49. The Undesired…

49. The Undesired

That evening about seven o’clock, whilst Easton was down-town seeing the last of the election, Ruth’s child was born.

After the doctor was gone, Mary Linden stayed with her during the hours that elapsed before Easton came home, and downstairs Elsie and Charley—who were allowed to stay up late to help their mother because Mrs Easton was ill—crept about very quietly, and conversed in hushed tones as they washed up the tea things and swept the floor and tidied the kitchen.

Easton did not return until after midnight, and all through the intervening hours, Ruth, weak and tired, but unable to sleep, was lying in bed with the child by her side. Her wide-open eyes appeared unnaturally large and brilliant, in contrast with the almost death-like paleness of her face, and there was a look of fear in them, as she waited and listened for the sound of Easton’s footsteps.

Outside, the silence of the night was disturbed by many unusual noises: a far-off roar, as of the breaking of waves on a seashore, arose from the direction of the town, where the last scenes of the election were being enacted. Every few minutes motor cars rushed past the house at a furious rate, and the air was full of the sounds of distant shouts and singing.

Ruth listened and started nervously at every passing footstep. Those who can imagine the kind of expression there would be upon the face of a hunted thief, who, finding himself encompassed and brought to bay by his pursuers, looks wildly around in a vain search for some way of escape, may be able to form some conception of the terror-stricken way in which she listened to every sound that penetrated into the stillness of the dimly lighted room. And ever and again, when her wandering glance reverted to the frail atom of humanity nestling by her side, her brows contracted and her eyes filled with bitter tears, as she weakly reached out her trembling hand to adjust its coverings, faintly murmuring, with quivering lips and a bursting heart, some words of endearment and pity. And then—alarmed by the footsteps of some chance passerby, or by the closing of the door of a neighbouring house, and fearing that it was the sound she had been waiting for and dreading through all those weary hours, she would turn in terror to Mary Linden, sitting in the chair at the bedside, sewing by the light of the shaded lamp, and take hold of her arm as if seeking protection from some impending danger.

It was after twelve o’clock when Easton came home. Ruth recognized his footsteps before he reached the house, and her heart seemed to stop beating when she heard the clang of the gate, as it closed after he had passed through.

It had been Mary’s intention to withdraw before he came into the room, but the sick woman clung to her in such evident fear, and entreated her so earnestly not to go away, that she remained.

It was with a feeling of keen disappointment that Easton noticed how Ruth shrank away from him, for he had expected and hoped, that after this, they would be good friends once more; but he tried to think that it was because she was ill, and when she would not let him touch the child lest he should awaken it, he agreed without question.

The next day, and for the greater part of the time during the next fortnight, Ruth was in a raging fever. There were intervals when although weak and exhausted, she was in her right mind, but most of the time she was quite unconscious of her surroundings and often delirious. Mrs Owen came every day to help to look after her, because Mary just then had a lot of needlework to do, and consequently could only give part of her time to Ruth, who, in her delirium, lived and told over and over again all the sorrow and suffering of the last few months. And so the two friends, watching by her bedside, learned her dreadful secret.

Sometimes—in her delirium—she seemed possessed of an intense and terrible loathing for the poor little creature she had brought into the world, and was with difficulty prevented from doing it violence. Once she seized it cruelly and threw it fiercely from her to the foot of the bed, as if it had been some poisonous or loathsome thing. And so it often became necessary to take the child away out of the room, so that she could not see or hear it, but when her senses came back to her, her first thought was for the child, and there must have been in her mind some faint recollection of what she had said and done in her madness, for when she saw that the baby was not in its accustomed place her distress and alarm were painful to see, as she entreated them with tears to give it back to her. And then she would kiss and fondle it with all manner of endearing words, and cry bitterly.

Easton did not see or hear most of this; he only knew that she was very ill; for he went out every day on the almost hopeless quest for work. Rushton’s had next to nothing to do, and most of the other shops were in a similar plight. Dauber and Botchit had one or two jobs going on, and Easton tried several times to get a start for them, but was always told they were full up. The sweating methods of this firm continued to form a favourite topic of conversation with the unemployed workmen, who railed at and cursed them horribly. It had leaked out that they were paying only sixpence an hour to most of the skilled workmen in their employment, and even then the conditions under which they worked were, if possible, worse than those obtaining at most other firms. The men were treated like so many convicts, and every job was a hell where driving and bullying reigned supreme, and obscene curses and blasphemy polluted the air from morning till night. The resentment of those who were out of work was directed, not only against the heads of the firm, but also against the miserable, half-starved drudges in their employment. These poor wretches were denounced as “scabs” and “wastrels” by the unemployed workmen but all the same, whenever Dauber and Botchit wanted some extra hands they never had any difficulty in obtaining them, and it often happened that those who had been loudest and bitterest in their denunciations were amongst the first to rush off eagerly to apply there for a job whenever there was a chance of getting one.

Frequently the light was seen burning late at night in Rushton’s office, where Nimrod and his master were figuring out prices and writing out estimates, cutting down the amounts to the lowest possible point in the hope of underbidding their rivals. Now and then they were successful but whether they secured the work or not, Nimrod always appeared equally miserable. If they got the “job” it often showed such a small margin of profit that Rushton used to grumble at him and suggest mismanagement. If their estimates were too high and they lost the work, he used to demand of Nimrod why it was possible for Dauber and Botchit to do work so much more cheaply.

As the unemployed workmen stood in groups at the corners or walked aimlessly about the streets, they often saw Hunter pass by on his bicycle, looking worried and harassed. He was such a picture of misery, that it began to be rumoured amongst the men, that he had never been the same since the time he had that fall off the bike; and some of them declared, that they wouldn’t mind betting that ole Misery would finish up by going off his bloody rocker.

At intervals—whenever a job came in—Owen, Crass, Slyme, Sawkins and one or two others, continued to be employed at Rushton’s, but they seldom managed to make more than two or three days a week, even when there was anything to do.

50. Sundered

During the next few weeks Ruth continued very ill. Although the delirium had left her and did not return, her manner was still very strange, and it was remarkable that she slept but little and at long intervals. Mrs Owen came to look after her every day, not going back to her own home till the evening. Frankie used to call for her as he came out of school and then they used to go home together, taking little Freddie Easton with them also, for his own mother was not able to look after him and Mary Linden had so much other work to do.

On Wednesday evening, when the child was about five weeks old, as Mrs Owen was wishing her good night, Ruth took hold of her hand and after saying how grateful she was for all that she had done, she asked whether—supposing anything happened to herself—Nora would promise to take charge of Freddie for Easton. Owen’s wife gave the required promise, at the same time affecting to regard the supposition as altogether unlikely, and assuring her that she would soon be better, but she secretly wondered why Ruth had not mentioned the other child as well.

Nora went away about five o’clock, leaving Ruth’s bedroom door open so that Mrs Linden could hear her call if she needed anything. About a quarter of an hour after Nora and the two children had gone, Mary Linden went upstairs to see Ruth, who appeared to have fallen fast asleep; so she returned to her needlework downstairs. The weather had been very cloudy all day, there had been rain at intervals and it was a dark evening, so dark that she had to light the lamp to see her work. Charley sat on the hearthrug in front of the fire repairing one of the wheels of a wooden cart that he had made with the assistance of another boy, and Elsie busied herself preparing the tea.

Easton was not yet home; Rushton & Co. had a few jobs to do and he had been at work since the previous Thursday. The place where he was working was some considerable distance away, so it was nearly half past six when he came home. They heard him at the gate and at her mother’s direction Elsie went quickly to the front door, which was ajar, to ask him to walk as quietly as possible so as not to wake Ruth.

Mary had prepared the table for his tea in the kitchen, where there was a bright fire with the kettle singing on the hob. He lit the lamp and after removing his hat and overcoat, put the kettle on the fire and while he was waiting for it to boil he went softly upstairs. There was no lamp burning in the bedroom and the place would have been in utter darkness but for the red glow of the fire, which did not dispel the prevailing obscurity sufficiently to enable him to discern the different objects in the room distinctly. The intense silence that reigned struck him with a sudden terror. He crossed swiftly over to the bed and a moment’s examination sufficed to tell him that it was empty. He called her name, but there was no answer, and a hurried search only made it certain that she was nowhere in the house.

Mrs Linden now remembered what Owen’s wife had told her of the strange request that Ruth had made, and as she recounted it to Easton, his fears became intensified a thousandfold. He was unable to form any opinion of the reason of her going or of where she had gone, as he rushed out to seek for her. Almost unconsciously he directed his steps to Owen’s house, and afterwards the two men went to every place where they thought it possible she might have gone, but without finding any trace of her.

Her father lived a short distance outside the town, and this was one of the first places they went to, although Easton did not think it likely she would go there, for she had not been on friendly terms with her stepmother, and as he had anticipated, it was a fruitless journey.

They sought for her in every conceivable place, returning often to Easton’s house to see if she had come home, but they found no trace of her, nor met anyone who had seen her, which was, perhaps, because the dreary, rain-washed streets were deserted by all except those whose business compelled them to be out.

About eleven o’clock Nora was standing at the front door waiting for Owen and Easton, when she thought she could discern a woman’s figure in the shadow of the piers of the gate opposite. It was an unoccupied house with a garden in front, and the outlines of the bushes it contained were so vague in the darkness that it was impossible to be certain; but the longer she looked the more convinced she became that there was someone there. At last she summoned sufficient courage to cross over the road, and as she nervously drew near the gate it became evident that she had not been mistaken. There was a woman standing there—a woman with a child in her arms, leaning against one of the pillars and holding the iron bars of the gate with her left hand. It was Ruth. Nora recognized her even in the semi-darkness. Her attitude was one of extreme exhaustion, and as Nora touched her, she perceived that she was wet through and trembling; but although she was almost fainting with fatigue she would not consent to go indoors until repeatedly assured that Easton was not there, and that Nora would not let him see her if he came. And when at length she yielded and went into the house she would not sit down or take off her hat or jacket until—crouching on the floor beside Nora’s chair with her face hidden in the latter’s lap—she had sobbed out her pitiful confession, the same things that she had unwittingly told to the same hearer so often before during the illness, the only fact that was new was the account of her wanderings that night.

She cried so bitterly and looked so forlorn and heartbroken and ashamed as she faltered out her woeful story; so consumed with self-condemnation, making no excuse for herself except to repeat over and over again that she had never meant to do wrong, that Nora could not refrain from weeping also as she listened.

It appeared that, unable to bear the reproach that Easton’s presence seemed to imply, or to endure the burden of her secret any longer, and always haunted by the thought of the lake in the park, Ruth had formed the dreadful resolution of taking her own life and the child’s. When she arrived at the park gates they were closed and locked for the night but she remembered that there was another means of entering—the place at the far end of the valley where the park was not fenced in, so she had gone there—nearly three miles—only to find that railings had recently been erected and therefore it was no longer possible to get into the park by that way. And then, when she found it impossible to put her resolve into practice, she had realized for the first time the folly and wickedness of the act she had meant to commit. But although she had abandoned her first intention, she said she could never go home again; she would take a room somewhere and get some work to do, or perhaps she might be able to get a situation where they would allow her to have the child with her, or failing that she would work and pay someone to look after it; but she could never go home any more. If she only had somewhere to stay for a few days until she could get something to do, she was sure she would be able to earn her living, but she could not go back home; she felt that she would rather walk about the streets all night than go there again.

It was arranged that Ruth should have the small apartment which had been Frankie’s playroom, the necessary furniture being obtained from a second-hand shop close by. Easton did not learn the real reason of her flight until three days afterwards. At first he attributed it to a recurrence of the mental disorder that she had suffered from after the birth of the child, and he had been glad to leave her at Owen’s place in Nora’s care, but on the evening of the third day when he returned home from work, he found a letter in Ruth’s handwriting which told him all there was to tell.

When he recovered from the stupefaction into which he was thrown by the perusal of this letter, his first thought was to seek out Slyme, but he found upon inquiring that the latter had left the town the previous morning. Slyme’s landlady said he had told her that he had been offered several months’ work in London, which he had accepted. The truth was that Slyme had heard of Ruth’s flight—nearly everyone knew about it as a result of the inquiries that had been made for her—and, guessing the cause, he had prudently cleared out.

Easton made no attempt to see Ruth, but he went to Owen’s and took Freddie away, saying he would pay Mrs Linden to look after the child whilst he was at work. His manner was that of a deeply injured man—the possibility that he was in any way to blame for what had happened did not seem to occur to his mind at all.

As for Ruth she made no resistance to his taking the child away from her, although she cried about it in secret. She got some work a few days afterwards—helping the servants at one of the large boarding-houses on the Grand Parade.

Nora looked after the baby for her while she was at work, an arrangement that pleased Frankie vastly; he said it was almost as good as having a baby of their very own.

For the first few weeks after Ruth went away Easton tried to persuade himself that he did not very much regret what had happened. Mrs Linden looked after Freddie, and Easton tried to believe that he would really be better off now that he had only himself and the child to provide for.

At first, whenever he happened to meet Owen, they used to speak of Ruth, or to be more correct, Easton used to speak of her; but one day when the two men were working together Owen had expressed himself rather offensively. He seemed to think that Easton was more to blame than she was; and afterwards they avoided the subject, although Easton found it difficult to avoid the thoughts the other man’s words suggested.

Now and then he heard of Ruth and learnt that she was still working at the same place; and once he met her suddenly and unexpectedly in the street. They passed each other hurriedly and he did not see the scarlet flush that for an instant dyed her face, nor the deathly pallor that succeeded it.

He never went to Owen’s place or sent any communication to Ruth, nor did she ever send him any; but although Easton did not know it she frequently saw Freddie, for when Elsie Linden took the child out she often called to see Mrs Owen.

As time went on and the resentment he had felt towards her lost its first bitterness, Easton began to think there was perhaps some little justification for what Owen had said, and gradually there grew within him an immense desire for reconciliation—to start afresh and to forget all that had happened; but the more he thought of this the more hopeless and impossible of realization it seemed.

Although perhaps he was not conscious of it, this desire arose solely from selfish motives. The money he earned seemed to melt away almost as soon as he received it; to his surprise he found that he was not nearly so well off in regard to personal comfort as he had been formerly, and the house seemed to grow more dreary and desolate as the wintry days dragged slowly by. Sometimes—when he had the money—he sought forgetfulness in the society of Crass and the other frequenters of the Cricketers, but somehow or other he could not take the same pleasure in the conversation of these people as formerly, when he had found it—as he now sometimes wondered to remember—so entertaining as to almost make him forget Ruth’s existence.

One evening about three weeks before Christmas, as he and Owen were walking homewards together from work, Easton reverted for the first time to their former conversation. He spoke with a superior air: his manner and tone indicating that he thought he was behaving with great generosity. He would be willing to forgive her and have her back, he said, if she would come: but he would never be able to tolerate the child. Of course it might be sent to an orphanage or some similar institution, but he was afraid Ruth would never consent to that, and he knew that her stepmother would not take it.

“If you can persuade her to return to you, we’ll take the child,” said Owen.

“Do you think your wife would be willing?”

“She has already suggested doing so.”

“To Ruth?”

“No: to me. We thought it a possible way for you, and my wife would like to have the child.”

“But would you be able to afford it?” said Easton.

“We should manage all right.”

“Of course,” said Easton, “if Slyme comes back he might agree to pay something for its keep.”

Owen flushed.

“I wouldn’t take his money.”

After a long pause Easton continued: “Would you mind asking Mrs Owen to suggest it to Ruth?”

“If you like I’ll get her to suggest it—as a message from you.”

“What I meant,” said Easton hesitatingly, “was that your wife might just suggest it—casual like—and advise her that it would be the best way, and then you could let me know what Ruth said.”

“No,” replied Owen, unable any longer to control his resentment of the other’s manner, “as things stand now, if it were not for the other child, I should advise her to have nothing further to do with you. You seem to think that you are acting a very generous part in being ‘willing’ to have her back, but she’s better off now than she was with you. I see no reason—except for the other child—why she should go back to you. As far as I understand it, you had a good wife and you ill-treated her.”

“I never ill-treated her! I never raised my hand to her—at least only once, and then I didn’t hurt her. Does she say I ill-treated her.”

“Oh no: from what my wife tells me she only blames herself, but I’m drawing my own conclusions. You may not have struck her, but you did worse—you treated her with indifference and exposed her to temptation. What has happened is the natural result of your neglect and want of care for her. The responsibility for what has happened is mainly yours, but apparently you wish to pose now as being very generous and to ‘forgive her’—you’re ‘willing’ to take her back; but it seems to me that it would be more fitting that you should ask her to forgive you.”

Easton made no answer and after a long silence the other continued:

“I would not advise her to go back to you on such terms as you seem to think right, because if you became reconciled on such terms I don’t think either of you could be happy. Your only chance of happiness is to realize that you have both done wrong; that each of you has something to forgive; to forgive and never speak of it again.”

Easton made no reply and a few minutes afterwards, their ways diverging, they wished each other “Good night”.

They were working for Rushton—painting the outside of a new conservatory at Mr Sweater’s house, “The Cave”. This job was finished the next day and at four o’clock the boy brought the handcart, which they loaded with their ladders and other materials. They took these back to the yard and then, as it was Friday night, they went up to the front shop and handed in their time sheets. Afterwards, as they were about to separate, Easton again referred to the subject of their conversation of the previous evening. He had been very reserved and silent all day, scarcely uttering a word except when the work they had been engaged in made it necessary to do so, and there was now a sort of catch in his voice as he spoke.

“I’ve been thinking over what you said last night; it’s quite true. I’ve been a great deal to blame. I wrote to Ruth last night and admitted it to her. I’ll take it as a favour if you and your wife will say what you can to help me get her back.”

Owen stretched out his hand and as the other took it, said: “You may rely on us both to do our best.”

51. The Widow’s Son

The next morning when they went to the yard at half past eight o’clock Hunter told them that there was nothing to do, but that they had better come on Monday in case some work came in. They accordingly went on the Monday, and Tuesday and Wednesday, but as nothing “came in’ of course they did not do any work. On Thursday morning the weather was dark and bitterly cold. The sky presented an unbroken expanse of dull grey and a keen north wind swept through the cheerless streets. Owen—who had caught cold whilst painting the outside of the conservatory at Sweater’s house the previous week—did not get to the yard until ten o’clock. He felt so ill that he would not have gone at all if they had not needed the money he would be able to earn if there was anything to do. Strange though it may appear to the advocates of thrift, although he had been so fortunate as to be in employment when so many others were idle, they had not saved any money. On the contrary, during all the summer they had not been able to afford to have proper food or clothing. Every week most of the money went to pay arrears of rent or some other debts, so that even whilst he was at work they had often to go without some of the necessaries of life. They had broken boots, shabby, insufficient clothing, and barely enough to eat.

The weather had become so bitterly cold that, fearing he would be laid up if he went without it any longer, he took his overcoat out of pawn, and that week they had to almost starve. Not that it was much better other weeks, for lately he had only been making six and a half hours a day—from eight-thirty in the morning till four o’clock in the evening, and on Saturday only four and a half hours—from half past eight till one. This made his wages—at sevenpence an hour—twenty-one shillings and sevenpence a week—that is, when there was work to do every day, which was not always. Sometimes they had to stand idle three days out of six. The wages of those who got sixpence halfpenny came out at one pound and twopence—when they worked every day—and as for those who—like Sawkins—received only fivepence, their week’s wages amounted to fifteen and sixpence.

When they were only employed for two or three days or perhaps only a few hours, their “Saturday night” sometimes amounted to half a sovereign, seven and sixpence, five shillings or even less. Then most of them said that it was better than nothing at all.

Many of them were married men, so, in order to make existence possible, their wives went out charing or worked in laundries. They had children whom they had to bring up for the most part on “skim” milk, bread, margarine, and adulterated tea. Many of these children—little mites of eight or nine years—went to work for two or three hours in the morning before going to school; the same in the evening after school, and all day on Saturday, carrying butchers’ trays loaded with meat, baskets of groceries and vegetables, cans of paraffin oil, selling or delivering newspapers, and carrying milk. As soon as they were old enough they got Half Time certificates and directly they were fourteen they left school altogether and went to work all the day. When they were old enough some of them tried to join the Army or Navy, but were found physically unfit.

It is not much to be wondered at that when they became a little older they were so degenerate intellectually that they imagined that the surest way to obtain better conditions would be to elect gangs of Liberal and Tory land-grabbers, sweaters, swindlers and lawyers to rule over them.

When Owen arrived at the yard he found Bert White cleaning out the dirty pots in the paint-shop. The noise he made with the scraping knife prevented him from hearing Owen’s approach and the latter stood watching him for some minutes without speaking. The stone floor of the paint shop was damp and shiny and the whole place was chilly as a tomb. The boy was trembling with cold and he looked pitifully undersized and frail as he bent over his work with an old apron girt about him. Because it was so cold he was wearing his jacket with the ends of the sleeves turned back to keep them clean, or to prevent them getting any dirtier, for they were already in the same condition as the rest of his attire, which was thickly encrusted with dried paint of many colours, and his hands and fingernails were grimed with it.

As he watched the poor boy bending over his task, Owen thought of Frankie, and with a feeling akin to terror wondered whether he would ever be in a similar plight.

When he saw Owen, the boy left off working and wished him good morning, remarking that it was very cold.

“Why don’t you light a fire? There’s lots of wood lying about the yard.”

“No,” said Bert shaking his head. “That would never do! Misery wouldn’t ’arf ramp if ’e caught me at it. I used to ’ave a fire ’ere last winter till Rushton found out, and ’e kicked up an orful row and told me to move meself and get some work done and then I wouldn’t feel the cold.”

“Oh, he said that, did he?” said Owen, his pale face becoming suddenly suffused with blood. “We’ll see about that.”

He went out into the yard and crossing over to where—under a shed—there was a great heap of waste wood, stuff that had been taken out of places where Rushton & Co. had made alterations, he gathered an armful of it and was returning to the paintshop when Sawkins accosted him.

“You mustn’t go burnin’ any of that, you know! That’s all got to be saved and took up to the bloke’s house. Misery spoke about it only this mornin’.”

Owen did not answer him. He carried the wood into the shop and after throwing it into the fireplace he poured some old paint over it, and, applying a match, produced a roaring fire. Then he brought in several more armfuls of wood and piled them in a corner of the shop. Bert took no part in these proceedings, and at first rather disapproved of them because he was afraid there would be trouble when Misery came, but when the fire was an accomplished fact he warmed his hands and shifted his work to the other side of the bench so as to get the benefit of the heat.

Owen waited for about half an hour to see if Hunter would return, but as that disciple did not appear, he decided not to wait any longer. Before leaving he gave Bert some instructions:

“Keep up the fire with all the old paint that you can scrape off those things and any other old paint or rubbish that’s here, and whenever it grows dull put more wood on. There’s a lot of old stuff here that’s of no use except to be thrown away or burnt. Burn it all. If Hunter says anything, tell him that I lit the fire, and that I told you to keep it burning. If you want more wood, go out and take it.”

“All right,” replied Bert.

On his way out Owen spoke to Sawkins. His manner was so menacing, his face so pale, and there was such a strange glare in his eyes, that the latter thought of the talk there had been about Owen being mad, and felt half afraid of him.

“I am going to the office to see Rushton; if Hunter comes here, you say I told you to tell him that if I find the boy in that shop again without a fire, I’ll report it to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. And as for you, if the boy comes out here to get more wood, don’t you attempt to interfere with him.”

“I don’t want to interfere with the bloody kid,” grunted Sawkins. “It seems to me as if he’s gorn orf ’is bloody crumpet,” he added as he watched Owen walking rapidly down the street. “I can’t understand why people can’t mind their own bloody business: anyone would think the boy belonged to ’IM.”

That was just how the matter presented itself to Owen. The idea that it was his own child who was to be treated in this way possessed and infuriated him as he strode savagely along. In the vicinity of the Slave Market on the Grand Parade he passed—without seeing them—several groups of unemployed artisans whom he knew. Some of them were offended and remarked that he was getting stuck up, but others, observing how strange he looked, repeated the old prophecy that one of these days Owen would go out of his mind.

As he drew near to his destination large flakes of snow began to fall. He walked so rapidly and was in such a fury that by the time he reached the shop he was scarcely able to speak.

“Is—Hunter—or Rushton here?” he demanded of the shopman.

“Hunter isn’t, but the guv’nor is. What was it you wanted?”

“He’ll soon—know—that,” panted Owen as he strode up to the office door, and without troubling to knock, flung it violently open and entered.

The atmosphere of this place was very different from that of the damp cellar where Bert was working. A grate fitted with asbestos blocks and lit with gas communicated a genial warmth to the air.

Rushton was standing leaning over Miss Wade’s chair with his left arm round her neck. Owen recollected afterwards that her dress was disarranged. She retired hastily to the far end of the room as Rushton jumped away from her, and stared in amazement and confusion at the intruder—he was too astonished and embarrassed to speak. Owen stood panting and quivering in the middle of the office and pointed a trembling finger at his employer:

“I’ve come—here—to tell—you—that—if I find young—Bert White—working—down in that shop—without a fire—I’ll have you prosecuted. The place is not good enough for a stable—if you owned a valuable dog—you wouldn’t keep it there—I give you fair warning—I know—enough—about you—to put you—where you deserve to be—if you don’t treat him better I’ll have you punished I’ll show you up.”

Rushton continued to stare at him in mingled confusion, fear and perplexity; he did not yet comprehend exactly what it was all about; he was guiltily conscious of so many things which he might reasonably fear to be shown up or prosecuted for if they were known, and the fact of being caught under such circumstances with Miss Wade helped to reduce him to a condition approaching terror.

“If the boy has been there without a fire, I ’aven’t known anything about it,” he stammered at last. “Mr ’Unter has charge of all those matters.”

“You—yourself—forbade him—to make a fire last winter—and anyhow—you know about it now. You obtained money from his mother under the pretence—that you were going—to teach him a trade—but for the last twelve months—you have been using him—as if he were—a beast of burden. I advise you to see to it—or I shall—find—means—to make you—wish you had done so.”

With this Owen turned and went out, leaving the door open, and Rushton in a state of mind compounded of fear, amazement and anger.

As he walked homewards through the snow-storm, Owen began to realize that the consequence of what he had done would be that Rushton would not give him any more work, and as he reflected on all that this would mean to those at home, for a moment he doubted whether he had done right. But when he told Nora what had happened she said there were plenty of other firms in the town who would employ him—when they had the work. He had done without Rushton before and could do so again; for her part—whatever the consequences might be—she was glad that he had acted as he did.

“We’ll get through somehow, I suppose,” said Owen, wearily. “There’s not much chance of getting a job anywhere else just now, but I shall try to get some work on my own account. I shall do some samples of show-cards the same as I did last winter and try to get orders from some of the shops—they usually want something extra at this time, but I’m afraid it is rather too late: most of them already have all they want.”

“I shouldn’t go out again today if I were you,” said Nora, noticing how ill he looked. “You should stay at home and read, or write up those minutes.”

The minutes referred to were those of the last meeting of the local branch of the Painters’ Society, of which Owen was the secretary, and as the snow continued to fall, he occupied himself after dinner in the manner his wife suggested, until four o’clock, when Frankie returned from school bringing with him a large snowball, and crying out as a piece of good news that the snow was still falling heavily, and that he believed it was freezing!

They went to bed very early that night, for it was necessary to economize the coal, and not only that, but—because the rooms were so near the roof—it was not possible to keep the place warm no matter how much coal was used. The fire seemed, if anything, to make the place colder, for it caused the outer air to pour in through the joints of the ill-fitting doors and windows.

Owen lay awake for the greater part of the night. The terror of the future made rest or sleep impossible. He got up very early the next morning—long before it was light—and after lighting the fire, set about preparing the samples he had mentioned to Nora, but found that it would not be possible to do much in this direction without buying more cardboard, for most of what he had was not in good condition.

They had bread and butter and tea for breakfast. Frankie had his in bed and it was decided to keep him away from school until after dinner because the weather was so very cold and his only pair of boots were so saturated with moisture from having been out in the snow the previous day.

“I shall make a few inquiries to see if there’s any other work to be had before I buy the cardboard,” said Owen, “although I’m afraid it’s not much use.”

Just as he was preparing to go out, the front door bell rang, and as he was going down to answer it he saw Bert White coming upstairs. The boy was carrying a flat, brown-paper parcel under his arm.

“A corfin plate,” he explained as he arrived at the door. “Wanted at once—Misery ses you can do it at ’ome, an’ I’ve got to wait for it.”

Owen and his wife looked at each other with intense relief. So he was not to be dismissed after all. It was almost too good to be true.

“There’s a piece of paper inside the parcel with the name of the party what’s dead,” continued Bert, “and here’s a little bottle of Brunswick black for you to do the inscription with.”

“Did he send any other message?”

“Yes: he told me to tell you there’s a job to be started Monday morning—a couple of rooms to be done out somewhere. Got to be finished by Thursday; and there’s another job ’e wants you to do this afternoon—after dinner—so you’ve got to come to the yard at one o’clock. ’E told me to tell you ’e meant to leave a message for you yesterday morning, but ’e forgot.”

“What did he say to you about the fire—anything?”

“Yes: they both of ’em came about an hour after you went away—Misery and the Bloke too—but they didn’t kick up a row. I wasn’t arf frightened, I can tell you, when I saw ’em both coming, but they was quite nice. The Bloke ses to me, ‘Ah, that’s right, my boy,’ ’e ses. ‘Keep up a good fire. I’m going to send you some coke,’ ’e ses. And then they ’ad a look round and ’e told Sawkins to put some new panes of glass where the winder was broken, and—you know that great big packing-case what was under the truck shed?”

“Yes.”

“Well, ’e told Sawkins to saw it up and cover over the stone floor of the paint-shop with it. It ain’t ’arf all right there now. I’ve cleared out all the muck from under the benches and we’ve got two sacks of coke sent from the gas-works, and the Bloke told me when that’s all used up I’ve got to get a order orf Miss Wade for another lot.”

At one o’clock Owen was at the yard, where he saw Misery, who instructed him to go to the front shop and paint some numbers on the racks where the wallpapers were stored. Whilst he was doing this work Rushton came in and greeted him in a very friendly way.

“I’m very glad you let me know about the boy working in that paint-shop,” he observed after a few preliminary remarks. “I can assure you as I don’t want the lad to be uncomfortable, but you know I can’t attend to everything myself. I’m much obliged to you for telling me about it; I think you did quite right; I should have done the same myself.”

Owen did not know what to reply, but Rushton walked off without waiting...

52. “It’s a Far, Far Better Thing that I do, than I have Ever Done”

Although Owen, Easton and Crass and a few others were so lucky as to have had a little work to do during the last few months, the majority of their fellow workmen had been altogether out of employment most of the time, and meanwhile the practical business-men, and the pretended disciples of Christ—the liars and hypocrites who professed to believe that all men are brothers and God their Father—had continued to enact the usual farce that they called “Dealing” with the misery that surrounded them on every side. They continued to organize “Rummage” and “Jumble” sales and bazaars, and to distribute their rotten cast-off clothes and boots and their broken victuals and soup to such of the Brethren as were sufficiently degraded to beg for them. The beautiful Distress Committee was also in full operation; over a thousand Brethren had registered themselves on its books. Of this number—after careful investigation—the committee had found that no fewer than six hundred and seventy-two were deserving of being allowed to work for their living. The Committee would probably have given these six hundred and seventy-two the necessary permission, but it was somewhat handicapped by the fact that the funds at its disposal were only sufficient to enable that number of Brethren to be employed for about three days. However, by adopting a policy of temporizing, delay, and general artful dodging, the Committee managed to create the impression that they were Dealing with the Problem.

If it had not been for a cunning device invented by Brother Rushton, a much larger number of the Brethren would have succeeded in registering themselves as unemployed on the books of the Committee. In previous years it had been the practice to issue an application form called a “Record Paper” to any Brother who asked for one, and the Brother returned it after filling it in himself. At a secret meeting of the Committee Rushton proposed—amid laughter and applause, it was such a good joke—a new and better way, calculated to keep down the number of applicants. The result of this innovation was that no more forms were issued, but the applicants for work were admitted into the office one at a time, and were there examined by a junior clerk, somewhat after the manner of a French Juge d’Instruction interrogating a criminal, the clerk filling in the form according to the replies of the culprit.

“What’s your name?”

“Where do you live?”

“How long have you been living there?”

“Where did you live before you went there?”

“How long were you living at that place?”

“Why did you move?”

“Did you owe any rent when you left?”

“What was your previous address?”

“How old are you? When was your last birthday?”

“What is your Trade, Calling, Employment, or Occupation?”

“Are you Married or single or a Widower or what?”

“How many children have you? How many boys? How many girls? Do they go to work? What do they earn?”

“What kind of a house do you live in? How many rooms are there?”

“How much rent do you owe?”

“Who was your last employer? What was the foreman’s name? How long did you work there? What kind of work did you do? Why did you leave?”

“What have you been doing for the last five years? What kind of work, how many hours a day? What wages did you get?”

“Give the full names and addresses of all the different employers you have worked for during the last five years, and the reasons why you left them.”

“Give the names of all the foremen you have worked under during the last five years.”

“Does your wife earn anything? How much?”

“Do you get any money from any Club or Society, or from any Charity, or from any other source?”

“Have you ever received Poor Relief?”

“Have you ever worked for a Distress Committee before?”

“Have you ever done any other kinds of work than those you have mentioned? Do you think you would be fit for any other kind?”

“Have you any references?” and so on and so forth.

When the criminal had answered all the questions, and when his answers had all been duly written down, he was informed that a member of the Committee, or an Authorized Officer, or some Other Person, would in due course visit his home and make inquiries about him, after which the Authorized Officer or Other Person would make a report to the Committee, who would consider it at their next meeting.

As the interrogation of each criminal occupied about half an hour, to say nothing of the time he was kept waiting, it will be seen that as a means of keeping down the number of registered unemployed the idea worked splendidly.

When Rushton introduced this new rule it was carried unanimously, Dr Weakling being the only dissentient, but of course he—as Brother Grinder remarked—was always opposed to any sensible proposal. There was one consolation, however, Grinder added, they was not likely to be pestered with ’im much longer; the first of November was coming and if he—Grinder—knowed anything of working men they was sure to give Weakling the dirty kick out directly they got the chance.

A few days afterwards the result of the municipal election justified Brother Grinder’s prognostications, for the working men voters of Dr Weakling’s ward did give him the dirty kick out: but Rushton, Didlum, Grinder and several other members of the band were triumphantly returned with increased majorities.

Mr Dauber, of Dauber and Botchit, had already been elected a Guardian of the Poor.

During all this time Hunter, who looked more worried and miserable as the dreary weeks went by, was occupied every day in supervising what work was being done and in running about seeking for more. Nearly every night he remained at the office until a late hour, poring over specifications and making out estimates. The police had become so accustomed to seeing the light in the office that as a rule they took no notice of it, but one Thursday night—exactly one week after the scene between Owen and Rushton about the boy—the constable on the beat observed the light there much later than usual. At first he paid no particular attention to the fact, but when night merged into morning and the light still remained, his curiosity was aroused.

He knocked at the door, but no one came in answer, and no sound disturbed the deathlike stillness that reigned within. The door was locked, but he was not able to tell whether it had been closed from the inside or outside, because it had a spring latch. The office window was low down, but it was not possible to see in because the back of the glass had been painted.

The constable thought that the most probable explanation of the mystery was that whoever had been there earlier in the evening had forgotten to turn out the light when they went away; it was not likely that thieves or anyone who had no business to be there would advertise their presence by lighting the gas.

He made a note of the incident in his pocket-book and was about to resume his beat when he was joined by his inspector. The latter agreed that the conclusion arrived at by the constable was probably the right one and they were about to pass on when the inspector noticed a small speck of light shining through the lower part of the painted window, where a small piece of the paint had either been scratched or had shelled off the glass. He knelt down and found that it was possible to get a view of the interior of the office, and as he peered through he gave a low exclamation. When he made way for his subordinate to look in his turn, the constable was with some difficulty able to distinguish the figure of a man lying prone upon the floor.

It was an easy task for the burly policeman to force open the office door: a single push of his shoulder wrenched it from its fastenings and as it flew back the socket of the lock fell with a splash into a great pool of blood that had accumulated against the threshold, flowing from the place where Hunter was lying on his back, his arms extended and his head nearly severed from his body. On the floor, close to his right hand, was an open razor. An overturned chair lay on the floor by the side of the table where he usually worked, the table itself being littered with papers and drenched with blood.

Within the next few days Crass resumed the role he had played when Hunter was ill during the summer, taking charge of the work and generally doing his best to fill the dead man’s place, although—as he confided to certain of his cronies in the bar of the Cricketers—he had no intention of allowing Rushton to do the same as Hunter had done. One of his first jobs—on the morning after the discovery of the body—was to go with Mr Rushton to look over a house where some work was to be done for which an estimate had to be given. It was this estimate that Hunter had been trying to make out the previous evening in the office, for they found that the papers on his table were covered with figures and writing relating to this work. These papers justified the subsequent verdict of the Coroner’s jury that Hunter committed suicide in a fit of temporary insanity, for they were covered with a lot of meaningless scribbling, the words wrongly spelt and having no intelligible connection with each other. There was one sum that he had evidently tried repeatedly to do correctly, but which came wrong in a different way every time. The fact that he had the razor in his possession seemed to point to his having premeditated the act, but this was accounted for at the inquest by the evidence of the last person who saw him alive, a hairdresser, who stated that Hunter had left the razor with him to be sharpened a few days previously and that he had called for it on the evening of the tragedy. He had ground this razor for Mr Hunter several times before.

Crass took charge of all the arrangements for the funeral. He bought a new second-hand pair of black trousers at a cast-off clothing shop in honour of the occasion, and discarded his own low-crowned silk hat—which was getting rather shabby—in favour of Hunter’s tall one, which he found in the office and annexed without hesitation or scruple. It was rather large for him, but he put some folded strips of paper inside the leather lining. Crass was a proud man as he walked in Hunter’s place at the head of the procession, trying to look solemn, but with a half-smile on his fat, pasty face, destitute of colour except one spot on his chin near his underlip, where there was a small patch of inflammation about the size of a threepenny piece. This spot had been there for a very long time. At first—as well as he could remember—it was only a small pimple, but it had grown larger, with something the appearance of scurvy. Crass attributed its continuation to the cold having “got into it last winter”. It was rather strange, too, because he generally took care of himself when it was cold: he always wore the warm wrap that had formerly belonged to the old lady who died of cancer. However, Crass did not worry much about this little sore place; he just put a little zinc ointment on it occasionally and had no doubt that it would get well in time.

53. Barrington Finds a Situation

The revulsion of feeling that Barrington experienced during the progress of the election was intensified by the final result. The blind, stupid, enthusiastic admiration displayed by the philanthropists for those who exploited and robbed them; their extraordinary apathy with regard to their own interests; the patient, broken-spirited way in which they endured their sufferings, tamely submitting to live in poverty in the midst of the wealth they had helped to create; their callous indifference to the fate of their children, and the savage hatred they exhibited towards anyone who dared to suggest the possibility of better things, forced upon him the thought that the hopes he cherished were impossible of realization. The words of the renegade Socialist recurred constantly to his mind:

“You can be a Jesus Christ if you like, but for my part I’m finished. For the future I intend to look after myself. As for these people, they vote for what they want, they get what they vote for, and, by God! they deserve nothing better! They are being beaten with whips of their own choosing, and if I had my way they should be chastised with scorpions. For them, the present system means joyless drudgery, semi-starvation, rags and premature death; and they vote for it and uphold it. Let them have what they vote for! Let them drudge and let them starve!”

These words kept ringing in his ears as he walked through the crowded streets early one fine evening a few days before Christmas. The shops were all brilliantly lighted for the display of their Christmas stores, and the pavements and even the carriageways were thronged with sightseers.

Barrington was specially interested in the groups of shabbily dressed men and women and children who gathered in the roadway in front of the poulterers’ and butchers’ shops, gazing at the meat and the serried rows of turkeys and geese decorated with coloured ribbons and rosettes. He knew that to come here and look at these things was the only share many of these poor people would have of them, and he marvelled greatly at their wonderful patience and abject resignation.

But what struck him most of all was the appearance of many of the women, evidently working men’s wives. Their faded, ill-fitting garments and the tired, sad expressions on their pale and careworn faces. Some of them were alone; others were accompanied by little children who trotted along trustfully clinging to their mothers’ hands. The sight of these poor little ones, their utter helplessness and dependence, their patched unsightly clothing and broken boots, and the wistful looks on their pitiful faces as they gazed into the windows of the toy-shops, sent a pang of actual physical pain to his heart and filled his eyes with tears. He knew that these children—naked of joy and all that makes life dear—were being tortured by the sight of the things that were placed so cruelly before their eyes, but which they were not permitted to touch or to share; and, like Joseph of old, his heart yearned over his younger brethren.

He felt like a criminal because he was warmly clad and well fed in the midst of all this want and unhappiness, and he flushed with shame because he had momentarily faltered in his devotion to the noblest cause that any man could be privileged to fight for—the uplifting of the disconsolate and the oppressed.

He presently came to a large toy shop outside which several children were standing admiring the contents of the window. He recognized some of these children and paused to watch them and to listen to their talk. They did not notice him standing behind them as they ranged to and fro before the window, and as he looked at them, he was reminded of the way in which captive animals walk up and down behind the bars of their cages. These children wandered repeatedly, backwards and forwards from one end of the window to the other, with their little hands pressed against the impenetrable plate glass, choosing and pointing out to each other the particular toys that took their fancies.

“That’s mine!” cried Charley Linden, enthusiastically indicating a large strongly built waggon. “If I had that I’d give Freddie rides in it and bring home lots of firewood, and we could play at fire engines as well.”

“I’d rather have this railway,” said Frankie Owen. “There’s a real tunnel and real coal in the tenders; then there’s the station and the signals and a place to turn the engine round, and a red lantern to light when there’s danger on the line.”

“Mine’s this doll—not the biggest one, the one in pink with clothes that you can take off,” said Elsie; “and this tea set; and this needlecase for Mother.”

Little Freddie had let go his hold of Elsie, to whom he usually clung tightly and was clapping his hands and chuckling with delight and desire. “Gee-gee?” he cried eagerly. “Gee-gee. Pwetty Gee-gee! Fweddy want gee-gee!”

“But it’s no use lookin’ at them any longer,” continued Elsie, with a sigh, as she took hold of Freddie’s hand to lead him away. “It’s no use lookin’ at ’em any longer; the likes of us can’t expect to have such good things as them.”

This remark served to recall Frankie and Charley to the stern realities of life, and turning reluctantly away from the window they prepared to follow Elsie, but Freddie had not yet learnt the lesson—he had not lived long enough to understand that the good things of the world were not for the likes of him; so when Elsie attempted to draw him away he pursed up his underlip and began to cry, repeating that he wanted a gee-gee. The other children clustered round trying to coax and comfort him by telling him that no one was allowed to have anything out of the windows yet—until Christmas—and that Santa Claus would be sure to bring him a gee-gee then; but these arguments failed to make any impression on Freddie, who tearfully insisted upon being supplied at once.

Whilst they were thus occupied they caught sight of Barrington, whom they hailed with evident pleasure born of the recollection of certain gifts of pennies and cakes they had at different times received from him.

“Hello, Mr Barrington,” said the two boys in a breath.

“Hello,” replied Barrington, as he patted the baby’s cheek. “What’s the matter here? What’s Freddie crying for?”

“He wants that there ’orse, mister, the one with the real “air on,” said Charley, smiling indulgently like a grown-up person who realized the absurdity of the demand.

“Fweddie want gee-gee,” repeated the child, taking hold of Barrington’s hand and returning to the window. “Nice gee-gee.”

“Tell him that Santa Claus’ll bring it to him on Christmas,” whispered Elsie. “P’raps he’ll believe you and that’ll satisfy him, and he’s sure to forget all about it in a little while.”

“Are you still out of work, Mr Barrington?” inquired Frankie.

“No,” replied Barrington slowly. “I’ve got something to do at last.”

“Well, that’s a good job, ain’t it?” remarked Charley.

“Yes,” said Barrington. “And whom do you think I’m working for?”

“Who?”

“Santa Claus.”

“Santa Claus!” echoed the children, opening their eyes to the fullest extent.

“Yes,” continued Barrington, solemnly. “You know, he is a very old man now, so old that he can’t do all his work himself. Last year he was so tired that he wasn’t able to get round to all the children he wanted to give things to, and consequently a great many of them never got anything at all. So this year he’s given me a job to help him. He’s given me some money and a list of children’s names, and against their names are written the toys they are to have. My work is to buy the things and give them to the boys and girls whose names are on the list.”

The children listened to this narrative with bated breath. Incredible as the story seemed, Barrington’s manner was so earnest as to almost compel belief.

“Really and truly, or are you only having a game?” said Frankie at length, speaking almost in a whisper. Elsie and Charley maintained an awestruck silence, while Freddie beat upon the glass with the palms of his hands.

“Really and truly,” replied Barrington unblushingly as he took out his pocket-book and turned over the leaves. “I’ve got the list here; perhaps your names are down for something.”

The three children turned pale and their hearts beat violently as they listened wide-eyed for what was to follow.

“Let me see,” continued Barrington, scanning the pages of the book, “Why, yes, here they are! Elsie Linden, one doll with clothes that can be taken off, one tea-set, one needlecase. Freddie Easton, one horse with real hair. Charley Linden, one four-wheeled waggon full of groceries. Frankie Owen, one railway with tunnel, station, train with real coal for engine, signals, red lamp and place to turn the engines round.”

Barrington closed the book: “So you may as well have your things now,” he continued, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone. “We’ll buy them here; it will save me a lot of work. I shall not have the trouble of taking them round to where you live. It’s lucky I happened to meet you, isn’t it?”

The children were breathless with emotion, but they just managed to gasp out that it was—very lucky.

As they followed him into the shop, Freddie was the only one of the four whose condition was anything like normal. All the others were in a half-dazed state. Frankie was afraid that he was not really awake at all. It couldn’t be true; it must be a dream.

In addition to the hair, the horse was furnished with four wheels. They did not have it made into a parcel, but tied some string to it and handed it over to its new owner. The elder children were scarcely conscious of what took place inside the shop; they knew that Barrington was talking to the shopman, but they did not hear what was said—the sound seemed far away and unreal.

The shopman made the doll, the tea-set and the needlecase into one parcel and gave it to Elsie. The railway, in a stout cardboard box, was also wrapped up in brown paper, and Frankie’s heart nearly burst when the man put the package into his arms.

When they came out of the toy shop they said “Good night” to Frankie, who went off carrying his parcel very carefully and feeling as if he were walking on air. The others went into a provision merchant’s near by, where the groceries were purchased and packed into the waggon.

Then Barrington, upon referring to the list to make quite certain that he had not forgotten anything, found that Santa Claus had put down a pair of boots each for Elsie and Charley, and when they went to buy these, it was seen that their stockings were all ragged and full of holes, so they went to a draper’s and bought some stocking also. Barrington said that although they were not on the list, he was sure Santa Claus would not object—he had probably meant them to have them, but had forgotten to put them down.

54. The End

The following evening Barrington called at Owen’s place. He said he was going home for the holidays and had come to say goodbye for a time.

Owen had not been doing very well during these last few months, although he was one of the few lucky ones who had had some small share of work. Most of the money he earned went for rent, to pay which they often had to go short of food. Lately his chest had become so bad that the slightest exertion brought on fits of coughing and breathlessness, which made it almost impossible to work even when he had the opportunity; often it was only by an almost superhuman effort of will that he was able to continue working at all. He contrived to keep up appearances to a certain extent before Rushton, who, although he knew that Owen was not so strong as the other men, was inclined to overlook it so long as he was able to do his share of work, for Owen was a very useful hand when things were busy. But lately some of the men with whom he worked began to manifest dissatisfaction at having him for a mate. When two men are working together, the master expects to see two men’s work done, and if one of the two is not able to do his share it makes it all the harder for the other.

He never had the money to go to a doctor to get advice, but earlier in the winter he had obtained from Rushton a ticket for the local hospital. Every Saturday throughout the year when the men were paid they were expected to put a penny or twopence in the hospital box. Contributions were obtained in this way from every firm and workshop in the town. The masters periodically handed these boxes over to the hospital authorities and received in return some tickets which they gave to anyone who needed and asked for them. The employer had to fill in the ticket or application form with the name and address of the applicant, and to certify that in his opinion the individual was a deserving case, “suitable to receive this charity”. In common with the majority of workmen, Owen had a sort of horror of going for advice to this hospital, but he was so ill that he stifled his pride and went. It happened that it turned out to be more expensive than going to a private doctor, for he had to be at the hospital at a certain hour on a particular morning. To do this he had to stay away from work. The medicine they prescribed and which he had to buy did him no good, for the truth was that it was not medicine that he—like thousands of others—needed, but proper conditions of life and proper food; things that had been for years past as much out of his reach as if he had been dying alone in the middle of a desert.

Occasionally Nora contrived—by going without some other necessary—to buy him a bottle of one of the many much-advertised medicines; but although some of these things were good she was not able to buy enough for him to derive any benefit from them.

Although he was often seized with a kind of terror of the future—of being unable to work—he fought against these feelings and tried to believe that when the weather became warmer he would be all right once more.

When Barrington came in Owen was sitting in a deck-chair by the fire in the sitting-room. He had been to work that day with Harlow, washing off the ceilings and stripping the old paper from the walls of two rooms in Rushton’s home, and he looked very haggard and exhausted.

“I have never told you before,” said Barrington, after they had been talking for a while, “but I suppose you have guessed that I did not work for Rushton because I needed to do so in order to live. I just wanted to see things for myself; to see life as it is lived by the majority. My father is a wealthy man. He doesn’t approve of my opinions, but at the same time he does not interfere with me for holding them, and I have a fairly liberal allowance which I spent in my own way. I’m going to pass Christmas with my own people, but in the spring I intend to fit out a Socialist Van, and then I shall come back here. We’ll have some of the best speakers in the movement; we’ll hold meetings every night; we’ll drench the town with literature, and we’ll start a branch of the party.”

Owen’s eye kindled and his pale face flushed.

“I shall be able to do something to advertise the meetings,” he said. “For instance, I could paint some posters and placards.”

“And I can help to give away handbills,” chimed in Frankie, looking up from the floor, where he was seated working the railway. “I know a lot of boys who’ll come along with me to put ’em under the doors as well.”

They were in the sitting-room and the door was shut. Mrs Owen was in the next room with Ruth. While the two men were talking the front-door bell was heard to ring and Frankie ran out to see who it was, closing the door after him. Barrington and Owen continued their conversation, and from time to time they could hear a low murmur of voices from the adjoining room. After a little while they heard some one go out by the front door, and almost immediately afterward Frankie—wild with excitement, burst into the room, crying out:

“Dad and Mr Barrington! Three cheers!” And he began capering gleefully about the room, evidently transported with joy.

“What are the cheers to be for?” inquired Barrington, rather mystified by this extraordinary conduct.

“Mr Easton came with Freddie to see Mrs Easton, and she’s gone home again with them,” replied Freddie, “and—she’s given the baby to us for a Christmas box!”

Barrington was already familiar with the fact of Easton’s separation from his wife, and Owen now told him the Story of their reconciliation.

Barrington took his leave shortly afterwards. His train left at eight; it was already nearly half past seven, and he said he had a letter to write. Nora brought the baby in to show him before he went, and then she helped Frankie to put on his overcoat, for Barrington had requested that the boy might be permitted to go a little way with him.

There was a stationer’s shop at the end of the street. He went in here and bought a sheet of notepaper and an envelope, and, having borrowed the pen and ink, wrote a letter which he enclosed in the envelope with the two other pieces that he took out of his pocketbook. Having addressed the letter he came out of the shop; Frankie was waiting for him outside. He gave the letter to the boy.

“I want you to take this straight home and give it to your dad. I don’t want you to stop to play or even to speak to anyone till you get home.”

“All right,” replied Frankie. “I won’t stop running all the way.”

Barrington hesitated and looked at his watch. “I think I have time to go back with you as far as your front door,” he said, “then I shall be quite sure you haven’t lost it.”

They accordingly retraced their steps and in a few minutes reached the entrance to the house. Barrington opened the door and stood for a moment in the hall watching Frankie ascend the stairs.

“Will your train cross over the bridge?” inquired the boy, pausing and looking over the banisters.

“Yes. Why?”

“Because we can see the bridge from our front-room window, and if you were to wave your handkerchief as your train goes over the bridge, we could wave back.”

“All right. I’ll do so. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

Barrington waited till he heard Frankie open and close the door of Owen’s flat, and then he hurried away. When he gained the main road he heard the sound of singing and saw a crowd at the corner of one of the side-streets. As he drew near he perceived that it was a religious meeting.

There was a lighted lamp on a standard in the centre of the crowd and on the glass of this lamp was painted: “Be not deceived: God is not mocked.”

Mr Rushton was preaching in the centre of the ring. He said that they had come hout there that evening to tell the Glad Tidings of Great Joy to hall those dear people that he saw standing around. The members of the Shining Light Chapel—to which he himself belonged—was the organizers of that meeting but it was not a sectarian meeting, for he was ’appy to say that several members of other denominations was there co-operating with them in the good work. As he continued his address, Rushton repeatedly referred to the individuals who composed the crowd as his “Brothers and Sisters” and, strange to say, nobody laughed.

Barrington looked round upon the “Brothers”: Mr Sweater, resplendent in a new silk hat of the latest fashion, and a fur-trimmed overcoat. The Rev. Mr Bosher, Vicar of the Church of the Whited Sepulchre, Mr Grinder—one of the churchwardens at the same place of alleged worship—both dressed in broadcloth and fine linen and glossy silk hats, while their general appearance testified to the fact that they had fared sumptuously for many days. Mr Didlum, Mrs Starvem, Mr Dauber, Mr Botchit, Mr Smeeriton, and Mr Leavit.

And in the midst was the Rev. John Starr, doing the work for which he was paid.

As he stood there in the forefront of this company, there was nothing in his refined and comely exterior to indicate that his real function was to pander to and flatter them; to invest with an air of respectability and rectitude the abominably selfish lives of the gang of swindlers, slave-drivers and petty tyrants who formed the majority of the congregation of the Shining Light Chapel.

He was doing the work for which he was paid. By the mere fact of his presence there, condoning and justifying the crimes of these typical representatives of that despicable class whose greed and inhumanity have made the earth into a hell.

There was also a number of “respectable”, well-dressed people who looked as if they could do with a good meal, and a couple of shabbily dressed, poverty-stricken-looking individuals who seemed rather out of place in the glittering throng.

The remainder of the Brothers consisted of half-starved, pale-faced working men and women, most of them dressed in other people’s cast-off clothing, and with broken, patched-up, leaky boots on their feet.

Rushton having concluded his address, Didlum stepped forward to give out the words of the hymn the former had quoted at the conclusion of his remarks:

“Oh, come and jine this ’oly band, And hon to glory go.”

Strange and incredible as it may appear to the reader, although none of them ever did any of the things Jesus said, the people who were conducting this meeting had the effrontery to claim to be followers of Christ—Christians!

Jesus said: “Lay not up for yourselves treasure upon earth”, “Love not the world nor the things of the world”, “Woe unto you that are rich—it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.” Yet all these self-styled “Followers” of Christ made the accumulation of money the principal business of their lives.

Jesus said: “Be ye not called masters; for they bind heavy burdens and grievous to be borne, and lay them on men’s shoulders, but they themselves will not touch them with one of their fingers. For one is your master, even Christ, and ye are all brethren.” But nearly all these alleged followers of the humble Workman of Nazareth claimed to be other people’s masters or mistresses. And as for being all brethren, whilst most of these were arrayed in broadcloth and fine linen and fared sumptuously every day, they knew that all around them thousands of those they hypocritically called their “brethren”, men, women and little children, were slowly perishing of hunger and cold; and we have already seen how much brotherhood existed between Sweater and Rushton and the miserable, half-starved wretches in their employment.

Whenever they were asked why they did not practise the things Jesus preached, they replied that it is impossible to do so! They did not seem to realize that when they said this they were saying, in effect, that Jesus taught an impracticable religion; and they appeared to forget that Jesus said, “Wherefore call ye me Lord, Lord, when ye do not the things I say?...” “Whosoever heareth these sayings of mine and doeth them not, shall be likened to a foolish man who built his house upon the sand.”

But although none of these self-styled “Followers” of Christ, ever did the things that Jesus said, they talked a great deal about them, and sang hymns, and for a pretence made long prayers, and came out here to exhort those who were still in darkness to forsake their evil ways. And they procured this lantern and wrote a text upon it: “Be not deceived, God is not mocked.”

They stigmatized as “infidels” all those who differed from them, forgetting that the only real infidels are those who are systematically false and unfaithful to the Master they pretend to love and serve.

Grinder, having a slight cold, had not spoken this evening, but several other infidels, including Sweater, Didlum, Bosher, and Starr, had addressed the meeting, making a special appeal to the working people, of whom the majority of the crowd was composed, to give up all the vain pleasures of the world in which they at present indulged, and, as Rushton had eloquently put it at the close of his remarks:

“Come and jine this ’Oly band and hon to glory go!”

As Didlum finished reading out the words, the lady at the harmonium struck up the tune of the hymns, and the disciples all joined in the singing:

“Oh, come and join this ’oly band and hon to glory go.”

During the singing certain of the disciples went about amongst the crowd distributing tracts. Presently one of them offered one to Barrington and as the latter looked at the man he saw that it was Slyme, who also recognized him at the same instant and greeted him by name. Barrington made no reply except to decline the tract:

“I don’t want that—from you,” he said contemptuously.

Slyme turned red. “Oh, I know what you’re thinking of,” he said after a pause and speaking in an injured tone; “but you shouldn’t judge anyone too hard. It wasn’t only my fault, and you don’t know ’ow much I’ve suffered for it. If it ’adn’t been for the Lord, I believe I should ’ave drownded myself.”

Barrington made no answer and Slyme slunk off, and when the hymn was finished Brother Sweater stood forth and gave all those present a hearty invitation to attend the services to be held during the ensuing week at the Chapel of the Shining Light. He invited them there specially, of course, because it was the place with which he was himself connected, but he entreated and begged of them even if they would not come there to go Somewhere; there were plenty of other places of worship in the town; in fact, there was one at the corner of nearly every street. Those who did not fancy the services at the Shining Light could go to the Church of the Whited Sepulchre, but he really did hope that all those dear people whom he saw standing round would go Somewhere.

A short prayer from Bosher closed the meeting, and now the reason for the presence of the two poverty-stricken-looking shabbily dressed disciples was made manifest, for while the better dressed and therefore more respectable Brothers were shaking hands with and grinning at each other or hovering round the two clergymen and Mr Sweater, these two poor wretches carried away the harmonium and the lantern, together with the hymn books and what remained of the tracts. As Barrington hurried off to catch the train one of the “Followers” gave him a card which he read by the light of a street lamp—

Come and join the Brotherhood at the Shining Light Chapel PSA Every Sunday at 3 o’clock. Let Brotherly Love Continue. “Oh come and join this Holy Band and on to Glory go.”

Barrington thought he would rather go to hell—if there were such a place—with some decent people, than share “glory” with a crew like this.

Nora sat sewing by the fireside in the front room, with the baby asleep in her lap. Owen was reclining in the deck-chair opposite. They had both been rather silent and thoughtful since Barrington’s departure. It was mainly by their efforts that the reconciliation between Easton and Ruth had been effected and they had been so desirous of accomplishing that result that they had not given much thought to their own position.

“I feel that I could not bear to part with her for anything now,” said Nora at last breaking the long silence, “and Frankie is so fond of her too. But all the same I can’t feel happy about it when I think how ill you are.”

“Oh, I shall be all right when the weather gets a little warmer,” said Owen, affecting a cheerfulness he did not feel. “We have always pulled through somehow or other; the poor little thing is not going to make much difference, and she’ll be as well off with us as she would have been if Ruth had not gone back.”

As he spoke he leaned over and touched the hand of the sleeping child and the little fingers closed round one of his with a clutch that sent a thrill all through him. As he looked at this little helpless, dependent creature, he realized with a kind of thankfulness that he would never have the heart to carry out the dreadful project he had sometimes entertained in hours of despondency.

“We’ve always got through somehow or other,” he repeated, “and we’ll do so still.”

Presently they heard Frankie’s footsteps ascending the stairs and a moment afterwards the boy entered the room.

“We have to look out of the window and wave to Mr Barrington when his train goes over the bridge,” he cried breathlessly. “And he’s sent this letter. Open the window, quick, Dad, or it may be too late.”

“There’s plenty of time yet,” replied Owen, smiling at the boy’s impetuosity. “Nearly twenty minutes. We don’t want the window open all that time. It’s only a quarter to eight by our clock now, and that’s five minutes fast.”

However, so as to make quite certain that the train should not run past unnoticed, Frankie pulled up the blind and, rubbing the steam off the glass, took up his station at the window to watch for its coming, while Owen opened the letter:

“Dear Owen,

“Enclosed you will find two bank-notes, one for ten pounds and the other for five. The first I beg you will accept from me for yourself in the same spirit that I offer it, and as I would accept it from you if our positions were reversed. If I were in need, I know that you would willingly share with me whatever you had and I could not hurt you by refusing. The other note I want you to change tomorrow morning. Give three pounds of it to Mrs Linden and the remainder to Bert White’s mother.

“Wishing you all a happy Xmas and hoping to find you well and eager for the fray when I come back in the spring,

“Yours for the cause,

“George Barrington.”

Owen read it over two or three times before he could properly understand it and then, without a word of comment—for he could not have spoken at that moment to save his life—he passed it to Nora, who felt, as she read it in her turn, as if a great burden had been lifted from her heart. All the undefined terror of the future faded away as she thought of all this small piece of paper made possible.

Meanwhile, Frankie, at the window, was straining his eyes in the direction of the station.

“Don’t you think we’d better have the window open now, Dad?” he said at last as the clock struck eight. “The steam keeps coming on the glass as fast as I wipe it off and I can’t see out properly. I’m sure it’s nearly time now; p’raps our clock isn’t as fast as you think it is.”

“All right, we’ll have it open now, so as to be on the safe side,” said Owen as he stood up and raised the sash, and Nora, having wrapped the child up in a shawl, joined them at the window.

“It can’t be much longer now, you know,” said Frankie. “The line’s clear. They turned the red light off the signal just before you opened the window.”

In a very few minutes they heard the whistle of the locomotive as it drew out of the station, then, an instant before the engine itself came into sight round the bend, the brightly polished rails were illuminated, shining like burnished gold in the glare of its headlight; a few seconds afterwards the train emerged into view, gathering speed as it came along the short stretch of straight way, and a moment later it thundered across the bridge. It was too far away to recognize his face, but they saw someone looking out of a carriage window waving a handkerchief, and they knew it was Barrington as they waved theirs in return. Soon there remained nothing visible of the train except the lights at the rear of the guard’s van, and presently even those vanished into the surrounding darkness.

The lofty window at which they were standing overlooked several of the adjacent streets and a great part of the town. On the other side of the road were several empty houses, bristling with different house agents’ advertisement boards and bills. About twenty yards away, the shop formerly tenanted by Mr Smallman, the grocer, who had become bankrupt two or three months previously, was also plastered with similar decorations. A little further on, at the opposite corner, were the premises of the Monopole Provision Stores, where brilliant lights were just being extinguished, for they, like most of the other shops, were closing their premises for the night, and the streets took on a more cheerless air as one after another their lights disappeared.

It had been a fine day, and during the earlier part of the evening the moon, nearly at the full, had been shining in a clear and starry sky; but a strong north-east wind had sprung up within the last hour; the weather had become bitterly cold and the stars were rapidly being concealed from view by the dense banks of clouds that were slowly accumulating overhead.

As they remained at the window looking out over this scene for a few minutes after the train had passed out of sight, it seemed to Owen that the gathering darkness was as a curtain that concealed from view the Infamy existing beyond. In every country, myriads of armed men waiting for their masters to give them the signal to fall upon and rend each other like wild beasts. All around was a state of dreadful anarchy; abundant riches, luxury, vice, hypocrisy, poverty, starvation, and crime. Men literally fighting with each other for the privilege of working for their bread, and little children crying with hunger and cold and slowly perishing of want.

The gloomy shadows enshrouding the streets, concealing for the time their grey and mournful air of poverty and hidden suffering, and the black masses of cloud gathering so menacingly in the tempestuous sky, seemed typical of the Nemesis which was overtaking the Capitalist System. That atrocious system which, having attained to the fullest measure of detestable injustice and cruelty, was now fast crumbling into ruin, inevitably doomed to be overwhelmed because it was all so wicked and abominable, inevitably doomed to sink under the blight and curse of senseless and unprofitable selfishness out of existence for ever, its memory universally execrated and abhorred.

But from these ruins was surely growing the glorious fabric of the Co-operative Commonwealth. Mankind, awaking from the long night of bondage and mourning and arising from the dust wherein they had lain prone so long, were at last looking upward to the light that was riving asunder and dissolving the dark clouds which had so long concealed from them the face of heaven. The light that will shine upon the world wide Fatherland and illumine the gilded domes and glittering pinnacles of the beautiful cities of the future, where men shall dwell together in true brotherhood and goodwill and joy. The Golden Light that will be diffused throughout all the happy world from the rays of the risen sun of Socialism.

Appendix

Mugsborough

Mugsborough was a town of about eighty thousand inhabitants, about two hundred miles from London. It was built in a verdant valley. Looking west, north or east from the vicinity of the fountain on the Grand Parade in the centre of the town, one saw a succession of pine-clad hills. To the south, as far as the eye could see, stretched a vast, cultivated plain that extended to the south coast, one hundred miles away. The climate was supposed to be cool in summer and mild in winter.

The town proper nestled in the valley: to the west, the most beautiful and sheltered part was the suburb of Irene: here were the homes of the wealthy residents and prosperous tradespeople, and numerous boarding-houses for the accommodation of well-to-do visitors. East, the town extended up the slope to the top of the hill and down the other side to the suburb of Windley, where the majority of the working classes lived.

Years ago, when the facilities for foreign travel were fewer and more costly, Mugsborough was a favourite resort of the upper classes, but of late years most of these patriots have adopted the practice of going on the Continent to spend the money they obtain from the working people of England. However, Mugsborough still retained some semblance of prosperity. Summer or winter the place was usually fairly full of what were called good-class visitors, either holidaymakers or invalids. The Grand Parade was generally crowded with well-dressed people and carriages. The shops appeared to be well-patronized and at the time of our story an air of prosperity pervaded the town. But this fair outward appearance was deceitful. The town was really a vast whited sepulchre; for notwithstanding the natural advantages of the place the majority of the inhabitants existed in a state of perpetual poverty which in many cases bordered on destitution. One of the reasons for this was that a great part of the incomes of the tradespeople and boarding-house-keepers and about a third of the wages of the working classes were paid away as rent and rates.

For years the Corporation had been borrowing money for necessary public works and improvements, and as the indebtedness of the town increased the rates rose in proportion, because the only works and services undertaken by the Council were such as did not yield revenue. Every public service capable of returning direct profit was in the hands of private companies, and the shares of the private companies were in the hands of the members of the Corporation, and the members of the Corporation were in the hands of the four most able and intellectual of their number, Councillors Sweater, Rushton, Didlum and Grinder, each of whom was a director of one or more of the numerous companies which battened on the town.

The Tramway Company, the Water Works Company, the Public Baths Company, the Winter Gardens Company, the Grand Hotel Company and numerous others. There was, however, one Company in which Sweater, Rushton, Didlum and Grinder had no shares, and that was the Gas Company, the oldest and most flourishing of them all. This institution had grown with the place; most of the original promoters were dead, and the greater number of the present shareholders were non-residents; although they lived on the town, they did not live in it.

The profits made by this Company were so great that, being prevented by law from paying a larger dividend than ten percent, they frequently found it a difficult matter to decide what to do with the money. They paid the Directors and principal officials—themselves shareholders, of course—enormous salaries. They built and furnished costly and luxurious offices and gave the rest to the shareholders in the form of Bonuses.

There was one way in which the Company might have used some of the profits: it might have granted shorter hours and higher wages to the workmen whose health was destroyed and whose lives were shortened by the terrible labour of the retort-houses and the limesheds; but of course none of the directors or shareholders ever thought of doing that. It was not the business of the Company to concern itself about them.

Years ago, when it might have been done for a comparatively small amount, some hare-brained Socialists suggested that the town should buy the Gas Works, but the project was wrecked by the inhabitants, upon whom the mere mention of the word Socialist had the same effect that the sight of a red rag is popularly supposed to have on a bull.

Of course, even now it was still possible to buy out the Company, but it was supposed that it would cost so much that it was generally considered to be impracticable.

Although they declined to buy the Gas works, the people of Mugsborough had to buy the gas. The amount paid by the municipality to the Company for the public lighting of the town loomed large in the accounts of the Council. They managed to get some of their own back by imposing a duty of two shillings a ton upon coals imported into the Borough, but although it cost the Gas Works a lot of money for coal dues the Company in its turn got its own back by increasing the price of gas they sold to the inhabitants of the town...