So Tracy went home to supper.The odors in that supper room seemed more strenuous and more horrible than ever before, and he was happy in the thought that he was so soon to be free from them again.When the supper was over he hardly knew whether he had eaten any of it or not, and he certainly hadn't heard any of the conversation.His heart had been dancing all the time, his thoughts had been faraway from these things, and in the visions of his mind the sumptuous appointments of his father's castle had risen before him without rebuke.Even the plushed flunkey, that walking symbol of a sham inequality, had not been unpleasant to his dreaming view.After the meal Barrow said, "Come with me.I'll give you a jolly evening.""Very good.Where are you going?"
"To my club."
"What club is that?"
"Mechanics' Debating Club."
Tracy shuddered, slightly.He didn't say anything about having visited that place himself.Somehow he didn't quite relish the memory of that time.The sentiments which had made his former visit there so enjoyable, and filled him with such enthusiasm, had undergone a gradual change, and they had rotted away to such a degree that he couldn't contemplate another visit there with anything strongly resembling delight.In fact he was a little ashamed to go; he didn't want to go there and find out by the rude impact of the thought of those people upon his reorganized condition of mind, how sharp the change had been.He would have preferred to stay away.He expected that now he should hear nothing except sentiments which would be a reproach to him in his changed mental attitude, and he rather wished he might be excused.And yet he didn't quite want to say that, he didn't want to show how he did feel, or show any disinclination to go, and so he forced himself to go along with Barrow, privately purposing to take an early opportunity to get away.
After the essayist of the evening had read his paper, the chairman announced that the debate would now be upon the subject of the previous meeting, "The American Press." It saddened the backsliding disciple to hear this announcement.It brought up too many reminiscences.He wished he had happened upon some other subject.But the debate began, and he sat still and listened.
In the course of the discussion one of the speakers--a blacksmith named Tompkins--arraigned all monarchs and all lords in the earth for their cold selfishness in retaining their unearned dignities.He said that no monarch and no son of a monarch, no lord and no son of a lord ought to be able to look his fellow man in the face without shame.Shame for consenting to keep his unearned titles, property, and privileges--at the expense of other people; shame for consenting to remain, on any terms, in dishonourable possession of these things, which represented bygone robberies and wrongs inflicted upon the general people of the nation.
He said, "if there were a laid or the son of a lord here, I would like to reason with him, and try to show him how unfair and how selfish his position is.I would try to persuade him to relinquish it, take his place among men on equal terms, earn the bread he eats, and hold of slight value all deference paid him because of artificial position, all reverence not the just due of his own personal merits."Tracy seemed to be listening to utterances of his own made in talks with his radical friends in England.It was as if some eavesdropping phonograph had treasured up his words and brought them across the Atlantic to accuse him with them in the hour of his defection and retreat.Every word spoken by this stranger seemed to leave a blister on Tracy's conscience, and by the time the speech was finished he felt that he was all conscience and one blister.This man's deep compassion for the enslaved and oppressed millions in Europe who had to bear with the contempt of that small class above them, throned upon shining heights whose paths were shut against them, was the very thing he had often uttered himself.The pity in this man's voice and words was the very twin of the pity that used to reside in his own heart and come from his own lips when he thought of these oppressed peoples.
The homeward tramp was accomplished in brooding silence.It was a silence most grateful to Tracy's feelings.He wouldn't have broken it for anything; for he was ashamed of himself all the way through to his spine.He kept saying to himself:
"How unanswerable it all is--how absolutely unanswerable! It is basely, degradingly selfish to keep those ,unearned honors, and--and--oh, hang it, nobody but a cur--'
"What an idiotic damned speech that Tompkins made!
This outburst was from Barrow.It flooded Tracy's demoralized soul with waters of refreshment.These were the darlingest words the poor vacillating young apostate had ever heard--for they whitewashed his shame for him, and that is a good service to have when you can't get the best of all verdicts, self-acquittal.
"Come up to my room and smoke a pipe, Tracy."Tracy had been expecting this invitation, and had had his declination all ready: but he was glad enough to accept, now.Was it possible that a reasonable argument could be made against that man's desolating speech?
He was burning to hear Barrow try it.He knew how to start him, and keep him going: it was to seem to combat his positions--a process effective with most people.
"What is it you object to in Tompkins's speech, Barrow?""Oh, the leaving out of the factor of human nature; requiring another man to do what you wouldn't do yourself.""Do you mean--"