A TEST FOR JORDAN KELLOCK
Philander Knox combined with his level temper and tolerant philosophy
an element of shrewdness which those with whom his lot was now cast
failed to appreciate. He was no intriguer for choice, nor might he
be called inquisitive; but if the occasion demanded it and his own
interests were involved, Philander found himself quite prepared to
employ his latent gifts. He was cunning, with that peculiar sort of
craft that often belongs to expansive and genial natures; he could,
in fact, be exceedingly sly and even unscrupulous within certain
limits. Now the need for active operations on his own behalf began to
be obvious to Mr. Knox. Finding that she cared for him, he had not
the smallest intention of losing Lydia. He felt her argument against
matrimony beneath serious consideration; but he knew that to her the
reasons for his rejection were grave and sufficient, and he did not
propose any counter-attack on the front of his reverse.
He preferred a more circuitous response. He devoted a great deal of
time to the subject and then took an occasion to see Medora. That he
might do so, he would spend his leisure by the river and smoke his pipe
there out of working hours. For some time he failed; but then came a
day when he saw her returning to “The Waterman’s Arms” from the village
and greeted her.
Always glad to hear a kindly voice and aware that Knox had become
a friend of her family, Medora smiled upon the vatman. He appeared
gloomy, however, and their conversation began by his confessing his
private tribulations.
“You’ve got a heart,” he said, “and you are one of the brave sort that
stand up to life and go through with a thing like a good plucked one,
even though you know you’ve made a mistake. Well, such show sympathy
for their neighbours, Medora, so I’m sure you’ll be sorry to hear I’ve
had a great disappointment.”
The other guessed what it was.
“Mother won’t marry you!”
“So she says; but on a very poor excuse in my opinion. Such a sensible
woman might have found a better reason for turning me down. In fact
she would—if there’d been a better reason; but the truth is there’s
no reason at all. Therefore, though she thinks I’m rejected, I don’t
regard myself as in that position—not yet.”
A love so venerable in her eyes did not interest Medora, but she mildly
wondered at him.
“I’m sure I can’t think how you old people can run after each other and
drive each other miserable, when you see what a beastly mess we young
people make of love,” she said.
“Ah! You speak with a good deal of feeling. But we old people—as you
call us, rather thoughtlessly, Medora—we old people don’t take you
children for a model. We’ve been through those stages, and what we
understand by love ain’t what you understand by it. We’ve forgotten
more than you know. I should have thought now that Kellock—a man so
much older than his years—might have given you a glimpse of the beauty
and steadfastness of what we’ll call middling to middle-aged love,
Medora?”
“Perhaps he has.”
“Don’t his ideas appeal to you as a bit lofty and high class—as
compared with your first’s notion of it for instance?”
She looked sharply at Mr. Knox, but did not answer. He put the question
moodily and appeared not interested in an answer. Indeed he proceeded
without waiting for her to speak.
“There’s two sorts of women, and you can divide them like this—the
sort of women men go to when they want to grumble about their wives,
and the other sort. A man knows by instinct whether he’ll get a tender
hearing, or whether he won’t.”
“I didn’t know decent men did grumble about their wives,” said Medora.
“Didn’t you? Oh, yes, they do—even the best, sometimes. If decent
women can grumble about their husbands—you, for example—why shouldn’t
decent men?”
“I haven’t got a husband at present,” said Medora sharply, “so you
needn’t drag me in.”
“The sensible way you look facts in the face is very much to be
admired,” he answered. “There’s a lot of girls, if they’d done what
you’ve done, would bury their heads in the sand, like the ostrich,
and think it was all right. But you don’t let the truth escape you. I
admire you for that. In a way, it’s true you haven’t got a husband at
present, but on the other hand, you have.”
“I won’t pretend; I never will pretend,” she answered, pleased at his
praise. “I do look things in the face, as you say, though nobody gives
me credit for it, and I’m not going to call Mr. Kellock my husband till
he is.”
“I wasn’t thinking so much about him as Mr. Dingle. You’re that
fearless that you won’t be afraid of the fact that under the law he’s
your husband still, monstrous though it may sound.”
Medora nodded. She did not resent the statement, but asked a curious
question.
“How does he find himself?” she inquired, and it was Mr. Knox’s turn to
be surprised. But he showed no astonishment.
“To be plain, he’s suffered a lot. I’ve got the pleasure of being
his friend, because he knows I’m a man who keeps himself to himself,
and doesn’t push in where angels fear to tread. He’s given me
his confidence, and I find this has been a very cruel facer for
Dingle—knocked him out altogether. He’ll get over it some day, as a
brave man should. But he’s got a warm heart, and he’ll never be quite
the same again—naturally.”
“If he’s suffered, so have I,” said Medora, “and if you’re in his
confidence, I may tell you that I want all my pluck and a bit over
sometimes. I knew more or less what I was going to face; but I didn’t
know all.”
“No woman ever does know all when she takes over a man. It cuts both
ways, however. Kellock didn’t know all when he ran away with you.”
“Know all! No, he don’t know all. He don’t know half what I thought he
knew, and what I’d a right to think he knew.”
“Dear me!” said Mr. Knox. “Don’t he, Medora?”
“I’m speaking in confidence, I hope?”
“That be sure of. I’m old enough to be your father, and shall
faithfully respect your secrets, just as I respect Mr. Kellock’s, or
Ned’s, or anybody’s.”
“Sometimes I think my life’s going to turn into one long Sunday now,”
she said.
“That’s a good sign, because it shows you’re grasping the stern truth;
and it shows Jordan’s breaking you in. Once you’re broken in, Medora,
you and him will come together in a real understanding spirit. No doubt
the first stages are rather painful to a handsome, clever bit like you,
with dashing ideas, and the memory of what life was with Ned; but only
give Kellock time, and the past will grow dim, and you’ll get used to
the everlasting Sunday idea. I greatly admire Kellock, because he never
changes. He’ll be a bit monotonous at first compared with the past,
but he’ll wear. You’ll feel you’re always living in cold, bitter clear
moonlight with Kellock; and I dare say you’ll miss the sunshine a bit
for ten years or so; but gradually you’ll get chilled down to his way.
And once you’ve settled to it, you’ll hate the sunshine, and come to be
just a wise, owl-eyed sort, same as him.”
Medora could not conceal a shiver.
“You’ve voted for moonlight and cold water against sunshine and a glass
of sparkling now and again—and, no doubt, you’re right, Medora.”
She turned on him passionately.
“Don’t—don’t, for God’s sake!” she cried. “What d’you think I’m made
of—ice?”
“Not yet. You can’t change your happy nature all in a minute. It’ll
come over you gradual—like the salt over Lot’s wife. You naturally
want to know what Ned’s going to do about it, and I’ve been at him
on that score—because your mother’s asked me to. She don’t like the
present doubt and delay, and so on. It’s uncomfortable, and makes the
unrighteous scoff.”
“If he wants us to eat dirt—”
“No, no, nothing like that. Ned’s a gentleman, but these things have
shaken him. He’ll make up his mind presently, but he wants to act for
the best—for your sake. Not for Jordan’s, but for yours. There’s a
lot goes to such a thing as you’ve done, and you want to be a student
of character before you decide about it. Ned don’t mean to let his
feelings run away with him. He’s got to think of your future.”
“Then why has he sunk to damages against Mr. Kellock?”
“Don’t believe anything you hear yet. I happen to know that Ned has not
settled upon that question. He’s very large-minded, as you’ll remember.”
“That would be the last straw, I should think.”
“You can’t fairly quarrel with him, even if he do shake a bit of cash
out of your husband to be. I’m sure I should have. You may never
know now all that you were to Ned; but I know, and he knows. He’s
been wonderful, in my opinion, and, with your great imagination, you
ought to see how wonderful. If he didn’t kill Kellock, why was it?
Out of regard for himself? Not a chance! Ned’s fearless, as the male
should be, and would hang for Kellock to-morrow—especially seeing
he’s got no particular interest in going on living himself, owing to
his shattering loss. No, Medora; he didn’t spare your future husband
because he was frightened of letting daylight into him; he spared him
because he knew you loved him better than anything on earth. You put
that in your pipe and smoke it, my dear. And take heart from it also;
for if Ned wouldn’t sink to Kellock’s life, you may bet your pretty
shoes he wouldn’t touch his money. Now I must get back.”
“There’s a lot more I’d like to say, however. When you do find a fellow
creature that understands, which isn’t often, your soul craves to
speak,” said Medora.
“Another time, perhaps. But mind this. Be fair. You’re so brave, I
see, that you can afford to be fair to all parties—friends and foes,
so to call ’em. And you know a fine character when you see it, I’m
sure,” concluded Philander vaguely; then he sped away, leaving the girl
anxious both to hear and tell more. She did not comprehend Mr. Knox in
the least, but perceived he was friendly. There was, moreover, a human
ring in his voice that heartened her, and she felt the contrast keenly
when she returned to the level tones and unimpassioned serenity of
Jordan Kellock.
But for once she did see Kellock taken out of himself, and in a frame
of mind enthusiastic and excited.
There came that evening a man to visit him from Totnes. He was an
earnest and serious-minded person, well known to Jordan, and in his
leisure he did secretarial work for the local branch of the Independent
Labour Party. Upon that organisation, in the opinion of Kellock, the
hope and future prosperity of his class now hung. By its activities
alone salvation might presently be welcomed. And now his friend, acting
as mouth-piece of the party, invited Kellock to deliver a lecture at
Totnes, on “Our Aims and Hopes.” It was understood that county men of
authority in the movement would be present, and Kellock did not need
his fellow politician to point out that herein their side designed the
young vatman an opportunity to show what he was good for.
“You’ll jump at it, of course, and do your very best. It may be
worth a lot to you if you get ’em. Lawson and Jenkins will be there
from Plymouth, and very likely Sawdye, from Newton. I’ll beat up the
Totnes crowd. Give ’em an hour of your hottest stuff, and keep the
shop-stewards to the front. We want to get a move on the unions all
round. They’re growing a bit mouldy in their ideas; but Labour can’t
stand still for them.”
“The trades unions were made for Labour, not Labour for trades unions,”
declared Kellock.
“That’s right; you rub that into them.”
The young man stayed to supper, and he and Kellock soared to heights
that Medora had not yet imagined. Jordan was full of life, and
displayed a vivacity that he had never displayed in conversation on his
private affairs. It was clear that nothing personal would ever light
such fires. They were reserved for the cause and the cause alone.
When the man from Totnes had departed, Kellock addressed Medora.
“You may say that this is the biggest thing that has ever happened to
me,” he began. “I didn’t expect it yet, and I must confess I’m a good
bit gratified.”
“So it seems,” she said.
“Yes; because the people who are running our show in Devon are very
jealous, naturally, that we shall give a good account of ourselves.
There’s a feeling in some quarters that nothing much in the way
of fighting intellect comes from the West Country. Londoners and
Northerners think it’s a sort of Turkish bath all the time down here—a
place for holidays and Devonshire cream and playing about. So if I’m to
be reported, as I shall be, that means a pretty good advertisement and
a pretty high compliment. It’s come sooner than I expected, and I must
rise to it, Medora.”
“You ain’t frightened to get up and talk to a crowd of men?”
“Not if I know I’m saying the right thing. I’d be frightened to do it
if I wasn’t dead sure I was right, and that my ideas—our ideas—will
rule the world before I’m an old man; but they will. I must prepare my
speech with my heart and soul. Everything must give way to it.”
“Including me, I suppose?” she said.
“You’re in what they call another category, Medora. You are part of my
own life—personal to me as I’m personal to you and, of course, our
private affairs mean a lot to us.”
“I’m glad you think that.”
“But this belongs to the world of ideas—to our souls and our highest
ambitions—what we’re born for, so to speak. I include you in it,
Medora.”
“You needn’t then,” she said, “because though it may appear a small
thing to you, my highest ambition at present is to know when I shall be
a married woman.”
“Don’t talk in that tone of voice,” he said. “I feel all that, too, and
you know I do, and I’m not going to sit down under it much longer; but
that’s in another category, as I tell you. It won’t bring it any nearer
talking. I’ll see, or write, to Mr. Dingle before much longer, if he
doesn’t set to work; but in the meantime this affair will call for all
my thought and attention out of business hours.”
“Perhaps it would be a convenience to you if I went and lived somewhere
else?”
His forehead wrinkled.
“When you say things like that, I never can be sure if you mean them
for satire, or not,” he answered. “If you’re meaning it for satire,
you’re wrong, Medora, and I blame you; but if you really mean it, out
of consideration to my time, then I can assure you there’s no need for
you to go. In fact, you’ll type the lecture, I hope. It’s going to be
quite as much to you as to me, I’m sure.”
“How can it be? You’re so thick-skinned. What’s the good of lectures
to a person who’s living my life? You don’t care. You’ve got your work
and your ambitions, and you’ll have the honour and glory, if there is
any. But where do I come in? Who am I? What am I?”
“My future wife, I should think. You can’t accuse me of anything wrong
in that category, Medora.”
“I’m not accusing you; I’m past all that. I’ll try to copy you. I’ll be
patient. If you say you’ll see Mr. Dingle, or write to him—”
“I shall see him. He’s coming back, so I hear, to Ashprington.”
Then he returned to his lecture, and, with the ardour of youth, did not
sleep that night until he had roughed out a general plan and placed the
heads of his composition clearly before him.
Long after Medora had gone to bed and the little inn was asleep, Jordan
scribbled on, and surprised himself at the compass of his thoughts. He
was amazed to hear the clock strike two, and put away his books and
papers at once.
He could recollect no previous occasion in his life on which he had
been awake at two o’clock in the morning. He fell asleep longing to
read what he had written to Medora, for he felt dimly sometimes that
he was more outside her life and its interests than he should be;
and since he could never rejoice her on any material base of trivial
pleasures, he must make good his claim by force of intellect and a
future far above that which the average working man could promise.
But he also intended to bend the bow in reason, let life have its say,
and their home its domestic happiness. He believed that, when they were
married, they would soon become everything in the world to one another.
He went to sleep in a very happy, exalted frame of mind, and felt that
life had taken an unexpected stride in the right direction.