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HEAR IT IN MIND.
■ WpII ’* Wy he “half done;”
Hnt. 1* not ending;
p n . a t Hin erases ne’er are won
Hut only wishing and intending,
• Start” is good but “stay” in better,
• Start” alone ne’er won a race;
Start and stick” is sure prize getter,
■Staying powers” take foremost place,
i proud and deep lav the foundation,
* lie Htire and count the cost;
or voa’ll rue, in deep vexation,
Treasure spent and labor lost.
-WoqJVuA)
BY CHARLES J. BELLAMY.
Copyrighted by the Author, and published
} ° by arrangement with him.
war, so aSsorbCu Li Tils Thoughts that
he did not observe that he was close upon au
excited ''rowd of village people, until such
words as these fell upon his ear:
• A noiee friend of rlie poor man he be,
with his four fancy bosses, his silver dishes
to cat his victuals out of, and his house like a
king’s palace, while we lives and dies in dirt
end poverty. Who made him better nor us;
do In- work harder? do beslcep less? No, but
h have his venison and his game dinners,
while us starves on tea and crackers; ho
sprawls on his fine cushions, and sleeps in his
KifS beds, while wo rot inclose atticks, and
loafs in dirty saloons, the poor man’s only
home. What title have he got to liavo bet
ter than we, and give himself airs over us?"
Philip was astonished. The man who stood
on tho steps of one of the tenement houses,
instructing an audience extending quite
across tho highway, was no other than the
incendiary who had so nearly caused the ruin
of the Breton Mills the night of the great
fire. The fellow's hair was cropped as close
) to his bullet head as it was then.
The audience was mostly made up of old
men, women and children, with here and
there an able bodied man, who preferred talk
ing about his rights to deserving anything.
One or two had observed the young mill
owner, but they took no pains to spread the
intelligence, and in a moment more tho agita
tor had caught his breath and went on:
“Il< feeds his bosses moro’n would keep two
poor families. Tho wines ho drinks every day
cost enough to keep another two.
Perhaps the man was right ki his tirade.
Perhaps Philip Breton had only begun to
grasp the first outlines of the great question
be had fancied mastered.
“But ye kiss his hand.”
“No, we won’t:” shouted tho crowd. There
stood Thomas Bailes. Philip’s discharged ser
vant, in the middle of the street, shouting
with the rest. He could afford to be idle
since his last liberal present.
“Ye will thank him for his be in’ so kind to
ye.”
“No, no!” screamed the wemen. What a
fool Philip Breton had been to count on grati
tude. Human nature is too progressive to be
grateful. Perhaps he deserved no thanks.
He bad done mere than others for his help.
The more fool he was, all sides would agree,
unless h" went further. Ho ought to have
been either a thorough radical, or a thorough
conservative. All parties abuse the half way
reformer. A vessel of pottery between two
jars of iron, ho is certain to be crushed.
A carriage was struggling down the street.
How slow the crowd were to give way. They
were so much interested in their orator that
tjicy not notice they were obstructing
tb- highway.
“What good is such men as him? our wo
men is stronger than them sort.”
Tho horse seemed spirited, or else not
properly guided. Ah, the driver ought not
to use a whip in such a situation as this.
Hood heavens! the horse had become un
manageable. A man, it was Bailes himself,
and a woman had been struck by the shafts
and rolled under the feet of the horse, who
was now rearing end plunging, whiio the
crowd scattered in all directions with screams
and curses.
Under the- very wheels of tho carriage lay
a woman stunned and helpless from the blow
die had received. Instant death threatened
her, when a man's form rose suddenly out of
tin* Hunt under the horse’s iron shoes and
<■:.nght the excited animal by his bit. The
orowd gathered in more closely than ever,
v.'hilo a dozen hands dragged out the old wo
men from her terrible situation and wiped
te dust from her white, ghastly face. The
end r had ceased his eloquence, and all dan
gcr of accident seemed now averted, so
IT-ilip Breton, was passing on his way.
But Bertha, for the occupant of the car
was no other than she, found her way
blocked in all directions by an angry mob.
“Hull her out, scarlet lace,” screamed the
vo.nii :i. “Tear her pretty rags off from her.”
1 00 1 rcfooted children threw earth at her;
lean, dirty lingers plucked at her delicate
How dared they touch her! she
sl '-.nk from the pollution of contact with
such c: oatures as these, with a terror that
mould be inconceivable to a man. .She saw
Hem gather around the restive horse, who
\ ; impatient of their touch as sho;
1 ' beginning to undo his harness. In
<U!vi: c moment sho would bo lost/ But the
li<t.v v,. ; .strong, could he not break through
l A ‘ i he did not care Low many bo should
"umpl' to death; she would rather, a thou
g- I t :nes rather, die herself, than uicluro
'■< ii’ insulting t ueh. But a rough hand
car-aht tho whip from her grasp; the erea
tl:r' * unpared ns. :ls hurt her: another hand
°a her shoulders; and vile words, whose
! • ;au lg she. only l’elt, were on every tongue.
Her heart grew sick; oh, she prayed God
v °uld not let her l'qiut; oh, not now; oh, not
now— yet Lor vision seemed failing, she could
k n .?.l Ke V * lorse ’ s and tho terrible in
‘ the people hurled at her grew indistinct,
me a roaring cf many waters in her ears.
, l ’“ s be saw hideous faced hag reach lier
I ' A: S hrawn}' arm into the carriage and clutch
“ur feet; they were lifting her out. But
n hum] liko iron Hung tho virago back.
“Stand-on’. It is ray wife!” The mill own
* * v, *te. The crowd fell back for a moment,
b SI / it was news for tliem; but Philip knew
F instinct, tho lull would only last for a mo
j’K'nt. Ho must make the most of it. He
hud only time to rclasten a little of the har
hess. when u sharp stone struck him on the
k and drew blood.
' Bow many husbands can a woman have:”
S(, iyamc>d a woman on the sidewalk.
“Jail's the place for her,” growled a man
;u pis shoulder. Theu Uie crowd closed in
again.
“ Let go the bit,” demanded Philip, never
y haiimg. But Bailes only grinned at him, us
7 lj i!:p hud seen him before, and tightened his
u °ri on the liorsfe.
" too small to give orders; I aint in
'inr p;>y now/’ But beforo tho fellow had
j° put up a guard, Ids young master
; y ■ tra< L him a blow ia the face that fairly
Su .\ y m - 1 him, large man as he was.
1 .Ln, that’s your game, is it? Make way,
.y” 3 ud J want is room. I’ll finish him up
, man wanted to make use of his weight
; J1 “ strength in the direetest way possible, so
forward to close with his antag
,. L throwing up his hands to protect him
, But he miscalculated and his check
f“irly cracked with the force of tho
-‘yond blow. Bailes drew back for another
y ' Tho smile of contempt was gone
, 3 Bruised and bleeding face, but a
hw dangerous look was in his eyes. His
t' IH-h nu-.stcr had lost his first paleness, a
b'r. li! 1 rec * S P°" Burned iir each cheek and life
r'l ■“ c '?' < s Bashed forth defiance. The dis-
Bi ? '"d servant ducked his head and came at
”, *' a maddened ox, Tho crowd hejd
\vn.>u“ la; tlio slight form of tho maaJffL
i,;„ <l L° down, and the victor would pountr
life out of him. Was the lad
tL.-g , . Ul ’- ; ite a battle with a man of almost
tbu i y l3 v \ e ;ght? The young man (lid not
u nil 1 a ,B.air*s breadth, lie raised liis arm
° Ut n bat good of battering against the
fellow’s thiol; skull? Ho was upon him—no,
Philip had leaped aside at the last moment,
and, us Bailes w#it post, had dealt him a
blow in the temple that sent his great form
reeling to the ground.
Before the crowd had time to move Philip
had leaj>ed into the carriage and caught the
it iris from his fainting wife. He turned his
horse into an open space and the half fastened
harness let the carriage run against the ani
mal's legs. It was 1 letter than a thousand
whips, and bo broke into a wild gallop.
Bailes had only time to get his feet and shout
after the young mill owner:
“This is only the first round!”
Philip heard his words and muttered to
himself; “1 ought to have killed him. since
I had to beat him. There isn’t gold enough
in California to buy him over now.”
“Vi hat did they mean, Philip?*’ Bertha
was lying on the sola in her own little blue
room. Philip had put a pillow beneath her
tired Lead, and was kneeling by her side
watching for the color to come back to her
frightened cheeks.
“Thank God she (’♦! not know, not yet.”
He looked down at the veins in her pretty
bauds; how many there were to-day.
’•lt was only their senseless jargon. They
are angry with me, you know. Do not think
about it again.”
t She opened her great blue eyes on him.
She was going to thank him no doubt for her
rescue out of the terrible peril.
ou look so small and weak. I wouldn’t
have thought you had any strength.” That
was all she had for him.
CHAPTER XXXI.
IXK.
Philip left his wife to fall asleep if she
could, and made his way to his study where
he and his father before him had fought out
s<> many battles. His secret was out. Tho
police might be at his door that very night
to claim his bride back from him. He had
beaten one man for her, but he could not de
fend her against the force they would bring
against him. The air of his little village had
grown close and suffocating. How long
would it be before the storm would burst.
Ho tried to calm himself and calculate how
much time his crowding destiny would givo
him. He was. rich and powerful and had
many friends, and nothing that could happen
to his wife could make him less formidable,
though it might break his heart. There
was not a soul in Bretonville that had some
thing to hope of his favor, or to fear from
his displeasure. Ho could shut up his mills
and the village would become a desert.; he
could lower wages and send starvation
knocking at every door. And there was not
one creature in the village but knew his
power.. lie had not used it to harm them yet,
but would not a man forget mercy in defend
ing his own homo? And then what did they
know, after all, even the mob that had in
sulted his wife? They might suspect, but
suspicion was not enough to give them cour
age to assail all the bulwarks of wealth and
respectability about such a heme as Philip
Breton’s. Even the discharged servant,
Thomas Bailes, did not hold the trump card
in this terrible game of life and death. No
one held it but (biddings, the lawyer, and he
was provided for as yet.
Philip paused before the window. There
could be no vital danger yet. Ib would take
tune. His enemies were on tho right track,
but there were blind windings in it that would
hinder the scent. Hinder it, but at last
what? His mills seemed to hold him in bond
age. His life work was here where the dan
ger was, to show the world what an em
ployer ought to concede to liis workmen. To
set a bright example to soften tho rigor of
his class. Could he forsake his glorious
work? To bo sure his workmen were prov
ing themselves ungrateful, and murmjired
louder against him today than ever against
his father. They had taken their children
away from the schools to spite him, though
lie would not suffer their little bodies to bo
tortured in the mills any more. They be
grudged him his luxuries, as if it were their
money that bought them. There were no
more smiles and hearty words for him from
the poor he had done the best he knew for,
and all the manufacturers around were laugh
ing at his failure, as they called it.
But a look of determination came over the
young man's pale face. He believed he
could plant his feet like the rock and wear
out their impatience. The violence of his
people should not make him tremble. He
was their friend and they would come to be
lieve it. He lmd not done all they wished,
but lie could not see any further yet, and lie
would take no step blindly because of re
proaches. If he were not right lie was nearer
right than thousands of liis class. By and by
their turbulence would subside, when it could
not stir him, and his measures would have
time to bring forth their certain fruits of
smiles and prosperity. New blocks of mills
would stretch away in all directions, and the
homes of his working people would dot with
happy cottages ail the lulls and valleys near.
But Bertha. Did ho love his mills or her
the more? She should not be permitted even to
guess her own terrible story, or her life would
be clouded like his. But the air of the vil
lage would soon bo trembling with the news,
and the hand of pitiless justice would be laid
upon her. Should he wait for it? God had
granted him one week of peace, and now this
month for warning. Was not the world
large? Were there not high mountains and
hu peopled deserts, where they could bo safe?
where ho could hide his Hurling from insult
ing looks and words, where no prison cells
gaped open lor her?
A sudden great light broke over Philip’s
face as he walked Ids little study with rapid
turns. He could save her. The plan un
folded itself in his mind. There was yet time
if he weie quick. He must give up his great
plan for liis workmen; he must sell his mill,
but he could yet save his wife if she were
willing. But she might refuse to go Philip
hurried to the room where lie had left her
and opened the door so suddenly that she
started up in terror. Iter nerves were so
shaken that day, poor girl.
“Bertha, my love.” he said, breathlessly,
“how would you liko a trip to Europe.;”
“You are joking, Philip.” Was it eager
ness or aversion in her eyes? He felt afraid
to look and see. What resource was left if
she would not go? “How can you leave your
business?”
There was an inflection in tier voice that
made him glance quickly at her face. The
coldest women have their enthusiasms; he
had touched hers. He hardly knew her, Lier
face had such anew vitality in it.
“And. would you really like it so much?”
ho said, with his ei cp tenderness that had a
touch of rej.roach ia it, which she was too
dull ever to catch. He came up to her and
explained what charming routes they should
take, and what lovely lands they should see.
Not France and Italy and the banks of the
Rhino alone, but even Egypt and tho far
east, not a spot of beauty in the whole far
off world, but they would enjoy it.
A flush was on Bertha’s cheeks, at last, and
her eyes shone like a young girl's while a
lover whispers the first romance into her
cars. And Philip sat by her side only too
happy to see her smile, and to touch lier
golden braids of hair.
It was after the table in Mrs. G-inness’ fac
tory hoarding house had been set for next
morning’s breakfast, which was soon at pa
tea this sAme day, that one of tho Hoarders
came into the dining room and cleared away
the dishes m front of him to write a letter.
It was no a very highly ornamented room,
but everything was painfully clean, remind
ing ‘one of the aching arms of some poor
w oman, everything but the table cloth. Clean
linen is one of the most exclusive luxuries of
the rich; the industrious poor may Achieve
shining floors, and glistening faces, but spot
less linen is quite beyond them. But it made
reir.* little uiiLerenco to this man to-night,
for his eyes were swollen so that dis
criminating vision was out of tho question.
He spread his paper before him, and
after uncorking his ink bottle, made two or
three abortive attempts to dip Lis pen. Theu
Bailes, for it was he, looked around to see if
au> body was laughing at him. But the room
was empty, all but a French girl and her
Jpvcr in one corner, who were quite too
much taken up with each other to take notice
of anybody else. Then he tried again, and
this time inked not alon*- the pen and hrfii
the length of the holder, but the palm of bs
hand in addition, and a;; a natural but ap
parently not foreseen consequence, that por
tion of the tablecloth within his reach. It it
had been much that Bailes had cared to say,
he probably would have given it up in u -
spnir. but it was only two lines, and even a
blind man could write two lines, if he had a
whole sheet of paper for leeway. The two
lines Bailes wrote were these:
“Curran. Y'ou are wanted here at once!
A friend.”
CHAPTER XXXIL
too Late.
It was the afternoon of the Wednesday
that the steamer .Salvator was to sail. But
Philip Breton and the woman he had hoped
to save were yet in their house in Breton
ville, hundreds of miles from the pi**r. The
clock in Bertha’s drawing room hail struck
three. It was the very hour; the lust bell
must be ringing now, and friends were say
ing their farewell word*, handkerchiefs were
waving graceful adieux, with here and there
a teardrop. Home seemed very sweet at this
moment of separation, and dreams of joys in
strange lands seemed too vague to comfort
many a heart that had been light and merry
till now.
Philip had not slept these two nights for
anxiety. The very air had seemed so full of
danger he had feared the storm would buret
upon them before today. New, haggard
lines had come into his face. He had watched
ell the countenances-of the villagers for signs
and warnings. Would his enemies give him
time? Well, they had given him time, and
yet lie waited.
He bad driven to every train for his old
friend Philbrick, but ho had failed him. He
had strained his blood shot eyes so eagerly
last night to make him out of the solitary
arrival # on the evening train. If the old man
had known how much depended on him, he
would surely have hastened. Philip dared
not trust his mills in any hands but his. The
old man would be gentle with his charge; he
was patient, lie laid broader ideas than
Philip'Breton, ho was less of an aristocrat.
And his mills w'ero very dear to Philip—onlv
less dear than his wife. Perhaps the old man
might come yet, before the next steamer
sailed, but there were three long days for liis
terrible secret to work its way to the light—
three long, dark nights for a blow to fail.
Philip found Bertha in the drawing room,
waiting for him. The excitement that
flushed her face seemed to have smoothed out
the lines of care, her eyes were brighter than
love for him had ever made them. IShe
seemed grown young as the first day in the
garden she had fallen asleep on his shoulder.
How the poor girl longed to go. He stood
a moment before her, and love and sorrow
swept over his soul in alternate waves. She
was his beautiful wife, who looked to him for
her only protection. And out of pity for the
mob that had insulted her he had let slip,
perhaps, bis last hope of saving her. What
did the wretches deserve? Yet perhaps he
had sacrificed liis wife to them. Perhaps this
delay would make those sweet, eager eyes
weep forever; that queenly, gold crowned
head bow in humiliation. How the world
would wonder that he had not saved her from
a felon’s cell, with such wealth and power as
liis to command. He had risked her salva
tion to soften the fate of the thousand un
grateful creatures in his mill who cared
nothing for him.
“Oh, Bertha, forgive mo*” he cried as if
his heart broke that moment. All his hope
seemed dead then; the waters of desolation
were sweeping in ceaseless swelling waves
over his soul.
For a moment the woman looked at him in
silence, trying to interpret for herself the
meaning on liis wan, passion marked face.
It was for him the supreme moment, of au
agony such a soul as hers could not even con
ceive of. The man suffered more in that mo
ment, than the foulest dungeon in the world,
or the scoffs of a city rabble, or the contempt
of every woman that ever spoke her name
could hurt her. Then she drew herself back
from him; slio thought, poor creature,, she
understood tho expression on his face.
“Then you have missed the steamer, and
vou knew, too, how much I wanted to go.”
110 did not speak, but a pitiful look of con
fusion was struggling into liis face.
“When can we go, then?” she asked coldly.
“The next steamer sails Saturday.” Sat
urday! Poor girl! Poor Bertha! The furies
are folding their black wings this instant to
settle about her soul. Slte only thought it
was her pleasure trip was deferred; it was liis
plan to save her from impending ruin failed.
One of the ministers of evil was at the gate
this moment; now at the door; in the hall.
Then the servant announced a name, and
Mrs. Ellingsworth stepped into the room.
She had been smiling her best, but every
smile vanished at the sight of the shawls and
traveling bags. She looked sharply at Ber
tha, who was dressed in her blue traveling
cuit; her hat was on the sofa beside her. She
glanced about the room. The chintz covers
were placed over the damask upholstery: tne
piano was closed and packed. Bertha looked
listlessly at her.
“Oh, won’t you sit down?” But this strange
visitor stood as if rooted to her place.
“You ore going away?” Philip turned a
surprised glance at her, the tone she assumed
was crisp and imperious. He saw the dan
gerous look come into the dork, brilliant
eyes, which forgot their dissembling for the
moment. The woman knew everything. Ia
some way she had learned the secret. Would
she dare denounce his wife before him? Was
he so poor a man a woman like this dared to
beard him ? He did not speak. Her message
of scorn and infamy would come in a mo
ment, she would tear down the veil ho laid
spread before his wife’s crime; lie saw her
red lips fairly trembling with the bitter
words. Then Philip looked at her no more,
but his eyes rested pityingly on Bertha. How
would see meet it ? Would she flush into
rare passion? Would she turn pale and faint
in overpowering shame?
“Yes, we were going to Europe,” answered
Bertha, utterly unconscious of the hate that
glowered at her out of the flashing eyes.
“Philip did not want me to speak of it or i
should have told you before; but I suppose it
don’t make any difference now, since we've
lest the steamer. It left the pier an hour
ago. So we are not going now till Saturday.
Isn't that it, Philip dear? Whv, you don’t
mind my tolling Jane?” It was Bertha’s own
words then, that had decided her fate. There
had been some hope before, Philip now remem
bered; but at last her deadliest enemy knew
.everything. The mine would be sprung 1 >©-
lore to-mor- ow's sun had set. He could see it
in the sudden triumphant gleam in the
woman's eyes before she thought to smile.
But Bertha was tne only one who could talk,
just yet.
y "Ytl : ,CjPr~i
v y\ j > _ bh;
V | - !
%
iw vi- 5 1
tvfer- A yf fill! pi il
“ injy you don’t mind my telling Jane?”
“TV o:ft you lend mo a few tilings,, to gel
mo over a few days, everything is packed ujfc.
a i i> ur Laggage on tho way, you know?’
and Bertha went on lo explain in detail her
ludicrous necessities. “To-morrow will do.”
“Certainly. I only wish you had let me
help you get readv.” But her lipht laugh
could l ofc deceive Philip again, but it was
too late now to guard against her. “I will
run right home and ger the things you spoke
of ready for to-morrow.”
Yes. and there were some other things she
had not silken of. Jane Ellingsworth would
have ready for to-morrow, too.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE LAST STRAW.
“Y'ou are too late, my friend.” Philip had
been sitting in his study in the darkness
which was not more black than his life. But
he arose to give his cold hand to Mr. Phil
brick. \vh<> had come at la^t.
“Why too late? This is only Wednesday.
Have you changed your mind? I did not
suppose thcr was so much hurry, and I
wanted to have everything ready.”
“It is too kite,” answered Pfiilip gloomily.
What list to tell the old gentleman that
Philip Breton’s wife was a criminal before
the law, that the transfer of the mill property
was only a part of his scheme to save her
from an infamous penalty, that their deadli
est enemy knew all their plans now, and no
doubt her sleepless eyes watched their every
movement, lot they should escape her hate.
The servant came to the door. “I supftise
you will have lights, sir. Borne men from
the*mill folks want to see you.”
“Oh,-yes; show them in,” he said care
lessly.
There were not chairs enough for the four
workmen who came stumbling in like pall
bearers at a country funeral, but Philip did
not seem to look at them. One took his
place by the window, and soiled the curtain
with his hands; another, apparently the
spokesman, disdain© l to lean against any
tning. but, stood stock still in the centre of
the room, bent forward a little in an attitude
borrowed from the prize ring. His feet were
planted well apart, and his arms bowed out
at the eli*i'vs.
“I suppose you have some complaints to
make,” said the young mill owner with r.
gentleness of tone that was quit** misunder
stood by the delegation, who immediately
tried to look very fierce.
“Ye’re right, sir,” answer'd the man in the
center of the room. “Ye know verself, ye
aint doin’ the right thing by us.”
Philip did not sjieak for a moment, •#ud
Mr. Philbrick would have thought lie had
not heard the fellow, only for a little twitch
ing ai the corners of his mouth. Apparently
tile young man was deeply hurt by his fail
ure to satisfy his men.
“I have done the best I knew.”
“Wal, we kin tell yer, if ye don’t know no
better,' - -resumed the workman insolently.
Philip’s eyes flashed at him, then dropped to
tin/ carpet again. “Pay us more wages for
one thing, shorten up our hours for an
other.”
“You fare better than others. I divide tho
profits v itli you. You thought I was very
good with you once.” The young man’s tone
was not argumentative, it was too hojieless
for that.
“Yer don’t divvy even; our share don’t
’mount to much,” put in the man who was
soiling the window curtain.
“I am sorry for you, but you can’t expect
me to make you all rich.” There was such a
sadness of reproach in Philip’s voice that a
mist gathered before Philbrick’s kind eyes.
But the workmen got the idea they were
frightening the young master.
“I have gone as far as 1 can see my way
Don't you think you had better be patient
with me?” ,
“Be you goin’ to raise our pay?” Philip
shook his head thoughtfully.
“i cannot understand it is my duty or my
right.”
“Are you goin’ to shorten up our hours?”
asked the man at the window.
“1 cannot”
The chief spokesman turned to his com
panions. “Ther ain’t no use. Wal, ’squire,
to-nu .'row you may wish you had. Come
along, boys.”
Philip had dropped back heavily into his
chair. He seemed to have forgotten the pres
ence of Mr. Philbrick, until that gentleman
began to explain his more perfect system.
“How can you expect your help to be satis
fied,’’ Philbrick was sayi ig; “even if they
were well paid it would be small object for
them to be shut up all their lives, as if they
were convicts. But you don’t pay them,
either. It isn’t because the business don’t
pay. for your father’s Tyofits and yours were
enormous. It is all the lecalt of a false valua
tion of the worth of services. Now I shall
seek to remove the burdens that crush the
people and restrict there natural develop
ment.”
Philip said nothing. How well his old friend
had kepi his enthusiasm through all the
years ol liis life ! Well, it would do no harm
to let him talk on.
“You will ask me for details.” Mr. Phil
brick took his seat again and drew up to him
a sheet of paper and a pencil. “You will ask
what burdens they are that are on the mil
lion. besides the common necessary burdens
of human nature. 1 will teliyoa the principal
burden, it is the intolerable tribute to ac
cumulated capital laid upon the working
classes. v inch makes a tyrant of the man who
has saved a surplus out of liis wages, and
caused the hopeless vis inertia* of poverty.
Like all forms of slavery its effects are great
apparent luxury, which never penetrates
below the very- surface of society, and tire
less industry which earns nothing for the
workers but food barely enough to support
his day's work. It is benefit enough for the
man who has saved money that he can work
to better advantage; it is a lever in his hands.
If we permit capital to take such enormous
profits as it does, every day and year it in
creases, as wealth increases, the crushing tax
0:1 labor, i shall pay you but 2 per cent
on the money l shall owe you on aeouuut of
the mid property. The rest of the income of
the business above two per cent, belongs to
the laborer.”
The reformer glanced expectantly at
Philip. But the dull, hopeless look that was
on his face an hour ago had not changed.
“1 am not sure but that i$ too much,” pur
sued Mr. Jin j brick, “but it will only be a
little while before I shall pay up the debt.”
There was no use in stopping the. enthusi
astic old gentleman, whose great heart was a
fountain of human kindness. It would be
time enough lor Philip to tell him that he
had changed his plans later.
“But 1 shall also shorten the hours of work.
Six hours of confinement in the mills is
enough, and wit Urn 4. leisure all the advant
ages I can give my work people will be of
little avail. lean let different set> of hands
relieve each other if it seems necessary, or
build new mills and take in a thousand more
hands to share the blessings of justice.”
Mr. Philbrick leaned back in his chair and
a great light of benevolence shone in his
face. It was a pity to di.sapjxiint him.
“This is au opportunity I Lave hoped for a
whole lifetime. I can show the world that
labor ought not and need not be wretched
and famished. It is more blindness than
'willful crucify that delays great reforms. If
I can once show the world what justice is
and how it works it will not be long be
f ore
“But, my dear friend,” said Philip, drop
ping his eyes to the floor, “did I not tell you
ii was too iate? lam not going to sell. You
will have to select some other spot for your
Utopia.” The young man spoke bit ter fy.
Unconscious of his selfishness, he begrudged
the rest of the world the happiness he had
missed.
Then came a moment of intense silence
which was broken at last, not by a voice, tut
by the loud ringing of a door bell. It rang
so violently the gi’eat, silent house echoed
again. Had the end come then? Philip
Leaped to lay feet. Vbild thoughts of desper
ate expedients rushed through his fevreish
brain, brtt he yet stood like a statue when the
study door opened behind him. Ho tore
open a telegram and read aloud:
“SteaineitfSalvator delayed till to-morrow
morning at 3.”
For a moment he did not take in its mean
ing. Then he cauglfe Phi l brick's arm so
tightly the old gentleman almost cried out.
“Do yon want the miils as you said? You
were not joking, oh. you were not joking?”
Philbrick gazed at him in astonishment.
Philip seemed in such a terrible state of ex
citement. liis pallor was replaced by a
burnmg flush, Luo eyes that had been so UuJi
theme with unnatural brightness. “Your
plans will succeed better than mine, and you
can't find such a good place as this. You
will take my mills.”
“Of course I will, but I thought you
said”
“Never r.rind,” crie<l the young man,
‘'never mind what I said. Draw the papers
at once. But no, I cannot wait.” Philip
turned on his heel jus if no earthly power
could detain him a moment longer.
“But the papers are all ready.” And Mr.
Philbrick took a bundle of documents from
bis breast |M"kct, and laid them on the tt.ble.
“Where shall I sign them —quick?” de
manded Philip.
“No, no, not there, that is my note to you;
sign here, and here, and here.”
“I can hardly see: everything dances before
mv eyes. Ts it all done now:’’
Tie hardly waited to take the papers Mr.
Phiibrick had signed for him. Then, with
out another word, he rushed from the room
and bounded up the stairs. Freedom! safety!
oh, thank God. thank God! He could save
her yet. A castle on the Rhine, a palace in
Venice; he would find the rarest homes for
her. How sweet it would be to hide with
her. The awful sense of hourly peril would
lift from his soul.
He pushed open the door of the white
chamber. Bertha had been sleeping. The
tear marks were on her cheeks that had lost
their beautiful flush. She was so disap
pointed, poor girl; and yet she never
guessed '
“Wake up, wake up, my darling.” She
started from the bed and feil to weeping on
his shoulder.
“I dreamed they were taking me away
from you, Philip.” But he dried her tears
with merry kisses.
“We are in time yet. The steamer don't
go till 3 to-night.”
CHAPTER XXXIV.
UNWELCOME VISITORS.
The watchman at the mills was not a little
surprised, as he went his first, round that
night, to see a man's figure leaning against a
pillar in one of the weave rooms. The fellow
did not appear to mean any harm; he was
not breaking anything or stealing any cloth,
but how could lie have found his way inside?
The watcliman felt a little uneasy in spite of
himself; it was such a thing as had never
happened before.
“Hello! what business have you got there?’
But the interloper did not appear to hear
him. How oddly he looked at the looms, as
if they were living things that he loved. He
had not spoken, and his hat shaded his ejes,
but the expression of the attitude was so
plain that even so rude a man as the watch
man could road the tender reminiscence in
his heart; Perhaps the fellow might be
crazy, but this was no place for him. Oh! I
didn’t know you, Mr. Bret. - *.. It’s a nice
evenin’, sir.”
But the mill owner did not even answer
him, and moved away toward the window as
if impatient at being interrupted. The moon
was full, and the sky was clear, only for a
few silver edged clouds. One, he fancied a
ship sailing over the sea, but how slowly it
glided; could it go no faster? Ah! suddenly
it parted into bright fragments, and the
wind scattered them pitilessly. He looked
across at the other mills; the moonlight
kissed their grim walls fondly, and sparkled
in their windows like a hundred brilliant
lamps. Why, here were his fire escapes, closs
to the window coping—his first busmes.
venture. Philip raised the window and
stepped outside.
It must be nearly time for Bertha to come
with the carriage, as he had arranged, to
avoid possible suspicion. No, there was half
an hour yet. But Philip closed the window
behind liim and went down the silent stairs
He went into his office. He would wait
there for the carriage, it would not be very
long, and then there was one last duty he
must attend to before it came. He struck a
match, and the gas shot up so brightly it
dazzlCi his eyes. He turned away for an it;-
stant.
A massive form stood in the doorway.
Philip must have left the counting room un
locked when he had come in. Some one had
followed him, apparently. But the young
mill owner took only one step toward the in
truder. It was no stranger that crossed his
threshold, but a man whose name was
burned into his heart. It was the rightful
husband of Philip Breton’s wife—Curran.
His hair had grown long and almost straight
about his neck. His cheeks were thin and
haggard, and the form that had been like a
proud oak was bowed as if it had been
weighed down by a burden too heavy even
for a giant to bear. Philip stopped short and
looked at the man with speechless terror. He
had supposed him hundreds of miles away.
Could it be possible the outraged husband
had never left the village since their last
meeting? Perhaps his flashing eyes had
watched Philip wooing his wife a second
time, and begrudged him his few cold kisses.
Perhaps he had peered in through the win
dows of Philip’s home; had he not a right to
look at his wife, and followed them forth on
every walk and drive, waiting to strike till
the blow should fall most deadly. He had
chosen his time well. Poor Bertha, with her
dreams of Como and Chamouni. But what
would he do? Leap upon his enemy and kill
him? The man in the doorway looked too
uale and ill for such violence; would ho then
heap curses upon him, the bitterest human
lips ever uttered? But Curran advanced into
the room with outstretched hand.
“Don't you know me, then, friend?”
Philip hesitated again. There might be a
grain of hope yet; he would surely never
have given the young man his hand if he
had known—or called him friend.
“Some one wrote me to come. I don’t
I know wbat he wanted,” Curran explained
| wearily. “They expect so much of a man;
j they want him to be a God; and if he were
! they would crucify him.”
Philip was recovering his composure. At
j tii'St he had felt a wild impulse to confess
i everything to the wronged husband. He
! seemed so grand, so magnanimous; he would
| not lie cruel. But then iiis reason came back
j to him. In such a case as this there could be
no amends. Innocently, Bertha and Philip
: had done him a teiTiDie wrong—and them
: selves; forgiveness could not blot it out. God
m his mercy might spare them the penalty
| of infamy; out tne injured husband had nc
I choice but vindicate liis honor, when he
i came to know.
| “You look ill,” said Philip at last, drawing
him out a chair. Should he detain him ?
Bertha might come l>efore her time and break
in upon them, the two men both of whom
: she had injured so terribly? Oh! that must
not happen. Was not that a step in the pas
sage now ? Should he let Curran go, then *
Tlie first mail he met would pour the story of
his shame into his ears, and then the catas
trophe- He must not go—but he must not
stay. Philip looked out into the passage. Nc
one was there. Curran had dropped into the
chair Philip had offered him.
“Do I look ill P he asked, pushing his long
hair back from his forehead. “Did you ever
love a woman who hated you ? Did you ever
want to pour out your life for her, and see that
she despised you You know whom I mean.
Y lij,! once fancied 3011 and she were lovers,
till she told me not. I mean Bertha.” He
spoke the name so tender!y, a thrill of shame
passed over Philip. Bertha was this man’s
wife. Had he not a right then to speak her
name tenderly ? And so Curran had fancied
Bertha and lie were lovers till she told him
not —ah, Bertha.
“She has left me,” Curran went on in the
same soft, tender tone. “I don’t suppose it
interests you. But if I could 01113- see her
now, I have such a strange feeling that, I
might win her back She made such a ten
der sweetheart.” Then he lifted his eyes
more firmly to Philip’s face, set like a wall of
rock. “Is there any trouble among your
help?”
“Yes, they have flusg all my offers in mv
teeth.”
“It must have.been that which made them
send for me. I had hoped, or feared, I hardly,
know which, itnnight be something of Ber*
tha. It is. queer, isn’t it, a woman like her
should turn head so completely? What
is there about her, did you ever think of it?
Of course you haven’t.” Curran seemed to
make an effort to dismiss aH thoughts of her
that unmanned him. “You needn't be afraid
of me; I thought you seemed a little strung
when I came in.”
Philip started involuntarily, bftt Curran
continued; “I shan’t encourage any strikes
against you. Gou will bless rour life for
your work for the poor. If he hasn’t yet, be
will give yon a happier love thro i.e has
given me.” Then he rose with new energy to
nisfeet. “I must go and stop the mischief.
I can do more with your laborers for good or
evil than vn\ man in the world. I suppose
thf " ma\ i e jn ihe hall to-night?”
“Yes.” But Philip hurried up to him and
laid his hand on his arm. “But don't go, not
yet”
“I must. Shall you be hero long? Well, I
will see you again to-night.”
“God grunt not.” murmured Philip Breton,
as the door closed after him. Then Philip
unlocked the great safe and swung IKick its
green door of iron. He took out a packet
and locked the safe again, and carried his
packet back to his office. He turned the irua
still, higher and held the packet in the flume
till all that was left of it was a little heap of
charred paper on the floor—all that vas left
of Philip Breton’s will. With that act he
closed up, as he believed, all that pari of his
life worthy to be remembered- Ho was
young and strong,but he had failed. Hence
forth he must look on while others worked.
Fate had taken his work away from him. He
must sit back on the seats with the women
and children, and look on and applaud when
great deeds were doing. He would have
liked to work, too; but perhaps others would
do his work better.
“Hallo, hallo. Phil, don’t you work pretty
late?” It was Giddirgs. the lawyer, in a con
dition of dei& led intoxication. “1 11 bet yer
dollar you don't Know what I came for? ha,
ha, ha; you think money; don't you; more
money? Bui. I sint that sort of a feller. ”
TO BE CONTINUED.
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