THE NOVELIST.

Otago Witness, Issue 3397, 23 April 1919, Page 48

THE NOVELIST.

[Published by Special Abbancembnt.]

THE IVORY GOO.

By ANNIE S. SWAN (Author of "Aldersyde," " Gates of Eden," etc.). [COPYRIGHT.] CHAPTER VIII.—COMRADES IN MISFORTUNE. Aaron Fletcher, -with- an expression of deep gloom on his face, walked across the field path between Catley station and his home. He was due to attend a mass meeting of his fellow-workmen in an hour's time on a piece of waste ground about a quarter of a mile beyond the Lily mine in which he had worked, man for over forty .years. To a certain type of man, to uproot the conditions and associations of a lifetime is a terrible thing, Aaron felt it in every fibre of his being. In going he would take his home with him, and the two lads who must soon begin their working life. There was no scarcity of work in the county. He had just come from signing on for a fresh job, which would better him in the matter of pay and take him about eleven miles from the scene of his former life. The new pit to which he*"was going was on the northern side of Durham, nearer Newcastle, and in the very heart and centre of the mining industry. His new employer had not been in the least curious or inclined to ask questions, though he was personally quite weli known to Mr-J?aussit; but Aaron, with a sort of rugged candour, had insisted on telling part of his story. " A'm no firebrand, sir," he had said. 'An' I hate strikes wi' a mortal hatred. Wicked and needless I calls them. If a ■man don't like his job, let 'im quit. A'ad no faut to find wi' ma' job, and A'm quittin' for family reasons." He had declined all his fellow-work-men's entreaties to stop on in Catley and make his a test case. In Aaron's estimation there was no test about it. The time had come for his old master and him to part through causes which neither of them unhappily had power to control. But, although he. took this philosophic view, he was very sore at his daughter Annie, and had not scrupled to show it. A good man, even a religious man, Aaron had a certain narrowness and sternness about him. To him all evil was not only abhorrent, but unnecessary, especially such as arose out of the bad conduct or folly of human beings. Annie had disappointed him, and he had let her see it. There had been words spoken in the Catley cottage on the morning of Aaron's dismissal that had sunk deep into the girl's heart and rendered easy, if not imperative, the step she finally took. At about half-way down the path, and when his own house was in sight, Aaron met Joe Peaseley already dressed for the meeting. • " A've been to tha house, Aaron, but there doan't seem to be anybody in. A'm glad to see thee. It's goin' to be the biggest thing we've iver had in Catley or Branethorpe." Joe's voice was full of pleasurable excitement, and, though he knew that the whole action on his comrades' part was intended to show sympathy with him, Aaron did not look pleased. "It's rot, Joe, an' A've told them, so. What good can coom o' it? Why, none. T'Mester has the perfect reet to pey me off if he likes. A'm not quarrellin' wi' 'im for it." " But we are, Aaron," said Joe perplexedly. " T'mesters they shouldna 'ave it in their pooer to do it. We're as good as them, and 'ave as muckle reet to live. I wonder to hear thee, Aaron! It's not reet. Trv and look at it from a bigger place. Where hast thou been noo, eh?" "After a fresh job. A've got wan for me an' the lads, too, at Bilton Bridge. It wad be far better just to let us move away quietly, an' withoot fuss, Joe. I wish the lads could see that." " Thou'll coom to the meetin' anny way, Aaron, at half-past seven. Ivvrything's ready, and' there'll be some good spoutin'." " A'll turn up and tell them" my mind, as A've done before, Joe; but I'm quittin' the morn, if it be that Annie can get the bits o' things thegither in the time." He nodded, and with no abatement of the gloom on his face, strode on towards his house. The front door, usually open to show the cleanly-scrubbed passage in which Aaron himself had laid the pretty blue and white tiles was closed.

He walked round to the back, only to find the yard door shut, too, but he knew where to find the key. A family hidingplace had been agreed on among them, so that no member of the family need ever be shut out. The lads had not been at school that day, and he did not know where they were. They were young, and delighted with a holiday on whatever pretext it was given. Aaron felt glad that they were still under control, and that he had neither clashing wills nor difficult, tempers as yet to consider in them: but he was still vexed —sore vexed—with Annie, whom he imagined he had trained accurately and completely in the way she shoiild go. He found the key, fitted it in the lock, and galnod admittance to the scullery through which he passed to the kitchen. It was all in order—the table laid for tea, the kettle singing on the side of the stove. But no Annie! As he crossed towards the fireplace to stir together the fading embers of the fire he saw a note in Annie's somewhat crude handwriting standing against one of highlypolished brass candle-sticks. His strong fingers trembled as he took it down and tore it open. It contained a

very few words, but these were of the direst import. "Dear Father," it began, "I'm sorry to be such a trouble to you, but after what you said to me this morning I'm not stoppin' here any longer. I'm grown to be a woman, an' not a little bairn you can order about anyhow. I'm very sorry for the boys. Be kind to them, father, and try to get some decent woman to mind the house. It's no good tellin' you where I am goin', for I'm never coomin' back. Good-bye, dear father. Try and think more kindly of Annie. The girl had written simply what was uppermost in her mind at the moment without the smallest idea of the wound her words would implant in her father's heart. Sensitive to blame, she had resented the undue harshness of his words, and had concluded that the best thing she could do was to leave him. But she never said a word of the little letter that had come to her from London, filling her heart with sweetness, because the man who had undermined the peace of her life had not left her in the lurch. In rising up to fly at his bidding she was but obeying the immutable law. "For this cause shall a man leave his father and mother." • ; . \ Aaron Fletcher was a ,good man, but he had forgotten what it was to be young. Afar off was his stormy and passionate youth; his soul had been tempered by sorrow and by hard work, and he had forgotten that his girl had yet to pass through the mills of life. His first thought was consternation, then anger, then folloAved swift remorse. Perhaps he had been too hard. He sat down heavily, still grasping the small cheap sheet of notepaper in his hand, and deliberately recalled what had passed between them. Hard words, cutting words of blame and scorn as well as warning he had spoken, but he had imagined them fully justified. It was necessary to be hard with the young, who had no sense- of proportion, and who want to lay hold upon life with both hands, without regard to consequences. The daughter of godly and good-living parents, Annie ought to have had more sense than take up with a wastel like Geoffrey Faussit. And he had said so in no measured terms. Once or twice during the day he had thought with a little qualm of the expression in his daughter's eyes while she cowered under his passion. He had a little faring in his pocket for her now, and had meant to hearten her with a picture of the new home they would make in a fresh place. And lo! she had taken the law into her own hands and left him, womanless and comfortless in the house she had so brightened and adorned. An unspeakable wrath against the existing order which rendered it possible for a rich man's son to work such havoc in a poor man's home filled and permeated his whole being. Very passionate, as are those who have a strong character, and can dominate others, Fletcher had been for many years completely master of himself. But then he had not had much to "try or thwart him. He had kept his little family in a state of wholesome subjection, and, though always kind, he had suffered them to exercise very little will of their own. Such of his comrades as were opposed to his views of things in general, or who irritated him he simply dropped. And he felt incapable of stemming the rising torrent of his anger, which was entirely directed against Branethorpe and all bearing the name of Faussit. Forgetful of the fact that he needed a meal, he left the house, looking it up and putting the key in the usual place, and made his way with long, swinging strides by the field paths to Branethorpe Hall. The working day was over in Branethorpe and Catley, and the master would undoubtedly be at home. Flether marched up with a set, desperate look on his stern, large-featured face, and with a certain amount of conscious pride presented himself at the front door, to which he summoned Riggs by the old iron bellpull half hidden among the ivy which clung to the walls. " Evening," he said briefly. " I want speech wi' the mester." "Ask it more civilly then," retorted Riggs, who knew him by repute. "You can wait there till I inquire whether the squire is in and will see you." Fletcher merely scowled, and stood with his hands loosely thrust into his pockets, looking about him with a strange new tide of feelings sweeping, over his soul. Things were not equally divided; why should one man have this noble place, be master of the destinies of so many, when there was no difference? The Socialistic doctrines he had done his best to stem in his own village and neighbourhood, holding that tEey merely interfered with honest work and decent living, suddenly appeared to be the only ones reasonable human beings could hold. He was in this mood when Mr Faussit, who had been taking an evening stroll, came up the steps at the end of the terrace and beheld Fletcher. He coloured with some annoyance, for the interview that had terminated their relations as master and man had not been a very pleasant one. He had no doubt in his mind but that Fletcher had come to "make some sort of appeal, perhaps to ask to be reinstated, and," in view of the disturbance already abroad among the men, he had' no intention of listening favourably. " Evening, Fletcher," he said in his most aloof voice. "Evening," answered Fletcher rather surlily. ' Can I have speech wi' tha for a minute." "Certainly. Here if you like. It is a fine evening, and the shower has done good." Mr Faussit spoke with the casual air of the man who is hardly even interested. Fletcher, grasping his daughter's letter in his pocket, advanced to the stone balustrade of the terrace against which his old master was leaning. " Read that" he said, thrusting the letter under his eyes, "an' tell me what it means."

Mr Faussit somewhat unwillingly suffered his eyes to glance over poor Annie's uneducated scrawl. " Well, what can I do for you? Your daughter has left your house apparently because you made it too hot for her," he said calmly. Fletcher's colour rose, and he clenched the strong fist by his right side. "That's aa you see in it," he said in a low, thick voice. '■ But she's my only datter, and she was a good gel till your blackguard son got 'old o' 'er." " That might be," replied Mr Faussit rather heavily. " But there is no proof here that she has gone to him." " But that's wheer she is for sure, Mester Faussitj an' the blackguard's address I mun to hev so that justice can be done by her an' me. We are poor folk, but we hev our own pride. Wheer ia Mester Geoffrey?" The tone was. insistent, even threatening, but Mr Faussit kept astonishingly calm. " I don't suppose you will believe me when I say I don't know, Fletcher. He left my house as your daughter has done in open rebellion. We are comrades in misfortune—that is all, and instead of quarrelling we ought to have sympathy with one another.' This was an entirely new point of view for Aaron Fletcher, and mollified him on the spot. Although he had come there with class-hatred intensified in his breast, it suddenly came home to him that hist master was only a man Jike himself, and that even If partly responsible, as he bebelieved, for his son.'s misdeeds, he suffered keenly through them 4 both in his pride and in is affections. A softer look came on his face. The old Adam was quenched for a moment, and he halfshrinkingly held' out his hand. " 'm sorry I spoke as Aa did, Mester Faussit. Aa, believe tha. It's comrades in misfortin we are sure enuff, but Aa mun find ma gel." " I understand, what you feel, Aaron. I had only one girl, and she left me to make or mar her own life. She has marred it, Iknow, only she doesn't come back to whine about it. She has some sort of pride above that. Now there is my son. I may be forgiven for thinking I've had more than my share." He looked so careworn and haggard at the moment that Aaron's heart and conscience smote him quickly. " When they are little bairns they gie us the joy ov life, Mester Faussit, and it would whiles be better for them an' for oos if they nivver grew up. A'm sorry for thee. I see it's a hard road to hoe, an' I want to say that A'm sorry for the trouble doon by, but Aa didn't mek it, Mester Faussit. Aa coonselled them again it." " I didn't accuse you, Aaron, even to myself," said Mr Faussit frankly. "I've tried to be just with my men all my life. It's just a sign of the times. Anything serves as a peg to hang it on. Strikes are in the fashion. Catley and Branethorpe are not going to be behind. But if you get a chance of them, Aaron, you can tell them that they have nothing to gain and everything to lose by what they are doing. I haven't done wrong to you or any man. After what passed between us the other day it was better we should part. I give them one more chance. Till five o'clock to-morrow afternoon the pits will remain open. After that we shall close down, and I will go abroad for .an indefinite time. They have chosen their time badly—the beginning of summer and such stocks as we have accumulated everywhere. Bemind them of these things, Aaron, and good-night to you. I'm not seeking my son, but I know how the business of seeking has to be set about." I had experience of it when my girl left home. If you like I'll put these agencies into operation so that at least you may have some clue. If she has"* gone to Geoffrey, she's the only one who knows where he is." Sincerity sat on Faussit's face, vibrated in every tone of his voice. Fletcher was profoundly touched, but shook his head. "A'll leave her, Mester Faussit. She'd a good home, and didna prize She can trv the ither side o' things noo. A'm not sayin' that I will be hard if she cooms back, but —but it seems like as if things had coom to an end in ma life, and it s hard on a man when he's gettin' old." "That it is," answered Mr Faussit, and as Aaron turned to go he held out his hand. It was grasped in silence, Aaron, his features twitching, walked away across the green and lovely spaces of the park, his rugged face wearing a very different expression. He walked rapidly, with long, swinging strides, like a man who has a definite object in view. All his life he had spent in these latitudes, and there was no short cut or field path unknown to him. He reached the waste ground beyond Catley End not so very long after the meeting had commenced. It was well attended by considerably over a hundred men, and a sprinkling of boys, the latter more curious than deeply interested. Considerable feeling had been aroused by Aaron's failure to put in an appearance, and sympathy for him had already begun to recede. They felt better, however, when Joe Peasley informed them that he thought Fletcher might have gone to settle his own personal account with the master. When he suddenly appeared on the brim of the disused brickfield they ceased their somewhat sullen discussion, and waited for his speech. He had always had the power to dominate them, aiffl they were ready even now to hear what he had to say. " Evenin', mates," he said briefly. " A'm in time I dinna doot for aal A've got to say." He nodded upon the assembled crowd, and asked Joe, who appeared to be in charge of it, whether he had leave to speak. " Av course, it's you we've been waitin*

for, Aaron," said Joe in a slightly aggrieved voiced Aaron nodded again, and, mounting the slope behind him, began to speak. His words were few and to the point. " Listen, mates, you knaw me, an' Aa knaw aal of you, and it beant necessary to beat aboot the bush. This strike vou'r aal so keen on ought not to coom on. It haven't a bottom to stand on, so to speak. If there's been a quarrel atween me and t' mester ti's atween man and man, an' has nothin' to do wi work. He had a reet to pay me off. It wes the only thing he could do. Aa blamed him for because his soon made mischief wi' my daater Annie. I ken noo he had not the Sower to prevent it, and that it hes hurt im as muckle as it has hurt me." It's not easy to speak o' them things, mates, but there are things that hev to be done in this world, whether they be hard or soft. Maistly they be hard, but that's not oor doin'.'" These remarks were heard in dead silence, with marked disapproval. • The spirit of unrest had laid hold of Catley and Branethorpe, and Mr Faussit had spoken truly, when he said any imagined grievance would serve as a convenient peg. " A've gotten anither job, and a good job, such as any man can get that is willin' to work and knows how to handle his tools. Ma advice to yo is to drop it. We've nivver had anything to complain on wi' our mester. Drop it." So saying he turned about and walked away towards his home, thinking of the boys who would have arrived there with nobody to welcome them. Meanwhile the girl who had caused this upheaval in the community arrived at King's Cross that evening about eight o'clook. It was dark, of course, and there are few more lonely places than a great terminus for those unused to travelling, especially those who are country-born. Annie, gripping the clumsy Japanese basket which contained her meagre belongings, climbed down from the train, and stood looking .about her with a slightly bewildered" air. Inside the bosom of her blouse she had the brief letter of instruction she had received from Geoffrey Faussit, every line and word of which she already knew by heart. For a moment or two in' the confusion and the crowd she felt dismayed and nervous, but stood gripping her basket in one hand and her cloak and umbrella in the other, at the same time sweeping the platform on every side for her lover's face. If he failed her, then she was undone indeed, for there had been no address on the letter, and she had now. only two shillings and sixpence in her purse. The fare had swallowed up all the spare cash to which she had felt herself entitled to take from the house.

As the luggage was swiftly removed the crowd rapidly thinned, and consternation ' began to take the-place of expectation on her sweet face.

: A kindly porter, observing her expression, came forward. - "Can' I get' you a cab, Miss, or direct you?" he said politely. . " Oh, no, thank you kindly. I'm wafting for a friend. He hasn't come, but he'll be here soon, I'm sure. I must just wait about here until he does come." The porter nodded and went about his business, but his kindly heart was a little troubled by the evident anxiety and distress of the. girl stranded at the big station. A little later he manoeuvred to walk that way again, only to find her in the same place. " I don't think you'd better wait longer. Miss. It's plain 'e ain't comin' now. Anything may easily 'ave 'appened to keep 'im. 'Aven't yer got an address to go to?" 'No, I haven't,' she answered trem-

bjingly. "He said for sure he'd be he-e to meet this train." As she spoke she set down her basket, and, taking the letter from her bodice, handed it to her new friend. It was not a love letter, but a simple note giving her instructions about her journey, and assuring her that she would be met. But it had not occurred to Geoffry Faussit to enclose money for her fare, or to consider that she might have had difficulty in rais--sng ; it. The porter, observant in his labits, noted that the brief letter was written in a flourishing, educated hand, and his expression was very doubtful as he handed it back. " Seems all rite, only 'e ain't 'ere. You'd better get a decent lodgin', it seems to me. It's gettin' on," he added, with a glance at the big honest face of the station clock. Annie, now in the last stages of apprehension, took out her almost empty purse. i "I've got only half a crown," she said pitifully. " An' I coom all the wey from •Newcastle an' can't get back." "No, thet you can't for 'arf a crown," he answered glibly enough. " I'll tell yov what, Miss. You'd better let me tike you 'ome to my missus. If you'll jes go and set down in th' waitin' room till I'm orf at nine I'll take you." Annie thanked him with the utmost relief and gratitude, not pausing to consider that there might be any risk or that It might be unwise to give so comple&a a trust to a stranger. The poor are not suspicious of one another. (To be Continued.)