_The Fly in the Ointment_
At last the union was organised at mill and mine.
The men had been duly instructed as to the burden of their wrongs and
the measures necessary for redress. They had been taught that all who
were not for them were against them, and that scabs were traitors to
their fellows, that heaven was not for them, hell too good for them, and
that on earth they only crowded the deserving from their own. In warning
his fellows against bending the knee to Baal, Morrison did not feel it
incumbent upon him to state that there was a whole sky full of other
heathen deities, and that, in turning from one deity to make obeisance
to another, they might miss the one true God. He did not even take the
trouble to state that there was a chance for wise selection--that it was
better to worship Osiris than to fall into the hands of Moloch.
With enthusiasm, distilled as much from Pierre's whisky as from
Morrison's wisdom, the men had elected Morrison leader, and now awaited
his commands. Morrison had decided on a strike. This would demonstrate
his power and terrify his opponents. There was enough shrewdness in him
to select a plausible excuse. He knew very well that even among his most
ardent adherents there was much common sense and an inherent perception
of justice; that, while this would not stand in the way of precipitating
a strike, it might prevent its perfect fruition. Whatever his own
convictions, Morrison felt intuitively that ideas in the minds of the
majority of men were but characters written on sand which the first
sweep of washing waves would wipe out and leave motiveless; that others
must stand by with ready stylus, to write again and again that which was
swept away. In other words, he must have aides; that these aides, if
they were to remain steadfast, must be thinking men, impressed with the
justice of their position.
Hartwell had supplied just the motive that was needed. As yet, it was
not apparent; but it was on the way. When it arrived there would be no
doubt of its identity, or the course of action which must then be
pursued. Morrison was sure that it would come, was sure of the riot that
would follow. His face darkened, flattened to the similitude of a
serpent about to strike.
There was a flaw in Morrison's otherwise perfect fruit. Where hitherto
had been the calm of undisputed possession was now the rage of baffled
desire. Aside from momentary resentment at Elise's first interview with
Firmstone, the fact had made little impression on him. As Pierre ruled
his household, even so he intended to rule his own, and, according to
Morrison's idea of the conventional, a temporary trifling with another
man was one of the undeniable perquisites of an engaged girl. Morrison
had been too sure of himself to feel a twinge of jealousy, rather
considering such a course of action, when not too frequently indulged,
an additional tribute to his own personality. What Morrison mistook for
love was only passion. It was honourable, insomuch as he intended to
make Elise his wife.
Morrison ascribed only one motive to the subsequent meetings which he
knew took place between Elise and Firmstone. Elise was drifting farther
and farther from him, in spite of all that he could do. "Rowing," as he
expressed it, had not been of infrequent occurrence between himself and
Elise before Firmstone had appeared on the scene; but on such occasions
Elise had been as ready for a "mix-up" as she was now anxious to avoid
one. There was another thing to which he could not close his eyes. There
had been defiance, hatred, an eager fierceness, both in attack and
defence, which was now wholly lacking. On several recent occasions he
had sought a quarrel with Elise; but while she had stood her ground,
there was a contempt in her manner, her eyes, her voice, which could not
do otherwise than attract his attention.
To do Morrison the justice which he really deserved, there was in him as
much of love for Elise as his nature was capable of harbouring for any
one outside himself. He looked upon her as his own, and he was defending
this idea of possession with the same pugnacity that he would protect
his dollars from a thief. Morrison had been forced to the conclusion
that Elise was lost to him. Hitherto Firmstone had been an impersonal
obstacle in his path. Now--The eyes narrowed to a slit, the venomous
lips were compressed. Morrison was a beast. Only the vengeance of a
beast could wipe out the disgrace that had been forced upon him.
In reality Elise was only a child. Unpropitious and uncongenial as had
been her surroundings to her finer nature, these had only retarded
development; they had not killed the germ. Her untrammelled life had
been natural, but hardly neutral. To put conditions in a word, her
undirected life had stored up an abundant supply of nourishing food that
would thrust into vigorous life the dormant germ of noble womanhood when
the proper time should come. There had been no hot-house forcing, but
the natural growth of the healthy, hardy plant which would battle
successfully the storms that were bound to come.
In the cramped and sordid lives which had surrounded her there was much
to repel and little to attract. The parental love of Pierre was strong
and fierce, but it was animal, it was satiating, selfish, and
undemonstrative. Hence Elise was almost wholly unconscious of its
existence. As for Madame, hers was a love unselfish; but dominated and
overshadowed, in terror of her husband, she stood in but little less awe
of Elise. These two, the one selfish, with strength of mind sufficient
to bend others to his purposes, the other unselfish, but with every
spontaneous emotion repressed by stronger personalities, exerted an
unconscious but corresponding influence upon their equally unconscious
ward. These manifestations were animal, and in Elise they met with an
animal response. She felt the domineering strength of Pierre, but
without awe she defied it. She felt the unselfish and timorous love of
Madame. She trampled it beneath her childish feet, or yielded to a storm
of repentant emotion that overwhelmed and bewildered its timid
recipient. She was surrounded and imbued with emotions, unguided,
unanalysed, misunderstood, that rose supreme, or were blotted out as the
strength of the individual was equal to or inferior to its opposition.
They were animal emotions that one moment would lick and caress and
fight to the death, the next in a moment of rage would smite to the
earth. As Elise approached womanhood, these emotions were intensified,
but were otherwise unmodified. There was another element which came as a
natural temporal sequence. She had seen with unseeing eyes young girls
given in marriage; she had no question but that a like fate was in store
for her. So it happened that when Pierre, announcing to her her
sixteenth birthday, had likewise broached the subject of marriage she
opposed it not on rational grounds but simply on general principles. She
was not at first conscious of any objections to Morrison. Being ignorant
of marriage she had no grounds upon which to base a choice. To her
Morrison was no better and no worse than any other man she had met.
Morrison was perfectly right in his assumptions. Had not circumstances
interfered, in the end he would have had his way. Morrison was also
perfectly wrong. Elise was not Madame in any sense of the word. His
reign would have been at least troubled, if not in the end usurped. The
first circumstance which had already interfered to prevent the
realisation of his desire was one which, very naturally, would be the
last to appeal to him. This circumstance was Zephyr.
From the earliest infancy of Elise, Zephyr had been, in a way, her
constant guardian and companion. With enough strength of character to
make him fearless, it was insufficient to arouse the ambition to carve
out a distinctive position for himself. He absorbed and mastered
whatever came in his way, but there his ambition ceased. He was
respected and, to a certain extent, feared, even by those who were
naturally possessed of stronger natures.
There may be something in the fabled power of the human eye to cow a
savage beast, but unfortunately it will probably never be satisfactorily
demonstrated. A man confronted with the beast will invariably and
instinctively trust to his concrete "44" rather than to the abstract
force of human magnetism. Yet there is a germ of truth in the proverbial
statement. Brought face to face with his human antagonist, the thinking
man always stands in fear of himself, of his sense of justice, while the
brute in his opponent has no scruples and no desires save those of
personal triumph.
These things Elise did not see. The things she saw which appealed to her
and influenced her were, first of all, Zephyr's fearlessness of others
who were feared, his good-natured, philosophical cynicism which
ridiculed foibles that he did not feel called upon to combat, his
protecting love for her which was always considerate but never
obsequious, which was unrestraining yet restrained her in the end.
Against his cynical stoicism the waves of her childish rage beat
themselves to calm, or, hurt and wounded, she wept out her childish
sorrows in his comforting arms. The protecting value of it she did not
know, but in Zephyr, and that was the only name by which she knew him,
was the only untrammelled outlet for every passion of her childish as
well as for her maturing soul.
Zephyr alone would have thwarted Morrison's designs on Elise. But
Morrison despised Zephyr, even though he feared him. Zephyr in a neutral
way had preserved Elise from herself and from her surroundings. Neutral,
because his efforts were conserving, not developmental. Neutral, for,
while he could keep her feet from straying in paths of destruction, he
had through ignorance been unable to guide them in ways that led to a
higher life.
This mission had been left to Firmstone. Not that Zephyr's work had been
less important, for the hand that fallows ground performs as high a
mission as the hand that sows the chosen seed. Unconsciously at first,
Firmstone had opened the eyes of Elise to vistas, to possibilities which
hitherto had been undreamed of. It mattered little that as yet she saw
men as trees, the great and saving fact remained, her eyes were opened
and she saw.
Morrison's eyes were also opened. He saw first the growing influence of
Firmstone and later the association of Elise with Miss Hartwell. He
could not see that Elise, with the influence of Firmstone, was an
impossibility to him. Like a venomous serpent that strikes blindly at
the club and not at the man who wields it, Morrison concentrated the
full strength of his rage against Firmstone.
Perhaps no characterisation of Elise could be stronger than the bald
statement that as yet she was entirely oblivious of self. The opening
vistas of a broader, higher life were too absorbing, too intoxicating in
themselves, to permit the intrusion of the disturbing element of
personality. Her eager absorption of the minutest detail, her keen
perception of the slightest discordant note, pleased Miss Hartwell as
much as it delighted Firmstone.
Elise was as spontaneous and unreserved with the latter as with the
former. She preferred Firmstone's company because with him was an
unconscious personality that met her own on even terms. Firmstone loved
strength and beauty for themselves, Miss Hartwell for the personal
pleasure they gave her. She was flattered by the childish attention
which was tendered her and piqued by the obvious fact that her
personality had made only a slight impression upon Elise as compared
with that of Firmstone.
This particular afternoon Elise was returning from a few hours spent
with Miss Hartwell at the Falls. It had been rather unsatisfactory to
both. As the sun began to sink behind the mountain they had started down
the trail together, but the walk was a silent one. Miss Hartwell had a
slight flush of annoyance. Elise, sober and puzzled, was absorbed by
thoughts that were as yet undifferentiated and unidentified. They parted
at the Blue Goose.
Elise turned at the steps and entered by the back door. Morrison was
watching, unseen by either. He noted Elise's path, and as she entered he
confronted her. Elise barely noticed him and was preparing to go
upstairs. Morrison divined her intention and barred her way.
"You're getting too high-toned for common folks, ain't you?"
Elise paused perforce. There was a struggling look in her eyes. Her
thoughts had been too far away from her surroundings to allow of an
immediate return. She remained silent. The scowl on Morrison's face
intensified.
"When you're Mrs. Morrison, you won't go traipsing around with no
high-toned bosses and female dudes more than once. I'll learn you."
Elise came back with a crash.
"Mrs. Morrison!" She did not speak the words, she shrank from them and
left them hanging in their self-polluted atmosphere. "Learn me!" The
words were vibrant with a low-pitched hum, that smote and bored like the
impact of an electric wave. "You--you--snake; you--how dare you!"
Morrison did not flinch. The blind fury of a dared beast flamed in his
eyes.
"Dare, you vixen! I'll make you, or break you! I've been in too many
scraps and smelled too much powder to get scared by a hen that's trying
to crow."
The animal was dominant in Elise. Fury personified flew at Morrison.
"You'll teach me; will you? I'll teach you the difference between a hen
and a wild cat."
The door from the kitchen was opened and Madame came in. She flung
herself between Elise and Morrison. The repressed timorous love of years
flamed upon the thin cheeks, flashed from the faded eyes. There was no
trace of fear. Her slight form fairly shook with the intensity of her
passion.
"Go! Go! Go!" The last was uttered in a voice little less than a shriek.
"Don't you touch Elise. She is mine. Why don't you go?"
Her trembling hands pushed Morrison toward the open door. Bewildered,
staggered, cowed, he slunk from the room. Madame closed the door. She
turned toward Elise. The passion had receded, only the patient pleading
was in her eyes.
The next instant she saw nothing. Her head was crushed upon Elise's
shoulder, the clasping arms caressed and bound, and hot cheeks were
pressed against her own. Another instant and she was pushed into a
chair. For the first time in her life, Madame's hungry heart was fed.
Elise loved her. That was enough.
The westward sinking sun had drawn the veil of darkness up from the
greying east. Its cycles of waxing and waning were measured by the click
of tensioned springs and beat of swinging pendulums. But in the growing
darkness another sun was rising, its cycles measured by beating hearts
to an unending day.