"Oh, the general mess, the attacks in the press, complaints from stockholders! They want to get under cover, show the public they are cleaning house, I suppose. They thought to shelve me until the row fizzles out, then drop me. But I am not the sort of man to sit around as a willing sacrifice, to pose for the papers as a terrible example. They will know, to-morrow!"
Isabelle understood why he had consented to see the reporter. Hitherto, he had refused to speak, to make any public defence of himself or comment on the trial. But after this action on the part of the directors, after the long smouldering hours on the train, he had decided to speak,—at length. It would not be pleasant reading in certain quarters near Wall Street, what he said, but it would make good copy.
Biting fiercely at his cigar, which had gone out, he struck a match sharply and talked on:—
"I am not a back number yet. There is not another road in the country that has shown such results, such gain in traffic, as the A. and P. since I was put in charge of traffic five years ago. There are others who know it, too, in New York. I shan't have to twiddle my thumbs long when my resignation is published. The prejudiced trial out here won't stand in the way."
In the storm of his mood, it was useless to ask questions. Isabelle merely murmured:—
"Too bad, too bad,—I am so sorry, John!"
Instead of that dispassionate groping for the exact truth, justice between her husband and the public, that she had first desired, she was simply compassionate for his hurt pride. Innocent or guilty, what right had she to judge him? Even if the worst of what had been charged was literally true, had she not abandoned him at the start,—left him to meet the problems of the modern battle as he could,—to harden his soul against all large and generous considerations? Now when he was made the scapegoat for the sins of others, for the sin of his race, too,—how could she sit and censure! The time would come for calm consideration between them. There was that something in her heart which buoyed her above the present, above the distress of public condemnation,—even disgrace and worldly failure. Coming close to him again, she said with ringing conviction:—
"It can make no difference to you and me, John!"
He failed to see her meaning.
"The money doesn't matter,—it isn't that, of course. We shan't starve!"