The Shuttle of Fate

Front matter

THE SHUTTLE OF FATE ' "This is the first cheque Dick forged before he left home, Basil. Let it burn now." He held it as he spoke to the candle at his side, and watched it sadly as it slowly burnt away.' Frontispiece See p. 293. THE SHUTTLE OF FATE BY CAROLINE MASTERS WITH ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS BY LANCELOT SPEED Houston FREDERICK WARNE & CO. AND NEW YORK 1895 [Ali rights reserved] LONDON : PRINTED BY WOODFALL AND KINDER, 70 TO 76, LONG ACRE, W.C. " I never could believe that Providence had sent a few men into the world, ready booted and spurred to ride, and millions ready saddled and bridled to be ridden." Richard Humbold. CONTENTS CHAPTER TAGE I Shaw's Nook i II A Cottage Home 12 III "Who am I, Uncle Stephen?" ... 21 IV A Meeting of " Cronshaws" . . .31 V Stephen Cronshaw 42 VI Master and Men 55 VII Face to Face 64 VIII A Mutual Understanding .... 75 IX Roger's Visitors 86 X Through an Empty Mill .... 97 XI Locked in 107 XII Ah!

Love, dear Love! . . . . 11S XIII Stephen Cronshaw's Decision holds firm 127 XIV TO BE, OR NOT TO BE . . . I3S XV One versus Many 147 XVI Thomas Rowland 15S XVII Roger 16S XVIII Thomas Rowland 178 XIX A Lady of Means CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE XX Poor Barbara 203 XXI Bob Ashworth's Remorse . . . .210 XXII Mary Ann's News 222 XXIII Dick Cronshaw's Return .... 229 XXIV An Old Man's Will 242 XXV Stephen Cronshaw's Decision . . .252 XXVI The Rising of a Mob 264 XXVII The Young Deliverer .... 274 XXVIII Oh ! Happy Monday ! 2S4 XXIX At Last!

Chapter I. Shaw's Nook

THE long valley of Earnshaw nestles amongst great sweeps of moorland, as a child nestles in its mother's bed. The wild brown moors stretch onwards and upwards on every hand till they seem to guard, like tall silent warders, the little places in their midst. Even the busy hum of the Earnshaw Mills is soon hushed and deadened in those lonely hillside fast nesses ; its large factories and straight rows of houses look small and of no account when seen from those bare, quarry-broken ridges, and the cottage farms, which lie scattered here and there upon the moorland slopes, seem to have grown into some grey likeness of the sombre, dreary heights above them. Earnshaw is, indeed, a typical Lancashire valley. Its architecture was started at a period when men had time to set their own individuality upon the houses which they leisurely planned and built ; when every one who had a little money placed his cottage where he liked, with small regard for his neighbour's doings, and, having roughly carved his own and his wife's initials over the portal, settled down for life under his own roof-tree.

The old parts of the valley are full of quaint, irregular buildings and narrow streets, here unexpectedly widening into a square or triangle, there running into dark small alleys, which lead apparently to nowhere. All this is a strange contrast to the newer part of the valley, where streets, laid to a very straight rule, run up the hills, having on either side long rows of trim and tidy cottages, each cottage the exact counterpart of its next-door neighbour. These streets are well paved, and have footpaths of wide and level flagstone rock. Just as there is much difference between the old houses and the new, so there is great difference between the new mills and the old. The old factories were built, like the old houses, at a time when men had leisure to think of something besides money making and general utility.

The straightness of their, tall walls is broken by lines of projecting stone, and quaint old weather vanes top the long roofs of slate. The new mills, on the other hand, have been erected as high, square, and plain as buildings can be. " We," they seem to say, " have nothing to do with beauty, have no earthly connection with the picturesque ; we have been made purely for the sake of manufacturing, at the least possible cost, plain cotton goods ! " Yet there is something to be said even in favour of these new Earnshaw mills. " New," as they are considered by old-fashioned Earnsha\r people, yet they were built in the days when men had only learned to scimp the ornamental in workmanship ; they were not run up in lightest brick, to float some company — they were solidly formed of hard and durable stone from the quarries round about.

Their chimneys rise high in the air like slender shafts, topped with coping and curling lip, they are not stunted, square, and brick ! Amongst these little towns and villages, which creep along the bottom and up the hillsides of the Earn shaw valley, is a small place called Shaw's Nook. Built on the slope of one of the guarding hills, it looks down placidly upon the long, winding valley of Earnshaw. Just as a rock is left high and dry by the hurrying waves with which it is surrounded, so the little village lives its quiet life, out of the turmoil of the world below. The trains rush through the valley, stopping at its many stations, but a steep hill has to be climbed by weary feet before its passengers can reach the village. Young and enterprising manufacturers do not care to have their works so inconveniently placed ; they would rather be nearer the river with its bountiful water supply, near the railway, which will carry their goods when made.

Thus Shaw's Nook, at the time of which we are writing, had not grown to any unreasonable size. It had not lost its moorland clannishness, it still prided itself upon its " true native folk," and looked with suspicion at any stranger who came to take up his abode within it. Trades unionism, though quickly growing in the busy, large towns not far away, was yet looked upon by the majority of responsible Shaw's Nook men and women with the true Lancashire caution which " makes nought o' new-fangled things." Coming of a sturdy, independent race, they found it hard to understand that in union there is strength. Another village characteristic of the place was the intimate knowledge every one had of everybody else's affairs. No one died without causing that awe-struck but sensational gossip dear to the hearts of most humanity.

When a funeral, with its long and sombre procession of mourners, wound its way along the narrow old-world street, which led alike to the green graves both of the hoary church and of the plain, unpretentious, equally ancient, little chapel, every one stood at their doors, discussing with friendly interest all those who, clad in black and dreary garments, passed slowly and solemnly along. A wedding caused a general flutter of excitement, though the ceremony itself was of little account to lookers-on ; it had usually taken place by nine o'clock, and the happy pair had gone back to their daily work before the world of Shaw's Nook was fully awake to the fact that all was over ; but the bride and bridegroom furnished an endless topic of conversation all the same. Nevertheless a funeral was, after all, more popular.

There was a prevailing feeling that it afforded "more to see," and lasted longer. It usually, too, took place in broad daylight, on a Saturday afternoon, when all the world was there to look on. Above all, it impressed men — un consciously, it may be — with the majesty and grandeur of death even in its humblest form. Close to this little Lancashire village was a small piece of waste land, which had served from time im memorial for all the purposes of a village green. Here men met when work was done to smoke, discuss, and gossip ; here women hung their clothes, and sent their noisy children out to play. It looked like some great browny-green tongue thrust in between the houses by the wide moor beyond. On one side towered a square and ugly mill ; on the other stood the oldest row of cottages in all Earnshaw, and an equally old-fashioned, gaily painted public-house.

This public-house was by no means the least attraction of " Th' Plot," as this little piece of land was called by all the country side ; there men were always sure of finding seats when they grew tired of standing out on the thick moor grass, which genera tions of feet had hardly yet worn smooth ; there they could find a cheery fire when the night winds began to whistle and moan ; there they could smoke in peace, heedless of weary wives and crying children, and the many duty calls of home. But one bright autumn evening, though " Th' Plot " held more men than ever it had done before, yet the little inn was empty, and the firelight sparkled through its bright, low windows in vain. Even the landlord himself had joined the eager, pushing throng which gathered round the grandilo quent young orator of the village, who was standing above his fellows on an upturned tub.

" And I ask you plainly, fellow-workmen, what right have all these men to be masters over us ? " he cried with carefully thought-out passion. " What right has any man, because he happens to own a mill or two, what right, I say, has he to dictate, and bully, and grind down the face of the poor working man ? " Here the orator paused, and wiped his face with a large red handkerchief ; talking so vehemently was a little heating, even though the speech was known by heart through much private repeating. Meanwhile the crowd passed remarks of approval, commentary-, and assent ; only a few sober-minded ones, about the outer edge, shook their heads in doubt. " Eh, but he can speak, yon chap, he can that." " I'd just like Owd Brown " — the master of a neighbouring mill — " to hear him. He'd show him what for in no time."

" And ' Owd Never-no-more,' thou wiltna forget him, Tim ! I reckon it ud do him a power o' good to hear a bit o' plain speyking for once." "Owd Never-no-more," a rigid old manufacturer who had lived in the little village of Shaw's Nook all his life, was a well-known character, and a laugh ran" through the small crowd at the sound of his name ; but the laugh was quickly suppressed, and the hush of listening silence once more held its sway, as the orator, rested by his pause, again began to speak, this time with scathing words. " Where is your grit, my men ? Why don't you make up your minds and stick to it ? You go trailing up one lot after another ; first the weavers of that mill would like a little more for their pieces, then the spin ners of another factory would like to be raised, and our masters refuse, chuckling as they turn over their pocketed profits.

Why don't we all make a stand, lads ? Why don't we all, whether we work at big factories or small, go in a body, and demand more wages, and tell th' maisters that — that — Britons are — not— slaves " — (the man began to stutter and get a little confused both in English and sense) — " that unless they — they— agree to our demand, their cotton — I mean cloth — shall remain — remain unmade." Then rising above his excited stammering to a final burst of eloquence, he cried out with great emphasis, " Yes, their mills shall be stopped — be stopped, I say, and the noise of their wheels heard no more until they shall surrender." Here arose a great tumult of applause, and the proud, but youthful speaker, paused to take breath. Then, his eyes falling on a tall, queenly-looking girl, who was coming quickly down the moorland road, followed by a great heavy-headed St. Bernard dog, he began again with renewed vigour, "These manufacturers, how do they live? — out of our earnings, I say !

We work, and our daughters work, hard enough," — this from a young man of twenty-three or four was rather a general statement — " but their daughters toil not, neither do they spin." With a little jerk of his head toward the girl, who had now come within hearing. " Yet are they clothed in purple and fine linen." Here he was interrupted by a general laugh. There are none so quick to see a joke as real Lancashire people, and the contrast between the girl's plain serge skirt, and cotton blouse, and the words of denunciation which had been hurled at her was too apparent. He soon saw, however, that he had gone too far in his remarks. The girl gave him a look of contempt, and held her head a little higher as she walked along with heightened colour, and, after the sudden out burst of laughter, discontented murmurs began to be heard amongst the small ciowd.

" Th' lass is reet enoo ! " " It's a question twixt th' maisters an' men. There's no need for yon chap to bring in th' lass wi' his fine words." " If hoo's no spinner, hoo toils a bit, bi th' mon ! Hoo came a-seeing my little lass when hoo were a deeing, in weather thou wouldn't a turned out a dog ! Ay, an' brought her lots o' tasty things hoo'd made hersen an a' ! I reckon ' Owd Never-no-more ' ull let her ha' precious little brass too ! " " Eh, an' who knows at hoo is a manufacturer's lass, when a's said and done ? though hoo does live with ' Owd Never-no-more ! ' " " Happen hoo's nobbut like one o' us a'ter all ! " These last two sentences, said by men near the edge of the road, caught the girl's ear. She gave a little gasp as though she had received a sudden blow ; the little smile of amusement which, in spite of her disgust, had crept over her face, as the plain facts of her life, and the orator's speech flashed across her mind together, died utterly away, and she walked still faster past the crowd of men and women with averted face.

It was only when she got away from the crowd and began to climb the narrow, old-fashioned street which led her to her home that she could collect her thoughts. How those words — those careless words — had seemed to stun her ! " Eh ! an' who knows at hoo is a manufacturer's lass, a'ter all's said and done ? Happen hoo's nobbut like one o' us a'ter all ! " The girl shuddered as she repeated them to herself ! How true they were. Who did know who she was ? She certainly did not. Strange to say, the idea that she might be any body's child had never dawned upon her before. She had lived with old Stephen Cronshaw and his wife ever since she could remember, and had grown from childhood calling them Uncle and Aunt, as she had been taught, without troubling herself very much about the matter. But now !

Who was she ? How strange it seemed that she had never troubled about it before. How could she have taken everything for granted as she c had done for so many years ? How could she have been contented not to ask questions just because she got no answers ? Was Stephen, after all, her uncle ; and Mary, his wife, her aunt ; or had she been living a life of false pretensions since the day when she had come into Earnshaw a little helpless child ? If it were so, if she had been kept purposely in the dark for all these years, what a miserable fraud it had been ! How could anyone have been so cruel ? As these thoughts crowded through her brain she did not see, on the opposite side of the street, a tall, handsome man, who, looking at her curiously, raised his hat as she passed. With her eyes bent upon the ground she hurried along unheeding ; even the little children, playing on the footpath, looked up in vain for the familiar nod and smile of recognition.

" Who knows at hoo is a manufacturer's lass a'ter all ! " Ah, but she would know. She had a right to know! She would go straight to her Uncle Stephen, and insist upon a reply — a definite reply. Before she went to bed that night she would have learnt the truth — the whole truth. She would know whose child she was, and whether she had any claim to call the old uncle and his wife her relations. She would have found out from where she came, and why she was there. She would — she would ! So she hurried on with unseeing eyes and unhear ing ears ; hurried, as though her steps were trying to keep pace with the quick thoughts which flashed through her brain, towards the ivy-covered house where old Stephen Cronshaw had lived all the days of his life, and his fathers before him for many a generation, old Stephen Cronshaw, whom all Earn shaw knew and feared as " Owd Never-no-more," and who was now to be faced and, if need be, defied by his so-called niece.

Chapter II

A COTTAGE HOME. ' ' TVT AY, lass, if yo cornd move faster nor yon, IN gri me hold ! It ull be th' morn afore there's aught ready for thi fayther's tay if thou goest abaat it i' that road ! " As she spoke, the keen-faced, elderly woman snatched rather than took a pile of plates, which a tall, delicate girl was carrying languidly across the low-roofed, sanded kitchen, and began to set them with much determination, and no little clatter, upon the table drawn up before the fire. " If thou canst do naught else, maybe thou canst light th' lamp, and let them as can do summat see what they're a-doing ! " she went on in the same sharp voice, still full of the same resentful hurry. When at last the lamp was ready it cast its light over the cleanest and cosiest of cottage kitchens. True, the house was old, and the great black rafters which ran across the whitewashed ceiling were perilously near any tall man's head ; yet they only helped to make the place look warmer and more home-like.

At the end of the room opposite the fire was a well-laden, old-fashioned dresser, and facing the window stood a large chest of mahogany drawers, whose well-polished surface and bright brass knobs reflected gaily the light of the dim oil lamp. On the top of this chest stood the old family Bible, which had been given by John Ashworth to Jane, his wife, on the day when he had brought her home so many years ago ; in it were entered all the family births, deaths, and marriages which had taken place since the two began, as bride and groom, to keep their house together. It was, as such treasures often are, carefully covered from the dust by a white crochet work mat of large dimensions. Everything in the room was as clean and fresh " as elbow-grease could make it " — to quote a favourite saying of Mrs. Ashworth's ; the brass knobs, the steel fender, the old-fashioned wooden chairs gleamed and glinted in the uncertain light ; the windows looking out on " th' plot " shone unseen in the darkness ; and the floor, newly sanded with yellow sand, crackled as it was crunched by Mrs. Ashworth's busy feet.

But what gave a distinct character to the room, making it different to all the other low-ceiled, black raftered kitchens in the row, was a spotlessly white bed in the fireside corner, on which lay a young man slowly dying. -To the hurrying, bustling woman, and the tall, listless girl, his presence was familiar enough. He had lain there so long, in the pathetic patience of weakness. Day by day, week by week had passed, leaving so little trace of change, that he seemed to all the household as permanent an institution as the old eight-day clock, which ever ticked slowly on in the opposite corner. True, he had his " bad days," on which the children were scolded and hushed into silence by their sharp voiced grandmother, and his " good days," when the little brothers climbed up unhindered on his bed, and told of all their boyish escapades ; yet none of that busy household noticed how gradually the " bad " days became more frequent, and the " good " days farther between, or took heed how the little efforts of yesterday became the great exertions of to-day.

No one amongst them realized how surely he was slipping away to that land which is afar off — " where the weary are at rest." The poor boy oftentimes murmured those words to himself when he tossed and turned with utter tiredness through the long nights, when the noisy household was stilled in sleep — while the firelight flickered and quietly died away, leaving the kitchen in silent darkness, broken only by the slow ticking of the ever-wakeful clock. It was a large family which lived in this low-roofed, old-fashioned house. The head and connecting link was the busy, managing woman who was laying the table for the evening meal ; with her lived her three sons, one of whom, a widower, had brought his four children home to the old roof-tree upon the day when he buried his wife. Capable Mrs. Ashworth had welcomed them with rough kindness, putting things upon a proper footing at once.

" Harken, James ! " she had said on the night of their arrival, " I've lived i' this haase well nigh fifty ■S years, an* sin thi poor fayther were laid in th' chapel yard yonder I've been th' maister here, as Joe an' Bob ull tell thee, I ha' that. Now, lad, I'm willing enoo to ha' thee an' childer to tend to — yon sickly lad an' a' — but yo'll a' ha' to think on as I'm th' maister, and I'll ha' noan o' thi marlockings, staying aat o' neets, and such-like ! If thaa carriest on that mak o' wark, thaa'lt ha' to go, bag an' baggage, an' so I tell thee straight ! " And on these terms James Ashworth had settled down comfortably enough, glad beyond measure to have the responsibility of bringing up his four motherless children in the way they should go taken so completely from off his shoulders. It was not long before all were gathered round at their evening meal — a meal at which sharp-voiced, kindly Mrs. Ashworth had always some savoury dish provided, " for them as warks mun eyt," as she often said.

" Will ta ha' some more, Bob ? " asked the son at the head of the table, putting the spoon into the dish before him. " I reckon we'll ha' precious little o' this mak o' stuff a'ter to-neet ! It ull noan be so long, if Cronshaw's makes up its mind to come aat, afore we've nobbut porridge and such-like ! " he went on gloomily, as he helped his brother to a fresh supply. " So Mary Ann were reet abaat th' strike, were she ? " said Mrs. Ashworth, looking up quickly. " Grandmother ull ne'er believe nought as I say," muttered Mary Ann sullenly. " And little wonder, lass ! Thou maunderest abaat th' place as if thou wert half daft, and comest whoam wi' thi ' hoo says,' an' ' he says,' an' ' they says,' till I can mak nayther sense nor reason o' thi tales ! " retorted her grandmother sharply. " Nay coom, mother !

" remonstrated Bob, with a kindly glance at his niece. " Th' lass is reet enoo, if thaa nobbut leave her alone." " Let um talk as knows, Bob," his mother answered with a little nod of her head, which meant much. James turned the subject. " Every shop i' th' valley is coming aat o' Munday neet, an' they reckon we should too," he said slowly. " Weel, whoever yerd th' like o' that," gasped Mrs. Ashworth. " Th' maisters may as weel let th' engine fires aat, it'll be a bit afore they're wanted, it will that." " Martha Lord says as we'll be glad enoo to join th' union now, when there's summat to draw ! " said Mary Ann, slowly sipping her tea. " Nay ! I wonder thaa hastna mere sense than to tak notice o' wot a lass like Martha Lord says ! " exclaimed her grandmother contemptuously. " If I wouldna join afore, there's no fear o' me join ing now for the sake o' summat to eyt !

" drawled the slow-spoken eldest son. " Th' owd mon fought through a strike wi'out th' union, an' I reckon what were good enoo for mi fayther is good enoo for me." " Happen we'll noan clam when o's said an' done." Mary Ann looked at her uncles and father as they spoke. " If it comes to having nought to eyt I shall join, I shall that ! I'm noan going wi'out when t'other lasses has enoo an' to spare ! " she said stubbornly. " Thou canst please thi'sen about that. But thaa'lt ha' to buy, cook an' eat thi'sen all th' meat thaa'lt geet i' yon road ! " answered her grandmother. " Nay, but hoo's some like her Aunt Barbara? " The boy who was lying on his bed in the corner roused himself at this remark, and looked with eager questioning eyes at his grandmother, who kept her head bent over her plate.

" Who was this Aunt Barbara, whose name so constantly turns up ? " thought the boy, as he had often thought before. " There's little doubt th' lass ull please hersel, hoo's as stupid as a pot mule ! " said her father, rising from his chair as he spoke, as though to end the discussion. When the tea-things were cleared away Mrs. Ashworth took up her knitting, — with a scathing glance at her granddaughter, who sat with her elbows on the table, deep in a book — and sank into the old rocking-chair by the sick boy's side. " Thou art noan so weel to-neet, mi lad ! " she said, with a wonderful softening in her sharp voice, as she smoothed his ruffled counterpane. " Nay, I'm nobbut a bit tired. I'll be better in th' morning," he answered cheerily. The old woman went on silently with her knitting for a little while, the rockers of her chair keeping time with the slow, monotonous tick of the ancient clock, in their steady, unceasing movement.

" Them childer is up to some marlocks again ! " she exclaimed at last, as a quick patter of little feet was heard in the room above. " Never did I see aught like um — they are never still a second ! Mary Ann, stop thi reading, willta, an' go an' see what's th' row ! Yo' can tell um if they're noan quiet I'll bring a stick to um quick sharp, I will that ! " Mary Ann got up slowly from her seat, and went unwillingly towards the stairs. " Nay, come, lass ! Dorn'd be a' day i' going ! " cried Mrs. Ashworth impatiently, as she disappeared through the doorway. " What wi' one an' another on um, I'm fair worried out o' mi wits ! " she continued to her silent, helpless companion. " There's noan on um can do aught to my mind, not one on um. This world's a queer place, it is for sure ! Thou art th' only one o' th' four whose yed is screwed on th' reet way, an' thaa canst do nought nobbut lie there a' th' time !

" The poor boy flushed a little, but did not answer ; all his life had been spent amongst blunt, outspoken Lancashire men and women, and he was used to their very candid ways. For a few seconds all was still above and below above, the sudden entrance of their sister, and her deliverance of her grandmother's message, had tempo rarily awed the two boys into silence. Below, Mrs. Ashworth's attention was for the time required by the heel of the sock she was busily knitting, whilst her grandson was trying to summon up the courage to ask a question which had haunted him for months. " Grandmother, who was my Aunt Barbara ? " he blurted out at last, the blood rushing to his sensitive face as he spoke. The old woman dropped several of her stitches as she turned to look at the boy in angry astonishment.

" Who told thee aught o' thi Aunt Barbara ? " she asked. " One o' th' neighbours, I'll be baan ! Folks is allus fond o' meddling wi' things as doand concern um." " Nay, nobody's told me anything ! " answered the boy eagerly. " But I can't help hearing what folks say as I lie here ! Uncle Bob and Uncle Joe are allus letting her name slip out, and then they look at you, and you frown at them, but you never answer." " When folks is ill, there's no end to their fancying. Yo' lie there a' th' day a-dreaming, till yo' cornd tell th' difference 'twixt real and t'other. Gi' o'er bother ing thi yed with such-like, lad," said his grandmother briskly, recovering her presence of mind and her stitches at the same time. Poor Roger would perhaps have not ventured to speak again, but a fresh voice interposed.