“What have you done with your talents, Stanton?” he cried. “What have you done with your talents?”
The man in the overcoat struck the table before him with his fist so that the glasses rang.
“By God,” he laughed, “I call him a better speaker than Stanton! Livingstone’s right, he IS better than Stanton—but he lacks Stanton’s knack of making himself popular,” he added. He looked around the table inviting approbation with a smile, but no one noticed him, nor spoke to break the silence.
Arkwright heard the words dully and felt that he was being mocked. He covered his face with his hands and stood breathing brokenly; his body was still trembling with an excitement he could not master.
Stanton rose from his chair and shook him by the shoulder. “Are you mad, Arkwright?” he cried. “You have no right to insult my guests or me. Be calm—control yourself.”
“What does it matter what I say?” Arkwright went on desperately. “I am mad. Yes, that is it, I am mad. They have won and I have lost, and it drove me beside myself. I counted on you. I knew that no one else could let my people go. But I’ll not trouble you again. I wish you good-night, sir, and good-bye. If I have been unjust, you must forget it.”
He turned sharply, but Stanton placed a detaining hand on his shoulder. “Wait,” he commanded querulously; “where are you going? Will you, still—?”
Arkwright bowed his head. “Yes,” he answered. “I have but just time now to catch our train—my train, I mean.”
He looked up at Stanton and taking his hand in both of his, drew the man toward him. All the wildness and intolerance in his manner had passed, and as he raised his eyes they were full of a firm resolve.
“Come,” he said simply; “there is yet time. Leave these people behind you. What can you answer when they ask what have you done with your talents?”