IN TORONTO
The street care hummed in the still summer air. The sun awnings were
stretched out from the endless array of stores, across the super-heated
sidewalk. A busy life perspired beneath them. Toronto's central
shopping areas were always crowded about midday, not with the smart
woman shopper, but with the lunching population of the commercial
houses.
It was more than a month since Frank's memorable journey from the
hopeless precincts of Alston to one of Canada's gayest cities; a month
during which he had found his days far easier than he expected, if more
full of the responsibilities of life. From the moment of his meeting
with Austin Leyburn he had permitted himself a looking forward, if not
with anything approaching youthful hope and confidence, at least to a
life full of that work which his understanding suggested to him might
serve to deaden bitter memories, and help him to face a useful future.
His new aspirations, his new convictions, sprang from a simple,
impulsive heart rather than from any deep study of Socialistic
doctrine. He had no logic on the matters of his beliefs, he needed
none. It was sufficient that he had seen, had felt, and he hugged to
himself the thoughts thus inspired.
For the moment the man Leyburn, with his narrow eyes, his purposeful
face, was something little less than a god to young Frank. Here was a
champion of those very people whom he believed needed all the help
forthcoming. Here was a man who, from sheer belief in his own
principles, had devoted himself, nay, perhaps, sacrificed himself, to
those very ideals which he, Frank, had only just awakened to. His
official positions in the organized societies of labor surely testified
to the sincerity of his purpose. Thus it was certainly the work of
Providence that he, Frank, had been thrown into such contact at the
moment of his need.
On that eventful train journey, Leyburn had promised to enroll him
among the workers for the good of the submerged ranks of labor.
Moreover he had proved as good as his word. He had done more. For some
unexplained reason he took Frank into his own personal office, keeping
him under his direct supervision, associating with him, and treating
him to a confidence that was by no means usual in one of the most
powerful heads of the labor movement in Canada.
It was a strange association, these two. On the one hand a man of great
organizing powers, of keen, practical understanding of Socialistic
principles; and, on the other, a youth of lofty ideals which had little
enough to do with the bitter class hatred belonging to the sordid
modern product of Socialism. Yet the older man's interest was very
evident, and was displayed in many different ways. He frequently
lunched with his protege, and never failed to take him to any
demonstration of labor at which it was his duty to speak.
Frank responded readily to this kindly treatment. Nor did it ever occur
to him to wonder at it. So it came about, that, bit by bit, this kindly
man with the narrow eyes and hard smile, drew from him the complete
story of his life's disaster.
It was on the occasion when the last detail of the story was
passionately poured into his apparently sympathetic ears that Austin
Leyburn treated his protege to something of his platform oratory.
"Out of evil comes good--sometimes," he said, with a twisted, satirical
smile. "You certainly have been the victim of the class against which
all our efforts are directed. Think of it," he went on, thrusting his
elbows upon the luncheon table which stood between them--they were in
the fly-ridden precincts of the cheap restaurant which Leyburn always
affected--and raising his voice to a denunciatory pitch. "Think of it.
Every man with power to think, with power to work, who comes within the
web of this wealthy man you speak of--whoever he is--is open to the
possibilities for evil of his accumulations of wealth. That man, a
millionaire, openly confesses to being able to buy the law sufficiently
to legally crush the moral, almost the physical life out of those who
offend him." Then he smiled whimsically. "Can you wonder at the class
hatred existing, and of which I know you do not wholly approve?" Then
he shrugged, as though to dismiss the matter. "As I said, good out of
evil--sometimes. But for that experience you would undoubtedly have
joined the ranks of the oppressors and assimilated their creed."
"Yes, yes," cried Frank eagerly. "I see all that. I see the iniquity of
it all that such tyranny should be possible. I agree entirely. It is
against the very principles of all creation that any one man should
possess such power. No man, woman, or child is safe with such
possibilities in our midst. But this class hatred. The opposition of
labor is not directed sufficiently against the principle. It is
directed against the individual, and so becomes class hatred."
"Remember you are dealing with human nature," Leyburn objected. "When
such forces as we control are put into active protest against a
principle, the principle must become merged in the individual who
represents it. It is the tangible evidence which an ignorant mass of
labor needs of the existence of offense against the principle which
causes the bitterness of its lot."
"My objection is against that fact," Frank persisted, in the blindness
of enthusiasm. "Class hatred! It is dreadful. Christ never preached
class hatred; and no man who ever walked this earth had a greater
understanding of real life than He. Listen, I read in one of your
books, written by a man reputed to be a great thinker, that--if the
working men and women of the world were wiped out, capital and its
class would become useless, paralyzed. He also said that if, on the
other hand, those who represent capital were wiped out, if all but the
working men and women were exterminated, the world would still go on
undisturbed, because of the worker left behind."
Leyburn nodded.
"That is one of the strongest bases of the labor movement. Why should
the man or woman who lives by the sweat of others enjoy the luxury
which is denied to the people who make that luxury possible? Is the
argument not perfectly, humanly just?"
Frank leaned back in his hard chair. This man was damping some of his
enthusiasm by the argument which seemed to him as purely selfish as
were the existing conditions of the methods of capital.
"Then the husbandman in the vineyard was all wrong?" he demanded.
"On the contrary, he was quite right--if he could got no more than the
penny he engaged for," replied Leyburn cynically.
Frank returned again to the attack.
"Now you are preaching for the worker the very methods of present-day
capital. You are telling him to--grab."
"So long as capital--grabs, labor must do likewise. Unfortunately this
is an age of grab, and until evolution carries it away, like any other
pestilential influence, we must all grab, or die in the gutter."
Frank shook his head.
"No, no," he cried desperately. "I can't believe it. This war of
classes is all wrong. It is against all the ethics of brotherhood. It
is the war of body against brain. Leave out the individual and stick to
the principle. If the working class were wiped out to-morrow the brain,
which is really the life of the world, would only change its tactics.
After a brief stagnation it would evolve a fresh condition of things.
It would throw itself into the necessary work, and, after a while, its
powers would contrive a means whereby the world's work would still go
forward. On the other hand, if the great minds, the thinking minds of
those who represent capital, were wiped out, after a brief spell of
chaos, the vitality of the body would recreate a guiding system, and
things would become the same as they were before. There would again be
capital and labor, with its endless problem. All that we can humanly
demand is equality and brotherhood for the human race in their various
conditions of life. If a man works his best he must be able to enjoy
life as he sees life. The rest belongs to a Divine Power over which we
can have no control. The world's goods must be proportionately divided,
according to all requirements. Nor do we all need the same, because of
that unequal distribution by divine hand of the power to do. Oh, maybe
I cannot make it plain. But I can see it all, if only man will work in
a common interest, as I feel sure he was intended to do. It is a
government of common good we need. One that will provide as well for
the laborer as the thinker. They are two portions of one whole, without
either of which the other cannot exist. Sever them, destroy either, and
the lot of the other is to be deplored."
Frank waited with flushed face and anxious eyes for the other's reply.
Leyburn's cynical eyes looked up from the stained tablecloth on which
the remains of the meal were still scattered.
"And in the meantime?" he inquired.
"What do you mean?"
"How are you going to achieve this government, this good and merciful
government that is going to provide for us, each according to our
needs? By sitting down and submitting to the sweaters who rule the
lives of the present-day laboring world, making its condition just what
their own quality of selfishness demands, just because the Divine Hand
has bestowed upon them a greater power to think than It has upon the
worker? I tell you, boy, we are fighting for all that which you have
outlined; and we are fighting--which is the only way. I said that this
was an age of grab--and, as far as I can see, it is a pestilential
influence that must remain for years to come. The brain must be forced
to yield up its selfish desires by the body; it will never be
persuaded. You used the analogy. I will use it, too. As you say, the
brain represents the thinkers. In human life the brain thinks, it is
selfish in its desires, and its desires grow. They frequently grow
beyond the endurance of the body, and finally it submits the body to
such conditions of disease that at last the poor stricken thing rebels.
Harmony and well-being cannot endure in human life with the domination
of any one part of it. Capital is dominating labor now, so that the
disease of hopelessness has spread to every section. Life is a burden.
Therefore labor has rebelled, is rebelling, will continue to rebel,
until capital is abolished and the harmony of equality is restored.
Believe me, I am only viewing your ideals through practical eyes. Come,
my boy, we must to work again. There is that case of tyranny to be
looked into. The discharge of that fireman for drinking when off duty
on the North Saskatchewan Railroad. There is also the question of
colored agricultural workers to be considered. You, my friend, are
young. You are enthusiastic and idealistic, and I like you for it. But
you will soon see that that which a long experience has taught me is
right."
Leyburn rose from his seat and beckoned the waiter. He settled the
bill, while Frank picked up his hat. The youngster had no longer need
to press it down to his ears. His hair was rapidly growing to that
luxuriant, wavy mass, which had always been Monica's pride.
At the door of the restaurant, Leyburn turned to him with his
peculiarly ungracious smile, and sniffed the sickening atmosphere of
hot food.
"We've satisfied our appetites, and now we hate the smell," he said,
with a laugh. "Human nature is ungrateful. By the way, you'd best go on
to the Saskatchewan Railroad offices and ask for that report they
promised to send me. I'll go back to the office." Then, as an
afterthought: "Say," he added, with a laugh, "I'm going to send you up
West later. Along the line. To do some--talking. But you'll need to cut
all that stuff right out. I mean the ideal racket. So long."
He turned sharply away, and hurried down the heat-laden street.
Left alone, Frank looked after him. He shook his head.
"He's a good feller," he said to himself. "But he's wrong--dead
wrong--in some things."
At that moment somebody bumped into him, and he turned to apologize.
Seeing it was a woman, he raised his hat. Then an exclamation, half
joyous, half of dismay, broke from him.
"Phyl!" he cried. "You? In Toronto?"
In her turn the girl started and stared.
"Frank!" she cried incredulously. Then, regardless of the passers-by:
"Thank God, I've found you! Oh, Frank, I'm so--so glad. We have been
hunting Toronto these weeks; and now--now----"
"We?"
The girl's delight and evident love almost seemed to have passed Frank
by. With a rush all the old pain of parting from her, all the dreary
heartache he had endured when writing his farewell to her, was with him
once more, as his troubled eyes searched the sweet face looking so
radiantly up into his.
"Yes, 'we,' dear."
Phyllis, her pretty face wreathed in a happy, confident little smile,
was studying him closely.
"Well?" she cried, as the great fellow stared back at her, rather like
a simple babe.
Frank tried to pull himself together. It was like the ponderous shake
of a St. Bernard dog, rousing himself to activity.
"I don't know what to say or do." The man's dilemma was struggling with
the joy of this unexpected reunion. "Why have you come here? Oh, Phyl,
it is so hard. It has been so terribly hard. I tried to explain it all
in my letter, I never thought----"
The girl nodded. Not for a moment did she permit any other emotion than
her delight at seeing him again, appear in her smiling eyes. She tilted
her head slightly on one side, so that the shadow of her wide-brimmed
hat was removed from her face. Frank became aware of the movement, also
of the hat. He also became aware of the smartly tailored costume she
was wearing, even the pointed toes of her exquisite shoes, and the
white kid gloves upon her hands. She intended him to notice these
things.
"Oh, Frank," she cried, deliberately ignoring his protest, "Toronto's
just the loveliest place ever to buy dress fixings. Mrs. Hendrie has
just made me buy and buy, till--well, till I don't know how much she's
spent on me. You see," she went on naively, "she said I just couldn't
get hunting my beau in Toronto with hayseed sticking all over my hair.
Don't you think I--I look better this way?"
This strange child from a "way-off" western farm had her own methods of
campaign. She was playing for a big stake, the biggest she could think
of--the man she loved.
Frank breathed a deep sigh.
"You--you just look wonderful, Phyl," he cried, for a moment all else
smothered in the background.
"True? Sure?"
"True? Say, you just couldn't look more lovely," the boy cried.
Phyllis laughed.
"Then come right along. See, we're bumping folks, standing here. I'm
going to take you to where your--where Mrs. Hendrie is waiting for you.
The----"
But the mention of Monica left Frank once more alive to realities.
"No, no, Phyl," he cried. "It is useless. Don't you understand? I love
my--I love Mon as dearly as ever son loved a mother, but--the barrier
has been set up between us, and can never be removed. Oh, believe me,
it is no resentment, or bitterness against her. She just belongs to a
different world from mine--now. It would give her pain. I know what she
would say--and I know what I must say."
In spite of all his protests, Frank was walking beside Phyllis, moving
unquestioningly in the direction she selected.
The girl looked round laughingly. Phyllis had never perhaps smiled so
joyously, so sweetly as she was smiling now. But every look, every word
she spoke, was full of definite purpose.
"I haven't recovered from the shock you handed me--in that--that
letter," she said, without a shadow of distress in her smiling eyes. "I
haven't, true as true. Say, I just kind of wonder if you've got half a
notion how it feels for a girl to be thrown over by letter? Say, I just
won't be thrown over by--by letter. That's why I've come here to
Toronto. I've come right here so you can tell me with your own two very
determined lips, I'm not wanted. When you've told me that I'm not
wanted, that you just don't love me any more, then I'm going right away
to Gleber, and get on with my plowing. I'll just pack up all the
elegant suits Mrs. Hendrie's bought me, and never see them again. Then
I'll fix myself up in black and bugles--whatever they are--and be a
widow woman for the rest of my life. Now, truth! You don't love me--any
more; and you don't want me?"
Just for a moment the girl's mask was dropped as she made her final
demand.
It was only for a moment, but long enough for Frank to see the depth of
her love for him shining in her dark eyes. The desire then and there to
take her in his arms, and throw every resolution to the winds, was
well-nigh overpowering, but he put it from him, and the effort left him
speechless.
"Frank?" she urged.
But still the man remained silent.
"Do you know, dear, you'd have been more merciful if you'd brutally
struck me in the face with your great big fist, instead of sending me
that letter. You see, you'd sure have left me senseless."
The subtle appeal was too much for the man. His face flushed with a
shame that swept through his heart.
"But what could I do, Phyl? I had to tell you. I had to give you--your
freedom. You could never marry a--convict."
Phyllis's mask of lightness returned to her face. She meant to hit this
man she loved, hard. It took all her courage to do it, and the only
possible chance she had was to laugh with it.
"A convict?" she cried. "Oh, Frank, I could marry a convict far, far
easier than a--present-day Socialist."
The thrust drove straight home, and, witnessing the havoc she had
wrought, the girl consoled herself with the thought that hers had been
the plunging of the surgeon's knife that the healing of this man might
be the surer, the more complete.
"Phyl!"
The man's look was one of dreadful pain. He felt as if every ideal and
honest feeling he had ever had, had fallen upon him, crushing him
beneath its burden. Phyl's ridicule was worse, far worse than any
suffering he had endured, however unjust.
"You can't--you don't mean that," he cried hoarsely. "No, no, Phyl, you
don't mean it. You----"
"But I do--I do," the girl cried, with sudden passion. "Oh, I know
you've suffered. God only knows just how you've suffered! And since
I've heard all you've gone through, I've suffered every moment of it
with you. Yes, I know I've hurt you now, and I meant to hurt you--not
because you hurt me, not because of all you wrote me in your letter,
but because I want to tell you all I feel about--about this new life
you figure to mix up with. Frank, your own honest notions are just too
big for words. They're like you--all of them. But how--how are you
going to carry them out? Say, I'll tell you. Maybe I'm just seeing
things as they happen, and not as folks guess they're going to figger
out. You're going to help fix things right by tying yourself to the
ranks of labor, so as to fight capital. That's how you're going to
bring about brotherly and sisterly love in the world! By fighting! Say,
you said you were going to enlist in the army. You have. And it's a
fighting army, facing all the horrors of a war far more dreadful than
the life-and-death struggle of nations. Do you need me to tell you of
the wretched, self-seeking leaders of the working men? The men who lead
them like a flock of silly sheep so they may personally prosper and
feed on them? Do you need me to tell you, what every paper in the world
tells you, of the awful sufferings the helpless women and kiddies go
through? All just because these grabbing leaders, yearning for
publicity and power, order their men-folk to stop work, and resort to
violence for a few odd cents more pay, or because some wretched
scallawag, who richly deserves it, no doubt, has fallen under the rules
of his employers. That's not your Socialism, if I know you. Oh, this
horrible, horrible bitterness and hatred going on everywhere about us.
Why should it be? You ask that, too, and you get right up against one
little fact of life--the power of money--and guess that's the root of
it. It isn't! It isn't! I tell you there's just one cause. It's
selfishness. It's the selfishness of one class just as sure as it's the
selfishness of another. And they bring all sorts of arguments about
principle to prop themselves up on. There's no principle about it. It's
just self, self, self, all the time. Everybody wants something they
don't honestly earn. And when they can't get it, if they think they're
strong enough, they just start right out to fight for it, like a lot of
savages, while those who look to them for support and comfort are left
to starve, and put up with all the horrors caused by savage passions,
inflamed to frenzy by those leaders who are the only creatures to
obtain worldly advantage and benefit from their disgraceful doings. Oh,
Frank, it's just awful to think that you have become one of
these--these--villains."
The girl's passionate denunciation came to an end just as she halted at
the foot of the great flight of steps leading up to the entrance of the
Eldorado Hotel. But she waited for no comment from her silent
companion. She just glanced up and pointed at the building. Then, with
an almost kaleidoscopic return to her lightest, smiling manner, she
announced their arrival at their destination.
"Say, Frank," she cried, with an air of absurd importance. "This is my
hotel. We've a suite of elegant apartments right on the first floor.
And, dear," with a sudden tenderness, "Mrs. Hendrie--Monica--your Mon,
who loves you nearly as much as I do, is just waiting right there--for
you. You'll come along in?"
Frank looked up into the tenderly pleading eyes, and his last objection
melted before them.
He nodded.