Evening Star Newspaper, November 28, 1896, Page 19

THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 28, 1896-24 PAGES. We j W US a (Copyright, se), Chapter L The office of Monkton & Hope's great factory hung between heaven and earth, and at the particular moment John Sart- well, manager, stood looking out of the window toward the gates. Heaven con- sisted of a brooding London fog suspended a hundred feet above the town, hesitating to fall, while earth was representel by a sticky black-cindered factory yard, bear- ing the imprint of many a hundred boots. The office was built between the two huge buildings known as the “works.” The sit- uation of the office had evidently been an after-thought—it was of wood, while the two great buildings which it joined to- gether as if they were Siames2 twins of tn- dustry, were of brick. Although no archi- tect had ever foreseen the ere: yn of such @ structure between the two buildings, yet necessity, the mother of invention, had given birth to what Sartwell always claimed was the most conveniently s uated office in London. More and more Toom had been acquired in the big building as business increased, and the office—tne soul of the whole thing—had, as it were, to take up a position outside its body. The addition, then, hung over the road- way that passed between the two build- ings; it commanded a view of both front and back yards, and had, therefore, more light and air than the office Sartwell had form- erly occupied in the left-hand building. Tivo rooms at the back were set epart for the two members of the firm, while Sart- well’s office in the front was three times the size of either of these rooms, and ex- tended across the whole space between th? two buildings. This was as it should be, for Sartwell did three times the amount of work the owners of the business accom- plished, and, if it came to that, had three times the brain power of the two members of the firm combined, who were there simply because they were the sons of the’ fathers. z Monkton and Hope were timid, cautious, somewhat irresolute men, as capitalists should be all the world over. Sartwell was an iron man, with firm, resolute lips, and steely blue eyes, that were most disc! certing to any one who had something not quite straight to propose. Even the two partners quailed under these great eyes, and gave way before them if it came to a conflict of opinion. Sartwell’s rather curt “It won't do, you know,” always settled things. Sartwell knew infinitely more about the works than they did, for while they had been to college the future manager was working his way up into the confidence of their fathers, and every step he took ad- vanced his position in the factory. ‘The three men were as nearly a3 possible of the same age, and the hair of each was tinged with gray; Sartwell’s more than the others. ‘A private stairway led from the yard be- low to the hall in the suspended building, which divided the large office of the man- ager from the two smaller private rooms of the firm. This stairway was used only by the three men. The clerks and the pub- lic came in by the main entrance, where a watchful map sat behind a little arched open window, over which was painted the word “Inquirie: Outside in the gloom the two great lamps over the gate posts flared yellow light down on the cindery roadway and the narrow street beyend. Through the wide, open gateway into the narrow, stone-paved street poured hundreds of workingmen. ‘There was no jostling and they went out silently, which was unusual. It seemed as if something hovered over them even more depressing than the great fog cloud just above their heads. Sartwell, alone in his office, stood somewhat back from the MRS. MARSTEN, 2 THE MUTABLE MANY, BY ROBERT BARR. 1896, by Robert Barr.) (0 ms (is “Yes,” sald the manager. “I have the entire confidence of Mr. Monkton and Mr. Hope. I wonder if the mea appreciate that fact? “Oh, yes, sir; they know that.” “Now, Marsten, have you any influence with the men?” “Very little, I'm afraid, si “If you have any, now ia the time to ex- ert it, for their sakes, you know, not for mine. The strike is bound to fail. Never- theless, I don’t forget aman who stands by me.” ‘The young man shook his head. “If my comrades go, I'll go with them. I am not so sure that a strike isibound to fail, although I am against it. The union is very strong, Mr. Sartwell. Perhaps you don’t know that it is the strongest union in_London.” The manager allowed his hand to hcver for a moment over a nest of pinholes, then he drew out a paper and handed it to Mar- sten. “There is the strength of the union,” he said, “down to the 17 pounds 8 shillings and 2 pence they put in the bank yesterday afternoon. If you want any information about your union, Marsten, I shall be happy to oblige you with it The young man opened his eyes as he looked at the figures. “It is a very large sum,” he said. “A respectable fighting fund,” remarked Sartwell, impartially. “But’ how many Saturdays do you think it would stand the drain of the pay roll of this establish- ment.”" ‘Not very many, perhaps.” “It would surprise you to know how few. These little details may not seem ‘mportant to a demagogue who knows nothing of business, but who cen harangue a bedy of men and make them dissatistied. I should | be very pleased to give him my p'ace here for a month or two while I cook a rest, and then we would see whether he thought there was anything to my point of view.” “Mr. Sartavell,” said Marsten, looking suddenly at the manager, “some of the more moderate m2n asked me tonight a similar question to one of yours.” “What question was thar? Cty ed if I had any influence with y “Yes? And you told theam—? “That I didn't know.’ “Well, you will never know until you test the point. Have you anything to suggest?” “Many are against a strike, but even the rrore moderate think you are wrong in re- fusing to see the delegaticn.” “And do you think Tam wrong in this?” lo.” “Very well. I will settle that in a mo- ment. You get some of the mcre moderate together—head the delegation yourself. I will make an appointment with you, and we will talk the matter over.” “I could not lead the delegation, being one of the youngest in the employ of the firm. The secretary of the union is the leader the men have chosen.” “Ah! The secretary of the union. is quite a different matter. He is not in my employ. I cannot allow outsiders to interfere in any Lusiness with which I am connected. For instance, I discuss these things with you, but I should decline to discuss them with any man who dropped in out of the street.” “Yes, I see the difficulty, but don’t you think you might make a concession in this irstance, to avoid trouble?” “It wouldn’t be avotding trouble, it would merely be postponing it. If there is to be a fight, I want it now. We need new ma- chinery in, and we could do with a weck’s shut-down.” Marsten shook his head. “The shvt-down would be for longer than a week,” he said. “I know that. The strike will last exact- ly three weeks. At the end of that time there will be no union.” “Perhaps there will also ve no factory.” “You mean there will be violence? That window, unseen, and watched their exit, grimly, sternly. He noticed that now and then a workman cast a glance at his win- dows, and he knew they cursed him In their fiearts as standing between them and thelr demands, for they were well aware that the firm would succumb did Sartwell but give the word. The manager knew that at their meetings Sartwell’s name had been hissed while the name of the firm had been cheered, but the manager was not to be deterred by unpopularity, although the strained relations between the men and himself gave him good cause for anxiety. As he thought over the situation and searched his mind to find whether he him- self were to blame in any way, there was a rap at his door. He turned quickly from the window, stood by his desk, and said sharply, “Come in. ‘There entered a young man in workman's dress with his cap in his hand. His face was frank, clear-cut and intelligent, and he had washed it when his work was done, which was a weakness not indulged in by the majority of his companions. “Ah, Marsten, the manager, his brow clearing when he saw who it was. “Did you get that job done in time?” “It was off tefore half-past 5, sir.” “Right. Were there any obstacles thrown in your way? None that could not be surmounted, sir.” “Right agein. That's the way I like to have things done. The young man who can accomplish impossibilities is the man for me, and the man who gets along in this world.” The young fellow turned his cap over and over in his ham and, although he was evidently pleased with the commendation of the manager, he seemed embarrassed. At last he said, hesitatingly: “I am very anxious to get on, sir." “Well, you may have an opportunity shortly,” replied the manager. ‘Then he suddenly shot the question: “Are you people going to strike?” “T am afraid. sa, io “Why do you say ‘afraid? Are you go- {ng out with the others, or do y@u call your soul your own.” “A man can’t figkt the union single- harded.”” “You are talking to a man who is going to. ‘The young m:an looked up at his master. “With ycu it is different,” he said. “You ere backed by a wealthy company. Whether you win or lose, your situation is secure. If i failed the unien In risis, I could never get another situation.’ . Sartwell smiled grimty when the young man mentioned the firm’“He knew that there lay his weakness rather than his strength, for, altheugh the firm had said he was to have a free hand, yet he was certain the moment the contest became bitter the firm would be_panic-stricken. Then, if the women took a hand in, the jig was up. If the strikers had known on which side their bread was buttered, they would have sent a delegation of ®heir wives to Mrs. Monkton and Mrs. Hope. But they @id not know this, and Sartwell was not the man to show the weakness of his hand. Very well. In that case the strike will last but a fortnight. You see, my boy, we are in London, and there are not only the police within a moment's call, but, back of them, the soidiers, and back of them again the whole British empire. Oh, no, : won't do, you know; it won't do.’ “The men are determined, Mr. Sartwell. “All the better. I like a determined a: tagonist.” “Then you have nothing to propose, Sartwell? Nothing conciliatory, I mean. “Certainly I have. Let the men request that blatant ase Gibbons to attend to his secretarial duties, and then let a deputa- tion from our own workshops come up and see me.” “It's got to be a matter of principle with the men now—that is, the inclusion of Gib- bens has. It means recognizing of. the union.” “Oh, I'll recognige the union, and take off my hat to it; that is, so far as my own employes are concerned. But I will not have an outsider, who S$ nothing of this business, come up here and spout his nonsense.” Marsten sighed. “I'm afraid there is nothing for it then but a fight,” he said. “Perhaps not. One fool makes many. Think well, Marsten, which side you are going to be with in this fight. Any scheme that tends to give a poor workman the same wages as a good workman is all coe : “I don’t agree with you, Mr. Sartwell. The only hope for the workingman is in combination. Of course, we make mis- away by demagogues, takes, and are led but some day there will be a strike led by an individual Napoleon, and then we will settle things once for all, as you said a while Sa ‘ Sartwell laughed, and held out his hand. “Oh, that's your ambition, is it? Well, good luck attend you, my young Napoleon. IU should have chosen Wellington, if I had been you. Good night. I am waiting for my daughter, to whom I foolishly gave permission to call for me here in a cab.” Marsten held the hand extended to him so long that the manager looked at him in astonishment. The color had mounted from the young man's cheeks to his brow, and his eyes were on the floor. “Mr. Sartwell,” he said. with “I came tonight to speak with an effort, fou about = daughter, and not about the strikes: : e manager dropped his han had been red hot, and-stepped back Paces. ‘ “About my daughter?" eried, “What do you mean?’ "? Le Marsten had to- moisten tits lips once or twice before he could. reply. leased hand opened and shut vou “I mean,” he said, “that I-am in love cate Tannecr eat down in the of chair :beside his table. i! the former friendit, ness had left his fi ‘his face. “What folly is this?” he cried, ing anger. “You are a boy, ee es married her mother when she was but a year older. Marsten’s color became a deeper red when the manager spoke so contemptuously of the gutter. He said slowly, and with a certain doggedness in his tone: “It is no reproach to come from the gut- ter—the reproach is in staying there. I have left it, and I don’t intend to return.” “Oh, ‘intend!’ cried the manager, im- patiently. “We all know what is paved with intentions. even spoken to the gir! “No, but I mean ti “Do you? Well, I shall take very good care that you do not.” ed have you against me, Mr. Sart- well?” “What is there for you? Perhaps you will kindly specify your recommendations.” “You are very hard on me, Mr. Sartwell. You know that if I came from the gutter, what education I have I gave to myself. I have studied hard and worked hard. Does that count for nothing? I have a good character, and I have a good situation—” “You have not. I discharge you. You will call at the office tomorrow, get your week’s money, and go.” ape “Yes, ‘oh.’ You did not think that of me, did_you?’ pa not."” “Well, for once you are right. I merely wish to show you how your gcod situation depends on the caprice of one man. I have no intention of discharging you. I am not so much afraid of you. daughter." Of YOu Marsten said “bitterly: “Gibbons, ass as he is, is right when he Says that no one is so hard on a workman as one who has risen from the ranks. You were not better off than See eS I am when you Sartwell I'll look after my sprang to his feet, hi: ablaze with anger. See rss “Pay attention, young man,” he cried. “All the things you have done I have done. All the things you intend to do I have al- Teady done. Now, why have I gone through all this? For myself? Not likely. that she m I that tired drudge—a work- man’s wife—so that she may begin where I leave off. That's why. For myself, I would as soon wear a workman's jacket as @ manager's coat. And now, having gone through all this for her sake—you talk of love! Now you have had your answer, get out, and don’t dare to set foot in this office until you are sent for.” Sartwell in his excitement smote the desk with his clenched fist to emphasize his sentences. Marsten felt that he would have been more diplomatic to have left scener. Nevertheless, seeing that things could be no worse, he stood his ground. “I thought,” he said, “that it would be honorable in me to let you know—_” Don’t talk to me of hcnor. Get out.” At that moment the door trom the pri- vate stairway opened and a young girl came in. Her father had completeiy for- gotten his appointment with her, and both men were taken aback by her entrance. “I knocked, father,” she said, “but you did net hear me.” “In a moment, Edna. hall for a moment,” riedly. “I beg of you not to leave, Miss Sart- well,” said Marsten, going to the other dvor and opening i. “Good night, Mr. Sartwell.”” “Good night,” said the manager, “Good night, Miss Sartwell.” “Good night,” said the girl sweetly, with the suggestion of a bow. The eyes of the two men met for a mo- ment, the obstinacy of the race in each, but the eyes.of the younger man said de- fiantly: “{ have spoken to her, you see.” Just step into the said her father, hur- shortly. Chapter 11, “Edna,” safd her father, when they were alcne, “you must not come to this office again. There was more sharpness in his tone than he was accustomed to use toward his daughter, and she looked up at him quick- ly. lave I interrupted an important con- ference?” she ask Vhat did the young man want, father “He wanted something I was unable to grant.” “Oh, I am so sorry! He did: appear dis- appointed. Was it a situation?” “Something of the sort.” “And why couldn't you give it to him? Wasn't he worthy?” N No, no.” “He seemed to me to have such a good face—honest and straightforward.” “Good gracious, child, what do you know about faces? Do not interfere in business tatters. You don’t understand them. Don’t chatter, chatter, chatter. One woman who does that is enough in a fam- ily—all a man can stand.” The daughter became silent. The father pigeonholed some papers, took them out again, rearranged them, and placed them back. He was regaining control over him- self. He glanced at his daughter and saw tears in her eyes. “There, there, Edna,” he said. all right. I am a little worried tonight, that’s all. I'm afraid there's going to be trouble with the men. It is a difficult sit- uation, and I have to deal with it alone. A strike seems inevitabie, and one never can tell where it will end. “And is he one of the strikers? im possible.” A_ look of annoyance swept over her father's face. “He? Why the—. Edna, you return to a subject with all the persistency of a woman. Yes. He will doubtless go on strike tor.orrow with all the rest of the fools. He !s a workman, if you want to know, and furthermore, he is going on strike when he doesn’t believe in it—going merely because the others go. So you see how much you are able to read a man's face.” “I shouldn’t have thought it,” said the girl with a sigh. “Perhaps if you had given him what he wanted he would not go on strike.” “Oh, now you are making him out worse than even I think him. JI don’t imagine he is bribable, you know. “Would that be bribery? “Suspiciously like it; but he can strike or not as he wishes—one more or less doesn’t: matter to me. I hope, if they go, they will go in a body. A few remaining would only complicate things. Now that you un- derstand all about the situation, are you satisfied? It isn't every woman I would discuss it with, you know, so you ought to_be flattered.” Sartwell was his own man once more, and he was mentally resolving not to be throws off the center again. “Yes, father, and thank yor sald the she added, “It is It seems girl, ‘“The cab is waiting, more to iet him know that so far as she was concerned the discussion was ended, than to impart the information conveyed in her words. “Let it wait. That's what cabs are for. The cabby usually likes it better than hur- rying. Sit down a moment, Edna; I'll be realy presently.” The girl sat down beside her father’s ta- ble. Usually Mr. Sartwell preferred his desk to his table, for the desk was tall where a man stands when he writes. The desk had three compartments, with a lid These were always locked, and Sartwell’s clerks had keys to two of them. ‘The third was supposed to contain the man- ager’s most private papers, as no one but himself ever saw the inside of it. The lid locked automatically when it was shut, and the small key that opened it dangled at Sartwell’s watch chain. Edna watched her father as he unlocked one after another of the compartments and apparently rearranged his papers. There was always about his actfons a certain well-defined purpose, but the girl could not help noticing that now he appeared irreso- lute and wavering. He seemed to be mark- ing time rather than making progress with any definite work. She wondered if the coming strike was worrying him more than he had been willing to admit. At last Sartwell closed down the lid on one desk and locked it, as if he were shut- ting in his wavering purpose; then he plac- ed the key from his watch guard in the third lock and threw. back the cover. An electric light dangling by a cord from the ceiling threw down into the desk rays re- flected by a circular opal shade that cov- ered the lamp. The manager gazed for a Why, you have never, a Httle indignant nail b in her voice. She wished to go to hot father and put her arms around his neck, but she felt intui- tively that he desired her to stay where shé was until he finished what he had to say. “I am getting on im that direction. None of us grow younger But the dead. I sup- pose a daughter is gs blind to her father's growing.old as he i) her advancing wo Manhood. When your mother was alittle older than you are Lhad her portrait paint- ed. She laughed at me and called me ex- travagant. You s ‘and she tho we were really very poor, it, poor girl,.that a Mr. Sartwell Takes Up a Midnight Lunch to His Daughter. Portrait of herself was not exactly a ne- cessity. I have thought since that it was the one necessary thing I ever bought. I had it copied, when I got richer, by a noted painter, who did it more as a favor to me than for the money, for painters do not care to copy othe® men’s work. Curiously enough, he made a more striking likeness of her than the original was. Come here, my girl Edna sprang to her father’s side and rested her hand lightly on his shoulder. Sartwell turned on the electric light. At the bottom of the desk iay a large por- trait of a most beautiful woman. The light shone down on the face and the fine eyes looked smilingly up at them. “That was your mother, Edna,’ said the father, almost in a whisper, speaking with difficulty. The girl was crying softly, trying not to let her father know it. Her hand stole from the shoulder next ‘Aer to the other; his hand caressed her fair hair. “Poor father!” she said, trying to speak bravely. “How lonely you must have been, I seem to—to understand things—that I didn’t before—as if I had suddenly grown old.” They looked at the picture for some time together, in silence, then she sald: “Why did you never show me the por- trait before?” “Weli, my dear, it was here and not at the house, and when you were a small girl you did not come to the office. you know. Then, you see, your stepmother had the responsibility of bringing you up—and— and—somehow I thought it wouldn't be siving her a fair chance. The world 1s rather hard on stepmothers,” He hurried- 1y closed the desk. The girl regarded her father earnestly while he spoke, and then, as if to show that a woman's intuition..will touch the spot around which a man’s reason is elaborately circling, she startled him by saying: “Fatner, something has happened con- cerning me that has, made you anxious on my acccunt. What fs it? I think I should know. Has my stepmother been saying—” “No, no, my child, your stepmother has been saying nothing about you. And if she had I would not—thdt is, I would have given it my best attemtion, and would have no hesitation in letting you know what it was. I think you will find that where your happiness'{s concerned’ shall not allow any prejudices of mine to stand in the way.” The girl looked up at her father with a smile. ‘ i “Now,” sald he, “if you are ready, I am.” “Not quite, father. “You see, I like this office—I atways Uid—and now—after tonight —it will always seem sacred’to me. Now after this you must tafk over your business with me; I may not be able to help, at first, but later on, who can tell? Then it will flatter me by making me think our com- pact Is not one-sided. Is it a bargain, father?” “It is a bargain, Edna.” The father drew the daughter toward him and the bargain was sealed. He turned out the lights, and they hurried down the stair to the slumbering cabman. The fog had reached down almost to the top of his head. ‘The porter opened the gates. “Everything all right, Perkins?” “All right, sir,” answered the porter, touching his ‘cap. “Keep a sharp lookout, you know.” “Yes, sir.” The rapidly lessening rattle of the hansom down the narrow street came back to Per- kins as he closed the big gates for the night. Chapter 11. As father and daughter approached Wim- bledon a mutual sfience came over them. When they passed the station gates, Sart- well said: “We'll have a cab, Edna, and blow the expense.” “I don’t mind walking in the least; there is no fog here.” “We're so late, so we'll have a cab. Once inside, he added, reflectively: “I won- der why it is that a cab seems extrava- gance in Wimbledon and economy in Lon- don.” This apparently was a problem neither of them could solve, so nothing more was said until the vehicle drew up at the door of a walled garden in a quiet street near the breezy common. The two walked somewhat gingerly up the crunching gravel path, opened the front door, and entered a dimly lighted hall. Sartwell placed his hat on the rack, pushed open the dining room door and went in, this time preceding his daughter. There were many comfortable chairs in the room, and one that was not comfortable. On that chair sat a woman, tall and somewhat angular, past the prime of life. She sat exceedingly upright, not allowing her shoulders to rest against the chair back. On her face was a patient expression of mitigated martyrdom, the expression of one who was badly used by a callous world, but who is resolved not to allow its ill- treatment to interfere with her innate jus- tice in dealing with her fellows. “I thought I heard a cab drive up and stop,” she said, mildly, in the tone of one who may be wrong and is willing to be cor- Tee! ted. “You did,” said Sartwell, throwing him- self down in an armeHair. - “Being late, I took a cab from the stdtion.”. Much may bo exprés#éd by an apparently meaningless interjectitin. This one signi- fied that Mrs. Sartwefl, while shocked at such an admission, ed to the inevitable, recognizing that she wis mated with a man not amenable to reasim, and that, while she might say much 'én the influence of unnecessary lavishness, she repressed her- self, although she knaw she would have no credit for her magnan{mity. After a few momettt# of silence, during which Mrs. Sartwell cfftically examined the sewing on which she was engaged, she look- ed across at her husband and said: “I may ask, I suppose, if it was business kept you so late?” * “Important business She sighed. t “It always Is. I should know that by this time without asking. ‘Sime men make busi- hess their god, although it will prove a god of clay to call upon when the end comes. few moments into the desk, then, turning | There is such a thing as duty as well as to his daughter, said: “Edna, you startled me when you came in tonight.” “I am very sorry, father. Didn’t you ex- pect me?” “Yes, but not at that moment, as it hap- pened, You are growing very lke your mother, my girl.” “There was_a peuse,.Edna not knowing what to say. Her father seldom spoke of his dead wife, and Edna could not remem- ber her mother. > “Somehow I did not realize until tonight— that you were growing up. You have al- ayy, baby: tome. ~-Then—suddenly came Bdna, she was only four years older than_you when she.died. You gee, my dear, although I grow older, she aan oes young—but I epeettoaes: band fs dead, too, for’ there is not much Hkeness to him in me.” “But you are not old,” orted the girl, with business, and a man should have some lit- tle thought for his wife and his home.” ‘This statement seemed so incontrovertible that Sartwell made no effort to combat it. “Father has had’ more than usual to worry him at the office today,” said Edna, She stood by the table, having removed her hat and-gloves. A_ look of mild_surprise eame over Mrs. Sartwell’s face. She turned her head slow- ly around, and coldly scrutinized her step- daughter from head to foot. - She apparent- ly became aware-of her presence for the first time,-which may be explained by the fact that the young woman entered the room behind her 3 Sartwell, “how often “Edna,” said Mrs, Sas have I told you ‘not to put your hat and gloves cn the-dining room table? Hiw did ee a tng ae 4 quickly down at rt. ‘The -hansom wheel had, alas, left its mark. ‘Two-and-six an hour does not represent all the iniquities of a hansom on a muddy day. “You are my despair, Edna, with your carelessness, and no one knows how it hurts me to say so. That frock you have had on only—” ‘Edna,” cried ire you hungry her father, peremptorily, “Quite sure. I am not in the least hun- 8T “Then go to bed.” - Edra came around the table to where her stepmother sat and kissed her on the cheek. “Good night,” she sald. “Goed night, my poor child,” murmured Mrs. Sartwell with a sigh. The girl kissed her father, whispering as she did so: “I'm afraid I’m your little girl again by the way you crder me off to bed. “You will always be my little girl to me, my dear,” he said. “Good night.” Mrs. Sartwell sighed again as Edna closed the door. : “I ‘supppose,” she said, “you think it feir to me to speak in whispers to Edna when I am in the room, or you wouldn't do it. How you can expect the child to have any respect for me when you allow her to whisper—” “Is there anything to eat in the house You know there is always something to eat in the h6use.” Mrs. Sartwell’s lips trembled as she folded her work methodically, inclosing needle, thimble, and various paraphernalia of sewing in the bundle, placing it exact- ly where it should be in the work baske:. The keys jingled at her waist as she rose. “I am ready, and always have been, to get you what you want whencver you want it. Perhaps I expect too much, but I think you might ask for it civilly. If you treat your men as you do your wife, it’s no won- der they strike.” Sartwell made no reply, sitting there with his eyes closed until his wife, with a quaver in her voice, told him his supper was ready. It was a plentiful spread, with a choice of beer or spirits to drink; for one of Sart- well’s weaknesses was the belief that to work well a man must eat well. Although his wife did not believe in nor approve of this pampering, she nevertheless provided well for hi, for is not a woman helpless in such a case? Turt ing over her sewing, and s:ghing al- most Inaudibly to it, she remarked, quiet- 8 I said to Mrs. Hope when she call- “Said to whom?” snapped Sartwell, turn- ing round suddenly. “Oh, I thought you were never interested in my callers. I suppose I am allowed io have some private friends of my own. Still {f you wish me to sit in the house all day alone, you have but to say so, and I will obey.” “Dcn't talk nonsense, if you can help it. What was Mrs. Hope doing here?” “She was calling on me.” “Quite so. I think I understand that much. What was her mission? What par- ticular fad was on this time?” “I should think you would be ashamed to speak like that about your employer's wife when she did your wife the honor to con- sult her—" “About what? That is the point I want to set at.” “About the strike.” “Ab!” A glint of anger came into Sart- well’s eyes, and his wife looked at him with some asiness. “Mrs. Hope is a woman who gves about doing good. She is much interested in the men at the ‘works,’ and thinks of caliing cn their wives and families to see for he: self how they live. She thinks perhaps something may be dene for them.” “Dees she?” “She said she hoped men’s helpless familie: “And you answered that, not having any consideration for my own, it was not likely that I would give much thought to the wives and families of the men.” “I didn’t say so, but I thought it.” “Admirable self-restraint. No’ look here, Sarah, you're playing with fire, and haven’t the sense to know it. Mrs. Hope is a meddling, hysterical fool, and——” “You wouldn't dare say that to your em- ployer.” “Now, that remark shows that a woman ef your caliber can live for years with a man and not begin to understand him. The trouble is that I shall say just that very thing to my employer, as you delight to call him, the moment his wife puts her finger in the ple. Then what follows?” “You will lose your situation.” Exactly. Or, to put it more truthfully, I resign—I walk out into the street.” “You surely would do nothing so foolish.” “That follows instantly when I am com- pelled to give Mr. Hope my opinion re- garding his domestic relations. Then what will become of your income? Will Mrs. Hope contribute, do you think? Do you aspire to a place on her charity list? The result of your gossip today may be that I shall be looking for another situation to- morrow. Mrs. Sartwell had been weeping during the latter part of this harangue. “It is always me,” she sobbed, “that is to blame for everything wrong. Your hasty, ungovernable temper never at fault. If you zrade me more of a confidante in your affairs—other men consult their wives, bet- ter men than you, and richer than you will ‘ou considered the ever be. Mrs. Hope says that her hus- band—” a “I don’t want to hear any more about Mrs. Hope.” “You insisted on talking about her. I didn't want to say anything, but you cross- questioned me till I had to, and now you blame me.” “Very well. Let it rest there. Bring me a jug of milk, if you please.” “You are surely not going to drink milk after beer?” “I claim the lberty of a British subject to drink any mortal thing I choose to drink.” “Get the milk or tell me where to get it.” Mrs. Swartell always arose when her hus- band offered to help himself from the lar- der. She placed the Jug of milk at his el- w “I've got a number of things to think over,” he said. “I want to be alone. She stood by the table, looking at him. “Good uight, John,” she faltered at last. “Good -night,” he answered. She gazed at him reproachfully in silence, but he did not raise his head, so, turning at last, with a deep sigh, she left him to his meditations, Sartwell sat there, with deep anxiety on his brow. Silence fell on all the house. At last the master roused himself and turned to the table. He buttered two slices of bread and cut a piece of dainty cake, placing them on a plate with a drinking Blass. Lighting a candle and turning out the gas, he set himself to the acrobatic feat of carrying plate, jug and candle. First, he softly opened the door and kicked off his slippers. Awkwardly laden, he mounted the stairs with the stealthy tread of a burglar, but, in spite of his precau- tons, the stairs creaked ominously in the stillness. He noiselessly entered a room, and, placing the difficult load on table, softly closed the door. When thé light shone on the sleeping girl's face, she opened her eyes very wide, then covered them with her hand, laughing a quiet, sieepy little laugh, and buried her face in the white pillow. “H-s-sh,” said her father. Instantly she was wide uwake. “I was afraid you were hungry, afier all,” he whispered. ie Wasn't then, really, but I am now, a ttle.” ‘hat’s good.” He placed a small, round gipsy table near the bed, and put the plate and jug of milk upon it. “You knew, of course, when I spoke, that—I merely wanted you to get a long night’s rest. You were tired, you know. “Oh, I know that, father.” “Then good-night, my dear. Perhaps it was foolish to wake you up, but you will soon drop off asleep again.” “In a minute; and this does look tempt- ing; I just wanted a glass of milk. It’s go good of you, father.” She drew his head down and kissed him. “I hope you'll sleep well,” she added. “I'll be sure to.” At the door he stopped. Then, after a moment, whispered cautiously: “Edna, you'll take the things down in the morning yourself, quictly. The servants, you know—well, they don’t like extra troi&le—sometimes.”” “Yes, father, 1 understand.” Sartwell stole quietly out, like a thief in the night. Chapter Iv. - Bernard Hope, commonly known as Bar- ney, never quite got over his surprise at finding himself the son of James Hope and Euphemta, his wife... James Hope, the junior member of the firm of Monkton & Hope, was an undersized man, with a touch of baldness and-an air of constant apology. In his office he lived in fear of his at home he lived in - fear husband, and when one met them on the way, to church he had the meek attitude of an unfortunate little boy who had been found out, and was being taken to church as a punishment by a just and indignant sohcolnietcss Mrs. Hope joined in none of the fashionable frivolities of Surbiton, where she lived. She had an idea that if all the well-to-do did their duty, the world would be a brighter and a better place— which is doubtful. She was also constantly in demand by or- ganizations needing members with long purses, but Mrs. Hope had a wonderful talent for managing which was not always recognized by those with whom she associa- ted. This often led to trouble, older members | Mrs. Hope Imspeets Barnard’s Studio. claiming, as they vulgarly put it, that she wanted to run the whole show, and one out- spoken person advised her to ameliorate the condition of her husband's workmen if she desired fit subjects for her efforts. This remark turned Mrs. Hope's attention to the manufactory of Monkton & Hone, and led to her calling upon Mrs. Sartwell in the neighboring suburb of Wimbledon. Now, the son of these two dissimilar but estimable rersons ought to have been a solemn prig, whereas he was in fact a bois- terous cad, and thus does nature revel in unexpected surprises. Barncy was a broad-shouldered, good-na- tured giant, who towered over his shrink- ing father as the monument towers over the nearest lamp post. He was hail fellow well met, and could not shake hands like an ordinary mortal, but must bring down his great paw with an over-shouider mo- tion as if he were throwing a cricket ball, and after resounding whack of palm on palm, he would cruach the hand he held until its owner winced. It is possivle that in the far west, or in the Australian bush,where muscle counts for something, there was a place yawning for Barney; perhaps there was a place for him even in London, but if there was, fate and Barney's own inclinations remo him from it as far as possible. Bar: was an artist; that is to say, he painted, or rather he put certain colors on canvas. For some yeu rney had been the amazement. of Julian's schcol in Paris. He had a suite of roums at the Grand Hotel, and he drove | to the school in the Rue du Dragon every morning, with a coachman and footman, the latter carrying Barney's painting kit, while the former sat in a statuesque pos tion on the box with his whip at the cor- rect angle. Of course, the ari students were not going to stand that sort of thing, so they closed the gates one day and st- tacked the young man ina body. Barncy at first thought it was fun, for he did rot undersiand the language very well, and! his govd-natured roar sounded joud over the shrill cries of his antagonisis. He reached for them one by one, placed them horizontally in a heap, then he rolicd them cver and over, flattening any student who attempted resurrecticn with a pat of his gigantic paw. Whetever admiration they may have kad for art at Julian's, they certainly had a deep respect for muscle, and so left Bor- ney alone after that. He in ed them ali to dinner at the Grand Hotel, and they! came. When his meteoric carer as an art st dent in Paris was complered, he set him BARNARD HOPE RELATES HIS EXPERNIENCE “Listen to me. You have a certain tal- ent—technique, perhaps I should call it; a slight skill in technique.” “Ah, that’s better. Now go on.” “You got the praise and the prizes in Paris because of your technique, and that set you on the wrong tack. You are merely only dajng well what hosts of other men have done well before you. You are dewn among the ruck. Now, I strive after indi- viduatity.”” be ae eS “You get it, Barney. “That’s not Yor me to say. Anyhow, in- dividuality and strength are what 1 want to see in my pictures, and there. will some time come & critic. with a mind unbiased enough to recognize these qualities. Then my day will have arrived. You mark my words, I shall found a school.” “Like Julian's?” “No, like Whistler's. You know very well what I mean. That's your nasty way of showing you are offended bec rm frank enough to tell you the truth. “I suppose none of us likes the candid friend, however much we may pretend to. Well, I must be going. I've got some technique to do for one of the magazines.” Haldiman went downstairs, not cheered as much as might have been expected by Hope's overflowing good nature and gen- erosity. He met Barney's mother on the stairs, who gave him a head-to-foot glance of evident disapproval. She did not admire the set with whom her son had thrown in his lot, and feared their influence on him Would not be beneficial. “Oh, mater!” cried Barney, when she entered. “I did not expect you today. How did you find the place?” His mother raised her lorgnette to her eyes and surveyed the room in silence. “So this is the studio, Barnard,” she said at last. “I don’t think much of it. Why is it all untidy like this?—or haven't you had time to get it in order yet?” “This is the kind of thing we artists go in for, mater. It is as much in order as it ever will be.” “Then I don't like it. Why could you not have had a man in to lay one carpet as it should be laid? These rugs all scat- tered about in this careless way, trip one up so. What's this old iron for? “That's armor, mater.” “Oh, is 1t? I don't see how any one can do useful work in a room like this, still, I suppose it is good enough to paint in. I found the place easily enough. Trust a neighborhood to know where there is any extra foolishness going on. Of course, you have been cheated in ‘everything you bought. But that’s neither here nor there. i to talk with you about the busi- hogy What business, mater?” Wiat business? The business, of course.” ‘oolish begga: What are they going to do that for, and what do you expect me to do. Not to talk to the men, I hope, for the workingmen. He's an’ ass otherwise he wouldn't work for the wages he gets. I can’t reason with the workingman, you know, mater.” ‘o. I don’t suppose you caa. I some- times doubt whether you can reason with anybody. The men have made some de to find. The men have made some mands which Sartwell, the manag even listen to. It scems to me is not treating them fa: He should, at least, hear what they . and # their demands do net cost hi ould grant them. young man with en- What a head for burmess you “I am of a family that became rich through having for business,” plicd the lady, with justifiable Now, what I want you to do man Sariw will pay < to you, because he knows that in tie you will be his master, end so he will be civil to qu."* “I'm not so sure of that,” said Barney, doubtfully. “I imagine he thinks me rather an ass, you know.” “Well, now is your opporiunity for show- ing him you are not, if he has the im- pertinence to think Such a thing. You must see hira, at his own house and not at the officehere is his address. Teil him to receive the men and make a com- premise w He is to make coa- cessions that are important, and thus ef- fect a compromise. A little tact is all that is required.” “From me or from Sartwell?" Prom both of you. I expe: you because you are my son. “1 don’t like the job, mate Uke interference.” tact from ; it does look Mrs. Hope again raised her lorgnette by its Jong tortoise shell handle, and once ore surveyed the studio. “This must have cost you a good deal of Barnard,” she said, impartialiy. WITH MRS. SARTWELL. self up in ar immense studio in Chelsea. The studio was furnished regardless of expense; there wes everything in it that a studio ought to have—rich hangings from the east, tiger skins from India, oriental rugs, ancient armor, easels of every pat- tern and luxurious lounges covered with stuffs from Persia. “There,” cried Barney to Hurst Haldi- man, with a grand sweep of iis hand,“what do you think of that?” Haldiman, ene of the most talented stu- dents he had met in Paris, had now a garret of his own in London, where he painted when he got time, and Jid black and white work for the magazines and il- lustrated weeklies to keep himself in money. Barney had invited ali his own old Parisian friends, one by one, to sce his new quarters. Wonderful!” said Haldiman. “I venture to say there is not another studio in J.on- don like it.” Haldiman lit another of Hope's very ex- cellent cigarettes. Barney imported them from Egypt himself, and said they were the same brand the khedive smoked until one of the war correspondenis informed him that the khedive was not a emoker. Then Barney slightly varied the phrase. “Help yourself, dear boy. You'll find they are not half bad as cigarettes go. I get them direct, for you can't trust these rascally tmporters. The khedive is not a smoker himself, still he keeps nothing but the best for his guests, and this is the identical brand as supplied to him. “Now, about this painting business,” con. tinued Bainey. “The public won't buy my pictures. I don’t conceal that faet. Why should I? I sent a pic-ure to the Birmingham exhibition—I don’t say trat it was great, but I do claim that it had in- dividuality. They rejected it. “You amaze me = ‘I give you my werd of honor they did, Haidiman. Birmingham! Think of that. A town that manufactures nails and gu barrels.” - “Oh, art in England Is going +o the dogs,” | sald Haldiman, dejectedly. “Now, I don't go so far as to say that. No, I laughed when my little effort came back, with regrets. I.said I can bide my time, and I can. The people will ccme to me, Haldiman, you see if they don’t.” “Rirmingham has got me on the other alley, It has accepted two of mine. : what you have told me. Barney beamed on his visitor. Here was his argument cinched, but he repressed his desire to say “I told you so.” Still, he could not allow the occasion to pass with- out improving it with a little judicious there you Does not the fact that you are ac- cepted of Birmingham make you pause and > orm staggered. It’s a knock-down blew. T'll_be into the Academy next.” “Oh, not so bad as that. You see, Haldi- man, you have talent of a >ertain kind--—" “Now, Barney, you lay it on too thick. I like flattery, of course, but it must’ be delicatety dome. You are gross in your praise.” “It did,” admitted the young man. “I suppose I shall soon have to be writ- ing another check for you. For how much shail I make it?” “It is such a pity to trouble you so often, mater,” replied the young man, “that haps we had better say three hundre “Very well,” said his mother, rising. “I will have it ready for you when you come to Surbiton after having seen Sart- well at Win.bleton. it is on your way, you know. “All right mater. But you mustn't blame me if 1 don't succeed. ru do my best, but Sartwell’s an awkward beggar to deai ith.” “SAI I ask of you, Barnard, is that you shall do your best,” answered the lady, rising. id Chapter V. When Mrs. Hope departed Barney sat down on a luxurious divan in his studie and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I may as well have that check as soon as possible,” he said to himself. “It is no use delaying important matters. Besides, delay might injure the scheme the mater has on her mind. What a blessing it is father asks me not to mention the checks he gives me. Between the two you manage to rub along, Barney, my boy. Well, here goes for Wimbledon!” The young man arrayed himself with some care, jumped into a hansom, and was driven to Sloane square station, where in due time a deiiberate train came along that ultimately landed him in Wimbledon. If Barney had been a man of deep thought, or experienced in the ways of working people, cr able to reason from in- duction, he would have arrived at the fact that there was net the slightest chance of finding Mr-Sartwell in his house at that hour of the day. It must nut be supposed that Barney was an unthinking person, for when the servant informed him that Mr. Sertwell was never at home except in the evening or early morning, Barney at once accused himself mentally of heedlessness in haying come all the way from Chelsea to Wimbiedca to learn so self-evident a fact. “He not be home tor some hours, I suppose? “No, sir. Barney pondered for a while, and sudden- ly delivered himself of a resolution that did credit io his good sense, “Then 1 won't wait,” he said. “What name shall I say, sir?” asked the maid. “Oh, it's of no importance. I will call again; still, here is my card. I am the son of Mr. Hope, one of the proprietors of the “works.” ” The maid took the card, and Mrs. Sart- well appeared in the hall, almost as if she had been listening to the words of the speaker, which, of course, she had @ per- fect right to do, as one generally wishes to know who calls at one’s front door. “Did I hear you say that you were Mr. Hope?” she asked. “f am his son, madame,” said Barney.