Wolfe,while Deborah watched him,dug into the furnace of melting iron with his pole,dully thinking only how many rails the lump would yield.It was late,--nearly Sunday morning;another hour,and the heavy work would be done,only the furnaces to replenish and cover for the next day.The workmen were growing more noisy,shouting,as they had to do,to be heard over the deep clamor of the mills.Suddenly they grew less boisterous,--at the far end,entirely silent.Something unusual had happened.After a moment,the silence came nearer;the men stopped their jeers and drunken choruses.Deborah,stupidly lifting up her head,saw the cause of the quiet.Agroup of five or six men were slowly approaching,stopping to examine each furnace as they came.Visitors often came to see the mills after night:except by growing less noisy,the men took no notice of them.The furnace where Wolfe worked was near the bounds of the works;they halted there hot and tired:a walk over one of these great foundries is no trifling task.The woman,drawing out of sight,turned over to sleep.Wolfe,seeing them stop,suddenly roused from his indifferent stupor,and watched them keenly.He knew some of them:the overseer,Clarke,--a son of Kirby,one of the mill-owners,--and a Doctor May,one of the town-physicians.The other two were strangers.
Wolfe came closer.He seized eagerly every chance that brought him into contact with this mysterious class that shone down on him perpetually with the glamour of another order of being.
What made the difference between them?That was the mystery of his life.He had a vague notion that perhaps to-night he could find it out.One of the strangers sat down on a pile of bricks,and beckoned young Kirby to his side.
"This is hot,with a vengeance.A match,please?"--lighting his cigar."But the walk is worth the trouble.If it were not that you must have heard it so often,Kirby,I would tell you that your works look like Dante's Inferno."Kirby laughed.
"Yes.Yonder is Farinata himself in the burning tomb,"--pointing to some figure in the shimmering shadows.
"Judging from some of the faces of your men,"said the other,"they bid fair to try the reality of Dante's vision,some day."Young Kirby looked curiously around,as if seeing the faces of his hands for the first time.
"They're bad enough,that's true.A desperate set,I fancy.Eh,Clarke?"
The overseer did not hear him.He was talking of net profits just then,--giving,in fact,a schedule of the annual business of the firm to a sharp peering little Yankee,who jotted down notes on a paper laid on the crown of his hat:a reporter for one of the city-papers,getting up a series of reviews of the leading manufactories.The other gentlemen had accompanied them merely for amusement.They were silent until the notes were finished,drying their feet at the furnaces,and sheltering their faces from the intolerable heat.At last the overseer concluded with--"I believe that is a pretty fair estimate,Captain.""Here,some of you men!"said Kirby,"bring up those boards.We may as well sit down,gentlemen,until the rain is over.It cannot last much longer at this rate.""Pig-metal,"--mumbled the reporter,--"um!coal facilities,--um!hands employed,twelve hundred,--bitumen,--um!--all right,Ibelieve,Mr.Clarke;--sinking-fund,--what did you say was your sinking-fund?""Twelve hundred hands?"said the stranger,the young man who had first spoken."Do you control their votes,Kirby?""Control?No."The young man smiled complacently."But my father brought seven hundred votes to the polls for his candidate last November.No force-work,you understand,--only a speech or two,a hint to form themselves into a society,and a bit of red and blue bunting to make them a flag.The Invincible Roughs,--I believe that is their name.I forget the motto:'Our country's hope,'I think."There was a laugh.The young man talking to Kirby sat with an amused light in his cool gray eye,surveying critically the half-clothed figures of the puddlers,and the slow swing of their brawny muscles.He was a stranger in the city,--spending a couple of months in the borders of a Slave State,to study the institutions of the South,--a brother-in-law of Kirby's,--Mitchell.He was an ******* gymnast,--hence his anatomical eye;a patron,in a blase'way,of the prize-ring;a man who sucked the essence out of a science or philosophy in an indifferent,gentlemanly way;who took Kant,Novalis,Humboldt,for what they were worth in his own scales;accepting all,despising nothing,in heaven,earth,or hell,but one-idead men;with a temper yielding and brilliant as summer water,until his Self was touched,when it was ice,though brilliant still.Such men are not rare in the States.
As he knocked the ashes from his cigar,Wolfe caught with a quick pleasure the contour of the white hand,the blood-glow of a red ring he wore.His voice,too,and that of Kirby's,touched him like music,--low,even,with chording cadences.
About this man Mitchell hung the impalpable atmosphere belonging to the thoroughbred gentleman,Wolfe,scraping away the ashes beside him,was conscious of it,did obeisance to it with his artist sense,unconscious that he did so.
The rain did not cease.Clarke and the reporter left the mills;the others,comfortably seated near the furnace,lingered,smoking and talking in a desultory way.Greek would not have been more unintelligible to the furnace-tenders,whose presence they soon forgot entirely.Kirby drew out a newspaper from his pocket and read aloud some article,which they discussed eagerly.At every sentence,Wolfe listened more and more like a dumb,hopeless animal,with a duller,more stolid look creeping over his face,glancing now and then at Mitchell,marking acutely every smallest sign of refinement,then back to himself,seeing as in a mirror his filthy body,his more stained soul.
