Part 27 (1/2)
”Well, no, Jeffrey. I haven't heard him. There's rather a strong prejudice here against labour meetings. So Weedon very wisely talks to the men when he can get them alone.”
”Why wisely? Why do you say that?”
”Because we want to spread knowledge without rousing prejudice. Then there isn't so much to fight.”
”What kind of knowledge is Weedon Moore spreading? Tell me that.”
Her plain face glowed with the beauty of her aspiration.
”He is spreading the good tidings,” she said softly, ”good tidings of great joy.”
”Don't get on horseback, dear,” he said, inexorably, but fondly. ”I'm a plain chap, you know. I have to have plain talk. What are the tidings?”
She looked at him in a touched solemnity.
”Don't you know, Jeff,” she said, ”the working-man has been going on in misery all these centuries because he hasn't known his own power? It's like a man's dying of thirst and not guessing the water is just inside the rock and the rock is ready to break. He's only to look and there are the lines of cleavage.” She sought in the soft silk bag that was ever at her hand, took out paper and pen and jotted down a line.
”What are you writing there?” Jeffrey asked, with a certainty that it had something to do with Moore.
”What I just said,” she answered, with a perfect simplicity. ”About lines of cleavage. It's a good figure of speech, and it's something the men can understand.”
”For Moore? You're writing it for Moore?”
”Yes.” She slipped the pad into her bag.
”Amabel,” said he, helpless between inevitable irritation and tenderest love of her, ”you are a perfectly unspoiled piece of work from the hand of G.o.d Almighty. But if you're running with Weedon Moore, you're going to do an awful lot of harm.”
”I hope not, dear,” she said gravely, but with no understanding, he saw, that her pure intentions could lead her wrong.
”I've heard Weedon Moore talking to the men.”
She gave him a look of acute interest.
”Really, Jeff? Now, where?”
”The old circus-ground. I heard him. And he's pulling down, Amabel. He's destroying. He's giving those fellows an idea of this country that's going to make them hate it, trample it--” He paused as if the emotion that choked him made him the more impatient of what caused it.
”That's it,” said she, her own face settling into a mournful acquiescence. ”We've earned hate. We must accept it. Till we can turn it into love.”
”But he's preaching discontent.”
”Ah, Jeffrey,” said she, ”there's a n.o.ble discontent. Where should we be without it?”
He got up, and shook his head at her, smilingly, tenderly. She had made him feel old, and alien to this strange new day.
”You're impossible, dear,” said he, ”because you're so good. You've only to see right things to follow them and you believe everybody's the same.”
”But why not?” she asked him quickly. ”Am I to think myself better than they are?”
”Not better. Only more prepared. By generations of integrity. Think of that old boy up there.” He glanced affectionately at the judge, a friend since his childhood, when the painted eyes had followed him about the room and it had been a kind of game to try vainly to escape them. ”Take a mellow soil like your inheritance and the inheritance of a lot of 'em here in Addington. Plant kindness in it and decency and--”
”And love of man,” said Miss Amabel quietly.