XXVIII
IN LOYALTY AND LOVE
Whether, when one could have the pleasure and fun there was in being engaged, it was not tempting Providence to take the step farther and get married was the whimsical question that occurred to Floyd in his growing contentment with his situation, his increasing certainty that he had done the right thing. That he could invite Marion to speculate with him on this point, and that they could sit together elaborating humorous theories and arguments with impersonal seriousness, was, even though he might not perceive it, a sign of progress. Indeed, since Marion's return to Avalon, there had been a rapid development of their intimacy, a rapid growth of confidence. In the beginning a laborious sense that this was one of the duties of his position had compelled Floyd to go to her and share with her his problems and perplexities; never before having made any one the partner of his closest thoughts, he yielded with reluctance to this violation of his sanctuary. But gradually he was won by Marion's responsiveness; to make his disclosures ceased to be a duty, became more and more a pleasure. He was sometimes conscious of how much he had missed hitherto through not having at moments some one in whom to confide—some woman. He had had his impulses to confess to Lydia and ask her help, but he had always proudly withheld himself from this; nothing, he felt, could be more unmanly than to pour out to another man's wife one's innermost experiences. But he was finding now that there was nothing unmanly in discussing with Marion problems of a kind which he had always before locked up in his breast and struggled with unaided.
In this growing intimacy Floyd became less sensitive to Marion's positive, dogmatic manner. Occasionally it would be so exhibited as to cause him an inward sigh and a feeling of wonder that a girl so attractive should not realize the value of deference and hesitation. But he grew more indulgent to her failings when he understood that they proceeded from an excess of frankness rather than from conceit, which he had at one time suspected to be her unlovely fault. She was not conceited; she was kind and sympathetic and thoughtful, as conceited persons never are. He decided that she merely had a sense of being adequate to any emergency which might confront her own life; she did not profess adequacy for the emergencies of other people's lives. That, after all, constituted the difference between a worthy self-confidence and a disagreeable conceit.
And yet, though he was growing more and more fond of her all the time, he could not quite abandon the wish that she were somewhat less adequate even to her own emergencies. She would be so much more appealing if she would only once in a while make an appeal!—show, even tentatively, some fluttering little signal of distress!
That which succeeded best in filling this deficiency and winning him to a gentler and more forbearing regard was her enthusiasm for him. She admired him and applauded his course. When he told her that through an agency he had engaged two hundred armed watchmen, who were to be sent up the river by boat to occupy the works and defend returning workmen from assault, she approved the independent act.
"We can get no protection from the New Rome police," he said to her. "They're few in number and they're in sympathy with the Affiliated. We can get no help from the sheriff of the county. He says—properly enough—that he can't go up there with a posse and wait for trouble. So this seems to be the only course left to us. If it's properly managed—and I'm taking every precaution that it shall be—we'll succeed in overawing the riotously disposed."
He told her the details of his plan; she listened with an absorbed interest. He had never felt it necessary to caution her against repeating information which he gave her about his affairs, and he did not caution her now. Indeed she would have felt hurt by the lack of confidence that such a warning might have seemed to imply.
Two days later she went to see Lydia, for whom she had a compassionate sympathy on account of Stewart's rattle-pated course. In the frequent visits which Lydia and she had exchanged since her return to Avalon there had been no reference to the hostile relations existing between Floyd and Stewart. Marion had guessed the proud loyalty to Stewart which was keeping Lydia silent—a sad, proud loyalty which could only shun a discussion, not attempt a vindication. It had been in Marion's mind, from the time when she had learned of the estrangement, to act as peacemaker, but it was a mission on which she did not embark with any of the confidence which Floyd ascribed to her. Indeed she had delayed and delayed, waiting for the favorable moment; and if Floyd had given her a more complete account of the trouble with Stewart, she would probably have continued to hesitate; at least she might have approached the matter differently. But Floyd had glossed over much of the disagreeable history, wishing to spare himself a recital of Stewart's humiliation, wishing, too, not to lower Stewart in the opinion of another. He had given Marion the idea that the whole trouble was due to Stewart's crazy, radical enthusiasm for labor unions and hatred for capitalists; he had left her in ignorance of the successive grievances which Stewart had been accumulating in the practice of his profession.
And now, Marion thought, the time had come for the two to be reconciled. It was a matter for the women to arrange; she went forth hoping that in the course of the interview she might have an opportunity to seek Lydia's coöperation. But though she lay in wait anxiously, the opportunity seemed not to come. The baby, the theatre, her approaching marriage, with the question as to who would be the bridesmaids, were the disconnected subjects which they reviewed, with never an allusion by Lydia to Floyd or Stewart. Marion was watching her observantly; and though she wore a gay red dress from which at first glance her dark beauty seemed to glow with a happy radiance, there was apparent at intervals to Marion's keen eyes the shadow that would drift down over Lydia's face and to Marion's keen ears the note that would dull Lydia's animated voice. Growing more and more aware of this spirit of sadness, Marion was touched with pity; and at last she cried impulsively,—
"Lydia! Why don't we do something about it?"
"About what?"
"Ah, Lydia, you know. The thing that's making you so sad—the thing that's a cloud on all of us. I'm sure Floyd does n't feel harshly toward Stewart; why can't we bring them together again? If you could only persuade Stewart to cease from his attacks—"
"You ask me to assume that it's Stewart who is to blame," Lydia said, with a quick flush.
Marion humored her in her defensive loyalty to her husband.
"It is n't a matter so much of who's to blame; it's the situation. That can't be improved, can it, so long as Stewart is actively hostile to Floyd—printing such things about him as that letter in the newspaper the other night, giving help to the men who are opposing Floyd. If you could only persuade Stewart to stop; then we could come together and try to adjust things between them. But as long as Stewart goes on, there's no hope of adjustment."
"Stewart's acting according to his own convictions and beliefs."
"Perhaps"—Marion spoke with hesitation—"perhaps you might sway him from those."
"Do you believe that a wife—even for her own happiness—ought to turn her husband from his convictions?"
"If she is sure they are mistaken, she might demonstrate that to him. I did n't mean, Lydia, that you should ask him to yield his convictions in deference to your wish."
"So far as his sympathy with the labor union is concerned, and his conviction that it should not be exterminated as Floyd is trying to exterminate it, I don't know that Stewart is mistaken. I can't argue with him about that; I don't know enough; and when he talks to me on the subject I can't see any flaw in his reasoning. He is entirely conscientious in supporting the union—and, in that way, in antagonizing Floyd."
"It is n't his supporting those principles that makes the trouble," Marion insisted. "I'm sure Floyd is liberal enough to grant him that freedom and still look upon him as a friend. But Floyd can't look on him as a friend after such personal attacks as Stewart has made; it's the personal thing that maybe you could smooth out, Lydia; if you could persuade Stewart that Floyd has n't any such motives as Stewart has been—"
Lydia held out her hand with a look of distress.
"I've tried—I've tried my best. But Stewart when he has an idea can see only that, he sees straight ahead to that, and everything must conform to it. Floyd's cause is a bad one and every action that Floyd takes in the cause is—is a bad action. I can't convince Stewart that it is n't. He's fortified with evidence—evidence—I don't know! Here now—here is the way his mind works; he tells me that the riot the other morning was deliberately provoked by Floyd—that Floyd hired a band of desperate men to make a pretense of going to work, knowing that there would be trouble, hoping there would be—because, after the first violence, public sympathy would cease to be with the workingmen and would turn to him. Stewart has got himself into a frame of mind where he seriously believes that; how, tell me, please, am I to meet such an argument as that?—how, how am I to persuade him?"
Her voice had gathered a passionate swiftness and feeling as she spoke; now she waited, looking at Marion with despairing yet eager eyes.
"Ah, how can he believe that!" Marion exclaimed. "Floyd trying to provoke violence—when his whole purpose from the beginning has been to prevent it! Why else did he shut down the works? You might ask Stewart that. The very thing that Stewart takes as proof—why, Floyd tried to send those men in quietly and secretly, so that there would n't be any trouble. And now—this very night, at eleven o'clock—expressly to prevent violence he's going to land two hundred guards; he's sending them up the river—sending them by night, by boat—by coal-barges even, so that nobody shall see them or suspect and cause a riot; he's sending them just to protect the works and the men who want to work, and to prevent any more violence. His one thought now is to guard the safety of all his men—those opposed to him as well as those who are friendly. If you were to tell Stewart all these things, I don't see how he could any longer believe that Floyd is capable of such—such awful thoughts."
Lydia shook her head. "I feel that Stewart holds things in reserve," she answered. "I appeal to him in one way; he finds a reply in another.—Oh, I can't explain it to you, Marion," she broke off abruptly, "but I'm afraid it's hopeless, hopeless. I daresay I ought n't to give up trying; I've grown discouraged. I'll do what I can; I'll do what I can—to make Stewart feel more justly toward Floyd; but I'll do nothing to turn him from a work in which he believes."
Marion recognized the declaration as the pathetic effort to display faith and loyalty when they could no longer be spontaneously rendered. She took Lydia's hand and kissed her.
"We'll come out of it all right, dear," she said. "All of us. You and Stewart and Floyd and I. Next year you'll be eating your Thanksgiving dinner with us, and we'll be eating our Christmas dinner with you. See if we are n't."
Lydia followed her to the door, reluctant to have this spirit of courage and cheerful confidence depart. It occurred to her that perhaps she had timorously made too little of an effort, and that perhaps in her dread of pushing Stewart down she might, neglect the obvious duty of keeping him afloat. She would try if she might not touch him gently without sending him to the bottom.
Floyd dined that evening with Marion and her family, and afterwards started with her in his carriage to the theatre. As they drove, she questioned him about the expedition that was to go up the river that evening. It was all in readiness, he informed her; the steamboat and two barges were in fact leaving at about that time and would reach the works a little after ten o'clock. Marion asked where the watchmen were to sleep and how they were to live, and he explained that the barges had been roofed over and fitted up inside with bunks and that mattresses and bedding were also being transported for use in one of the buildings; arrangements could be made to quarter the men there very comfortably. Then he laughed.
"I don't expect they'll have to endure a siege," he said. "My opinion is that within a few days our men will come flocking in to work.—You're the only person—except Gregg and the agent—that I've told a word of all this to; not even the other superintendents know anything definite about it yet. I don't know, of course, what leakage there may be through the watchmen themselves, but I hope not much; they were all of them cautioned about the necessity of strict silence—and I guess in their business they understand it."
For a moment he was unaware of the consternation which with this speech had fallen on the girl; then, to his amazement, she exclaimed in a low, frightened voice,—
"Oh, Floyd! I—I told!"
"This?" He turned towards her. "You told—this?"
"Yes. Oh, Floyd!—" her words came in quick, fluttering breaths; she seemed on the brink of tears. "I told Lydia—to-day—this afternoon. I never thought—I wanted her to show Stewart how you're doing everything to prevent trouble; she was telling me what Stewart believes, and I wanted her. to be able to show him—I told her about this. Oh, Floyd!—let's turn round and go back—let me go home and telephone to Lydia—not to say anything about it;—tell him to turn round, Floyd; she has n't said anything yet, I'm sure; quick, Floyd, quick!"
While she was pouring out her distressed confession in the voice that he hardly knew as hers, so frightened, so appealing, he looked at her curiously; elation was mounting in his heart. He looked at her, but he could see little of her face in the darkness, nothing of its expression—and he wished with a sudden passionate longing that at this very moment he could see as well as hear! She made him aware that, all unconsciously in her humility and her beseeching, she had crept closer to him; and a tenderness for her that he had never before felt thrilled him and choked his throat. He put his arm round her and drew her closer still.
"Never mind, dear; never mind," he murmured, in an unsteady voice. Though his voice was low, within him his soul was stirred and shouting in joy because she had confessed herself recreant to a trust. What though Stewart, what though all the world knew his plans! this moment he knew that he loved the girl in his arms.
"Floyd, you're—you're too gentle with me!" She broke for an instant into a pathetic little sob of relief and shame. "Had n't we—had n't we better turn back, Floyd?—so that I can telephone to Lydia?"
"Oh, no, we don't need to do that.—Perhaps it would be just as well, when we get downtown, if I stop at a hotel and send her a message.—But don't worry about it any more, Marion; it's all right, really."
"Thank you, Floyd, for—for taking it so.—But I don't see how you can ever trust me with anything again."
He laughed. "Put that with the things that you can't see for yourself—till I show you. I guess there are n't many—but we'll call that one."
He felt her hand groping round, he felt it find his and press it gently.
It was a long drive to the region of theatres and hotels, and happy as he was Floyd could not help considering after a while what might be the consequences of Marion's indiscretion. He could not believe that they might be serious; to imagine them so would be to imagine both an unexampled fierceness and an improbable swiftness of action on Stewart's part. He said after a while with some reluctance,—
"I guess I can't very well telephone to Lydia about this thing, Marion. Would you mind doing it? I think you could put it so that it would be less awkward for her."
"I'd be glad if you'd let me," Marion answered.
The carriage stopped in front of a hotel which was next door to their theatre; as they were going in, Marion asked, in a deprecating voice, "Do my eyes look very red, Floyd?" and he replied, "They look very nice and shiny." "Ah," she said, with a grateful gleam of humor, "you are nice, Floyd,—not to mind even red eyes!"
He waited for her outside the booth while she telephoned; it took longer than he had supposed it would do. When at last she emerged, he knew at once by her white, frightened face that she had something unsuspected and ominous to report.
"I was too late," she said, as they stood withdrawn into a deep window recess. "Lydia told him at dinner—it was all my fault—I'd advised her—and she was so anxious to show him he was misjudging you—she told him everything—to make it clear what your motives were. And when she was all through, he got up and left the house; he went to New Rome. She feels terribly—so guilty—but she is n't to blame, Floyd,—it was my fault entirely. I did n't tell it to her as a confidence; she called up your house and then mine, trying to reach you and warn you—but we'd gone; and she was in despair."
Floyd was silent a moment. "I guess I'll telephone to Gregg; I'll have to ask you to wait this time," he said. "Sit down here—and don't take it so hard, Marion; there's nothing to feel agitated about," he added kindly.
"I'll be with you as soon as I can—too bad that we'll have to miss so much of the first act."
She waited ten minutes for him; then he came to her briskly.
"All right now," he said. "Everything fixed. Pick up your skirts and run."
He hurried her gayly into the theatre; before they went to their seats he called the usher aside for a moment. The first act was nearly over, but the play was a rather obvious kind of farce, and it did not take long to gather up the threads of the plot. Floyd settled down immediately to the enjoyment of the performance; he was especially delighted by a fat woman with a monstrous voice and an involuntary talent for breaking furniture. Marion did not pay very close attention to the play, and would probably not have been much diverted if she had followed it; she was constantly stealing anxious glances at Floyd, trying to decide if his amusement was genuine, if he had really put aside all care, if he had perhaps, in some instant, remarkable way, done something to prevent all possibility of a clash. With a thankful heart she could at least assure herself that his good spirits were not in any degree assumed.
In the middle of the last act the usher came down the aisle and gave Floyd a telegram. Floyd read it and said quietly, —
"I'm sorry, Marion; it's from Gregg, and we'll have to go."
She drew her wraps about her without a question and followed him up the aisle in the dim half-light of the theatre.