Bonbright found himself a layman in a department of specialists. On all
sides of him were men who knew all about something, a few who knew a
great deal about several things, and a man or two who appeared to have
some knowledge of every element and article that went into a motor car.
There was a man who knew leather from cow to upholstery, and who talked
about it lovingly. This man had the ability to make leather as
interesting as the art of Benvenuto Cellini. Another was a specialist
in hickory, and thought and talked spokes; another was a reservoir of
dependable facts about rubber; another about gray iron castings;
another about paints and enamels, and so on. In that department it
would not have been impossible to compile an encyclopedia.
It was impossible that Bonbright should not have been interested. It
was not business, it was a fascinating, enthralling debating society,
where the debates were not of the "Resolved that the world would be
better" sort, but were as to the essential qualities of concrete
things. It was practical debate which saved money and elevated the
standards of excellence.
The department had its own laboratories, its own chemists, its own
engineers. Everything was tested. Two articles might appear to the
layman equal in virtue; careful examination by experts might not
disclose a difference between them, but the skill of the chemist would
show that this article was a tenth of one per cent, less guilty of
alloy than that, or that the breaking strength of this was a minute
fraction greater than that.... So decisions were reached.
Bonbright was to learn that price did not always rule. He saw orders
given for carloads of certain supplies which tested but a point or two
higher than its rival--and sold for dollars more a ton. Thousands of
dollars were paid cheerfully for those few points of excellence. ...
Here was business functioning as he did not know business could
function. Here business was an art, and he applied himself to it like
an artist. Here he could lay aside that growing discontent, that
dissatisfaction, that was growing upon him. Here, in the excitement of
distinguishing the better from the worse, he could forget Ruth and the
increasingly impracticable condition of his relations with her.
He had come to a realization that his game of make-believe would not
march. He realized that Ruth either was his wife or she was not.... But
he did not know what to do about it. It seemed a problem without a
solution, and it was--for him. Its solution did not lie in himself, but
in his wife. Bonbright could not set the thing right; his potentiality
lay only for its destruction. Three courses lay open to him; to assert
his husbandship; to send Ruth home to her mother; or to put off till
to-morrow and to-morrow and still another to-morrow. Only in the last
did hope reside, and he clung to hope....
He tried to conceal his unrest, his discontent, his rebellion against
the thing that was, from Ruth. He continued to be patient, gentle. ...
He did not know how she wept and accused herself because of that
gentleness and patience. He did not know how she tried to compel love
by impact of will--and how she failed. But he did come to doubt her
love. He could not do otherwise. Then he wondered why she had married
him, and, reviewing the facts of his hurried marriage, he wondered the
more with bitterness and heartache. Against his will his affairs were
traveling toward a climax. The approaching footsteps of the day when
something must happen were audible on the path.
The day after his installation in the purchasing department he lunched
at the little hash house across the street. Sitting on his high stool,
he tried to imagine he was a part of that sweating, gulping crowd of
men, that he was one of them, and not an outsider, suspected, regarded
with unfriendly looks.
Behind him a man began to make conversation for Bonbright's ears. It
had happened before.
"The strike up to the Foote plant's on its last legs," said the man,
loudly.
"So I hear," answered another.
"Infernal shame. If it was only the closed-shop question I dunno's I'd
feel so. We're open shop here--but we git treated like human bein's....
Over there--" The man shrugged his shoulders. "Look at the way they've
fought the strike. Don't blame 'em for fightin' it. Calc'late they had
to fight it, but there's fightin' and fightin'. ... Seems like this
Foote bunch set out to do the worst that could be done--and they done
it."
"Wonder when it 'll peter out--the strike?"
"Back's busted now. Nothin's holding it up but that man Dulac. There's
a man for you! I've knowed labor leaders I didn't cotton to nor have
much confidence in---fellers that jest wagged their tongues and took
what they could get out of it. But this Dulac--he's a reg'lar man. I've
listened to him, and I tell you he means what he says. He's in it to
git somethin' for the other feller.... But he can't hold out much
longer."
It was true; Dulac could not hold out much longer. That very noon he
was fighting with his back against the wall. In Workingman's Hall he
was making his last fierce fight to hold from crumbling the resolution
of the strikers who still stood by their guns.... He threw the fire of
his soul into their dull, phlegmatic faces. It struck no answering
spark. Never before had he spoken to men without a consciousness of his
powers, without pose, without dramatics. Now he was himself, and more
dramatic, more compelling than ever before. ... He pleaded, begged,
flayed his audience, but it did not respond to his pleadings nor writhe
under the whip of his words. It was apathetic, stolid. In its weary
heart it knew what it was there to do, and it would do it in spite of
Dulac.... He would not admit it. He would not submit to defeat. He
talked on and on, not daring to stop, for with the stoppage of his
harangue he heard the death of the strike. It lived only with his voice.
In the body of the hall a man, haggard of face, arose.
"'Tain't no use, Mr. Dulac," he said, dully. "We've stuck by you--"
"You've stuck by yourselves," Dulac cried.
"Whatever you say.... But'tain't no use. We're licked. Hain't no use
keepin' up and stretchin' out the sufferin'.... I hain't the least of
the sufferers, Mr. Dulac--my wife hain't with me no more." The dull
voice wabbled queerly. "There's hunger and grief and
sufferin'--willin'ly endured when there was a chance--but there hain't
no chance.... 'Tain't human to ask any more of our wimmin and
children.... It's them I'm a-thinkin' of, Mr. Dulac... and on account
of them I say this strike ought to quit. It's got to quit, and I demand
a vote on it, Mr. Dulac."
"Vote!... Vote!... Vote!..." roared up to Dulac from all over the
hall.... It was the end. He was powerless to stay the rush of the
desire of those weary men for peace.
Dulac turned slowly around, his back to the crowd, walked to a chair,
and, with elbows on knees, he covered his face with his hands. There
was a silence, as men looked at him and appreciated his suffering. They
appreciated his suffering because they appreciated the man, his honesty
to their cause, and to his work. He had been true to them. For himself
he would gain nothing by the success of the strike--for them he would
have gained much.... It was not his loss that bowed his head, but their
loss--and they knew it. He was a Messiah whose mission had failed.
The vote was put. There was no dissenting voice. The strike was done,
and Bonbright Foote, Incorporated, was victor.
Men clustered about Dulac, wringing his hands, speaking words of
comfort with voices that broke, and the number of those who turned away
with tears was greater than of those whose eyes could remain dry.
Dulac spoke. "We'll try again--men.... We'll start to get
ready--to-day--for another--fight."
Then, hurriedly, blindly, he forced his way through them and made his
way out of the hall. Grief, the heaviness of defeat, was all that he
could feel now. Bitterness would come in its time.
Dulac was a soul without restraints, a soul in eternal uproar. His life
had been one constant kicking against the pricks, and when they hurt
his feet he was not schooled to stifle the cry of pain. He could not
endure patiently and in silence; the tumult of his suffering must have
an outlet.
Now was the time for an overwrought, overtired man, clothed in no
restraint, to try what surcease was to be found in the bottom of a
glass. But Dulac was not a drinking man. So he walked. As he walked
bitterness awoke, and he cursed under his breath. Bitterness increased
until it was rage, and, as man is so constituted that rage must have a
definite object, Dulac unconsciously sought a man who would symbolize
all the forces that had defeated him--and he chose Bonbright Foote. He
chose Bonbright the more readily because he hated the boy for personal
reasons. If Dulae and Bonbright had met at this moment there would have
happened events which would have delighted the yellower press. But they
did not meet. Bonbright was safe in Lightener's purchasing department,
learning certain facts about brass castings.
So Dulac walked and walked, and lashed himself into rage. Rage abated
and became biting disappointment and unspeakable heaviness of heart.
Again rage would be conjured up only to ebb again and to flood again as
the hours went by.
There is an instinct in man which, when his troubles become too weighty
to bear alone, sends him to a woman. Perhaps this is the survival of an
idea implanted in childhood when baby runs to mother for sure comfort
with broken doll or bruised thumb. It persists and never dies, so that
one great duty, one great privilege, one great burden of womankind is
to give ear to man's outpourings of his woes, and to offer such comfort
as she may....
Dulac was drawn to Ruth.
This time she did not try to close the door against him. His first
words made that impossible.
"I'm--beaten," he said, dully.
His flamboyance, his threatricality, was gone. He was no longer
flashily masterful, no longer exotically fascinating. He sagged.... He
was just a soul-weary, disappointed man, looking at her out of hollow,
burning eyes. He had spent himself magnificently into bankruptcy. His
face was the face of a man who must rest, who must find peace.... Yet
he was not consciously seeking rest or peace. He was seeking her....
Seeking her because he craved her, and seeking her to strike at her
husband, who had become a symbol of all the antagonists he had been
fighting.
His appearance disarmed her; her fear of him and herself was lured away
by the appearance of him. She felt nothing but sympathy and tenderness
and something of wonder that he--Dulac the magnificent--should be
brought to this pass. So she admitted him, regardless even of the
lateness of the afternoon hour.
He followed her heavily and sank into a chair.
"You're sick," she said, anxiously.
He shook his head. "I'm--beaten," he repeated, and in truth beaten was
what he looked, beaten and crushed.... "But I'll--try again," he said,
with a trace of the old gleam in his eyes.
She clasped and unclasped her hands, standing before him, white with
the emotions that swayed her.... Here was the man she loved in his
bitterest, darkest moment--and she was barred away from him by
unwelcome barriers. She could not soothe him, she could not lighten his
suffering with the tale of her love for him, but she must remain mute,
holding out no hand to ease his pain.
"I came for you," he said, dully.
"No," she said.
"Ruth--I need you--now...." This man, who had wooed her boldly, had
demanded her masterfully, now was brought to pleading. He needed her.
It was plain that he did need her, and, realizing it, she saw the
danger of it. It was a new, a subtle attack, and it had taken her
unawares.
"I can't.... I can't.... I mustn't..." she said, breathlessly.
"I must have you," he said, with dead simplicity, as one states a bare,
essential fact. Then Bonbright was visualized before him, and rage
flooded once more. "He sha'n't keep you!... You're mine--you were mine
first.... What is he to you? I'm going to take you away from him.... I
can do THAT...."
He was less dangerous so. Perhaps instinct told him, for his passion
stilled itself, and he became tired, pitiful again.
"We've got a right to be happy," he said, in his tired voice. "You're
not happy--and I'm--beaten.... I want you--I need you.... You'll come
with me. You've got to come with me."
She was moved, swayed. He needed her.... She had cheated Bonbright in
the beginning. She was not his wife.... He had none of her love, and
she believed this man had it wholly.... She had wronged Bonbright all
she could wrong him--what would this matter? It was not this that was
wrong, but the other--the marrying without love.... And she, too, was
beaten. She had played her game and lost, not going down to defeat
fighting as Dulac had gone down, but futilely, helplessly. She had
given herself for the Cause--to no profit.... And her heart yearned for
peace, for release.
"I'm his wife," she said, still struggling flutteringly.
"You're MY wife." He lifted his arms toward her, and she swayed, took a
step toward him--a step toward the precipice. Suddenly she stopped,
eyes startled, a deeper pallor blighting her face--for she heard
Bonbright's step on the stairs.... She had forgotten the lateness of
the hour.
"Oh'." she said.
"What is it?"
"HE is--here."
She was awakened by the shock of it, and saw, saw clearly. She had
stood upon the brink--and HE had come in time.... And then she was
afraid.
Neither of them spoke. Dulac got to his feet, his breath coming
audibly, and so they waited.
Bonbright opened the door. "Ruth," he called, putting what pretense of
gayety he could into his voice. "You've got company. The chronic
visitor is here." He was playing his game bravely.
She did not answer.
"Ruth," he called again, and then stood in the door. She could not see
him, but she felt his presence, felt his silence, felt the look of
surprise changing to suspicion that she knew must be in his eyes.
For a moment he stood motionless, not comprehending. Then the attitude
of his wife and of Dulac spoke eloquently, and he whitened.
"I don't understand," he said. The words were meaningless, pointless,
perhaps, but they stabbed Ruth to the heart. She turned to him, saw him
step forward slowly, looking very tall, older than she had ever known
him. He had drawn within himself, and there manifested itself his
inheritance from his ancestors. He was like his father, but with an
even more repressed dignity than was his father's.
"You don't understand," snarled Dulac. "Then I'll tell you. I'm glad
you came.... I'm after your wife. She's going away with me."
"No.... No..." Ruth whispered.
"Be still.... She's mine, Foote--and always was. You thought she was
yours--well, she's one thing you can't have. I'm going to tell you why
she married you...."
Ruth cried out in incoherent fright, protesting.
"She married you to use you.... Not even for your money. She married
you because her heart was with the men your kind is grinding down. ...
She saw you were the kind of man a woman could twist around her
finger--and you owned five thousand men.... Get the idea?... She was
going to do things for them--with you. You were nothing but a button
she would push. So she married you--and you cheated her.... So she's
done with you. You can't give what she paid for, and she's going away
with me.... She LOVES me. She was promised to marry me--when she saw
what she could do with you--and I let her go.... If she could give, so
could I.... But I loved her and she loved me--and we're going away."
It was true. Bonbright knew it was true, but he would not admit his
belief until he had confirmation from his wife's lips.
"Is this true?" he asked, quietly.
She was shaking with sobs, crouching against the wall.
"Don't be afraid," Bonbright said again, in a strange, quiet, courteous
voice. "Is it true?"
"Yes," she whispered, for she could not lie with his eyes upon her.
"I knew there was--something," he said, with a little halt in his
voice.... That was all. He did not look at Dulac, but stood looking at
her for a moment steadily, almost with grave inquiry.... She looked
from him to Dulac. Subconsciously she compared them.... Bonbright did
not speak again, but turned slowly and walked steadily out of the
room.... Ruth heard the outer door close behind him and knew he was
gone.... Gone!
Dulac laughed shortly. "That settled HIM," he said. "Now you'll come."
She stood regarding him as she might have regarded some strangely
endowed person she had never seen before. Then with a sudden,
passionate vehemence she burst out upon him:
"Never.... Never.... I'll never go with you. I'm his wife--his wife....
Oh, what have you done?... I hate you--I hate you! Don't ever
dare--come near me again.... I hate you...."
She turned and fled to her room and locked the door. Though he knocked
and called, though he pleaded and threatened, she made no reply, but
sat dry-eyed, on her bed, until she heard him go away raging....