PERHAPS it showed lack of proper feeling, but Oakley managed to sleep off a good deal of his emotional stress, and when he left his hotel the next morning he was quite himself again.
His attitude towards the world was the decently cheerful one of the man who is earning a good salary, and whose personal cares are fax from being numerous or pressing. He was still capable of looking out for Cornish's interests, and his own, too, if the need arose.
He went down to the office alert and vigorous. As he strode along he nodded and smiled at the people he met on the street. If the odium of his father's crime was to attach itself to him it should be without his help. Antioch might count him callous if it liked, but it must not think him weak.
His first official act was to go for Kerr, who was unusually cantankerous, and he gave that frigid gentleman a scare which lasted him for the better part of a week. For Kerr, who had convinced himself overnight that Oakley must resign, saw himself having full swing with the Huckleberry, and was disposed to treat his superior with airy indifference. He had objected to hunting up an old order-book Dan wished to see, on the score that he was too busy, whereat, as Holt expressed it, the latter “jumped on him with both feet.” His second official act was to serve formal notice on Branyon that he was dismissed from the shops, the master-mechanic's dismissal not having been accepted as final, for Branyon had turned up that morning with a black eye as if to go to work. He was even harsh with Miss Walton, and took exception to her spelling of a typewritten letter, which he was sending off to Cornish in London.
He also inspected every department in the shops, and was glad of an excuse he discovered to reprimand Joe Stokes, who was stock-keeper in the carpenter's room, for the slovenly manner in which the stock was handled. Then he returned to the office, and as a matter of discipline kept Kerr busy all the rest of the morning hauling dusty order-books from a dark closet. He felt that if excitement was what was wanted he was the one to furnish it. He had been too easy.
He even read Clarence, whom he had long since given up as hopeless, a moving lecture on the sin of idleness, and that astonished youth, who had fancied himself proof against criticism, actually searched for things to do, so impressed and startled was he by the manager's earnestness, and so fearful was he lest he should lose his place. If that happened, he knew his father would send him to school, and he almost preferred work, so he flew around, was under everybody's feet and in everybody's way, and when Oakley left the office at half-past two, Holt forcibly ejected him, after telling him he was a first-class nuisance, and that if he Stuck his nose inside the door again he'd skin him.
Feeling deeply his unpopularity, Clarence withdrew to the yards, where he sought out Dutch Pete With tears in his eyes he begged the yard boss to find some task for him, it made no difference what, just so it was work; but Dutch Pete didn't want to be bothered, and sent him away with what Clarence felt to be a superfluity of bad words.
Naturally the office force gave a deep sigh of satisfaction when Oakley closed his desk and announced that he was going up-town and would not return. Miss Walton confided to Kerr that she just hoped he would never come back.
It was a little before three o'clock when Dan presented himself at the Emorys'. The maid who answered his ring ushered him into the parlor with marked trepidation. She was a timid soul. Then she swished from the room, but returned almost immediately to say that Miss Emory would be down in a moment.
“I wonder what's troubling her,” muttered Oakley, with some exasperation. “You'd think she expected me to take her head off.” He guessed that, like her betters, she was enjoying to the limit the sensation of which he was the innocent victim.
When Constance entered the room, he advanced a little uncertainly. She extended her hand quite cordially, however. There was no trace of embarrassment or constraint in her manner.
As he took her hand, Dan said, simply, going straight to the purpose of his call: “I have thought a good deal over what I want to tell you, Miss Emory.” Miss Emory instantly took the alarm, and was on the defensive. She enveloped herself in that species of inscrutable feminine reserve men find so difficult to penetrate. She could not imagine what he had to tell her that was so pressing. He was certainly very curious and unconventional. There was one thing she feared he might want to tell her which she was firmly determined not to hear.
Oakley drew forward a chair.
“Won't you sit down?” he asked, gravely.
“Thank you, yes.” It was all so formal they both smiled.
Dan stood with his back to the fire-place, now filled with ferns, and rested an elbow on the mantel. There was an awkward pause. At last he said, slowly:
“It seems I've been the subject of a lot of talk during the last two days, and I have been saddled with a matter for which I am in no way responsible, though it appears to reflect on me quite as much as if I were.”
“Really, Mr. Oakley”—began Constance, scenting danger ahead. But her visitor was in no mood to temporize.
“One moment, please,” he said, hastily. “You have heard the story from Mr. Ryder.”
“I have heard it from others as well.”
“It has influenced you—”
“No, I won't say that,” defiantly. She was not accustomed to being catechised.
“At least it has caused you to seriously doubt the wisdom of an acquaintance,” blurted Oakley. “You are very unfair,” rising with latent anger.
“You will greatly oblige me by sitting down again.”
And Constance, astonished beyond measure at his tone of command, sank back into her chair with a little smothered gasp of surprise. No one had ever ventured to speak to her like that before. It was a new experience.
“We've got to finish this, you know,” explained Dan, with one of his frankest smiles, and there was a genial simplicity about his smile which was very attractive. Constance, however, was not to be propitiated, but she kept her seat. She was apprehensive lest Oakley would do something more startling and novel if she attempted to cut short the interview.
She stole a glance at him from under her long lashes. He was studying the carpet, apparently quite lost to the enormity of his conduct. “You have heard their side of the story, Miss Emory. I want you to hear mine. It's only fair, isn't it? You have heard that my father is an ex-convict?”
“Yes,” with a tinge of regret.
“That he is a murderer?” plunging ahead mercilessly.
“Yes.”
“And this is influencing you?”
“I suppose it is,” helplessly. “It would naturally. It was a great shock to us all.”
“Yes,” agreed Dan, “I can understand, I think, just how you must look at it.”
“We are very, very sorry for you, Mr. Oakley. I want to explain my manner last night. The whole situation was so excessively awkward. I am sure you must have felt it.”
“I did,” shortly.
“Oh, dear, I hope you didn't think me unkind!”
“No.” Then he added, a trifle wearily, “It's taken me all this time to realize my position. I suppose I owe you some sort of an apology. You must have thought me fearfully thick-skinned.” He hoped she would say no, but he was disappointed. Her conscience had been troubling her, and she was perfectly willing to share her remorse with him, since he was so ready to assume a part of it. She was as conventional as extreme respectability could make her, but she had never liked Oakley half so well. She admired his courage. He didn't whine. His very stupidity was in its way admirable, but it was certainly too bad he could not see just how impossible he was under the circumstances.
Dan raised his eyes to hers. “Miss Emory, the only time I remember to have seen my father until he came here a few weeks ago was through the grating of his cell door. My mother took me there as a little boy. When she died I came West, where no one knew me. I had already learned that, because of him, I was somehow judged and condemned, too. It has always been hanging over me. I have always feared exposure. I suppose I can hush it up after a while, but there will always be some one to tell it to whoever will listen. It is no longer a secret.”
“Was it fair to your friends, Mr. Oakley, that it was a secret?”
“I can't see what business it was of theirs. It's nothing I have done, and, anyhow, I have never had any friends until now I cared especially about.”
“Oh!” and Miss Emory lowered her eyes. So long as he was merely determined and stupid he was safe, but should he become sentimental it might be embarrassing for them both.
“You have seen my father. Do you think from what you can judge from appearances that he would kill a man in cold blood? It was only after years of insult that it came to that, and then the other man was the aggressor. What my father did he did in self-defence, but I am pretty sure you were not told this.”
He was swayed by a sense of duty towards his father, and a desire to vindicate him—he was so passive and enduring. The intimacy of their relation had begotten warmth and sympathy. They had been drawn nearer and nearer each other. The clannishness of his blood and race asserted itself. It was a point of honor with him to stand up for his friends, and to stand up for his father most of all. Could he, he would have ground his heel into Ryder's face for his part in circulating the garbled version of the old convict's history. Some one should suffer as he had been made to suffer.
“Of course, Mr. Ryder did not know what you have told me,” Constance said, hastily. She could not have told why, but she had the uneasy feeling that Griff required a champion, that he was responsible. “Then you did hear it from Mr. Ryder?”
She did not answer, and Oakley, taking her silence for assent, continued: “I don't suppose it was told you either that he was pardoned because of an act of conspicuous heroism, that, at the risk of his own life, he saved the lives of several nurses and patients in the hospital ward of the prison where he was confined.” He looked inquiringly at Constance, but she was still silent. “Miss Emory, my father came to me to all intents an absolute stranger. Why, I even feared him, for I didn't know the kind of man he was, but I have come to have a great affection and regard for him. I respect him, too, most thoroughly. There is not an hour of the day when the remembrance of his crime is not with him. Don't you think it cowardly that it should have been ventilated simply to hurt me, when it must inevitably hurt him so much more? He has quit work in the shops, and he is determined to leave Antioch. I may find him gone when I return to the hotel.”
“And you blame Mr. Ryder for this?”
“I do. It's part of the debt we'll settle some day.”
“Then you are unjust. It was Mr. Kenyon. His cousin is warden of the prison. He saw your father there and remembered him.”
“And told Mr. Ryder,” with a contemptuous twist of the lips.
“There were others present at the time. They were not alone.”
“But Mr. Ryder furnished the men with the facts.”
“How do you know?” And once more her tone was one of defiance and defence.
“I have been told so, and I have every reason to believe I was correctly informed. Why, don't you admit that it was a cowardly piece of business to strike at me over my father's shoulder?” demanded Oakley, with palpable exasperation. The narrowness of her nature and her evasions galled him. Why didn't she show a little generous feeling. He expected she would be angry at his words and manner. On the contrary, she replied:
“I am not defending Mr. Ryder, as you seem to think, but I do not believe in condemning any one as you would condemn him—unheard.”
She was unduly conscious, perhaps, that sound morality was on her side in this.
“Let us leave him out of it. After all, it is no odds who told. The harm is done.”
“No, I shall ask Griff.”
Dan smiled, doubtfully. “That will settle it, if you believe what he tells you.”
“His denial will be quite sufficient for me, Mr. Oakley,” with chilly politeness.
There was a long pause, during which Dan looked at the carpet, and Miss Emory at nothing in particular. He realized how completely he had separated himself from the rest of the world in her eyes. The hopelessness of his love goaded him on. He turned to her with sudden gentleness and said, penitently: “Won't you forgive me?”
“I have nothing to forgive, Mr. Oakley,” with lofty self-denial, and again Dan smiled doubtfully. Her saying so did not mean all it should have meant to him.
He swept his hand across his face with a troubled gesture. “I don't know what to do,” he observed, ruefully. “The turf seems knocked from under my feet.”
“It must have been a dreadful ordeal to pass through alone,” she said. “We are so distressed for your sake.” And she seemed so keenly sympathetic that Dan's heart gave a great bound in his breast. He put aside his mounting bitterness against her.
“I don't know why I came to see you to-day. I just wanted to, and so I came. I don't want to force a friendship.”
Miss Emory murmured that no excuse was necessary.
“I am not too sure of that. I must appear bent on exhibiting myself and my woes, but I can't go into retirement, and I can't let people see I'm hurt.”
His face took on a strong resolve. He couldn't go without telling her he loved her. His courage was suddenly riotous.
“Once, not long ago, I dared to believe I might level the differences between us. I recognized what they were, but now it is hopeless. There are some things a man can't overcome, no matter how hard he tries, and I suppose being the son of a murderer is one of these.” He paused, and, raising his eyes from the carpet, glanced at her, but her face was averted. He went on, desperately: “It's quite hopeless, but I have dared to hope, and I wanted you to know. I hate to leave things unfinished.”
There was a long silence, then Miss Emory said, softly:
“I am so sorry.”
“Which means you've never cared for me,” dryly.
But she did not answer him. She was wondering how she would have felt had the confession come forty-eight hours earlier.
“I suppose I've been quite weak and foolish,” said Dan.
She looked into his face with a slow smile.
“Why do you say that? Is it weak and foolish to care for some one?”
“Wasn't it?” with suddenly kindled hope, for he found it hard to give her up.
Miss Emory drew herself together with a sigh.
“I never thought of this,” she said, which was hardly true; she had thought of it many times.
“No,” admitted Dan, innocently enough, for her lightest word had become gospel to him, such was his love and reverence. “You couldn't know.” Poor Oakley, his telling of it was the smallest part of the knowledge. “I think I see now, perfectly, how great a difference this affair of my father's must make. It sort of cuts me off from everything.”
“It is very tragic. I wish you hadn't told me just now.” Her lips trembled pathetically, and there were tears in her eyes.
“I've wanted to tell you for a long time.”
“I didn't know.”
“Of course you couldn't know,” he repeated; then he plunged ahead recklessly, for he found there was a curious satisfaction in telling her of his love, hopeless as it was.
“It has been most serious and sacred to me. I shall never forget you—never. It has helped me in so many ways just to know you. It has changed so many of my ideals. I can't be grateful enough.”
Miss Emory approved his attitude. It was as it should be. She was sorry for him. She admired his dignity and repression. It made him seem so strong and purposeful.
“You will find your happiness some day, Mr. Oakley. You will find some one more worthy than I.” She knew he would be insensible to the triteness of her remark.
“No,” generously, “that couldn't be. I'll not find any one. I'll not look.”
“Oh, but you will.”
Already, with the selfishness of her sex, and a selfishness which was greater than that of her sex, she was regretting that she had allowed him to step so easily into the position of a rejected lover.
“I don't want you to think it is going to ruin my life,” he said, quietly, “or anything of that sort.”
An appeal to her pity seemed weak and contemptible.
“I have striven to win what I can't have, what is not for me, and I am satisfied to have made the effort.”
Miss Emory bit her lip. He was going to put her out of his life entirely. It was ended, and he would do his best to forget her with what speed he might, for he loved her, and was too generous to wish her to suffer. This generosity, needless to say, was too altruistic for Constance to fully appreciate its beauties. Indeed, she did not regard it as generosity at all. She resented it. She realized that probably she would not see him again; at least the meeting would not be of his making or choosing. There was to be no sentimental aftermath. He was preparing to go, like the sensible fellow he was, for good and all, and she rebelled against the decree. It seemed brutal and harsh. She was angry, hurt, and offended. Perhaps her conscience was troubling her, too. She knew she was mean and petty.
“I don't think it could have been very serious to you, Mr. Oakley,” she murmured, gazing abstractedly from the window.
“I don't know why you think that. I can't say any more than I have said. It includes all.” She wanted to tell him he gave up too easily.
“At any rate, we are friends,” he added.
“Are you going?” she cried, with a ring of real longing and regret in her voice, lifted out of herself for the moment at the thought of losing him.
Dan nodded, and a look of pain came into his face.
“Yes, I am going.”
“But you are not going to leave Antioch?”
“Oh, no!”
And Miss Emory felt a sense of relief. She rose from her chair. “Then I shall see you again?”
“Probably,” smiling. “We couldn't well avoid seeing each other in a place the size of this.”
He held out his hand frankly.
“And I sha'n't see you here any more?” she asked, softly.
“I guess not,” a little roughly. The bitterness of his loss stung him. He felt something was wrong somewhere. He wondered, too, if she had been quite fair to him, if her ability to guard herself was entirely commendable, after all. He knew, in the end, his only memory of her would be that she was beautiful. He would carry this memory and a haunting sense of incompleteness with him wherever he went.
She placed her hand in his and looked up into his face with troubled, serious eyes.
“Good-bye.” It was almost a whisper.
Dan crossed the room to the door and flung it open. For an instant he wavered on the threshold, but a moment later he was striding down the street, with his hat jammed needlessly low over his ears, and his hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets.
At the window, Constance, with a white, scared face, was watching him from between the parted curtains. She hoped he would look back, but he never once turned his head.
ON Thursday theHeraldpublished its report of the trouble at the shops. Oakley had looked forward to the paper's appearance with considerable eagerness. He hoped to glean from it some idea of the tactics the men would adopt, and in this he was not disappointed. Ryder served up his sensation, which was still a sensation, in spite of the fact that it was common property and two days old before it was accorded the dignity of type and ink, in his most impressive style:
“The situation at the car-shops has assumed a serious phase, and a strike is imminent. Matters came to a focus day before yesterday, and may now be said to have reached an acute stage. It is expected that the carpenters—of whom quite a number are employed on repair work—will be the first to go out unless certain demands which they are to make to-day are promptly acceded to by General Cornish's local representative.
“Both sides maintain the strictest secrecy, but from reliable sources the Herald gathers that the men will insist upon Mr. Branyon being taken back by the company.
“Another grievance of the men, and one in which they should have the sympathy of the entire community, is their objection to working with the manager's father, who came here recently from the East and has since been employed in the shops. It has been learned that he is an ex-convict who was sentenced for a long term of imprisonment in June, 1875, for the murder of Thomas Sharp, at Burton, Massachusetts.
“He was only recently set at liberty, and the men are natural-ly incensed and indignant at having to work with him. Still another grievance is the new schedule of wages.
“A committee representing every department in the shops and possessing the fullest authority, met last night at the Odd Fellows' Hall on South Main Street, but their deliberations were secret. A well-authenticated rumor has it, however, that the most complete harmony prevailed, and that the employés are pledged to drastic measures unless they get fair treatment from the company.”
Ryder tacked a moral to this, and the moral was that labor required a champion to protect it from the soulless greed and grinding tyranny of the great corporations which had sprung into existence under the fostering wing of corrupt legislation. Of course “the Picturesque Statesman from Old Hanover” was the Hercules who was prepared to right these wrongs of honest industry, and to curb the power of Cornish, whose vampire lusts fattened on the sweat of the toiler, and especially the toiler at Antioch.
A copy of the paper was evidently sent the “Picturesque Statesman,” who had just commenced his canvass, for in its very next issue theHeraldwas able to print a telegram in which he “heartily endorsed the sentiments embodied in theHerald'sringing editorial on the situation at Antioch,” and declared himself a unit with his fellow-citizens of whatever party in their heroic struggle for a fair day's wage for a fair day's work. He also expressed himself as honored by their confidence, as, indeed, he might well have been.
Dan digested theHerald'sreport along with his breakfast. Half an hour later, when he reached the office, he found McClintock waiting for him.
“The men want to see you, Mr. Oakley. They were going to send their committee in here, but I told 'em you'd come out to them.”
“All right. It's just as well you did.” And Oakley followed him from the office.
“Did you read theHerald'syap this morning?” Inquired the master-mechanic.
“Yes,” said Dan, “I did. It was rather funny, Wasn't it?”
“The town will be owing Ryder a coat of tar and feathers presently. He'll make these fools think they've got a reason to be sore on the company.”
The men were clustered about the great open door of the works in their shirt-sleeves. From behind them, in the silence and the shadow, came the pleasant, droning sound of machinery, like the humming of a million bees. There was something dogged and reckless in the very way they stood around, with folded arms, or slouched nervously to and fro.
Dan singled out Bentick and Joe Stokes, and three or four others, as the committee, and made straight towards them.
“Well, men, what do you want?” he asked, briskly.
“We represent every department in the shops, sir,” said Bentick, civilly, “and we consider Branyon's discharge as unjust. We want him taken back.”
“And suppose I won't take him back, what are you going to do about it—eh?” asked Dan, good-naturedly, and, not waiting for a reply, with oldtime deftness he swung himself up into an empty flat-car which stood close at hand and faced his assembled workmen.
“You know why Branyon was dismissed. It was a business none of you have much reason to be proud of, but I am willing to let him come back on condition he first offers an apology to McClintock and to me. Unless he does he can never set his foot inside these doors again while I remain here. I agree to this, because I don't wish to make him a scapegoat for the rest of you, and I don't wish those dependent on him to suffer.”
He avoided looking in McClintock's direction. He felt, rather than saw, that the latter was shaking his head in strong disapproval of his course. The committee and the men exchanged grins. The boss was weakening. They had scored twice. First against Roger Oakley, and now for Branyon.
“I guess Branyon would as lief be excused from making an apology, if it's all the same to Milt,” said Bentick, less civilly than before, and there was a ripple of smothered laughter from the crowd.
Dan set his lips, and said, sternly but quietly, '“That's for him to decide.”
“Well, we'll tell him what you say, and if he's ready to eat humble-pie there won't be no kick coming from us,” remarked Bentick, impartially.
“Is this all?” asked Oakley.
“No, we can't see the cut.” And a murmur of approval came from the men.
Dan looked out over the crowd. Why couldn't they see that the final victory was in his hands? “Be guided by me,” he said, earnestly, “and take my word for it; the cut is necessary. I'll meet you half-way in the Branyon matter; let it go at that.”
“We want our old wages,” insisted Bentick, doggedly.
“It is out of the question; the shops are running behind; they are not earning any money, they never have, and it's as much to your interests as mine, or General Cornish's, to do your full part in making them profitable.”
He pleaded with unmistakable sincerity in his tones, and now he looked at McClintock, who nodded his head. This was the stiff talk he liked to hear, and had expected from Oakley.
The committee turned to the men, and the men sullenly shook their heads. Some one whispered, “He'll knuckle. He's got to. We'll make him.” Dan caught the sense of what was said, if not the words.
“Wages can't go back until the business in the shops warrants it. If you will continue to work under the present arrangement, good and well. If not, I see no way to meet your demands. You will have to strike. That, however, is an alternative I trust you will carefully weigh before you commit yourselves. Once the shops are closed it will not be policy to open them until fall, perhaps not until the first of the year. But if you can afford to lie idle all summer, it's your own affair. That's exactly what it means if you strike.”
He jumped down from the car, and would have left them then and there, but Bentick stepped in front of him. “Can't we talk it over, Mr. Oakley?”
“There is nothing to talk over, Bentick. Settle it among yourselves.” And he marched off up the tracks, with McClintock following in his wake and commending the stand he had taken.
The first emotion of the men was one of profound and depressing surprise at the abruptness with, which Oakley had terminated the interview, and his evident willingness to close the shops, a move they had not counted on. It dashed their courage.
“We'll call his bluff,” cried Bentick, and the men gave a faint cheer. They were not so sure it was a bluff, after all. It looked real enough.
There were those who thought, with a guilty pang, of wives and children at home, and no payday—the fortnightly haven of rest towards which, they lived. And there were the customarily reckless, souls, who thirsted for excitement at any price, and who were willing to see the trouble to a finish. These ruled, as they usually do. Not a man returned to work. Instead, they hung about the yards and canvassed the situation. Finally the theory was advanced that, if the shops were closed, it would serve to bring down Cornish's wrath on Oakley, and probably result in his immediate dismissal. This theory found instant favor, and straightway became a conviction with the majority.
At length all agreed to strike, and the whistle in the shops was set shrieking its dismal protest. The men swarmed into the building, where each got together his kit of tools. They were quite jolly now, and laughed and jested a good deal. Presently they were streaming off up-town, with their coats over their arms, and the strike was on.
An unusual stillness fell on the yards and in the shops. The belts, as they swept on and on in endless revolutions, cut this stillness with a sharp, incisive hiss. The machinery seemed to hammer at it, as if to beat out some lasting echo. Then, gradually, the volume of sound lessened. It mumbled to a dotage of decreasing force, and then everything stopped with a sudden jar. The shops had shut down.
McClintock came from the office and entered the works, pulling the big doors to after him. He wanted to see that all was made snug. He cursed loudly as he strode through the deserted building. It was the first time since he had been with the road that the shops had been closed, and it affected him strangely.
The place held a dreadful, ghostly inertness. The belts and shafting, with its innumerable cogs and connections, reached out like the heavy-knuckled tentacles of some great, lifeless monster. The sunlight stole through the broken, cobwebbed windows, to fall on heaps of rusty iron and heaps of dirty shavings.
In the engine-room he discovered Smith Roberts and his assistant, Joe Webber, banking the fires, preparatory to leaving. They were the only men about the place. Roberts closed a furnace-door with a bang, threw down his shovel, and drew a grimy arm across his forehead.
“Did you ever see such a lot of lunkheads, Milt? I'll bet they'll be kicking themselves good and hard before they get to the wind-up of this.”
McClintock looked with singular affection at the swelling girths of iron which held the panting lungs of the monster the men had doomed to silence, and swore his most elaborate oath.
“No, I never did, Smith. You'd think they had money to burn the way they chucked their job.”
“When do you suppose I'll get a chance to build steam again?”
“Oakley says we won't start up before the first of September.”
THE first weeks of the strike slipped by without excitement. Harvest time came and went. A rainless August browned the earth and seared the woods with its heat, but nothing happened to vary the dull monotony. The shops, a sepulchre of sound, stood silent and empty. General Cornish, in the rôle of the avenger, did not appear on the scene, to Oakley's discomfiture and to the joy of the men. A sullen sadness rested on the town. The women began to develop shrewish tempers and a trying conversational habit, while their husbands squandered their rapidly dwindling means in the saloons. There was large talk and a variety of threats, but no lawlessness.
Simultaneously with the inauguration of the strike, Jeffy reappeared mysteriously. He hinted darkly at foreign travel under singularly favorable auspices, and intimated that he had been sojourning in a community where there was always some one to “throw a few whiskeys” into him when his “coppers got hot,” and where he had “fed his face” three times a day, so bounteous was the charity.
At intervals a rumor was given currency that Oakley was on the verge of starting up with imported labor, and the men, dividing the watches, met each train; but only familiar types, such as the casual commercial traveller with his grips, the farmer from up or down the line, with his inevitable paper parcels, and the stray wayfarer were seen to step from the Huckleberry's battered coaches. Finally it dawned upon the men that Dan was bent on starving them into submission.
Ryder had displayed what, for him, was a mostunusualactivity. Almost every day he held conferences with the leaders of the strike, and his personal influence went far towards keeping the men in line. Indeed, his part in the whole affair was much more important than was generally recognized.
The political campaign had started, and Kenyon was booked to speak in Antioch. It was understood in advance that he would declare for the strikers, and his coming caused a welcome flutter of excitement.
The statesman arrived on No. 7, and the reception committee met him at the station in two carriages. It included Cap Roberts, the Hon. Jeb Barrows, Ryder, Joe Stokes, and Bentick. The two last were an inspiration of the editor's, and proved a popular success.
The brass-band hired for the occasion discoursed patriotic airs, as Kenyon, in a long linen duster and a limp, wilted collar, presented himself at the door of the smoker. The great man was all blandness and suavity—an oily suavity that oozed and trickled from every pore.
The crowd on the platform gave a faint, unenthusiastic cheer as it caught sight of him. It had been more interested in staring at Bentick and Stokes. They looked so excessively uncomfortable.
Mr. Kenyon climbed down the steps and shook hands with Mr. Ryder. Then, bowing and smiling to the right and left, he crossed the platform, leaning on the editor's arm. At the carriages there were more greetings. Stokes and Bentick were formally presented, and the Congressman mounted to a place beside them, whereat the crowd cheered again, and Stokes and Bentick looked, if possible, more miserable than before. They had a sneaking idea that a show was being made of them. Ryder took his place in the second carriage, with Cap Roberts and the Hon. Jeb Barrows, and the procession moved off up-town to the hotel, preceded by the band playing a lively two-step out of tune, and followed by a troop of bare-legged urchins.
After supper the statesman was serenaded by the band, and a little later the members of the Young Men's Kenyon Club, attired in cotton-flannel uniforms, marched across from theHeraldoffice to escort him to the Rink, where he was to speak. He appeared radiant in a Prince Albert and a shiny tile, and aboutonnière, this time leaning on the arm of Mr. Stokes, to the huge disgust of that worthy mechanic, who did not know that a statesman had to lean on somebody's arm. It is hoary tradition, and yet it had a certain significance, too, if it were meant to indicate that Kenyon couldn't keep straight unless he was propped.
A wave of fitful enthusiasm swept the assembled crowd, and Mr. Stokes's youngest son, Samuel, aged six, burst into tears, no one knew why, and was led out of the press by an elder brother, who alternately slapped him and wiped his nose on his cap.
Mr. Kenyon, smiling his unwearied, mirthless smile, seated himself in his carriage. Mr. Ryder, slightly bored and wholly cynical, followed his example. Mr. Stokes and Mr. Bentick, perspiring and abject, and looking for all the world like two criminals, dropped dejectedly into the places assigned them. Only Cap Roberts and the Hon. Jeb Barrows seemed entirely at ease. They were campaign fixtures. The band emitted a harmony-destroying crash, while Mr. Jimmy Smith, the drum-major, performed sundry bewildering passes with his gilt staff. The Young Men's Kenyon Club fell over its own feet into line, and the procession started for the Rink. It was a truly inspiring moment.
As soon as the tail of the procession was clear of the curb, it developed that Clarence and Spide were marshalling a rival demonstration. Six small and exceedingly dirty youngsters, with reeking torches, headed by Clarence and his trusty lieutenant, fell gravely in at the rear of the Kenyon Club. Clarence was leaning on Spide's arm. Pussy Roberts preceded them, giving a highly successful imitation of Mr. Jimmy Smith. He owned the six torches, and it was unsafe to suppress him, but the others spoke disparagingly of his performance as a side-show.
Since an early hour of the evening the people had been gathering at the Rink. It was also the Opera-House, where, during the winter months, an occasional repertory company appeared in “East Lynn,” the “New Magdalen,” or Tom Robertson's “Caste.” The place was two-thirds full at a quarter to eight, when a fleet courier arrived with the gratifying news that the procession was just leaving the square, and that Kenyon was riding with his hat off, and in familiar discourse with Stokes and Bentick.
Presently out of the distance drifted the first strains of the band. A little later Cap. Roberts and the Hon. Jeb Barrows appeared on the make-shift stage from the wings. There was an applausive murmur, for the Hon. Jeb was a popular character. It was said of him that he always carried a map of the United States in tobacco juice on his shirt front. He was bottle-nosed and red faced. No man could truthfully say he had ever seen him drunk, nor had any one ever seen him sober. He shunned extremes. Next, the band filed into the balcony, and was laboriously sweating its way through the national anthem, when Kenyon and Ryder appeared, followed by the wretched Stokes and Bentick. A burst of applause shook the house. When it subsided, the editor stepped to the front of the stage. With words that halted, for the experience was a new one, he introduced the guest of the evening.
It was generally agreed afterwards that it had been a great privilege to hear Kenyon. No one knew exactly what it was all about, but that was a minor consideration. The Congressman was well on towards the end of his speech, and had reached the local situation, which he was handling in what theHeraldsubsequently described as “a masterly fashion, cool, logical, and convincing,” when Oakley wandered in, and, unobserved, took a seat near the door. He glanced about him glumly. There had been a time when these people had been, in their way, his friends. Now those nearest him even avoided looking in his direction. At last he became conscious that some one far down near the stage, and at the other side of the building, was nodding and smiling at him. It was Dr. Emory. Mrs. Emory and Constance were with him. Dan caught the fine outline of the latter's profile. She was smiling an amused smile. It was her first political meeting, and she was finding it quite as funny as Ryder had said it would be.
Dan listened idly, hearing only a word now and then. At length a sentence roused him. The speaker was advising the men to stand for their rights. He rose hastily, and turned to leave; he had heard enough; but some one cried out, “Here's Oakley,” and instantly every one in the place was staring at him.
Kenyon took a step nearer the foot-lights. Either he misunderstood or else he wished to provoke an argument, for he said, with slippery civility: “I shall be very pleased to listen to Mr. Oakley's side of the question. This is a free country, and I don't deny him or any man the right to express his views. The fact that I am unalterably opposed to the power he represents is no bar to the expression here of his opinion.”
Oakley's face was crimson. He paused irresolutely; he saw the jeer on Ryder's lips, and the desire possessed him to tell these people what fools they were to listen to the cheap, lungy patriotism of the demagogue on the stage.
He rested a hand on the back of the chair in front of him, and leaned forward with an arm extended at the speaker, but his eyes were fixed on Miss Emory's face. She was smiling at him encouragingly, he thought, bidding him to speak.
“This is doubtless your opportunity,” he said, “but I would like to ask what earthly interest you have in Antioch beyond the votes it may give you?”
Kenyon smiled blandly and turned for one fleeting instant to wink at Ryder. “And my reply is this: What about the twenty-million-dollar specimen of American manhood who is dodging around London on the money he's made here in this State—yes, and in this town? He's gone to England to break his way into London society, and, incidentally, to marry his daughter to a title.”
A roar of laughter greeted this sally.
“That may be,” retorted Oakley, hotly, “but Antioch has been getting its share of his money, too. Don't forget that. There's not a store-keeper in this audience whose bank account will not show, in hard American dollars, what General Cornish does for Antioch when Antioch is willing to let him do for it. But, granted that what you have said is true, who can best afford to meet the present situation? General Cornish or these men? On whom does the hardship fall heavier, on them or on him?”
“That was not the spirit which prevailed at Bunker Hill and Lexington! No, thank God! our fathers did not stop to count the cost, and we have our battles to-day just as vital to the cause of humanity; and I, for one, would rather see the strong arm of labor wither in its socket than submit to wrong or injustice!”
Oakley choked down his disgust and moved towards the door. There was applause and one or two cat-calls. Not heeding them, he made his way from the building. He had reached the street when a detaining hand was placed upon his arm. He turned savagely, but it proved to be only Turner Joyce, who stepped to his side, with a cheerful:
“Good-evening, Mr. Oakley. They seem to be having a very gay time in there, don't they?”
“Have you been in?” demanded Oakley, grimly.
“I? Oh, no! I have just been taking a picture home.”
“Well,” said Oakley, “I have just been making a damned fool of myself. I hope that is something you are never guilty of, Mr. Joyce?” Joyce laughed, and tucked his hand through his companion's arm.
“Doesn't every one do that occasionally?” he asked.
Dan shook off his bitterness. Recently he had been seeing a great deal of the little artist and his wife, who were about the only friends he or his father had left in Antioch. They walked on in silence Joyce was too tactful to ask any questions concerning his friend's affairs, so he ventured an impersonal criticism on Kenyon, with the modest diffidence of a man who knows he is going counter to public sentiment.
“Neither Ruth nor I had any curiosity to hear him speak to-night. I heard him when he was here last. It may be my bringing up, but I do like things that are not altogether rotten, and I'm afraid I count him as sort of decayed.” Then he added: “I suppose everybody was at the Rink to-night?”
“The place was packed.”
“It promises to be a lively campaign, I believe, but I take very little interest in politics. My own concerns occupy most of my time. Won't you come in, Mr. Oakley?” for they had reached his gate.
On the little side porch which opened off the kitchen they found Ruth. She rose with a pleased air of animation when she saw who was with her husband. Oakley had lived up to his reputation as a patron of the arts. He had not forgotten, in spite of his anxieties, the promise made Joyce months before, and at that very moment, safely bestowed in Mrs. Joyce's possession, were two formidable-looking strips of heavy pink paper, which guaranteed the passage of the holder to New York and return.
“I hope this confounded strike is not going to interfere with you, Mr. Joyce,” said Oakley, as he seated himself. He had discovered that they liked to talk about their own plans and hopes, and the trip East was the chief of these. Already he had considered it with them from every conceivable point of view.
“It is aggravating, for, of course, if people haven't money they can't very well afford to have pictures painted. But Ruth is managing splendidly. I really don't think it will make any special difference.”
“I am determined Turner shall not miss this opportunity. I think, if it wasn't for me, Mr. Oakley, he'd give up most everything he wants to do, or has set his heart on.”
“He's lucky to have you, then. Most men need looking after.”
“I'm sure I do,” observed the little artist, with commendable meekness. He was keenly alive to his own shortcomings. “I'd never get any sort of prices for my work if she didn't take a hand in the bargaining.”
“Some one has to be mercenary,” said Ruth, apologetically. “It's all very well to go around with your head in the clouds, but it don't pay.”
“No, it don't pay,” agreed Dan.
There was a long pause, which a cricket improved to make itself heard above the sweep of the night wind through the tree-tops. Then Ruth said: “I saw Miss Emory to-day. She asked about you.”
Mrs. Joyce and her husband had taken a passionate interest in Oakley's love affair, and divined the utter wreck of his hopes.
“Did she? I saw her at the Rink, too, but of course not to speak with.”
Turner Joyce trod gently but encouragingly on his wife's foot. He felt that Oakley would be none the worse for a little cheer, and he had unbounded faith in his wife's delicacy and tact. She was just the person for such a message.
“She seemed—that is, I gathered from what she said, and it wasn't so much what she said as what she didn't say—”
Dan laughed outright, and Joyce joined in with a panic-stricken chuckle. Ruth was making as bad a botch of the business as he could have made.
“I am not at all sensitive,” said Dan, with sudden candor. “I have admired her immensely; I do still, for the matter of that.”
“Then why don't you go there?”
“I can't, Mrs. Joyce. You know why.”
“But I think she looks at it differently now.”
Oakley shook his head. “No, she doesn't. There's just one way she can look at it.”
“Women are always changing their minds,” persisted Ruth. It occurred to her that Constance had been at her worst in her relation with Oakley. If she cared a scrap for him, why hadn't she stood by him when he needed it most? The little artist blinked tenderly at his wife. He was lost in admiration at her courage. He would not have dared to give their friend this comfort.
The conversation languished. They heard the strains of the band when the meeting at the Rink broke up, and the voices of the people on the street, and then there was silence again.