When Kathleen ceased speaking there was a little murmur of applause
throughout the room. Every one had been listening--Madame at her desk,
the men at their table, their dominoes dropped from their hands, Marie
in the doorway. Kathleen's own guests had been wholly absorbed. To all,
from this time, child labor would no longer be an academic question but
a vivid reality.
The Major was the first to break the silence. "That was a fine tale," he
said, bowing gravely to the story-teller who sat opposite him, her
cheeks rosy with excitement, one hand drumming the Marseillaise on the
table cloth. "Thank you for letting me hear it."
"I told it for Hertha," Kathleen said pointedly.
"Yes?" The Major looked at the southern girl, not for the first time
that evening, and was struck anew by her beauty and her repose. While
evidently embarrassed, she said nothing in reply to Kathleen, but sat, a
quiet listener, her hands in her lap. The city, he realized, had not yet
taught her to think in flashes or to move in jerks.
"What has Miss Ogilvie to learn from this strike?" the old man asked.
"Didn't you tell me that she had already led one out?"
"Led it out only to leave it," Kathleen answered vehemently. "The girls
are in the street now working to keep their clothes from being snatched
off their backs by a lot of dirty scabs."
Seeing that an explanation was demanded of her, Hertha turned to the
Major and said with a blush, "I am not willing to picket." Then, with
more animation in her manner, she questioned her friend. "You didn't
tell us how your strike ended. What happened after the children went
home?"
"Well, I'm not saying how their fathers and mothers took it, but they
won at the mill all right. The ogre was given another job."
"I'm glad of that," with a pleasant, propitiatory smile; "I was afraid
you had only won a holiday."
But Kathleen would not be cajoled. "No, indeed," she answered; "we got
our rights by standing out for them."
"Don't be a fool, Kitty," the Major remarked abruptly.
Kathleen looked at him, bewildered and aggrieved. Formerly he had been
her champion when in this same room she had been attacked by bourgeois
guests armed with conventional arguments. Then he had spoken more
bitterly than she and had been placed by her among her revolutionists.
For him to turn upon her now was not only unkind but treacherous. What
did she know about him after all, she thought? Only the common talk of
this place where he was accounted one familiar with strange lands who
could speak in any tongue that sounded over Madame's tables.
"You're an old man, Major," she said a little stiffly, "and I was
counting you a good comrade. Maybe you'll show me the folly in saying
that you get your rights by standing out for them."
"You didn't get your rights," was the blunt answer. "When you led the
children out you merely exchanged one foreman for another a little less
brutal. You did not win the sunshine and the fresh air for every day."
"But that has come now," Applebaum said.
Leaning back in his chair, smoking a good cigar, the younger man had
listened tolerantly to the talk. He spoke now, not to defend Kathleen
who, he knew, was a captain in dialectics where he was a cabin boy, but
to sound his note of confident optimism.
"The good time has come to more children than formerly," the Major
answered, "but those who can really bask in the sunshine are few."
"They are very many." The young man spoke in a cheerful, assertive
manner. "And the others will later receive their due. We must wait for
the slow processes of evolution."
He looked about the company, his pleasant mouth smiling, his eyes
shining good-will; but when his glance encountered the Major his
countenance dropped. That former soldier eyed him as he might in the old
days have eyed a sentry caught asleep at his post.
"The slow processes of evolution," the Major said, contempt in every
drawling word. "Did man wait for the slow processes of evolution that
you are so glib about, when he invented the machinery that sucked up and
still sucks up the life of the child? If you're not incredibly ignorant
you know that man does not leave nature to go her slow way, but makes
changes with the rapidity of lightning. Two things, though, never
change," lifting up two long fingers, "poverty and greed."
Applebaum put down his cigar, his face flushed with anger; but, looking
across at Hertha, his brow cleared. She was smiling at him--a grateful
smile--as though to thank him for drawing the fire from her quarter.
Kathleen, too, had a relieved expression upon her face. Girding up his
loins, he decided to continue the discussion though he might later be
forced to retreat. It was scarcely a fair fight when one of the
contestants had the handicap of venerable age.
"Surely," he said augmentatively, "times have improved with some
rapidity. There are fewer of the poor and oppressed than there were one
hundred years ago."
"How do you know?" the Major asked.
While Applebaum drew breath to summon his facts in proof of progress,
the Major answered his own question as though his opponent were already
disposed of.
"Small thievery is controlled," he said; "held in check better than
formerly. Sturdy beggars are not so often seen in the market-place. But
these men rarely stole from the poor. Your powerful thief, however,
never had so good a chance as to-day. There's no government he cannot
buy, and our rapid means of transportation make it possible for him to
gather a harvest from more fields than were gleaned by his cleverest and
most rapacious predecessors."
"But, granting for the sake of argument that he may not always get his
money honestly, doesn't he give a fair share of all he gathers to the
poor?" Applebaum asked.
"To the producers, you mean, the men who made his wealth? Not such a
noble portion as you might think. I was in India once, during a famine.
Children lay dead by the wayside, their thin little arms stiff at their
sides. At night when you went by a native hut you heard a baby sobbing
as it pulled at an empty breast, or you listened to that saddest cry in
the world, a mother wailing for her dead child."
"Bad crops?" Billy questioned.
"Thievery!" the Major answered in a tone that made Madame jump at her
distant table, while the three immediate listeners felt as though a bomb
had exploded. Then in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice, as though narrating
a commonplace: "Down at the coast I saw ships laden with grain for
England, loaded by those people who you feel give a fair share of what
they gather to the poor."
"That's like the English!" Kathleen cried, her Irish blood asserting
itself. "They're the oppressors of the world!"
"Nonsense," the Major retorted, "you don't know what you're talking
about. When the English conquered India the natives exchanged one master
for another, that was all. If the native princes and rajahs stole less
than the British, and I don't know that this was the case, it was
stupidity not kindliness that kept them from making a complete job."
"I don't believe they were such hypocrites as the English," Kathleen
muttered.
She felt much aggrieved. Customarily she held the floor and her
listeners either contented themselves with silent dissent or uttered
short, ineffectual protests. To-night a friend, a revolutionist like
herself, characterized her ideas as foolish and nonsensical, while the
audience she was accustomed to routing looked on delighted at her
discomfiture. She was mistaken in her interpretation of Applebaum's
feeling. He was grieved that any one should show her rudeness; but
Hertha, it is to be confessed, was pleased at the turn events were
taking. She looked at the Major for another broadside, but to her
surprise, he nodded acquiescence to Kathleen's last remark.
"You're right about that," he said, "though hypocrisy isn't English, it
belongs to civilization. When you do wrong and know it, but desire to go
on in wrong-doing, if you are a savage you continue without apology. If
you are civilized you begin the process, the slow, evolutionary
process," nodding his head at Applebaum, "of deceiving yourself. It's a
process that takes longer with some than with others, but after a while
wrong becomes right in your mind and you can do evil from the highest
motives. And after you deceive yourself you deceive others, using good
people for your tools. The devil always chooses the best people to do
his work."
"And isn't it because of this," Kathleen rushed in, believing that she
would secure recognition at last, "that we're fighting in the unions and
in the Party [there was but one political party to Kathleen] to down the
oppressor and to take possession of the earth?"
"Whom are you going to do it with?" the Major asked dryly. "Why do you
think one set of men will be better than another? It's all right for you
to try, but you will never succeed. Just when your impetus is at its
best, rapacious leaders will appear and steal all that you have given
your lives to gain."
"There is no animal so easily deceived as man," he went on. "Stupidity,"
and he looked hard at Applebaum, "is the most noticeable of human
traits. You can trap a man with a piece of tainted meat that a wolf
would despise. Give him a symbol, it matters not what--a delphic oracle,
a church, an empire--and he will rally to the call of greed and fight
its battles manfully. With the cry of victory on their lips I could, and
have led native troops to destroy their own homes."
"Oh, Major dear!" Kathleen cried incredulously.
"Of course they didn't know what they were doing," the old man said. A
smile lit up his face and in a moment he looked so handsome and
venerable that two of his listeners, at least, forgot his rudeness.
"Most men do not see the end of the road. My father was a soldier and
sincerely religious. He thought when fighting in the service that he was
bringing Christ to the heathen; but when he got home and read of his
achievements he found that he had only forced China to trade in opium."
William Applebaum could no longer keep silent. "Why will you show only
the rotten side of things?" he asked, real passion in his voice. "All
wars are not actuated by greed and all men are not dupes. My grandfather
fought here in this country. He was a colonel and he battled to free the
slave."
"Yes?" said the Major. He turned and looked at Hertha. "You're from the
South?"
She nodded in affirmation.
"I heard it in your speech. Now how many colonels might there have been
in your family?"
"More than I can count," Hertha made answer, smiling. But the smile was
not for him but for her own cleverness.
"You hear?" the Major turned to Applebaum. "And those young colonels
fought with the same ardor, the same unselfish courage as your ancestor,
though he battled for freedom and they gave their lives that men might
go on buying black people as they bought horses and sheep."
Applebaum looked indignant but made no further attempt at an answer.
"It's a strange world!" The old man spoke now more to himself than to
the others. "I have known men of every color and caste, I have eaten the
coolie's rice and slept in the black man's hut, I have been a commander
and ruled my kingdom, but everywhere life looms the same. Nature makes a
few leaders and of these the crafty and unscrupulous become the lords of
all. First they win to their side those of ability, giving them high
places. Next they turn to the stupid, and in the name of God show them
how to do the devil's bidding. And last they find a few whom they cannot
down or deceive, men who see goodness so clearly that nothing can blind
them to its light, and these they imprison or kill. It's a simple method
and has been practised since the caveman drew his gods upon his cavern
walls. Man has a finer mentality than the beast, and he uses it to give
this wilderness of beauty that we call the earth to the few. Why, the
foxes have holes----"
He stopped, ashamed of his emotion, and as he stopped looked into
Hertha's face. He had aroused her attention by his words upon the Negro
and she was following him now, eagerly, questioningly. Was this terrible
thing that he was saying true? Would Ellen's and Kathleen's dreams
remain always dreams? Would the few forever bruise the hearts of the
many?
"What are you thinking about?" the Major's tone, though kindly, held a
command. He had ceased to be interested in his other listeners, he knew
their types too well; but this silent, beautiful girl piqued his
curiosity.
She on her part felt impelled to answer him. The picture had flashed
before her eyes of other Sunday evenings with her colored father reading
from the New Testament as they sat about the table at home. She could
see his finger moving slowly down the page.
"Don't you believe," she questioned the old soldier, "that the meek
shall inherit the earth?"
He answered gravely: "That was the prophecy of a noble youth, whose life
was soon blotted out. But before his day a wiser man, wiser because he
lived in a kindlier state that permitted him to grow old, said the same
thing. But even he was killed at last, since there is nothing so
hateful, so much to be feared, as a wise and gentle life."
Hertha's brow clouded, and dropping his irony the Major went on gently:
"Before he died, however, this old man, in talking with his friend,
pronounced his golden rule: 'We should never repay wrong with wrong nor
do harm to any man no matter how much we may have suffered from him.'
But mark Socrates' wisdom. 'I know,' he added, 'few men hold or ever
will hold this opinion.' That was over two thousand years ago, my dear,
and you see the meek have not inherited the earth. They still drink the
cup of hemlock or are nailed upon the cross."
"Don't!" Kathleen cried. She was shaken by his speech and the tears were
on her cheeks. "Major, dear, I'm not meek. I'm fighting with my comrades
for the new world. What is there for me?"
"Defeat!" the old man answered gravely, shaking his head. "Defeat. And
yet, there will be the joy of battle, and who knows but that the
struggle is better than any possible heaven of achievement? But for your
friend," and his face lightened as he looked at Hertha's appealing
beauty, "for her there is the joy of youth." He rose and addressed
himself directly to Hertha. "My child," he said, "don't let them make
you picket. Get all the joy you can out of life. Dance to beautiful
music. The springtime is coming, play with your mates. Grasp whatever of
happiness you can, and, above all, keep out of the conflict. Don't
forget, keep out of the conflict."
With a nod of good-by he picked up his hat and coat and left them.
"Kitty," William Applebaum said as he bade her good-night, "don't
believe that terrible man."
He was standing in the hall of the flat. Hertha had gone to her room and
quite evidently Kathleen was impatient to have him leave.
"Oh, shut up," was her answer.
"But I mean it," Applebaum went on earnestly. "What does he know about
life? Just because he's traveled, why should you think he tells the
truth? He's irreligious and he's unwholesome. I hate that kind of thing,
it's the talk of the devil."
Then, to Kathleen's utter amazement, he kissed her. He had never been so
daring before and, overcome by his temerity, he rushed down the stairs.
But before she had closed the door he called back, "Don't believe
anything he said except about the joy of youth." And then the outer door
slammed.
"Good heavens," cried Kathleen, "did that red ink claret go to his
head!"
Hertha was so tired that she went at once to her room, but the coffee
that she had taken kept her long awake. Since the night before she had
experienced a series of vivid impressions; the music of the opera with
its passion of love and tragic sorrow; the home she had visited that
afternoon, its white bedroom looking out into the trees that would soon
be green; the great stone towers of the bridge from which hung
innumerable threads of steel; and, last, the little table with Billy
opposite and this strange old man reciting his doctrine of eternal
defeat. "Keep out of the conflict!" That was what he had said. That
ought not to be a difficult thing to do. When she was colored she was in
the conflict, a part of the great problem of an oppressed race. But
to-day she was white and free; and since this was so, and she could go
where she would, was it not foolish to stay in this atmosphere of
turmoil, of noisy street and strenuous talk? She shut her eyes and tried
to think of quiet nothings, and after much tossing she dropped off to
sleep.
She was awakened by a bright light in her room. "What is it?" she called
sitting upright in bed.
"It's me, dear," said Kathleen coming to her.
The Irish girl was dressed and had her hat and coat on. "I'm called on a
case," she explained, "way up in the Bronx. It's pneumonia and I'm
afraid I shan't be home for some days."
"Oh," Hertha cried, in real distress, "why must you go now? I want you
myself."
"You're not sick, are you?"
"No, but I'm worried. I wanted to talk with you."
Kathleen sat down by the side of the bed. "I'm sorry that I've bothered
you so, Hertha," she said in her pleasantest voice. "There's something
in what the Major said to-night. You're young and it's not for me to
push you into anything just because I think it's right. You ought to be
your own judge. Perhaps you'll soon decide on a new trade and the
factory will drop out of your life."
"Yes, Kathleen," Hertha said hesitating, "I am thinking of something
new. I believe I'll study stenography."
"That's a good trade if you've the education, and I don't doubt you
have. There's many in it, but not many like you."
"Mr. Brown has been looking up schools for me."
"Has he?"
There was silence. Kathleen had not taken a fancy to Mr. Brown.
"The school that he likes the best is in Brooklyn, and----" Hertha
swallowed hard. If she were going to say anything it must be now.
"To-day I looked at a room over there, near the school."
"In Brooklyn, good Lord! Why, nobody goes to Brooklyn except to be
buried! You can't mean Brooklyn! What do you want to be leaving here for
anyway?"
Kathleen got off the bed. As Hertha remained silent she moved out of the
little alcove. "Of course, if you're wanting to go, Hertha, it's not for
me to keep you."
"I want to talk with you about it. I haven't decided yet, and I don't
want to leave you, but there're so many things to think about."
Hertha's voice was plaintive, for she was almost in tears.
"I suppose it's that long-legged southern chap. Well, if it's a man
trying to get you away, there's no hope for me. But how you can like
that thin-nosed, sallow-faced son of a snuff-dipping mother is beyond
me."
Kathleen did not see Hertha's flushed cheeks, but she felt her silent
protest. Remembering the words of the Major, the call of youth and
springtime, she went back and again seated herself by Hertha's side.
"It's a shame they should be calling me out to-night and you and me
needing a long talk together. But that's my life and perhaps it's lonely
here for a young girl like you."
"I am lonely," Hertha declared, "when you are away."
It was the first time she had confessed to her dislike to be so much by
herself. And while she said it she knew that though she might be timid
at being alone she minded more being unable ever to get away from
people. If she went to a boarding-house, perhaps she would never be
really alone. The memory of the Merryvale household and its paying
guests came back to her, and she tried to recall whether the northern
women who stopped there were able to secure the privacy that she craved.
"With the summer, dear," Kathleen was saying, "I'm not likely to be away
so much and there's many good times we could have together. Away to the
country, perhaps, for a Sunday, or down at the beach where the waves
knock you off your feet one second and pound the breath out of you the
next."
Hertha gave a little rueful laugh. "That must be jolly," she assented.
"And as for business schools that will fit you for a job in two months
or two days, according to the cash you've got, there's as many of them
in New York, I'll be bound, as in Brooklyn. You don't have to cross the
river to go to school."
"No."
"I asked Billy to bring one of the fellows who works where he does
around with him next Sunday. He's a nice little chap, though he doesn't
know a mockingbird from a jack rabbit."
"I don't have to have young men around. I'm not going because of Dick
Brown."
"Oh, so it's settled then. Well, I wish you good-by."
The Irish girl rose and stood stiffly by the bed.
"It isn't settled," Hertha cried, "I can't settle things quickly. Oh, I
do wish everything wasn't so difficult."
"I must be going," said Kathleen. "Good-night."
Hertha dragged her friend toward her and threw her arms about her neck.
"If I do go to Brooklyn," she said, "I can still see you sometimes, and
you'll come to see me."
"There was a New York man once, Hertha, and he had two daughters, one
lived in Australia and one in Brooklyn, and he made one visit in his
life to each."
"That's silly!"
"Perhaps. But it's a big city, and if you leave here and go to foreign
parts of it, I'm afraid it's good-by."
"Well, it isn't good-by for me, wherever I go." Hertha kissed her friend
and held her close. "It's never going to be good-by like that. I love
you, Kathleen."
The older woman returned the embrace. "Play with your mates!" she heard
in her ears. "Grasp whatever of happiness you can."
"Have you money?" she questioned.
"Yes, enough for my education."
"Oh, how will I ever get along with you away!"
And with this cry Kathleen put out the light and went away to a
difficult and sorrowful night.
When she returned on Wednesday evening, snatching a few hours from her
harassing case, she hurried up the stairs and into the front room. One
glance told her that her friend had left. The framed picture was there
and the curtains that Hertha had bought and made herself. On the table
was the magazine out of which she had read a story the week before; but
the room was desolate, for in the alcove all the little things that
belonged to a young girl's dress were missing. The stiff, unnatural
order of bed and bureau mocked the looker-on. Going into the kitchen,
Kathleen saw a letter addressed to herself, but she made no attempt to
read it. Wearily entering her bedroom, she changed her gown and more
wearily returned to cook her dinner. The water hissed at her in the
kettle as she set her solitary place.
"Why does everybody leave me just when I've learned to love them?" she
asked herself. And, receiving no answer, she sat down in the rocker by
the red geraniums and buried her face in her hands.
III
DICK