not to cause any ill-feeling, under the name of '* Well-wisher." Merely trifles, you know, trifles, now and then. Sartwell said the strike would end in a fortnight or three weeks. He's a clever man, Sartwell, a very clever man ; but he was mis- taken in that. We all make mistakes at one time or another. You see, I shouldn't care for him to know that I contributed anonymously to the strike fund ; he might think it prolonged the strike, and perhaps it did — perhaps it did. It is difficult to say what one's duty is in a case like this — very diflicult. So perhaps it is best to mention this to no one.' ' I shall never breathe a word about it, Mr. Hope.' ' That's right — that's right. I am very glad you came, and I'll speak to Sartwell about you when we get into run'^ing order again. Now, just come out by the front door this time, and when you speak to Mr. Sartwell be careful not to say anything that 148 THE MUTABLE MANY IS generally the be■'■ :-S^ CHAPTER XV When young Marston reached the walled-in horse at Wimbledon, he found that Sartwell had indeed paid little attention to the wishes of his chief, and had left for the Works at his usual hour in the morning. Mr. Hope had evidently not put his foot down firmly enough when he told the manager not to go to his office. Marston stood hesitatingly on the doorstep, not knowing exactly the next best thing to do. After the events of yesterday, there was some difficulty about seeking an interview with the manager at his office. ' Mrs. Sartwell's not at home either,' said the servant, noting his indecision; 'but Miss Sartwell is in the garden. Perhaps you would like to see her ? ' Perhaps! The young man's pulses beat faster at the mere mention of her name. He tried to convince himself that he was lingering there through disap- pointment at finding the manager away from home ; but he knew that all his faculties were alert to catch sight or sound of her to whom his heart was given. He hoped to hear her voice ; to get a glimpse of her, however fieeting. He wanted nothing on earth so much at that moment as to speak with her, to touch her hand ; but he knew that if he met her, and if the meeting came to her father's knowledge, it would kindle Sartwell's fierce resentment against him, and 150 THE MUTABLE MANY undoubtedly jeopardize his mission. Sartwell would see in his visit to Wimbledon nothing but a ruse to obtain an interview with the girl. Braunt had trusted him, and had sent him of!* with a hearty ' God-speed ' ; the fate of exasperated men on the very brink of disorder might depend on his success. Women and children might have to starve as a consequence of his having five minutes' delightful talk with Edna Sart- well. No such temptation had ever confronted him before, and he put it away from hfm with a faint and wavering mind. * No,' he said, with a sigh ; * it was Mr. Sartwell I wanted to see. I will call upon him at his office.' The servant closed the door with a bang. Surely he did not need to take all that time, keeping her standii^ there, to say ' No.' The smallness of a word, however, bears little relation to the difficulty which there may be in pronouncing it. Yet the bang of the door, resulting from his hesitation, brought about the meeting he had, with such reluctance, resolved to forgo. It is perhaps hardly complimentary to Sart- well to state that when his daughter heard the door shut so emphatically, she thought that her father had returned and that something had gone wrong. Patience was not among Sartwell's virtues ; and when his wife, actuated solely by a strict sense of duty, endeavoured to point out to him some of his numerous failings, the man, instead of being grateful, often terminated a conversation, intended entirely for his own good, by violently slamming the door, and be- taking himself to the breezy common, where an irritable man may walk miles without going twice over the same path. The girl ran towards the front of the house on hearing the noisy closing of the door, and was far from being reassured when she recognized Marston almost at the gate. That something had happened to her father instantly flashed across her mind. She « I ii ^ !( ; > in I" THE MUTABLE MANY fleetly overtook the young man, and his evident agitation on seeing her confirmed her fears. ' Oh, Mr. Marston/ she cried, breathlessly, ' is there anything wrong? Has there been more trouble at the Works?' ' No — I don't think so,' he stammered. ■' < I feel sure something is amiss. Tell me, tell me ! Don't keep me in suspense.' ' I think everything is all right.' •Why do you say you think? Aren't you sure? You have come from the Works ? ' 'No, I haven't. I've just come from Surbiton. I wanted to speak with Mr. Sartwell, but I find he's not at home.' ' Oh,' said the girl, evidently much relieved. Then she flashed a bewilderingly piercing glance at him, that vaguely recalled her father to his mind. 'From Surbiton? You came from Surbiton just now?' * Yes,' he faltered. 'You have been to see Mr. Hope?* Marston was undoubtedly confused, and the girl saw it. A flush of anger overspread her face. ' If your visit was a secret one, of course I don't expect you to answer my question.' ' It was not intended to be a secret visit, but — but Mr. Hope asked me not to mention it.' ' Not to mention it to my father ? ' ' To any one.' Edna Sartwell gazed at the unhappy young man with a look of reproach in her eyes, and also, alas ! a suggestion of scorn. ' I can see by your face,' she said, indignantly, * that you don't want my father to know you have been talking to Mr. Hope about the strike.' ' My face does not tell you everything that is in my mind, Miss Sartwell,' replied Marston, with a burst of courage which astonished himself. ' I saw Mr. Hope I6a THE MUTABLE MANY about the strike, and it was his wish, not mine, that Mr. Sartwell should not know I had been there. But I am wrong in saying the wish was not mine. I don't want Mr. Sartwell to know either.' ' Well, I call that treachery 1 ' cried the giri, her face ablaze. ' To whom ? ' asked Marston, the colour leaving his face as it mounted in hers. ' To my father.' * It may be treachery, as you say, but not to Mr. Sartwell. It is treachery to Gibbons, perhaps, for he is secretary to the Union and leader of the strike, while I am a member of the Union and a striker. I cannot be treacherous to Mr. Sartwell, for we are at war with each other.' * You were not at war with him when you thought he could do you a favour,' said the girl, disdainfully. The young man looked at her in speechless amaze- ment. * Oh yes,' she continued, ' he told me of it — that night I was last at the office. He refused you, and you were angry then. I thought at the time you were merely disappointed, and I spoke to him on your behalf; but he said I knew nothing about you, and I see I didn't. I never thought you were a person who would plot behind your employer's back.' * Miss Sartwell,' said Marston, speaking slowly, ' you are entirely wrong in your opinion of me. I feel no resentment against Mr. Sartwell, and I hooe he has none against me. You spoke of treachery just now ; my treachery, as I have said, is against Gibbons. I mean to depose him if I can get enough of the men to vote with me. Then the way will be smooth for Mr. Sartwell to put an end to this trouble, which I am sure is causing him more worry than, perhaps, any one else.' ' But why, if that is the case, don't you want him to know? ' Hi r.,i 1 H THE MUTABLE MANY !l I ! I I 'Don't you see why? It is so that he won't make the same mistake which you have made. You have allowed me to explain ; Mr. Sartwell might not have waited for explanations.' * I have not been very kind, have I ? ' said Edna, contritely, holding out her hand to him. ' Please for- give me. Now I want to understand all about this, so come with me into the garden, where we shan't be interrupted. Standing here at the gate, some one might call, and then I should have to go into the house, for my mother has gone to Surbiton to see how Mr. Hope is. Was he injured yesterday ? ' *No. I will go with you, Miss Sartwell, on one condition.' ' What is that ? ' asked the girl, in some surprise. She had turned to go, expecting him to follow ' That you will not tell Mr. Sartwell you have been talking with me.' * Oh, I cannot promise that. I tell my father every- thing.' * Very well. That is quite right, of course, but in this instance, when you tell him you talked with me, say that I came to see him ; that the servant said neither he nor Mrs. Sartwell was in, and then asked me if I would see you. Tell your father I said ' No,' and that I was leaving when you spoke to me.' The girl looked frankly at him, a little perplexed wrinkle on her smooth brow. She was puzzled. ' What you say shows you do not understand him. He wouldn't mind in the least your talking to me about the strike, because I am entirely in his con- fidence ; but he might not like it if he knew you had been to see Mr. Hope.' ' Exactly. Now, don't you see that if you tell him you have been talking with me, you will have to tell him what was said? He will learn indirectly that I have been to Surbiton, and will, undoubtedly, be angry ; the more so when he hears I did not intend 164 THE MUTABLE MANY to tell him. In fact, now that this conversation has taken place, I shall go straight to him and tell him I have talked with Mr. Hope, although I feel sure my doing so will nullify all my plans.' ' And this simply because I talked with you for a few minutes ? ' ' Yes.' ' I am sorry I stopped you,' she said. * Perhaps you don't know what it is to think more of one per- son than of all the rest in the world together. My father is everything to me, and when I saw you I was afraid something had happened to him. It doesn't seem right that I should keep anything from him, and it doesn't seem right that I should put anything in the way of a quick settlement. I don't know what to do.' When did a woman ever waver without the man in the case taking instant advantage of her indecision ; turning her own weapons against her ? ' Don'^ you see,' pleaded Marston, eagerly, * that Mr. Sartwell has already as much on his mind as a man should bear ? Why then add to his anxiety by telling him that I have been here or at Surbiton ? The explanations which seem satisfactory to you might not be satisfactory to him. He would then merely worry himself quite unnecessarily ' ' Do you think he would ? ' ' Think ! I know it' * Yes, I believe that is true. Well, then, I promise not to tell him of your visit unless he asks me directly. Now come with me; I want to know all your plans, and what Mr. Hope said. I can perhaps help you with a suggestion here and there, for I certainly know what my father will do, and what he won't do, better than any of you. ' Now, although I have promised,' continued Edna, * I am sure you are wrong in thinking my father would be displeased if he knew we talked over the strike together ; and, if I have said I will not tell him you 155 '• 1 m m^ I i ' n I THE MUTABLE MANY were here, it is not because I fear he will be annoyed at that, but because I would have certainly to tell him of your Surbiton visit as well, and, as you say, he might not think you were justified in going to Mr. Hope, no matter what your intentions were. But with me it is quite different. He would just laugh at our discussing the situation, as he does over the con- versations I have with Mr. Barnard Hope in this very garden.' * Ah, Mr. Barnard Hope comes here, does he? ' * Yes, quite often ; ever since the strike began. He takes the greatest possible interest in the condition of the working-man.' * Does he ? It is very much to his credit.' ' That's whiat I say, but father just laughs at him. He thinks that Mr. Hope is a good deal of a — a ' * Of a fool,* promptly suggested Marston, seeing her hesitation. ' Well, yes,' said Edna, laughing confidentially, 'although that is putting it a little strongly, and is not quite what I intended to say. But I don't think Mr. Barnard Hope is a fool. He may be frivolous — or, rather, he may have been frivolous, but that was before he came to recognize his responsibilities. I think him a very earnest young man, and he is exceedingly humble about it, saying that he hopes his earnestness will make up for any lack of ability which ' ' Then he needs all the earnestness he can bring to bear upon the subject.' ' Oh, he realizes that ! ' cried Edna, enthusiasticaUy. ' If there is only some one to point to him the way, he says, he will do everything which lies in his power to assist the working-man in bettering his condition. I have told him that his own vacillation of mind is his worst enemy.' ' He vacillates, does he ? ' * Dreadfully. He will leave here to-day, for instance, thoroughly convinced that an agreed course of action 156 THE MUTABLE MANY to my. he ir to lion. his ice, tion is right. To-morrow he will return, having thought it over, and he has ever so many objections that he is not clear about. He says, what is quite true, that it is a most intricate question, which one must look at in all its bearings, otherwise mistakes are certain to be made.* * That is why he does nothing, I suppose. Then he is sure of not making any mistake.' Something of bitterness in the young man's tone caused the girl to look at him in surprise. Surely two people who had the interests of the working-man so much at heart as both Hope and Marston, ought to be glad of any help one could give to the other. Yet Marston did not seem to relish hearing of the unselfish and lofty aims of Barney. ' Why do you say he does nothing ? * 'Well, when I called upon him before the strike began, hoping he would use his influence to avert trouble, he showed no desire to ameliorate any one's condition but his own. He was comfortable and happy, so why trouble about the men ? " Foolish beggars " he called them, when I told him they had voted to go on strike.' * Now you see,' cried Edna, gleefully, ' how easy it is, as you yourself said, for men to misunderstand each other. A few words of explanation will show you that you have thought unjustly of Mr. Barnard Hope. He did intend to use his influence on behalf of the men, and came all the way from Chelsea here to see my father on the subject, just as you have done to-day; and my father was not at home, just as it has happened to-day. Mr. Hope talked it over with mother and me, and he quite agreed with us that it would not be fair to my father if there were any interference. It was for my father's sake that he refused to take part in the dispute.' To this conclusive defence of Barney the young man had no answer ; but he was saved the necessity THE MUTABLE MANY of a reply, for both talker and listener were startled by a shrill voice, near the house, calling the girl by name. Edna started to her feet in alarm, and Marston also arose. 'That is my step-mother calling me. She has returned. I had no idea it was so late. What shall we do ? She mustn't see you here, and yet you can't get out without passing the windows.* ' I can go over the wall. I wonder who lives in the next house?* * It is vacant, but the wall is high and there is broken glass on the top.' ' rU have a try for it, any way.' They passed through the shrubbery towards the dividing walL ' Oh, I am sure you can't do it, and you will cut your hands.' Marston pulled off his coat, threw it, wide spread, over the barbarous broken glass, stepped back as far as the shrubbery would allow, and took a running jump, catching the top of the wall with his hands where the coat covered the glass. Next instant he was up, putting on his coat while his boots crunched the broken bottles. 'You haven't cut yourself? Tm so glad. Good- bye,' she whispered up to him, her face aglow with excitement. ' One moment,* he said, in a low but distinct voice. ' I haven't had a chance to tell you my plans.' * Oh, please, please jump down ; my mother may be here at any moment.' The cry of * Edna ! ' came again from the house. ' It's all right yet,' whispered Marston. ' But I must know what you think of my plans. I'll be here at this hour to-morrow, and if you are able to meet me, will you throw your shawl, or a ribbon, or anything, on the wall where my coat was, so that I can see it from this side ? ' 168 THE MUTABLE MANY ' Do go. If yoti are seen, it will spoil everything. I don't know what to say about to-morrow. I'll think over it' 'Remember, I shall be on this side. You make everything so clear that I must consult you about this ; it is very important.* * Yes, yes. I promise, but you are risking it all by remaining uhere.' Marston jumped down into another man's garden, and pushed his trespass ruthlessly over and through whatever came in his way until he reached the gate and was out once more on the public road. The safety signal, ' To be let,' was in the windows of the house, and on a board above the high wall. *Ah, Mr. Barnard Hope,' he muttered, clenching his fist, * all the good things of this world are not for you. Once over the wall is worth a dozen times through the gate. I fancy I need instruction on my duty to my employers quite as much as you require to have your obligations to the working-man explained to you.* ! *t •^1 lUSt Ithis iwill on Irom >j »59 i BT^ I ' ? I 3 ' S ■ I ^ i CHAPTER XVI * Edna, where are you ?' * Here, mother.' * You heai"d me calling you ; why did you not answer ? * * I have answered by coming to you. How is Mr. Hope?' ' In a dreadfully nervous state. He thinks he is not hurt, but I am sure he has been injured internally, which is far worse than outward wounds, as I told him. He seems to be strung on wires, and jumps every time his wife makes the most casual remark to him. I advised him to see a physician and know the worst at once. And Mrs. Hope tells me he acts very queerly. He took scarcely any breakfast this morning, yet, before lunch, he ordered into the study a meal that was simply enormous, and devoured it all alone.' * Perhaps that was because he had taken so little breakfast.' * No, child, you don't know what you are talking about. There are some things Mr. Hope can never touch without being ill afterwards. Mrs. Hope is very careful of his diet. There's pickles, for instance ; he hasn't touched pickles for sixteen years, yet to-day he consumed a great quantity, and drank a whole bottle of beer, besides eating roast beef and cheese, and ever so many other things. Mrs. Hope, poor i6o THE MUTABLE MANY not IS ling, leal me.' little ^ery he [•day lole tost; )Oor woman, is sitting with folded hands waiting for him to die. I never saw such a look of heavenly resigna- tion on any human face before.' 'As on Mr. Hope's?' ' Edna, don't be pert. You know very well I mean Mrs. Hope's.' ' Really, mother, I didn't. I thought perhaps Mr. Hope was resigned. What does he say? * He says it hasn't hurt him in the least, but Mrs. Hope merely sighs and shakes her head. She knows what is in store for him.' * Perhaps, mother, the poor man was only hungry, and tired of too much dieting. I hope he enjoyed his meal.' ' Edna, you have too little experience, and, much as I regret to say it, too little sense to understand what it means. Mr. Hope's digestive organs have always been weak ; always. If it had not been for his wife's anxious care, he would have been dead long ago. She allowed him out of her sight for a few minutes this morning and refused all callers, except myself and one or two of her own very dearest friends, and you see what happened. She fears that the excitement of yesterday has completely ruined his nerves, and that he doesn't know what he is doing, although he insists that he feels as well as ever he did ; but I said to Mrs. Hope, I would have the best medical advice at once if I were in her place. Who was it called here to see your father while I was away ? ' * I have not been in the house since you left.' ' What ? In the garden all this time ? Edna, when will you learn to have some responsibility ? How can you expect the maids to do their duty if you neglect yours and never look after them ? ' 'You train them so well, mother, that I did not think it was necessary for me to look after them while you were away.' THE MUTABLE MANY ' ' I ' Yes, I train them, and I hope I do my duty towards them ; but you also have duties to perform, although you think so lightly of them. You forget that for every hour idled away you will have to give an account on the last Great Day.' ' I have not been idling, and, even if I had, one can't be always thinking of the last Great Day.' They had by this time reached the drawing-room, and Mrs. Sartwell sat down, gazing with chastened severity at her step-daughter. ' Edna,' she said, solemnly, * I implore you not to give way to flippancy. That is exactly the way your father talks ; and while, let us hope, it will be forgiven him, it ill becomes one of your years to take such a tone. Your father little thinks what trouble he is storing for himself in his training of you ; and, if I told him you were deceiving him, he would not be- lieve it. But, some day, alas ( his eyes will be opened.' ' How am I deceiving him ? ' cried Edna, a quick pallor coming into her face. Her step-mother mournfully shook her head and sighed. * If your own heart does not tell you, then perhaps I should be silent. You have his wicked temper, my poor child. Your face is pale with anger just because I have mildly tried to show you the right path.' 'You have not shown me the right path. You have said that I am deceiving my father, and I ask what you mean.' Mrs. Sartwell smiled gently, if sadly. ' How like ! how like ! I can almost fancy it is your father speaking with your voice.* 'Well, I am glad of that. You don't often say complimentary things to me.' * That is more of your pertness. You know very well I don't compliment you when I say you are like your father. Far from it. But a day will come when even his eyes shall be opened. Yes, indeed.' «6a THE MUTABLE MANY and You ask your say very like /hen 'You mean that his eyes will be opened to my deceit, but you have not told me how I am deceiving him/ * You deceive him because you take very good care, when in his presence, not to show him the worst side of your character. Oh dear, no ! You take good care of thatl Butter wouldn't melt in your mouth when he is here. But he'll find you out some day, to his sorrow. Wait till your stubborn wills cross, and then you will each know the other. Of course, now it is all smooth and pleasant ; but that is because you don't demand to know what he means, and do not tell him that you can't be bothered about the last Great Day.' * Father never threatens me with the judgement as you so often do, nor does he make accusations against me, and so I don't need to ask what he means. I suppose I am wicked,* continued the girl, almost in tears ; ' but you say things that seem always to bring out the bad side of my character.' ' You are too impulsive,' said the lady, smoothly. ' You are first impenitently impudent to me; and then you say that you have a bad character, which I never asserted. You are not worse than your father.' * Worse ? I only wish I were half as good.' ' Ah, that's because you don't know him any better than he knows you. You think he takes you entirely into his confidence, but he does nothing of the sort. Why did he so carefully carry away the newspaper with him this morning ? ' ' I'm sure I don't know. Why shouldn't he? It's his own.* * His own, yes, but he never did it before. He took it away the better to deceive his wife and daughter, that's why. So that we shouldn't know how he braved and defied the men yesterday. Oh, I can see him ! It was just the kind of thing that would gratify his worldly pride.' M a 163 THE MUTABLE MANY r *0h, what happened, mother?' cried the girl, breathless with anxiety. ' I thought he didn't tell you, and I suppose he did not mention that poor Mr. Hope and Mr. Monkton, too, begged and implored him not to go to the Works to-day — yes, almost on their bended knees, and he paid not the slightest attention to their wishes — and they his employers 1 If for no other reason, he ' ' But tell me what he did. How did he defy the men ? ' 'Why do you not allow me to finish what I am saying ? Why are you so impatient ? ' 'Because he is my father. Is that not reason enough ? * * Yes, my poor child, yes/ murmured Mrs. Sartwell, in mournful cadence; 'that is reason enough. Like father, like daughter. It is perhaps too much for me to expect patience from you, when he has so little.' * That is not my meaning ; but never mind. Please tell me if he was in danger.' * We are all of us in danger every moment of our lives, and are saved from it by merciful interposition, and not by any virtue of our own puny efforts. How often, how often have I made my poor endeavour to impress this great truth on your father's mind, only to be met with scorn and scoffing, as if scorn and scoffing would avail on the last Why are you acting so, Edna ? You pace up and down the room in a way that is, I regret to say it, most unladylike. You shouldn't spring from your chair in that abrupt manner. I say that scoffing will not avail. Surely I have a right to make the statement in my own house ! When I said to your father this very morning that he should not boast in his own strength, which is but fleeting, but should put his trust in a Higher Power, he answered that he did — the police were on 164 THE MUTABLE MANY you room dike. )rupt irely I own [ning :h is rher on the ground. What is that but scoffing? He knew I was not referfinj, to the police.* Edna iiad left the room before her step-mother completed the last sentence, and when the much-tried woman, arising, with a weary sigh, followed the girl into the hall, she found herself confronted wi.' h another domestic tribulation. Edna had her hat o i and was fastening her cloak. 'Where are you going?' asked her amazed step- mother. * To London.' * To London I Does your father know of this ? ' ' He will. I am going to take a hansom from the station to the Works.' * What I Drive through that howling mob ? ' * The howling mob won't hurt me.' 'Child, you are crazy! What is the meaning of this ? ' ' The meaning is that I am going to hear what danger my father was in yesterday, and to be with him if he is in danger to-day.' The good woman held up her hands in helpless dismay. ' Was ever human being, anxious to do her duty to all, harassed by two such ungovernable persons since the world began ? ' she said to herself. But for once she made exactly the remark to cope with the situation. ' The time has come sooner than I expected. Your father has forbidden you to go to the office ; and when he sees that you have disobeyed him at such a time as this, he will be furious. Then you will know what I have to stand.' The impetuous girl paused in her preparations. 'Then why do you exasperate me beyond endur- ance by refusing to tell me what happened?' ' I refuse ! I refuse you nothing ; better would it have been for me if I had, when you were younger ; then you would think twice before you fling all 165 THE MUTABLE MANY f obedience to th^j winds. You have only to ask what you want to know, and listen with patience while it is told to you.' * I have asked you a dozen times.' ' How you do exaggerate ! I call it exaggeration, although I might perhaps be forgiven for using a harsher term. Exactitude of statement is more * * Will you tell me, or shall I go ? * * Have I not just said that I will tell you anything ? What is it you want to know ? Your own ridiculous conduct has driven everything out of my head.* ' You said that my father had defied the men and was in danger yesterday.' * Oh, that 1 After seeing the police guard Mr. Hope and Mr. Monkton through the lawless mob, what must your father do but show how brave he is compared with his superiors ! He came out of the gates alone and v/alked through the mob.' * What did he say?' * He didn't say anything.' * Then how did he defy the men ? * * Good gracious, child, how stupid you are I When men are driven to extremities, surely his coming out among them — and he the cause of it all — was de- fiance enough. But a full account is in the paper I bought at the station ; it is on the hall-table, where you would have seen it if you could have kept your temper. Read it if you wish to. It is not me you are disobeying when you do so. Remember, it was your father who did not want you to see the paper.' The day proved a long one to Edna Sartwell ; and, when her father did not return at the usual hour, she became more and more anxious. Her step- mother said nothing about the delay, as the hours passed, but began to assume that air of patient resignation which became her so well. Dinner was served to the minute, and at the accustomed moment the table was cleared. Once or twice she chided Edna for her restlessness, 1 66 Vhen out de- )aper lere our you was r.' and, she ther but hich lute, red. ■less. THE MUTABLE MANY and regretted that she had to speak, but was com- pelled to do so, because the good example she herself set was so palpably unappreciated. At last she said — ' Edna, go to bed. I will wait up for your father.' * He is sure to be home soon ; please let me wait until he comes.' There was silence for a few minutes. ' I don't wish to ask you twice, Edna. You heard what I said.' * Please do not send me away until father comes. I am so anxious. Let me sit up instead ot you. I can't sleep if I do go to bed. Won't you let me sit up in your place ? ' The martyred look came into the thin face of her step-mother —the look which told of trials uncom- plainingly borne. ' I have always sat up for your father, and always shall, so long as we are spared to each other. For the third time, I ask you to go to bed.' The girl sat where she was, the red flag of rebel- lion in her cheek. The glint of suppressed anger in Mrs. Sartwell's eye showed that a point had been reached where one or other of them had to leave the room defeated. The elder woman exhibited her forbearance by speaking in the same level tone throughout. ' Do you intend to obey me, Edna ? ' ' No, I do not.' Mrs. Sartwell went on with her sewing — a little straighter in the back perhaps, but not otherwise visibly disturbed by the unjustifiable conduct of the girl. In each instance after Edna's prompt replies there was silence for a few moments. ' In the earlier part of the day, Edna, you permitted yourself to speak to me and act towards me in a manner which I hoped you would regret when oppor- tunity for reflection was given. I expected some 167 i II THE MUTABLE MANY ^ .♦> w fl^ expression of contrition from you. Have you reflected, Edna?' * Yes.' Mrs. Sartwell threaded her needle with almost excessive deliberation. * And what lias been the result ? ' ' That I was pleased to think I had said nothing harsher than I did.' The ticking of the tall clock on the landing echoed throughout the house. Edna listened intently for a quick, firm seep on the gravel, but the silence outside was complete. ' Added to your — if I use the word insolence, it is because I can think of no other term with which to characterize the remarks you have addressed to me ; — added to your insolence is now disobedience. If I am overstating the case, no one can be more pleased than I, to be corrected — in the proper spirit.' ' I have no desire to correct you.' After nipping the thread with her teeth, and draw- ing a deep sigh, Mrs. Sartwell said — 'In every household, Edna, some one must com- mand and others obey. When my time comes, I shall gladly lay down the burden of what poor autho- rity is delegated to me; but until that time comes, I shall be mistress in my own house. Your father freely, and of his own choice, gave me that authority, and he, not you, is the proper person to revoke it, if it pleases him to do so. I shall therefore say nothing more until he retur'^s. Then he must choose between us. If you are to be mistress here, I shall bow my head without a word and leave this house, pra}ing that peace and every blessing may remain within it.' Something of the self-sacrificing resignation breath- ing through these measured words must have touched the hardened heart of the girl, for she buried her face in her hands and began to weep ; a certain sign of defeat. But she evidently determined not to give her i6S ll th- ed Ice of ler THE MUTABLE MANY antagonist the satisfaction fairly won by so admirable a dissertation upon the correct conduct of a well- ordered household. ' It is always poor father,' she sobbed. ' With all the trouble and anxiety already on his mind, he must be worried when he comes home by our miserable squabbles.' * I never squabble, Edna. Neither do I use such an undignified word. Where you got it, I'm sure I do not know, but it was not from me. If you wish your father not to be troubled, then you should act so that it would not be necessary to appeal to him. It is no wish of mine to add to his cares — far otherwise. Are you ready to obey me now ? ' ' Yes.' The girl rose and went rather uncertainly to the door, her eyes filled with tears. ' You have not kissed me good-night, Edna.' She kissed her step-mother on the cheek and went to her room, flinging herself, dressed as she was, on her bed, sobbing. Yet she listened for that step on the gravel which did not come. At last she rose, did her 1 ir for the night, and bathed her face so that her father, if he came home and saw her, should not know she had been crying. Wrapping herself in her dress- ing-gown, she sat by the window and listened intently and anxiously. It was after midnight when the last train came in, and some minutes later her alert ear caught the sound of the long-expected step far down the street, but it was not the quick, nen'ous tread to which she was accustomeHl. It was the step of a tired man. She thought of softly calling to him ^rom the window, but did not. Holding her door *jar, she heard the murmur of her step-mother's voice, and occasionally the shorter, gruffer note of her father's monosyllabic replies. After what seemed an inter- minable time, her step-mother came up alone and the door of her room closed. 169 ml ' <. ■H THE MUTABLE MANY Edna, holding her breath, slipped noiselessly out of her room and down the stairs. The steps were kind to her and did not creak. She opened the door of the dining-room, and appeared as silently as if she were a ghost. Her father started from his chair, and it required all his habitual self-command to repress the exclamation that rose to his lips. • Heaven help us, my dearest girl ! Do you want to frighten your father out of what little wits he has left him ? ' he whispered. * Why aren't you asleep ? ' She gently clored the door, then ran to him and threw her arms about his neck. * Oh, father, are you r>afe ? You are not hurt ? ' 'Hurt? Why, what should hurt me, you silly baby ? * He ruffled her hair, pulling it over her eyes. • You've been dreaming ; I believe you are talking in your sleep now. Why are you not in bed ? ' ' I couldn't sleep till you came home. What kept you so late, father ? ' • Now, this is more than the law requires of a man 1 Have I to make explanations to two women every night when I come home by the late train ? ' The girl sat down on a hassock and laid her head on her father's knee, he smoothing her hair caress- ingly. 'What is all this pother about, Edna? Why are you so anxious at my being out late ? ' * I was afraid you were in danger ; I read what was said in the paper about your defying the men, and — and ' Sartwell laughed, quietly. *My dear girl, if you are going to begin life by believing all you see in the papers, you will have an uneasy time of it. I can tell you something much more startling v/hich has not yet appeared in print.' ' What is that, father ? ' asked the girl, looking up at him. ' That you have been a most unruly child all day, 170 ■ THE MUTABLE MANY :fl are I was Id— by an luch up lay, causing deep anxiety to those responsible for your up-bringing.' Edna sank her head again upon her father's knee. ' Yes,' she said, * that is quite true. I have been dreadfully wicked and rebellious, saying things which I ought not to have said.* 'And leaving unsaid the things ah, well, few of us are quite perfect. It is a blessing that there is such a thing as forgiveness of sins, otherwise most of us would come badly off.* ' Somehow when you are here, nothing seems to matter, and any worries of the day appear small and trivial, and I wonder why they troubled me ; but when you are away well, it's different altogether.' 'That is very flattering to me, Edna; but you mustn't imagine that I'm to be cajoled into omitting the scolding which you know you deserve. No. I can see through your diplomacy. It won't do, my dear girl, it won't do.' * It isn't diplomacy or flattery; it's true. I'll take my scolding most meekly if you tell me what hap- pened to-day.' * I refuse to bargain with a confessed rebel, still, as I must get you off to bed before the morning, I will tell you what happened. An attempt was made to settle the strike to-day. The men had a meeting to-night, and I waited at my club to hear the out- come. I had a man at the meeting who was to bring me the result of the vote as soon as it was taken. A young man — one of the strikers, but the only man of brains among them — saw me this afternoon, and made certain proposals which I accepted. Gibbons was to be renounced, and a deputation of the men was to come to me. We should probably have settled the matter in ten minutes, if it had come off.' * Then he failed after all his trouble ? * ♦Who failed?' * The — the young man you speak of? ' w THE MUTABLE MANY Edna found her rSie of deceiver to be a difficult one. She was glad her father could not see her face, and bitterly regretted giving Marston a promise not to tell of his visit. * Yes, he failed. Of course, there was no time to canvass the men properly, and at the meeting Gibbons, who is a glib talker, won over enough to defeat the efforts of the others. It wasn't much of a victory, but sufficient for the purpose. They had, I under- stand, a very stormy meeting, and Gibbons won by some dozen votes or thereabouts.' * And what is to be done now ? ' 'Oh, we are just where we were. I'll wait a few days more, and if the men do not come back I'll fill their places with a new lot. I don't want to do that except as a last resort, but I won't be played with very much longer. Now, my dear girl, you know all about it ; so to bed, to bed, at once, and sleep soundly. This dissipation cannot be allowed, you know.' He kissed her and patted her affectionately on the shoulder. The girl, with a guilty feeling in her heart, crept upstairs as noiselessly as she had descended. ¥i- 17a ^1 CHAPTER XVII i Albert Langly had found a new and absorbing interest in life. This interest was friendship, the pleasures of which the organist had never before experienced during his lonely and studious existence. He became a constant visitor at Braunt's rooms, and began teaching Jessie the rudiments of music, finding her a willing and apt pupil, as well as a very silent one. Her gaunt face and large, sorrowful eyes haunted him wherever he went; and she looked upon him with an awe such as she would have bestowed upon a being from another world ; which perhaps he was, for he had certainly little relation- ship to the eager, money-seeking inhabitants of this planet. Joe Braunt was quite content to sit in his arm-chair and smoke. However small the money is for the housekeeping, a working-man will generally contrive to provide himself with tobacco- As often as not Braunt was absent when his daughter had her music-lesson, for Mrs. Grundy has little to say about the domestic arrangements of the extreme poor. The entire absence of all world-wisdom in the young man would have made it difficult for any one to explain to him why two people, who loved music, should not be together as often as opportunity offered, had there been any one who took interest enough in him or in her to attempt such an explana- 173 IT \ i t' THE MUTABLE MANY tion. The girl, who had even more than her father's worship of harmony, was fascinated by the organist's marvellous skill upon the instrument to which he had devoted his life, before her solemn eyes had lured his musical soul into their mystic influence. The two were lovers, without either of them in the least suspecting it. Once Langly persuaded Braunt and his daughter to go to the empty church with him and hear the grand organ. The workman and the girl sat together in the wilderness of empty pews and listened, entranced, while the sombre rhythm of the * Dead March ' filled the deserted edifice. Langly played one selection after another, for the love of the music and the love of his audience. It was a concert such as the mad King of Bavaria might have hearkened to in lonely state, but which was heard now by a man without a penny in his pocket, and hardly a crust to eat in his squalid rooms. Whether the deft fingers of the Bavarian player soothed for the moment the demon who tor- tured the king, as the skill of David lulled the disquiet of Saul, who can say ? But certainly the enchanted touch of the solitary organist on the ivory keys trans- ported his listeners into a world where hunger was unknown. The stillness of the great church, untroubled by outside sounds ; the reverberation of harmony from the dim, lofty, vaulted roof; the awaking of unex- pected echoes lurking in dark corners ; added to the solemnity of the music — gave the hearers and performer a sense of being cut adrift from the Babel beyond. The church, for the time being, was an oasis of peace in a vast desert of turmoil. Never again could Langly persuade Braunt to accompany him to the church. Some memories are too precious to be molested ; and he who risks the repetition of an experience of perfect bliss, prepares for himself a possible disillusion. ^74 :he Ires THE MUTABLE MANY * Nay, ma lad,' he said, ' we'll let that rest. Some day, mayhap, if Ah'm iver like beginning to forget what Ah've heard. Ah' 11 go back, but not now. I would go stark music-mad if Ah often heard playin' like yon ; in fact. Ah think sometimes Ah'm half daft already.' But Jessie often accompanied the organist to the quiet church, neither of them thinking of propriety or impropriety ; and luckily they were unseen by either the sexton or his wife, who would have raised a to-do in the sacred interests of fitting and proper conduct. Sometimes the girl sat with him in the organ-loft, watching him as he played ; but more often she occupied one of the pews, the better to hear the instrument in sufficient remoteness. Jessie had in- herited from her father the taciturnity which charac- terized him ; and her natural reticence was augmented by her shyness. There was seldom any conversation between the two in the church ; each appeared abun- dantly satisfied by the fact that the other was there. They might almost have been mute lovers, for any use which spoken language was to them. Once, on coming down the narrow stair which led from the organ-loft, Langly thought she had gone, so strangely deserted did the church seem. Even in the day-time the gas had to be lighted when service was held ; for the windows were of stained glass, and the church was closely surrounded by tall buildings. The atmosphere in that grim quarter was rarely clear, and the interior of the church was always dim. Langly peered, shortsightedly, into the gloom, but could not descry her. A feeling of vague alarm took possession of him ; until, hurrying up the aisle, he saw that she was in her place, with her head resting on the hymn- book board of the pew, apparently asleep. He touched her gently on the shoulder, and, when she slowly raised her head, saw that she had been silently weeping. ' What is the matter, dear ? ' he whispered, bending over her. m THE MUTABLE MANY TE '■ ; ■I- ' I feel afraid — afraid of something — I don't know what. The church grew black, dark, suddenly, and the music faded away. I thought I was sinking, sinking down, and no one to save me.* She shuddered as she spoke, and rose uncertainly to her feet, totter- ing slightly on stepping into the aisle. ' It was like a bad dream,' she added, with long-drawn, quivering breath. He slipped his arm about her waist, supporting her as they walked down the aisle together. 'It's the darkness of the church,' he said, 'and perhaps the sadness of the music. I'll play some- thing more cheerful next time you come. I play too much in the minor key.' At the door she asked him to stop a moment before going out. She dried her eyes, but ineffectually ; for, leaning against the stone wall, she began to cry again, in a despondent, helpless way, which wrung the young man's heart within him. ' Jessie, Jessie,' he faltered, not knowing what to do or say. • I feel ill and weak,' she said. * I shall be all right again presently.' 'Come, and we will have tea somewhere. That will cheer you up.* They went away together, and he took her to a place where tea was to be had. She sat there dejectedly, leaning her head on her hand, while the refreshments were being brought ; he opposite her, in melancholy silence. She sipped the tea with visible effort, but shook her head when he offered her the buttered bread. * I must get home,' she said, at last. ' I can't eat. I shall be better there.' They walked slowly to Rose Garden Court ; and at No. 3 he helped her up the sordid stair, she clinging breathlessly to the shaky railing at every step or two ; he thankful there was but one flight to climb. Braunt 176 THE MUTABLE MANY iat. sat in his arm-chair, an angry cloud on his brow. He was in his gruffest mood ; looking at them, when they entered, with surly displeasure, but saying nothing. It was the evening after Monkton and Hope's men, by a small majority, had resolved to continue the strike. Braunt's pipe was cold ; not another scrap of tobacco could he gather, although he had turned out every pocket in hope of finding a crumb or two. Jessie sank into a chair, her white face turning with mute appeal alternately from her father to her friend, evidently fearing that something harsh might be said ; for she knew that her father was rough-spoken when ill-pleased. * Jessie is not well,' said the organist. Braunt did not answer him, but crossed over to his daughter, and smoothing her hair, said, more gently than she had expected, — ' What's wrong, lassie ? Art hungry ? * *No, no,' murmured the girl, eagerly. 'We had tea before we came in. I'm not hungry.* Langly, slow as he was to comprehend, saw that Braunt at least had been without food, perhaps for long. He had several times offered him money from his own scanty store, but it had always been refused — sometimes in a manner not altogether friendly. The organist went quietly out, leaving father and daughter alone together. * Would ye like me to get some one to coom in — some woman?' said Braunt, anxiously. *We don't know our neighbours ; but one of the women would coom, if she knew ye were ill.' The girl shook her head. * I want none — naught but just to rest a little. It will all pass away soon. I need but rest.' The father returned to his chair, and they sat silent in the gathering darkness. Presently the door was pushed open, and Langly entered with parcels in his arms. He placed a loaf : i THK MUTAHM'. MANY oi\ \\\v t;il>lo, with \\\c rest of his luirilcns, ami \m{ on tho empty licarth the newspaper that held a penny- worth ol" coals. Hraunt j;laroil at hi'ni, speechless for a moment, then cricil out, indi't^nantly : — 'Ah'U ha' none o' thy charity, my lad, d d if Ah will; lUMore I.an^jly could reply, Jessie rose trcmblinpfly to her feet. ' Don't, father, don't,' she waileil ; then swaying, as she attempted io walk towards him, fell suddenly, in a heap, on the llt^or. l.anj;ly sprang forward, but Ihaunt brushed him roui;hly asiile, and, stooping over his daU};hter, lifteil her slij;ht form in his arnus, speakinjj soothin^jly and caressin|;:ly to her. lie carried her to the bed and pl.ieed her lovingly upon it. * Run,' he cried to T.an^;!)*. ' Run for a doctor. There's one down l.ij^^ht Street. There's something main wrong here, Ah'm tearcd.' The yi>ung man necdcil no seoojul telling. The diH'tor dcnuu'red when asked to visit Rose Garilcn Court; he had his owti patients to attend to, he saiil. lie knew there was little to be got out of the Court. 'I am organist at St. Martyrs',' replied the messenger, eagerly. * I will see )-ou paiil.' ' cMi. it's not that.' said the doctor. * Who generally attends people in the Court? There must be some v>ne.' '1 i.\o\\t know,' answered Langly, 'and I have no tin\e to thul out. The case is urgent. Cornel ' So the doctor, grumbling, tor this kind of practice was out o( his line, went with him. They found Braunt anxiously chaling the luuids of the girl. • Ye'vc been long aboot it ! ' he cried, as they cntcitxl. Neither answered, and the doctor went 178 TIIK MUTABLE MANY quickly to the bed, with the sceminp[ly callous indif- ference i»f a man to whom such scenes arc matters of hourly routine. He placed his thumb upon her wrist, bent his ear down to licr breast, then put his hand on her smooth, white brow. * lias she been lon^ ill ?' he asked, sharply. ' Jessie was always weakly/ answered her father, ' and latterly has not been at all well, poor girl.' ' Who has attended her ? ' • No one.' • Oh, well, you know, T can't prant a death certi- ficate under these circumstances. There will most likely be an inquest.' •Good God!' shrieked Itraunt. 'An inquest? Ye don't mean to say — ye can't mean it — Jessie is not dead ! ' 'Yes; she is dead. lean do no good here. I'll let the coroner know, and he can do as he pleases. I have no doubt it is all right, but we are bound to act according to the law, you know. Good-night.' l^raunt threw himself upon the bed in a storm of grief: Langly stood by the side of the dead girl, stunned, lie took her limp, thin hand in his, and gazed down iq)on her, dazed and tearless. Iler father rose and paced the room, alternately pleading with fate and cursing it. Suddenly he turned on Langly like a madman. ' What art doin' here ? ' he roared. ' 'Twas thy interference caused her last words to be troubled. Get you gone and leave us alone.' Langly turned from the bed and walked slowly to the door without a word, Braunt following him with lowering, blood-shot eyes. The young man paused irresolutely at the door, leaned his arm against it, and bowed his head in hopeless anguish. * Heaven help me I * he said, despairingly. ' I loved her too.' Braunt looked at him a moment, not comprc- X a 179 |! ^ E-a ^f^f. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) t^ 1.0 1.1 I^|2j8 |25 1^ Ki |22 1^ 12.0 us us kS |i.25 in 1.4 iiil II 1.6 ffh, 71 /. >:> ^.^* ■> Photographic Sciences Corporation 7i WIST MAIN STRUT WMSTW.N.Y 4SM (/16 A' 3-4S03 :.j^V \ m > m \ t '{( THE MUTABLE MANY bending at first. Gradually the anger faded from his face. * Did thee so, lad?' he said, gently, at last. *I didn't know — I didn't know. Forgive me ma brutish temper. God knows, it should be broken by this time. Ah'm crazy, lad, and know not what Ah say. Ah've not a penny piece in the world, nor where to go to get aught. Ma lassie shall not have a pauper's funeral in this heartless town, no, not if Ah ha' to take her in ma arms, as Ah ha' oft done, and trudge wi' her to the North, sleeping under the hedges, by the way. Yes, that's what Ah'll do. We'll be tramping to the " Dead March " then. It will keep us company. We'll rest at night in the green fields under the trees, away from the smoke and din, alone togither. Ah, God, Ah'll begin the journey now, and tramp all night to be quit o' this Babylon ere the morning.* *No, no,' cried Langly, catching his arm, 'you mustn't do that. You must hear what the coroner says.* ' What has the coroner or any one else to do wi' me, or her?' ' xt is the law ; you must obey it.' ' What care Ah for the law ? What's it done for either me or Jessie ? Ah'll have no pauper funeral, law or no law.' * There won't be a pauper funeral. There are kind hearts in London, as well as in the North. Promise me you'll do nothing until I see if I can get the money.' 'Ah promise,' said Braunt, sinking into his chair. * Ah doubt if Ah could walk far to-night, even if Ah tried. But leave me now, lad, and come back again later. Ah want to be alone and think.' Langly left the room, and on the landing met Marston, whom he did not know, but who, he saw, was about to enter. ' Don't go in,' he whispered ; * he vants to be alone.' i8o THE MUTABLE MANY wi' the be * Is there anything wrong? ' asked Marston, alarmed at the tone of the other. * Yes, his daughter is dead.' * Dead I Good God, how ? An accident ? * *No. She has been ill for weeks, but no one thought of this. Jessie died about an hour since — unexpectedly. Are you a friend of his ? ' ' Yes.' ' Then you must tell me — tell me what to do ! Come down into the Court, where we can talk.* The two young men descended the stair. ' Braunt has no money, and he will not have his daughter buried by the parish. We must get money. I have promised it, but I have very little myself, although I will willingly give all I have ; if it was more I would not ask help from any one.' ' I have only a few shillings,' said Marston, ' but we must get more somehow. None of the men have any, or they would give it. Yesterday I could have gone to Sartwell, but to-day, unfortunately, I have quarrelled with him, bitterly and irretrievably, I fear. Although he said nothing to me, I can't go to him. But there is Barnard Hope. Yes, he's the man. He helped Braunt when there was trouble with the police. I don't like to go to Barnard Hope — for certain reasons I don't care to be indebted to him — would you mind going ? He lives in Chelsea.' ' No. I will do anything I can. I have promised.' * Then I would go to-night, if I were you. To- morrow is his " At home " day, and there will be a lot of people there. It will be difficult to see him then, and we can't wait until the day after. His address is Craigenputtock House, Chelsea. If you fail, I will see his father, so one or other of us is sure to get the money.' ' I will go at once,' said Langly. It was a long journey to Chelsea, and when the tired organist reached the place he found that Barney i8x 1 If y \ 1 ii!^ THE MUTABLE MANY had gone with some friends to the theatre, that there was a dance to follow, and that he very likely would not be home that night. It was uncertain when he would return in the morning, but he would be sure to be back at three o'clock the next afternoon, as his *At home' friends would begin to gather at that hour, so Barney's servant said. The wearied man tramped back, and reached Rose Garden Court about midnight. He rapped at Braunt's door, and receiving no answer, pushed it open, after a moment's hesitation. He feared that the headstrong, impatient man might, after all, have carried out his resolution and left with his burden for the North, but he found nothing changed. Braunt sat there with his head in his hands, and gave him no greeting. ' I am to haye the money to-morrow,* Langly said, feeling sure that it would not be refused. Braunt made no answer ; and, taking one look at the silent figure on the bed, whose face seemed now like that of a little child, the young man departed as quietly as he had entered. Mrs. Scimmins met him on the stairs. She wanted to know all about it. She said that the women of the Court, when they heard of the death, had offered their help, but Braunt had acted like a brute, and had driven them away with fearful oaths. She was sure something was wrong. The coroner had been there, and thought so too. There was to be an inquest at the Vestry Hall in the morning. A summons had been left for Langly to attend and give his evidence. 'But I'm going to Chelsea in the morning,' cried the young man, aghast. 'I know nothing except that Jessie has been ill.' • You saw her die, they say. Braunt admitted that. You will have to attend the inquest, or they will send a policeman after you.' Langly did not slee'j that night, and was gaunt and haggard in the morning. The coroner's jury i8a THE MUTABLE MANY trooped up the stair, and after looking at the dead girl, adjourned to the Vestry Hall. Langly gave his evidence, and, leaving the room at once, hovered about the door, waiting for Braunt. who remained in the Vestry Hall. At last he came out with white face, staring straight ahead of him. * What did they say? ' asked Langly ; but the other made no answer, striding through the curious crowd as if he saw nothing. •What was the verdict?' inquired a bystander of one of the jurymen as be came out. ' Starved to death,' replied the man. ;83 t! :.:
  • ni H I ii CHAPTER XVIII On the day after Marston's failure to win a majority of the men to his side in the strike controversy, the young man went to Wimbledon, hoping to find consolation for his defeat in the company of the girl he loved. He felt that he was, perhaps, taking rather an unfair advantage of Sartwell in thus making a clandestine appointment with his daughter, but he justified himself, as lovers always have justified them- selves, by holding that a man was a fool to lose a trick when he had the card in his hand with which to take it. It was evident that Sartwell had no objection to the visits of Barnard Hope, and that he would be quite willing to have his daughter marry the son of his employer. If Marston had known this the day before, he would not have been so self- denying, in the first case, in refusing to see Edna Sartwell ; and now that fate had interposed in his behalf, giving him the knowledge that he had a rival, he was not going to be idiot enough to throw away his chance. He entered the vacant plot surrounding the empty house, and looked anxiously along the glass-topped wall for the signal which Edna had, under compulsion, promised to display. It was not in sight. He wondered if, after all, the girl had told her father of his visit. Let Sartwell get but the slightest inkling 184 THE MUTABLE MANY of it, and Marston was certain that every particular would soon be within the manager's knowledge. He wandered up and down the wrong side of the wall disconsolately, not knowing what to do. Once he paused near the spot where he had, on the previous day, jumped over. He imagined he heard a slight ccugh on the other side. It might mean a warning or an invitation ; the question was, which ? She must know that he would be there, waiting for her signal; or, perhaps (the thought was bitter), she might have forgotten all about him. At the further end of the garden was a park fence, lower than the forbidding stone wall, which it joined at right angles. As anything is better than suspense, the young man resolved to take the risk of recon- noitring. He mounted the park fence and peered over the wall, but the trees and shrubbery were so thick that he was unable to see whether any one was in Sartwell's garden or not ; even the house was hidden from his view. Faint heart never climbed a stone wall ; Marston hesitated but a moment, seized a branch of an over-hanging tree, pulled himself up to the top, taking the risk of being hurt by the glass, and leaped down into the shrubbery on the other side. He listened intently for a while, but there was no sound ; then he moved cautiously through the bushes to the open space under the trees where he had talked with her the day before. No one was there, but he caught his breath as he saw a red silk scarf hanging over the back of one of the chairs. She had, at least, thought of him, for that was undoubtedly the unused signal. He was now m a greater quandary than he had been when on the other side of the wall. She had apparently intended to throw the scarf over the broken glass, otherwise why had she brought it to their rendezvous ? but as she had not given the signal agreed upon, might there not be a danger that her 186 THE MUTABLE MANY father was at home? The young man knitted his brows as he pondered over what explanation he would give to Sartwell if he were discovered standing under the trees. Marston had half made up his mind to retrace his steps, when he saw Edna approaching from the house. The girl held out her hand to him witli a smile which went to his heart, but her words were not so re- assuring. 'I was watching for you/ she said, 'hoping you would not come.' ' Hoping I would not come ? ' echoed Marston, with a suggestion of dismay in his tone. 'At least, hoping you would not come except by the gate. I don't like this. It seems secret and mean, as if we were doing something we were ashamed of. Now, we may not accomplish much good, talking about the strike, but we are certainly not doing anything either of us should fear to have the whole world know. There is no reason, now that your plans of yesterday have failed, why you should not have come to the front door like any other visitor, is there ? ' ' I suppose there isn't.* ' Of course there isn't,' cried the girl, eagerly ; * and so I intend to tell my father all about this visit, even if I could not mention yesterday's.* 'Oh, but you must do nothing of the kind,' pleaded Marston, thoroughly alarmed. *You will promise me, won't you, that you will not say a word of my being here to-day ? ' The girl laughed and shook her head. 'I'll make no promise so foolish as yesterday's. You see, my promise did no good.' 'What! Did you tell Mr. Sartwell I had been here ? ' ' I said I wouldn't, and I didn't ; but it made me feel wretchedly guilty, when there was little occasion i86 THE MUTABLE MANY s. ten for it. What I mean is, that your plans did not succeed in putting an end to the strike, and so it would have made no difference, after all, if I had told my father. Don't you see that ? No, I won't make another such promise in a hurry.' * Miss Sartwell,' said Marston, seriously, * you don't understand all the circumstances; there are reasons why your father must not know I have been here. Although negotiations have failed for the moment, they will come on again shortly. If Mr. Sartwell knew I was here yesterday * ' Oh, I intend to keep my promise about yesterday. I shall not say a word about that visit ; it is of to- day's I shall tell him.' 'But, don't you see? Yesterday's visit led to this one. They are inseparably joined ; you cannot mention one without being led to the other. Please promise you will say nothing about to-day either.' 'I won't r:ake any more promises. When my father came home late last night, he told me all that had happened : what you had tried to do, and every- thing. I felt so guilty at having to keep anything from him, that I resolved to make no more promises to any one unless he knew of them ; and there was no need to feel guilty. I am sure he would have been glad to know we had talked about the strike and were trying to help him ; yet, all because of a foolish promise, I did not dare to say a word. I think if you knew what I suffered, you would not ask me to keep anything from him.' ' Dear Miss Sartwell,' cried Marston, with more of his affection for the girl in his voice than he was aware of, ' I would not cause you suffering for any- thing in the world.' Edna looked at him with wide-open eyes, surprised at his vehemence ; then she laughed merrily. ' Why, how serious you are. After all, I shall soon forget about it; and although I won't make rash 187 M I : i! ; i THE MUTABLE MANY promises again, Til think it all over, and if— but, then, what is the use of " ifs " ? I shall say to my father to-night that you came to see him, and that I talked with you about the strike.* ' Which wouldn't be true, Miss Sartwell. I didn't come to see him, I came to see you.' •Oh!' *Yes, and you would have to tell him I climbed over the wall. You can't go in for half-truths, you know ; and we haven't talked much about the strike, have we ? ' ' Ah, but you cam*? for that, didn't you ? ' ' Yes. Oh yes, of course. Nothing else ; but you see it wouldn't do to say anything about this visit to your father unless you told him everything. He would want to know why I came over the wall.' * And why did you ? I am sure you might just as well have come in by the gate. It would have been much easier.' * I will next time. But you know the wall is there, and I came over it ; so without making any promise, I beg of you to say nothing about it to Mr. Sartwell, for he will want all sorts of explanations which I don't quite see that I can give.' *Well, then, I won't. Oh, dear, that's a promise, isn't it? And I protesting I wouldn't! I suppose you'll think that it is just like a woman. But I'll never make you another promise, never.' 'Oh, don't say that, Miss Sartwell. I would promise you anything.' 'Very well. Promise me you will tell my father you were here.' The girl laughed as she saw his discomfiture when she so promptly took him at his word. 'There,' she cried, gleefully; 'you see you didn't mean what you said. I really believe you are afraid of my father.' 'lam.* MB THE MUTABLE MANY * How very funny. I should like to tell him that. I can't imagine any one being afraid of him.' * Perhaps you have never st ^n him when he is angry.* 'Oh yes, I have; but I just sit quiet and say nothing. He is never violent when angry, as some men are ; but his eyes half close and his lips are set tight, and he doesn't care to be spoken to just then : so that's why I don't speak. He was angry with you that night, was he not ? ' 'What night, Miss Sartwell?* asked Marston, almost holding his breath. ' The night at the office when I came in. The first time you ever spoke to me — don't you remember ? ' ' I shall never forget it,' Marston said, in a hushed voice. ' Oh, you take things too much to heart, I can see that. You shouldn't mind a little disappointment, nor think my father hard because he refused you. I spoke up for you at the time, as I told you yester- day ; and I'm afraid I didn't further your interests by doing so, for father thinks women shouldn't interfere in business.' They were seated opposite to one another ; the girl bending forward in friendly, confidential attitude; the young man unable to take his eyes from her, listening like one in a dream to the entrancing murmur of her speech. ' You spoke up for me ? ' he repeated, as if soliloquizing. •Yes; and father said ' The girl paused, embarrassed, remembering that what had been said was not complimentary to her listener. ' What did he say ? ' asked Marston, breathlessly. 'Well, you know, he thought you too young and inexperienced for a responsible position, and you are not very old, are you? But by-and-by, when you have more experience, I am sure he will listen to you The great thing is to gain his confidence — at least that is what I should try to do.' 189 Vlfr M H THE MUTABLE MANY 'Yes, I should like to win his confidence/ said Marston, dolefully. ' Oh, it's not difficult. All that is required is to do your duty. I think it's nothing against a young man that he is ambitious. Indeed it should be in his favour, especially with a man like my father, because he has always been very ambitious himself; and I think the great drawback with working-men is that they do not seem to care whether they better their positions or not. You can't do anything for a man who won't help himself; and you are ambitious, aren't you?* * Very. Too much so, I sometimes think.' 'Oh, one cannot be too ambitious, unless one is a man like Napoleon., and thoroughly base and wicked. Then it's wrong, of course. Now, if you want my advice — but perhaps you think I know nothing about these things.' ' Miss Sartvell, I would rather have your advice than any one else's in the world ; and I will follow it to the letter.' ' You do take things too seriously. What a weight of responsibility you would place upon my shoulders ! No ; you must hear the advice first, and then judge whether it is best to follow it or not. I think that you should work on quietly for a year or two, doing your very best and saying as little as possible. Father likes a man who does things, rather than one who says things; he doesn't believe much in talk. Then when you see that he trusts you implicitly — perhaps by that time he will offer you the situation. But if he doesn't, please let me know, and I will speak to him about it. Oh, I shall approach the subject very diplomatically. I shall begin by asking how you are getting on at the Works ; and if he speaks well of you, I will suggest that you be given a better position than the one you are in. How do you like my plan ? ' T90 THE MUTABLE MANY ' It is an admirable one, but — but ' ^ ' But what ? Where is the objection to it ? * 'There is no objection, except that I may get rather discouraged as time goes on/ ' Oh, what nonsense ! You are interested in your work, are you not ? ' ' Very much so ; but if I could see you now and again, I—well — wouldn't become hopeless or despon- dent, you know. If that could be managed * Edna sat back in her chair, and looked straight at him, with clear, wide eyes that seemed pa izled, trying to see beyond what was plainly in view. Marston, burdened by the consciousness that I ; was not dealing honestly with her, yet afraid to awaken her prema- turely to the realities of the situation, was ^s confused as most single-minded persons are when placed in a false position from which there is no escape without the risk of disaster. For a moment there arose in his fast-beating heart a heroic determination to cast all caution to the winds and cry out, 'I love you, my girl, I love you. I am poor, and your father has for- bidden me to see you ! ' But he feared a repulse from the girl more fatal to his hopes than the check which he had received from her father. He bent his gaze upon the ground and cursed his impatience. He realized that honesty had not been the best policy when he had inopportunely confessed his affection for the girl to her father, although he thought at the time he had taken a manly and straightforward course. Had he been less impulsive, and tried to win still further the confidence of Sartwell, he might perhaps have ultimately gained a footing in his chief's house ; and then, who knows what would have happened? He had drawn upon the bank of confidence, and his cheque had been dishonoured ; he could not risk a second mistake of that kind. * I don't like your word " managed," ' said Edna, at last, a little wrinkle of displeasure on her brow. X91 i If I W: 1 1 ■■ I 1 f ! THE MUTABLE MANY ' Your visits here do not need to be managed. You can come as any other friend of my father comes, and we shall have plenty of opportunities for talk. You persist in thinking that my father has some feeling against you, when I assure you such is not the case.' Before Marston could answer, the silence was broken by an emphatic click of the gate, and the young man was dumbfounded by seeing Sartwell enter, stride up the path leading to the house, stop, turn his head towards the spot where they sat, then cross the lawn directly to them. Marston sprang to his feet ; the girl arose more slowly, a roguish twinkle in her eye. Here was the solution of the problem right to her hand, at precisely the proper moment. The expression of the three faces would have interested a student in physiognomy. Anger, delight, confusion, were reflected from the countenances of Sartwell, Edna, and Marston respectively ; but the elder man was the first to control his emotion, and as he approached, his face became an impassive mask, revealing nothing of what was passing through his mind. He cast a brief, sharp glance at Marston, who stood there pale, in the attitude of one who has been captured, and who sees no avenue of escape. A longer, more searching look at his daughter, showed him at once that she had nothing to conceal. Her evident, undisguised pleasure at his coming was too palpable to be misunderstood. He drew a deep breath of relief, but recognized instinctively that the situation required very delicate handling if the girl's ignorance was to be maintained. Here the fates fought on his side ; for each man, from directly opposite motives, desired the same thing: neither wished to have a conflict in Edna's presence, neither could run the risk of full knowledge coming to her at that time. Luckily, Edna's eyes were all for her father ; and she gave no heed to the young man, whose face and 19a THE MUTABLE MANY attitude unmistakably revealed both guilt and dis- comfiture. She was the first to speak. * Oh, father, I am so glad you came ; we were just speaking of you.' . ' Yes, Edna, there are one or two adages bearing on the subject ; complimentary and the reverse.* Edna laughed brightly. *We have been trying to settle the strike; and Mr. Marston thought you would be angry if you knew he had been here — thought you might call it interference. I told him that was all nonsense ; but I could see he was not convinced, so you come at the proper moment to solve the problem finally.' * I see that I came just in time. I am only too glad to have assistance in unravelling this perplexing tangle of the strike, and I welcome help from any quarter.* * There ! ' cried the girl, triumphantly, turning to her lover, who had by this time partially recovered his composure. 'Isn't that just what I said?' * Mr. Hope told me an hour ago, Marston, that you had visited him yesterday, and had done me the honour to call at Wimbledon afterwards ; so I came home fearing I might miss a second visit. Mr. Hope spoke very highly of you, and I do not wish to be less cordial than he, in expressing my own opinion of your most disinterested devotion to the welfare of your fellow-workmen.* Marston moistened his dry lips, but made no attempt at reply. Timorous little Mr. Hope had not kept faith with him, then ; and after counselling him to silence, had blurted out all the particulars as soon as he came again under the influence of his masterful servant, and thus had precipitated this de^^lorable encounter. Edna looked from one to the other, a slight shade of apprehension on her face. The words of her father were all that she could ask : their tone was unexceptionable, and yet — and ye'. — there was i»3 I THE MUTABLE MANY frost in the air. She spoke with less buoyancy than before ; still, with confidence that all was as it should be. ' That was one of the very points which troubled us. Mr. Hope asked Mr. Marston to say nothing about the Surbiton visit, which I felt sure you wouldn't mind.' *You did quite right, Marston, in saying nothing about it when Mr. Hope asked you not to mention it; and Edna is right also in stating that it would have made no difference to me.* * Now,' said Edna to the young man, ' you see how groundless all your fears were, and how a few simple words of explanation clear aw.*»•»• THE MUTABLE MANY ! i r:f ). 1 f '! for pupils and to secure them. He, knowing Barney to be a fashionable man, had put some of these cards in his pocket ; and when the boy in buttons swung open the door, a bit of pasteboard was handed to him. The boy glanced at the card, dropped it into the receptacle which contained many others, and shouted Langly's name up the stair-way, seeming to waft its ascent with a flourish of his hand. The man who held aside the heavy drapery which covered the doorway bawled the name into the room ; from which a con- fused murmur of conversation came, mingled now and then with a pleasing ripple of laughter. T^ orna- mental living statue at the top of the sta gazed dreamily over Langly's head as he mounted. Taking another card, the organist gave it to the man at thd door. 'I have not come to the "At Home," * he said. • Would you give this to Mr. Hope, and ask if he will see me for a moment ? Tell him I called last night, and could not come earlier to-day.* The man took the card and disappeared behind the curtains. In an incredibly short time Barney came out, and his reception of the musician was bewilder- ingly effusive. ' My dear fellow,' he cried, placing a hand on each shoulder of Langly, 'can you play the piano? Of course you can ; what a foolish question to ask ! I always alight on my feet. Providence has dropped you down here, my boy, don't you know. Here are we, having just sent out to scour Chelsea for a pianist, and here you drop right down from the skies, don't you know. This is luck. Want to see me? Of course you do ; and what's more to the point, I want to see you, don't you know. Now come straight in. I've got the finest grand piano you ever fingered in your life — magnificent instrument ; case designed by myself; told 'em to spare no expense, and they didn't, don't you know. Trust 'em for that. Now come in, come in.' aoo THE MUTABLE MANY * Mr. Hope, I did not come to play : I am in no condition for playing.' ' Of course you didn't come to play. That's the beauty of it. You want something from me ; now, don't you?' * Yes ; and if you will give me a moment * ' A thousand of *em, my boy — a thousand of 'em ; but not just now. Listen to me. You want some- thing I've got, and I want something you've got. Very well. All England's prosperity is based on just that position of things. Our commerce is founded on it. Our mutual country is great merely because she knows what she wants, and because she has some- thing the other fellow wants, don't you know. Now, I need a man who can play dance music, and I need him now — not to-morrow, or the day after, or next week. You see what I mean ? Good. You come in and polish off some waltzes for us on the new piano. Then when it's all over I'll let you have what you want — if it's half my kingdom, as the story-books say. Thus we will both be happy, don't you know.' * I am organist at St. Martyrs' Church. I can't ' ' That's all right. Don't apologize. You can play the piano as well as the organ ; I know that by the look of you. Come in, come in.' Barney triumphantly dragged the reluctant musician after him. * I've got him,' he cried, at which there was a clatter of applause and laughter. * Now, there,' said Barney, jubilantly, seating Langly before the grand piano, which had its great lid propped up like a dragon's wing. 'There's all the sheet music any reasonable man can want, but if you prefer something else, I'll send out for it ; and there's the piano — " come, let us hear its tune," as the poet says.* The rugs which usually covered the waxed floor had been cleared away ; the chairs had been pushed into corners and against the walls. There was much aoi ! :>i 1 1 li i \ r THE MUTABLE MANY I i : laughter and many protestations that the visitors had not come prepared for a dance ; but all were unques- tionably eager for the fun to begin. * You see you are in Bohemia/ cried Barney, beam- ing joyously on his many guests, ' and the delight of Bohemia is unconventionality. I danced after the theatre till daylight this morning, and I am ready to begin again. Shall we not lunch because we have breakfasted, and because we dine at seven? Quite otherwise. I am ready for a dance any time of the night or day. Now, Mr. Musician, strike up. " On with the dance, let joy be unconfined," as the other poet says.' Langly could not have played out of time or tune if he had tried. The piano, as Barney had truly said, was a splendid instrument ; and when the gay waltz- music filled the large room, many couples began to glide lightly over the polished floor. The musician played on and on, mechanically yet brilliantly; and in the pauses between the dances more than one of the guests spoke to their host of the music's excellence. ' Oh yes, said Barney, with a jaunty wave of the hand, 'he's one of my finds. The man's a genius, don't you know, and is in music what I am myself in painting.' ' Barney, you always lay it on too thick,' said one of the young men. 'You'll turn the pianist's head with flattery if he knows you consider him as clever as yourself.* ' Perhaps you imagine I'm too dense to see through that remark/ said Barney, with the condescension of true genius. ' I know your sneering ways ; but let me tell you what I meant was that both the musician and myself are unrecognized by the mob of common- place people of whom you are so distinguished a representative. — I flatter myself I had him there,' whispered Barney aside to the lady on his right. • Yes, my boy, the day will come when you will be 3oa THE MUTABLE MANY /ill be proud to say you were invited to these receptions, which I intend to make one of the artistic features of London society.' 'Why, Barney,* protested the young man, 'I'm proud of it now. I make myself objectionable in all my clubs by continually bragging that you smile upon me. I claim that you are in art what the Universal Provider is in commerce.' 'Do get him to play something, while we are resting,' murmured the lady, thus pouring oil on the troubled waters. Langly sat at the piano, a disconsolate figure, pay- ing no attention to the hum of conversation around him. His thoughts were far away, in the squalid room where the dead girl lay. Barney bustled up to him, and the musician came to himself with a start on being spoken to. 'Here are several Hungarian mazurkas — weird things — you'll like 'em. Just polish off a few for us while we have some tea, will you? They are all complimenting your playing — they're people who know a good thing when they hear it. Won't you have some refreshment yourself before you begin ? ' Langly shook his head, and began playing the Hungarian music. Barney sat down again beside the lady, smiling with satisfaction at being able to pose as the patron of so accomplished a musician. The lady, her chin resting on her hand, listened intently. ' How marvellously he plays those mazurkas ! ' she whispered, softly. ' He brings out that diabolical touch which seems to be in much of the Polish and Hungarian music' * Yes,* assented Barney, cordially, ' he does play like the devil, yet he is an organist in a church. Ah, well, I suppose Beelzebub looks after our music as he does our morals.' * Has he composed anything ? ' 'Who, Satan?' 203 i '111 M n ■ id- !i;.^iJ M » 4^pMMMaMBw«MBf4 THE MUTABLE MANY I i * No, no. You know very well I'm speaking of the organist.' 'Composed ! Well, rather. He's an unrecognized genius, but I'm going to look after his recognition. I'm goin? to bring out some of his works, if he'll let me. He s a very modest man, and ' , ' Another likeness to yourself.' 'Exactly, exactly. I'm always pushing other people forward and neglecting my own interests; still, I'll arrive one of these days and astonish you all, don't you know. You see, our set doesn't produce men of genius like that organist. The Upper Ten never produced a Shakespeare.' * I thought it did. Didn't Lord Bacon write Shake- speare ? ' * No, hb didn't. I've looked up that question, but there's nothing in it, don't you know. No, the really great men come from the common people. The world doesn't know where to look for them, but I do, and I find 'em, just as I found this man. I go for my society to the aristocracy, but for my geniuses to the democracy.' * But if society does not produce great men, how do you hope to become the greatest of painters ? ' ' Ah, painting's a different thing, don't you know ; it has always been the gentleman's art. Leonardo and all of those chaps were great swells. Rubens — or was it Titian? one of them anyhow — went as Am- bassador to the Court of Spain in great pomp. Painters have always been the companions of kings. But, I say, let us have another dance.' Once more the dreamy waltz-music mingled with the swish-swish of silken skirts, sibilant on the polished floor. Langly nearly always lost himself in whatever music he played, but now it merely dulled his sorrow, and an undertone of deep grief lay beneath the frivo- lous harmony which rippled so smoothly and sweetly from the piano — an undertone heard by none save ao4 THE MUTABLE MANY himself. Merry laughter, and now and then a whis- pered phrase as the dancers swung close to where he sat, fell on his unheeding ear ; and he wished his task were done, so that he might face again the long walk which he had before him. He chided himself for being ungrateful, when it seemed hard that at this time he should be called upon to minister to the amusement of a pleasure- loving party; but he remembered that the Hebrew had toiled seven years uncomplaining for the woman he loved, and why should he grudge an afternoon, when the object was practically the same, although hope cheered the longer task, and despair c).ouded the shorter? Each in his way laboured for his love, living or dead. The heavy hand of Barney came down unexpectedly on the thinly clad shoulder of the player, and partially aroused him from his bitter reverie. ' First-rate, my boy, first-rate. You've done nobly, and every one is delighted — charmed— they are, indeed, I assure you. Now they're saying good-bye, so give us a rousing march for the farewell — anything you like — something of your own would be just the thing ; you see what I mean — a march with a suggestion of regret in it— sorry they're going, don't you know.' Barney hurried back to his guests, shaking hands, asking them to come again, and receiving gushing thanks for a most agreeable afternoon. Suddenly there knelled forth amid the murmurs of farewell the solemn notes of the ' Funeral March,' like the measured toll of a passing bell. The metallic clangour of the instrument gave a vibrant thrill to the sombre music, which was lacking in the smooth round tones of the organ. Langly played like a man entranced, his head thrown back, his pale face turned upward, seeming as if life had left it. An instantaneous chilling hush fell on the assemblage, as though an icy wind had swept through the room, freezing into silence the animated ao5 m . lift! til w I i THE MUTABLE MANY stream of conversation. Soma shivered where they stood, and a girl, clasping her cloak at her throat, paused, and said, half hysterically, — * If this is a joke, Mr. Hope, I must say I don't like it.* 'Cursed bad taste, if you ask me,* muttered one man, hurrying away. 'Oh, I say!* cried Barney, as much shocked as any one at the inopportune performance, and striding towards the player, as soon as his wits came to him, * we didn't want a dirge, don't you know.* The lady who had spoken in praise of Langly's music laid a detaining hand on Barney's arm. * Hush,' she said, gently, the glimmer of tears in her eyes; 'don't stop him. Listen. That man is inspired. I never heard Chopin played like this before.* * Oh, it's Chopin, is it ? * murmured Barney, apolo- getically, as if, had he known it, he would not have interfered. The throng dissolved rapidly with the unwelcome chords ringing in the ears of the visitors, leaving Barney and his guest standing there alone. Langly, on finishing the March, remained where he was seated, his long arms drooping by his side. ' Wouldn't you like to speak to him ? ' asked Barney. ' No, not now.* The lady stole softly out, Barney following her to the landing at the head of the stairs. ' Please don't lose sight of him,* she said, giving Barney her hand. ' I want you to ask him here again and let me invite the guests.' 'I'll do it,* said Barney, enthusiastically. 'That will be awfully jolly.' ' No, it won't be jolly, Mr. Hope, but we'll hear some enchanting music. Good-bye.' Barney re-entered the room, and found Langly standing beside the piano like a man awakened from a dream, apparently not quite knowing where he was. ' You must have something to drink,' cried Barney^ 206 THE MUTABLE MANY e they throat, ; don't ed one ked as itriding to him, angly's ;ears in man is before.* , apolo- 3t have welcome leaving here he •arney. I Barney stairs. giving [e again That fU hear .angly [d from ^e was. Jarney, I cordially. ' You look fagged out, and no wonder. I never heard Chopin so well rendered before. I tell you, my boy, you get all out of a piano that's in it, don't you know. Now, will you have whisky or brandy?' Langly thanked him, but refused both beverages. He had a long walk before him and was anxious to get away, he said. * Walk ? ' cried Barney. ' Nonsense. Why should you walk, and thus insult every self-respecting cabby you meet ? I'll see about the walking ; I hope I know my duty towards the hansom industry.' Barney touched an electric bell, and when his man appeared, said to him— ' Just send Buttons to the King's Road for a hansom. When it comes, give the cabby ten shillings, and tell him that he belongs to his fare for four hours. Ask him to wait at the door till his fare comes, and meanwhile, bring in some whisky and soda. Now, Mr. Organist — I always forget names— ah, Langly, here it is on the card, of course — have you ever composed any music yourself? I thought so. Ever published any? I thought not. Well, my boy, we must remedy all that. You're too modest ; I can see that. Now, modesty doesn't pay in London. I know, because I suffer from it myself. Heavens ! If I only had the cheek of some men, I would be the most famous painter in Europe. If you bring a few of your compositions to me, I'll get a publisher for you. Will you promise ? Nonsense ; not worthy ? Bosh ! Compared with the great composers? My dea» fellow, the great com- posers were all very well in their way, I've no doubt, but they were once poor devils like you. Because Raphael painted, is that any reason why I should not improve on him ? Not a bit of it. You and I will be old masters in music and painting some few centuries hence ; you just wait and see. The great point is to realize that you're an old master while you're young ao7 >i THE MUTABLE MANY and can do something. If you don't recognize the fact yourself, you may be jolly well sure no one else will — at least, not in time to do you any good here below. Do have some whisky — it's cheering and com- forting, as the advertisements say. Well, here's to you.' * I came to see you, Mr. Hope,' stammered Langly, diffidently, * because Marston, one of your father's employes, told me he thought you might — that you were good enough to help once ' ' Oh yes, I remember Marston. He was here about some fellow knocking down a few policemen. Well, has he knocked down some more?* * No, but he is in great trouble, Mr. Hope.' ' Such a man is sure to be ; how much is the fine ? ' * His only daughter died yesterday.' * Oh, I'm very sorry to hear it, very sorry indeed.' ' He has no money, and none of the men have any. Braunt will ask no one for help, but I know that he fears there will have to be He doesn't want her to be buried as a pauper — and I thought ' * Of course, of course. I see it all. I never could understand the feeling of the poor on that subject. They seem to like a fine funeral, as if that mattered. I confess, that if you give me good company while I'm alive, you may do what you p.ease with me when I'm dead. I would just as soon lie beside a pauper as a prince, but I prefer the prince when I'm above ground. Now, how much will be needed ? Of course, you don't know ; no more do I. Here are three fivers ; if more is wanted just telegraph me, and I'll send it by messenger at once, don't you know. No, you mustn't think of sending any of it back. Use the sur- plus, if there is a surplus, for some charity or another. But you must come back yourself, and we'll have a talk on music. Drop in any time ; there's no cere- mony here. And just write your address on this card, so that I may communicate with you. I pro- ao8 THE MUTABLE MANY mised a lady to have you here some day to plav for ThanU T^'~^°" ^^'^'^ disappoint mVwill ^ou . ?r 'J ^ ^^^'^ ^° ™"ch obhged.' ^ All right 1 11 just see you into your cab Mr ~er cTn mffc th^'fT'^!.^^^"' don't LntioTitVou 'f yoTwLt o h°:il^T y°" ^^""^ ^^^ ^^"^ hours" 1 you want to; hed take you to Brighton in thaf time, so I suppose he'll land you anywhere ?n London lellow, and I thank you ever so much for your exquisite « s ■ III ao9 I? Hi 9BS9 \ !• f I CHAPTER XX After the burial of his daughter, Braunt sat in his loneh' room and pondered bitterly upon the failure his life had been, ever since he could remember. Hard and incessant toil he did not complain of ; that was his lot, and it had been the lot of his fathers. He was able to work, and willing ; the work was there waiting to be done, yet through the action of the men over whom he had not the slightest control, he was doomed to idleness and starvation, until the capricious minds of others changed, and the signal was given to pick up the tools which had been so heedlessly dropped. * Ah'll not stand it,' he cried aloud, bringing his fist down on the empty table. But after these momentary flashes of determination, the depression habitual to him settled down with increased density upon his mind ; and realizing how helpless he was, he buried his face in his hands and groaned in abject despair. It is difficult for a starv- ing man to be brave for long. What could he do ? Absolutely nothing. He might drop dead from ex- haustion before he got a chance to earn a meal, though he tramped all over the huge city searching for work. The trade which he had learned in his youth was already overcrowded with thousands of men eager for the place he had been compelled to abandon. Even the street-crossings were owned by impoverished wretches aio THE MUTABLE MANY who earned what living they got by sweeping narrow paths across the thoroughfares. If he were presented with a crossing, he had not the money to buy a broom. G'bbons, fool though he might be, spoke the truth when he said that a working-man was but a cog on a large wheel; the wheel might have a new cog or half a dozen new cogs fitted to it ; but the cog separ- ated from the wheel was as useless as a bit of old iron. While Braunt sat with his head in his hands, Langly stole stealthily in upon his stricken friend, closing the door softly after him, with the bearing of a man about to commit a crime and certain of being caught. Braunt gave him no greeting, but glowered upon him from under his frowning, shaggy eyebrows, * There is some money here that you are to take/ said the organist, timidly ; lacing a heap of coins on the table. Braunt, with an angry gesture, swept away the pile, and the gold and silver jingled on the floor. ' Ah'll have none o' thy money, as Ah've told 'e before,' he roared. ' Ah can earn ma money if ah boot get th' chance.' Langly, with no word of remonstrance, stooped and patiently collected every scattered piece. *It is not my money,' he said, on rising. * It was sent to you, and is for you and for no one else. It belongs to you ; I have no right to it, and this very money you yourself have helped to earn ; I don't know who has a better claim to it.' Again placing the silver and gold on the table, Langly tip-toed out of the room in some haste, before Braunt could gather his wits and make reply. The Yorkshireman, with curious inconsistency, had accepted without question the money which had saved his child from a pauper's funeral, although he must have known that the expenses were paid by some one ; yet charity which did not come direct, awakened P 2 an ' •■ If 1 i « I f t' it^'H I ':■ '"'H ^^^ mm* ' t II s' THE MUTABLE MANY no resentment in his turbulent nature, while a bald offer of money or food sent him instantly into a tempest of anger. He thought over the organist's words. How could the money be his ? How had he earned the coins ? His slow brain gradually solved the problem : the money evidently had come from Hope or Monkton, or, perhaps, from Sartwell. He cursed the three of them, together and separately, and in his rage once more scattered the heap on the floor. The coins whirled hither and thither, at last spinning to rest on the bare boards. Braunt watched them as they lay there glittering in the dim light, his mind ceasing to cogitate as to the respective culpability of employers or employed for the state of things under which he suffered. , He had formerly thought of Monkton and Hope as purse-proud, haughty capitalists, until he saw their cringing, frightened demeanour when escorted out of the Works by the policemen ; and since that time he had been endeavouring to reconstruct his ideas con- cerning them. So, after all, why should he refuse to take money from them if one or other had sent it? He gazed at the coins on the floor — white splotches and yellow points of light ; and he hitched round his chair the better to see them. He had heard that a man might be hypnotized by gazing steadily on a silver piece held in the palm. As Braunt watched the coins intently, he passed his hand swiftly across his brow, concentrating his gaze by half-closing his eyes. He leaned forward and down- ward. Surely they were moving, edging closer to each other, the larger heaps attracting the various atoms of metal— as he remembered, with bewildered brain, was the case with money all the world over — which gave a plausible explanation such as one has in dreams, of the coins creeping together, although what was left of his reason told him that it was all an illusion. 212 THE MUTABLE MANY bald nto a could :oins ? : the nkton, ree of ; once coins est on ey lay ling to )loyers lich he ope as V their out of lime he as con- use to ent it? otches ind his d that lily on sed his faze by down- "to each loms of in, was gave [ims, of left of The sane and insane sections of his mind struggled for mastery, while Braunt leaned closer and closer over the money, sitting forward now on the very edge of his chair, breathing hard, almost wholly absorbed in the strange movement which he seemed to see on the floor, and gradually losing interest in the mental conflict regarding the reality of that which his strained, unwinking eyes told him was going on at his feet. At last he noticed that the heap was slowly, but percep- tibly sliding away from him. All doubts about the genuineness of what he saw vanished. The money was trying to escape. He sprang to his feet and jumped to the door, placing his back against it. * Oh no,' he shouted, * ye're mine, ye're mine I * Crouching down, never taking his eyes from the coins, he got upon his hands and knees, crawling towards them craftily, then pounced suddenly on the main heap, while the isolated pieces scuttled back to their former positions, pretending they had never shifted their places. He laughed sneeringly at their futile efforts to deceive him, thrust the heap into his pocket, and captured each separate coin which re- mained, by springing upon it. He searched the whole room like some animal, peering into the corners, crouching lower and proceeding more cautiously when he spied a silver or gold piece which had rolled far ; chuckling when he seized it and placed it with the others. At last he rose to his feet — slapping his pocket joyously, and making the money jingle. Once erect, the blood rushed to his head, causing him to feel dizzy. He staggered and leaned against the wall, all his hilarity leaving him. The room seemed to swim around him, and he covered his eyes with his hands. ' Ah'm gooin' mad,' he whispered. ' Ah moost ha' summet ta eat — or drink.' Braunt staggered through the doorway to the pas- sage and down the stairs, out into the open air, which 313 ?;il Ml in ■■! « I THE MUTABLE MANY revived him and made him feel the nip of hunger again. Once in Light Street, he turned into the * Rose and Crown ' and asked for a mug of beer. The barman hesitated. The credit of the strikers had long since gone. ' I'd like to see the colour of your money,' he said, gruffly. * AhVe no money. Ah'll pay thee next week ; Ah'm goin' to put a stop to th' strike to-day.' He brought down his open palm against his trousers pocket to emphasize his poverty, and was startled by the clink of coins. He thrust his hand down into his pocket and pulled out some silver, gazing at it stupidly. * Ma word,* he gasped at last, * Ah thought Ah dreamt it.' The barman laughed, and reached for an empty mug, grasping the beer-pump handle. * That dream's good enough for the " Crown," * he said. ' Better have some bread and cheese with it.' * Yes. Be quick, man.' Standing there, Braunt ate and drank ravenously. * I can get you a plate of cold meat,' said the barman, seeing how hungry his customer was. The other nodded, and the plate, with knife and fork, was placed before him.' * So the strike's ofif, is it ? ' said the man, leaning his arms on the bar. * It'll be off when Ah get there.' 'Well, it's not a minute too soon. Our trade's suffered.' 'More than thy trade has suffered, worse luck. Dom little ye'll do for a man unless th' money's in ta pouch.' ' Oh, if it comes to that, neither will other people. We're not giving out-door relief, any more than our neighbours.' Braunt ate his food and drank his beer, but made no reply. The barman's attitude was commercially 214 THE MUTABLE MANY correct ; no one could justly find fault with it. Money is the mastor-key of the universe ; it unlocks all doors. The barman did not care how Braunt came by it, so long as he paid for what was ordered ; and the work- man now found that courage was taking the place of despair, merely because he had money in his pocket. He felt that he had energy enough to cope with the strikers, simply because he had fed while they were hungry. He would wait for no meeting, but would harangue the men in the street, those of them who were assembled in little groups about the closed gates ; and most of them were sure to be there. If Gibbons opposed he would settle the question by promptly and conclusively knocking him down : an argument easily comprehended by all on-lookers. Braunt drew the back of his hand across his lips when he had finished his meal, and departed for the Works. He found, as he expected, despondent men standing there, with hands hopelessly thrust deep into empty pockets. Their pipes were as smokeless as the tall chimneys of the factory; which of itself showed that their condition was at its lowest ebb. They were listening with listless indifference to a heated altercation going on between Gibbons and Marston, as if the subject discussed did not concern them. * You might have played that card last week,' Mar- ston cried, * but it is too late now. You can have no conference with the owners. I tell you they have left the country, and won't return for a fortnight, and by that time the Works will be filled with new men. The new men are coming in on Monday. I demand that the committee call a meeting now, and that a vote be taken.' 'Don't mind him,' cried Gibbons. 'He's in Sart- well's pay.' The men did not mind him, and paid no attention to Gibbons either. What they wanted was something 215 !! 4 ■'''■- ■ ^ - ii Hi: '4 m 1 )- THE MUTABLE MANY to eat and drink, with tobacco to smoke afterwards. If Marston were in Sartwell's pay, they would gladly have changed places with him. Braunt made his way roughly through the crowd, elbowing the men rudely aside. None resented this; all the fight had gone out of them. Marston seemed on the point of attack- ing Gibbons for the slanderous remark made, when he felt Braunt's heavy hand on his shoulder. * The time is past for meetings, lad,* said the big man, * and for talk, too. The meeting's here, and Ah'll deal wi' it. Stop bothering wi' that fool, and stand among the crowd ready to back me oop if need be.* Marston at once did as requested, while Braunt strode across the open space in spite of the warning of a policeman to stand back. Few of the force were on the ground ; the authorities saw there was little to fear from cowed and beaten men. ' You'll have to stand back,' said the officer, * or I'll take you in charge.* ' Will ye so ? ' cried Braunt, truculently, rolling up his sleeves as he turned upon his opponent. * Then I warn ye — send for help. Ye haven't men enooph here to tak me in charge. AhVe had a meal to-day.' After glaring for a moment, Braunt turned and strode unmolested to the closed gate. The officer paid heed to the advice given him, and sent for more men. He saw there was likely to be trouble of some sort. Braunt smote his huge fist against the panels, and roared at the top of his voice — ' Open the gates !^ A slight flutter of listless interest seemed to pass over the crowd. The men elbowed closer together, shuffling their feet and craning their necks forward. Those to the rear pressed towards the front, wonder- ing what was about to happen. The few policemen looked on without interfering, waiting for reinforce- 3l6 THE MUTABLE MANY 111 ird. ler- leii rce- ments. Braunt, with his Hst, beat against the sound- ing timbers, the rhythmical thuds being the only breaks in the stillness, except when he repeated his stentorian cry — ^ Open the gates V The porter at the small wicket, fearing an attack, ran for Sartwell, and met the manager coming down the stairs. * I'm afraid there's going to be another riot, sir,' said the porter, breathlessly. Sartwell did not answer, but walked quickly to the small gate, unbolted it, and stepped out. ' What do you want ? ' he said. * We want oor work,' cried Braunt. ' Open the gates.* Sartwell's glance swept swiftly over the men, who stood with jaws dropped, their gaunt faces and wolfish eyes turned towards the closed barriers. The mana- ger quickly comprehended that it was no time for discussion or the arranging of terms. What was needed was action, sharp and prompt. He turned towards the trembling porter and said, peremptorily, — * Throw down the bar.' Whatever doubts the man may have had about the wisdom of such an order in the face of a hostile mob, he preferred to brave probable danger from the crowd rather than the certain wrath of the manager ; and he obeyed the command with all possible haste. The heavy gates were slowly pushed open. * Now, men, in with ye, cried Braunt, with a scythe- like swing of his long arm. ' The man that holds oot now— God ! — Ah'll break his back.' Some one stumbled forward as if pushed from behind ; then it was as if an invisible rope holding the crowd back had suddenly broken. The men poured through the open gateway in a steady stream. Gibbons, waving his hands like a maniac, cried — * Stop ! stop 1 Listen to me for a moment ! ' 217 1 \\\ f ■..• 11 J 4 tr t i i t THE MUTABLE MANY I t ■' [ But no one stopped, and no one listened. Braunt, his face white with anger, struggled against the incoming tide, shouting — \ * Let me get at him ! Ah'll strangle th' whelp ! ' 'Braunt,' said Sartwell, sharply, his voice cutting through the din made by shuffling boots. ' Leave him alone, and get inside yourself. Gather the men together in the yard. I want a word with them.' Braunt's truculence at once disappeared. He turned with the men and came to where Sartwell was stand- *"& grimly watching the moving throng. No one glanced towards the manager, but each went doggedly forward, with head bent down as though ashamed of what he was doing. Braunt stopped at Sartwell's side and whispered — 'For God's sake, manager, set *eni at work, and don't talk to 'em. They're beaten, and there's no more to be said. Be easy wi* *em ; there's been talk enooph.' * I quite agree with you,* said Sartwell, in a kindly manner. ' Don't be afraid, but gather them together. You have the voice for it. I heard in my office your first shout at the gates.' As the last man passed through, Sartwell heard Braunt calling them to halt. A few still remained outside; Scimmins and his fellow-members of the strike committee listening gloomily to Gibbons's fran- tic denunciation of the wholesale defection. The manager stepped inside, and ordered the wondering porter to close the gates. Then, as Sartwell walked briskly towards the Works, he saw the men huddled together like sheep, very crestfallen, and evidently ready to endure any censure the manager might see fit to launch at their defence- less heads. Braunt, towering over them, looked anxiously about him with the air of a huge dog who was not quite certain how his flock would behave. 218 I THE MUTABLE MANY Sartwell mounted the steps leading to the door of the office, and spoke. ' I take it, men/ he said, ' that this strike is off. I want to begin fair and square, so if there is any among you unwilling to go back to work on my terms, let him stand out now and say so.' There was a short pause, during which the silence was unbroken. No one stepped out. * Very well,' continued the manager. That's settled and done with. Now, each man knows his place in these buildings; let him get there and remain for further instructions. No work will be done to-day, as some preparation is required before we begin ; but after arrangements for work have been made, you may each draw half a week's wages in advance from the cashier; I shall give orders to that effect. As you are back, the telegrams which I was prepared to send off on Saturday need not go ; and I will spend the money thus saved in tobacco, of which each man can get a share as he passes out through the small gate. The large gates will not be open until to-morrow morning ; and I shall expect to see you all here at the usual hour.' There was a faint, wavering cheer as Sartwell stopped speaking and stepped down. The men then slowly filtered into the Works. !/* -> I it ,m '''f'j 1, !! li aip in "n m^jsmmsmm i i '!¥ ^Bf'' II CHAPTER XXI Gibbons knew that Monkton and Hope had gone to the Continent before Marston shouted out this bit of information in the street to the men. He saw that the fjamc was up ; and all he wanted was time in which to beat a retreat, posing, if possible, as the man who had brought about a settlement. As soon as Gibbons had learned that the two nominal masters were gone, he tried to open communications with Sartwell, and sent a private letter to him, saying that, taking into consideration the privations of the men, and the large money loss to the firm, he was willing to sink all personal feelings and waive the proviso heretofore insisted upon regarding a meeting between the manager and himself. Gibbons manifc ted his inclination to withdraw from the conflict, and ex- pressed a desire to get a committee of the men appointed which would wait upon Sartwell to arrange for the termination of the strike ; but he asked that his letter might be regarded as confidential. Sartwell, with perhaps unnecessary contempt, re- turned the letter to Gibbons, saying curtly to the bearer that there was no answer. It is usually unwise to humiliate unduly a beaten adversary ; but Sartwell was not versed in the finer arts of courtesy, and, when he hated a man, he hated ate THE MUTABLE MANY ange that re- the iten iiier Ited him thoroughly, caring little for any reprisal which his enemy might attempt. Gibbons had ground his teeth in helpless rage when his letter was returned to him. He saw that no con- cession he could make would placate Sartwell ; so, as the strike was doomed to failure, he resolved to make the best of the inevitable retreat. The committee agreed that it was no longer possible to hold out, although they had refused Marston's request that a meeting be called and a vote taken. It was resolved that they should convene a meeting at once, not waiting for nightfall (hoping in this way to deprive Marston of any credit which might accrue from the surrender), and march the men in a body from the hall to the Works, where the committee, with the exception of Gibbons, would precede them, to induce the manager to open the gates. Gibbons would then be able to say that he, not Marston, had ended the strike ; and he might even enact the rdle of a bene- factor, *rho had sacrificed his own feelings in the interests of the men. But luck was against Gibbons that day. When he reached the Works he found Marston there haranguing his fellow-workmen, imploring them to give in before it was too late, assuring them that the twin buildings would be full of workers on Monday, and then all efforts to enter would be fruitless. It was very apparent that the young man was already angered at the slight effect which his appeal was making on the men ; and, if Gibbons had been less irritated at the rebuflf received from the manager, he might have taken advantage of the position, and scored a point. As it was, he had little time for planning any new line of procedure. The moment he appeared, Marston demanded that a meeting be called instantly and a vote taken. Gibbons asked him to mind his own business, saying he had an appointment with the owners of the Works, and that there would be a meeting to consider •ai Mi i i' i \l s' ^s^.v^yc^'^'^^''-^ " •"SB!BS'''J«MI!II*W1W1 f. f THE MUTABLE MANY their reply. Then Gibbons learned that his false- hood was useless, and that Marston knew the owners had fled. At this instant the unexpected advent of Braunt, and the results which followed, tumbled all the secre- tary's schemes to the ground like a house of cards. Braunt, if he gave thought to the matter (which he did not), would have seen he was revenged at the end of the strike for his ignominious ejection from the hall at the beginning. Gibbons retired with the committee to consult upon the new situation. It was a gloomy consultation. As the men came out of the sm.all gate one by one, each with half a week's wages in his pocket and a packet of tobacco in his hand, Scimmins and another member of the committee stood outside, proclaiming that a meeting was called for that night, to discuss the events of the day in a friendly manner. No man answered ; each hurried away to get something to eat or drink; nor did any appear later at Salvation Hall. Next morning Scimmins and his fellow-com- mitteemen applied to Sartwell for reinstatement, and were given their old places. Gibbons resigned the secretaryship of the Union, and his resignation was accepted, somewhat to his surprise : as he, knowing the men had been practically unanimous in bringing on the strike, expected to be asked to keep the office, with perhaps a formal vote of thanks. However, all blame for the failure was promptly placed on his shoulders, and he found himself suddenly called upon to seek another situation. His bitterness against Sartwell deepened into virulent hatred ; and he heaped maledictions on the heads of the men whom so short a time since he had swayed, this way and that, whenever he addressed them. The morning after the surrender, the gates stood invitingly open, and black smoke poured from the tall chimneys. The women and girls, who worked on the ••• I THE MUTABLE MANY upper floors, were the first to come ; and their pale faces turned in a look of mute thankfulness towards the banner of smoke flying above them like a signal of rescue. They had had no voice in bringing on the strike, and no voice in its cessation. No one during its continuance had taken the trouble to learn whether they lived or died when strike pay ceased. Before the day was done, work was going as smoothly as if nothing had happened. The men were at first afraid that Sartwell n.'ofht pick and choose among them, and that some of them might be marked men because of what had been done on the day of the riot ; but it soon became evident that no distinction was to be made. Just as the men had settled down to a comfortable frame of mind regarding the point which had given them anxiety, they were startled from their com- placency by an unexpected incident. Marston was dis- charged. On the first regular pay-day the young man received what was due to him, and a month's money besides. The cashier told him that his services would no longer be required in the factory. Marston was so dazed by this unlooked-for intimation that he asked no explanation, but walked away with his money in his hand. He knew well why he had been so un- ceremoniously dismissed ; but it seemed to him unfair xhat the manager should use his power against him ior what was entirely a personal quarrel, due not to ary fault found with his work. He counted the money automatically three or four times, without the process conveying to his mind anything definite about the sum which had been paid him. At last he noticed that Sartwell had apparently ordered four times as much to be given him as was legally his due with a notice to quit. Marston went back to the cashier, and said — * There's a month's money here : I am only entitled to a week's notice.' aa3 ' I if i ; M % !■ U (,' t t ? m <97an^Bgin!PP THE MUTABLE MANY 5^ f ■- ■; *Yo'i'd better keep what you've got/ replied the cashier. ' I was told to pay you a month's wages and discharge you. The money isn't mine; it's yours, and you're a fool if you part with it for nothing.' ' I'll take only what is my due,' said Marston. * Give the remainder to Mr. Sartwell, and tell him I want none of his generosity.* ' It's no affair of mine/ remarked the cashier. ' I suppose you know what the trouble is — I don't. If you are w?se you won't send any such ifiessage to the rn. or, but will go quietly and see him. Perhaps a fe^ words of explanation may set matters right ; anyhow, nothing is to be gained by flying into a temper about it. That isn't the way to get back into the Works.' 'I'm not in a temper,' replied Marston, 'and I'm not going back into the Works — no, not if Sartwell asks me to. You may tell him that when I come back it will be as real master of these shops, with his power broken — you may tell him that.' ' Oh, very well. If you think to frighten a man like Mr. Sartwell with great talk, you 11 be disap- pointed.* Marston turned away, and found Braunt standing outside the gates. 'Ah'm waitin' for 'ee, lad, and Ah thought ye might 'a gone oot wi' first lot, but porter said thou hadn't. Coom whoam wi' me, Marston ; Ah'm main lonely, an' want some 'un ta speak wi'. Ah donno what's wrong wi' me, but there's summat. Ma head's queer. Ah'm hearin' the " Dead March " night and day, an' it's soundin' solemner an' solemner till it frightens me. W J ye walk wi' me, lad ? ' ' Yes, willingly. Don't you find your work makes things easier ? I thought that would help.' ' Ah've been too long idle, lad. Work doesn't do what it used to. Ah used to lose maself in't, but 324 THE MUTABLE MANY v lakes rt do It, but now Ah just seem in a dream, thinkin', thinkin' ; an' when one speaks ta me sudden, AhVe to pull maself back from a distance like, before Ah can understand what's said ; an' all th' while the throb o' the machinery is bcatin' out the " Dead March." Once or twice Ah've seen Langly sittin' playin' at the far end o' the room wi' the machines all answerin' to his fingers, while Ah knew he'd ne'er been i' the shops in's life. Ah've stood there wi' ma jaw hangin' an* wi* people lookin' at me curious. Then when Ah'd rubbed ma eyes, Langly was gone, but the machinery kept on an' on.' 'Oh, you mustn't think too much about what is past, Braunt. Everything will be all right in a little while. Stick hard at your work ; that's the main thing. You are foreman of the upper room now, aren't you ? * * Yes. Sartwell's been kind ta me. Ah 1 he's a man, Sartwell is. There's no waverin' about him.' * That's true.' 'He sticks ba them as sticks ba him, as a man should. Has he said anythin' to ye, since the strike ended ? ' 'No.' ' Thou'rt yoong, but thy time'll coom. Ye stand ba Sartwell an' he'll see ye through. He knows how you tried to end the strike, an' he'll not forget. Ah'U drop in a word for ye when Ah get th' chance.* ' I wish you wouldn't do that.' ' Why ? It'll do 'e no harm.* ' It will do no good.' Braunt paused in his walk and looked closely at his companion. ' What's the matter wi' thee, lad ? Ye seem cast down, an* here Ah'm talkin' away aboot maself, an' payin' no heed to aught else. What's wrong wi' ye ? ' * Well, as you will lave to know sooner or later, there's no use making a secret of it ; Sartwell has discharged me.' i «.. 325 i U I THE MUTABLE MANY ' No ! * cried Braunt, incredulously, stopping short and turning to his friend. ' Yes, he has.* ' In God's name, what for ? ' ' No reason was given. The cashier handed me a month's wages and told me to go. I gave back three-fourths of it, for I'm entitled to but a week's notice. I'll have no favour from Sartwell.' * Ah, lad, there ye were foolish. Niver give back money when ye've once got yere fingers on it. Ye hurt yereself an' not the others. Still, Ah'd very likely ha' done the same thing ; but then, Ah'm a fool, an' not to be taken pattern by. Have ye asked Sartwell the reason ? ' ' I have not seen him, nor will I.' ' Wrong again, lad. Let's go back now, an' have it out wi' him before he goes whoam.' * No, no, I refuse to see him.' ' Then Ah'll see him. A thing like that mustn't be. Discharged for no cause I Niver ! Ah've brought back the men, an* Ah can bring them oot again. Ah will, to ^, before Ah'll let injustice like this happen ! ' 'What good would that do? The men are help- less, as you know ; besides, they wouldn't come out, and, if they thought of doing so, I would myself beg of them to stay in their places. No, the proper thing now is to keep quiet ; work hard ; fill up the empty treasury ; organize the trade — not locally, but univer- sally ; and see, when the next strike comes on, that we are not led by a fool like Gibbons.' ' But, lad, don't ye want to find out why ye're paid off? It's rank injustice, but there must be some reason for't in Sartwell's mind. Ye've like said some foolish thing that's been misrepresented to him, an' Ah'm sure Ah can put it straight. Ah didn't think Sartwell was the man t' listen t' any jabber that was brought t' him, but one can niver tell.' 336 THE MUTABLE MANY help- out, [f beg 1 thing pmpty liver- that ye're some some an I think it was 'You're quite right about Sartwell. He wouldn't pay attention to talk that came to him, no matter what the talk was. No, it's deeper than that. He knows my opinions about the proper organization of the men, but that wouldn't influence him for a moment. Because I said no reasons were given, you mustn't think I don't know why he turned me adrift. I do, but it's not a subject I care to talk about, even with you, Mr. Braunt. Only I should like you to under- stand that interference will do no good. I should like to drop out quietly and have nothing said. Re- member that I, knowing all the circumstances, am not sure but that, were I in his place, I should have acted exactly as Sartwell has done. I'm not going to have this made into a grievance, for I don't want it talked about. The main fact to know is that Sartwell and I are enemies, and there can be no peace between us until one or other is defeated. If you could talk Sartwell into asking me to come back — and you know the difficulty there would be in that — I wouldn't go back. So you understand the uselessness of seeing Mr. Sartwell.' * But, lad, how are ye t' live ?' Marston laughed. *0h, I'll have no difficulty in making a living. Don't you fear. I'll stick by the Union too, and some day I hope to show Sartwell how a strike should be conducted.' ' Right ye are, if that's the game ! ' cried Braunt, bringing his hand down on the other's shoulder. *Ah don't believe mooch in strikes, but Ah believe in ye! Ah'U see the men to-night, an' Ah'll have ye made secretary to th' Union. That will be oor answer ta Sartwell. Then, lad, ye can have enooph to live on, and ye can put the pieces o' th' Union together ta suit ye.' * I should like that,' said Marston, eagerly. ' It shall be doon. The men will go in for it when fel % M THE MUTABLE MANY il they hear yeVe got the sack. They still feel sore over the defeat, as if it wasn't all their own fault ; and now their fear of Sartwell's packing some o* them off is over, they'll like to show a little independence by electing ye, to prove to the manager that they're not afraid, which they are. Ah'll have to convince them that Sartwell won't strike back or tak your appointment as a defiance.' • But perhaps he will.' ' Not him. He was as sick o' the strike as any one. No. He'll shrug his shoulders, but he'll say nothing. Ah'm certain if Gibbons had had the sense to go to the masters at the first, he would have broken Sartwell long since. An' that was what Sartwell was afraid of, Ah'll be bound. His greatest stroke was getting Mohkton and Hope out of the country. It was your visit to Hope did that. Sartwell saw ye'd put your finger on the weak spot ; an' Ah'll warrant, if we knew the ins and outs of it, Sartwell threatened ta choock up the whole business if they didn't leave, and they left. Ah ! he's a man as can fight, is Sartwell.' They had reached the court shortly before their conversation had arrived at this point, and entering Braunt's apartment, Marston sat down with his host. The room was barer than such places usually are, for every pawnable or saleable thing had been removed from time to time as the siege went on. The empty space where the old harmonium had stood made the room seem larger than it really was. * Yes,' said Braunt with a sigh, noticing Marston's eye wandering to the vacant spot, ' it was the last thing that went before Jessie died. We pawned it, thinking we'd get it back again, but Ah'll niver tak it back. Ah'm glad it's gone. Ah couldn't bear to look at it. But let's not talk of what's away, but o' what's here. Ye're still thinkin' ye can do somethin' for the workin'-man by organization ? ' aa8 %. THE MUTABLE MANY lost. for )ved ipty the cons last Id it, tak ir to ito' thin' ' I'm sure of it* Braunt shook his head. ' Ye won't, my lad, but Ah'll do my best to get ye the chance ta try. Just look at what has happened. They let Gibbons go wi'oot a word : he was a fool, perhaps, but he worked hard for them, an' they doan't even say thankee. An' they'll do the same wi' ye. They'll do the same wi' any one.' ' It all depends on how they are led. When men are foolishly led, they soon find it out and lose con- fidence. Think what a man like Napoleon might have accomplished if he had led working-men instead of soldiers, and had turned his talents to bettering his fellow-men instead of butchering them I ' * Napoleon could have done nothin'. He could have done nothin' wi' soldiers, even, if it had not been for one power which ye can niver have.' 'What is that?' * The power o' orderin' a man out o' the ranks, an' havin' him shot. If Ah'd that power Ah'd lead the men maself, an' get them anythin' they wanted. The State will let you stai-ve a hundred men slowly to death and niver interfere, but if ye shot even Gibbons there'd be a row about it. An' yet we think we're civilized ! Ah say we're savages.' ' Oh, that's wrong, Braunt ! ' cried Marston, rising. ' We're long past that stage. If I get the reorganizing of the Union, I'll try a fall with Sartwell some day, and will down him without shooting anybody.' * Very well, lad ; Ah'll do ma best for ye, an' wish ye luck.' Braunt did his best, and the next week Marston was unanimously made secretary of the Union by men who had looked upon him as a traitor only a few weeks before. (29 ■I I f i' ii^ ;l • f| I' CHAPTER XXII Marston made no move to communicate with Sartwell If the manager expected the young man to propose a compromise, he was disappoint'^d ; and when he heard that Marston had been elected secretary of the Union, he smiled grimly, but made no comment. It was to be war to the knife, and Sartwell always admired an able antagonist. He made no motion against the Union, although at that time he could probably have forced seventy-five per cent, of the men to withdraw from it, had he been so minded. Marston gave him due credit for de- clining to use the weapon of coercion, knowing Sartwell too well to believe that the thought had not occurred to him. Yet there was little of the spirit of Christian forgiveness about the manager, as his wife had with truth often pointed out to him : he pursued an enemy to the bitter end. Gibbons metaphorically prostrated himself before Sartwell, and begged for the place in the Works from which Marston had been ejected. He was starving, he said. Sartwell replied that he was glad to hear it, and hoped Gibbons would now appreciate the sufiferings of the men he had so jauntily led astray ; so Gibbons had again humiliated himself for nothing. To do Sartwell justice, however, it must be ad- mitted that the attempted management of Marston 330 THE MUTABLE MANY as ad- ston had slipped out of his hands in a way he had never anticipated. He did not dislike the young man ; in truth, rather the opposite: still, he had higher am- bitions for his only daughter than to see her marry one of his own workmen. The incident of finding Marston with Edna in the garden had disturbed him more than he cared to admit, even to himself. If this persistent young fellow managed, when half starved, in the turmoil of the strike, to attend so successfully to his love affair, what might not happen when he was at peace with the world and had money in his pocket ? Sartwell could have forbidden his daughter to see Marston, and doubtless she would have obeyed ; but he was loth to pique her curiosity regarding the reason for such prohibition, and he could not baldly tell her that the young man had craved permission to pay his addresses to her : such an announcement might set her fancy afire, with disastrous results to her father's hopes. Sartwell only half expected Marston would appeal to him against his discharge; but he knew that before the young fellow got another situation he must refer his new masters to his old manager, and, when that time came, or if Marston made a move on his own account, Sartwell stood ready to make terms with him. If Marston promised not to see the girl for two years, the manager would reinstate him, or would help him to secure another place. All these plans went to pieces when the men un- expectedly chose Marston as secretary of their Union. It was a contingency the manager had not c .rLu.ted upon, but he faced the new position of affairs without a murmur against fate. Marston thought his dismissal harsh and unjust, but he felt that it freed him from all consideration towards Sartwell. He now determined to meet the girl when- ever and wherever he could ; so, with this purpose strong in his heart, he went to Wimbledon, boldly 231 I; J ii:l ,1 I li ; k THE MUTABLE MANY presented himself at the front door, and asked to see Miss Sartwell. He knew her father did not dare tell her the true state of the case, and, if it came to that, permission to visit the house had already been given in Edna's own presence — a permission which her father had probably not withdrawn when Marston left them together in the garden, as such withdrawal might necessitate explanations which Sartwc would not believe it wise to make. Therefore, the young man resolved to see the girl, tell her frankly why he came, and plead his cause with her. Even if she refused to listen to him, he would at least cause her to think of him, and that of itself was worth risking something for. The servant, on opening the door, recognized Marston as the young man who on a former occasion did not know his own mind, and she promptly said to him — * Mr. Sartwell is not at home.' ' I wish to see Miss Sartwell.' ' The young lady is not at home either.' * Will she return soon ? ' ' I don't know. Miss Edna's gone away.' 'Gone awayj'' echoed Marston, visibly perturbed at this unexpected check in his advance. The servant saw she was face to face with another case of mental indecision ; so she promptly grappled with the situation by calling Mrs. Sartwell, who was in the dining-room : then, turning the embarrassed young man over to her mistress, she closed the door and returned to the more important work which Marston's knock had interrupted. * You wished to see Miss Sartwell ? ' began the lady, icily. 'Why?' It was not an easy question to answer, when asked suddenly by an utter stranger. 'Well, I can scarcely tell you, Mrs. Sartwell,' stammered the young man, extremely ill at ease. 23a was Issed loor Ihich idy, bked base. THE MUTABLE MANY ' It is entirely a personal matter. I wished to have a few words with Miss Sartwell ; that is all.' The lady sat bolt upright, with a look of great severity on her face. There was mystery here which she resolved to fathom before she allowed the un- fortunate young man to depart. He speedily came to the conclusion that he had in the lady before him an implacable enemy, more to be feared, perhaps, than Sartwell himself. Each question shot at him led him deeper and deeper into the tangle. * You are her lover, I suppose ? ' 'No. That is— I really can't explain, Mrs. Sart- well.' ' Very well ; I shall ask my husband when he returns to-night. He knows nothing of this, of course ? ' * Yes, he does.' ' He knows you are here ? ' 'He doesn't know 1 am here to-day. He knows I love his daughter.' * I thought you said you were not her lover. Young man, whatever else you do, speak the truth. All our earthly troubles come from shunning the truth, and from overweening pride. Avoid pride, and avoid falsehood. What did you mean when you told me just now that you were not Miss Sartwell's lover? I beseech you to speak the truth.' ' I'm trying to, but you see it is rather difficult to talk about this with a third person, and ' * I am not a third person. I am her step-mother, and responsible to a Higher Power for what I do regarding Edna. I must have full knowledge, and then trust to the guiding light from Above. We are ever prone to err when we rely on our own puny efforts. Does Edna Sartwell know you love her ? * 'No.' * And her father does ? ' 'Yes. I told him.' 333 m ■ I 'it T & I '<■ ' I THE MUTABLE MANY 'Then I wonder he did not forbid you to see her.' ' He did.' * Are you one of his workmen ? ' * Yes. At least I was.' * Are you not now ? ' 'No.' ' He has discharged you ? ' 'I have been discharged.' The stem look faded from Mrs. Sartwell's face. She drew a deep breath — a prolonged 'Ah ! ' with what might be taken as a quiver of profound satisfaction in it — and, for the first time during the conference, leaned back comfortably in her chair. ' Poor young man ! ' she said at last, gazing com- passionately at him. ' Do you mean to say, then, that you would risk your whole future for a girl to whom you have never spoken ? ' ' Oh, I have spoken with her, Mrs. Sartwell. I said I had never spoken about — that she doesn't know I care anything for her.' ' But you know absolutely nothing about her dis- position — her temper.* 'I'd chance it' Mrs. Sartwell shook her head mournfully. ' How well you reflect the spirit of this scoffing age ! People chance everything. Nothing is so important to a man as the solemn, prayerful choice of a wife, for on that choice rests the misery or the happiness of this life. A woman's great duty — at least it seems so to my poor judgement — is to bring light, comfort, and joy to her husband's home. Do you think Edna Sartwell is fitted by temperament or education for this noble task ? ' ' She'd make me happy, if that's what you mean.' ' How little, how little you know her ! But then, you know her father, and she's very like him. Of course, he will never permit you to marry her, if he 234 THE MUTABLE MANY see dis- jan. then, Of if he can prevent it. You are a working-man, and he has no thought or sympathy for those from whose ranks he sprang. He has higher ideas for his daughter; I have long seen that. It is pride, pride, pride I Oh, it will have a terrible fall some day, and perhaps you, poor lad, who talk of chance, are the humble instru- ment selected by an overruling Providence to bring about the humbling of his pride, without which none of us can enter the Kingdom ! I see it all now. I see why he sent Edna to college at Eastbourne, although he said it was because we could not get on together. How little prevarication avails! The deceiver shall himself be deceived ! In your seemingly chance meeting with me I see the Hand pointing towards truth. Still,' continued Mrs. Sartwell reflectively, as though speaking more to herself than to her hearer, * there is no doubt that, if you took Edna's fancy, she would marry you in spite of her father or any one else. I have long warned her father that such a time is coming ; but alas ! my words are unheeded in this house, and the time has come sooner than I expected. I have wondered for some weeks past what was in Edna's mind. I thought that perhaps she was think- ing of Barnard Hope, but I see now I was mistaken. No, she was very likely thinking of you, and her father, discovering it, has packed her off to High Cliff College at Eastbourne, where he probably hopes you cannot visit her. She is a wayward, obstinate child ; impulsive, and difficult to manage. She thinks her father is perfection, so you may form your own opinion of how defective her judgeraent is. Yes, I should not be at all surprised if, when you tell her you love her, she would at once propose to run away with you. Nothinpj Edna Sartwell would do or say could surprise me.' Marston, who had been very uneasy while a forced listener to this exposition of the girl's character, now rose abruptly, and said he must leave ; he had already 335 I f 11 Vii: (V :'.t . I i I i THE MUTABLE MANY taken up too much of Mrs. Sartwell's time, he murmured. 'Our time is given us,' replied the good woman, also rising, ' to make the best use of ; and if we remember that we must give an account of every moment allotted to us, we will not count that time ill-spent which is devoted to the welfare of others. I sincerely trust that what I have said will sink deeply into your mind, and that you will profit by it.' * I shall not fail to do so.' 'You will understand why I cannot give you any information about Miss Sartwell, or arrange for any meeting between you. It would not be right. If she were now in the house, I could not permit you to see her, since I know you come without her father's permission. -, I hope you do not think me harsh in saying this.' ' Oh, not at all.' ' And whatever comes of your infatuation for her, will you do me the justice to remember that my last words to you were to implore you to cast all thought of her from your mind ? ' ' I shall remember it,' said Marston. 'If you attempt to meet her, you know you will be doing so against my strict wish and command.' 'You certainly will not be to blame for anything that happens, Mrs. Sartwell.* * Ah, if I could only be sure of that ! ' said the patient woman, mournfully shaking her head. ' But blame is so easily bestowed, and it shifts responsibility from shoulders certainly more fitted to bear it, and perhaps more deserving. It is only a few days since Mr. Barnard Hope came here, and was surprised to find Edna gone. He told me he came to see me, but he could not help noticing how still and peaceful the house was. When he asked where Edna was, I replied to him as I reply to you. Her father is the proper person to answer that question. Yet 236 he THE MUTABLE MANY Mr. Hope is the son of my best friend a nohl^ n7aT"'^^;^r:oorf ^^^^^^^^^ f ^^^^ bIe"sL%\r"td to assist vn.fh'^^?' ^uV"" '""''y "^t t^ be able to assist you; but I shall remember you in mv peut^p and will trust that your feet mafbe guideS 'Thank you, Mrs. Sartvvell, and good-bye.' As the young man walked away he kept reoeatinrr o himself, « High Cliff College, Eastb^Srne.? To? that he was likely to forget it ; for what lover, since i l^ri ^37 I .: "-i I *M' iii ) ;' \i > .1 ; M VHP ^P CHAPTER XXIII On reaching the railway station Marston's first regret was that he had not taken all the money ofifered to him on the day of his discharge. He had no idea that his quest would lead him to a fashionable and expensive sea-side resort. Prudence suggested to him that he should defer his visit to Eastbourne until he had more money ; but, he said to himself, if he did not go at once, Sartwell would be certain to learn from his wife of the visit to Wimbledon, and there might be increased difficulties in getting to see Edna at Eastbourne. As it was, he had no idea how the meeting he desired was to be brought about; for doubtless Sartwell, when sending his daughter to the College, had given the lady into whose care Edna was entrusted, a hint of his object in placing her there. Marston stepped out of the South- Western carriage at Clapham Junction, and found he had but half an hour to wait for the Eastbourne train. He smiled when he remembered the care and thought he was giving to the Union, after having so frequently asserted that he was willing to devote his life to the work. It was a blessing that all the Union needed at the moment was to be let alone. When he arrived at Eastbourne, he immediately set out in search of High ClifT College, thinking it well to reconnoitre the situation, hoping the sight of it 238 THE MUTABLE MANY was |ently the :dat set well lof it might suggest some plan which was practicable. He would have one thing in his favour, which was that Sartwell could not have warned his daughter against seeing him, fearing to arouse her curiosity or sus- picions. If, then, he got one word with Edna alone, he had no fear but that he could arrange for a longer interview. He found High Cliff to be a large house, situated in extensive grounds, with a view of the sea, but with a wall that was not less discouraging than the glass-topped barrier at Wimbledon. Marston saw there was going to be more difficulty in getting an interview with his sweetheart than he had at first imagined. He thought for a moment of applying boldly at the front door for permission to see the young student, but quickly dismissed the plan as impracticable. He was certain that a shrewd man like Sartwell would have more foresight than to make arrangements so badly that the first person who called to see his daughter would be admitted, even if the ordinary rules of the college allowed of such a thing — which was most improbable. He realized that the place was not to be taken by assault, but rather by slow and patient siege; so, wandering down by the shore, he sat on the shingle, within sound of the soothing waves, and gave his whole attention to the problem. If a man whose ambition was to emancipate the worker, and change the whole relationship between capital and labour, found himself baffled in seeking half an hour's talk with a young girl, not immured in a prison or a foreign convent, but merely residing in an ordinary English College for Young Ladies, then indeed were his chances of solving the larger question remote and shadowy. Thus he came to bind the two enterprises together, saying to himself that success with the one would indicate success with the other. The first thing to do, then, was to secure some cheap lodging — if such a place was to be found n ■it M " ■W! y I !i '' i J .■• I» THE MUTABLE MANY in this fashionable resort — and so hoard his money and bide his time, for he was convinced he would make haste only by going slowly. It was a case in which undue precipitancy would make ultimate victory impossible. He knew that some time during the day the pupils would go out for a walk, though guarded, doubtless, by vigilant governesses. It might be possible to pass this interesting procession, and, while doing so, to slip a note into Edna's hand ; but even as Marston thought of this plan, he dismissed it as unworkable, for Edna would be so surprised at such an inexplicable proceeding on his part that she would not have the presence of mind necessary to conceal the missive promptly enough to escape detection. He left the shore, still ruminating on the problem, and, searching in the back part of the town, found lodgings which suited his requirements and his purse. When this was done, he strolled on the promenade, still giving the absorbing enigma his whole attention. Suddenly he received a staggering blow on the back which almost thrust him forward on his face. Recover- ing himself, he turned round breathless, alarmed and angry, to see before him the huge form and smiling face of Barney Hope, who genially presented the hand that had smitten him. * Hello, old fellow ! ' cried Barney, laughing aloud at the other's resentful glare. ' What are you doing down here ? Has the strike taken it out of you so that you had to have sea air to recuperate ? ' • No strike ever took it out of me like the blow you struck just now.* Barney threw back his head and roared ; then, link- ing arms with Marston in the most friendly manner, he said — ' No, my paw isn't light, as all my friends say, and it has got me into trouble before now. I had to thrash a fellow in Paris once, merely because I could not convince him that the gentle tap I gave him was 240 THE MUTABLE MANY HP so you land to >uld I was in fun. He admitted afterwards that there was a difference, and that he would rather have my open palm on his back than my closed fist in his face — but what can you expect? The French have no sense of humour, and yet they can't box well. It should occur to them, as a nation, that they ought either to know how to take a joke, or else how to double up their fists if they are going to look upon things seriously. But my slap on the back is nothing to my hand-shake when I'm feeling cordial towards a fellow-creature. Let's see, have we shaken hands this go?' * Yes, thanks,' said Marston, with such eagerness that the other laughed again. * Well, I'm delighted to meet you so unexpectedly, don't you know. Your name's Langton, if I remember rightly?' ' My name is Marston.' * Oh, yes, of course. I'm the stupidest fool in the kingdom about names, and it's an awfully bad failing. People seem to get offended if you can't remember their names. I'm sure I can't tell why. I wouldn't care tuppence what I was called, so long as you don't say I'm no painter ; then I'm ready to fight. A man who won't fight for his art oughtn't to have an art. And, talking about art, I remember now that Langton was the fellow you sent me who can play the piano as if he were a Rubinhoff — that Russian player, don't you know. Well, I'm thundering glad to see you ; I was just hoping to meet some fellow I knew. I'm dying for some one to talk to. It's a beastly dull hole, Eastbourne, don't you know.' * I was never here before. It seems to me a very nice place.' * Yes, it looks that way at first, but wait till you've been here a day or two. It's so, wretchedly respect- able ! — that's what I object to in it. Respectability's bid enough on its native heath, but sea air seems to R 341 I M n THE MUTABLE MANY accentuate it, don't you know. I can't tell you why this is, but it's so; and respectability that you can put up with in London becomes unbearable down by the sea. Haven't you noticed that ? And it's all on such a slender basis too : the third-class fare to Brighton is four shillings and tuppence-ha'penny, while to Eastbourne its four shillings and elevenpence, so all this swagger is on a beggarly foundation of eightpence-ha' penny. You see what I mean? I wouldn't give a week in Brighton for a day in Eastbourne, although I should hate to be condemned to either, for that matter. London is the only town that's exactly my size, don't you know.' * Then why do you stop at Eastbourne ? ' ' Ah, now you come to the point ; now you place your finger right on the spot. Why, indeed ? Can't you guess? I can tell in a moment why you are here.' 'Why?' asked Marston, in some alarm. ' Oh, simply because some fool of a doctor, who didn't know any better, sent you down. You're here for the air, my boy : you don't come for the society, so it must be the air — that's the only other thing Eastbourne's got. You were told it would brace you up in a week, and it will, if your reason holds out for so long. I'd be a madman, sane as I am, if I were compelled to live in this place a fortnight ; I would, on my honour! No, you don't catch me in East- bourne for either air or the society, and yet, in a way, it is the society, too, only it doesn't seem to come ofif; and here I am stranded, don't you know, with a coachman and a groom, not to mention a valet, two horses, and one of the smartest carts that ever left London. That's my turn-out, there. I drive tandem, of course; it's the only Christian way to drive. Not that I care about the style of it — I hope I'm abvive all that sort of thing — and I'm not to be blamed because so many other fellows do it, don't 243 THE MUTABLE MANY you know ; I love tandem for itself alone. Ever drive tandem ? ' ' I never did,' said Marston, looking at Barney's handsome equipage, which was being slowly driven up and down the road by a man in livery. He had noticed it before, but now he gazed at it with renewed interest, as Barney modestly proclaimed himself the owner. * Well, it isn't as easy as it looks. It's not every fool can drive a tandem, although I am said to be one of the first tandem-drivers in London, don't you know. / don't say so. of course ; but there are those who do, and they are judges, too. But it's no fun driving about alone : to enjoy tandem- driving you need to have a pretty girl beside you.' ' And are there no pretty girls in Eastbourne ? ' * There are, my boy ; and that's just what I want to talk with you about. Let's sit down here in this shelter, because I want your whole attention. Now, I did you a favour one day, even though it was for anr er fellow, didn't I ? ' * i'es. You have done me at least two favours.' ' Well, that's all right. I may be able to do you a third or a fourth — who knows? — and I mention it because I'm about to ask you to do me a great one now. That's what made me so glad to see you, don't you know ; as well, of course, as the pleasure of talking with you again, in this dismal hole. I was just thinking about it, and wondering whom I could get, when I looked up, and there you were. Providence always helps me when I'm in a pinch — always, don't you know. I never knew it to fail, and yet I'm not what you'd call a devout man myself. You've got nothing particular to do down here, I suppose ? * * Nothing but look after my own pleasure.' ' Quite so. And, as there isn't any pleasure to be had here, you may just as well turn round and help a fellow-creature ; besides, it will be a great lark. You R 2 343 1 Si ? J 1: m it' 1 1!> 1 1 « u iW ■P mmt^rmm . THE MUTABLE MANY see, I want a man of intelligence, and I don't suppose one is to be found in Eastbourne — ^for if he was intelligent he wouldn't stay. Then, too, he must be a man not known in the town — you see what I mean ? Also, he must know something about the labouring classes and their ways ; so you see, my boy, Providence has sent the very man I want, don't you know. Now promise that you will help me.' ' If I can, I will.' •Right you are! You're just the individual who can, and no one else can do it half so well. Now, in the first place, have you ever seen Sartwell's daughter ? He's only got one.' ' Have I ever seen her ? ' * Yes. She was at my reception the day you were there. I don't suppose you noticed her among so many ; but she was the handsomest girl in the room, far and away.' * Yes, I have seen Miss Sartwell. She used to call for her father at his office quite frequently.' * Good again ! That's a fourth qualification needed by the person who is to help me, so you see you are the man of all men for this job. Now it happens that this charming girl is at college in Eastbourne, which is, in a word, the reason I am here. I want to get a message taken to Miss Sartwell at the college, and I want you to take it.' * Oh, I don't think I should care to go on a mission of that sort, Mr. Hope. If Mr. Sartwell were to find out that I ' *My dear fellow,' interrupted Barney, placing his hand confidentially on Marston's shoulder, * it s all right, I assure you. There is really nothing surrep- titious about it. Heavens and earth, Langton, you don't think I'm that kind of a man, I trust ! Oh no I I've the parental consent all right enough.' 'Then why don't you go to the college and see her?* 844 THE MUTABLE MANY ol ;ee ' Because, dear boy, the case is just a trifle compli- cated, don't you know. I can always get the parental consent ; that's the money, you know. As a general thing the girls like me, and I won't say the money has all to do with that : no, I flatter myself, personal attractions, a fair amount of brains, and a certain artistic reputation come in there ; but money tells with the older people. Now, Sartwell and I under- stand each other. Not to put too fine a point upon it, you know, he says practically : " Barney, you're an ass, but you're rich, and I don't suppose you're a bigger fool than the average young man of the present day, so I give you a fair field ; go in, my boy, and win." I say to Sartwell : " You're a grumpy old curmudgeon, with no more artistic perception than the Shot Tower ; but your daughter is an angel, and I've got money enough for the two of us." You see, I never did care for money except to get what I want. So there we stand. Sartwell was coming down here with me; but, after I started, he tele- graphed to my studio that there was so much to do in the shops, with all the men newly back, that he would like me to postpone my visit for a week. Well, I had to get the horses and trap down here ; so I drove, and I left London a day earlier than I expected to. Hence the present complication. I called at the school, asked to see Miss Sartwell, saying I was a friend of her father's ; but the lady in charge looked on me with suspicion — she did indeed, my boy, difficult to believe as the statement is. The lady said she could not allow Miss Sartwell to see any person unless that person was accompanied by her father. She would take no message to the girl — and there I was. I wrote to Miss Sartwell from my hotel here, but the letter was opened by the dragon, who returned it to me, asking me not to attempt to communicate with any of the young ladies under her charge. So here is this stylish a46 S f'8 I' I " i ■ I thought first of THE MUTABLE MANY tandem, and there is that lovely girl, while I am wasting in the desert air, longing to take her out for a drive. That's the situation in a nut-shell, don't you know, and I want you to help me by taking a message to Miss Edna.' 'I don't see how I can do it. If you, with her father's permission, could not get a word with her, how can I hope to ? ' ' Oh, I have that all arranged, getting some young man in as a carpenter or plumber ; but, so far as I can learn, the pipes and the woodwork of the school are all right. Then an inspiration came to me — I am subject to inspirations. The man who looks after the garden lives in the town, and he is quite willing to assist me; in fact I have made it worth his while, don't you know. The trouble is that all his assistants are rather clodhoppers, and would be sure to bungle a diplomatic affair like this ; however, I was going to chance it with one to-morrow, when I saw you, and said to myself, " Here is the very man! " When Providence sends the right man, I always recog- nize him. That is the whole secret of a successful life, don't you know — to be able to recognize the gifts Providence sends at the moment tV^ey are sent. Where most people go wrong, don't you know, is by not appreciating the providential interposition until after- wards. You will put on a gardener's smock, take a clumsy and unwieldy broom in your hand, and go to High Cliflf College to sweep the walks, and that sort of thing, don't you know. Then, as the girls are v/alking about, seize the psychological moment and tell Miss Edna I am waiting down here with the tandem. The young ladies are allowed to walk out three at a time. Two of them can sit back to back with us, and Edna will sit with me. Tell her to choose two friends whom she can trust, and we will all go for a jolly drive together. If she hesitates, tell her I am down here with her father's permission, but don't say THE MUTABLE MANY I that unless as a last resort. I would much rather have her come of her own c;ccord, don't you know.' ' What I fail to understand about your plan is why — if you really have Mr. Sartwell's permission — no, no, I'm not doubting your word — I should have put it, as you have her father's permission — why do you not telegraph him, saying you are here, and get him to send a wire to the mistress of the college, asking her to allow Miss Sartwell to go with you for a drive, with a proper chaperon, of course ? ' ' My dear Langton ' ' Marston, if you please.' ' Oh, yes, of course. My dear Marston, what you suggest is delightfully simple, and is precisely what would present itself to the well-regulated mind. It would be the sane thing to do, and would be so charmingly proper. But you see, Marston, my boy, I understand a thing or two about women, which you may not yet have had experience enough to learn. I don't want too much parental sanction about this affair, because a young girl delights in an innocent little escapade on her own account— don't you see what I mean ? Of course, if the villain of the piece is baffled, he will ultimately appeal to the proper authority ; but you know I have already seen a good deal of the young lady under the parental wing — if I may so state the fact ; and although she is pleasant enough, and all that, I don't seem to be making as much progress with her as I would like, don't vou know. Now, a little flavour of — well, you understand what I mean — thingumbob — you know — romance, and that sort of thing, is worth all the cut-and-dried " Bless- you-my-children " in the market. You'll know all about that, as you grow older, my boy.' 'Mr. Hope * * Look here, my boy, call me Barney. Few of my friends say " Mr. Hope " ; and when any one does say it, I always think he is referring to my father, who i; \ TIIK MUTAHLK MANY Is ni this moment {giddily enjoying his precious self at Dresden, or tlicreabouts. You were about to say ' ' I was about to say I would ver\' much like to oblige yon, but I have scruples about doing what you ask of me.' ' Marston — you'll forj^ive me, won't you ? — but I'm afraid )'(nrre very much like the rest of the world. I'ellows always want to oblige you, but they don't want to do the particular obli^ement that you happen to want — if I make myself clear. If you want to borrow a fiver, they will (!>> any mortal thin^ you wish but lend it. Now it ;ai)penM that, .so far from wantiuj^ a fiver, I'll t;ive you one— or a ten-pound note, for that matter — if you will do this, don't you know.' 'Oh, if I d(d it at all, 1 wouldn't take money for tloinp[ it.' ' lint I don't want a fellow to work for love, don't you know. I don't believe in that. If I se'l a picture, I want my money for it — yes, by Jove, I do ! ' ' If I did this, it would be entirely for love, and foi no other consideration. But I don't think I would be acting fairly and honourably if I did it. I can't explain to )'ou why I think this ; my whole wish is to do what you ask me, and yet I feel sure, if I weri^ thoroughly honest, as I would like to be. I should at once .say "No." ' My dear fellow, I honour j'our scruples ; but I assure )ou they arc misplaced in this instance. They arc, really. Besides, I have your promise, and I'm going to hold you to it. It isn't as though I were going to run away with the girl, and marry her against her own wish and the wishes of her combined relatives. If I wanted to see the girl against her father's will, well, then there might be something to urge in opposition to my project ; but I don't — and don't you see that fact makes all the diflerence in the world ? Of course 948 I TIIK MUTAHLK MANY you do. Why, a man ought to do anything for the t;irl he loves, and he's a poltroon if he doesn't. That's why I'm takin^j all this trouble and staying in this town of the forlorn. If a girl doesn't find you taking some little trouble in order to see her, why, she is not going to think very much or very often about you ; take my word for that.' * I believe you are right. I'll go.' * You're a brick, Marston ! yes, my boy, a brick 1' cried liarney, enthusiastically, slapping his comrade