THE DIVIDED HOUSE

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1687, 29 June 1904, Page 13

THE DIVIDED HOUSE

(By Herbert Sliaw.} The way that the light went in the little room, half McAlpine’s face was m shadow; the other half was clear and strong. Presently he moved round towards hie secretary, and the hard mouth showed in full. It was late, and m the heavy silence the remorseless ticking ot the clock sounded slow and very loud to the .tired'secretary, like blows on a tmv anvil. \ . “So that's the letter,” said McAlpine the Scotsman. “A pretty letter. What were the three names?” , Once more the secretary s hand felt for the typed letter on the table. Before he had picked it up, McAlpine s memory came. „ , “All right,” said he. “It doesn't matter ; I remember them —Pearce and Thomas and Bernardson. If I employ those three any longer, the others all eo out. An ultimatum to. me.” “Yes,” said the secretary. ‘They go out at the end of the week.” “They don't,” said McAlpine. He pushed his chair back and stood upright. A day and half a night of galloping work were behind him, but he shook the creeping tiredness from him like an old coat. - , . “They don’t,” he cried again, and his voice, leapt. “They go out to-morrow, as early as you can wire down. If I were worth only a tenth of what 1 am now,l'd pay them their week’s wages after that letter, and see their backs, if it broke me.” The mind of the secretary was at once invaded by the black panorama that lb* l .would mean. He saw the pale women and the querulous children, the burly, idle men. He saw each slow-moving week a further milestone of degradation. “They have been led astray,” said he. “Yes,” said McAlpine sharply. “Whose fault is that—they choose their own leaders. I know what a lock-out means as well as you, but I've lost patience. I'm as competent to be a leader as any three of their wretched agitators. Man, I tell you I had it in my mind. “I would have made Castletown a place for the world to look at —a fair Eden for decent working men. But I've come up by myself—it's a fact that I started with .a borrowed sovereign—l've sweated, aim strained, and worked; and I'll have nobody to dictate to me how I'm to run ’».■> business, and what men I must employ. “They had it in their, hands, for you know when there was that trouble a week ago, 1 went down and tqld them to their faces. All this week, I suppose, little men in white collars have been holding meetings, and going from house to house, telling them to strike. ‘You re bound to win.. He can't afford to have his works shut.' “They’ve chosen their road, and ir>ey think it’s a short one. But I'll fight. I was three years in the poorhouse when I was a boy, and I'd sooner be there again than not have my own way now. Perhaps you can't understand that?” “Quite well,” said the secretary. “Graham, my boy, it's the longest speech I ever made to you. I want some sleep. Good-night.” “Good-night,” said Graham. “I'll wire down first thing.” He rose and stood by the window. “I might as well go out now,” he added with a laugh. For as lie pullod aside the curtains the day came strange and awkward into the lighted room. e o * When the strike had lasted a month, and McAl pine's men at Castletown get timid, and talked of cavalrymen an! the nearest barracks, McAlpine said: “I must go down to Castletown. Thev won't frighten me.” But when he told his wife that he would not be long away, and she must not be afraid for him, she said: “Let me go, too." McAlpine looked at her in sur prise “Take you down, Grace! Why ?” “I don't know,” she answered evasively. 'And. then added for her reason, ‘T want to go.” “It's not safe for you. You wouldn’t dare to go out in the streets for a walk, from what Merriman tells me.” “It can't be so bad as that. The worst of the men would not hurt a wormeu.” “I imagine,” said McAlpine grimly “that you wouldn’t be an ordinary woman to them as they are now. You’d be just M.cAlpine'B wife.” But' she had her way.

“Life's too crowded to waste time in. trying to dissuade a woman," he said to Graham afterwards.

By the time McAlpine had reached Castletown. the strike had bared the place to a collectionj>f dreary, idle streets. His coming irritated the. men to furious speech. They talked openly at meetings of attacking him, which was bad, and got their words printed in a local paper, which was worse.

McAlpine took a thick stick, and walked about the streets as he liked. The apparent indifference had its effect in less than a fortnight. One morning a man began hesitatingly to follow him. When McAlpine slackened, the man stopped. “Good morning, Peters," said McAlpine over his shoulder.' The man was an assistant engineer. “To think of your pooi engines spoiling there for a wipe of grease!" said McAlpine, and stopped in his turn. .

Peters came nearer. “Hands off!” cried McAlpine, mistaking the movement. “No, it's not that,” said Peters. McAlpine lowered the lifted stick. “I've some news.”

“Well, let’s have it,” said McAlpine, “if you please.” , “They had a meeting yesterday,” said Peters. “They’re tired, or, rather, their women .are, and it's the same thing. They're coming to you to-day to tell you. They'll have the three men back, and start next week.”

/‘Will they?” said McAlpine in quick; sudden rage. “I'm much obliged. I’m glad you told me. You can go back and tell them quietly. It'll save them having their licking advertised in the papers, at any rate. They'll come back, will they—the good men. fDell them from me that they'll do nothing of the sort. They'll come back when I want them, and not before. I'm sorry you went in with the crowds, Peters. You were a decent worker for me once. And I stood by you—if you were ill at home, or anything of that sort, didn't I?” , /Yes,” said Peters. “You're quite right. But I practically-had to go with the others, and that's a fatt.” “I'm sorry. But no man has to do anything he doesn't want to, if he's strong enough,” said McAlpine. “Good morning, Peters.” So things were worse. It was a part of McAlpine now to know that he was master, to see those who had revolted go down and down. It was really against liis nature. But he would not move.

When the big London papers took the part of the men. and wrote against McAlpine and his tyranny, it made him harder still. There were special correspondents now, who filled columns about the pitiful state of-the people. McAlpine laughed at reading them. Ills wife looked at him across the table with sorrowful eyes, trying to get to the depths of the man’s hardness. The hardness of the man she loved. This masterful man. Surely he would soon relent. * And already the gloom of the late months was coming over Castletown. Grey, clammy fogs that heralded the winter. The winter was a bitter thing for them without money.

“Finish it now. Jack,” said his wife. “You have proved how strong you are. Finish it, and let the men in.” “Not 1,” said McAlpine. /‘The men have paid for their lesson with their speeches of two months ago. I was a tyrant and a slave-driver. The first I will be now—they shall have their lesson to the full.” • “Did the women and the children pay?” said she. “I can’t help that. Even a man at a pound a week should think before he jumps. My mind’s made up. You can’t change it. Let them go through the winter for a bit, and come to me again.” His hand camo down upon the papers he had been reading. “And I’ll walk their streets alone,” he shouted.- “I’m not old. I’m fit and strong. Not one of them dares to sav I’m afraid.” But in face of this cruel arrogance his wife’s eyes had changed. And that night a woman, veiled and in black, knocked at the door of Peter’s cottage. The woman in the print dress who faced her stood silent in surprise and curiosity. “Is vour husband in?” “No!” “Then may I come in?” asked the visitor in a soft voice.

The parlour was now bare and dreary, and she went in, listening to a confused murmur of apology. The wax ornaments in the glass cases wei’e gone. There were two chairs where there had been five. The gilt-framed chromograph of a scene in Venice was missing from the walls. The visitor put down a bulging parcel on the table, and said ;

“May I look at your children? They're aren't they?” Wondering, yet with no thought of refusing, the woman of the house led her up the narrow stairs. Together’ they looked down upon the sleeping children. And the mother said, almost humbly: “It's a hard time.”

“There's food downstairs.” said the stranger. “Tea, and things that I know you want. I’ll come again. Only tell nobody. I will send other things to you. \ ou can help me by taking them to other houses. You don't know me, do you? It doesn't matter. Good-bye.” She held out her hand. But the mother of the children could not speak. Only when the stranger had gone, she sat down in the parlour instead of the kitchen. Because she could imagine the lady in black still standing there. She was thinking. Trying to reconstruct a memory from the soft voice and the dim-ly-seen face. “The governor'3 wife.” she cried at last. And she knelt down at a chair and prayed. On another night, at a late hour. McAlpine met his wife on the stairs. “You're very late, Grace,” said he. “Where have you been?” “I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “I went out.”

“By vourself—at this time?” “Yes.” “I don't understand.” “Have you ever thought,” said she, “that there are some things which you Will never understand?”

She flung the words at him in a sort of calm temper, and passed by him. “Now, when shall one know a woman ?" said McAlpine. speaking to the stairs. But meanwhile the locked-out men talked in groups and planned in bar rooms. They were rejected, useless. McAlpine passed them daily, with his shut lips and his stern face. Silent scorn —rubbing in their wounds. Nothing hurts a man so much as to know he can be done without. To Know that whether he works or is idle, it is immaterial to some other men. Nbthing is so bitter. And these men could be done without. Because of the strength and the force of this cold, silent man. Desperate, they worked to a climax. They would show that they, too, had power. That they could hit back. Should they starve and be cold for ever ? And with a drink, which they managed to get sometimes, they were new men. They swaggered and they talked. They did not starve. They were kept by the food that, came to mem, and they did not question. And their children were bright-faced and healthy.

On the night which was to see th? climax, Peters came home. He had taken a little intoxicant to give him courage but excitement possessed him more thau the drink. *

He was disagreeable and suspicious, and he wanted to quarrel. He began at once to wrangle with Lis wife about the parcels that had come. In his queer mood he resented them as an insult.

“Where do they come from?” he asked. “I shan't tell you,” replied his wife. Peters was swept with the desire to be masterful, which he ecu id indulge here —the only place where he could be free from that feeling of humiliation. “Then they’re not to come any more. Eat humble pie to anybody? I don't want anybody’s charity.” “What about the children?”

“Let them be the same as us. Mind what I tell you. I'll be master in my own house. I'll

He was stopped short by the feeling that another person -was in the r»m. He looked up to see the lady in black, who was free of the house, and who had come silently from the passage. He recognised her at once, and all the sullen passion of the dreary long kept under control, leapt up and overcame the man.

“It's you, is it?”,h© cried. "Then it’s you who sends the food. I’m to go in the dust to him, and to you as well, am I?” he snarled, and struck her across the fa.ce.

She shrank back and went blindly through the door. Then his wife had hold of his wrists, and was forcing him backwards against the wall. “You coward!’’ she said. Her voice was like a whip. “You fool. Mrs McAlpine brought the food for the children. Where would they be without it ? There's not a better woman on earth than Mrs McAlpine has been to me—or one more kind. You coward!" Peters shook himself free.

“I don't care,” he said doggedly. He turned and took his cap from behind the door.

“Where are you going?” “I'm going to finish it. He said ‘Goodmorning’ to me as if I was a dog. Though I'm sorry I hit her —now.” When McAlpine returned home he went straight upstairs. His wife called to him and he went into her room at the side of the house. He started back when he saw her face —the ugly mark across her forehead. “What’s the matter?” he cried, quickly understanding. “Who was it that hit you ? One of the men ? Are you much hurt? They shall pay for this!” “They shall pay my own way, then. Not yours.” “What's this ?” said McAlpine in a different voice.

“You said your mind was made up. My mind is made up, too. You say you can’t change yours. I can’t change mine." . . , “Who hit you ?" he 11 terrupted. “Tell me his name." “No. Who was the cause of the blow I bear? Who but yourself?’’ “What doi you mean?" “Let us leave that alone. It’s done with. You’ve gone too far in pride—too high. For -weeks I’ve helped them witn food and money. Unless you promise to have the men back—to have them back next week—l leave the house to-night.” They stood silent. And then suddenly, from far below in the still house, came the noise of a gentle tapping. And then a- faint scraping scund. Instantly McAlpine was himself again. "“Stay “here,” he said softly. “Turn that light low, and stay here. They’re trying tne catch of the kitchen window. I heard something like that was afloat." - ' The room was in darkness. He reached the door, but turned at her voice.

“Jack/’ she called, “is there any danger?"

“None whatever, dear.” “But you’re going downstairs!’’ “It's all right,” he repeated, coming back into the room. “Don’t be afraid. And about the other thing—l learn in a minute what I have been trying for weeks not to learn. You’re quite right.” On the landing he took off his boots, and crept quietly down. There were two men outside. One was at work on the window while the other waited.

The window went slowly up. As Peters let himself down noiselessly from the sill into the. room. h 8 held a lantern high—and faced the barrel of a revolver, held by McAlpine. / “Oh it’s you Peters?” said McAlpine. “Who's the other man? Why, it's, old Ben Dodd. I suppose came here tonight, Peters,- to rob “Yes,” said Peters. Re was defiant still. “I did. I wasn't particular about stopping at that either.” “To rob, and, if necessary, to kill, eh?” questioned McAlpine in a deep voice. His revolver dropped. But now Peters did not answer. His courage was gone. He was once more mastered by this man who would not be afraid.

“Well, Peters, there’s no occasion. To-night one of your men struck my wife. Man to man, I would kick him through the streets, whoever he is. But now I sha’n’t ever ask you for his name. My fight’s done. I’ve learnt my lesion. My wife has taught me. You’re not co think —there can’t be on© of you who will really think in his heart that I stop fighting because I’m afraid of you. It doesn’t matter a pin to me now if you do think that."

He stopped. Peters could hardly find his voice. At last he said from dry lips: “You mean ”

“Yon can all come back next week, and we’ll work properly together. Is that all right for you ? Dodd, my son, you might be dead for all you could do in the way of talking now. Look here, it’s not very late, is it? I’ve got an idea. You go back Dodd, and get all the men up, to come and hav© supper with me." “Now?" said Dodd in astonishment. “Of course. I can put you on some stuff at short notice that will make a rattling feed. Hurry up, Dodd. Aren’t you going with him, Peters? Well, you can stop here? Wliat’s up?" But Peters, who had struck the blow, was crying like a child. McAlpine left him- there. Going to the foot of the stairs, he called “Grace!’’ in great voice. And they had supper. It was a roar* ing, if a most unusual supper. And the lock-out was over.