SAINTS IN SOCIETY.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLIII, Issue 13096, 8 February 1906, Page 3

SAINTS IN SOCIETY.

[PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ABBAX&EMKNT.]

BY MARGARET BAILLIE-SAUNDERS, Prize-winner in Mr, T. Fisher Unwin's First Novel Competition. | (."COPYRIGHT, I ' i PART 11. CHAPTER XX. Cr.o did not give herself a. moment to think. Returning to her hansom she told tbo man to drive to Walworth, but to pass through Trafalgar Square on the way. When they came to the groat sloping squate she found it, as she expected, already full of the most miserable, battered, drearylooking .specimens of humanity the mind can picture. Some of the poor wretches had tramped for miles in boots that hardly covered their feet, and many of them had with them miserable drabs of wives, who themselves had bravely footed the long walk thiough slush and mist and mud, having partaken of no dinner. All hoping, hoping! hoping. All doomed to tramp home again to tireless houses with no hope. ° On the temporary platform she could see t.io chairman, Air. Beatiuan, already in his place and in deep conference with several eager men. The police were busy, foreseeing further additions to the scene. It took some time.to got to Walworth, the greasy state of the roads preventing the man from driving quickly, and when she reached the little settlement at last she tound Dorcas out, having been called away to visit a dying child. She followed her to the address given by the sister in charge, but could not, of necessity, bring her away at once, and was obliged, after sending in a message, to wait outside the poor house in her cab, literally shaking with impatience. r

When at last Dorcas came out she found a very silent., resolute edition of her friend, and Clo told her hurriedly to jump in and tell the man to drive to Trafalgar Square. J. ho meeting hud been in full swing foi some time when the cab at last drew up on the outskirts; of the immense crowd. There was a sound of groaning and hissing, and a sort of long rumbling moan of discontent from time to time swayed the great neutraltinted multitude, like the baying of a great dog iii a. discontented sleep. The faces of men looked angry and disappointed, some of them set and despairing. Clo spoke to a man near her cab, asking the cause of this.

"Cause?" said lie, "cause enough. God knows! I tell you, there's not a single Labour leader on that there platform this day—not one. there ain't. Robinson's funked ii—Slade, Wilson, Hading, they're i'll alike. But Hading's worst, of all; he's done least and promised most. May he —" He uttered a curse too terrible to repeat, and Clo turned away in horror. " We're to .jo home," howled another man to the winds, or the mist, or any passer-by who would listen, " with 110 hope left. We thought some; hinlc 'ud come of this. There ain't not bin' more to hope for." And now the surging roar that had been growing in volume began to swell into an ominous sound, hoarse and discordant. The chairman was trying to speak—he at least wad genuine in his efforts. Clo scribbled a few words on her visiting-card, and, calling a policeman near, asked him to convey it to the chairman, Mr. Beatman. The man hesitated till she drew his attention to the name, saying she came from Hading. They she saw him elbow his way through the crowd with extreme difficulty, and eventually deliver the note to the speaker. There was a pause and a few minutes' consultation.

The people observed the interruption but took the message ''received- by the chairman to be but. one more excuse that had reached him that day as the afternoon wore on. At this they set up a ioud howl of derision, i?lafc went swaying and swelling over the great sea of packed' miserables like the incoming of a thunderous ocean. So busy were they with their burst of baffled rage that only a few poisons, and those only in the direct line, saw two women guarded by police push their way tortuously through the great multitude and climb the steps at the foot of the Nelson Monument. It was not unfit Clo arrived at the middle of the platform and stood there upright, with Dorcas Deane at her side, that they realised what had happened, and then they broke into a shout of half-hilarious amazement. There on the grey stone steps, in front of the great grey pillar, flanked by the grey lions, and surrounded by thousands of ashy, dun-coloured, surging beings, in the dim, dull gleam of a December Sunday afternoon in London, stood a lady of extraordinary beauty and commanding height, obviously waiting to speak. Clo still wore the clothes she had worn for church in the morning, and the effect of her extreme fairness against the rich wealth of her furs and velvet garments, little .suited indeed to her surroundings, gave her an almost fantastic appearance. At her side the fair-faced mission woman in her Quaker-like uniform made a unique contrast; suet* a pair had probably never before stood up to face such an audience. The chairman tried to command silence, but several shouts of jeering laughter daunted him.

Clo waited. She knew of old what curiosity would do when politeness failed. After a few minutes the laughter subsided, save in sundry jeers hurled, net ill-na-turedly, at the strange lady by a gang near the steps. On the face, of one of these Clo fixed her eyes suddenly, and as suddenly spoke out. in a ringing voice. "That will do. Jim Ball," she said, "you ought to know Mark Hading' wife better than that. Who saved your little boy?" The very suddenness and sharpness of this attack, coming from the lips of a beautiful, girlish-looking "fine lady," had instant effect.

"Mark Hading's wife, is you''" said the scowling villain. "So ye are, but changed wi' fat living. Where's Mark Hading?" " I'm not changed in love of them 1 lived amongst," called she, over the din. falling back in her excitement into the old vernacular and some of the old twang. "Hooray!" shouted one, and "Well said, lady," answered another. But the repeated call. "Where's Mark Hading?" was growing in powei and threatening to drown her voice. But, lifting up her head, and stepping a little forward, she. called out in her clear, loud Cockney voice, now shrill again in its old fashion and just sufficiently tainted with the twang to command a sudden attention, " I've come here to tell you." Then, getting impatient-, she threw out her daintily-gloved right hand and cried, " Look here, boys', give us a chance!" (N.B.She now called it " cha-a-a-nce.') Anything less like the quiet, refined Clo of the last few years it was impossible to imagine. Yet there was a kind of gallant grace in the way the Cockney abandon sat on one so beautiful and stately ; it was as if Juno had suddenly developed slang. Mingled with her obvious goodhuniotir and clear unconsciousness of self it had a positive charm to that weary crowd, sick to death of abuse and disappointment. Somehow the men felt the charm and began to listen, now pressing forward eagerly to hear her words ;uid to see what such a woman would say. " Brothers and sisters," she said. " I am Mark Hiding's wife. Some of you know me. 1 was one of you. I am still. 1 do what I can for your children : I count them mine. I've come here to-day, not because anyone asked me to come, but because I love you and believe in you, and want to help you." (It is fearful to relate that she now said " you" something like "yer. ) " Mark Hading's awav from home ; he. cannot- be with you to-day. So I have come in his place to read to you his speech containing a plan for your relief. And' when I've read you that. I'll tell you of a plan of my own." She then took out tier papers and proceeded gravely to read out Mark's carefully-drawn-up ocheme, in a voice high, shrill and penetrating, lull of fire and emphasis, and with always that winning Cockney accent ,'to them), giving the words point and power over a multitude to whom it was l he normal language, and who felt its kinship.

Mark's speech was long, wordy and 1 " tricate, but they gave it perfect attention. There was something absolutely com pel l 0 about that new, loud, ringing voice of Cm s, combined with her striking beauty an etat-ely dress and bearing. As she 6 too there speaking, her erect head, her ejes sparkling, her breast heaving, her slight j dimpled chin thrown proudly back ana an eager smile on her short-featured, queenly face, she somehow won every single heart by the very self-forget fulness of her. They loved her. She stood for an embodiment of life and health and brave womanliness and beauty, and these poor starved things locked upon her rapt, as we look at a sudden blaze of sunshine on a dark November day, or as wan old age gazes upon the. flashing brilliance of a lovely child. When Mark's speech drew to a close, full as it was of plans and suggestions showing time and thought-, their feelings were obviously mixed. Some caught on to several of the suggestions individually and jeered openly. Others took up the thread and called out, " What does he mean by that, lady?" and " (Jive us the straight tip, lady : how's that going to work?"' and so 011. But all were clearly willing to treat her well; indeed, her presence was a novelty, and had somehow shed a benediction about the vast concourse, for it was now undoubtedly in a better humour, though remaining sardonic as to Mark's utterances. To all these semi-sneering questions she answered sedately enough that they must make a note of their objections and call a meeting for her husband to answer them in person. She seemed to be without fear or timidity of any kind. "And if we do.'' said one, "where will he he when he's wanted?" "Dancing after line ladies." rang out another voice, meanly. The words touched on some raw spot quite unconsciously. She blushed painfully, but held up her hand for silence. " My patience, boys,'' she said, glowing angry, "you give me no time to speak. I've read you my husband's words, plans and wishes. Now you've got to hear mine— mine." she said, almost shouting in her determination to be heard. She stamped her foot. Her indignation had effect. If she had read out Mark's words with spirit, her own came pouring out like those of a prophetess. She told them briefly all she knew of their suffering, their discontent, their homelessness, their hopelessness. She told them all she felt when she beheld the wheels of political reform creak slowly along, and meanwhile the children dying by the wayside. She told them, in simple words (her words were always almost. Biblical in their neat sparseness, and therefore singularly telling), that those who sat day after day by empty hearths, pinched with hunger, and grey with care ; those who had old, diseased children, and only starvation and the grave to look tocould not wait any longer for Governments to come and go —a and promises to come and go, she added —could not live to wait unless something were done and done quickly. And that something should be done. " Boys," she said in her old short, sharp, Cockney fashion, " there's one who loves you and pities you from her heart. There's "one of the 'great' that- you're so fond calling names —one I've been wit-li to-day but whose name I may not tell youwho lias oli'ered three thousand pounds of her own to give you work and food for the next fortnight. There's others who wilt follow herothers who will give because she leads —and I hope to find work for three months till the spring comes." A huge shout drowned her words, a shout of honest sudden gratitude. "Comes again," panted do, trying to be heard. " Committee to be appointed by to-morrow morning." Again shouts. " Com© to me at Walworth Settlement for information to-morrow." Again shouting. " Boys, I wish it was today. May God bless you!" The mighty heart-burdened roar of gratitude drowned her words at last, and she had to sink back, with her hand clasping Dorcas', into the chair Mr. Beatman now urged her to take, with a sudden break in her voice and tears in her eyes. When at last the great swelling "Hurrah," which was the poor multitudes thanks, died down a little, the chairman held up his hand, and after a. few kind words to the crowd he declared the meeting closed. The police began to urge, a quiet departure, but hope had now re lit the .grey, grim faces, and up rose that most eternal and 1 unquenchable thing—the-Cock-ney wit, which no misery can quite kill; that undying sense of the ludicrous that makes the Cockney so lovable in spite of all his faults. Jokes were freely bandied about, and several gangs pushed to the steps of the Monument and asked to shake hands with "the lydy." But never for a moment did they falter in their respect. Dorcas and Go shared the burden, of this promiscuous hand-shaking till the waning light and Go's now growing paleness wanted the chairman to again insist on their departure. The police now sharply aiding him, this end was at last, accomplished. Mr. Beatman teamed on Go when they had gone. His gratitude was almost as deep as theirs. . . n " You have saved us from utter despair, he said. " Come •to me early to-morrow, Mr. Beatman," she Said, "or stay —this evening if you can. I want your advice about' my new scheme, and the committee. Of course you will join us? Lord Henry Vade will be one. of us. Do como if you can." He consented eagerly, put her in her cab, and she drove home with Dorcas. But at the door Dorcas would not come in; she insisted on returning to Walworth to her Sunday evening duties. She was & careful not- to enter that she might- have known Mark had virtually forbidden her the house. Perhaps she guessed. Then Go. bidding her good-bye, went indoors and gave a few quiet orders; went upstairs to her own room, her eyes shining like stars. Locked her door; did a very feminine thing, went and looked at herself in the. glass. Took off her hat and coat, and threw herself down on her bed in a flood of passionate, hopeless tears.

(To be continued daily.)