Collected works of j s f.., p.709
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 709
There was a sudden laugh at the rear of the hall. A man rose, and waved his hand suggestively at the empty benches.
“If Mr. Marrashaw wants to know what his workpeople think of his scheme,” he said, almost contemptuously, “let him look here! There’s scarce anybody come to hear about it — except those who’ll profit by it!”
When it was over, Bright realised that the meeting had been a failure and that his proposals were not popular. In his innocence and small acquaintance with things he was astonished: knowing, from his figures, that even the smallest beneficiary would have received a very comfortable addition to his or her yearly earnings, it amazed him to find such apathy and lukewarmness. But he was still more amazed to get a chance sidelight on the situation from one of his women workers, with whom he chanced to meet on the outskirts of the millyard. She was a shrewd, knowing, middle-aged woman, who had worked at Marrashaws from childhood, and now had sons and daughters in Bright’s employ.
“Some of you people don’t seem much impressed with this profit-sharing proposal of mine, Mary,” observed Bright. “I thought you’d have jumped at it! But I get nothing but cold water!”
The woman looked round. She and Bright had met in a narrow street, wherein, at that moment, nothing in the form of human life was to be seen except in the presence of an old man or two, sitting at a cottage door or a child playing about the pavement. Nevertheless, she lowered her voice.
“Aye, an’ no wonder, Mr. Bright!” she said, meaningly. “It ‘ud be a wonder if you did get aught but could water considering what’s going on i’ t’ mill! You mustn’t think that there isn’t hundreds of us — especially t’ women— ‘at wouldn’t be only too thankful if them proposals o’ yours was carried out — I know I should! But — t’ folks is having their minds set again it — they’re being poisoned, as it were, Mr. Bright. Ever since you printed them papers, there’s been quiet and steady talk again t’ whole thing — it creeps fro’ one to another. It’s like that there passage i’ t’ Bible, sir — somebody’s sowing tares i’ your wheat?”
“Who?” asked Bright.
“Nay!” exclaimed the woman. “That’s more nor I can tell! But there it is — t’ proposal’s none welcome to somebody or other, and him, or her, or them, is poisoning and persuading all t’ lot again it. There’s a deal o’ secret work among working folk now-a-days, Mr. Bright — plotting and planning, and such-like. And quiet bodies like me—”
“You’ve no idea who it is, then?” interrupted Bright.
“I haven’t, sir,” said the woman. “I tell you — there’s planning and plotting. And it’s all done i’ t’ dark. Like them mouldy wasps, ‘at you see i’ t’ fields — scratting and tunnelling underground.”
Bright went away, wondering. Whose was this secret influence?
X
AT THIS TIME of indecision and perplexity, Bright was conscious, in a vague, indefinite way, that something had come or was coming, between Hermie Clough and himself. Despite the fact that they now saw more of each other than they had ever seen in their lives, some curious difference seemed to have arisen in their relations. They were not and never had been demonstrative lovers: the bond which existed was more that of mutual interest and affinity of interest than of passion or even of warm affection: Hermie, despite her youthfulness and good looks, was of an essentially cool and well-balanced temperament, and Bright too much of a self-centred dreamer to be ardent in his love affairs. But up to that stage they had reposed great and constant trust in each other, and if Hermie had kept from Bright the more intimate particulars of her propagandist notions, Bright had kept little from her, saving the exact details of his profit-sharing scheme. But now, when he found disapproval and reticence on her part, he, too, withdrew into his shell, and instead of telling her what the woman employee had said to him about secret influence being at work in the mill, he kept it to himself. And the more he kept it to himself, the more he wondered. Whose was this secret influence, and what was his, her, or their object! Naturally, he thought that the opposition to his proposals must come from the trades-unions, for the reasons which Ellerthwaite had suggested that afternoon at the club. But — who were the people, amongst his own folk, who were active agents? It seemed to Bright, the inheritor of certain old-fashioned notions, that whoever they were, their conduct was of the nature of treachery. His father had taught him to regard Marrashaw’s Mill and its three thousand workers as a big family, bound together by common interests and ties: there might be dissensions in it, and black sheep in it, as in the case of all families, but after all, it was a family, full of tribal feeling — or ought to be — and for any member of it to sow seeds of dissension in secret appeared to Bright’s way of thinking, a base and dishonourable thing. He found himself repeating what the woman had said— “It’s like that there passage i’ t’ Bible — somebody’s sowing tares i’ your wheat.” And being, like all folk of those parts, familiar with the wording of Holy Writ, he repeated to himself, with a grim smile, the text of which his informant had spoken— “But while men slept, his enemy came and sowed tares among the wheat, and went his way.”
“Only — he hasn’t gone his way!” mused Bright. “He seems to be still at work.”
It was while he was wondering about the malign influence which, as far as he could see, bade fair to upset his plans for the betterment of his workpeople, that Bright once more came across Simon Grew. Grew came up to Marrashaw Royd one night, to ask Bright’s charity in aid of the widow and family of a man who had met with a fatal accident: the circumstances were sad and appealing, and Bright willingly added his name and a handsome donation to the list which Grew produced. And then an idea struck him, and he turned on Grew with a speculative glance.
“You’re the sort of man who knows a lot!” he said, suddenly. “You told me that you supplied my father with information of various sorts. Did any of it happen to be of a secret nature?”
Grew looked round the room. He and Bright were sitting in the very chairs in which Grew and Charlesworth had sat on the night of the revelations, and they were alone, as Charlesworth and Grew had been. He laughed quietly, and gave his questioner a suggestive glance.
“Aye, all of ’em!” he answered. “As secret as the grave!”
“So I guessed,” said Bright. “He wanted that sort of information?”
“He was rare and glad to get it, Mr. Marrashaw,” replied Grew. “You may be sure o’ that from what he paid for it — willingly.”
“What was he going to do with it?” asked Bright.
“Well,” answered Grew, “we talked o’ that, to be sure. I gave him permission to tell what I’d told him to his friend, Mr. Ellerthwaite. I knew it ‘ud go no further. He’s an honourable man, that — I’d no objection to your father’s telling Ellerthwaite. But, beyond that, I don’t know what he’d ha’ done with it. Anyway, he was glad to be forewarned.”
“Forewarned?” said Bright. “Against — what?”
“Against what’s coming,” replied Grew, with another sly look.
“Is there something coming?” asked Bright.
“Oh, aye — if the folks that want it to come can engineer it!” declared Grew. “It’ll come, right enough, if — if, mind you!”
“Well — what?” demanded Bright.
“General strike,” said Grew, laconically. “All t’ lot — miners — railwaymen — transport workers, textile workers — all the boiling. Paralyse trade — that’s the ticket!”
“Do you mean that there are people here in Haverthwaite who are working for that?” asked Bright.
“I do!” said Grew. He laughed, with a cynical turn of his lip which showed Bright that he knew what he was talking about. “You can lay your last penny on that, sir,” he added confidently. “It’s a fact!”
“Trades-unions, I suppose?” suggested Bright.
“No!” said Grew. “T’ trades-unions ha’ naught to do with it, Mr. Marrashaw. The folks that have ‘ud give their two eyes, all on ’em, so to speak, if they could capture t’ trade-unions. Happen they will — some day. It’ll not be for want o’ trying,” he added, with a shrewd glance. “They’re all triers.”
“Who are they?” asked Bright.
“Ah!” laughed Grew. “That ‘ud be telling!”
“You told my father?” suggested Bright.
“I told him — yes,” assented Grew.
Bright became silent for a while. He was thinking. There was in him a thoroughly English dislike of underhand and secret methods, and he had now no longer any doubt that such methods were in force amongst his three thousand workpeople. Suddenly he turned to his visitor.
“Look here!” he said. “You know all about my profit-sharing scheme?”
“I do!” answered Grew.
“You’re probably aware that it’s not regarded with any great favour by the employees?” continued Bright.
“Aye!” said Grew. “Of course!”
“Do you know anything about that?” asked Bright, emphasising his last word.
“Lots!” replied Grew. “Lots! All about it!”
“Then I’ll do what my father did,” said Bright suddenly. “Tell me what you know and I’ll make it worth your while. I’m not going to have secret influences at work in my business!”
“They are at work, Mr. Marrashaw,” remarked Grew, quietly. He drew his chair nearer to Bright’s. Already he knew that he would go out of that room richer than he had entered it: very well, he would give Bright full value for his money. “They are at work!” he repeated. “They’ve been at work for a long time — before your father’s death — and they’ve been particularly busy since you put out your profit-sharing scheme. Your plans wouldn’t suit their policy at all — they’d interfere seriously with it. They don’t want people to enter into partnership with the capitalists in any way whatever — what they want is to stamp the capitalist clean out of existence. They look on schemes like yours as sops to stave off the growing hunger — well, they don’t want sops! — they want the dish all to themselves!”
“Particularise!” said Bright. “Plain words, now!”
“All right!” assented Grew. “There’s a certain society in this town, with only a few members, but all brainy and clever. They’re apostles o’ this new Syndicalism — you know what that means, as well as I do, happen better than I do. Their policy is quiet spread of their principles — all in the direction of that general strike that I mentioned just now — a big, final strike in the great industries, one that’ll literally paralyse all trade and commerce, force a complete capitulation from the government of the day, and establish Syndicalism on the ruins of the old, thoroughly-wrecked system. And I tell you their notions and ideas and principles and theories are gaining ground — they’re more powerful than you’d think. And it’s from them that the opposition to your scheme arises: it wouldn’t pay them to let you establish it and get your folks on your side through it — their game is to get your folks not for you, but against you!”
“Who are they?” demanded Bright.
Grew hesitated a moment.
“Well,” he said, at last. “There’s no need to give you the names of every one. It’s sufficient for your purpose if I tell you that you’ve three of ’em in your employ. It’s those three that have engineered the opposition to your scheme ever since you printed your proposals. Quietly, you understand? — they’re devils at underground work, all three of ’em!”
“Who are they?” repeated Bright. “Those three?”
“Well, there’s Allot Howroyd — one o’ your clerks,” answered Grew. “You know him, of course.”
“He’s been with us a long time — to my knowledge,” remarked Bright. “You’re certain of what you’re saying?”
“I’m certain about everything,” replied Grew, with quiet assurance. “I could prove it, easy enough, if need be. Then there’s one of your overlookers, Jubb — Lister Jubb.”
“Another old hand!” said Bright. “Did you tell my father of this — give him these names?”
“Aye, I did!” replied Grew.
“What did he say?” asked Bright.
“He was taken aback,” said Grew. “Astonished! Now that I come to think of it, I fancy he exclaimed that they were two of his most trusted men.”
“Well?” enquired Bright, after a pause. “You said there were three — Who’s the other?”
Grew looked narrowly at his questioner. There was something in his glance that aroused Bright’s wonder: it was full of meaning.
“A woman!” said Grew. “And t’ most dangerous and influential of t’ lot! You know her well enough, Mr. Marrashaw. Hermie Clough!”
Before the name left Grew’s lips, Bright had anticipated its coming. In spite of himself, he felt the colour mounting to his cheeks, and in order to cover his confusion he rose and went over to the cupboard in which Charlesworth had kept his private store of good liquors and prime cigars. It still remained as Charlesworth had left it: Bright, who scarcely knew whiskey from gin, or port from claret, had rarely looked within. But now he produced a decanter of whiskey from its shelves and a box of cigars, and fetching soda water and a glass from the sideboard, set his burdens down by his visitor’s elbow and bade him help himself.
“You’re absolutely sure, you say, of the truth of all these allegations?” he asked, leaning against the mantelpiece with his hands thrust in his pockets. “They’re not suppositions?”
Grew, who was quick to notice that Bright carefully avoided mentioning Hermie Clough, smiled.
“It’s all absolute truth, Mr. Marrashaw,” he said, almost carelessly. “There’s no doubt whatever about it! My best respects, sir.”
“How do they carry this work on?” demanded Bright.
“That’s easy enough,” replied Grew. “You know what opportunities your people have of talking amongst themselves. Well. Well, these three, they instil their ideas into a chosen few. The chosen few talk to a few more. The few more go on spreading the thing. A word here — a word there — Lord bless you! Mr. Marrashaw — it’s easy work to spread sedition amongst people who are already half-disposed to it. You know that there’s a rebel strain in all the folk o’ these parts — it’s been bred in ’em ever since they took sides wi’ the Parliament against Charles the First, and sided with the first nonconformists again the Church. They’re always willing to rebel. And when three clever, plausible-tongued propagandists like those I’ve told you of get to work among ’em — Lord! you don’t know what they can do!”
“What do they promise the people?” asked Bright.
“They promise ’em — when Syndicalism’s triumphant — something akin to t’ millennium!” answered Grew, with a sneer. “Utopia! Land flowing wi’ milk and honey! No oppressions! No wars! A new earth! Happen,” he added, with another sneer, “a new heaven! — but I doubt if any on ’em believes i’ either heavens or hells! It amuses me,” he went on, nodding at Bright over his glass. “I don’t know how it strikes you, Mr. Marrashaw, and you’re far more of a scholar than I am, but all this is naught but anarchism — sheer anarchism!”
“You don’t believe in it?” said Bright.
“I’m an orthodox, evolutionary Socialist,” replied Grew with a knowing look. “I believe that society can be reconstructed by the peaceful co-operation of the working-classes with all other classes. That’s my belief as an individual — in private. In public, I’m the paid servant of a trades-union, and I know how to do my best for it.”
That Grew also knew how to do his best for himself was shortly proved by his going away with a substantial recompense for his information. He was well satisfied with his evening’s work: as for Bright, he felt as though he had been transformed into a fly and inveigled into a web dominated by three extraordinarily astute spiders.
XI
SINCE HIS SUCCESSION to the chair of government at Marrashaw’s Mills, Bright had made it his rule to present himself at the private office at ten o’clock every morning; Hermie Clough always turned up about the same time. But on the morning following upon his interview with Simon Grew he was at the mill by half-past nine. Passing along the corridor which stretched between the pilastered entrance-hall and his room, he signed to an office-boy to follow him: the office-boy, young as he was, wondered why Mr. Marrashaw looked so very grave and even angry.
“You know Allot Howroyd and Lister Jubb?” said Bright, as he laid aside hat and coat.
“Yes, sir,” answered the lad.
“Go straight to them, just now, and tell both that Mr. Marrashaw wishes to see them in his private room,” commanded Bright. “And then, when you’ve been to them, go to Mr. Walshaw, the chief cashier, and tell him to come to me, here, in ten minutes. Got that clearly? Off you go, then.”
The office-boy went away, and Bright sat down in his father’s old chair, and waited. There had never been any very close likeness between him and Charlesworth, but any very keen-eyed observer who knew both intimately would have seen one now. Bright’s face was set, determined, masterful — the old Marrashaw strain had come out in it during the night, fierce and strong. He had sat plunged in deep thought for two hours after Grew’s departure: he had awoke in the night and lain awake, thinking again; he had done more thinking since his final awaking that morning. And all his thoughts centred to a stern determination — he would have no underhand work, no treachery, on his premises. Fight in the open men might — as hard as they liked — but secret stabbing, secret plot-work, he would have none of. And now he was going to set down his foot, once for all.
Presently Howroyd and Jubb came in, together. Bright knew next to nothing about either. As far as he could remember he had never exchanged a word with Jubb and very few with Howroyd. And he had no intention of bandying words just then. Motioning them to shut the door, he looked steadily from one to the other.
