“He don’t think so,” answered Barefoot. “He wants to be in the movement, and may rise to be a leader some day. They socialists are as ambitious as anybody at heart.”
Harold and Miss Finch, weary of the subject, slowed their gait, fell back, and presently turned to their own affairs. Then a trap passed, driven by Mr. Tom Dolbear, from Priory Farm. He had brought his sister and Medora to the lecture, and was now taking them home again. With them travelled Mr. Knox.
The farmer alone found no good word for the things they had listened to.
“Just the gift of the gab,” he said. “If you can talk easy, you’re tempted to do so, at the expense of work.”
“Talking is working when you’re out for a cause,” explained Knox. “Kellock’s not a talker in the way we are. In fact, a very silent man, and thinks a great deal more than he talks; but with practice and a bit of exercise to strengthen his voice, he’d be as good as any of the talking brigade; and though you may not agree with him, you can’t deny he’s got the faith to move mountains. He’s preaching a gospel that Labour’s perfectly ready and willing to hear, and he’ll be an easy winner presently, because it’s half the battle won to tell people the things they’ll welcome. Everybody was with him from the start, and the harder he hit, the better they liked it.”
“I didn’t think Totnes had gone so radical now-a-days,” said Mrs. Trivett.
“More it has,” declared Mr. Dolbear. “That wasn’t Totnes. ’Twas no more than a handful of discontented people, who don’t know what they want.”
“Make no mistake as to that,” answered Knox. “The brains of Totnes was there—the thinking ones that ain’t satisfied; and they do know what they want very well indeed; and Kellock’s talk only said what the others feel. He’s got a gift in my opinion, and I’m with him more than half the way. If you allow for ignorance and impatience of youth, and so on—if you grant all that, there’s still enough left to make a reputation. He’ll never be a happy man, but he’ll make his mark and have the satisfaction of being somebody in the labour world. He’s got the touch.”
Medora considered curiously with herself under the night. Her own changed attitude surprised her most. She had heard the applause and riot that greeted Jordan’s speech. She had seen him stand there, self-contained and strong and successful, before three hundred people. She had marked his power to impress them, and awaken enthusiasm. She had seen older men than himself lifted to excitement by his speech. She had noted how many men and women pressed forward to shake hands with him when he had finished. She remembered the chairman’s praise. All these things had actually filled her dreams of old. She had prophesied to him that such events would some day happen, and that his power must become known, given the opportunity. And now, far sooner than either had expected such a thing, it had come and justified Medora’s prophecies. She wondered whether Kellock was remembering all she had foretold. As for herself, she looked at him now as at a picture that hung in somebody else’s parlour. She witnessed the sunrise of his first triumph, but found herself perfectly indifferent and not desirous of one ray of reflected light. Her mind had passed from Kellock to other interests, and if she were ever to be a contented woman, it would not be Kellock who achieved that consummation.
“Jordan was to attend a meeting of his branch after the lecture,” she said to Knox. “I expect after such a success as that, they’ll want him to give the lecture somewhere else.”