CHAPTER XXIIA 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 thebrave 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 themlike 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 braveman 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 hisshattering 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’sthe 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.