A Life's Secret Part 32

'How long is this strike going to last?' he asked, as he made out the duplicate.

The words excited the irascibility of Mrs. Dunn.

'Strike!' she uttered, in a flaming pa.s.sion. 'Who dares to call it a strike? It's not a strike; it's a lock-out.'

'Lock-out, then. The two things come to the same, don't they? Is there a chance of its coming to an end?'

'No, they don't come to the same,' shrieked Mrs. Dunn. 'A strike's what it is--a strike; a act of n.o.ble independence which the British workman may be proud on. A lock-out is a nasty, mean, overbearing tyranny on the part of the masters. Now, old c.o.x! call it a strike again.'

'But I hear the masters' shops are open again--for anybody to go to work that likes,' replied Mr. c.o.x, quite imperturbable.

'They be open for slaves to go to work, not for free-born men,' retorted Mrs. Dunn, her shrieking voice at a still higher pitch. 'I hope the men'll hold out for ever, I do! I hope the masters 'll be drove, everyone of 'em, into the dust and dregs of the bankruptcy court! I hope their sticks and stones 'll be sold up, down to their children's cradles----'

'There, that's enough,' interposed the p.a.w.nbroker, as he handed her what he had to give. 'You'll be collecting a crowd round the door, if you go on like that. Here's somebody else waiting for your place.'

It was Mrs. Cheek, an especial friend of the lady's now being dismissed.

Mrs. Cheek was carefully carrying a basket which contained various chimney ornaments--pretty enough in their places, but not of much value.

The p.a.w.nbroker, after some haggling, not so intemperately carried on as the bargain just concluded, advanced six s.h.i.+llings on them.

'I had wanted twelve,' she said; 'and I can't do with less.'

'I am willing to lend it,' returned he, 'if you bring goods accordingly.'

'I have stripped the place of a'most all the light things as can be spared,' said Mrs. Cheek. 'One doesn't care to begin upon the heavy furniture and the necessaries.'

'Is there no chance of the present state of affairs coming to an end?'

inquired Mr. c.o.x, putting the same question to which he had not got a direct answer from Mrs. Dunn. 'The men can go back to work if they like; the masters' yards are open again.'

'Open!' returned Mrs. Cheek, in a guttural tone, as she threw back her head in disdain; 'they have been open some time, if you call _that_ opening 'em. If a man likes to go as a sneaking coward, and work upon the terms offered now, knuckling down to the masters, and putting his hand to their mean old odious doc.u.ment, severing himself from the Union, he can do it. It ain't many of our men as you'll find do that dirty work. If my husband was to attempt it, I'd be ready to skin him alive.'

'But the men have gone back in some parts of the metropolis.'

'_Men_, do you call 'em. A few may; one black sheep out of a flock. They ain't men, they are half-castes. Let them look to theirselves,'

concluded Mrs. Cheek significantly, as she quitted the p.a.w.nbroker's shop with a fling.

At the butcher's stall, a few paces further, she came up to Mrs. Dunn, who was standing in the glare of the blazing gaslight, in the incessant noise of the 'Buy, buy, buy! what'll you buy?' Not less than a dozen women were congregated there, elbowing each other, as they turned over the sc.r.a.ps of meat set out for sale in small heaps--sixpence the lot, a s.h.i.+lling the lot, according to quality and quant.i.ty. In the prosperous time when their husbands were in full work, these ladies had scornfully disdained such heaps on a Sat.u.r.day night. They had been wont then to buy a good joint for the Sunday's dinner. One of the women nudged another in her vicinity, directing her attention to the inside of the shop. 'Just twig Mother Shuck; she's a being served, I hope!'

'Mother Shuck,' Slippery Sam's better half, was making her purchases in the agreeable confidence of possessing money to pay for them--liver and bacon for the present evening's supper, and a breast of veal, to be served with savoury herbs, for the morrow's dinner. In the old times, while the throng of women now outside had been able to make the same or similar purchases, _she_ had hovered without like a hungry hyena, hanging over the cheap portions with covetous eyes and fingers, as many another poor wife had done, whose husband could not or would not work.

Times were changed.

'I can't afford nothing, hardly, I can't,' grumbled Mrs. Cheek. 'What's the good of six s.h.i.+llings for a Sat.u.r.day night, when everything's wanted, from the rent down to a potater? The young 'uns have got their bare feet upon the boards, as may be said, for their shoes be without toes and heels; and who is to get 'em others? I wish that c.o.x was a bit juster. He's a getting rich upon our spoils. Six s.h.i.+llings for that lot as I took him in!'

'I wish he was smothered!' struck in Mrs. Dunn. 'He took and asked me if I'd stole the silk. It was that lovely silk, you know, as I was fool enough to go and choose the week of the strike, on the strength of the good times a coming. We have had something else to do since, instead of making up silk gownds.'

'The good times ain't come yet,' said Mrs. Cheek, shortly. 'I wish the old 'uns was back again, if we could get 'em without stooping to the masters.'

'It was at the shop where Mary Ann and Jemimar deals, when they has to get in things for their customers' work,' resumed Mrs. Dunn, continuing the subject of the silk. 'I shouldn't have had credit at any other place. Fourteen yards I bought of it, and three-and-fourpence halfpenny I gave for every yard of it; I did, I protest to you, Elizar Cheek; and that swindling old screw had the conscience to offer me ten s.h.i.+llings for the whole!'

'Is the silk paid for?'--'Paid for!' wrathfully repeated Mrs. Dunn; 'has it been a time to pay for silk gownds when our husbands be under a lock-out? Of course it's not paid for, and the shop's a beginning to bother for it; but they'll be none the nearer getting it. I say, master, what'll you weigh in these f.a.g ends of mutton and beef at--the two together?' It will be readily understood, from the above conversation and signs, that in the several weeks that had elapsed since the commencement of the lock-out, things, socially speaking, had been going backwards. The roast goose and other expected luxuries had not come yet.

The masters' works were open--open to any who would go to work in them, provided they renounced all connection with the Trades' Unions.

Daffodil's Delight, taking it collectively, would not have this at any price, and held out. The worst aspect in the affair--I mean for the interests of the men--was, that strange workmen were a.s.sembling from different parts of the country, accepting the work which they refused.

Of course this feature in the dispute was most bitter to the men; they lavished their abuse upon the masters for employing strange hands; and they would have been glad to lavish something worse than abuse up on the hands themselves. One of the masters compared them to the fable of the dog in the manger--they would not take the work, and they would not let (by their good will) anybody else take it. Incessant agitation was maintained. The workmen were in a sufficiently excited state, as it was; and, to help on that which need not have been helped, the agents of the Trades' Union kept the ball rolling--an incendiary ball, urging obstinacy and spreading discontent. But this little history has not so much to do with the political phases of the unhappy dispute, as with its social effects.

As Mary Baxendale was returning home from the p.a.w.nbroker's, she pa.s.sed Mrs. Darby, who was standing at her own door looking at the weather.

'Mary, girl,' was the salutation, 'this is not a night for you to be abroad.'

'I was obliged to go,' was the reply. 'How are the children?'

'Come in and see them,' said Mrs. Darby. She led the way into a back room, which, at the first glance, seemed to be covered with mattresses and children. A large family had Robert Darby--indeed, it was a complaint prevalent in Daffodil's Delight. They were of various ages; these, lying on the mattresses, six of them, were from four to twelve years. The elder ones were not at home. The room had a close, unhealthy smell, which struck especially on the senses of Mary, rendered sensitive from illness.

'What have you got them all in this room for?' she exclaimed, in the impulse of the moment.

'I have given up the rooms above,' was Mrs. Darby's reply.

'But--when the children were ill--was it a time to give up rooms?'

debated Mary.

'No,' replied Mrs. Darby, who spoke as if she were heart-broken, in a sad, subdued tone, the very reverse of Mesdames Dunn and Cheek. 'But how could we keep on the top rooms when we were unable to get together the rent, to pay for them? I spoke to the landlord, and he is letting the back rent stand a bit, not to sell us up; and I gave up to him the two top rooms; and we all sleep in here together.'

'I wish the men would go back to work!' said Mary, with a sigh.

'Mary my heart's just failing within me,' said Mrs. Darby, her tone a sort of wail. 'Here's winter coming on, and all of them out of work. If it were not for my daughter, who is in service, and brings us her wages as she gets them, I believe we should just have starved. I _must_ get medicine, for the children, though we go without bread.'

'It is not medicine they want: it is nourishment,' said Mary.

'It is both. Nourishment would have done when they were first ailing, but now that it has turned to low fever, they must have medicine, or it will grow into typhus. It's bark they have to take, and it costs----'

'Mother! mother!' struck up a plaintive voice, that of the eldest of the children lying there, 'I want more of that nice drink!'

'I have not got it, w.i.l.l.y. You know that you had it all. Mrs. Quale brought me round a pot of black currant jelly,' she explained to Mary, 'and I poured boiling water on it to make drink. Their little parched throats did so relish it, poor things.'

Mary knelt on the floor and put her hand on the child's moist brow. He was a pretty boy; fair and delicate, with light curls falling round his face. A gentle, thoughtful, intelligent boy he had ever been, but less healthy than some. 'You are thirsty, w.i.l.l.y?'

He opened his heavy eyelids, and the large round blue eyes glistened with fever, as they were lifted to see who spoke.

'How do you do, Mary?' he meekly said. 'Yes, I am so thirsty. Mother said perhaps she should have a sixpence to-night to buy a pot of jelly like Mrs. Quale's.' Mrs. Darby coloured slightly; she thought Mary must reflect on the extravagance implied. Sixpence for jelly, when they were wanting money for a loaf!

'I did say it to him,' she whispered, as she was quitting the room with Mary. 'I thought I might spare a sixpence out of what Darby got from the society. But I can't; I can't. There's so many things we cannot do without, unless we just give up, and lie down and don't even try at keeping body and soul together. Rent, and coals, and candles, and soap; and we must eat something. Darby, too, of course he wants a trifle for beer and tobacco. Mary, I say I am just heart-faint. If the poor boy should die, it'll be upon my mind for ever, that the drink he craved for in his last illness couldn't be got for him.'

'Does he crave for it?'

'Nothing was ever like it. All day long it has been his sad, pitiful cry. "Have you got the jelly yet, mother? Oh, mother, if I could but have the drink!"'

As Mary went through the front room, Robert Darby was in it then. His chin rested on his hands, his elbows were on the table; altogether he looked very down-hearted.

'I have been to see w.i.l.l.y,' she cried.

'Ah, poor little chap!' It was all he said; but the tone implied more.