il 1 ,1 CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND GIVEN IN 189I BY HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE p^ Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tlie Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013536168 STORM IN A TEACUP THE MACMILLAN COMPANY MBW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO ■ DALLAS ATLANTA ■ SAN FEAHCISCO MACMILLAN & CO., Limited LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA MELBOURNB THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Lxn. TORONTO STORM IN A TEACUP BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS Author of "Old Delabole," "Brunei's Tower," etc. J13eto gork THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1919 All rights reserved COPTBIOHT, 1919 By the MACMILLAN COMPANY Set up and printed. Published, August, 1918 CONTENTS ;hapteb page I Bow Creek 1 II Magic Pictures 8 III Priory Farm 14 IV A New Vatman 26 V The Rag House 80 VI The Martyr 40 VII The Blue Mark 51 VIII Assault and Battery 62 IX The Old Priory 73 X The Letter 87 XI Lydia's Day 98 XII Medora's Night 113 XIII In London 122 XIV The Drying Lofts 132 XV Going up Corkscrew Hill 139 XVI At " The Waterman's Arms " .... 149 XVII Tragedy in the Sizing Room 159 XVIII Ned Hears Mr. Knox 170 XIX Emotions of Medora 181 XX Philander's Fate 192 XXI The Protest 207 XXII A Test for Jordan Kellock 220 XXIII The Wisdom of Philander 229 CONTENTS CHAtJFEa PAQE XXIV Ned and Medoha 239 XXV Thei Explanation 249 XXVI The Stroke 258 XXVII The Doctor 271 XXVIII The Confession 279 XXIX The Bargain 286 XXX Fire Beacon Hill 297 STORM IN A TEACUP CHAPTER I BOW CHEEK How musical are the place names on the tidal water of Dart. Tuckenhay and Greenway, Stoke Gabriel and Dit- tisham, Sharpham and Duncannon — a chime of bells to the native ear that knows them. To-day autumn rainbows burnt low on the ferny hills and set their russet flashing. Then hailstorms churned the river into a flurry and swept seaward under a grey cowl. They came with a rush of wind, that brought scarlet leaves from the wild cherry and gold dust from the larch ; but soon the air cleared and the sun returned, while the silver fret of the river's face grew calm again to mirror far-off things. Easterly the red earth arched low on the blue sky; west spread cobweb-grey orchards, their leaves fallen, their last of apples still twinkling — topaz and ruby — among the lichens of their ancient boughs. Then broad, oaken hangers met the beech scrub and the pale oak foliage was as a flame dancing above the red-hot fire of the beeches. Their conflagrations blazed along the tideway and their reflected colour poured down over the woods into the water. Then elm trees rolled out along the river, and above them, in billows mightier than they, sailed the light-laden clouds, that seemed to lift another forest, bossed and rounded as the elm trees, and carry up their image into 1 2 STORM IN A TEACUP the sky. But the cloud glory was pale, its sun touched summits faint against the ardour of the earthbom elms. At water's brink, above Stoke Gabriel's little pier and gleam of white and rose-washed cots, black swine were rooting for acorns ; while westerly an arm of Dart ex- tended up Bow Creek through such sunlight as made the eyes throb and turn to the cool shadows. Another silver loop and Duncannon cuddled in an elbow of the river; then, higher yet, the hills heaved along Sharpham's hang- ing woods turned from the sun. The immense curtain of trees faced north in tapestry of temperate tones painted with purple and grey and the twilight colours of autumn foliage seen through shadows. The ash was already naked -T- a clean skeleton against the dun mass of dying foliage — and other trees were casting down their garments ; but the firs and spruce made rich contrast of blue and green upon the sere. Beyond Sharpham, long river flats rolled out, where plover and guUs sat on tussocks of reed, or rush, and cur- lew wheeled and mewed overhead. Then opened a point, where, robbed of colour, all mist-laden, amid gentle pas- sages of receding banks and trees, there lifted the church tower of Totnes, with Dartmoor flung in a dim arc be- yond. So Dart came, beside old, fern-clad wharves, through sedge-beds and reed ronds to the end of her estuary under the glittering apron of a weir. Then the pulse of the sea ceased to beat ; the tide bade farewell, and the salmon leapt from salt to fresh. Worthy of worship in all her times and seasons ; by her subtleties and sleights, her sun and shadow ; by her laugh- ter and coy approaches ; by her curves and colours ; her green hills and delight of woods and valleys ; by her many voices; her changing moods and little lovelinesses. Dart is all Devon and so incomparably England. A boat moved on Bow Creek, and in it there sat two men and a young woman. One man rowed while his wife BOW CREEK 8 and the otiier man watched him. He pulled a long, power- ful stroke, and the little vessel slipped up the estuary on a tide that was at flood, pondering a moment before the turn. The banks were a blaze of autumn colour, beneath which shelving planes of stone sank down to the water. The woman twirled an umbrella to dry it from the recent storm. She was cold and shivered a little, for tiiou^ the sun shone again, the north wind blew. " I'm fearing we oughtn't to have come, Medora," said the man who sat beside her. " Take my coat," advised Medora's husband. " It's dry ebou^ inside." He stopped rowing, took off his coat and handed it to his wife, who slipped it over her white blouse, but did not thank him. Medora Dingle was a dark-faced girl, with black hair and a pair of deep, brown eyes — lovely, but restless — under clean, arched eye-brows. Her mouth was red and small, her face fresh and rosy. She seemed self-conscious, and shivered a little more than was natural; for she was strong and hearty enough in body, tall and lithe, one who laboured six days a week and had never known sick- ness. Two of her fingers were tied up in cotton rags, and one of the wounds was on her ring finger so that her wedding ring was not visible. Presently Edward Dingle put down the oars. " Now you can take it on, old chap," he said, and then changed places with his companion. The men were very unlike, but each comely after his fashion. Dingle was the bigger — a broad-shouldered, loose-limbed youth of five-and-twenty, with a head rather small for his bulk, and a pleasant laughter-loving expression. He was fair and pretty rather than handsome. His features were regular, his eyes blue, his hair straw-coloured and curly. A small moustache did not conceal his good-humoured mouth. His voice was high-pitched, and he chattered a great deal of nothing. He was a type of the slight, kindly 4 STORM IN A TEACUP man taken for granted — a man whose worth is under- valued by reason of his unimportance to himself. He had a boundless good nature combined with a modest mind. Jordan Kellock stood an inch or two shorter than Dingle and was a year or two older. He shaved clean, and brushed his dark, lustreless hair off his high forehead with- out parting it. Of a somewhat sallow complexion, with grey, deliberate eyes and a clean-cut, thin-lipped mouth, his brow suggested idealism and enthusiasm; there was a light in his solemn eyes and a touch of the sensitive about his nose. He spoke slowly, with a level, monotonous accent, and in this also offered an abrupt contrast to his companion. It seemed that he felt the reality of life and was pervious to impressions. He rowed with less mannerism, and a slower stroke than his friend; but the boat moved faster than it had with Dingle at the oars, for Kellock was a very strong man, and his daily work had developed his breast and arms abnormally. " A pity now," said Ned, " that you didn't let me fetch your thick coat, Medora, like I wanted to." " You ought to have fetched it," she answered impa- tiently. " I offered, and you said you didn't want it." " That's like you. Throw the blame on me." " There's no blame to it." " You ought to have just brought the thing and not bothered me about it," she declared. Then her husband laughed. " So I ought," he admitted ; " but it takes a man such a hell of a time to know just what he ought to do where a woman's concerned." " Not where his wife's concerned, I should think." " Hardest of all, I reckon." " Yes, because a wife's truthful most times," replied Medora. " It's no good her pretending — there's nothing BOW CREEK 6 to gain by it. Other women often pretend that a man's pleasing them, when he's not — just for politeness to the stupid things ; but a man's wife's a fool to waste time like that. The sooner she trains her husband up to the truth of her, the better for him and the better for her." They wrangled a little, then Ned laughed again. " Now Jordan will let on you and me are quarrelling," he said. Thus challenged, the rower answered, but he was quite serious in his reply. " Last thing I should be likely to do — even if it was true. A man and his wife can argue a point without any feeling, of course." " So they can," declared Medora. " And a proud woman don't let even a friend see her troubles. Not that I've got any troubles, I'm sure." " And never will have, I hope," answered Kellock gravely. The creek began to close, and ahead loomed a wharf and a building standing upon it. The hills grew higher round about, and the boat needed steering as her channel became narrower. " Tide's turning," said Ned, and for answer, the rower quickened his stroke. They passed the wharf, where a trout stream from a coomb ran into the estuary, then, ascending to the head of the boatable waters, reached their destination. Al- ready the tide was falling and revealing weedy rocks and a high-water mark on either bank of the creek. To the right a little boathouse opened its dark mouth over the water, and now they slipped into it and came ashore. Medora thanked Jordan Kellock warmly. " Don't you think I didn't enjoy it because I got a bit chniy after the hailstorm," she said. " I did enjoy it ever so much, and it was very kind of you to ask me." " The last time we'll go boating this year," he answered, " and it was a good day, though cold along of the 6 STORM IN A TEACUP north wind. But the autumn woods were very fine, I'm sure." " Properly lovely — poetry alive you might call them." " So I thought," he answered as he turned down his sleeves and presently put on his coat and tie again. The coat was black and the tie a subdued green. Ned made the boat ship-shape and turned to his wife. " A good smart walk up the hill will warm you," he said. She hesitated and whispered to him. " Won't you ask Jordan to tea.!" " " Why, certainly," he answered aloud. " Medora's wishful for you to come to tea, old man. So I hope you will." " I should have liked to do it," replied Kellock ; " but I've promised to see Mr. Trenchard. It's about the moulds for the advertisements." " Right. He'll want me, too, I reckon over that job." " He wiU without a doubt. In fact it's more up to you than me. Everything depends on the pulp." " So it does with all paper," declared Ned. " True enough. The beaterman's master. For these fancy pictures for exhibition you've got to mix stuff as fine as clear soup — just the contrary of what you may call real paper." " Are you coming, Ned? " asked Medora. " I've got to get over to mother to-morrow and I don't want to go with a cold." " Coming, coming," he said. " So long, Jordan." " Good-bye till Monday," answered the other. Then he stood still and watched the young couple tramp off to- gether. He gazed thoughtfully and when they disappeared up a steep woodland path, he shook his head. They were gone to Ashprington village, where they dwelt; but Mr. Kellock lived at Dene where the trout stream descended from the hills to the river. He crossed from the boat- BOW CREEK 7 house by a row of stepping-stones set athwart the creek ; then he turned to the left and soon found himself at the cottage where he lodged. This man and Dingle had both loved Medora Trivett, and for some time she had hesitated between them. But Ned won her and the loser, taking his defeat in a large and patient spirit, continued to remain good friends with both. Mr. Kellock knew, what everybody guessed, that after a year of marriage, the pair were not happy together, though why this should be so none could at present deter- mine. CHAPTER II MAGIC PICTURES Stopping only to wash his hands and brush his hair, Kel- lock left his rooms and hastened up the coomb, where towered immense congeries of buildings under the slope of the hills. Evening sunshine fell over the western height which crowned the valley, and still caught the upper win- dows of the factory ; but the huge shadow quickly climbed upward as the sun set. A small house stood at the main gate of Dene Paper Mill, and at the door sat a man reading a paper and smok- ing his pipe. It was Mr. Trood, foreman of the works. " Guvnor's asking for you, Kellock," he said. " Five o'clock was the time." Jordan hurried on to the deserted mills, for the day was Saturday and work had ceased at noon. Threading the silent shops he presently reached a door on an upper floor, marked " Office," knocked and was told to enter. On the left of the chamber sat a broad-shouldered man writing at a roll-top desk ; under the windows of the room, which faced north, extended a long table heaped with paper of all descriptions and colours. The master twisted round on his office chair, then rose and lighted a cigarette. He was clean-shaved with iron- grey hair and a searching but genial expression. His face shone with intelligence and humour. It was strong and accurately declared the man, for indomitable persever- ance and courage belonged to Matthew Trenchard. His own success he attributed to love of sport and love MAGIC PICTURES 9 of fun. These pursuits made him sympathetic and under- standing. He recognised his responsibilities and his rule of conduct in his relations with the hundred men and women he employed was to keep in closest possible touch with them. He held it good for them and vital for him- self that he should know what was passing in their minds ; for only thus could he discover the beginning of grievances and destroy them in the egg. He believed that the longer a trouble grew, the more difficult it was to dissipate, and by estabUshing intimate relations with his staff and im- pressing upon them his own situation, his successes and his failures, he succeeded in fixing unusual bonds. For the most part his people felt that Trenchard's good was their own — not because he said so, but because he made it so; and save for certain inevitable spirits, who objected on principle to all existing conditions between capital and labour, the workers trusted him and spoke well of him. Kellock was first vatman at Dene, and one of the best paper makers in England. Both knew their worth and each was satisfied with the other. " I've heard from that South American Republic, Kel- lock," said Mr. Trenchard. " They like the new currency paper and the colour suits them." " It's a very fine paper, Mr. Trenchard." " Just the exact opposite of what I'm after for these advertisements. The public, Kellock, must be appealed to by the methods of Cheap Jack at the fair. They love a conjuring trick, and if you can stop them long enough to ask 'how's it done.'" you often interest them and win them. Now samples of our great papers mean nothing to anybody but the dealers. The public doesn't know hand-made paper from machine-made. What we*ve got to do is to show them — not tip-top paper, but a bit of magic; and such a fool is the public that when he sees these pictures in water-mark, he'll think the paper that produces them must be out of the common good. We know 10 STORM IN A TEACUP that it's not 'paper' at all in our sense, and that it's a special brew for this special purpose; but the public, amazed by the pictures, buys our paper and doesn't know that the better the paper, the more impossible such sleight of hand would be upon it. We show them one thing which awakes their highest admiration and causes them to buy another ! " All this Jordan Kellock very well understood, and his master knew that he did ; but Trenchard liked to talk and excelled in lucid exposition. " That's right," said the vatman ; " they think that the paper that can take such pictures must be good for any- thing; though the truth is that it's good for nothing — but the pictures. If there was any quality to the pulp, it could never run into such moulds as these were made in." He began to pick up the impressions of a series of large, exhibition water-marks, and hold them to the windows, that their transparent wonders might be seen. " Real works of art," he said, " with high lights and deep shadows and rare half tones and colour, too, all on stuff like tissue. The beaterman must give me pulp as fine as flour to get such impressions." " Finer than flour, my lad. The new moulds are even more wonderful. It is no good doing what your father did over again. My father beat my grandfather; so it's my duty to beat him — see.? " " These are wonderful enough in all conscience." " And for the Exhibition I mean to turn out something more wonderful still. Something more than craft — real art, my friend. I want the artists. I want them to see what our art paper for water-colour work is. They don't know yet — at least only a handful of them." "But this is different. The pulp to do this sort of thing must be as thin as water," said Kellock. " Fibre is the first consideration for paper that's going to be as everlasting as parchment ; but these water-mark masterpieces are tours de force — conjuring tricks as I MAGIC PICTURES 11 call them. And I want to give the public a conjuring trick more wonderful than they've ever seen in paper be- fore ; and I'm going to do it." " No paper maker ever beat these, Mr. Trenchard," de- clared Kellock. He held up large sheets of the size known as " elephant." They appeared to be white until illumi- nated; then they revealed shades of delicate duck-green, sunrise yellow, dark blue, light blue and mnber. A portrait by Romney of Lady Hamilton shone through the first, and the solidity of the dark masses, the render- ing of the fabric and the luminous quality of the flesh were wonderfully translated by the daylight filtering through. " There can be no painted pictures like these," said Matthew Trenchard stoutly. "And why? Because the painter uses paint; I use pure daylight, and the sweetest paint that ever was isn't a patch on the light of day. Such things as these are more beautiful than pictures, just because the living light from the sky is more beauti- ful than any pigment made by man." KeUock was too cautious to agree with these revolu- tionary theories. " Certainly these things would be very fine to decorate our windows, if we didn't want to look out of them," he admitted. Then he held up a portrait of Her Majesty, Queen Vic- toria. " Pure ultramarine blue, you see," commented the mas- ter, " and the light brings out its richness, though if you looked at the paper, you'd be puzzled to find any blue in it. That's because the infinitely fine atoms of the colour would want a microscope to see their separate particles. Yet where the pulp sank to the depths of the mould, they col- lected in millions to give you those deep shadows." Kellock delayed at the copy of a statue: the Venus Victrix from Naples — a work which certainly reproduced the majesty of the original in a rounded, lustrous fashion that no reproduction on the flat could echo. 12 STORM IN A TEACUP " We can't beat that, though it is fifty years old," de- clared KeUock. " We're going to, however ; and another statue is my idea. Marble comes out grandly as you see. I'm out for black and white, not colour. I've an idea we can get some- thing as fine as the old masters of engraving, and finer." " The vatman is nought for this work," confessed Kel- lock. " He makes paper in his mould and that's all there is to it — whether for printing, or writing, or painting. The man who matters is him who makes the mould." " But we can help him ; we can experiment at the vat and in the beating engine. We can go one better in the pulp ; and the stroke counts at the vat. I reckon your stroke wiU be invaluable to work the pulp into every cranny of such moulds as I'm thinking about." " I'll do my best ; so will Dingle ; but how many men in England are there who could make such moulds as these to- day.? " "Three," replied Trenchard. "But I want better moulds. I'm hopeful that Michael Thorn of London will rise to it. I go to see him next week, and we put in a morning at the British Museum to find a statue worthy of the occasion." " I can see a wonderful thing in my mind's eye already," declared Kellock. " Can you.'' Well, I never can see anything in my mind's eye and rest content for an hour, till I set about the way to see it with my body's eye." " We all know that, Mr. Trenchard." " Here's my favourite," declared the other, holding up a massive head of Abraham Lincoln. " Now that's a great work in my judgment and if we beat that in quality, we shall produce a water-mark picture worth talking about." " You ought to show all these too," said Jordan Kel- lock. " I shall — if I beat them ; not if they beat me," replied MAGIC PICTURES 13 the other. " I wanted you to see what my father and grandfather could do, so that you may judge what we're up against. But they're going to be beaten at Dene, or else I'll know the reason why." " It's good to see such things and worth while trying to beat them," answered the vatman. "To improve upon the past is the business of every honest man in my opinion," declared Trenchard. "That's what we're here for; and that's what I've done, I believe, thanks to a lot of clever people here who have helped me to do it and share what credit there may be. But I don't claim credit, Ned. It's common duty for every man with brains in his head to help push the craft along." " And keep its head above water," added the listener. Matthew Trenchard eyed him doubtfully and lighted another cigarette. " Yes," he admitted rather reluctantly. " You're right. Hand-made paper's battling for its life in one sense — like a good many other hand-made things. But the machine hasn't caught us yet and it will be a devil of a long time before it does, I hope." " It's for us not to let it," said Jordan — a sentiment the paper master approved. " I'm fair," he said, " and I'm not going to pretend the machine isn't turning out some properly wonderful papers ; and I'm not going to say it isn't doing far better things than ever I thought it would do. I don't laugh at it as my grandfather did, or shake my head at it as my father used. I recognise our craft is going down hiU. But we ain't at the bottom by a long way; and when we get there, we'll go game and die like gentlemen." They talked awhile longer; then the dusk came down, KeUock departed and Trenchard, turning on an electric light, resumed his writing. CHAPTER III PaiOEY TAIIM Feom Dene a mighty hill climbs southward to Comworthy village. " The Corkscrew " it is called, and men merciful to their beasts choose a longer and more gradual ascent. But not a few of the workers engaged at the paper mill tramped this zig-zag steep six days out of every seven, and among these Lydia Trivett, the mother of Medora, could boast twenty years of regular perambulation. Only on rare occasions, when " Corkscrew " was coated with ice, did she take the long detour by the little lake above the works. She had lived at Ashprington until her husband died; then she and her daughter came to live with her brother, Thomas Dolbear, of Priory Farm. He was a bachelor then; but at forty he wedded; and now Medora had her own home, while her mother still dwelt with Mr. Dolbear, his wife, Mary, and their increasing family. Lydia was a little brisk woman of fifty — the mistress of the rag house at the mills. She was still comely and trim, for hard work agreed with her. A very feminine air marked her, and Medora had won her good looks from her mother, though not her affectation, for Mrs. Trivett was a straightforward and unassuming soul. She had much to pride herself upon, but never claimed credit in any direction. Priory Farm stood under a great slope of orchard and meadow, upon the crown of which the priory ruins as- cended. The farm was at the bottom of a hill, and imme- diately opposite climbed the solitary street of Comworthy village capped by the church. The church and the old 14 PRIORY FARM 16 Clstercean ruin looked across the dip in the land at each other. Now, on Sunday afternoon, Lydia, at the garden gate of her brother's house, started off six children to Sunday school. Five were girls and one was a boy. They ranged from twelve years old to three ; while at home a two year old baby — another girl — remained with her mother. Mary Dolbear expected her tenth child during the com- ing spring. Two had died in infancy. She was an inert, genial mass of a woman, who lived only for her children and the business of maternity. Her husband worshipped her and they increased and multiplied proudly. Their house, but for Lydia's sleepless ministrations, would have been a pigstye. They were indifferent to dirt and chose to make all things subservient to the demands of their chil- dren. " The cradle rules the world, so enough said," was Tom Dolbear's argument when people protested at the chaos in which he lived. He was a stout man with a fat, boyish face, scanty, sandy hair and a narrow forehead, always wrinkled by reason of the weakness of his eyes. He had a smile like a baby and was indeed a very childish man; but he knew his business and made his farm suffice for his family needs. In this house Lydia's own room was an oasis in a wil- derness. There one found calm, order, cleanliness, dis- tinction. She trusted nobody in it but herself and always locked the door when she left for work. It was regarded as a sacred room, for both Mary and her husband reverenced Lydia and blessed the Providence that had sent her to them. They treated her with the greatest respect, always gave way to her and recognised very acutely the vital force she represented in the inert and sprawling domesticity of their establishment. Once, when an idea was whispered that Tom's sister might leave him, Mary fell absolutely ill and refused to eat and drink untU she changed her mind and promised to stay. 16 STORM IN A TEACUP To do them justice they never took Lydia for granted. Their gratitude flowed in a steady stream. They gave her all credit and all admiration, and went their philoprogeni- tive way with light hearts. Now Mrs. Trivett watched her nieces and nephew march together in their Sunday best along the way to Sunday school. Then she was about to shut the wicket and re- turn up the garden path, when a man appeared on the high road and a fellow worker at the Mill accosted her. Nicholas Pinhey was a finisher ; that is to say the paper passed through his hands last before it left the works. With the multifarious processes of its creation he had nothing to do ; but every finished sheet and stack of sheets touched his fingers before it entered the world, and he was well skilled in the exacting duties of his own department. He was a thin, prim bachelor of sixty — a man of nice habits and finicking mind. There was much of the old maid in him, too, and he gossiped inordinately, but never unkindly. He knew the life history, family interests and private ambitions of everybody in the Mill. He smelt mystery where none existed and much feared the modern movements and threats of labour. Especially was he doubtful of Jordan Kellock and regarded him as a dan- gerous and too progressive spirit. His interest in other people's affairs now appeared ; for he had come to see Lydia ; he had climbed " The Cork- screw " on Sunday from most altruistic motives. " The better the day the better the deed," he said. " I've walked over for a cup of tea and a talk, because a little bird's told me something I don't much like, Mrs. Trivett, and it concerns you in a manner of speaking." " You always keep to the point, Mr. Pinhey ; and I dare say I know what the point is for that matter. Come in. We can talk very well, because we shall be alone in a minute." Nicholas followed her into the parlour, a room of good size on the left hand side of the entrance. They surprised PRIORY FARM IT Mrs. Dolbear nodding beside the fire. She liked Mr. Pin- hey, but she was glad of the excuse to leave them and retire to her own room. She shook hands with the visitor, who hoped she found herself as well as could be expected. " Oh, yes," she said. " I take these things from whence they come. I feel no fear except in one particular." " I won't believe it," he declared. " You've got the courage to fight lions and the faith to move mountains. We all know that. If the women in general would come to the business of the next generation with your fearless nature, we might hear less about the decrease of the popu- lation." " It's not my part I trouble about ; it's the Lord's," explained Mrs. Dolbear. " If I have another girl, it'll break Tom's heart. Six maids and one boy is the record so far, though of the two we've buried, one was a boy. And such is my perfect trust in myself, if I could choose what I want from the Almighty at this moment, it would be two men children." " Magnificent ! " said Mr. Pinhey. " I take Lydia to witness I speak no more than the truth," replied the matron. " But these things are out of our keeping, though Tom read in a paper some time since a remarkable verdict, that if a woman with child ate enough green stuff, she might count on a boy." " That's a painful subject," said Lydia, " and you'd better not talk about it, PoUy." " It was painful at the time," admitted Mrs. Dolbear, " because Tom's one of they hopeful men, who will always jump at a new thing like a trout jumps at a fly. And what was the result? From the moment he hit on that cussed paper, he fed me more like a cow than a creature with a soul. 'Twas green stuff morning, noon and night — lettuce and spinach — which I hate any time — and broccoli and turnip tops and spring onions and cauliflower and Lord knows what mess till I rebelled and defied the 18 STORM IN A TEACUP man. I didn't lose my temper ; but I said, calm and slow, ' Tom,' I said, ' if you don't want me to be brought to a bed of cabbage next September, stop it. God's my judge,' I said, ' I won't let down another herb of the field. I want red meat,' I told him, ' or else I won't be respon- sible.' He argued for it, but I had my way and Lydia upheld me." " And what was the result in the family line if I may venture to ask.? " inquired Mr. Pinhey. " The result in the family line was Jane Ethel," an- swered Mrs. Dolbear ; " and where is Jane Ethel now, Lydia.? " " In her little grave," answered Mrs. Trivett. Her sister-in-law immediately began to weep. " Don't you cry, my dear, it wasn't your fault. The poor baby was bom with death in her eyes, as I always said." Mrs. Dolbear sighed and moved ponderously across the room. She was short and broad with a touzled head of golden hair and a colourless face. But her smile was beautiful and her teeth perfect. " I dare say you'll want to talk before tea," she sug- gested ; " and I'll go and have a bit of a sleep. I always say, ' where there's sleep, there's hope.' And I want more than most people, and I can take it any time in the twenty- four hours of the clock." She waddled away and Mrs. Trivett explained. " Polly's a proper wonder for sleep. It's grown into a habit. She'U call out for a nap at the most unseasonable moments. She'll curl up anywhere and go off. We shan't see her again till supper I shouldn't wonder. Sit you down and tell me what you come for." " The work you must do in this house ! " said Mr. Pin- hey. " I like work and this is my home." " A home I suppose, but not what I should call an abid- ing placCj" ha-zarded the man. PRIORY FARM 19 " I don't want no abiding place, because we know, if we're Christians, that there's no abiding place this side of the grave." " You take it in your usual high spirit. And now — you'll forgive me if I'm personal, Mrs. Trivett. You know the man that speaks." " You want to better something I'm sure, else you wouldn't be here." "It is just as you say: I want to better something. We bachelors look out on life from our lonely towers, so to say, and we get a bird's eye view of the people; and if we see a thing not all it might be, 'tis our duty in my opinion to try and set it right. And to be quite frank and in all friendship, I'm very much afraid your Medora and her husband ain't heart and soul together as they should be. if I'm wrong, then thank God and enough said. But am I wrong? " Mrs. Trivett considered some mogaents before answer- ing. Then she replied: " No, Nicholas Pinhey, you're not wrong, and I wish I could say you were. You have seen what's true; but I wouldn't say the mischief was deep yet. It may be in our power to nip it in the bud." " You grant it's true, and that excuses me for touch- ing it. I know my manners I hope, and to anybody else I wouldn't have come; but you're different, and if I can prevail upon you to handle Medora, I shall feel I have done all I can do, or have a right to do. In these deli- cate cases, the thing is to know where the fault lies. And most times it's with the man, no doubt." " I don't know about that. It isn't this time anyway." Mr. Pinhey was astonished. " Would you mean to say you see your own daughter unfavourable? " he asked. " You must know the right of a thing if you want to do any good," declared Lydia. " Half the failure to right wrong so far as I can see, is Owing to a muddled view of 20 STORM IN A TEACUP what the wrong is. I've hung back about this till I could see it clear, and I won't say I do see it clear yet." " I speak as a bachelor," repeated Mr. Pinhey, " and therefore with reserve and caution. And if you — the mother of one of the parties — don't feel you can safely take a hand, it certainly isn't for anybody else to try." " As a matter of fact, I was going to do something this very day. My daughter's coming to tea and I mean to, ask her what the matter is. She's not prone to be ex- actly straight, is Medora, but seeing I want nothing but her good, I hope she'll be frank with me." The man felt mildly surprised to hear a mother criticise her daughter so frankly. " I thought a child could do no wrong in its parents' eyes," he said. " Depends on the parent, Mr. Pinhey. If you want to help your child, 'tis no use beginning by taking that line. If we can do wrong, as God knows we can, so can our children, and it's a vain sort of love to suppose they're perfect. Medora's got a great many good qualities, but, like other pretty girls, she's handicapped here and there. A right down pretty girl don't know she's born most times, because everybody in trousers bows down before her and helps to shut reality out of her life." " It's the same with money," surmised Nicholas. " Let a young person have money and they look at the world through tinted glasses. The truth's hidden from them, and some such go to their graves and never know truth, while others, owing to chance, lose the stuff that stands between them and reality and have a very painful waken- ing. But as to beauty — you was a woman to the full as fair as your girl — yet look how you weathered the storm." " No," answered Lydia, " I never had Medora's looks. In her case life's been too smooth and easy if anything. She had a comfortable home with Tom here after her father died ; and then came along a choice of two good men PRIORY FARM 21 to wed her and the admiration of a dozen others. She was in two minds between Kellock and Dingle for a while; but her luck held and she took the right one." " Are you sure of that ? " " Yes — for Medora. That's not to say that Jordan Kellock isn't a cleverer chap than my son-in-law. Of course he is. He's got more mind and more sight. He has ideas about labour and a great gift of determination ; and he's ambitious. He'll go a long way further than Ned. But against that you can set Ned's unshakable good temper and light heart. It's grander for a man to have a heavy heart than a light, when he looks out at the world ; but they heavy-hearted, earnest men, who want to help to set life right, call for a different fashion of wife from Medora. If such men wed, they should seek women in their own pattern — the earnest — deadly earnest sort — who don't think of themselves, or their clothes, or their looks, or their comforts. They should find their help- mates in a kind of female that's rare still, though they grow commoner. And Medora ain't that sort, and if she'd took Kellock she'd have been no great use to him and he'd have been no lasting use to her." " Dear me ! " murmured Mr. Pinhey, " how you look into things." " Ned's all right," continued Mrs. Trivett. " He's all right, for Medora; and she ought to be all right for him. He loves her with all his heart and, in a word, she doesn't know her luck. That's what I must try and show her if I can. It's just a sort of general discontent about noth- ing in particular. You can't have it both ways. Ned's easy and likes a bit of fun. He's a good workman — in fact above the average, or he wouldn't be where he is. As a beaterman you won't find his better in any paper mill ; but it ends there. He does his work and he's reached his limit. And away from work, he's just a schoolboy from his task. He's light hearted and ought to be happy ; and if she is not, he'll worry a great deal. But he won't 22 STORM IN A TEACUP know what's the matter, any more than Medora her- self." Mr. Pinhey's conventional mind proceeded in its natural groove. " To say it delicately, perhaps if a child was to come along it would smooth out the crumpled rose-leaves," he suggested. " You might think so ; but it isn't that. They both agree there. They don't like children and don't want them." " Well, I should be the last to blame them, I'm sure. It may not be true to nature, but it's true to truth, that the young married couples ain't so keen about families as they used to be." " Nature's at odds with a good deal we do," answered Lydia. " Time was when a quiver full of young ones seemed good to the people. But education has changed all that. There's selfishness in shirking a family no doubt; but there's also sense. And the better the education grows, the shorter the families will." They talked on until Medora herself arrived and the children came back from Sunday school. Then Mrs. Trivett and a maid prepared the tea and Mr. Pinhey, against his inclination, shared the meal. He noticed that Medora was kind to the little ones, but not enthusiastic about them. His own instincts made him shrink before so much happy and hungry youth feeding heartily. The children scattered crumbs and seemed to create an at- mosphere of jam and a general stickiness around them. They also made a great deal of noise. Their mother did not appear and when Nicholas asked for their father, the eldest daughter told him that Mr. Dol- bear was gone out for the day with his dogs and a ferret. He whispered under his breath, " Ferreting on the Sab- bath!" After tea he took leave and returned home. Then Me- dora and her mother went into the orchard with the chil- PRIORY FARM 23 dren, and Mrs. Trivett, wasting no words, asked her daughter what was vexing her. " Say as much or as Uttle as you please, my dear — nothing if I can't help you. But perhaps I can. It looks as though everybody but Ned sees there's something on your mind. Can't you tell me what it is — or better still, teUhim.?" Medora flushed. " There's nothing the matter that can be helped," she said. " Ned can't help being himself, I suppose, and if anybody's talking, they ought to be ashamed. It's a cowardly, mean thing." " It's not cowardly, or mean to want to put a wrong right and make people better content. But nobody wants to interfere between husband and wife, and the people are very fond of you both as you well know. You say ' Ned can't help being himself.' Begin there, then. You've been married a year now and you didn't marry in haste either. He was what he is before you took him. He hasn't changed." " I didn't think he was such a fool, if you must know," said Medora. " What d'you mean by a fool? " " Simple — like a dog. There's nothing to Ned'. Other men have character and secrets and a bit up their sleeve. They count, and people know they ain't seeing the inside of them. Ned's got no inside. He's a boy. I thought I'd married a man and I've married a great boy. I'm only telling you this, mind. I'm a good wife enough ; but I'm not a brainless one and I can't help comparing my husband to other men." " You always compare everything you've got to what others have got," answered Lydia. "When you was a tiny child, you'd love your toys till you saw the toys of other children. Then you'd grow discontent. At school, if you took a prize,' it was poisoned, because some other girl had got a prettier book than you; and everybody 24 STORM IN A TEACUP else's garden was nicer than ours ; and everybody else had better furniture in their houses and better pictures on their walls and better clothes on their backs. And now it's your husband that isn't in it with other people's hus- bands. Perhaps you'll tell me, Medora, what husbands round about can beat Ned for sense and cheerfulness and an easy mind and the other things that go to make a home comfortable." " Everybody isn't married," answered Medora. " I don't look round and compare Ned to other husbands. I've got something better to do. But I can't help seeing with aU his good nature and the rest of it that he's a slight man — not a sort for woman to repose upon as something with quicker wits — stronger, more masterful than her- self." " Like who.? " asked Mrs. Trivett. " Well — I'm only speaking to you, mother — take yesterday. Jordan Kellock asked us to go for a row in the gamekeeper's boat and see the river — me and Ned. And we went ; and how could I help seeing that Jordan had the brains? Nothing he said, for he's a good friend and above smallness ; but while Ned chattered and laughed and made a noise, there was Jordan, pleasant and all that; but you felt behind was strength of character and a mind working and thinking more than it said ; while my husband was saying more than he thinks. And I hate to hear him chatter and then, when he's challenged, climb down and say he sees he was wrong." " You've got to take the rough with the smooth in hu- man nature, Medora. And it's a bit staggering to hear you mention Kellock, of all men, seeing the circumstances. If you feel like that, why didn't you take Kellock when you could? " Medora's reply caused her mother consternation. " God knows why I didn't," she said. The elder gave a little gasp and did not answer. " It's wrong when you have to correct your husband PRIORY FARM 25 in front of another man," continued Medora ; " but I've got my self respect I believe — so far — and I won't let Ned say foolish things before people and let others think I'm agreeing with him. And if I've spoken sharp when men or women at the works heard me, Ned's got himself to thank for it. Anyway Jordan knows I'm not without brains, and I'm not going to pretend I am. I laughed at Ned in the boat yesterday, and he said after that he didn't mind my laughing at him, but he wouldn't have it before people." Mrs. Trivett left the main issue as a subject too big for the moment. " You ought not to laugh at him before Mr. Kellock," she said ; " because he's one of them serious-minded men who don't understand laughter. I've seen a man say things in a light mood that had no sting in them really, yet one of the humourless sort, listening, didn't see it was said for fun, and reported it after and made trouble. Kellock's a solemn man and would misread it if you scored off Ned, or said some flashy thing that meant nought in truth. You know what I mean." They had strolled to the top of the orchard now, where the children were playing in the Priory ruin. And here at dusk they parted. " We'll leave it till we can have another talk," said Lydia ; " seemingly there's more to talk about than I thought. Be patient as well as proud, Medora. And don't feel so troubled about Ned that you haven't got no spare time to look into your own heart and see if you're satisfied with yourself. Because very often in my expe- rience, when we're seeing misfortune and blaming other people, if we look at home, we'll find the source of the trouble lies with ourselves and not them." CHAPTER IV A NEW VATMAN A MAN stood on the crown of a limestone quarry, where it bit into the slope of a green hill. Perched here, three hundred feet above the valley bottom, a varied scene spread round about, but he was only concerned with the other side of the coomb and the great pile of Dene Paper Mill that stood over against him. On his left opened the creek heavily fringed with trees. Mud banks oozed out upon it and the river channel twin- kled in the midst of them. The beholder saw that the sea ascended to this rural scene, bringing its weeds and shells to the little beaches and its birds to the air. From this inlet, the great valley broke and pointed west. It ex- panded and widened among such rolling green steeps as that upon which the stranger stood, and the heights were capped at the skyline, here by clumps of Scotch fir; here, by spinneys of oak and elm; here, by arable or pasture. Rows of small houses lay among the orchards in the bot- tom, where a stream wound, and the methodical ordering of those tenements marked a sharp contrast with the ir- regular and older cottages round them. They were the homes of busy people drawn hither for one purpose, and above them towered the great hive wherein they worked. The Mill spread under a knoll of trees on the hillside and shone out grey and blue against the autumn colour of the hanging woods behind it. Wide roofs glittered with glass and the northern face rose finely with tier on tier of windows outlined in red brick. Lesser buildings supported the mass to right and left and a clock-tower and weather-vane surmounted the 26 A NEW VATMAN 27 whole. The architectural form, piled without design through the accretion of years, had yet taken a dignified and significant completeness. It was stern and plain, but not ugly and meaningless. Its shape, with outstretched wings and uplifted turret, like a head, suggested a sentient organism that could well fight for itself and protect its interests. It seemed not aggressive, but watchful; no tyrant to destroy, but a potent, receptive and benevolent over-lord of the green valley, which it had indeed modified and awakened, but not robbed of its distinction and beauty. The building must have been imposing on a plain, but the hills rolling round about tended to dwarf its size by their immense contours. Under some lights indeed the Mill bulked greater than the surrounding scene and to the meditative mind far transcended the inert matter heaved and heaped around it ; but to-day Nature was clad in glory and no building built with hands could compete against her splendour of blue sky, emerald green grass lands and au- tumn groves of beech and oak. Seen in this brilliant set- ting Dene MiU was an impression of restrained grey and silver. Broad lights and shadows brooded over it and sunshine found the roofs but not the face of the buildings. Yet no sobriety marked the mass. It never brooded or sulked, unless the sky lowered and dropped darkness upon it. There was joy in the feathers of steam that leapt, and laughter in the broad golden weather-vane above the clock-tower. Labour pursued in this rural valley seemed to offer some hope of lessened asperity. Eyes weary with work might lift to the windows and mirror green and gra- cious things — meadows climbing and orchards and thatched roofs ; or shorn stubbles spreading like cloth of gold upon the shoulders of the eastern hills. The beholder marked the people moving about the many mouths of the great hive beneath him, and being a man apt to link impressions, he guessed that the Mill had been built of the stone from the quarry that gaped at his feet. The 28 STORM IN A TEACUP rift in the hill extended to a road at the valley bottom, then sprang trees to fill the space between, so that the works beyond seemed bowered in foliage on all sides and framed in thinning boughs. A bell rang and the people streamed away — men and women — in a little thin trickle, like beads irregularly scattered on a thread. Here and there the line was bright- ened by a fiash of colour from a bright sun bonnet, or gown. The watcher descended now, gained the road be- low, then climbed the other side to the Mill. He was a middle-aged, good-looking man, with a round face, hair turning grey, and black, rather shifty eyes. Humour homed on his countenance and merriment and cunning shared his expression. He carried a large, brown paper bundle and wore a new, homespun suit, a paper col- lar, a sky-blue tie and a cloth cap. As he passed Mr. Trood's house at the entrance of the works and proceeded towards them, looking round about him, there emerged the master, and the new-comer guessed that he was so. He touched his hat therefore and said: " You'll be the boss, I reckon." " Right — and what do you want ?' " " Work, Mr. Matthew Trenchard." It was not strange to see a wandering paper maker. The body of these men is small; they know their own value and, being always precious, can count upon making a change with safety. They are sought and a first rate workman need be in no fear of not winning a welcome where hand paper continues to be manufactured. "What department?" asked Trenchard. " A vatman, if so be you're wanting a good one." " I'm always wanting a good vatman. We've got three of the best in England here." " Take me and you'll have four," said the man. Trenchard laughed and looked at him. *' Why are you changing.? " he asked. A NEW VATMAN 29 " Tired of a town. I come from the midlands ; but I want to be in the country, and knowing about Dene Works, I thought I'd come down and offer." They were standing opposite Mr. Trood's house at the main gate and the master turned and knocked at the door. Trood himself appeared. " A vatman," said Trenchard. " By name. Philander Knox," explained the stranger. " I must tell you," he added, " that I've got rather a queer stroke at the vat. People laugh to see me with a mould ; but they don't laugh when they see the paper." " We shan't quarrel with your stroke if we don't with your sheet," said Trood. " I'm for a nice, easy stroke myself, because it goes farther and faster; but we all know no two men have the same stroke. We've got a man now with a stroke like a cow with a musket ; but his paper's all right." " You can come for a week on trial," declared Trench- ard. " Begin to-morrow if you're agreeable to terms. We're very busy. This is Mr. Trood, our foreman." He went homewards and left the others together, while Mr. Knox produced his credentials. CHAPTER V THE aAG HOUSE The place where Lydia Trivett worked and controlled the activities of twenty other women was a lofty, raftered hall lighted from the north by a row of windows under which the sorters sat. In the midst of the chamber the mate- rial was piled in huge, square bales covered with sacking. The parcels came from all parts of Europe, where linen and cotton rag could be obtained; and before they were handled, the contents entered a thresher for preliminary dusting. The thresher throbbed and thundered within a compartment boarded off from the workshop. Here in a great wooden case, a roller with iron-shod teeth revolved, while above this lower, moving wheel, fixed prongs stood similarly armed, so that their teeth passed between each other at every turn. Here spun the rags and whirled and tossed, while the dust of France, Belgium, England, Ire- land, Scotland was sucked away from them. Every rag that entered Dene Mill was subjected to this rough initial embrace, where Alice Barefoot, a tall, strong woman, attended the thresher. She was herself of the colour of dust, with a high complexion and lion-coloured hair, tied up in a yellow kerchief. She prided herself on doing man's work and, indeed, accomplished her heavy labours very completely. The dusted rag she piled in tall baskets, stopped the thresher, then opened the door of the chamber and bore the rag out to the sorters. They sat each be- fore her lattice with the material heaped at her left. The practised workers dealt very swiftly with the stuff, run- ning it between their hands and knowing its composition by touch. Wool or silk sometimes intruded, but was flung 30 THE RAG HOUSE 81 aside, for only cotton passed to the empty baskets at each woman's right. The workers were clad in white overalls and their heads were covered with white caps and bonnets. Wonderful cleanliness marked them and the atmosphere of the brightly lighted shop was clear despite the flocculent material that passed through it. For purity of air and water, chemicals and working hands is a vital matter to the paper maker. Every opera- tion must needs be as cleanly as sleepless precaution can make it. From the mountain of rags on her left the sorter plucked material and picked it over the lattice, an open wire-work sieve spread before her. Standing beside it was a short upright knife used to cut the rags and sever from them the buttons, hooks and eyes, whalebones and other extra- neous additions that had belonged to their earlier incarna- tions. These knives were made from old steel scythes worn too thin for husbandry, but here answering a final purpose of value. The hones hummed from time to time, for the busy knives needed constant sharpening. Their cutting edge turned away from the workwoman and to it she brought the material — fragments of every garment ever manufactured from spun cotton. The history of many a single rag had been a feminine epic, from its plucking in a far off cotton field to its creation, use, adventures, triumphs, tragedies and final dissolution. Here they were from the dust heaps of a continent, from the embracing of bodies noble and simple, high and low, young and old, sweet and foul. Their tags and buttons were swiftly cut away and each grille exhibited a strange assortment of trophies — pearl and glass, metal and foil, whalebone and indiarubber. Even so many foreign substances escaped the sorters, to be captured at a later period in the purification of the rag. The women sat back to back and there was little speech among them. Their hands twinkled in a sort of rhythmic IIl§a8\ire from right to left and left to right. Then, as S2 STORM IN A TEACUP their baskets were filled, came Alice Barefoot to carry them away and pile fresh accumulations from the thresher. To-day the work was old rag; but sometimes a con- signment of fragments and overplus from the collar and shirt factories arrived clean and white. Out of them had garments been cut and the remnants needed nothing but shortening and dismemberment upon the knives and picking over for coloured threads, or rubbish that hang about them. Here reigned Lydia and herself worked at a lattice with the rest. She had only come to the Mill when her husband died ; but her skill proved great and her influence greater. Blind-folded she could have done her sorting and separated by touch the cotton, or linen, from any other textile fabric. She was clad in a big white garment and had wrapped her head and neck in a pale blue handkerchief so that her face only appeared. Next to her sat a girl, and sometimes they spoke. Daisy Finch was a big blonde maiden, a friend of Me- dora's ; and concerning Medora the pair kept up a fitful conversation. But Lydia's eyes were about her while her hands swiftly ran through the rags. She marked all that was going on from her place at the end of the row, and sometimes cried out a direction, or word of admonition. " She don't tell me nothing," said Daisy. " She just leaves you with a sort of general feeling she ain't happy, then she'll turn it off' and say, ' talk of something else,' though all the time we haven't been talking of anything in particular. Of course it ain't anybody's business." " Nobody's and everybody's," declared Lydia ; " but nobody's in the sense that you can meddle directly in it." " They was made for each other you might say — such a laughing thing as Medora used to be." " You never know who's made for each other till they come to be fit together. And then life wears down the edges with married people most times, like it do with a new set of false teeth. Keep her good Iqck before Me- THE RAG HOUSE 33 dora. Remind her, when you get a chance, how fortunate she is. Life's gone so easy with her that she takes for granted a lot she ought to take with gratitude." "It's just a passing worry I dare say," suggested Daisy. "When she forgets herself, she'll often laugh and chatter in the old way." " Well, she's fonder of you than most, so you help her to forget herself as often as you can." Daisy promised to do so and the elder thanked her. When the bell rang, they stopped work, and while some, Lydia among them, went to their baskets for dinner, most flung off their overalls, donned hats and jackets and hur- ried home. As for Mrs. Trivett, she stopped in the shop, ate her meal, then produced a newspaper and read while others talked. The day was fine and warm and many groups took their food together in the sun round about the Mill. Outside the vat house were Jordan Kellock and Robert Life, another vatman, while the new-comer, Philander Knox, ate his dinner beside them. On a bench at hand, Medora and Ned shared the contents of their basket, and the talk ran up and down. Mr. Knox had won permanent employment without diffi- culty. Indeed he proved a paper maker of the first rank, and while Mr. Trood deprecated Knox's very unusual stroke, he admitted that the result was as good as possible. Of this matter they were now speaking. " Ernest Trood is a great formalist," said Kellock. " He believes in what you may call tradition and a sort of stroke that you'd say was the perfection of the craft. But you can't make a man to a model. You can show him another man who works on a good pattern — no more." "The stroke comes just like every other stroke, whether it's cricket, or billiards, or shooting, I reckon," ?aid Ned Dingle. " It cpmes, or else it don't come, Take 34. STORM IN A TEACUP me: I've tried a score of times to make paper; but I can't do it. I can't get the stroke. But you might have an apprentice new to it and find, after a month or two, he'd prove himself in the way to be a paper maker." Mr. Knox, who had already won a friendly greeting from his new associates, in virtue of an amiable character and humorous disposition, admitted that the vatman was born, not made. " And you may very near say as much for the beater- man," he added. " I never want to see better pulp than you send down to the vat room, Ned Dingle." " 'Tis the life and soul of the paper to have such pulp as yours, Ned," confirmed Kellock, and the beater was pleased. Praise always excited Ned and made him chat- ter. " I don't know what there is to it — just thoroughness no doubt and a keen eye and no scamping of the tests. I take a lot more tests than most beaters I reckon," he said. They discussed their craft and Ned told how for the purposes of the new water-mark pictures destined for a forthcoming exhibition, extraordinary pulp would be nec- essary. " Soft as milk it will have to be," he declared. " I've seen the like," said Knox. " StufF you'd think couldn't hold together. It's got to find every tiny crevice of the mould; but such pulp takes the dyes exceeding well." " Our dyes are Trenchard's secret," answered Dingle. " He's a great chemist, as a paper master needs to be. I'd give a lot to look in the laboratory; but only Trood goes there." " A very understanding foreman is Ernest Trood," admitted Mr. Knox; then he turned to Medora. " How's they fingers ? " he asked. " Better," she said. " You knock your fingers about rattling them against the ?rjl?," THE RAG HOUSE 35 " The fingers always suffer," he admitted. " For my part I shake when there's a spell of very hot pulp for the thick papers. I'm feared of my life the skin will go somewhere and put me out of action for a bit. If some man could invent a possible glove, many a tender-skinned vatman would bless him. But a glove would kiU the stroke no doubt." Dingle pressed more food from their basket on Medora and the well meant action apparently annoyed her. What passed between them was not heard, save the last words. " Don't be a fool," she said. " Can't I have my own way even in that? " " Hush ! " replied Ned. " Have it as you will." But she grew angry; her face lowered and she pressed her lips together. The others joked and Mr. Knox offered Medora a piece of pie. " Hard hearted devil, you are. Dingle," he exclaimed. " To eat the cheese and offer your poor girl the bread." Medora jumped up and at the same moment Daisy Finch came along to seek her. They departed together and strolled from the works up the valley. But Ned Dingle was evidently disturbed. His face had fallen and he lit his pipe and went slowly after the women. " Take my tip and leave her alone," shouted Knox ; then he caught sight of KeUock's perturbed countenance and turned to him. " Aren't they good friends ? " he asked. " Of course they are — none better." " Sometimes a bit of chaff makes a breeze end in laugh- ter," said the elder; " and sometimes it don't." " Chaff's a ticklish thing," answered Jordan. " To you it might be, because you're one of the serious sort, that never see much to laugh at in anything," re- torted Philander ; " but that's your loss. Alice Barefoot in the rag house is the same. Can't see a joke and mistook my fun yesterday for rudeness. I might have known by 36 STORM IN A TEACUP her eye she weren't a laughter-loving creature. But Mrs. Dingle can laugh." " She laughs when there's anything to laugh at," said Kellock drily. " The art is to find something to laugh at in every- thing," explained Philander Knox. " And married peo- ple ought to practice that for their own salvation more than any." " How is it you ain't married.? " asked Robert Life. He was a man of few words and his wife worked in the glazing house with Medora. " For the very good reason that my wife's dead," re- plied Mr. Knox. She's left me for a better place and better company — a very excellent wife according to her lights, and I missed her." " I dare say you'U find another here," suggested a man who had come along a minute before. It was Henry Barefoot, Alice's brother, the boilerman — an old sailor, who had drifted into the Mill when his service days were done. " If I do, Henry, it won't be your sister, so don't throw out no hopes," answered Knox. Henry laughed. " No man ever offered for her and no man ever will," he declared. " Her pride is to do man's work and she never will do woman's — not if all the men in Devon went on their knees to her." " I've known others the same," declared Philander. " They're neuter bees, to say it kindly, and they hum so terrible sorrowful over their toil that the male give 'em a wide berth. Duty's their watchword ; and they do it in a way to make us common people hate the word." " That's Alice. You know the sort seemingly," said Henry. " I've met with 'em. They are scattered about. I used to pity 'em till I found there wasn't no need. They're THE RAG HOUSE 37 quite satisfied with themselves for the most part, but sel- dom satisfied with other people." " Alice is a withering woman, though a very good house- keeper and looks after me very well," said Mr. Barefoot. " As housekeepers they can't be beaten," admitted the other. " But Mrs. Dingle is a very different pattern — a pretty creature — prettiest I've seen for a month of Sundays. They pretty women are exacting in marriage, because nine times out of ten they've been spoiled before. She looks to me as though she wanted something she ain't got." " Dingle don't know what she wants, for in a minute of temper he told me so," said Mr. Life. " Don't he ? Then you tell him to be quick and find out," advised Philander, " because with a rare piece like that, if he don't, some other young fellow very likely will." Then Kellock spoke, for this sentiment seemed outra- geous to him. " How can you say such an indecent thing ! " he ex- claimed. " A man of your age ought to know better." " A man of your age perhaps don't," answered Mr. Knox. " And yet you're old enough to know the mean- ing of a pretty girl. But I'm afraid you're one of those chaps that's had some useful things left out of him, Kel- lock. You ain't called ' Jordan ' for nothing I expect. No doubt you wouldn't wish to comfort Mrs. Dingle ; but then you're not everybody, and other young men might feel called to cheer her up — no more than that of course. And why you should flush so red and use the word ' inde- cent ' to such a decent man as me, I can't guess." " You would if you knew more about it, however," said Henry Barefoot. " You ain't up in our history yet, else you'd understand that Kellock here was one of the ' also ran ' lot after Medora Dingle. No offence, Jordan — of course such things can't be hid." 38 STORM IN A TEACUP " You oughtn't to talk about such private matters, Barefoot," answered Kellock calmly, " and a conversation like this is improper, and for my part I don't wish to hear any more of it. No self-respecting man would pry into such a delicate subject." " Who's prying.? " asked Philander. " I merely say, from my knowledge of human beings in general, that if a pretty young woman's not happy and her husband hasn't got the trick to make her so, 'tis almost any odds some other chap will come along and have a try. That's what would happen in most Christian countries anyway — whether Devonshire's different I don't know, being a stranger to these parts." " We men mind our own business in Devonshire," said Kellock, and Knox answered promptly. " Then I'm right," he said, " because a pretty girl down on her luck is every man's business." " She'll get a fright I dare say," prophesied Robert Life. " I've known more than one young married woman, restless like, who ran a bit of risk; but as a rule their eyes are opened in time and the husband makes good." Kellock, heartily loathing this conversation, left the others, and when he was gone. Life explained to Mr. Knox the situation. " Another man might be dangerous," said Henry Bare- foot, " for by all accounts Medora liked him very well and was in two minds to the last which she'd take. But Kel- lock's a good and sober creature and a great respecter of law and order. You can trust him not to break out." " You speak as a bachelor and your sister's brother, Henry," answered Philander. " Where there's a woman and a man that once loved her, you can no more trust either of 'em not to break out than you can trust a spring in autumn. Kellock's clearly a virtuous soul, and he cer- tainly won't break out if he can help it. You can see by his eyes he's not a lady's man, and never will be in any large and generous sense. But so much the more danger. THE RAG HOUSE 39 for where that sort dines they sleeps when love's the trou- ble. Let them love once and they'll love for ever, no matter what happens ; and if she was fool enough to go playing about with him, she might overthrow him to his own loss in the long run." These forebodings were cut short by the work bell and Mr. Knox, expressing a hope that he might be mistaken, shook out his pipe and followed Robert back into the vat room. CHAPTER VI THE MARTYE On a Saturday afternoon full of sunshine was presented the rich but simple picture of Ashprington village under conditions of autumn. The hamlet lay on a slope under a hillcrest and through it fell steep paths by meadow and orchard past the cottages to Bow Bridge far distant in the vale. Crowning Ashprington rose the church-tower of uni- form grey, battlemented, with a great poplar standing on its right, and a yew tree throwing shadow upon the western porch. Then fell the land abruptly, and the whole foreground was filled with an apple orchard, that rippled to the churchyard walls and spread a rich cloth of scarlet and gold around them. At this hour the tree-foundered village seemed oppressed and smothered with falling leaves. Its over-abundant tim- ber mastered the place and flung down foliage in such immense masses that the roads and alleys, drinking foun- tain, little gardens subtending the street and the roofs of the cottages were all choked with them. But it was a dry and joyous hour, the latter rains had yet to fall and submerge Ashprington in mud and decay. Virginian creeper flamed on the house fronts and dahlias, michaelmas daisies and chrysanthemums still flaunted in the gardens. Through this cheerful scene came Miss Finch and Me- dora Dingle with their baskets to pick blackberries. Me- dora's home was a stone's throw from the church and they now crossed the churchyard to enter certain fields beyond it, 40 THE MARTYR 41 The well-kept sward spread level with the arms of the apple trees over the wall, for the ground fell sharply from the graveyard to the orchard below; and now, at the limits of the burial place, cider apples fell on the graves and spattered their mounds and flat surfaces with gold. Daisy stopped at a tomb and removed a windfall of fruit from the broken marble chips that covered it. "That's old Mr. Kellock," she said. "He wouldn't like them there, would he — such a thrifty old man as he was." " And such a tidy one," added Medora. " He was Mr. Jordan's grandfather and left him all his money I believe," continued Daisy; but her friend knew more about that matter than she did. " He hadn't anything to leave over and above his cot- tage. That was left to Jordan Kellock and he sold it, not wanting to be troubled with house property. It wasn't worth much." They passed through the shining fruit trees and stopped to admire them; then Medora, since Mr. Kellock had been mentioned, felt she might return to that subject. " I often wonder what he'U do," she said. " You feel that he won't be content to stop at Dene all his life." " Why not.? " asked Daisy. " He's got proper good money and is a big man here." " He'd be a big man anywhere," answered Medora. " It isn't only a matter of wages with him," she added. " Of course we know as a vatman he's one of the best in England, and makes as good paper as there is in the world, I suppose. But he's got more to him than that, Daisy. He's not content with being prosperous and well-thought of. He thinks great thoughts and has great ambitions. I dare say the people here don't see that, for he's a cut above the most of them." " He is," admitted Daisy. " There's something, I don't know what about him; but it makes me uncomfortable with him." 42 STORM IN A TEACUP " That's just his greatness acting on you," explained Medora. " I felt like that once too, but he did me the kindness to explain himself," " We all know he would have given all he'd got to marry you." " Don't speak about that. At any rate I understand him better than any other woman — or man for that mat- ter. And though it wasn't to be, I understand him still ; and I know he's out for big things sooner or later. He'U make a mark in the world of labour some day." Daisy looked with admiration at Medora. " I'm sure I shouldn't know what to answer if he talked to me about such deep subjects," she said. " But then you're married, and you've always got a man in the house to help your brain power." Medora, secretly nettled at the preposterous suggestion of Ned enlarging her mental outlook, turned to the black- berries and felt a helpless disappointment that even her friend should guess so little of her difficulties and troubles. For now she began day by day to weave round herself and her married life a hollow and false tissue of imaginary tribulations and trials supposed to be sprung from her union with Edward Dingle. Medora set about a sort of histrionics inspired by nothing but her own vague unrest and her own amazing ignorance of reality. Even to her- self she could not explain this futile experiment in emo- tions, yet she persisted and presently, finding certain of her circle were deceived, and even hearing words of pity on a woman's lips, she deluded herself as to the truth of her gathering misfortunes and assured her conscience that the disaster came from without and not within. For at first, in the perpetration of this stupid pose, conscience pricked before Ned's puzzled eyes ; but presently, when a silly woman told Medora that she was a martyr, this non- sense of her own brewing seemed indeed the bitter drink life had set to her lips. She echoed and amplified the notion of martyrdom. It was just what she wanted to THE MARTYR 43 excuse her own folly to herself. From accepting the idea, she soon began to credit it. To win the fuU flavour of the make-believe this was necessary. Then developed the spec- tacle of a masquerading woman, herself creating the at- mosphere in which she desired her world to see her sufl'er and shine. As all who acquire a taste for martyrdom, Medora proved amazingly ingenious in plaiting the scourges and selecting the members of the inquisition from her own household. She had reached a preliminary stage in this weak-minded pastime and enjoyed it exceedingly. Ned was much mystified ; but the attitude of Ned mattered little. Her real object and the goal of the game lay far beyond Ned. Whereunto all this would lead, Medora did not know ; and she told herself that she did not care. The day was to add a considerable scene to her unfold- ing drama, though Mrs. Dingle did not guess it when she set out. She had no premonition of the interesting ad- venture that awaited her when presently she drifted, by hedgerows and lanes, somewhat westward of Ashprington, upon the high road to Totnes. They were filling their baskets, and for a time Medora had forgotten all about herself and was taking a healthy interest in Daisy's suspicions concerning a young man who worked at Dene Mill, when a bicycle bell warned them and there flashed along upon his way home, Jordan Kel- lock. He stopped and they showed him their blackberries and invited him to help himself. Then, together they walked homeward and Medora became concerned to part from Daisy if possible. An opportunity occurred ere long and when the elder pointed out that Miss Finch would gain half a mile by a short cut, her friend took the hint. " My basket's heavy and you've got company, so I'U go this way home," said Daisy with great tact. Then she bade them good-bye and descended a steep lane to Bow Bridge. 44, STORM IN A TEACUP Ini. .cdiately she had gone, Medora's manner changed from cheerfulness to a more pensive mien. " Sometimes it's so hard to pretend you're happy," she explained. " I'm sorry you've got to pretend," he answered. He had fought awhile against any sort of secret under- standing with Medora, but something of the kind now existed, though Jordan could not have explained how it had come about. It seemed not unnatural, however, be- cause he knew the woman so well and felt so supremely interested in her happiness. He believed, in his youthful inexperience, that he might be able to help both Ned and Medora by virtue of his brains and good sense; and he imagined that his championship of Medora, so to call it, emanated entirely from his own will to right and justice. Had anybody hinted to him that Medora was amusing her- self with this very delicate material, he must have refused to believe it. He believed in her good faith as he believed in the stars, and he trusted himself completely for a man above the power of temptation. Indeed, as yet he had felt none. To-day, however, the young woman went further than she had ventured to go. " I can talk to you, Jordan, and I often thank God I can," she said, " because there's nobody else on earth — not one who understands me like you do." Not in the ear of him who really understands her does a woman ever confess to be understood ; but the listener quite agreed with Medora and believed the truth of what she asserted. " If thought and true friendship could make me under- stand, then I do," he answered. " Ned's such a real good chap at heart that — " " He's not," she said positively. " To my bitter grief I know he's not. Like you, I thought so, and I made my- self go on thinking so, for loyalty; but it's no good pre- tending that any more. He's deceived you as he has me. THE MARTYR 46 He's not good hearted, for all his laughter and noise, else he wouldn't persecute me." " Don't say that." " I'm not going into details," declared Medora, quite aware that there were no details to go into ; " but he's that rough and harsh. Loses his temper if you look at him. He wasn't like you, and showed me everything about him- self when we were courting. He hid the things that mat- ter, and if I'd known then half, or a quarter, of what I know now, I wouldn't have taken him, Jordan." " Don't say that," he begged again. " I've got to say it. And I'll say more. It's a relief to speak where your honesty is known, and no false meaning is put to your words. I'll say this, that I made a dreadful mistake, and every year that goes over my head will show it clearer. I can bear it, of course. We women are built to suffer and keep our mouths shut. It's only men that run about with their troubles. Yes, I can bear it, Jordan, and I shall bear it to my grave ; but it's hard for a girl of my age to look ahead through all the years of her life and see nothing but dust and ashes. And though I'm brave enough to face it, I'm too frank and open-natured to hide it, and the bitter thing is that people guess that I'm not happy." " Don't put it as strongly as that, Medora. Don't ac- tually say you're an unhappy woman." " You're either happy, or else you're not — at any rate, when you're young," she said. " I see the old get into a sort of frozen condition sooner or later, when they're neither one nor the other, being sunk to a kind of state like a turnip in ground; but the young are different. They feel. Why, Daisy, only a few minutes ago, saw my mind was troubled, though I tried ever so to hide it. You know people know it." " I won't deny that. Everybody's more or less sorry. But between husband and wife, of course, no wise man or woman ventures to come." 46 STORM IN A TEACUP " Yes, they do," she answered. " My own mother for one. Kindness made alive to everybody else no doubt, but not to me. She doesn't blame my husband anyway, so she must blame me, I suppose." " I wouldn't say that. It may be no matter for blame — just the point of view. The great thing is to get at a person's point of view, Medora." "And don't I try? Don't I interest myself in Ned .J" I've got a brain, Jordan." " I know that very well." " And I can't help seeing only too bitter clear, that my husband's not interested in anything that wants brains to it. He's all for sport and talk and pleasure. I like to think about interesting subjects — human nature and progress, and the future of labour, and so on. And if I try to talk about anything that really matters, he just yawns and starts on shooting birds and football. For the less brains a person has got, the more they want to be chattering. I've married a boy in fact, when I thought I'd married a man ; and my charge against Ned is that he hid the truth of himself from me, and made me think he was interested in what interested me, when he was not." She had mentioned the subjects which she knew at- tracted Jordan. It was indeed his wearisome insistence on such things that had made her turn of old to the less intelli- gent and more ingenuous Dingle. In reality she had no mind for abstractions or social problems. " As we grow older, we naturally go for the subjects that matter," said Kellock. " I've always wanted to leave the world better than I found it, you know, Medora." " And so you will — you're built to do it," declared she. " And I shall watch you do it, Jordan. And though I've lost it all, I shall see some other woman at your right hand helping you to make a name in the world. And I shall envy her — yes, I shall. I can say that to you, because I can trust you never to repeat it." " You shake me up to the roots of my being when you THE MARTYR 47 talk like this," he assured her. " Oh, my God, Medora, it seems a cruel sort of thing that just at the critical time, and before it was too late, you couldn't have seen and felt what you see and feel now. It was bad enough then. You'll never know or guess what I felt when you had to say ' no ' to me. But I had one thing to keep me going then — the certainty you were too clever to make a mis- take. I said to myself a million times : ' She knows best ; she knows that Dingle will make her a happier woman than I could.' But now — now — when you say what you've said. Where am I now ? " They talked in this emotional strain for ten minutes, and she wove with native art a web of which both warp and woof were absurdly unreal. Her nature was such that in a task of this sort she succeeded consummately. By a thousand little touches — sighs, looks, and shakes or droops of the head — she contributed to her comedy. She abounded in suggestions. Her eyes fell, her sentences were left unfinished. Then came heroic touches, and a" brave straight glance with resolution to take up the stag- gering weight of her cross and bear it worthily to the end. Medora was charming, and in her subconscious soul she knew that her performance carried conviction in every word and gesture. She revelled in her acting, and rejoiced in the effect it occasioned on the listener. Long ago, Kel- lock had set her, as she guessed, as a lovely fly in amber, never to change, though now for ever out of his reach. He had accepted his loss, but he continued to regard her as his perfect woman, and she cherished the fact as a great possession. Perhaps, had it been otherwise, she had not entered upon her present perilous adventure ; but she knew that Jordan Kellock was a knight of weak causes, and one who always fought for the oppressed, when in his power to do so ; and now she had created a phantom of oppression, which his bent of mind and attitude to herself prevented him from recognising as largely unreal. Kellock was young; he had loved Medor* in t}i^ f^U 48 STORM IN A TEACUP measure of a reserved nature, and to-day she deluded him to the limit of his possibilities. Her complete triumph in- deed almost frightened her. For a few moments he became as earnestly concerned as on the great occasion when he had asked her to marry him. Then she calmed the man down, and told him that he must not waste his time on her troubles. " It's selfish of me to tell you these things — perhaps it's wrong," she said, truly enough; but he would not grant that. His emotion was intense; his pain genuine. Her intuition told her that here was a man who might err — if ever he erred — in just such a situation as she was cre- ating. She was surprised to find the ease with which it was possible to rouse him, and felt this discovery enough for that day. She grew elated, but uneasy at the unexpected power she possessed. Her sense of humour even spoke in a still, small voice, for humour she had. Chance helped her to end the scene, and, a hundred yards from home, Ned himself appeared with his gun over his shoulder and a hare in his hand. Dingle was in cheerful spirits. " A proper afternoon I've had," he said. " Ernest Trood asked me to go out shooting along with him and some friends, and we've enjoyed sport, I promise you. A rare mixed bag. We began in the bottom above the Mill, and got a woodcock first go off, and then we worked up and had a brace and a half of partridges, a brace of pheasants, and a hare, and eight rabbits. I knew what you'd like, Medora, and I took a partridge, and the hare for my lot. I shot them, and four rabbits and one of the pheasants." " What a chap for killing you are," said Jordan, while Ned dragged a partridge from his pocket and handed it to his wife. Nobody loved nice things better than she, but she took the bird pensively and stroked its grey and russet feathers. " Poor little bird, your troubles are ended," she said. THE MARTYR 49 Then she assumed a cheerful air, which struck Jordan as unspeakably pathetic. " I've been busy, too. Look at my blackberries." Ned praised the blackberries, and in his usual impulsive fashion offered Kellock the hare ; but Jordan declined it. " Thrown away upon me," he said. " Come and help us to eat it one night then," suggested Dingle, and Medora echoed his wish. " I'm sure you're very kind. I'll come up to supper any evening, if you mean it." Then he mounted his bicycle and rode off down the hill. " He came along from Totnes, while Daisy and I were picking blackberries, and he stopped and would carry my basket for me," she explained. " He looked a bit down in the mouth, didn't he? " " He was. He's such a man to feel other people's troubles." " Whose? Not yours, I should hope? " She laughed. " Good powers, no ! I'm not one to tell my troubles — you know that, or ought to. I'm a proud woman, what- ever you may be. It isn't personal things, but general questions that bother him. Poverty and want and injus- tice, and all that. I cheered him up, and tried to make him forget." " He'll do better to leave such subjects alone," said Din- gle. " The woes of the world in general ain't his job ; and if he tries to make them his job, he may find it won't pay him to do so." " That's your pettifogging opinion ; but if every man in good employment was as selfish as you, the poor might remain poor for ever," she answered. " Well, don't you be a fool, anyway, there's a dear. You've got to look after me, not the poor in general. And nobody can look after me better than you, when you please. It's a choice between beer and tea this minute, so choose which I'm to have." 50 STORM IN A TEACUP " Tea," she said. " If you can be patient for a little." They went in together, and he was pleased to find Me- dora amiable and willing, though ignorant that her good temper sprang not from his inspiration. CHAPTER Vn THE BLUE KAKK Feom the rag house, through trap doors, the rag descended from Lydia and her fellow workers to a huge object like a mowing machine. The rags came to this monster and passed through its whirling knives. Then, having been clipped pretty small, they were carried on an endless rib- bon up again to the magnet. Two great magnetized roll- ers revolved, and, in a dingy niagara, every fraction of the old rag tumbled over them, to run an electric gauntlet and receive a challenge. The bossy rollers were even quicker than the women's fingers, and a fraction of metal, however small, responded to their attraction instantly. There was a click and instead of falling with its neighbours, the offending rag found itself arrested and pilloried on a boss. It clung to the roller, and, as the cylinder turned, became de-magnetized again and fell in a place apart. The danger to future processes was thus lessened materi- ally and but little foreign matter in shape of metal escaped to be a nuisance later on. To the duster then came the harassed rag and in open wire barrels amid revolving wooden prongs it was whirled round and round and further cleansed. Then to Henry Barefoot it went, and Henry always de- clared that in his hands the material received first serious treatment. " The rag don't know it's bom till it gets to the boiler- man," he was wont to say. The boiler-house lay under an arched roof of corrugated iron. It was a damp place, full of hot air and the heavy scent of washing. The steam thinned and feathered away 51 52 STORM IN A TEACUP through holes in the roof. In the floor were deep square hollows and here the boilers revolved, with a solemnity proper to their size. They were huge metal receptacles capable of holding a ton each; and when the rag was packed, with water and alkalies to cleanse it, the loaded giant turned ponderously over and over, churning the mass for three or four hours. Then the seething clouts were dragged forth, their pollutions drained away and further stages of lustration entered upon. Thus far the rag had come under rough control and reign of law. By air and water and chastening of many blows it was reduced to a limp and sodden condition, amen- able to discipline, more or less prepared for the tremendous processes between its final disintegration as rag and its apotheosis as paper. A paper man will tell you he turns " old shirts into new sheets " : and that indeed is what he does ; but a long and toilsome journey lies between the old shirt and its apothe- osis. Henry Barefoot was a placid man, as long as the rag came to him exactly when he wanted it. Under ordinary circumstances he accomplished his part in the great ma- chine as obscurely as any invisible wheel, or steam pipe. But if the women delayed, or he was " hung up," as he put it, then his chivalry broke down and he swore long and loud at those who interfered with his activities. At such times he became tragic and exceedingly profane. He ex- panded and broke into uncouth gestures and simian scowls. He appealed to Heaven in these great moments and asked of the sky why women had been created. Sometimes his sister, Alice, was sent for from the thresher to pacify him, and when she failed, Lydia Trivett, at the sound of Henry's roaring in the boiler-house, would slip from her lattice and strive to calm his fury. The women had fled before him at one of these explosions and Alice having also failed, approached Mrs. Trivett and begged her to intervene. THE BLUE MARK 53 She went, to find Mr. Barefoot standing with steam about him and his hand lifted to the corrugated iron roof above his grey head. " Oh, my God, my God ! " he said. " What have I done to be the prey of a lot of worthless females — " " Your rag's waiting, Henry," interrupted Lydia. " His rag's out, I should think," said a woman from behind Lydia. " An evil-speaking toad — always blasting us. And how can we help it? " " You know very well, Henry, there must be a hitch sometimes with such a lot of dirty rag," explained Lydia. " We've all got to keep going, and it's no more good or sense cussing us than it is for them in the engine house to cuss you. And men wouldn't do this work half as well as women, as you'd very soon find if we were gone. And it's a very ill-convenient thing for you to lose your temper, and nobody will be sorrier than you in an hour's time." As the rag now awaited him, Henry subsided. " It's a plot against me," he said, " and I've no quarrel with you, Lydia. It ain't your department. It's they baggering women at the magnet, and they want for me to get the sack as I very well know. But they'll get fired themselves — every trollop of 'em — afore I shall." " They don't want you to get fired. Why should they? What have you done to them? Why, you haven't even asked one of 'em to marry you," said Lydia. " No — they needn't hope that," he answered. " I've seen too much of woman since I came here ever to want one for my own." So the breeze subsided and Henry filled his empty boiler, growling himself back to his usual calm the while. It was characteristic of him that between these dynamic dis- charges, he preserved an amiable attitude to those among whom he worked, and when a storm had passed, he in- stantly resumed friendly relations. Within an hour of this scene, when dinner time came, he descended to the ground floor and cautioned two girls who 54 STORM IN A TEACUP were skipping off down a flight of steps that led from the rag house to the ground below. " Don't you go so fast," he said. " When slate steps are wet with rain, they're beastly slippery, and some day one of you maidens will fall and break yourselves." Mrs. Trivett put on her old black bonnet, for she was going out to dinner with another woman ; but as she pre- pared to depart, her son-in-law met her. " It's important," he said. " I want half an hour with you, mother, and I dare say Mrs. Ford won't mind if you go along with her to-morrow instead." Mrs. Ford made no difficulty and Lydia returned to the rag house with Ned, who brought his meal with him. " I've got a tid-bit for you here," he explained. " A bit of jugged hare which you'll like. And I wouldn't trouble you but for a very good reason." They sat in a corner among some rag bales, beyond ear- shot of others who were eating their meal in the rag house. " Where's Medora.? " asked Mrs. Trivett. " She's having dinner in the glazing room to-day. So I took the opportunity. It's about her I want to talk. But eat first. I don't want to spoil the jugged hare." He brought out a small pudding basin containing the delicacy and his mother-in-law ate heartily and declared the dish very good. " Medora can cook, whatever she can't do," said Lydia. " There's nothing she can't do," he answered ; " but there's a damned lot of things she won't do. And that's the trouble to me. Time was when we saw alike every way and never had a word or a difference of opinion ; but that time's past seemingly, and I want to know why ; and if you know, I wish you'd tell me. It's all in a nutshell so far as I can see. What am I doing to vex her? God's my judge I don't know. I'm the same as I always have been. A chap like me don't change. I only want to be patient and cheerful and go on with my life as I'm going. It's her THE BLUE MARK 65 that's changed. She used to love a bit of fun and laugh- ter and be friendly and easy-going and jolly and kind. That's what she was when I married her anyway. But she's changed and I'm getting fairly fed up, because I don't know of any fault in myself to explain it. If I'd pretended to be different 4p