"But--I"ve never read anything."
"How fortunate!" said Insall, who had entered the doorway in time to hear Janet"s exclamation. "More than half of modern culture depends on what one shouldn"t read."
Mrs. Maturin laughed. But Insall waved his hand deprecatingly.
"That isn"t my own," he confessed. "I cribbed it from a clever Englishman. But I believe it"s true."
"I think I"ll adopt her," said Mrs. Maturin to Insall, when she had repeated to him the conversation. "I know you are always convicting me of enthusiasms, Brooks, and I suppose I do get enthusiastic."
"Well, you adopt her--and I"ll marry her," replied Insall, with a smile, as he cut the string from the last bundle of clothing.
"You might do worse. It would be a joke if you did--!"
His friend paused to consider this preposterous possibility. "One never can tell whom a man like you, an artist, will marry."
"We"ve no business to marry at all," said Insall, laughing. "I often wonder where that romantic streak will land you, Augusta. But you do have a delightful time!"
"Don"t begrudge it me, it makes life so much more interesting," Mrs.
Maturin begged, returning his smile. "I haven"t the faintest idea that you will marry her or any one else. But I insist on saying she"s your type--she"s the kind of a person artists do dig up and marry--only better than most of them, far better."
"Dig up?" said Insall.
"Well, you know I"m not a sn.o.b--I only mean that she seems to be one of the surprising anomalies that sometimes occur in--what shall I say?--in the working-cla.s.ses. I do feel like a sn.o.b when I say that. But what is it? Where does that spark come from? Is it in our modern air, that discontent, that desire, that thrusting forth toward a new light--something as yet unformulated, but which we all feel, even at small inst.i.tutions of learning like Silliston?"
"Now you"re getting beyond me."
"Oh no, I"m not," Mrs. Maturin retorted confidently. "If you won"t talk about it, I will, I have no shame. And this girl has it--this thing I"m trying to express. She"s modern to her finger tips, and yet she"s extraordinarily American--in spite of her modernity, she embodies in some queer way our tradition. She loves our old houses at Silliston--they make her feel at home--that"s her own expression."
"Did she say that?"
"Exactly. And I know she"s of New England ancestry, she told me so.
What I can"t make out is, why she joined the I.W.W. That seems so contradictory."
"Perhaps she was searching for light there," Insall hazarded. "Why don"t you ask her?"
"I don"t know," replied Mrs. Maturin, thoughtfully. "I want to, my curiosity almost burns me alive, and yet I don"t. She isn"t the kind you can ask personal questions of--that"s part of her charm, part of her individuality. One is a little afraid to intrude. And yet she keeps coming here--of course you are a sufficient attraction, Brooks. But I must give her the credit of not flirting with you."
"I"ve noticed that, too," said Insall, comically.
"She"s searching for light," Mrs. Maturin went on, struck by the phrase.
"She has an instinct we can give it to her, because we come from an inst.i.tution of learning. I felt something of the kind when I suggested her establishing herself in Silliston. Well, she"s more than worth while experimenting on, she must have lived and breathed what you call the "movie atmosphere" all her life, and yet she never seems to have read and absorbed any sentimental literature or cheap religion. She doesn"t suggest the tawdry. That part of her, the intellectual part, is a clear page to be written upon."
"There"s my chance," said Insall.
"No, it"s my chance--since you"re so cynical."
"I"m not cynical," he protested.
"I don"t believe you really are. And if you are, there may be a judgment upon you," she added playfully. "I tell you she"s the kind of woman artists go mad about. She has what sentimentalists call temperament, and after all we haven"t any better word to express dynamic desires. She"d keep you stirred up, stimulated, and you could educate her."
"No, thanks, I"ll leave that to you. He who educates a woman is lost.
But how about Syndicalism and all the mysticism that goes with it?
There"s an intellectual over at Headquarters who"s been talking to her about Bergson, the life-force, and the World-We-Ourselves-Create."
Mrs. Maturin laughed.
"Well, we go wrong when we don"t go right. That"s just it, we must go some way. And I"m sure, from what I gather, that she isn"t wholly satisfied with Syndicalism."
"What is right?" demanded Insall.
"Oh, I don"t intend to turn her over to Mr. Worrall and make a sociologist and a militant suffragette out of her. She isn"t that kind, anyhow. But I could give her good literature to read--yours, for instance," she added maliciously.
"You"re preposterous, Augusta," Insall exclaimed.
"I may be, but you"ve got to indulge me. I"ve taken this fancy to her--of course I mean to see more of her. But--you know how hard it is for me, sometimes, since I"ve been left alone."
Insall laid his hand affectionately on her shoulder.
"I remember what you said the first day I saw her, that the strike was in her," Mrs. Maturin continued. "Well, I see now that she does express and typify it--and I don"t mean the "labour movement" alone, or this strike in Rampton, which is symptomatic, but crude. I mean something bigger--and I suppose you do--the protest, the revolt, the struggle for self-realization that is beginning to be felt all over the nation, all over the world today, that is not yet focussed and self-conscious, but groping its way, clothing itself in any philosophy that seems to fit it.
I can imagine myself how such a strike as this might appeal to a girl with a sense of rebellion against sordidness and lack of opportunity--especially if she has had a tragic experience. And sometimes I suspect she has had one."
"Well, it"s an interesting theory," Insall admitted indulgently.
"I"m merely amplifying your suggestions, only you won"t admit that they are yours. And she was your protegee." "And you are going to take her off my hands." "I"m not so sure," said Mrs. Maturin.
CHAPTER XIX
The Hampton strike had reached the state of grim deadlock characteristic of all stubborn wars. There were aggressions, retaliations on both sides, the antagonism grew more intense. The older labour unions were accused by the strikers of playing the employers" game, and thus grew to be hated even more than the "capitalists." These organizations of the skilled had entered but half-heartedly into a struggle that now began to threaten, indeed, their very existence, and when it was charged that the Textile Workers had been attempting to secure recruits from the ranks of the strikers, and had secretly offered the millowners a scale of demands in the hope that a sufficient number of operatives would return to work, and so break the strike; a serious riot was barely averted.
"Scab-hunting agencies," the unions were called. One morning when it was learned that the loom-fixers, almost to a man, had gone back to the mills, a streetcar was stopped near the power house at the end of Faber Street, and in a twinkling, before the militia or police could interfere, motorman, conductor, and pa.s.sengers were dragged from it and the trolley pole removed. This and a number of similar aggressive acts aroused the mill-owners and their agents to appeal with renewed vigour to the public through the newspapers, which it was claimed they owned or subsidized. Then followed a series of arraignments of the strike leaders calculated to stir the wildest prejudices and fears of the citizens of Hampton. Antonelli and Jastro--so rumour had it--in various nightly speeches had advised their followers to "sleep in the daytime and prowl like wild animals at night"; urged the power house employees to desert and leave the city in darkness; made the declaration, "We will win if we raise scaffolds on every street!" insisted that the strikers, too, should have "gun permits," since the police hirelings carried arms. And the fact that the mill-owners replied with pamphlets whose object was proclaimed to be one of discrediting their leaders in the eyes of the public still further infuriated the strikers. Such charges, of course, had to be vehemently refuted, the motives behind them made clear, and counter-accusations laid at the door of the mill-owners.
The atmosphere at Headquarters daily grew more tense. At any moment the spark might be supplied to precipitate an explosion that would shake the earth. The hungry, made more desperate by their own sufferings or the spectacle of starving families, were increasingly difficult to control: many wished to return to work, others clamoured for violence, nor were these wholly discouraged by a portion of the leaders. A riot seemed imminent--a riot Antonelli feared and firmly opposed, since it would alienate the sympathy of that wider public in the country on which the success of the strike depended. Watchful, yet apparently unconcerned, unmoved by the quarrels, the fierce demands for "action," he sat on the little stage, smoking his cigars and reading his newspapers.
Janet"s nerves were taut. There had been times during the past weeks when she had been aware of new and vaguely disquieting portents.
Inexperience had led her to belittle them, and the absorbing nature of her work, the excitement due to the strange life of conflict, of new ideas, into which she had so unreservedly flung herself, the resentment that galvanized her--all these had diverted her from worry. At night, hers had been the oblivious slumber of the weary.... And then, as a desperate wayfarer, pressing on, feels a heavy drop of rain and glances up to perceive the clouds that have long been gathering, she awoke in the black morning hours, and fear descended upon her. Suddenly her brain became hideously active as she lay, dry-upped, staring into the darkness, striving to convince herself that it could not be. But the thing had its advocate, also, to summon ingeniously, in c.u.mulative array, those omens she had ignored: to cause her to piece together, in this moment of torture, portions of the knowledge of s.e.xual facts that prudery banishes from education, a smattering of which reaches the ears of such young women as Janet in devious, roundabout ways. Several times, in the month just past, she had had unwonted attacks of dizziness, of faintness, and on one occasion Anna Mower, alarmed, had opened the window of the bibliotheque and thrust her into the cold air. Now, with a pang of fear she recalled what Anna had said:--"You"re working too hard--you hadn"t ought to stay here nights. If it was some girls I"ve met, I"d know what to think."
Strange that the significance of this sentence had failed to penetrate her consciousness until now! "If it was some girls I"ve met, I"d know what to think!" It had come into her mind abruptly; and always, when she sought to rea.s.sure herself, to declare her terror absurd, it returned to confront her. Heat waves pulsed through her, she grew intolerably warm, perspiration started from her pores, and she flung off the blankets. The rain from the roofs was splashing on the bricks of the pa.s.sage.... What would Mr. Insall say, if he knew? and Mrs. Maturin? She could never see them again. Now there was no one to whom to turn, she was cut off, utterly, from humanity, an outcast. Like Lise! And only a little while ago she and Lise had lain in that bed together! Was there not somebody--G.o.d? Other people believed in G.o.d, prayed to him. She tried to say, "Oh G.o.d, deliver me from this thing!" but the words seemed a mockery. After all, it was mechanical, it had either happened or it hadn"t happened. A life-long experience in an environment where only unpleasant things occurred, where miracles were unknown, had effaced a fleeting, childhood belief in miracles. Cause and effect were the rule.
And if there were a G.o.d who did interfere, why hadn"t he interfered before this thing happened? Then would have been the logical time. Why hadn"t he informed her that in attempting to escape from the treadmill in which he had placed her, in seeking happiness, she had been courting destruction? Why had he destroyed Lise? And if there were a G.o.d, would he comfort her now, convey to her some message of his sympathy and love?
No such message, alas, seemed to come to her through the darkness.
After a while--a seemingly interminable while--the siren shrieked, the bells jangled loudly in the wet air, another day had come. Could she face it--even the murky grey light of this that revealed the ashes and litter of the back yard under the downpour? The act of dressing brought a slight relief; and then, at breakfast, a numbness stole over her--suggested and conveyed, perchance, by the apathy of her mother.
Something had killed suffering in Hannah; perhaps she herself would mercifully lose the power to suffer! But the thought made her shudder.
She could not, like her mother, find a silly refuge in shining dishes, in cleaning pots and pans, or sit idle, vacant-minded, for long hours in a spotless kitchen. What would happen to her?... Howbeit, the ache that had tortured her became a dull, leaden pain, like that she had known at another time--how long ago--when the suffering caused by Ditmar"s deception had dulled, when she had sat in the train on her way back to Hampton from Boston, after seeing Lise. The pain would throb again, unsupportably, and she would wake, and this time it would drive her--she knew not where.
She was certain, now, that the presage of the night was true....