He waited until she had finished. Then he helped her down from her perch, and made a way for her through the crowd. She looked at him in astonishment. "Thank you, Sir,—don't trouble! Last night I was pelted with filth. Are you one of us?"
He shook his head, smiling.
"I didn't agree with you. I advise you to look up some of those things you said. But you speak very well. Good-night."
She looked at him angrily, gathered up her skirt with a rattle, in a small hand, and disappeared.
He presently turned back towards Buckingham Gate, and in a narrow Westminster street, as he passed the side of a high factory building, suddenly there emerged from a door-way a number of women and girls, who had evidently been working over-time. Some of them broke at once into loud talk and laughter, as though in reaction from the confinement and tension of their work, some—quite silent—turned their tired faces to him as they passed him; and some looked boldly, provocatively at the handsome man, who on his side was clearly observing them. They were of all types, but the majority of the quite young girls were pale and stunted, shewing the effect of long hours, and poor food. The coarse or vicious faces were few; many indeed were marked by a modest or patient gentleness. The thin line of hurrying forms disappeared into darkness and distance, some one way, some another; and Winnington was left to feel that in what he had seen—this everyday incident of a London street—he had been aptly reminded of what a man who has his occupation and dwelling amid rural scenes and occupations too readily forgets—that toiling host of women, married and unmarried, which modern industry is every day using, or devouring, or wasting. The stream of lives rushes day by day through the industrial rapids; some of it passing on to quiet and fruitful channels beyond the roar, and some lost and churned for ever in the main tumult of the river.
This new claim upon women, on the part of society, in addition to the old claims of home and motherhood—this vast industrial claim—must it not change and modify everything in time?—depress old values, create new? "The vote!—give us the vote! and all will be well. More wages, more food, more joy, more share in this glorious world!—that's what the vote means—give us the vote!" Such, in effect, had been the cry of that half-mad speaker in Whitehall, herself marked and injured by the economic struggle.
The appeal echoed in Winnington's heart. And Delia seemed to be at his side, raising her eager eyes to his, pressing him for admission. Had he, indeed, thought enough of these things?—taken enough to heart this new and fierce struggle of women with life and circumstance, that is really involved in the industrial organisation of the modern world?
He passed on—up Buckingham Gate, towards the Palace. Turning to the left, he was soon aware of two contrasted things:—an evening party going on at a well-known Embassy, cars driving up and putting down figures in flashing dresses, and gold-encrusted uniforms, emerging, and disappearing within its open doors—and only twenty yards away, a group of women huddled together in the cold, outside a closed fish-shop, waiting to buy for a few pence the broken or spoiled fish of the day. But a little further on he suddenly plunged into a crowd coming down Grosvenor Place. He stopped to watch it, and saw that it accompanied a long procession of men tramping back from Hyde Park. A banner held by the leaders bore the words—"Unemployed and starving! Give us work or bread." And Winnington remembered there was a docker's strike going on in Limehouse, passionately backed and defended by the whole body of the local clergy.
His eyes examined the faces and forms in the procession. Young and old, sickly and robust, they passed him by, all of them marked and branded by their tyrant, Labour; rolled like the women amid the rocks and whirlpools of the industrial stream; marred and worn like them, only more deeply, more tragically. The hollow eyes accused him as they passed—him, with his ease of honoured life. "What have you made of us, your brethren?—you who have had the lead and the start!—you who have had till now the fashioning of this world in which we suffer! What is wrong with the world? We know no more than you. But it is your business to know! For God's sake, you who have intelligence and education, and time to use them, think for us!—think with us!—find a way out! More wages—more food—more leisure—more joy!—By G—d! we'll have them, or bring down your world and ours in one ruin together!"
And then far back, from the middle of the last century, there came to Winnington's listening mind the cry of the founders of English democracy. "The vote!—give us the vote!—and bring in the reign of plenty and of peace." And the vote was given. Sixty years—and still this gaunt procession!—and all through Industrial England, the same unrest, the same bitterness!