Part 14 (2/2)
”The same kind of cordiality that you would show to the cottagers?”
”I suppose that I should feel that I had more in common with the cottagers. We should be interested in the same things, and we should probably know the same people and have more to talk about--”
”You would both belong to the same cla.s.s, and that tells the whole story.
If you were out West, and the owner of one of those big twenty-thousand-acre farms called on you with his wife, would you act toward them as you would toward our natives? You wouldn't. You would all be rich people together, and you would understand one another because you had money.”
”Now, that is not so,” Mrs. Makely interrupted. ”There are plenty of rich people one wouldn't wish to know at all, and who really can't get into society--who are ignorant and vulgar. And then, when you come to money, I don't see but what country people are as glad to get it as anybody.”
”Oh, gladder,” said the young man.
”Well?” demanded Mrs. Makely, as if this were a final stroke of logic. The young man did not reply, and Mrs. Makely continued: ”Now I will appeal to your sister to say whether she has ever seen any difference in my manner toward her from what I show to all the young ladies in the hotel.” The young girl flushed and seemed reluctant to answer. ”Why, Lizzie!” cried Mrs. Makely, and her tone showed that she was really hurt.
The scene appeared to me rather cruel, and I glanced at Mrs. Camp with an expectation that she would say something to relieve it. But she did not.
Her large, benevolent face expressed only a quiet interest in the discussion.
”You know very well, Mrs. Makely,” said the girl, ”you don't regard me as you do the young ladies in the hotel.”
There was no resentment in her voice or look, but only a sort of regret, as if, but for this grievance, she could have loved the woman from whom she had probably had much kindness. The tears came into Mrs. Makely's eyes, and she turned toward Mrs. Camp. ”And is this the way you _all_ feel toward us?” she asked.
”Why shouldn't we?” asked the invalid, in her turn. ”But, no, it isn't the way all the country people feel. Many of them feel as you would like to have them feel; but that is because they do not think. When they think, they feel as we do. But I don't blame you. You can't help yourselves any more than we can. We're all bound up together in that, at least.”
At this apparent relenting Mrs. Makely tricked her beams a little, and said, plaintively, as if offering herself for further condolence: ”Yes, that is what that woman at the little shanty back there said: some have to be rich, and some have to be poor; it takes all kinds to make a world.”
”How would you like to be one of those that have to be poor?” asked young Camp, with an evil grin.
”I don't know,” said Mrs. Makely, with unexpected spirit; ”but I am sure that I should respect the feelings of all, rich or poor.”
”I am sorry if we have hurt yours, Mrs. Makely,” said Mrs. Camp, with dignity. ”You asked us certain questions, and we thought you wished us to reply truthfully. We could not answer you with smooth things.”
”But sometimes you do,” said Mrs. Makely, and the tears stood in her eyes again. ”And you know how fond I am of you all!”
Mrs. Camp wore a bewildered look. ”Perhaps we have said more than we ought. But I couldn't help it, and I don't see how the children could, when you asked them here, before Mr. h.o.m.os.”
I glanced at the Altrurian, sitting attentive and silent, and a sudden misgiving crossed my mind concerning him. Was he really a man, a human ent.i.ty, a personality like ourselves, or was he merely a sort of spiritual solvent, sent for the moment to precipitate whatever sincerity there was in us, and show us what the truth was concerning our relations to one another? It was a fantastic conception, but I thought it was one that I might employ in some sort of purely romantic design, and I was professionally grateful for it. I said, with a humorous gayety: ”Yes, we all seem to have been compelled to be much more honest than we like; and if Mr. h.o.m.os is going to write an account of his travels when he gets home, he can't accuse us of hypocrisy, at any rate. And I always used to think it was one of our virtues! What with Mr. Camp, here, and my friend the banker at the hotel, I don't think he'll have much reason to complain even of our reticence.”
”Well, whatever he says of us,” sighed Mrs. Makely, with a pious glance at the sword over the bed, ”he will have to say that, in spite of our divisions and cla.s.ses, we are all Americans, and, if we haven't the same opinions and ideas on minor matters, we all have the same country.”
”I don't know about that,” came from Reuben Camp, with shocking promptness. ”I don't believe we all have the same country. America is one thing for you, and it's quite another thing for us. America means ease and comfort and amus.e.m.e.nt for you, year in and year out, and if it means work, it's work that you _wish_ to do. For us, America means work that we _have_ to do, and hard work all the time if we're going to make both ends meet.
It means liberty for you; but what liberty has a man got who doesn't know where his next meal is coming from? Once I was in a strike, when I was working on the railroad, and I've seen men come and give up their liberty for a chance to earn their family's living. They knew they were right, and that they ought to have stood up for their rights; but they had to lie down and lick the hand that fed them. Yes, we are all Americans, but I guess we haven't all got the same country, Mrs. Makely. What sort of a country has a blacklisted man got?”
”A blacklisted man?” she repeated. ”I don't know what you mean.”
”Well, a kind of man I've seen in the mill towns, that the bosses have all got on their books as a man that isn't to be given work on any account; that's to be punished with hunger and cold, and turned into the street, for having offended them; and that's to be made to suffer through his helpless family for having offended them.”
”Excuse me, Mr. Camp,” I interposed, ”but isn't a blacklisted man usually a man who has made himself prominent in some labor trouble?”
”Yes,” the young fellow answered, without seeming sensible of the point I had made.
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