Unions of this city, of which the Union on this road constitutes a
part."
"I will not deal with you," said Mr. Leigh, "but I will deal with you,"
he turned to the other men. "I will not discharge the man you speak of.
He is an exceptionally good man. I happen to know this of my own
personal knowledge, and I know the reason he is not a Union man. It is
because you kept him out of the Union, hoping to destroy him as you have
destroyed other honest men who have opposed you." He turned back to the
leader.
Wringman started to speak, but Mr. Leigh cut him short.
"Not a word from you. I am dealing now with my own men. I know you. I
know who your employer is and what you have been paid. You sold out your
people in the East whom you pretended to represent, and now you have
come to sell out these poor people here, on whose ignorance and
innocence you trade and fatten. You have been against McNeil because he
denounced you in the East. Your demand is preposterous," he said,
turning to the others. "It is an absolute violation of the agreement
which you entered into with me not three months ago. I have that
agreement here on my desk. You know what that says, that the scale
adopted was to stand for so long, and if by any chance, any question
should arise, it was to be arbitrated by the tribunal assented to by
yourselves and myself. I am willing to submit to that tribunal the
question whether any question has arisen, and if it has, to submit it
for adjudication by them."
"We did not come here to be put off with any such hyp--" began the
leader, but before he had gotten his word out, Mr. Leigh was on his
feet.
"Stop," he said. And his voice had the sharp crack of a rifle shot. "Not
a word from you. Out of this office." He pointed to the door and at the
same moment touched the bell. "Show that man the door," he said,
"instantly, and never admit him inside of it again."
"Ah, I'm going," sneered Wringman, putting on his hat, "but not because
you ordered me."
"Yes, you are--because I ordered you, and if you don't go instantly I
will kick you out personally."
He stepped around the desk and, with his eyes blazing, walked quickly
across the floor, but Wringman had backed out of the door.
"For the rest of you," he said, "you have my answer. I warn you that if
you strike you will close the factories that now give employment to
thousands of men and young women. You men may be able to take care of
yourselves; but you should think of those girls. Who will take care of
them when they are turned out on the street? I have done it
heretofore--unless you are prepared to do it now, you had better
consider. Go down to my box-factory and walk through it and see them,
self-supporting and self-respecting. Do you know what will become of
them if they are turned out? Go to Gallagin's Gallery and see. Go back
to your work if you are men of sense. If not, I have nothing further to
say to you."
They walked out and Mr. Leigh shut the door behind them. When he took
his seat a deep gravity had settled on him which made him look older by
years.
The following day an order for a general strike on the lines operated by
Mr. Leigh was issued, and the next morning after that not a wheel turned
on his lines or in his factories. It was imagined and reported as only a
question of wages between an employer and his men. But deep down
underneath lay the secret motives of McSheen and Canter and their set
who had been plotting in secret, weaving their webs in the
dark--gambling in the lives of men and sad-eyed women and hungry
children. The effect on the population of that section of the city was
curious. Of all sad things on earth a strike is the saddest. And like
other battles, next to a defeat the saddest scene is the field of
victory.
The shadow had settled down on us; the sunshine was gone. The temper of
every one appeared to have been strained. The principle of Unionism as a
system of protection and defence had suddenly taken form as a system of
aggression and active hostility. Class-feeling suddenly sprang up in
open and armed array, and next came division within classes. The talk
was all of force; the feeling all one of enmity and strife. The entire
population appeared infected by it. Houses were divided against
themselves; neighbors who had lived in friendliness and hourly
intercourse and exchanged continual acts of kindness, discussed,
contended, quarrelled, threatened, and fought or passed by on the other
side scowling and embittered. Sweetness gave place to rancor and
good-will to hate.
Among those affected by the strike was the family of my old drummer. The
change was as apparent in this little home, where hitherto peace and
content had reigned supreme with Music to fill in the intervals and make
joy, as in the immediate field of the strike.
The whole atmosphere of happiness underwent a change, as though a deadly
damp had crept in from the outside, mildewing with its baleful presence
all within, and turning the very sunlight into gloom. Elsa had lost her
place. The box-factory was closed. The house was filled with contention.
The musicians who came around to smoke their big pipes and drink beer
with old Loewen were like the rest, infected. Nothing appeared to please
any longer. The director was a tyrant; the first violin a charlatan; the
rest of the performers mostly fools or worse; and the whole orchestra "a
fake."
This was the talk I heard in the home when I stopped by sometimes of an
evening on my way to my room, and found some of his friends arguing with
him over their steins and pipes, and urging a stand against the director
and a demand that he accede to their wishes. The old drummer himself
stood out stoutly. The director had always been kind to him and to them,
he insisted. He was a good man and took pride in the orchestra, as much
pride as he himself did. But I could see that he was growing soured. He
drank more beer and practised less. Moreover, he talked more of money,
which once he had scarcely ever mentioned. But the atmosphere was
telling; the mildew was appearing. And in this haunt of peace, peace was
gone.
I learned from Loewen one evening that in the event of the strike not
being settled soon, there was a chance of a sympathetic strike of all
trades, and that even the musicians might join in it, for they had
"grievances also."
"But I thought Music was not a trade, but a profession, an art?" I said,
quoting a phrase I had overheard him use. He raised his shoulders and
threw out his hands palm upward.
"Ach! it vas vonce."
"Then why is it not now?"
"Ach! Who knows? Because they vill not haf it so. Ze music iss dead--ze
harmony iss all gone--in ze people--in ze heart! Zere iss no more music
in ze souls of ze people. It iss monee--monee--monee--fight, fight,
fight, all ze time! Who can gife ze divine strain ven ze heart is set on
monee always?"
Who, indeed? I thought, and the more I thought of it the more clearly I
felt that he had touched the central truth.
XXIX
MY CONFESSION
It is said that every woman has in her nature something feline. I will
not venture on so sweeping an assertion; but I will say that one of the
sex was never excelled by any feline in her ability to torture and her
willingness to tease the victim of her charms.
When I met Eleanor Leigh next after the memorable session on the dusty
steps, I could not tell for my life what were her feelings toward me.
They were as completely veiled as though she had been accustomed from
her infancy to enfold herself in impenetrable mystery. There was a
subtle change in her manner profoundly interesting to me, but what it
denoted I could not in the least discover, and every effort on my part
to do so was frustrated with consummate art. She did not look at me and
at moments appeared oblivious of my presence. She talked more than ever
before of John Marvel, varied at times by admiring allusions to Leo
Wolffert, until I almost began to hate them both. And all the while, she
was so exasperatingly natural and innocent. A man may be a true friend
to another, ready to serve him to the limit and may wish him all the
happiness in the world, and yet may not desire the girl who has become
his sun, moon and stars to appear to draw her light from his source. So,
presently, like any other worm, I turned.
"You appear to think that there is no one else in the world like John
Marvel!" I said, fuming inwardly.
"I do not. In a way, he stands by himself. Why, I thought you thought so
too?"
"Yes, of course--I do--I mean--I believe you are in--" I hesitated to
finish the sentence, and changed it. "I believe you think more of him
than of any one else." I did not really believe this--I wished her to
deny it; but not she! I was playing at a game at which she was an expert
from her cradle. A subtle change of expression passed over her face. She
gave me a half glance, and then looked down. She appeared to be
reflecting and as my eyes rested on her I became conscious of the same
feeling of pleased wonder with which we gaze into a perfectly clear
fountain whose crystal depths we may penetrate, but not fathom.
"Yes, I think I do, in a way--I think him--quite wonderful. He appears
to me the embodiment of truth--rugged and without grace--but so
restful--so real--so sincere. I feel that if any great convulsion of
Nature should occur and everything should be overthrown, as soon as we
emerged we should find Mr. Marvel there unchanged--like Truth itself,
unchangeable. If ever I marry, it will be to some man like that--simple
and strong and direct always--a rock." She gazed placidly down while
this arrow quivered in my heart. I wanted to say, "Why, then, don't you
marry him?" But we were already too perilously near the edge for me to
push matters further in that direction. I wished also to say, "Why don't
you marry me?" but I was not conscious at the moment of any remarkable
resemblance to a rock of strength.
I recall her exact appearance as she waited. She happened to be arrayed
that afternoon in a dark red dress, which fitted perfectly her slim,
supple form, and her hat with a dark feather, and her dark hair about
her brow gave her an air which reminded me of a red rose. It is not,
however, the tint that makes the rose, but the rose itself. The rose is
a rose, whether its petals be red or pink or white. And such she ever
appeared to me. And the thorns that I found about her in no way
detracted from her charms. Though I might have wished her less prone to
show them, I did not find her pursuit the less delicious.
Just after this I decided to move my quarters. Pushkin was beginning to
come again to the old Drummer's house, I did not know why--and though I
did not meet him I could not bear to be under the same roof with him. I
began to feel, too, the change in the household. Elsa had begun to
change somehow. Instead of the little carols and snatches like
bird-songs that I used to hear before she went to her work, or in the
evening when she returned, there was silence and sometimes sighs, and in
place of smiles, gloom. Her face lost its bloom. I wondered what the
poor thing was distressing herself about. My young Swede, too, whom I
still occasionally saw, appeared to have lost that breezy freshness and
glow which always reminded me of country meadows and upland hay-fields,
and looked downcast and moody. In place of his good-humored smile, his
ruddy face began to wear a glowering, sullen look; and finally he
disappeared. The mother, also, changed, and her voice, formerly so
cheery and pleasant, had a sharper tone than I had ever heard in it
before, and even the old drummer wore a cloudier air, wholly different
from his old-time cheeriness. In fact, the whole house had changed from
the nest of content that it had been, and I began to plan moving to a
better neighborhood which my improving practice appeared to justify. The
chief thing that withheld me was that radiant glimpse of Miss Leigh
which I sometimes got of a morning as she came tripping along the street
with her little basket in her hand, and her face sweet with high
thoughts. It set me up all day; attended me to my office, and filled it
with sunshine and hope. Moreover, I was beginning to find in my
association with John Marvel a certain something which I felt I should
miss. He calmed me and gave me resolution. It appeared strange that one
whom I had always looked down on should so affect me, but I could no
longer hide it from myself. But against this reason for remaining I set
the improvement in my condition that a better lodging-place would
indicate. After a time, my broad-shouldered young Swedish car-driver
came back and I was glad I had remained. Several times in the evening I
found him in the house dressed up with shiny hair, a very bright
necktie, and a black coat, the picture of embarrassed happiness, and
Elsa sitting up and looking prim and, I fancied, a trifle bored, though
it might have been only demureness. When I heard her singing again, I
assumed that it was the latter expression, and not the former, which I
had observed. However, I came in one night and heard Pushkin's voice in
the house and I was again at sea. Elsa in all the gayety of her best
frock and ribbons, dashed by me as I mounted the stair to my room.
The next evening I was walking home late. I came on two persons standing
in the shadow in a secluded spot. They stopped talking as I passed and I
thought I heard my name whispered. I turned and they were Elsa and
Pushkin. What was he doing talking with her at that hour? I came near
walking up and denouncing him then and there; but I reflected and went
on, and when, a few minutes later, Elsa came in very red and
scared-looking, I congratulated myself on my self-restraint and
sagacity. The next morning was rainy and black, and I took a street car;
and found that the motorman was my blue-eyed young Swede, and that he
was as dark and cloudy that morning as the day.
That night, I heard Pushkin's voice in the house again, and my old
friend's reply to him in a tone of expostulation. It was hard not to
hear what Pushkin said, for the house was like a sounding-board. Pushkin
was actually trying to borrow money--"more money," and he gave as his
reason the absolute certainty that with this stake--"just this one
loan," he should win an heiress--"One of the richest women in all the
land," he said. He urged as a reason why the old fellow should lend it
to him, that they were both from the same country, and that his
grandfather, when a Minister of the Court, had appreciated Loewen's
music and helped him to get his first place.
"And he was a shentlemans like me, and you nodings but a common trummer,
hey? And--look here," he said, "I am going to marry a great heiress, and
then I shall not haf to borrow any more. I shall haf all de moneys I
want--my pockets full, and den I vill pay you one--two--t'ree times for
all you haf lend me, hein? And now I, de shentlemans, comes to you, de
common trummer, and calls you mine friend, and swear to pay you
one--two--t'ree times over, certainlee you vill nod refuse me?"
The rest was in the language of their own country. The argument had its
effect; for I could hear the old drummer's tone growing more and more
acquiescent and the other's laugh becoming more and more assured, and
finally I knew by his voice that he had succeeded.
I came near rising on the spot and going in and unmasking him. But I did
not. I determined to wait until the next morning.
Next morning, however, when I came down I received notice that my room
was no longer for rent. The announcement came to me from Mrs. Loewen,
who gave it in her husband's name, and appeared somewhat embarrassed. I
could not see her husband. He had gone out "to meet a gentleman," she
said. Her manner was so changed that I was offended, and contented
myself with saying I would leave immediately; and I did so, only leaving
a line addressed to my old drummer to explain my departure--I was sure
that their action was in some way due to Pushkin. In fact, I was not
sorry to leave though I did not like being put out. My only cause of
regret was that I should miss my walk through the street where the young
school-mistress was shining. I am not sure whether it was a high motive
or a mean one which made me, as I left the house, say to Mrs. Loewen:
"You are harboring a scoundrel in that man Pushkin. Keep your eyes
open." I saw a startled look in her eyes, but I did not wait to explain.
I did not feel comfortable that evening as I walked through the streets
to the better quarters which I had taken. I knew that John Marvel would
have said less or more. I half made up my mind to go to John and lay the
matter before him. Indeed, I actually determined to do so. Other things,
however, soon engrossed my thoughts and my time. I had to file my bill
for my old ladies. And so this, like most of my good intentions, faded
away.
In fact, about this time I was so wholly taken up with my love for the
entrancing ideal that I had clad in the lineaments of Miss Eleanor Leigh
and adorned with her radiance and charm that I had no thought for
anything that was not in some way related to her. My work was suddenly
uplifted by becoming a means to bring me nearer to my ambition to win
her. My reading took on new meaning in storing my mind with lore or
equipping it to fit it for her service; the outward form of nature
displayed new beauty because she loved it. The inward realm of
reflection took on new grace because she pervaded it. In a word, the
whole world became but the home and enshrinement of one being, about
whom breathed all the radiance and sweetness that I found in it. All of
which meant simply that I was truly in love. Content with my love, I
lived in a Heaven whose charm she created. But Love has its winter and
it often follows close on its spring. I had played Fate again and
waylaid her one afternoon as she was returning home from an excursion
somewhere, and persuaded her to prolong her walk with an ease that
lifted me quite out of myself, and I began to have aspirations to be
very brave and good. I wished to be more like a rock, rugged and simple.
We were walking slowly and had reached a park, and I guilefully led her
by a roundabout path through a part where the shrubbery made it more
secluded than the rest. I can see the spot now as then I saw it: a
curving gray road sloping down under overhanging trees, and a path
dappled with sunlight dipping into masses of shrubbery with a thrush
glancing through them, like a little brown sprite playing hide-and-seek.
As we neared a seat, I suggested that we should sit down and I was
pleased at the way in which she yielded; quite as if she had thought of
it herself. It was almost the first time that I had her quite to myself
in fair surroundings where we were face to face in body and soul. I
felt, somehow, as though I had made a great step up to a new and a
higher level. We had reached together a new resting-place, a higher
atmosphere; almost a new land. And the surroundings were fresh to me in
the city, for we had strayed out of the beaten track. I remember that a
placid pool, shaded by drooping willows and one great sycamore, lay at
our feet, on which a couple of half-domesticated wild-fowl floated,
their graceful forms reflected in the mirror below them. I pointed to
one and said, "Alcyone," and my heart warmed when she smiled and said,
"Yes, at peace. 'The past unsighed for, and the future sure.'"
A quotation from a poet always pleases me. It is as if one found a fresh
rose in the street, and where it comes from the lips and heart of a girl
it is as though she had uttered a rose.
"Are you fond of Wordsworth?" I asked. "He seems to me very spiritual."
"Yes. In fact, I think I am fond of all poetry. It lifts me up out of
the grosser atmosphere of the world, which I enjoy, too,
tremendously--and seems to place me above and outside of myself. Some,
even, that I don't understand. I seem to be borne on wings that I can't
see into a rarer atmosphere that I can only feel, but not describe."
"That," I said, "as I understand it, is the province of poetry--and
also, perhaps, its test."
"It has somewhat the same effect on me that saying my prayers has. I
believe in something infinitely good and pure and blessed. It soothes
me. I get into a better frame of mind."
"I should think your frame of mind was always 'a better frame,'" I said,
edging toward the personal compliment and yet feeling as though I were
endangering a beautiful dream.
"Oh! you don't know how worse I can be--how angry--how savage."
"Terribly so, I should think. You look like an ogress."
"I feel like one sometimes, too," she nodded. "I can be one when I have
the provocation."
"As--for example?"
"Well, let me see?--Well,--for example, once--oh! quite a time ago--it
was just after I met you--the very next day--" (My heart bounded that
she could remember the very next day after meeting me--and should set
dates by that important event. I wanted to say, that is the beginning of
my era; but I feared)--"I got into a dreadful passion--I was really
ferocious."
"Terrible," I jested. "I suppose you would have poisoned your slaves,
like the old Roman Empress--What was her name?"
"I was angry enough."
"And, instead, you gave the cat milk in place of cream, or did some such
awful act of cruelty."
"Not at all. I did nothing. I only burned inwardly and consumed myself."
"And pray, what was the offence that called forth such wrath, and who
was the wretch who committed the crime?"
"I had sufficient provocation."
"Of course."
"No, I mean really----"
"What?"
"Why, it was a piece that appeared in one of the morning papers, a vile
scurrilous sheet that had always attacked my father covertly; but this
was the first open attack, and it was simply a huge lie. And it has been
repeated again and again. Why, only the other day the same paper
republished it with huge headlines and charged that my father was the
cause of all the trouble in the city--my father, who is the best, the
kindest, the most charitable man I ever knew--who has almost beggared
himself trying to furnish facilities to the poor! Oh, I can't bear it! I
wish I had that man under my heel this minute! I would just grind him to
powder! I would!" She turned, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks glowing
with fervor, her face rigid with resolution, her white teeth shut
together as if they were a trap to hold her enemy till death. "Give the
cat milk! I could have poured molten metal down that man's
throat--cheerfully--yes, cheerfully."
It may be well believed that as she proceeded, the amusement died out of
my face and mind. I turned the other way to keep her from seeing the
change that must have come over me. I was thinking hard and I thought
quickly, as, 'tis said, a drowning man thinks. Life and death both
flashed before me--life in her presence, in the sunlight of those last
weeks, and the shadow of perpetual banishment. But one thing was
certain. I must act and at once. I turned to her and was almost driven
from my determination by the smile in her eyes, the April sunlight
after the brief storm. But I seized myself and took the leap.
"I wrote that piece."
She actually laughed.
"Yes, I know you did."
"I did--seriously, I wrote it; but----"
I saw the horror oversweep her face. It blanched suddenly, like the
pallor on a pool when a swift cloud covers the sun, and her hand went up
to her bosom with a sudden gesture as of pain.
"Oh!" she gasped. The next second she sprang up and sped away like a
frightened deer.
I sprang up to follow her, to make my explanation to her; but though,
after the first twenty steps, she stopped running and came down to a
walk, it was still a rapid walk, and she was fleeing from me. I felt as
though the gates of Paradise were closing on me. I followed her at a
distance to see that she reached home safely, and with a vain hope that
she might slacken her gait and so give me an excuse to make such
explanation as I could. She, however, kept on, and soon after she passed
beyond the park I saw a trap draw up beside the pavement, and, after a
moment in which the driver was talking to her, a young man sprang out
and throwing the reins to a groom, joined her and walked on with her. In
the light of the street lamp I recognized young Canter. I turned back
cursing him; but most of all, cursing myself.