Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles. Henry Wood

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СКАЧАТЬ to us can never be undone. I know what you say, Fisher," he continued, silencing Fisher by a gesture. "I know that the ports might be re-closed to-morrow, if Government so willed it. But it could not undo for us what has been done. It could not repair the ruin that was wrought on Helstonleigh. It could not reinstate firms in business; or refund to the masters their wasted capital; or collect the hands it scattered over the country, to find a bit of work, to beg, or to starve; or bring the dead back to life. It could not do any of this. Neither would it restore a flourishing trade to those of us who are left."

      "What's that last, Crouch?"

      "It never would," emphatically repeated Stephen Crouch. "A shattered trade cannot be brought together again. It is like a shattered glass: you may mourn over the pieces, but you cannot put them together. Believe me, or not, as you please, my friends, but the only thing remaining is, to make the best of what is left to us. There are other trades a deal worse off than we are."

      "I have talked to ye about that there move—a strike," resumed Fisher, after a pause. "We shall get no good till we try it–"

      "Fisher, don't you be a fool and show it," was the imperative interruption of Stephen Crouch. "I have explained to you till I am tired, what would be the effects of a strike. It would just finish you bad workmen up, and send you and your children into the nearest dry ditch for a floor, with the open skies above you for a roof."

      "We have never tried a strike in Helstonleigh," answered Fisher, holding to his own opinion.

      "And I trust we never shall," returned the intelligent foreman. "Other trades may have their strikes if they choose, and it's not our business to find fault with them for it; but the glove trade has hitherto kept itself aloof from strikes, and it's to be hoped it always will. You cannot understand how a strike works, Joe Fisher, or you'd not let your head be running on it."

      "Others' heads be running on it as well as mine, Master Crouch," said Fisher, nodding significantly.

      "It is not improbable," was the equable rejoinder of Stephen Crouch. "Go and strike next week, half a dozen of you. I mean the operatives of half a dozen firms."

      "Every firm in the place must strike," interrupted Fisher hastily. "A few on us doing it would only make bad worse."

      Stephen Crouch smiled. "Exactly. But the difficulty, Fisher, will be, that all the firms won't strike. Ask the men in our firm to strike; ask those in Ashley's; ask others that we could name—and what would their answer be? Why, that they know when they are well off. Suppose, for argument's sake, that we did all strike; suppose all the hands in Helstonleigh struck next Monday morning, and the manufactories had to be closed? Who would have the worst of it?—we or the masters?"

      "The masters," returned Fisher in an obstinate tone.

      "No. The masters have good houses over their heads, and their bankers' books to supply their wants while they are waiting—and their orders are not so great that they need fear much pressure on that score. The London houses would dispatch a few extra orders to Paris and Grenoble, and the masters here might enjoy a nice little trip to the sea-side while our senses were coming back to us. But where should we be? Out at elbows, out at pocket, out at heart; some starving, some in the workhouse. If you want to avoid those contingencies, Joe Fisher, you'll keep from strikes."

      Fisher answered by an ironical cheer. "Here, missis," said he to the landlady, who was then passing him, "let's have another pint, after that."

      "That'll make nine pints you owe for since Monday night, Joe Fisher," responded the landlady.

      "What if I do?" grunted Fisher irascibly. "I am able to pay. I ain't out of work."

      CHAPTER XXI.

      THE LADIES OF HONEY FAIR

      It was Saturday night in Honey Fair. A night when the ladies were at leisure to abandon themselves to their private pursuits. The work of the past week had gone into the warehouses; and the fresh work brought out would not be begun until Monday morning. Some of them, as Mrs. Buffle has informed us, did not begin it then. The women chiefly cleaned their houses and mended their clothes; some washed and ironed—Honey Fair was not famous for its management—not going to bed till Sunday morning; some did their marketing; and a few, careless and lazy, spent it in running from house to house, or congregated in the road to gossip.

      About half-past eight, one of the latter suddenly lifted the latch of a house door and thrust in her head. It was Joe Fisher's wife. Her face was red, and her cap in tatters.

      "Is our Becky in here, Mrs. Carter?"

      Mrs. Carter was busy. She was the maternal parent of Miss Betsy. Her kitchen fire was out, her furniture was heaped one thing upon another; a pail of water stood ready to wash the brick floor, when she should have finished rubbing up the grate, and her hands and face were as grimy as the black-lead.

      "There's no Becky here," snapped she.

      "I can't find her," returned Mrs. Fisher. "I thought her might be along of your Betsy. I say, here's your husband coming round the corner. There's Mark Mason and Robert East and Dale along of him. And—my! what has that young 'un of East's been doing to hisself? He's black from head to foot. Come and look."

      Mrs. Carter disdained the invitation. She was a hard-working, thrifty woman, but a cross one. Priding herself upon her cleanliness, she perpetually returned loud thanks that she was not as the dirty ones around her. She was the Pharisee amidst many publicans.

      "If I passed my time staring and gossiping as some does, where 'ud my work be?" was her rebuke. "Shut the door, Suke Fisher."

      Suke Fisher did as she was bid. She turned her wrists back upon her hips, and walked to meet the advancing party, having discerned their approach by the light of the gas-lamps. "Be you going to be sold for a blackamoor?" demanded she of the boy.

      The boy laughed. His head, face, shoulders, hands, were ornamented with a thick, black liquid, not unlike blacking. He appeared to enjoy the treat, as if he had been anointed with some fragrant oil.

      "He is not a bad spectacle, is he, Dame Fisher?" remarked the young man, whom she had called Robert East.

      "What's a-done it?" questioned she.

      "Him and Jacky Brumm got larking, and upset the dye-pot upon themselves. We rubbed 'em down with the leather shreds, but it keeps on dripping from their hair."

      "Won't Charlotte warm his back for him!" apostrophised Mrs. Fisher.

      The boy threw a disdainful look at her, in return for the remark. "Charlotte's not so fond of warming backs. She never even scolds for an accident."

      The boy and Robert East were half-brothers. They entered one of the cottages. Robert East and his sister were between twenty and thirty, and the boy was ten. Their mother had died early, and the young boy's mother, their father's second wife, died when the child was born. The father also died. How Robert and his sister, the one then seventeen, the other fourteen, had struggled to make a living for themselves, and to bring up the baby, they alone knew. The manner in which they had succeeded was a marvel to many; none were more respectable now than they were in all Honey Fair.

      Charlotte, neat and nice, sat by her bright kitchen fire, a savoury stew cooking on the hob beside it. It was her custom to have something good for supper on a Saturday night. Did she make home attractive on that night to draw her brother from the seductions of the public-house? Most likely. And she had her reward: for Robert never failed to come. The cloth was laid, the red bricks of the floor were clean, and Charlotte's face, as СКАЧАТЬ