Эптон Синклер - Oil!

Bunny heard that question—more dangerous than any bomb ever made by a Devil’s Deputy! He groped in his bewildered mind for something to say—“Miss Menzies is a Socialist, like me”—anything of that playful sort; but before he could get his tongue to move, Rachel had answered, swift and deadly, “I think it’s the most poisonous thing I ever saw on the screen.”

There was no mistaking that for shyness, or anything else. And Viola Tracy stared at this amazing creature. “Oh, indeed, Miss!”

“Yes, and people who helped to make it will someday have on their conscience the blood of millions of young men.”

Bunny broke in, “You see, Vee—”

But she put out her hand to stop him. “Wait! I want to know what you mean!”

“I mean that this picture is part of the propaganda to get us into a war with Russia, and a woman that lends herself to such work is a disgrace to her sex.”

Vee glared, and fury leaped into her face. “You bitch!” she cried, and her hand shot out, and smack! she landed a blow across Rachel’s cheek.

For one horrible moment Bunny stood numb; he saw the red start to Rachel’s face, and the tears start to her eyes; then he sprang between them, and caught Vee’s hand to stop another blow. “No, Vee, no!” A burly policeman completed the job of blocking the way between the two antagonists, and Rachel faded back into the crowd—something it was easy enough to do, since everybody was pushing to the front. In the confusion Bunny became aware of one hideous thing—a young man jabbing at them and demanding, “What is it? What is the matter? What happened, Miss Tracy? What was the trouble, officer?” Bunny whispered into Vee’s ear, “Quick! It’s a reporter!” He grasped her arm, and they fled through the crowd.

Sitting in their car, with Bunny driving, Vee whispered, “Who is that woman?”

“Her family are Jewish clothing workers. Her father’s the man who got arrested—don’t you remember I told you?”

“Oh! That girl!”

“Yes. You see, you stepped on her class-consciousness.”

Vee’s teeth were clenched. “Oh, the odious creature!”

“But Vee! Don’t forget you asked her what she thought.”

“Oh, so insolent! Outrageous!”

“But dear, you take the liberty of saying what you think. Don’t you grant her the same right?”

“Bunny! You are going to defend her!” And before he could reply, she cried, in a voice of fury, “I hate those people, I hate them! They’re nasty, they’re low, they’re jealous—they haven’t an idea but to take away things from people who’ve slaved to earn them.”

There was a long silence. Bunny drove; and when Vee spoke again, it was to ask, “Where are you going?”

“Don’t forget the Schmolsky’s supper party.”

“No, I won’t go to any supper party, it would choke me. Take me home—right away.”

He obeyed; and when she was in the bungalow, she fled to her room. He followed, and found the ermine cloak on the floor, and Vee in a heap on the bed, without regard to the costliest of embroidered silk gowns. She was convulsed with sobbing, and he made out the words, “It’s going to ruin us!”

Suddenly she sat up, blinded by her tears, and stretched out her arms. “Oh, Bunny, Bunny, don’t let’s have our love killed! Don’t let’s quarrel like all the others! Bunny, I don’t care about those people, they can say anything they please to me, I’ll never mind again! I’ll apologize to that girl, I’ll let her walk on me, I’ll do anything you say! But oh, please don’t let’s stop loving each other!”

It was the first time he had ever seen Vee break down; and of course it always produces a great impression upon the protective male. He took her in his arms, tears and all, without regard to the costliest of broadcloth evening suits. Their love flamed up, and their troubles were melted in the fire, and they swore that nothing, nothing should ever, ever tear them apart.

Long afterwards, as they lay in each other’s arms, Vee whispered, “Bunny, that girl is in love with you!”

“Oh, absurd, Vee!”

“Why do you say so?”

“She’s never given the least sign of such a thing.”

“How would you know a sign?”

“But dear—”

“Of course she’s in love with you! How could anybody fail to be in love with you, Bunny?”

It was not worth while to try to argue. It appeared to be a peculiarity of women, they were always sure that all other women were in love with their man. When he had told Vee about Henrietta Ashleigh, she had been sure that Henrietta was desperately enamored, and that only her pride of caste had kept her from trying to hold him. Likewise, when he told her about Ruth, she was sure this poor country lass was pining her heart out. That was the reason she was so indifferent to the charms of oil-workers, and not because she was wrapped up in Paul. Sisters didn’t make so much fuss over brothers—no, that was rubbish! Bunny remembered that Bertie said this same thing; and strangely enough, Eunice Hoyt had said it also—it had been one reason why she hated to have him go up to Paradise. Bunny decided that it was better not to tell women about one another; and especially not to introduce them, if it could possibly be avoided!

Morning came, and the newspapers were outside the door of their room. Sitting up in bed in silken garments they devoured—no, not the elaborate accounts of the world premiere with details of the gowns worn by the women—that would come later. First, their eyes leaped to the headline:

STAR SLAPS RIVAL IN LOBBY

There it was! The reporter, having been unable to get the real story, had made the inevitable romantic assumption. Another triangle of the screen world! He had written a highly playful article about the world-famous star, emerging in the hour of her glory upon the arm of the young oil prince—about whom so many interesting rumors were being circulated. Seeing him leave her side and join some other woman, the star had rushed over in a fit of jealous fury and smacked the other woman in the face. There was an interview with Officer Tony Reber of the Angel City police department, who had stepped between the enfuriated combatants. The star had called her rival an awful name, which the officer’s modesty would not permit him to repeat. “But I’ll say this,” he told the world, “she certainly packs an awful punch, that lady. If I was to hit anybody as hard as that I would sure get canned.”

XVI

Bunny met the other combatant on the campus that same day, and her face was pale and her dark eyes sombre. “Mr. Ross,” she began, quickly, “I want to tell you I’m ashamed for what I said.”

“You don’t have to be ashamed,” he replied. “It was true.”

“I know, but I had no right to say it to a friend of yours, and after all you have done for me. It was just that I was so wrought up over that picture.”

“I understand,” Bunny said. “Miss Tracy wishes me to tell you she is truly sorry for what she did.”

“I know, you’d make her sorry. But I don’t care about that—we Jews have been struck many times, and we workers also, and there’ll be more of it before the class war is over. The real harm is one she can never atone for—that hideous picture that’s going out to poison the people’s minds—millions upon millions of them. For that she can never apologize.”

It was an aspect of the matter that had somehow fallen into the background of Bunny’s consciousness during all the excitement. “I’ve nothing good to say about the picture,” he replied, “but I think you must make allowances for Miss Tracy. She doesn’t know as much about Russia as you and I.”

“You mean she doesn’t know there were hideous cruelties in old Russia—that the Tsardom was another word for terror?”