Collected works of j s f.., p.714
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 714
“Crowther,” he said, “put a horse into the dog-cart and drive down to Lockwood Clough’s house — you know where he lives. Tell him I want to see him, and bring him back with you, here. If he’s out, find him. How long will it take you to go down there?”
“Oh, about ten minutes, sir,” replied Crowther. He looked doubtfully at his master, and then cast an anxious glance into the stables, where three handsome horses were in waiting for whatever might turn up. “You don’t think there’s any fear of aught happening down that way, sir?” he asked. “Them strikers, now? — our horses is worth a good bit o’ money, you know — your pa gave a deal for that last pair, and there’s no knowing what them fellers’ll do when—”
“Nonsense!” laughed Bright. “You’ll find it as peaceful down there as it is here.”
Crowther shook his head, at the same time regarding Bright with some little wonder.
“I don’t know about that, sir,” he answered. “You haven’t heard about what went on last night, then?”
“Last night?” said Bright. “Heard nothing! What did go on last night?”
“There was a bit of a do last night, sir,” answered Crowther, brimfull of news. “I heard it first thing this morning — I thought it ‘ud ha’ reached your ears, sir. They’d a big meeting, our folks, on that waste ground, front o’ the mill, sir — lighted it up with naphtha lamps and such-like. And when it was over, a regular body of ’em went to Simon Grew’s house—”
Bright whistled. He had never thought of that! — he saw suddenly that his curt dismissal of Howroyd and Jubb had placed Grew, as the probable informer, in danger.
“Well?” he said. “What then?”
“Smashed every window in the place, sir,” replied Crowther with alacrity. “And, some say, tried to set fire to his house, and all, though I can’t say that that’s true. But it is true ‘at they didn’t leave a whole pane o’ glass! And if they started throwing things at one o’ our horses, sir—”
“They’ll not do that,” said Bright. “They’ve nothing against you or the horses, Crowther — they had something against Grew. You’ll be all right. Find Lockwood Clough, and bring him back with you.”
He went back to the house, to await Lockwood’s coming. So the folk had gone for Grew, had they? Well, he saw how it had been — the group in which Howroyd and Hermie Clough were the controlling elements had sought for the traitor in its membership and had fixed on Grew. And it was well that there was nothing worse than broken windows, for spies and informers of any sort were not likely to meet with much mercy at the hands of Haverthwaite folk. But — would it stop at broken windows?
He had to wait some time before Crowther drove up to the front door with Lockwood perched on the seat beside him. Bright, glancing out of the morning-room window, saw that the old overlooker looked worried and perplexed, and he hurried out to meet him and bring him in.
Lockwood, without ceremony, dropped into the first easy chair he came across, and looking at Bright with a half-dazed air, wagged his head.
“Eh, dear, eh dear!” he said. “Such doings I never knew i’ my life before! I dunnot know what things is coming to! First one thing and then another — seemingly, there’s no peace for a quiet-disposed man!”
“What’s the matter?” demanded Bright. “Anything happened this morning, down there? I heard about last night’s affair — Grew’s windows.”
Lockwood pulled himself erect, as if ashamed of his momentary weakness.
“I reckon naught o’ Grew’s windows!” he said. “That was t’ work o’ some o’ t’ more riotously disposed. There is such, at times like these, and they’ll have to be reckoned with. But a bit o’ window smashing’s neither here nor there.”
“What’s upset you, then?” asked Bright. “I saw you were looking bothered when you drove up. What is it?”
Lockwood gave his master a queer look.
“It’s yon lass o’ mine — Hermie!” he answered. “My daughter!”
“Well — what now?” demanded Bright. “What’s Hermie done?”
Lockwood kept silence for a moment: his silence seemed eloquent of many emotions.
“Done?” he muttered at last. “She’s gone and got wed!”
Bright’s lips opened in sheer amazement: he actually felt his jaw drop: it would not have surprised him if, turning to the mirror over the mantelpiece, he had seen his shock of hair standing on end. It seemed a long time before he found his tongue.
“Married!” he exclaimed. “Hermie?”
“This morning,” replied Lockwood. “I’d just come away from t’ church when Crowther came.”
“Good Heavens!” said Bright. “Married? Whoever to?”
“Yon there Allot Howroyd,” answered Lockwood. “There’s two birds of a feather there, anyway! It’s my opinion she’d ha’ married Lister Jubb, an’ all, if t’ law allowed a lass to take two husbands at once!”
Bright began to laugh: the temptation was irresistible. And a smile began to display itself round the corners of Lockwood’s bearded lips: he laughed, too.
“Bless us!” said Bright. “What next?” Then an idea struck him. “Well, anyway, Lockwood,” he continued, with another laugh, “We’ll drink their healths! I don’t know what it’s all about, nor how it’s come about, but there’s no harm in wishing ’em good luck, I think, and I daresay it wouldn’t offend ’em, even if they knew of it.”
He turned to the cupboard in which Charlesworth had kept a private store of luxuries; its contents remained just as Charlesworth had left them, and Bright, after a thoughtful inspection, took out a bottle of champagne, fetched a couple of glasses from the sideboard, and began to cut the wire: Lockwood, twiddling his thumbs, watched him with interest.
“I’ve never supped champagne since your father gave me a glass one night when I come up here to see him about summat or other, two or three year since,” he observed suddenly. “I never thowt what nor when t’ next occasion ‘ud be!”
“Well, it’s no use making a fuss about weddings,” declared Bright, philosophically. “When it’s done, it’s done — and in this case — well, we both know Hermie! But,” he added, as he poured out the wine, “how did it all come about? So suddenly — if it really was sudden.”
“I knew naught about it till this morning,” answered Lockwood. “She told me as soon as we’d had us breakfasts ‘at her and Howroyd had concluded to wed, and ‘at they’d got a special license, and were going to be married at t’ Parish Church in an hour. She said ‘at they were resolved to give their lives to t’ Cause, and they felt ‘at they could do it a deal better as husband and wife, and as there was work to be done at once, they were going to be united immediately. Solemn as a judge, she said all that! — it’s my belief ‘at however clever t’ lass may be, she’s one o’ them unfortunate folks ‘at has no sense o’ humour — she never had.”
“And what did you say?” asked Bright.
Lockwood gave him a shrewd glance.
“Say?” he answered. “What’s t’ use o’ anybody saying aught to a woman o’ that sort? T’ least said, t’ better. I said nowt, except ‘at if it was to be, it mun be, and then I put my best clothes on and walked over to t’ church wi’ her, and see’d her wed.”
“And the bride and bridegroom — where are they?” asked Bright.
“They parted at t’ churchyard gate,” said Lockwood. “Howroyd, he went off to address a meeting o’ men somewhere or other, and Hermie, she went to spout to a meeting o’ women and lasses. They’re beyond me! — I don’t understand such like. When I got wed to Hermie’s mother, her and me, we’d a reight do on it — we went to Manchester for t’ day, and enjoyed wersens proper — I mind it cost me two or three pound! But these here young folks — nay, as I say, they’re clean beyond me! — I can’t reckon ’em up, neither one way nor t’ other.”
“Well, we’ll drink their healths, anyway,” said Bright. He handed a glass to Lockwood and lifted his own. “Good luck to them! — I daresay they’ll suit each other better than anybody’d reckon, Lockwood.”
“Oh, I wish ’em nowt but what’s reight and proper,” affirmed Lockwood. “I don’t know what sort of a chap Howroyd may be about managing a woman, but he’s gotten a rare handful i’ our Hermie!”
“I think they’ll suit each other,” repeated Bright. Then he turned to his own affairs. “Well?” he said. “Now about this strike, Lockwood — what’s best to be done? I heard of the meeting last night — how did it go? What was said?”
“As far as I can make out, t’ usual sort o’ stuff was talked,” replied Lockwood. “Now was the time to make a bold stand against tyranny, and all that sort o’ thing. Howroyd spoke, and our Hermie, of course, and Jubb, and two or three fellers ‘at have naught to do wi’ t’ mill — that parson chap ‘at married Howroyd and Hermie this morning — he spoke: he’s one o’ t’ red-hottest o’ t’ lot — a Socialist.”
“Is that Coleflower — the curate?” asked Bright.
“T’ same,” assented Lockwood. “I reckon nowt o’ him — he’s a windbag. They’re all windbags — it’s nowt but talk. All t’ same, they’ve got a rare big following, and summat owt to be done. What, I don’t know.”
“I’d a suggestion made to me last night,” said Bright. “It was that I should hold some open-air meetings round about the mill, and personally talk to the people, explaining things, and especially the profit-sharing scheme.”
“You’re going on with that?” enquired Lockwood.
“Of course!” replied Bright. “Just as if nothing had happened. Things are bound to right themselves, sooner or later. Yes, I’m going on with it — modified and improved. I’m thinking how to improve it, now.”
“Then I can tell you,” said Lockwood, eagerly. “Make it so ‘at it brings ’em all in! — never mind no five years’ qualification, nor naught o’ that sort. Let everybody share ‘at’s done twelve months’ work. That ‘ud go a long way to settling matters. It was that five year qualification ‘at set their backs up. And another thing — don’t give so much preference to t’ managers and overlookers and such-like, nor to t’ workers o’ long standing. It smacks o’ favouritism. And if you knew as much o’ our folk as I do, Mr. Bright, you’d know ‘at if there is one thing they cannot away with, it’s preferring one before another! — they mun be treated as equals.”
“Well,” said Bright, after a moment’s reflection. “All that can be done. But now — about these meetings?”
“I don’t know what to say,” replied Lockwood. “They’re that busy wi’ their own meetings ‘at I reckon they’d not have much time to attend yours, and whenever you had one, they’d get up another in opposition to it. And there’s no doubt that there’s a certain rough element among ’em — that lot ‘at smashed Grew’s windows last night. They’d think naught o’ trying to break up your meetings. And then it ‘ud come to fighting — and that’s t’ last thing ‘at we want. If you once get violence started, there’s no knowing where it’ll end.”
“But we must do something,” urged Bright.
He kept Lockwood talking for some time, and at the end of their conversation strolled out into the grounds with him. As they neared the entrance gates, a woman came through them — a big, solidly built woman, shawled and clogged in the prevalent fashion of the district — and seeing Bright made straight for him. Bright thought he recognised her broad face and keen eyes.
“Isn’t this one of our hands?” he whispered. “I’ve seen her, somewhere.”
“Aye — Mally Watki’son,” answered Lockwood. “She’s worked at Marrashaw’s over thirty year, to my knowing. Decent, hard-working woman, an’ all.”
Mally Watkinson came steadily in Bright’s direction, eyeing him all the time. As she drew near, Bright smiled and nodded to her: she responded by drawing the hood-like shawl a little further back from her face.
“Morning, Mr. Marrashaw,” she said, with simple directness. “I come up to hev’ a bit o’ talk wi’ you. You see,” she went on, as Bright nodded his acquiescence, “I didn’t go t’ mill yesterday morning, ‘cause my little Ebenezer Arthur he wor bad wi’ t’ belly-ache, and I had to bide wi’ him. But if it hadn’t been for that, I should ha’ been there, as usual — I’m not one o’ these good-for-nowts ‘at’s makin’ all this trouble! — not me! Lockwood Clough there knows me well enough, and he can speak to it ‘at I never brok’ a day’s work sin’ I first went to t’ mill, unless there were good cause for it.”
“Aye!” said Lockwood, laconically. “She never did.”
“So, you see, Mr. Marrashaw — which you don’t know me as well as your poor father did, and him and me’s oft had a bit o’ talk together — as you let it be known ‘at all them ‘at sided wi’ you ‘ud be kept on,” continued Mally, “I thowt it best to come straight here, to t’ fountain head, as it were, and let you know ‘at I’m none goin’ to join these here strikers! — I’ve been a decent, hard-working woman all my life, and t’ mother o’ nine childer, and’s buried three on ’em, which there’s six to keep, now, and—”
“All right, Mally,” said Bright. “I understand. You’ll get your wages every week while the trouble lasts — I’ll see to it, so don’t bother yourself.”
The woman uttered a hearty expression of thanks, and was turning away when suddenly she faced round again, and spoke more earnestly than before.
“Mr. Bright!” she exclaimed. “You’ll excuse me — we’m plain-tongued folk down there i’ t’ bottom o’ t’ town — but I would like to ax you summat. What’s it all about? For most on us — them ‘at I’ve talked wi’, anyway — we don’t know what it is about! I’ve no fault to find, and there’s a many more ‘at’s o’ my way o’ thinking. I could never ha’ browt myself to believe ‘at such a thing as a strike ‘ud ever take place at Marrashaw’s — where most on us has worked all wor lives! And it’s my opinion ‘at it’s nowt but secret mischief-making, and as long as Lockwood Clough’s there wi’ you, I’ll say straight what a good many on us knows — it’s that there lass o’ his, Hermie, at’s largely at t’ bottom on it — now then, Lockwood! You mun excuse me if I speak plain, but what’s t’ use o’ doin’ owt else?”
“You can speak as plain as you like, mi lass, for owt I care!” answered Lockwood. “Happen me and Mr. Bright knows a bit more nor what you know.”
“Happen you do, and I shouldn’t wonder if you did,” retorted Mally, “but there’s me and some other women ‘at’s worked i’ t’ mill ‘at knows summat! That there dowter o’ yours, Lockwood Clough — and mind you I’ve nowt to say agen her ‘ceptin’ i’ what you might term political matters and them theer things — she’s been making mischief among t’ younger women at t’ mill for a long time, secret-like. Happen you’ve never heard of it, but she got a lot o’ t’ cleverer sort, t’ better-eddikated sort o’ lasses to join a class ‘at she started — it wor to be for t’ improving theirselves i’ one way or other; reading books and such-like. That wor what you might call t’ surface object — but it wasn’t t’ real object, not it!”
“What was the real object, Mally?” asked Bright.
“Well, I’ll tell you, Mr. Marrashaw,” answered Mally, with a confidential glance. “For I’ve heard and learnt and gathered a good deal, and kept my lips shut about it — t’ real object wor to talk and preach to these lasses all about these here new-fangled political notions, and about capital and labour, and I don’t know what! There’s ever so many o’ our lasses i’ t’ mill ‘at talks nowt else but that there sort o’ stuff! It ‘ud do ’em a deal more good, i’ my opinion, if they talked about their hats and their gowns and their young men — I ha’ no patience, hearing lasses o’ that age talking politics as if they were going to stand for Parlyment! And it were Hermie Clough ‘at set ’em off — she’s driven it into their heads ‘at there’s a time coming when there’ll be no masters, and as far as I can make out, no money neither — there’ll be nowt at all, it seems, and we shall all do as we like, though how we’re all going to live, if there’s neither money nor masters, I don’t know. But if that’s what comes o’ all this eddikation, I’m glad I never had none! And it’s all that talk, fro’ such-like as your dowter, Lockwood, and fro’ men like Allot Howroyd, ‘at’s browt this trouble about, and if it wasn’t ‘at Mr. Bright there’s kind enough to stand by them ‘at stands by him, where should we all be, I could like to know. I’ll lay neither Hermie Clough nor Allot Howroyd ‘ud find t’ brass to keep me and my six childer while t’ strike’s on — not they!”
“Well — you’ll be all right, Mally,” said Bright, soothingly. “And the trouble mayn’t last very long, either. You people that don’t approve of it should let your voices be heard.”
Mally gathered the big shawl about her firm chin with a sudden gesture; from under it her eyes flashed in a quick response to Bright’s suggestion.
“Now then, never you mind, Mr. Marrashaw!” she exclaimed. “There’s more o’ that’ll happen nor you think of! If that lot think ‘at they can do all t’ talking ‘at there is to be done, they’re mistaken. I’m a peaceable woman as ever put foot in a clog, but I can do a bit i’ t’ talking line when it comes to it, and I shall let my tongue go now — I’m none going to be a dumb slave to no Allot Howroyds and Hermie Cloughs! There’s going to be what they call a torchlight meeting i’ Bolton’s Fold, at t’ back o’ t’ mill yonder, to-night, and I shall be there. And I’m as good a Englishwoman as any on ’em, and as it’s a free country, happen they’ll hear what I’ve got to say — I never did go on t’ stump, as they term it, but one’s never too old to learn, and it’s never too late to mend, and if I don’t tell some on ’em what I think on ’em, and i’ plain language, too, wi’out mincing matters, it’ll be ‘cause I’ve lost t’ use o’ mi tongue between now and then! And good morning, Mr. Marrashaw, thanking yer kindly.”
