Part 40
"It's the leaving the children, Master Johnny, to strikes and things o' that kind, that's making it so hard for me to go. The world's full o' trouble: look at what ours has been since the strike set in! I'd not so much mind _that_ for them, though--for the world here don't last over long, and perhaps it's a'most as good to be miserable as easy in it--if I thought they'd all come to me in the bright place afterwards. But--when one's clammed with famine and what not, it's a sore temptation to do wrong. Lord, bring them to me!" she broke forth, suddenly clasping her hands. "Lord Jesus, pray for them, and save them!"
She was nothing but skin and bone. Her hands fell, and she began plucking at the blanket. You might have heard a pin drop in the room. The frightened children hardly breathed.
"I shall see your dear mamma, Master Johnny. I was at her death-bed; 'twas me mostly waited on her in her sickness. If ever a sainted lady went straight to heaven, 'twas her. When I stood over her grave I little thought my own ending was to be so soon. Strikes! Nothing but strikes--and famine, and bad tempers, and blows. Lord Jesus, wash us white from our sins, and take us all to that better world! No strikes there; no strikes there."
She was going off her head again. The door opened, and Hoar, the Doctor, and Mrs. Watts all came in together.
* * * * *
Mrs. Todhetley went over through the snow in the morning. Eliza Hoar had died in the night, and lay on the mattress, her wasted face calm and peaceful. Hoar and the children had migrated to the kitchen at the back, a draughty place hardly large enough for the lot to turn round in. The eldest girl was trying to feed the baby with a tea-spoon.
"What are you giving it, Eliza?" asked Mrs. Todhetley.
"Sugar and water, with a sup o' milk in't, please, ma'am."
"I hope you are contented, Jacob Hoar, now you have killed your wife."
Very harsh words, those for Mrs. Todhetley to speak: and she hastened to soften them. But, as she said afterwards, the matter altogether was a cruel folly and sin, making her heart burn with shame. "That is, Hoar, with the strike; for it is the strike that has killed her."
Hoar, who had been sitting with his head in the chimney, noticing no one, burst into a sudden flood of tears, and sobbed for a minute or two. Mrs. Todhetley was giving the children a biscuit apiece from her bag.
"I did it all for the best," said Hoar, presently. "'Twasn't me that originated the strike. I but joined in it with the rest of my mates."
"And their wives and families are in no better plight than yours."
"Nobody can say I've not done my duty as a husband and a father," cried Hoar. "I've not been a drunkard, nor a rioter, nor a spendthrift. I've never beat her nor swore at her, as some of 'em does."
"Well, she is lying _there_; and the strike has brought her to it. Is it so, or not?"
Hoar did not answer: only caught his breath with a sound of pain.
"It seems to me, Hoar, that the strikes cannot be the good things you think for," she said, her voice now full of pity for the man. "They don't bring luck with them; on the contrary, they bring a great deal of ill-luck. It is you workmen that suffer; mostly in your wives and children. I do not pretend to judge whether strikes may be good from a political point of view, I am not clever; but they do tell very hardly upon your poor patient wives and little ones."
"And don't you see as they tell upon us men, too!" he retorted with a sob that was half pitiful, half savage. "Ay, and worst of all; for if they should be mistaken steps stead of right ones, we've got 'em on our conscience."
"But you go in for them, Hoar. You, individually: and this last night's blow is the result. It certainly seems that there must be a mistake somewhere."
* * * * *
This has not been much to tell of, but it is _true_; and, as strikes are all the go just now, I thought I would write out for you a scrap of one of ours. For my own part, I cannot see that strikes do much good in the long run; or at best, that they are worth the outlay. I do know, for I have heard and seen it, that through many a long day the poor wives and children can only cry aloud to Heaven to pity them and their privations.
In course of time the strike (it was the longest on record in our parts, though we have had a few since then) came to an end. Upon which, the men began life again with bare homes and sickly young ones; and a few vacant chairs.
XXIII.
BURSTING-UP.
There have been fiery August days in plenty; but never a more fiery one than this that I am going to tell of. It was Wednesday: and we were sitting under the big tree on the lawn at Dyke Manor. A tree it would have done you good only to look at on a blazing day: a large weeping ash, with a cool and shady space within it, large enough for a dozen chairs round, and a small table.
The chairs and the table were there now. On the latter stood iced cider and some sparkling lemonade: uncommonly good, both, on that thirsty day. Mr. Brandon, riding by on his cob, had called in to see us; and sat between me and Mrs. Todhetley. She was knitting something in green shades of wool. The Squire had on a straw hat; Tod lay on the grass outside, in the shade of the laurels; Hugh and Lena stood at the bench near him, blowing bubbles and chattering like magpies.
"Well, I don't know," said old Brandon, taking a draught of the lemonade. "It often happens with me if I plan to go anywhere much beforehand, that when the time comes I am not well enough for it."
Mr. Todhetley had been telling him that he thought he should take the lot of us to the seaside for a week or two in September; and suggested that he should go with us. It had been a frightfully hot summer, and everybody felt worn out.
"Where shall you go?" questioned Mr. Brandon.
"Somewhere in Wales, I think," said the Squire. "It's easiest of access from here. Aberystwith, perhaps."
"Not much of a sea at Aberystwith," cried Mr. Brandon, in his squeaky voice.
"Well, it's not quite a Gibraltar Rock, Brandon, but it does for us. The last time we went to the seaside; it is three years ago now----"
"Four," mildly put in Mrs. Todhetley, looking up from her wools.
"Four, is it! Well, it was Aberystwith we went to then; and we were very comfortably lodged. It was at a Mrs. Noon's, I remember; and----who's coming now?"
A dash in at the gate was heard--a little startling Mr. Brandon, lest whatever it was should dash over his cob, tied to the gate-post--and then came the smooth run of light wheels on the gravel.
"Look out and see who it is, Johnny."
Putting the leaves aside, I saw a light, elegant, open carriage, driven by a groom in livery; a gentleman seated beside him in dainty gloves.
"Why, that's the Clement-Pells' little carriage!" exclaimed Mrs. Todhetley, who had been looking for herself.
"And that's Mr. Clement-Pell in it," said I.
"Oh," said Mr. Brandon. "I'll go then." But the Squire put up his arm to detain him.
Tod did the honours. Went to receive him, and brought him to us under the tree. The children stopped blowing bubbles to stare at Mr. Clement-Pell as he crossed the lawn. It struck me that just a shade of annoyance appeared in his face when he saw so many of us there. Shaking hands, he sat down by Mr. Todhetley, observing that it was some time since he had seen us. It was six weeks, or so: for we had not happened to meet him since that visit of mine and Tod's at his house in Kensington. All the family were back again now at Parrifer Hall: and we were going to a grand entertainment there on the following day, Thursday. An open-air fête, the invitations had said.
"You have been very busy lately, Mr. Clement-Pell," observed the Squire. "I've not been able to get to see you to thank you for the kindness of your folk to my boys in town. Twice I called at your chief Bank, but you were not visible."
"I have been unusually busy," was the answer. "Business gets worse; that is, more extensive; every day. I have had to be about a good deal besides; so that with one thing and another, my time has been more than fully occupied. I am very glad your young men enjoyed themselves with us in London," he added in hearty tones.
Mr. Brandon gave me such a look that for the life of me I could not say a word in answer. The London visit, taking it altogether, had not been one of enjoyment: but Clement-Pell had no suspicion of the truth.
"Rather a _rapid_ life, that London life," remarked Mr. Brandon dryly. And I went hot all over, for fear he might be going to let out things to the company.
"Rapid?" repeated Mr. Clement-Pell. "Well, so it is; especially for us business men."
Mr. Brandon coughed, but said no more. The Squire pressed refreshment on Mr. Clement-Pell. He'd have nothing to say to the cider--it would make him hotter, he thought--but took some of the lemonade. As he was putting the glass down Mrs. Todhetley asked whether to-morrow's fête was to be as grand and large as was reported. And the annoyance, seen before, most certainly again crossed Clement-Pell's face at the question.
"I do not really know much about it," he answered. "These affairs are my wife's, not mine."
"And perhaps you don't much care for them," put in the Squire, who had noticed the expression.
"I should like them very much, if I had more time to spare for them," said Mr. Clement-Pell, playing with his handsome chain and seals. "We men of large undertakings must be content to work ourselves, and to let our wives and daughters do the playing. However, I hope I shall manage an hour or two for this one to-morrow."
"What are to be the amusements?" inquired Mrs. Todhetley.
"The question is, rather, what they are not to be," smiled Mr. Clement-Pell. "I heard the girls talking about it with one another last night. Dancing, music, archery, fortune-telling----"
"Something, I suppose, of what may be called a fancy-fair," she interrupted.
"Just so. A fancy-fair without charge. At any rate, I make no doubt it will be pleasant: and I sincerely hope to see you all at it. _You_ will come, I trust, Mr. Brandon. These things are not in your usual way, I am aware, but----"
"I have neither the health nor the inclination for them," said Mr. Brandon, quite shrilly, stopping him before he could finish.
"But I trust you will make an exception in favour of us to-morrow, I was about to say. Mrs. Clement-Pell and the Miss Clement-Pells will be so pleased to see you."
"Thank you," said old Brandon, in a tone only just short of rudeness. "I must be going, Squire."
He got up as he spoke, shook hands with Mrs. Todhetley only, nodded to the rest of us, and set off across the lawn. Children liked him in spite of his voice and dry manner, and of course Hugh and Lena, pipes and soap-suds and all, attended him to the gate.
As the brown cob went trotting off, and the Squire was coming back again--for he had gone too--Mr. Clement-Pell met him half-way across the lawn, and then they both went indoors together.
"Clement-Pell must want something," said Mrs. Todhetley. "Johnny, do you notice how very aged and worn he is? It never struck me until to-day. He looks quite grey."
"Well, that's because he is getting so. I shall be grey some time."
"But I don't mean that kind of greyness, Johnny; grey hairs. His _face_ looks grey."
"It was the reflection of these green leaves, good mother."
"Well--perhaps it might be," she doubtfully agreed, looking up. "What a grand fête it is to be, Johnny!"
"You'll have to put on your best bib-and-tucker, good mother. That new dress you bought for the Sterlings' christening."
"I should if I went. But the fact is, Johnny, I and Mr. Todhetley have made up our minds not to go, I fancy. We were talking together about it this morning. However--we shall see when to-morrow comes."
"I wouldn't be you, then. That will be too bad."
"These open-air fêtes are not in our way, Johnny. Dancing, and archery, and fortune-telling are not much in the way of us old people. You young ones think them delightful--as we did once. Hugh! Lena! what _is_ all that noise about? You are not to take her bowl, Hugh: keep to your own. Joseph, please part them."
Joe accomplished it by boxing the two. In the midst of the noise, Mr. Clement-Pell came out. He did not cross the lawn again to Mrs. Todhetley; just called out a good day in getting into his carriage, and lifted his hat as he drove away.
"I say, father, what did he want with you?" asked Tod, as the Squire came sauntering back, the skirts of his light coat held behind him.
"That's my business, Joe," said the Squire. "Mind your own."
Which was a checkmate for Tod. The truth was, Tod had been uneasily wondering whether it might not be his business. That is, whether Mr. Clement-Pell had obtained scent of that gambling of his up in London and had come to enlighten the Squire. Tod never felt safe upon the point: which, you see, was all owing to his lively conscience.
"What a beautiful little carriage that is!" said Mrs. Todhetley to the Pater. "It puts me in mind of a shell."
"Ay; must have cost a pretty penny, small as it is. Pell can afford these fancy things, with his floating wealth."
In that city of seething crowds and wealth, London, where gigantic operations are the rule instead of the exception, and large fortunes are made daily, Mr. Clement-Pell would not have been thought much of; but in our simple country place, with its quiet experiences, Clement-Pell was a wonder. His riches were great. His power of making money for himself and others seemed elastic; and he was bowed down to as a reigning potentate--a king--an Olympian deity.
You have heard of him before. He had come to a neighbouring town some years back as manager of a small banking company, having given up, it was understood, a good law practice in London to undertake it. The small banking grew and grew under his management. Some of its superfluous hoards were profitably employed: to construct railroads; to work mines; to found colonies. All sorts of paying concerns were said to have some of Clement-Pell's money in them, and to bring him in cent. per cent. It was believed that if all the wealth of the East India Company and the Bank of England to boot had been poured into the hands of Clement-Pell, it could not have been more than he would be able to use to profit, so great were the resources at his command. People fought with one another to get their money accepted by Mr. Clement-Pell. No wonder. The funds gave them a paltry three per cent. for it; Mr. Clement-Pell doubled the amount. So the funds lost the money, and Mr. Clement-Pell gained it. He was worshipped as the greatest benefactor that had ever honoured the country by settling down in it.
I think his manner went for something. It was so pleasant. The world itself might have loved Mr. Clement-Pell. Deputations asked for his portrait to hang up in public buildings; individuals besought his photograph. Mrs. Clement-Pell was less liked: she was extravagant and haughty. It was said she was of very high family indeed, and she could not have looked down upon common people with more scorn had she been born a duchess. I'm sure no duchess ever gave herself the airs that Mrs. Clement-Pell did, or wore such fine bonnets.
When Mr. Clement-Pell opened a little branch Bank at Church Dykely (as he had already done at two or three other small places), the parish at once ascended a few feet into the air. As Church Dykely in its humility had never possessed a Bank before, it was naturally something to be proud of. The Bank was a little house near to Duffham's, the doctor, with a door and one window; no larger premises being obtainable. The natives collected round to gaze, and marvel at the great doings destined to be enacted behind that wire blind: and Mr. Clement-Pell was followed by a tail of admiring rustics whenever he stepped abroad.
Church Dykely only had its branch in what might be called the later years, dating from the beginning of the Clement-Pell dynasty, and when he had made a far and wide reputation, and was in the full tide of his prosperity. It was after its establishment that he took Parrifer Hall. This little branch Bank was found to be a convenience to many people. It had a manager and a clerk; and Mr. Clement-Pell would condescend to be at it occasionally, chiefly on Mondays. He was popular with all classes: county gentlemen and rich farmers asked him to dinner; the poor got from him many a kind word and handshake. Mrs. Clement-Pell dined with him at the gentlemen's tables, but she turned up her nose at the farmers, and would not go near them. In short, take them for all in all, there was no family so grand in the county, or who made so much noise as the Clement-Pells. Their income was something enormous; and of course they might launch out if they liked. It had grown to be a saying amongst us, "As rich as the Clement-Pells."
* * * * *
Mrs. Todhetley had said she supposed the entertainment would be something like a fancy-fair. We had not had a great experience of fancy-fairs in our county; but if they were all like this, I shouldn't mind going to one twice a week. The sky was unclouded, the wind still, the leaves of the trees scarcely stirred. On the lawn the sun blazed hot and brilliant: but the groves were cool and shady. Since the place came into Mr. Clement-Pell's occupancy, he had taken-in part of a field, and made the grounds more extensive. At least, Mrs. Clement-Pell had done so, which came to the same: spending money went for nothing with her. And why should it, when they had so much? If you climbed to the top of an artificial rockery you could see over the high hedge. I did so: and took a look at the chimneys of George Reed's cottage. You've not forgotten him; and his trouble with Major Parrifer. But for that trouble, the Clement-Pells might never have had the chance of occupying Parrifer Hall.
It was as good as fairy-land. Flags hung about; banners waved; statues had decked themselves in garlands. The lawns and the walks were alive with company, the ladies sported gala dresses all the colours of the rainbow. Dancing, shooting, flirting, talking, walking, sitting; we were as gay as birds of paradise. There was a tent for the band, and another for refreshments, and no end of little marquees, dotted about, for anything. One was a post-office; where love-letters might be had for the asking. When I look back on that day now through the mist of years, it stands out as the gayest and sunniest left to memory. As to refreshment--you may think of anything you like and know it was there. There was no regular meal at all throughout the afternoon and evening; but you could begin eating and drinking when you went in if you chose, and never leave off till you left. The refreshment tent communicated with one of the doors of the house, through which fresh supplies came as they were wanted. All was cold. Besides this, there was a tea and coffee marquee, where the kettles were kept always on the boil. No one could say the Clement-Pells spared pains or expense to entertain their guests right royally.
Tod and I strolled about, to take in the whole scene. The Clement-Pell carriages (the big barouche and the small affair that Mrs. Todhetley had called a shell) came dashing up at intervals, graciously despatched to bring relays of guests who did not keep carriages of their own. Mrs. Clement-Pell stood on the lawn to receive them; the Miss Clement-Pells with her. If I were able to describe their attire I would do so; it beat anything for gorgeousness I had ever seen. Glistening silk skirts under robes of beautiful lace; fans in their hands and gossamer veils in their hair.
"I say, Tod, here they come!"
A sober carriage was driving slowly in. We knew it well: and its steady old horses and servants too. It was Sir John Whitney's. Rushing round a side path, we were up with it when it stopped. Bill Whitney and his two sisters came tumbling out of it.
"It's going on to your house now, with the trunk," said Helen, to us. "William has been most awfully tiresome: he would put his every-day boots and coat in our box, instead of bringing a portmanteau for himself."
"As if a fellow wanted a portmanteau for just one night!" exclaimed Bill. "What you girls can have in that big trunk, amazes me. I should say you are bringing your bed and pillows in it."
"It has only our dresses for to-morrow morning in it, and all that," retorted Helen, who liked to keep Bill in order and to domineer over him. "The idea of having to put in great clumsy boots with _them_, and a rough coat smelling of smoke!"
"This is to be left here, I think, Miss Helen," said the footman, displaying a small black leather bag.
"Why, yes; it contains our combs and brushes," returned Helen, taking it and giving it to one of the Clement-Pell servants, together with two cloaks for the evening.
Tod went up to the postillion. "Look here, Pinner: the Squire says you had better stop at the Manor to rest the horses. You will find the groom there, I dare say."
"Thank you, sir," said Pinner. "They'll be a bit done up if we goes straight off back."
The girls and Bill went up to the Clement-Pell group, and were made much of. It was the first time they had visited the Pells, and their coming was regarded as a special honour. Sir John and Lady Whitney had declined: and it was arranged that Bill and his sisters should sleep at our house, and the carriage come for them the next day.
Escaping from the Pells, we all sat down on a bench. Helen Whitney began whispering about the Miss Pells' dresses.
"I never saw such beauties," she exclaimed. "I wonder what they cost?"
"Millions, I should say," cried Bill.
"These are plain ugly old things beside them," grumbled Helen.
She meant her own dress and Anna's. They wore white spotted muslins, and blue ribbons. One of those gorgeous robes was worth fifty times as much: but I know which set of girls looked the most lady-like.
"They are very beautiful," sighed Helen, with a spice of envy. "But too much for an affair like this."
"Not for them," said Bill stoutly. "The Clement-Pells could afford robes of diamonds if they liked. I'm not sure but I shall go in for one of the girls."
"Don't talk nonsense," reproved Helen.
We went into the fortune-telling tent. It was full of people, screaming and laughing. A real gipsy with a swarthy skin and black flowing locks was telling fortunes. Helen had hers told when she could make a place, and was promised a lord for a husband, and five-and-thirty grandchildren. At which the tent roared again, and Helen laughed too.
"And now it is your turn, my pretty little maid," said the sibyl to Anna Whitney. And Anna, always modest and gentle, turned as red as a rose, and said she already knew as much of her own fortune as she desired to know at present.
"What's in _this_ hand?" cried the gipsy, suddenly seizing upon Tod's big one, and devouring its lines with her eyes. "Nay, master; don't draw it away, for there's matter here, and to spare. You are not afraid, are you?"
"Not of you, my gipsy queen," gallantly answered Tod, resigning his palm to her. "Pray let my fate be as good as you can."
"It is a smooth hand," she went on, never lifting her gaze. "Very smooth. You'll not have many of the cares and crosses of life. Nevertheless, I see that you have been in some peril lately. And I should say it was connected with money. Debt."
There were not many things could bring the colour to Joseph Todhetley's face; but it matched then the scarlet mantle the gipsy wore slung over her right shoulder. You might have heard a pin drop in the sudden hush. Anna's blue eyes were glancing shyly up through their long lashes.