When the two years’ educational course at Eastbourne was finished, Edna Sartwell returned to Wimbledon, and again took up her position in her father’s house. As time went on, Sartwell was quietly pleased to see that there was an absence of that friction between his women-folk which had been his ostensible reason for sending Edna away. He had had but faint hope that the interval of two years would soften his wife’s only partially concealed dislike for the girl; but, now that peace reigned over the household, he did not inquire too closely into the cause of the welcome change. He did not know his daughter now bore uncomplainingly what she had before rebelled against. Mrs. Sartwell’s attitude towards education in general was one calculated to discourage the friends of learning. She looked upon a course in school as a sinful waste of time and money. The Apostles, she held, had never even gone to a Board school, and who among present-day people were to be compared with the Apostles? Education was merely a pamperer of that deplorable pride which was already too great a characteristic of this conceited nation. She had many texts at her command which went to prove that too much learning was a dangerous thing, and these quotations she frequently presented to Edna, in the hope that many repetitions of them would mitigate, in some measure, the evil that was sure to follow a period spent at a fashionable and expensive school. Overweening pride was Mrs. Sartwell’s especial bugbear; it, more than anything else, was driving modern nations rapidly to perdition. She told Edna, sorrowfully, that she noticed an unwelcome change in her manner since her return from Eastbourne. The pride which aped humility was ever the most baneful variety of that detestable fault, and Edna’s silence in the face of good counsel showed that her pride had assumed the sullen type which is so difficult for a good woman to deal with. It was only when Mrs. Sartwell—offended by absence of retort and cheated out of her just due of argument by the silence of her adversary—threatened to lay before her husband the appalling results of over-education upon an already haughty nature, that some glimmer of the old rebellion flashed out between them; yet the rebelliousness, like the hauteur, had been changed by the two years’ residence at Eastbourne. That Edna was angry at this proposed appeal to her father, was evident; still there was a reserve and restraint in her indignation which Mrs. Sartwell could not fathom. The girl stood for a moment looking at her, then said very quietly:

“My father has enough to worry him without being bothered by our small affairs. He thinks my two years’ absence has made you like me better than you did before I went away, and I wish him to continue thinking so.”

“Like you better? My poor child, it is the love I have for you that causes me to endeavour, in my humble way,—praying that my efforts may be blessed by a Higher Power,—to correct those faults that will be your undoing some day.”

“I am speaking of what my father thinks. The moment he finds things are just as bad as they ever were, then all your hold over me is gone. I am now trying to bear patiently and uncomplainingly all I have to put up with in this house, and I do so for no other reason than to save my father unnecessary trouble. You say I am proud, resentful, stubborn, and all that. I am far worse than even you have any idea of. It makes me shudder to think of the kind of woman I shall become if I am much longer under your sway. I feel like a hypocrite when I remain silent under your taunts, for I think such things that if I were to put them in words——well, we won’t talk of that. If you imagine that I have learned meekness because I have lived in a really Christian family for two years, you are very much mistaken; but I have learned that true Christianity does not consist in nagging, with a text at the end of every exasperating sentence. Now, being a woman, I understand you very much better than my father does. You said once that, if he chose me to be mistress of this house, you would lay down your keys and depart without a murmur. You would do nothing of the kind. You would fight for your place. Therefore I want you to understand thoroughly what you may expect if you appeal to my father. The moment you complain of me in any way, or lead him to think there is the least friction, I shall go to him and say that I must be mistress here. What will happen then?—you know as well as I do. So long as he is not troubled with our affairs, I shall say nothing, and will try to be as dutiful and obedient as if I were your own daughter.”

Mrs. Sartwell sat down, buried her face in her hands, and wept softly, as one does whose tenderest feelings are wounded. It was hard that, after having a lifelong contest with one stubborn person, resulting in a most uncertain and unsatisfactory victory,—if it could be called a victory at all,—she should be called upon to face the same problem over again. She knew that if Edna appealed to her father anything might happen. He would be brute enough to take another house somewhere, and live in peace with his daughter. The man was capable of anything, in spite of all the precepts she had flung away upon him. However, there was still the consolation that she might save the girl by earnest and devoted persistence in well-doing, and she knew Edna would not protest so long as her father was unmolested: so Mrs. Sartwell agreed that her husband should not be made the referee between them, and Peace once more folded her white wings over the happy home.

Edna had developed into a beautiful woman; more beautiful, indeed, than she herself had any idea of. She was more sedate and reserved than when she had left home, and more prone to sit thoughtfully, chin in hand, and ponder, with her dreamy eyes trying to peer into the future. Resolutely as she had set herself to put Marsten forever out of her thoughts, she never succeeded, and his vibrant, deep-toned voice often came back to her. Although she had been brought up in a democratic way, and theoretically held that one person was technically as good as another, yet she lived in a country where a grocer’s daughter considers it quite beneath her dignity to be seen in company with a green-grocer’s daughter; while the daughter of a draper, from her serene social altitude, would have some difficulty in distinguishing the relative status of the other two, although she would be well aware that the adjective “green” carried comparative degradation with it. Edna was the daughter of a man who had been a workman; yet, when she thought over the proposal she had received in the school garden, she was slightly shocked to think that a workman should aspire to the hand of his master’s daughter. She had conversed with Marsten, and discussed the problems that had interested them both, yet never for a moment had the thought of equality between them entered her mind. He was merely a workman, and, when that was said, a gulf yawned. But love levels all ranks, as a distinguished man has sung, and, as the young woman meditated on the subject in all its bearings, the social barriers seemed to become less and less tangible. She remembered that no thought of social inequality had ever occurred to her while in his presence. She got no further in the understanding of her own feelings than the conclusion that she liked him very much indeed, and had a strong admiration for his manliness and his determination to succeed.

When the strike came on, and she knew that her father and her lover were opponents, her state of mind was one of great perplexity. It was hard that one or the other must be defeated, and she sighed when she thought of the relentlessness of fate in bringing into savage opposition the two men who were now dearer to her than all the world beside.

As the contest went on and she saw her father bending under the storm, ageing perceptibly day by day, becoming more and more silent, her strong affection for him grew stronger; she yearned towards him, wishing she could comfort him, yet knowing she was helpless. Sometimes a fierce resentment against Marsten would spring suddenly up in her heart. He had all the world to fight against, yet he must choose as his antagonist, out of the many millions, her father. It disconcerted her to perceive that this resentment never lasted long; that she found herself sympathizing too with the younger of the combatants, and making excuses for him. A partisan has an easy time of it in this world, compared with one who sees that all the good or all the bad rarely rests with one side solely, but is interwoven like the cotton and the wool in a piece of cloth. Sartwell and Marsten each believed he was fighting for the right; but Edna saw wrong on both sides and right on both sides, although—once the fight was started—she had not the courage to say this to her father.

But, as war goes on, the original right or wrong almost invariably sinks out of sight, and we choose our side from other considerations than those which appeal in times of peace to thinking beings. He who holds aloof is branded as a traitor: and yet man, with his marvellous capacity for self-esteem, flatters himself that he is a reasoning animal.

Sartwell generally came home late, sometimes returning by the last train. It had come to be recognized that it was Edna’s privilege to sit up for him, and, although he faintly protested once or twice when he found her there after midnight, it was quite evident that her presence was a comfort to him. She had a soothing, restful way with her, moving silently about the room, anticipating a tired man’s needs without unnecessary fuss, and with no irritating questions to ask; yet she was a sympathetic and receptive listener if there was anything to be told. In the wake of some women inanimate nature seems to clash: doors bang, plates fall, cups and saucers clatter, and chairs upset, jangling nerves sensitive to sound; but Edna could deftly set out a supper without so much as a chink of china. She knew the value of trivialities,—the setting of the arm-chair at just the right angle so that the light fell over the shoulder as it should, the placing of the slippers where the stockinged feet fell into them without effort; and, when her father was too much fatigued to care for the formality of sitting up to the festive board late at night, a small gipsy table, covered with spotless linen and some dainty that might tempt the appetite of a Lucullus, would appear at his right elbow as if they had come noiselessly up through the floor. All this came under the general head of “pampering” in Mrs. Sartwell’s vocabulary, and the good woman, finding that her example was of no effect in putting a stop to it, retired early to rest, so that she might not countenance such proceedings by her presence. There was a time to eat and a time to drink, and if a man presumed to be hungry at midnight, it was a sin that should be punished by dyspepsia in this world and goodness knows what in the next.

In spite of the compact between them, Sartwell told his daughter little about the progress of the strike; and she, seeing him indisposed to speak, forbore to question him, feeling that no suggestion she might have to offer could be of any value to him, contenting herself with protecting him from annoyance at home, and cheering him as much as possible whenever she had him to herself. But it wrung her heart to see him failing perceptibly day after day, his step, which she eagerly listened for, losing more and more its selfreliant tread.

One night she sat in his arm-chair waiting for him, thinking deeply. She looked suddenly up with a start, and saw her father standing beside the table gazing down at her. His face was white, gaunt, and haggard, and the gloom of his countenance was deepened rather than relieved by the sombre smile that parted his lips as he regarded her. He seemed like a man on the verge of a serious illness, and so startled was the girl, that for a moment she looked at him with wide-open eyes, fearing that an apparition stood before her.

“Father!” she cried at last, springing to her feet. “What has happened?”

“Nothing, my girl, except that you have been asleep in the chair when you should have been in bed long ago.”

“I don’t think I have been asleep, yet I didn’t hear you open the door. But you are ill.”

“I’m right enough. A little tired, that’s all. No, I won’t have anything to eat, thank you. It’s after closing hours, I know; but I’m a traveller, and I’ll have something to drink, if you don’t mind.”

He tried to laugh a little over this attempted pleasantry, but his laugh sounded dismal, and it frightened the girl still more, instead of reassuring her, as was his intention. The neck of the decanter clattered against the glass like chattering teeth, which seemed to annoy Sartwell; for he muttered something, and shot a glance at his daughter to see if she had noticed his unusual nervousness. Then he grasped the vessel more firmly, pouring the liquor with a steadier hand, but the effort made him tighten his lips. He drank off the liquid and set down the empty glass. Edna stood opposite him; he looked up at her with a wan smile on his lips.

“Well, my girl,” he said, “the game’s up.”

“Has the strike ended, father?” she asked, her voice quavering.

“Actually, no; practically, yes. The firm will give in to-morrow, and I shall resign. Sorry?”

“I am sorry if you are, father,” said Edna, kneeling beside him. “I am not sorry that the tension has ended, for I think anything is better than the anxiety you have been undergoing for the past few weeks. And you look positively ill to-night.”

“Yes. A man hates to be beaten. Well, I’m fairly knocked out, and if there is any comfort in a decisive beating, I have it.”

“What has happened?”

“You see, Edna, in the pictures of a battle, we always have the horses galloping, the men firing, or being shot, or cutting down their enemies with the sword; but we rarely get a view of the background, and so people sometimes do not know that it exists: yet the picture shows merely the front of the fight, as it were, while battles are often won by perfect arrangements in the rear,—the supply of ammunition, the food and water carriers and all that sort of thing. Well, a strike is like a battle; there are other things to consider than the actual fighting, and these things often decide the day. The direct loss in a struggle of this kind is nothing to the indirect loss. We see trade slipping away from us and going to our bitterest rivals. Some of our customers may come back; others won’t. Then we are unable to fulfil contracts we have made, and, as a strike can hardly be called an act of God, we are liable to have damages awarded against us where no strike clause has been inserted in the agreement. All this I have had to fight as well as the strikers themselves. Then there is great difficulty in filling up the shops—much more than I expected. During the last week I have been slowly losing ground with the directors. They haven’t said very much, but I have felt it. It was in the air somehow that we were fighting a losing battle, and so things have been on the balance, and the only reason the directors did not give in a week ago was they knew I would resign if they did so. It only required a straw to turn the scales against me. Some time before the strike began, a steamer sailed for Sydney, New South Wales. It had a large quantity of our goods on board. To-day I received notice from the owners that the ship lay there and could not be unloaded because of our strike. They propose to hold us responsible for the delay, and that will mean an expensive lawsuit whichever way the verdict goes. This is serious enough in itself, but the fact that we have been struck from the remotest ends of the earth while being paralyzed in London will make the directors give in at once. So, my girl, I’m a beaten man.”

“But might you not have been beaten in any case?”

“No; another week would have seen the men back—I am sure of it. They are seething with discontent, and have called a meeting for to-morrow night, in spite of the protests of Marsten. There is sure to be a split, and all I need is a slight defection to set the works going again.”

“Why need you resign, father? You have done your best, and the directors know it.”

“Ah, my girl, you are sleepy; I can see that, or you wouldn’t ask such a question. But now you know all about it, so off you go.”

In the morning Edna walked with her father to the station.

“Is there to be a meeting of the directors to-day?” she asked.

“Yes. It is called for five o’clock this evening.”

“Do you think the strike would end if they gave you another week?”

“I feel morally certain it would. There is sure to be a split at to-night’s meeting of the men. You see it is called in direct opposition to Marsten’s wishes, and that shows he is losing whatever hold he ever had on the strikers.”

“Then wouldn’t you be justified in saying nothing about this communication from the shipowners until the next directors’ meeting? You would know by that time what the result of the strikers’ meeting was.”

“My dear Edna, you make proposals that take away a man’s breath. No, that wouldn’t do. The directors must have full information. I could not take the responsibility of holding back anything that bore on their interests, whatever might be the result to myself; but I can’t help wishing the message had gone astray for a day or two.”

“I am going to the office at six o’clock to-night, father.”

Sartwell laughed, but in a mirthless, despondent manner.

“Hadn’t you better come at five and give the directors your opinion of them? I’m sure it wouldn’t be very flattering.”

“You mustn’t make fun of me, father. The situation is very serious, and I couldn’t bear the suspense of waiting until you came home. I must know what happens, so please don’t forbid me. Besides, it may be your last night there, and I should like to bring you home with me.”

“Oh, it won’t be my last night. I shall not leave the old firm like that. I shall stay until the new manager is installed and everything running smoothly. Even though a man is defeated, Edna, he owes it to himself to retreat in good order, and sometimes a masterly retreat is as good a bit of generalship as a victory. As everything is perfectly quiet, you may come if you are anxious, as of course you are; or I could telegraph you, if you would rather. But it is a foregone conclusion, I am sure of that. Whenever they see this message, and learn there has been little progress made in filling up the works, they will succumb—and I don’t know that I can blame them. They have vast interests at stake, and they have backed me well up to the present, when, if it hadn’t been for me, they would have given in long ago. Then I shall look for you at six, my dear. Take a hansom from the station, and ask the man to wait in the yard of the works. Wait for me in my room if I happen to be absent when you come. I shall tell the commissionaire to look after you.”

The girl watched the train come in and leave; then, turning, she walked towards her home with a heavy heart. She went past the house and on to the Common, unconsciously imitating her father, who, when troubled in mind, sought its breezy expanse. Several times she paused, and thought of sending a telegram to Marsten, asking him to meet her in the old garden at Wimbledon at once. There she fancied herself appealing to him to put an end to the strike; but she feared the anger of her father should he discover what she had done, even though it had been done for his sake. It did not occur to her that perhaps the appeal might be in vain, for she knew she would do anything asked of her for one she loved, and she had little doubt that the young man had a true and lasting affection for her. What, she asked herself, if Marsten made conditions? Would she be willing to accept a great favour and grant nothing in return? What would he think if she telegraphed him to come? The answer was obvious, and, in searching her own heart, she for the first time admitted to herself that her reply would be different from what it had been at Eastbourne.

But when it came to the point, she could not bring herself to the length of sending a message. She shrank from playing so dangerous a card; for, if it failed to win the trick, how could she face the after-humiliation? Something in the self-reliant ring of Marsten’s voice, something in the dogged determination of his manner, something in the compelling glance of his eye, warned her that not even to please the girl he loved would he be untrue to the flag under which he fought—and something in her own heart told her that she herself would think less of him if he did. Yet, if he refused, she could never speak to him again; she was certain of that. Having made an appeal in vain, she could never grant one of his own, or even listen to it. She thought of the pleasure it would be to her to have him plead his cause once more, and read his answer in her willing eyes before her lips could speak it; but if he refused her when she begged him to spare her father the impending humiliation of defeat, there could be no more friendship between them. Edna at last returned to her home, bewildered in mind and hesitating to act, and listened to a homily on the sinfulness of wasting one’s time, although she heard or understood but little of the admirable discourse.

As evening drew on the girl became more and more anxious, and impatiently awaited the hour that was to take her to London. She half expected a telegram from her father, but as none came she knew the situation had not changed for the better. Shortly after six o’clock her hansom drove into the yard of the works; the gatekeeper was evidently on the watch for her, and had the gates open, closing them after her. The silent, deserted air of the huge place had a most depressing influence on her as she mounted the stairs that led to her father’s office. He was standing at his desk as she entered, entirely alone, and looked round absent-mindedly when he heard the door open.

“Well, my girl,” he said, “you have come to help pack, after all.”

“If there must be packing, I am ready to help, father.”

“I’m afraid that’s all there’s left to do, dear. But we’re not going to show the white feather, are we? I’ve just been planning a lovely little tour on the Continent for you and me, where we shall forget, for a time, that there is such an ugly thing as a strike in the whole world. You’ll be a princess, and I’ll be the old dethroned king; they always went to the Continent, you know, after a defeat.”

Sartwell’s attempt at banter was a gloomy failure, and he avoided his daughter’s eye, pretending to be sorting out some papers. She saw how hard hit he was, and the tears came into her eyes.

“Is the directors’ meeting over?” she asked at last.

“No. They are in there yet, arranging the terms of surrender—or hardly that, for there are no terms. They simply give the men all they ask—which, of course, they might have done a month ago, and saved all this bother. I knew how it would be when they heard about the ship lying unloaded in Australia. There was not an ounce of fight left in them, and I felt sure a blow dealt so far away would appeal to what little imagination any of them has. It seems to them decisive, but of course it is nothing of the kind. It is merely a theatrical bit of by-play that should have no bearing on the result. But there is little use in kicking against fate. They are at this moment engaged in writing out their letter of capitulation—as if it made any difference how you worded an acknowledgment of defeat and a surrender of your interests to a lot of ignorant, beer-drinking boors who don’t——but what is the use of cursing? Another week of this indecision would have demoralized me; in fact, I think it has done so already, for I don’t generally growl.”

“Will you come home with me, father?”

“No, my dear. I shouldn’t have let you come all this distance merely to hear what we both knew this morning. Run along home, like a good little girl, and don’t sit up for me to-night. I’ll be late. Of course, in spite of my scolding, I’ll stay till the last dog’s hung. I’ll see the thing through, and wave the white flag myself. It wouldn’t be quite the thing, you know, to have all the fun of the fight and then funk the submission. I merely came into this room because you were due at six, and to rest my nerves a bit. I’m going back to the directors, and will write the letter of surrender myself; for they will never summon up courage enough to do even that if I am not at their elbows. I’m going down with the ship, my girl, pretending I like it; so off you go, Edna, and we’ll feel all right about it next week——perhaps.”

Haggard as he looked the night before, Edna now noticed, with a thrill of fear, that for the first time he seemed an old man. His usually well-set shoulders were bent, and even his neatly-fitting clothes hung loosely about him. The hesitation and the tone in which he said the last word, “perhaps,” showed her like an electric flash what was in his own mind, and what had never occurred to her before,—that when he was suddenly wrenched away from the task that had been his life’s work, he would break up in idleness like a useless hulk on the rocks.

“Father,” she cried, “don’t let them send that letter till to-morrow. A day more or less makes no difference, and they will keep it back if you ask them to.”

Sartwell shook his head.

“There is no use in delay,” he said. “It has always been my habit to do quickly what had to be done, and I am getting too old to change my habits. If you must walk the plank, walk it, and get it over.”

The girl did not urge him further, but kissed him and said, “Good-night.” He saw her into the hansom, and told the cabman to drive to Waterloo. At the first turning Edna pushed up the little trap-door in the roof of the cab.

“Do you know where the headquarters of the strikers are?” she asked.

“Yes, miss. At the Salvation Hall, miss.”

“Well, drive me there as quickly as you can.”

The cabby turned his horse and in a short time was making his way through the crowd of men who were gathering from all quarters to the meeting. He drew up at the kerb in front of the hall. Edna stepped out, flushing as she saw the men looking curiously at her. She said to one:

“Where can I find Mr. Marsten?”

“He’s in his room at the back of the ’all, ma’am. This wye, ma’am. I’ll show you the door.”

Edna followed the man down the long, narrow passage at the side of the hall.

“For God’s sake, mates, what’s the meaning of this?” cried Gibbons, in amazement, taking his pipe out of his mouth.

Some of the men laughed, but Gibbons looked serious, and they saw that there was more in the incident than appeared on the surface.

“Who is it she wants to see?” cried Gibbons, as the man appeared who had led the girl down the passage.

“She arsked for Marsten. She’s in with him now.”

“Look here, mates,” cried Gibbons. “What have I been telling you? We’re sold, or I’m a Dutchman! That girl is Sartwell’s daughter, and I’ll warrant she has come direct from him. I say, cabby, did you drive that young lady here from the works?”

“What’s that to you? You’re not paying my fare,” answered the cabman, with characteristic disregard of the threatening crowd.

“He came from the works; I saw him,” said one of the men.

“Let’s get inside, and call this meeting to order,” cried Gibbons, decisively.