  Bonbright found himself a layman in a department of specialists. On all sides of him were men who knew all about something, a few who knew a great deal about several things, and a man or two who appeared to have some knowledge of every element and article that went into a motor car. There was a man who knew leather from cow to upholstery, and who talked about it lovingly. This man had the ability to make leather as interesting as the art of Benvenuto Cellini. Another was a specialist in hickory, and thought and talked spokes; another was a reservoir of dependable facts about rubber; another about gray iron castings; another about paints and enamels, and so on. In that department it would not have been impossible to compile an encyclopedia. It was impossible that Bonbright should not have been interested. It was not business, it was a fascinating, enthralling debating society, where the debates were not of the "Resolved that the world would be better" sort, but were as to the essential qualities of concrete things. It was practical debate which saved money and elevated the standards of excellence. The department had its own laboratories, its own chemists, its own engineers. Everything was tested. Two articles might appear to the layman equal in virtue; careful examination by experts might not disclose a difference between them, but the skill of the chemist would show that this article was a tenth of one per cent, less guilty of alloy than that, or that the breaking strength of this was a minute fraction greater than that…. So decisions were reached. Bonbright was to learn that price did not always rule. He saw orders given for carloads of certain supplies which tested but a point or two higher than its rival—and sold for dollars more a ton. Thousands of dollars were paid cheerfully for those few points of excellence. … Here was business functioning as he did not know business could function. Here business was an art, and he applied himself to it like an artist. Here he could lay aside that growing discontent, that dissatisfaction, that was growing upon him. Here, in the excitement of distinguishing the better from the worse, he could forget Ruth and the increasingly impracticable condition of his relations with her. He had come to a realization that his game of make-believe would not march. He realized that Ruth either was his wife or she was not…. But he did not know what to do about it. It seemed a problem without a solution, and it was—for him. Its solution did not lie in himself, but in his wife. Bonbright could not set the thing right; his potentiality lay only for its destruction. Three courses lay open to him; to assert his husbandship; to send Ruth home to her mother; or to put off till to-morrow and to-morrow and still another to-morrow. Only in the last did hope reside, and he clung to hope…. He tried to conceal his unrest, his discontent, his rebellion against the thing that was, from Ruth. He continued to be patient, gentle. … He did not know how she wept and accused herself because of that gentleness and patience. He did not know how she tried to compel love by impact of will—and how she failed. But he did come to doubt her love. He could not do otherwise. Then he wondered why she had married him, and, reviewing the facts of his hurried marriage, he wondered the more with bitterness and heartache. Against his will his affairs were traveling toward a climax. The approaching footsteps of the day when something must happen were audible on the path. The day after his installation in the purchasing department he lunched at the little hash house across the street. Sitting on his high stool, he tried to imagine he was a part of that sweating, gulping crowd of men, that he was one of them, and not an outsider, suspected, regarded with unfriendly looks. Behind him a man began to make conversation for Bonbright's ears. It had happened before. "The strike up to the Foote plant's on its last legs," said the man, loudly. "So I hear," answered another. "Infernal shame. If it was only the closed-shop question I dunno's I'd feel so. We're open shop here—but we git treated like human bein's…. Over there—" The man shrugged his shoulders. "Look at the way they've fought the strike. Don't blame 'em for fightin' it. Calc'late they had to fight it, but there's fightin' and fightin'. … Seems like this Foote bunch set out to do the worst that could be done—and they done it." "Wonder when it 'll peter out—the strike?" "Back's busted now. Nothin's holding it up but that man Dulac. There's a man for you! I've knowed labor leaders I didn't cotton to nor have much confidence in—-fellers that jest wagged their tongues and took what they could get out of it. But this Dulac—he's a reg'lar man. I've listened to him, and I tell you he means what he says. He's in it to git somethin' for the other feller…. But he can't hold out much longer." It was true; Dulac could not hold out much longer. That very noon he was fighting with his back against the wall. In Workingman's Hall he was making his last fierce fight to hold from crumbling the resolution of the strikers who still stood by their guns…. He threw the fire of his soul into their dull, phlegmatic faces. It struck no answering spark. Never before had he spoken to men without a consciousness of his powers, without pose, without dramatics. Now he was himself, and more dramatic, more compelling than ever before. … He pleaded, begged, flayed his audience, but it did not respond to his pleadings nor writhe under the whip of his words. It was apathetic, stolid. In its weary heart it knew what it was there to do, and it would do it in spite of Dulac…. He would not admit it. He would not submit to defeat. He talked on and on, not daring to stop, for with the stoppage of his harangue he heard the death of the strike. It lived only with his voice. In the body of the hall a man, haggard of face, arose. "'Tain't no use, Mr. Dulac," he said, dully. "We've stuck by you—" "You've stuck by yourselves," Dulac cried. "Whatever you say…. But'tain't no use. We're licked. Hain't no use keepin' up and stretchin' out the sufferin'…. I hain't the least of the sufferers, Mr. Dulac—my wife hain't with me no more." The dull voice wabbled queerly. "There's hunger and grief and sufferin'—willin'ly endured when there was a chance—but there hain't no chance…. 'Tain't human to ask any more of our wimmin and children…. It's them I'm a-thinkin' of, Mr. Dulac… and on account of them I say this strike ought to quit. It's got to quit, and I demand a vote on it, Mr. Dulac." "Vote!… Vote!… Vote!…" roared up to Dulac from all over the hall…. It was the end. He was powerless to stay the rush of the desire of those weary men for peace. Dulac turned slowly around, his back to the crowd, walked to a chair, and, with elbows on knees, he covered his face with his hands. There was a silence, as men looked at him and appreciated his suffering. They appreciated his suffering because they appreciated the man, his honesty to their cause, and to his work. He had been true to them. For himself he would gain nothing by the success of the strike—for them he would have gained much…. It was not his loss that bowed his head, but their loss—and they knew it. He was a Messiah whose mission had failed. The vote was put. There was no dissenting voice. The strike was done, and Bonbright Foote, Incorporated, was victor. Men clustered about Dulac, wringing his hands, speaking words of comfort with voices that broke, and the number of those who turned away with tears was greater than of those whose eyes could remain dry. Dulac spoke. "We'll try again—men…. We'll start to get ready—to-day—for another—fight." Then, hurriedly, blindly, he forced his way through them and made his way out of the hall. Grief, the heaviness of defeat, was all that he could feel now. Bitterness would come in its time. Dulac was a soul without restraints, a soul in eternal uproar. His life had been one constant kicking against the pricks, and when they hurt his feet he was not schooled to stifle the cry of pain. He could not endure patiently and in silence; the tumult of his suffering must have an outlet. Now was the time for an overwrought, overtired man, clothed in no restraint, to try what surcease was to be found in the bottom of a glass. But Dulac was not a drinking man. So he walked. As he walked bitterness awoke, and he cursed under his breath. Bitterness increased until it was rage, and, as man is so constituted that rage must have a definite object, Dulac unconsciously sought a man who would symbolize all the forces that had defeated him—and he chose Bonbright Foote. He chose Bonbright the more readily because he hated the boy for personal reasons. If Dulae and Bonbright had met at this moment there would have happened events which would have delighted the yellower press. But they did not meet. Bonbright was safe in Lightener's purchasing department, learning certain facts about brass castings. So Dulac walked and walked, and lashed himself into rage. Rage abated and became biting disappointment and unspeakable heaviness of heart. Again rage would be conjured up only to ebb again and to flood again as the hours went by. There is an instinct in man which, when his troubles become too weighty to bear alone, sends him to a woman. Perhaps this is the survival of an idea implanted in childhood when baby runs to mother for sure comfort with broken doll or bruised thumb. It persists and never dies, so that one great duty, one great privilege, one great burden of womankind is to give ear to man's outpourings of his woes, and to offer such comfort as she may…. Dulac was drawn to Ruth. This time she did not try to close the door against him. His first words made that impossible. "I'm—beaten," he said, dully. His flamboyance, his threatricality, was gone. He was no longer flashily masterful, no longer exotically fascinating. He sagged…. He was just a soul-weary, disappointed man, looking at her out of hollow, burning eyes. He had spent himself magnificently into bankruptcy. His face was the face of a man who must rest, who must find peace…. Yet he was not consciously seeking rest or peace. He was seeking her…. Seeking her because he craved her, and seeking her to strike at her husband, who had become a symbol of all the antagonists he had been fighting. His appearance disarmed her; her fear of him and herself was lured away by the appearance of him. She felt nothing but sympathy and tenderness and something of wonder that he—Dulac the magnificent—should be brought to this pass. So she admitted him, regardless even of the lateness of the afternoon hour. He followed her heavily and sank into a chair. "You're sick," she said, anxiously. He shook his head. "I'm—beaten," he repeated, and in truth beaten was what he looked, beaten and crushed…. "But I'll—try again," he said, with a trace of the old gleam in his eyes. She clasped and unclasped her hands, standing before him, white with the emotions that swayed her…. Here was the man she loved in his bitterest, darkest moment—and she was barred away from him by unwelcome barriers. She could not soothe him, she could not lighten his suffering with the tale of her love for him, but she must remain mute, holding out no hand to ease his pain. "I came for you," he said, dully. "No," she said. "Ruth—I need you—now…." This man, who had wooed her boldly, had demanded her masterfully, now was brought to pleading. He needed her. It was plain that he did need her, and, realizing it, she saw the danger of it. It was a new, a subtle attack, and it had taken her unawares. "I can't…. I can't…. I mustn't…" she said, breathlessly. "I must have you," he said, with dead simplicity, as one states a bare, essential fact. Then Bonbright was visualized before him, and rage flooded once more. "He sha'n't keep you!… You're mine—you were mine first…. What is he to you? I'm going to take you away from him…. I can do THAT…." He was less dangerous so. Perhaps instinct told him, for his passion stilled itself, and he became tired, pitiful again. "We've got a right to be happy," he said, in his tired voice. "You're not happy—and I'm—beaten…. I want you—I need you…. You'll come with me. You've got to come with me." She was moved, swayed. He needed her…. She had cheated Bonbright in the beginning. She was not his wife…. He had none of her love, and she believed this man had it wholly…. She had wronged Bonbright all she could wrong him—what would this matter? It was not this that was wrong, but the other—the marrying without love…. And she, too, was beaten. She had played her game and lost, not going down to defeat fighting as Dulac had gone down, but futilely, helplessly. She had given herself for the Cause—to no profit…. And her heart yearned for peace, for release. "I'm his wife," she said, still struggling flutteringly. "You're MY wife." He lifted his arms toward her, and she swayed, took a step toward him—a step toward the precipice. Suddenly she stopped, eyes startled, a deeper pallor blighting her face—for she heard Bonbright's step on the stairs…. She had forgotten the lateness of the hour. "Oh'." she said. "What is it?" "HE is—here." She was awakened by the shock of it, and saw, saw clearly. She had stood upon the brink—and HE had come in time…. And then she was afraid. Neither of them spoke. Dulac got to his feet, his breath coming audibly, and so they waited. Bonbright opened the door. "Ruth," he called, putting what pretense of gayety he could into his voice. "You've got company. The chronic visitor is here." He was playing his game bravely. She did not answer. "Ruth," he called again, and then stood in the door. She could not see him, but she felt his presence, felt his silence, felt the look of surprise changing to suspicion that she knew must be in his eyes. For a moment he stood motionless, not comprehending. Then the attitude of his wife and of Dulac spoke eloquently, and he whitened. "I don't understand," he said. The words were meaningless, pointless, perhaps, but they stabbed Ruth to the heart. She turned to him, saw him step forward slowly, looking very tall, older than she had ever known him. He had drawn within himself, and there manifested itself his inheritance from his ancestors. He was like his father, but with an even more repressed dignity than was his father's. "You don't understand," snarled Dulac. "Then I'll tell you. I'm glad you came…. I'm after your wife. She's going away with me." "No…. No…" Ruth whispered. "Be still…. She's mine, Foote—and always was. You thought she was yours—well, she's one thing you can't have. I'm going to tell you why she married you…." Ruth cried out in incoherent fright, protesting. "She married you to use you…. Not even for your money. She married you because her heart was with the men your kind is grinding down. … She saw you were the kind of man a woman could twist around her finger—and you owned five thousand men…. Get the idea?… She was going to do things for them—with you. You were nothing but a button she would push. So she married you—and you cheated her…. So she's done with you. You can't give what she paid for, and she's going away with me…. She LOVES me. She was promised to marry me—when she saw what she could do with you—and I let her go…. If she could give, so could I…. But I loved her and she loved me—and we're going away." |
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