The Ancient Grudge/Chapter 24
XXIV
A LETTER TO A NEWSPAPER
On the morning of September twenty-fourth Stewart Lee called bis draughtsmen and assistants into bis private office and announced to them that the plans for the Hospitals would be submitted in their original form without further delay.
"You have all been very faithful and earnest in "working over this matter," he said to them, "and you've done your best to remedy some impossible conditions." He smiled cheerfully; his serenity and good humor in making this premature confession of defeat bewildered his men. They had attributed to his entire absorption in the competition the impatience, sharpness, and ill temper which had this summer made him a hard taskmaster. Only the day before he had given them some fresh instructions to carry out and had been insistent on improving certain details over which they had all long ago despaired. Now he vouchsafed no explanation for this sudden smiling abandonment of the purpose to which he had apparently dedicated himself.
"I want to thank you all," he continued, "and I think after the way we've been working ourselves to death we'd better declare a holiday. And if you'd each of you do me the favor to take one of these envelopes,"—he passed them round as he spoke,—"maybe you draw a prize, maybe you draw a blank. Life's a lottery."
By his manner and by some subtle quality of charm he had the power to win back in a moment the affections of men whom he had gradually been alienating for a year. They tried awkwardly to express their appreciation of his kindness and their hope that the drawings would receive the award.
"It won't be your fault if they don't," Stewart answered. "But I shan't be disappointed however the judges decide."
Stewart paced up and down his small room after the office force had departed on their holiday. He was brimming with a generous excitement, an unselfish indignation. In a good cause he had sacrificed the last days in which he might have found the solution to the hospital problems for which he had been fumbling. It was a generous thought; it was a generous thought that possessed him for a moment now—those boys starting out on their sudden holiday, opening in the street their little envelopes and finding the fifty dollar bill that was his gift to each. He could imagine their delighted amazement; he knew they had never expected any such warm-hearted and lavish reward of their impotent efforts. He gave himself a moment's gratification in contrasting his treatment of his men with that which the employees of the Halket Steel Company received.
The night before, when he bad gone to the club to dine, he had read in the Evening Telegram of the lock-out at the Halket Mills. Hitherto he had scanned with little interest the occasional newspaper reports of the friction existing between the men and the management at New Rome; they had seemed to concern trivial and technical matters. But the news of "LOCK-OUT!" spread sensationally upon the first page of the newspaper at once absorbed him. The article recited various small matters of dispute between the union and the management and stated that the notice posted on the gate that morning was merely the culmination of a purpose which Mr. Floyd Halket, since his accession to the presidency of the company, had been steadily working to achieve. The Telegram was an ardent champion of the workingman; its history of the causes which had led up to the clash at New Rome was unfavorable to Floyd. It represented him as a cold-blooded and deliberate young man who looked upon his vast inheritance as a profitable field to be more thoroughly exploited. The Telegram had always railed at Colonel Halket, but now it extolled him; with all his faults he had—up to the time of his last great mistake, which was no doubt attributable to old age—held the affection of his people and striven to benefit them as well as to enrich himself. Since his death, however, the management had ceased to have such a twofold aim. It had wantonly provoked and antagonized the leaders among the men,—for the sake, perhaps, of showing that its iron hand wore no velvet glove. To invite and then to crush opposition had been its policy. And now it had cynically flung aside all pretense and revealed its ultimate purpose—to reduce its workmen to their former position of helpless dependence, to deny them the right to organize in defense of their interests and in defiance of unjust oppression. The new head of the company, with a rashness appropriate to his youth, had committed the unprecedented act of closing down the mills and declaring a lock-out when there was no vital principle at issue—at the most nothing but small differences which could be settled amicably by fair-minded discussion. He had chosen to set up an ultimatum which meant a return to mediævalism, and he was trying to starve his people into surrender.
The newspaper report and the editorial comment set Stewart aflame. There were two manufacturers dining at the club that evening; they happened to be men whose interests had been adversely affected by the union uprising at New Rome and the consequent failure of the great merger which Colonel Halket had planned. Stewart sought an opinion from them, and when they replied that it was a pretty bold move on Halket's part, but that they hoped he would win, Stewart expressed his disapproval of such sentiments. He declared that old friend as he was of Floyd's, he could not sympathize with him in this high-handed and tyrannical proceeding. One of the ironmasters asked him if he knew anything about the facts of the case, and Stewart replied that no facts could justify the measure which Floyd had taken. It was an offense to civilization; it was revolting to the spirit of liberty. The manufacturers resented Stewart's instructive utterances, and there was an acrimonious debate. They refused to accept Stewart's assertion that Avalon was one of the most benighted places in the country and that its capitalists and not its laboring classes needed education. In argument Stewart's manner was never persuasive, but if his eloquence usually failed to convince others, it always gave intense satisfaction to his own convictions. His designation now of the Avalon capitalists as "satraps" struck him as particularly happy, and he harped upon it to the increasing irritation of the two gentlemen whom he thus classified. They assured him after a time with emphasis that he was talking nonsense and intimated that he was the sort of person who might naturally be expected to talk nonsense.
Stewart went home with his mind stimulated and his passions and emotions roused. Since the scurrilous criticism of his pictures, he had never had much sympathy with the point of view maintained by the editor of the Telegram, but he congratulated himself on being broad-minded enough not to let either his personal grievance or his personal friendship influence his judgment. The fact that the Telegram had once been unjustly abusive of him could not invalidate to his impartial mind the justice with which it censured Floyd. And such championship as Floyd had received that evening from his fellow manufacturers only made his offense the more glaring. Stewart confessed that he was at last beginning to perceive and appreciate the underlying traits in his friend's character. The qualities and motives which Floyd was displaying in these relations with his men were, as Stewart now saw with entire clearness, precisely those which had governed his actions as trustee for the Rebecca Halket Hospitals. There was in Floyd a ruthless, unscrupulous hardness of character, an insensitiveness of disposition, a view of other men, even friends and dependents, as merely impersonal agents to be used and cast aside, a disregard of all the claims to which a man of sympathy and kindness would be most responsive. The men of New Rome were suffering now at Floyd's hands as Stewart himself had suffered—locked out, deprived of their rights, hampered and cramped in their effort, denied the recognition for which they had striven and to which, no doubt, they were entitled.
The triumphant clear-headedness of this analysis brought Stewart into sudden contemplation of a course of action. The impulse with which he had painted the pictures of Labor was revived, the sympathy which Floyd so reprehensibly lacked grew once more incandescent in his soul. Here in Avalon, where the sinister influences of pride and avarice and lust of power prevailed in detestable completeness, there was a noble work for a man who had wealth and education and the high purpose of a gentleman, and who dared for the right to demolish the idols of his friends.
In the excitement of the thought Stewart paced up and down his room, and at last threw open the window and, leaning out, looked across his lawn on which shone the soft September moon. The cool night air, instead of chilling his enthusiasm, seemed to give it calmness and confidence, the lights of the city throbbing in the distance were responsive to the throbbing eagerness in his breast. He leaned upon the window-sill and thought quite gloriously. To throw himself into this contest would compel renunciation of old ambitions and friendships. The men who had been his clients would turn from an architect who had gone outside of his profession to fight for freedom. What was chivalrous they would regard as unsafe, unbalanced, possibly even criminal. In the further practice of his profession he would be doomed. He could not even retire from it leaving as his last contribution one magnificent achievement to mark his premature withdrawal as deplorable; for even though his plans should be worthy to win the Hospital Competition, Floyd, whom he would be attacking, could hardly allow him the prize. Floyd would be sure to find out before making the award which drawings Stewart had submitted—with no idea of being prejudiced, of course, but the prejudice would be inevitable. Reflecting upon this, Stewart could not help feeling that, in spite of all his despair, his drawings would, under normal conditions, have a good chance of winning, and that by taking the step that must insure defeat he would be doubly a martyr. The thought did not deter him; it fortified him to remember that without the element of personal sacrifice sympathy is futile. The friends that he had made in Avalon were all men whose selfish interests ran parallel with Floyd's. Stewart realized that he would alienate them all if he espoused the workingmen's cause. Well, these friends, though pleasant, had done little for him; they had been indifferent to his work, his talents, his ambition, and he could deny himself their indolent regard. For the same reason it would not be difficult, with his versatility, to give up his profession. Stewart could work with energy and enthusiasm so long as he was receiving applause for that which he produced, but when the applause ceased, the impulse to produce languished. Applause for his architectural achievement had long since passed. Now there began to glimmer for him the light of a kinder, more adoring, more alluring appreciation, which should burn in the hearts of the humble and inspire him to unselfish labor. How great was the need in Avalon of a champion for the workingman, one who would come down from among capitalists and employers to defend the poor and to assist their inarticulate speech! How warmly would such a champion be welcomed!
He kept his wife and her probable sentiments on this matter out of his thoughts.
His resolve was made irrevocably while he stood at the window. Already he was forecasting for himself a brilliant and useful service; he could act as advocate for the workingmen in the newspapers, he would not even shrink from going upon the platform in their behalf, he would give them the benefit of his experience, education, and counsel. Tustin, whose portrait he had once painted, and who, as Stewart had read in the newspapers, was chairman of the executive committee of the union, would of course gladly furnish him with all the specific data for argument. Stewart's imagination, grasping hastily one possibility after another, carried him far afield. He was conscious of a power to express himself in burning words, whether on paper or in speech; once let him gain the ear of the people, and they would be glad to listen. Dreaded by the benighted satraps with whom he had once consorted, beloved by the common people for whom his sympathy had always been deep and tender, though hitherto undemonstrative, ready speaker, wise thinker, public-spirited man, he might eventually be caught up in popular enthusiasm and raised to high office; the city was some time to be purged of gross corruption; if he fought ably for the people now, he might be chosen mayor to do this greater work. The incubus of despair that had lain upon him for the last two months was lifted.
He wrote and mailed that evening a brief letter to Floyd. "I have followed with unhappiness the course of affairs at New Rome. Our long intimacy and the leaning that I should naturally have to your side in the dispute cannot make me ignore what now appears the fundamental fact—that you are using compulsion to deprive American citizens of the rights of liberty and citizenship. When a man reaches such a conviction as I have now reached, it becomes his imperative duty to support those whose rights are being attacked, even though in so doing he opposes one who has long been his friend and to whom he owes much. It is his duty as an American. I have made up my mind, therefore, to offer my services to the men whom you have locked out of employment. Anything that I can do to create a better understanding of their cause and a more active sympathy with the principles for which they stand, I shall do. It may be unreasonable for me to hope that a decision so impartial as this at which I have arrived may not impair our friendship: nevertheless I entertain that hope."
To this letter, dated the twenty-third of September, Floyd sent an immediate reply:
"Dear Stewart: Your judgment upon my affairs seems to me as prompt as it is impartial. Should you require any knowledge of facts in the campaign upon which you are entering, I shall be glad to assist you to it; and in doing this I trust that I may show an impartiality equal to your own."
Stewart puzzled over this note a good deal. He had never known Floyd to indulge in sarcasm, but he felt uneasily that Floyd was sarcastic now, and in that case he wished of course to hit back. The fact that Floyd ignored the studiously offered olive branch indicated a soreness of spirit with which sarcasm might be allied.
By the time that Floyd's note reached him, however, Stewart had had a conference with Tustin; and he decided that personal vengeance for the slur might as well await the first public opportunity—especially as this was not to be delayed. Tustin had furnished him with facts and arguments and desired him to lose no time in writing letters to the newspapers. The gratitude with which the union leader had welcomed so distinguished an accession to the cause pleased Stewart, and he made ready to throw all his energy into the ennobling, self-sacrificing work.
The holiday which he had granted to his draughtsmen he did not himself devote to pleasure. From his interview with Tustin he returned late in the afternoon to his office, and there he began the composition of the first document in the campaign. It was to be a letter to the Eagle, the most influential newspaper in Avalon. Stewart's mind, when its interest in a subject had been awakened, worked quickly; on the trip in to Avalon from New Rome he had systematized the notes which Tustin had given him, and after the first fumbling round for an effective introduction, his pen was scampering across the paper. It was a facile and intemperate pen.
He explained that the situation at New Rome was a matter of public concern and that one not associated with either party to the dispute was therefore justified in discussing it publicly. He exploited his friendship with Floyd in order to make his attitude of opposition the more damaging. As for argument, he declared that it was not now essential to take up the question of closed or open shop, though he would discuss that at some future time. For the present time it was sufficient to inquire into the actual incidents that had led up to this situation and from them to determine if the employer had not been a deliberate aggressor whose acts of injury had finally culminated in this attempt to make his workingmen relinquish a right that had never been in dispute. The appointment of a foreman whose personality was offensive to every workman in the mill was a malicious affront; the closing down of the entire plant because of the resentment expressed over this affront was a measure as tyrannical as it was drastic. If public opinion could in anyway liberate workingmen from the harsh coercion of such acts, public opinion should be roused. This was the gist of Stewart's first letter to the Eagle.
In the editorial column of the issue in which it appeared, there was printed a sharp reply. "As is well known to many," wrote the editor, "no one has less reason for making an unwarranted attack upon Mr. Floyd Halket than the gentleman whose communication is published on this page. Yet his attack is as unwarranted as it is ungenerous. There is not one of his assertions that may pass unchallenged." The editor took up Stewart's charges in detail and refuted them by demonstrating that so far as there had been any coercion, it had proceeded from the leaders of the union, and that the closing down of the mills was due to a humane desire to prevent the violence that had been threatened. The editor concluded by expressing amazement that one gentleman should see fit to attack another publicly upon a matter that could not possibly be construed as of public concern.
Stewart was embittered by this rough rebuke, particularly by the allusion to the ingratitude of his criticism. The arguments which the editor cited did not disturb him; they were based, he knew, upon an inaccurate statement of facts. Tustin's whole account of the trouble had been logical and conclusive enough, and it supported the editor in not one particular. Stewart felt that he would not have resented a proper statement of a differing view; he would merely have set about correcting it. But that his old obligation to Floyd should be thus publicly commented on to his disadvantage appeared to him an insufferable impertinence. It was with such trivialities and irrelevancies that an unprincipled writer would bolster up a weak cause. He reflected that he must endure unfair treatment from the Eagle, which was a bigoted newspaper conducted in the interests of the capitalist class—subsidized, no doubt, by the satraps. Criticise him as it pleased, it should hear from him as long as it would print his letters, and he set to work at once upon a second communication, amplifying and repeating his charges.
At noon he went to the club for luncheon; as he entered the reading-room he saw Floyd there, with his hat n, leaning against the mantel-piece and talking to two men who sat in arm-chairs before him. Floyd glanced at Stewart and then nodded with an easy, careless smile. There was no particular sign of invitation in the recognition, and Stewart hesitated a moment; then he decided that he would show there was no hard feeling and he advanced casually, as he would have done at any time, to join the group. Floyd finished in haste what he was saying, turning his back upon Stewart as he did so; then without a glance at either side he walked swiftly away and out of the door. The two men sitting in the armchairs were the manufacturers with whom Stewart had had the discussion a few nights before; one of them now raised a newspaper and began to read, and the other smoked a cigar, apparently lost in reverie. Stewart stood by the mantel-piece for a few moments, that they might have an opportunity to recognize his presence, but as they did not choose to avail themselves of it he finally turned and strolled away without a word. In another part of the room Bennett was sitting, and as Stewart passed near him he looked up and said with the furtive smile that Stewart disliked,—
"That was quite a strong letter of yours in the paper, Lee. But are n't you pretty reckless, doing a thing like that at just this time?"
"I suppose it is to be a fairly adjudged competition," Stewart replied coldly. "And even if I did not suppose so—it may surprise you to know, Mr. Bennett, that I don't always stop to count the cost."
"Ah," said Bennett, dropping his eyes again to his magazine, "that's a bit of wisdom that you will learn with age."
In the dining-room Stewart sat down alone at a table by the window. Two or three of his acquaintances entered within the next few minutes, but none of them seemed to notice his signal inviting them to join him; they went blundering round to lonely and remote tables. Then Bob Dunbar appeared, and Stewart, who detested a solitary meal, beckoned to him in a manner that could not be ignored. Dunbar came up reluctantly with a solemn face.
"Sit down, Bob," said Stewart.
Dunbar hesitated. "I will—for a moment. No, I won't order lunch." He waved the waiter aside and sat in a grave silence. Then he began, choosing his words slowly and looking directly into Stewart's face: "That letter of yours in the Eagle this morning shocked me very much. I was in the boat that day—it's a good many years ago now—but I remember it if you do not, Stewart. And every one in this place who knows what Floyd Halket did for you that day thinks, as I do, that that letter of yours was a damned—caddish—performance. And I advise you to apologize and retract."
He thrust his chair back from the table and rose, leaving Stewart transfixed, speechless, flushed to the temples with the hot blood of anger and wounded pride. Dunbar was passing out of the dining-room door when Stewart, trailing a napkin in one hand, overtook him and seized him roughly by the arm.
"If—if you throw that day up in my face again!" he said passionately though in a low voice; his nostrils quivered and he spoke as if he had been running a long way instead of merely walking the length of the dining-room. "I've tried to square accounts—no one knows that better than Floyd. I'll have no criticism—I'll allow no reminder—of that thing. I'm answerable to my own conscience—to no one else. And let me tell you now—I will retract nothing."
Dunbar looked at him and said in an unmoved voice,—
"If you do not retract, the impression will remain—that you are a cad."
"Then," said Stewart hotly, "I am done with those who share that impression—even though they are my wife's cousins."
He turned his back on Dunbar and walked slowly to his table. In his pride and anger he could disguise the fact, but he was hard hit; he had been called a cad, and as a cad he was being avoided now by members of his own club. It was too laughable—that these upstart parvenus should apply that term to him who came of as good blood as there was in America. What a guild of greed it was in this town! Sink the small personal equation in the large interests of humanity, touch reprovingly the pocket that had been unrighteously filled—and how the whole pack was upon one, frightened for its privileges, yelling Cad! Cad! But even with his lofty recognition of the ludicrous behavior of these people, Stewart could not be wholly indifferent to their coldness; he desired always the respect of those whom he despised. In spite of the evidence that he had already had, he could not believe that he was regarded by many persons as the opprobrious creature of Bob Dunbar's definition; and without lingering over his luncheon, he passed slowly through the club, pausing to test each man whom he met. He felt in every case a lack of cordiality. Dunbar had hardly overstated the facts; Stewart's letter was everywhere the topic of discussion; those who had read it had been showing it to those who had not, and there was but one opinion as to the propriety of the performance.
It was not only in the club that Stewart was made aware of the altered sentiment with which those who had been his friends regarded him. He received some letters that seemed to him offensively pragmatical and officious; his manner grew less and less conciliatory. His second letter was published in the Eagle—under a sneering title of the editor's own application; Stewart began now to take a grim satisfaction in the odds that were against him. There was nothing nobler than to wage a fight for a principle at the expense of one's personal associations and ambitions; and if Stewart's first devotion of himself to the cause had not included crucifixion for caddishness, he soon was ready to push self-sacrifice even beyond that extreme. For though the wound was sore, the compensation for it was immediate. He had but to go on that first afternoon from the inhospitable club to the headquarters of the executive committee at New Rome to be assured of his true value. There indeed his services were appreciated. Stewart began to see that it is the judgment of the common people that is most to be prized, that is sane, normal, unshaken by the gusts of passion and prejudice. It took him not more than a day to become the most radical of advocates. He placed himself willfully and definitely in opposition to all in which the men who were thinking him a cad believed. And even while doing this he never imagined that a social blight would rest upon him permanently or that he might actually have to turn for his familiar friends to men like Tustin and Caskey. He had no doubt whatever that when he chose and when he had taught his bigoted old associates their lesson he could reassume the place in the community which as a true aristocrat he had occupied. For the time being, however, he was contented to show his independence of friendship and disapprobation by avoiding the club, the principal centre of both.
He had written his wife nothing of his new activity; a letter to her on such a subject would be too stupidly economic, and the explanation might better be delayed until he could see her. Besides he suspected that she would be distressed by the polemical character of the affair, and he wished to spare himself the irritation which he would feel if she indulged in hasty and unwarranted criticism. She had an unbecoming confidence in Floyd.
The reckoning, however, was not to be so easily deferred. Two days after the appearance of Stewart's second communication in the Eagle, he received a telegram from Lydia announcing that she was coming home at once and would arrive in Avalon late the next afternoon. Stewart was annoyed. She had taken the precaution to insert in the dispatch the words "All well," and therefore it could not be sudden illness, either of herself or of the baby, that was bringing her back to Avalon a month earlier than she had planned to come. It required no great subtlety of mind to guess the reason. Undoubtedly she had been reading, even in Chester, the Avalon Eagle.
Stewart loved his wife, and in spite of the disagreeable presumption that she was hastening home to rebuke him, he could not help viewing complacently the increased comfort and happiness that would be his after he had set her right with a few forbearing words. His enforced isolation had worn upon him, for his social instincts were strong and had been pampered. Consequently he was prepared to reply to Lydia's reproaches in a spirit of moderation, if not concession.
When he met her leaving the train, her behavior filled him with gratified surprise. The sweetness and radiance of the face that he stooped to kiss were unclouded by reproach; her first words, "See, Stewart, see how he's grown," as she caused him to bend over the baby in the nurse's arms, proceeded from a mind that was concerned with nothing outside of her own little family. When he asked her why she had decided to come home so abruptly, she answered,—
"I wanted to see you, Stewart; I thought it was about time you were needing me. Were n't you, really? I shall be disappointed if you say no."
He assured her of course that he was in the most desperate need of her. It was not until late that evening that Lydia touched gently upon the subject about which she had allayed suspicion. She said,—
"You've never written me about the plans; whether you got them done to your satisfaction. Friday's the last day, is n't it?"
"Yes. They've been handed in," Stewart answered. "They're done to my satisfaction;but not, I am sure, to the committee's."
"Ah, that's a pity; but we'll hope for the best anyway. Floyd seems to be having some trouble at his mills; do you suppose that will delay the award?"
"Probably not." Stewart glanced at her sharply. "He's shut his mills down; he ought to have more leisure—for all kinds of amateur dabbling."
There was a short interval of silence.
"You—you don't approve of the way Floyd's acting?" Lydia ventured. "I've seen the Eagle—but I did n't quite understand—"
"No, I don't approve," Stewart said warmly. "He's trying to coerce his men. What's he done? There was a fellow working there that none of the men would have anything to do with—that kind of a man—his fellow workmen would have nothing to do with him, mind you,—and Floyd, to provoke a row with the union, which he wants to put out of business, insults them by making this fellow a foreman. That seems a small affair, but it's only one of many. And when the men, whose patience was about exhausted, protested and showed signs of fight, Floyd calmly shuts down the works and announces he'll starve them out. What kind of treatment is that for a civilized employer to be giving his men?"
"It does n't seem like Floyd," Lydia said.
"Seem like him or not, that's what he's done."
"Well, even if it is—I could n't help being sorry, Stewart, that you felt it necessary to write about him as you did."
"It certainly was not a pleasure to me to write in that way. I wish with all my heart that it had been any one else but Floyd. But when you have followed the course of events and heard of them from men who have actually suffered because he has been infected with the extortionate, intolerant, rapacious greed of power that is epidemic in this town—you have to speak,—if you 're a man with a conscience. You've got to open the eyes of the people to the truth, you've got to awaken a sentiment that will prevent abuse of power. I knew what it would mean to me if I attacked Floyd. I counted the cost. It has been an expensive matter—as I expected it to be. I have lost the friendship of a great many men—I fear I have lost that of Floyd himself. If you think it took no courage and no self-sacrifice to face that result—"
"Oh, I'm not questioning your courage, dear, or even your self-sacrifice," Lydia interrupted. "But was—was it necessary for you—could n't you have left it to some one else—and—and perhaps Floyd has his side, too—"
"It was a matter of common humanity to put the facts before the public and awaken a feeling which should make a repetition of such methods impossible," declared Stewart. "I realized this, I felt the necessity; would you have had me be a coward and shirk so great a duty for personal reasons? As to Floyd having a defense—I did nothing, I wrote nothing without first making investigation. It is not Floyd that I am condemning—it is the spirit of absolutism which is so dangerous in this place and which he exemplifies. As for myself, I did not begin the crusade rashly. It is due to my inheritance, I suppose, that I must take up public responsibility when it is placed before me. My family, as far back as I can trace it, has always been identified with some public cause. The necessity for abandoning ourselves to the occasion when the occasion arises, no matter what the cost, seems to be in our blood—and I confess I am rather proud of it."
"I—smaller things mean more to me," said Lydia, somewhat sadly. "Is this affair of Floyd's a public cause, Stewart?"
"It is a manifestation of a tendency that is publicly dangerous—a tendency against which the people need to be educated. I don't mean to stop the work of education when this one trouble has been settled. I shall keep on—writing and speaking perhaps—advocating in every way I can a freer life, a greater consideration for workingmen, a more rigid check upon employers. The very fact that I am not of the workingmen's class, that I'm identified by all my associations with the employer's class, will give strength to my arguments. A man in my position is needed to lead in such a campaign. The subject is one that I've studied a long time.—You remember how interested I was in painting those pictures to show the misery of Labor? This work is only carrying on the same idea."
"But," said Lydia, bewildered, "architecture—your architecture, Stewart—"
"I shall probably keep on doing what I can. But, whether the buildings are ever built or not, I've done, in the Hospitals, my best work. I've got up to a height that I know, inside me, I can never rise above. Here is a new thing that is more important, that interests me beyond anything else; and I feel that I have a useful message to give; I don't see why the fact that I started in as an architect should prevent my uttering it. I've gone so far now that the people who build houses are n't likely any more to come to me as clients. I counted that in as part of the cost. I'm satisfied with what is ahead of me—satisfied and eager to be at it—and it's a greater work, if once it can be done, than building all the churches and hospitals in Avalon."
Lydia remained bewildered, unable to reply. She had come home prepared to deal with a far less comprehensive and humanitarian programme; this case was beyond her simple treatment. She could not approve, she could not believe, she could not sympathize in what Stewart so vaguely planned to do; but she knew not how to interfere. And as she sat wondering what should be a wife's course, a memory came to her unsummoned out of the distant past—of herself wantonly, gayly reaching out from a boat with an oar and pushing a confused swimmer down.
She remained silent.