Through bright moonlight, that made the young leaves diaphanous and melted on the grass lands in grey mist, men and women were walking home to Ashprington from Totnes. Not less than five-and-twenty had gone from the Mill to hear Jordan Kellock’s lecture on socialism; and as they trudged homeward they discussed it.

He had surprised all his listeners and many were full of enthusiasm before the future he indicated; but some were angry; some went in doubt. The younger men were with him and the older could not deny that there was reason and pitiless justice behind his demands. The women who heard him wondered at the ease with which he had spoken and held his audience. They were impressed with the applause that had greeted his sentiments and judged that he must have right on his side to have won a reception so enthusiastic.

Henry Barefoot, the boilerman, walked by Ernest Trood, while Harold Spry and Daisy Finch listened to them.

“It’s got to come,” declared Barefoot. “We used to talk of these problems in the merchant marine twenty-five years ago, and we knew then that things weren’t right; but our generation was dumb, because our brains weren’t educated to pull together. We ate our mouldy biscuits and rancid salt pork and shivered in a gale of wind, because we knew the ship’s bottom was rotten; and we cussed the owners out of their snug beds ashore to hell; but we was driven cattle, you may say—had to go on with it—because there was nothing else for sailor men to do. But our children have gone to school. That’s the difference.”“And the rich men sent ’em there, Henry,” said Mr. Trood.

“They did, because they hadn’t any choice, Ernest. If they’d known what would come of it, they’d have kept ’em out of school and left the poor man’s children to fill the rich men’s pockets, instead of giving them their birthright of education. ’Twasn’t squire and parson sent ’em to school, but those who had a fairer sense of justice; and long-headed chaps like Kellock are the result.”

“He’s got a lot to learn, however. There’s no such things as equality and never can be. Because men ain’t born equal, Henry.”

“He don’t argue that, Mr. Trood,” explained Spry. “He argues that we are handicapped out of the hunt from the start. He says, ‘let all start fair’; he don’t say all can win.”

“Yes, he does,” returned Trood. “He says all should win. He tells us that a man’s intellect is an accident, and that, in justice, them with big brains should give their superfluity to the fools, so as all should share and share alike. And that’s not human nature. Am I, that have worked like a slave to win my position and put all my heart and soul into paper-making from my youth up, to go and seek that lazy dog I sacked last week and say: ‘You’re a damned, worthless waster, but here’s half my wages’?”

“I grant he was out there,” admitted Barefoot. “‘The race is to the strong,’ but socialism don’t seem to see that. Given a fair start for all and food and clothes and education, then the good boy gets his chance; but even if that was so, as things are he’d never be allowed to compete with the gentleman’s son.”

“Yes, he would,” answered Trood. “There’s nothing in the world, even as it’s run now, to stop brains. There’s boys who were charity school boys thirty years ago that the world listens to very respectfully to-day. But Kellock’s let a lot of class hatred come into his talk, and hatred breeds hatred. Never a man wanted power more than him, but his sort go the wrong way to work with their bluster and threats. They don’t help: they’re out for blood. We’re a very fair country at heart and under our constitution we’ve grown to be the finest people on earth. So, naturally, as a whole, the nation don’t want the Constitution swept away till we can get a better. The socialists have no traditions, and don’t agree among themselves yet, and I for one wouldn’t trust people that scoff at tradition and want to be a law to themselves. They would be a great danger, Henry, and if we got all to pieces like that and in sight of civil wars and revolution, we should throw ourselves open to attack from our enemies. Then, while we were wrangling how to govern ourselves, we’d damn soon find England was going to be governed by somebody else.”

“There’s plenty of hungry eyes on the British Empire no doubt,” allowed Mr. Barefoot.

“Plenty; and if our army and navy got bitten with this stuff, it would be good-bye to everything. And that wouldn’t suit Kellock’s friends.”

“And be it as it will,” said Daisy Finch, “a paper mill isn’t a charity. Those that run the Mill have got to live, I suppose.”

“Yes, Daisy,” admitted Trood; “but we must be fair to this Kellock, though I’m far from supporting what he says. The ills are as he stated them; the remedies are not as he stated ’em. He argues that the workman’s work should no more be his whole life than work is his master’s whole life. Because Capital buys a man’s working hours, it doesn’t buy his life and liberties. Outside his work, he’s as much right to enjoy being alive as his employer. A machine looks very different from the owner’s point of view and the worker’s. The owner’s the master of the machine; the worker is its slave; and it’s on the worker the machine puts the strain, not on the owner. So we have got to consider our working hours in relation to our lives as a whole, and balance work against life, and consider how our labour affects our existence. A six hour day at a machine may be a far greater tax on a man or woman than an eight hour day at the desk, or the plough. You’ve got to think of the nervous energy, which ain’t unlimited.”

“That’s so,” admitted Barefoot. “Life’s the only adventure we can hope for, and I grant you there ought to be more to it. ’Tis all this here speeding up, I mistrust. The masters see the result of ‘speeding up,’ and think it’s all to the good according; but it’s we feel the result, and I can tell you I’m never more cranky and bad-tempered and foul-mouthed than after one of them rushes. The strain is only pounds, shillings and pence to the masters; but it’s flesh and blood and nerves to us; because it’s us have got to fight the machines, not them.”

“A very true word, Henry. Kellock’s out for security, and whether you’re a socialist or whether you’re not, you can’t deny security is the due of every human creature. Until the highest and lowest alike are born into security, there’s something wrong with the order of things.”

“Yet the greater number of the nation have no more security than a bird in a bush. Let us but lose our health, and where are we?” asked Barefoot.

“And if a machine is going to make us lose our health,” argued Spry, “then to hell with the machine.”

“We want shorter hours and better money,” explained Ernest Trood, “and that can only be won if the masters also get better money. And for such a result we must look to machines.”

Then Daisy Finch asked a question.

“Who were those stern-looking men in black ties listening to the lecture?” she inquired.

“From Plymouth, I believe,” answered her sweetheart. “They meant business, and they applauded Kellock at the finish.”

“They see a likely tool to help their plots,” said Mr. Trood. “I hope he’ll get his stroke back and drop this Jack-o’-lantern job. There’s quite enough at it without him.”

“He don’t think so,” answered Barefoot. “He wants to be in the movement, and may rise to be a leader some day. They socialists are as ambitious as anybody at heart.”

Harold and Miss Finch, weary of the subject, slowed their gait, fell back, and presently turned to their own affairs. Then a trap passed, driven by Mr. Tom Dolbear, from Priory Farm. He had brought his sister and Medora to the lecture, and was now taking them home again. With them travelled Mr. Knox.

The farmer alone found no good word for the things they had listened to.

“Just the gift of the gab,” he said. “If you can talk easy, you’re tempted to do so, at the expense of work.”

“Talking is working when you’re out for a cause,” explained Knox. “Kellock’s not a talker in the way we are. In fact, a very silent man, and thinks a great deal more than he talks; but with practice and a bit of exercise to strengthen his voice, he’d be as good as any of the talking brigade; and though you may not agree with him, you can’t deny he’s got the faith to move mountains. He’s preaching a gospel that Labour’s perfectly ready and willing to hear, and he’ll be an easy winner presently, because it’s half the battle won to tell people the things they’ll welcome. Everybody was with him from the start, and the harder he hit, the better they liked it.”

“I didn’t think Totnes had gone so radical now-a-days,” said Mrs. Trivett.

“More it has,” declared Mr. Dolbear. “That wasn’t Totnes. ’Twas no more than a handful of discontented people, who don’t know what they want.”

“Make no mistake as to that,” answered Knox. “The brains of Totnes was there—the thinking ones that ain’t satisfied; and they do know what they want very well indeed; and Kellock’s talk only said what the others feel. He’s got a gift in my opinion, and I’m with him more than half the way. If you allow for ignorance and impatience of youth, and so on—if you grant all that, there’s still enough left to make a reputation. He’ll never be a happy man, but he’ll make his mark and have the satisfaction of being somebody in the labour world. He’s got the touch.”

Medora considered curiously with herself under the night. Her own changed attitude surprised her most. She had heard the applause and riot that greeted Jordan’s speech. She had seen him stand there, self-contained and strong and successful, before three hundred people. She had marked his power to impress them, and awaken enthusiasm. She had seen older men than himself lifted to excitement by his speech. She had noted how many men and women pressed forward to shake hands with him when he had finished. She remembered the chairman’s praise. All these things had actually filled her dreams of old. She had prophesied to him that such events would some day happen, and that his power must become known, given the opportunity. And now, far sooner than either had expected such a thing, it had come and justified Medora’s prophecies. She wondered whether Kellock was remembering all she had foretold. As for herself, she looked at him now as at a picture that hung in somebody else’s parlour. She witnessed the sunrise of his first triumph, but found herself perfectly indifferent and not desirous of one ray of reflected light. Her mind had passed from Kellock to other interests, and if she were ever to be a contented woman, it would not be Kellock who achieved that consummation.

“Jordan was to attend a meeting of his branch after the lecture,” she said to Knox. “I expect after such a success as that, they’ll want him to give the lecture somewhere else.”

“I’m thinking of the effect on his nature,” answered Knox. “And I believe all that applause will be a better tonic than Dartmoor, and make the man well.”

“You think it will fetch his stroke back again?” asked Mrs. Trivett.

“That’s just what I do think, Lydia. He’ll be walking on air after such a triumph as that. He’ll fear nothing when he comes back to the vat, and all will go right.”

Then, Mr. Knox, for private ends, and suspecting he had praised Kellock enough, turned on the lecture, and began to display its fallacies and errors. For Medora’s benefit he examined the young man, and declared that his address revealed the defects of his qualities. But he need not have been at the trouble to occupy himself thus; Medora knew a great deal more about the real Jordan than it was possible for Mr. Knox to know.

She listened, but took no more part in the conversation. They proceeded down the steep lane into Ashprington presently, and at Ned Dingle’s home, Knox, to their surprise, bade Mr. Dolbear draw up.

“I’m going in here,” he said. “So I’ll wish you all ‘good night.’”

Dingle, who knew the party was to pass, stood at his outer gate smoking. Only Lydia addressed him.

“Good night, Ned,” she said, and he answered:

“Good night, mother.”

Then the trap proceeded and Mr. Dolbear permitted himself to speak rather spitefully of Philander Knox.

“He ain’t sound, that man,” he declared. “He wants to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds. You don’t know where to have him in argument, the truth being he ain’t much in earnest about anything in my opinion.”

But Tom Dolbear modified this view before many days were passed. Indeed, had he listened to the conversation then proceeding between Philander and Mr. Dingle, he must have found himself confronted sharply and painfully with mistaken judgment; and Mr. Knox himself did not guess at the important events destined to fall out before he slept that night. That certain things were presently to happen; that he would pluck his own occasions out of them and win a reward worthy of all his pains, he believed; but he did not know how near these things might be. Nor did he imagine how swiftly his own particular problems were destined to be solved. Now Medora’s husband played into his hand with unexpected perception.

They spoke first concerning the lecture, and Ned heard without enthusiasm of its success.

“No doubt the only thing that concerns you is why your wife went,” said Knox, “and I may tell you she went because she’d promised to go. It bored her stiff, same as it did Mrs. Trivett. They’ve got no use for the new paths, and Medora’s just as much of a Tory at heart as you or her mother, though she wouldn’t own to it. That’s all over, any way. They’ve parted in a dignified fashion, and I’ve done the best day’s work I ever have done in helping you to see the peculiar circumstances and putting the truth before you. Not that even my great efforts would have saved the situation if you hadn’t believed me; but that was your stronghold: you knew I was telling truth. In fact, it’s one of those cases where knowledge of the truth has helped the parties through the storm, and I’ll be thankful to my dying day you was large-minded enough to receive and accept it. It was a great compliment to me that you could trust me, and a great advertisement to your brain power.”

“It’s all your work and I don’t deny you the praise,” answered Ned. “Of course, if things had been otherwise from what they are, nothing would have come of it; but as the facts are what we understand, then I’m half in a mind to take Medora back. I dare say the people will think I’m a silly, knock-kneed fool to do so; but those who know the truth would not. There’s only one thing will prevent me, and that’s the woman herself. I’ll see her presently, and if she comes out of it in a decent spirit, then what I say may happen. But if there’s a shadow of doubt about it in her mind, then we’ll stop as we are. It pretty much depends upon her now.”

“In that case I congratulate you, because her spirit is contrite to the dust, and never, if she lives to be a hundred, will she fail of her duty again. She’ll be a pattern to every married woman on earth for the rest of her life, no doubt. The highest and best she prays for is to be forgiven by you; but she don’t dare to hope even that; and if she found she was more than forgiven, then her gratitude would rise to amazing heights, no doubt.”

“Well it might,” declared Dingle, and the other spoke again.

“Yes; and none better pleased than me; but though I hadn’t thought we’d got nearly so far as this yet awhile, now I see that we have, I must speak a word more, Ned. What I’m going to say now is a terrible delicate thing; and yet, late though the hour is, this is the appointed time. Give me a spot of whiskey and switch off from yourself to me for five minutes.”

“I was coming to you. I’m not blind, and I see very clearly what I owe you in this matter. You’ve took a deal of trouble, and I’m grateful, Knox, and so will everybody else be when they understand.”

“I’m very glad you feel it so,” answered Philander, “because it’s true. I have took a lot of trouble, Ned, and I’ve spared no pains to bring this about, because well I knew from my experience of life that it was the best that could possibly happen for all concerned. And once convinced them two were innocent as babes, I set myself to save the situation, as they say. And I’ve helped you to do so; and it ain’t a figure of speech to say I’m well paid by results. But that’s not all there is to it. There was something up my sleeve too. I had another iron in the fire for myself. In a word, you can pay me handsome for all my trouble if you’ll recognise that and lend me a hand in a certain quarter. Need I say what quarter? As you know, Mrs. Trivett’s very much addicted to me, and she’d marry me to-morrow if a mistaken call of duty didn’t keep her in that breeding pen known as Priory Farm. Well, I put it to you whether you won’t help me same as I helped you. One good turn deserves another—eh?”

“I’d go to the end of the world to help you, Knox. But what can I do?”

“You don’t see? I’ll tell you then. It sounds a bit strong, but it’s safe enough and it’ll do the trick. Above all you needn’t feel a speck of fear, because your mother-in-law has a very fine affection for me, and to marry me will really be a great delight to her—that I assure you.”

“What must I do then?”

“Merely tell Medora you don’t look at her again unless Mrs. Trivett changes her name to Mrs. Knox. I’m not asking a difficult or troublesome thing. In fact, you needn’t lift a finger in the matter. You can safely leave it to Medora. She’ll praise God on her knees for a month of Sundays when she hears the grand ideas in your mind, and when you state the condition—there you are: she’ll be on to her mother like a flame of fire, and Lydia will mighty soon see her duty.”

Ned Dingle laughed.

“Lord, you’re a deep one!” he said.

“Not me. Far from it. Just ordinary common sense, and a great natural regard for Medora’s mother. Mind, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t a dead cert.”

“It shall be done,” answered the younger man. “You’re a double chap, Knox, though you do claim to be so simple, and I’d rather have you for a friend than an enemy.”

“I’ll be your friend as long as I live, I promise you—and your wife also. A very good father-in-law you’ll find me.”

They went to the door together and as Knox was about to depart, there came a swift foot down the lane. It was Jordan Kellock on his homeward way.He stopped, seeing the men at the gate.

“I was going to call first thing to-morrow, Mr. Dingle,” he said, “but since you’re here I can speak now.”

“And give me an arm afterwards,” declared Knox. For the moon had set and it was very dark.

“Only this: the leaders liked what I said to-night, and they liked how I said it. In a word they have offered me propaganda work. I’m to travel about and have my headquarters in London. My life’s begun in fact. I tell you this, because now you’re free to go back to the Mill, for I shall not.”

“Giving up paper-making?” asked Philander.

“Yes, Knox. I shall never touch a mould again.”

“Then you’ll never know if you’ve lost your stroke, or get it back.”

“All’s one now. There’s only Mrs. Dingle to consider. Have you been able to make up your mind in that matter yet, Mr. Dingle?”

“I have,” said Ned; “but she don’t know it and I’ll thank you not to tell her. That’s my job.”

“Thank God,” said Kellock.

“And Knox,” added Ned. “But for him there’s no shadow of doubt things would have happened differently. But as luck would have it you confided in him, and so did I; and being what he is, he puts his intellects into the thing and saved us.”

“I shan’t forget it,” said Kellock.

“And we shan’t forget you,” declared Knox. “You’re all three mighty well out of this, and though you’ve been an amazing ass, yet there was a fine quality in your foolishness that saved the situation. You’ve all got peace with honour in fact; and may you profit by your lesson and your luck.”

Then Knox and Kellock set off down the hill together.