Tuesday evening was one of those marvellously clear atmospheres of
autumn which seem to be clearer from the contrast to the mists of
the recent summer. The stars swarmed out in unnumbered hosts.
"Seems to me I never saw so many stars," one would say to another.
The air had the sharp cleave of the frost in it. Everything was
glittering with a white rime--the house roofs, and the levels of
fields on the outskirts of the little city.
Ellen had an errand down-town that evening, and she wrapped herself
up warmly, putting on a fur collar which she had not worn since the
winter before. She felt strangely nervous and disturbed as she set
out.
"Don't you want your father to go with you?" asked Fanny, for in
some occult fashion the girl's perturbation seemed to be
communicated to her. She followed her to the door.
"Seems kind of lonesome for you to go alone," she said, anxiously.
"As if I minded! Why, it is as bright as day with the
electric-lights, and there are houses almost all the way," laughed
Ellen.
"Your father could go with you, or he could go for you."
"No, he couldn't go for me. I want to get one of the new catalogues
at the library and pick out a book, and there is no sense in
dragging father out. He has a cold, too. Why, there is nothing in
the world to be afraid of, mother."
"Well, don't be any longer than you can help," said Fanny.
Ellen, as she passed her grandmother's house, saw a curtain drawn
with a quick motion. That happened nearly every time she passed. She
knew that the old woman was always on the lookout for her, and
always bent on concealing it. Mrs. Zelotes never went into her son's
house, and never spoke to Ellen in those days. She had aged rapidly
during the past year, and even her erect carriage had failed her.
She stooped rigidly when she walked. She was fairly racked with love
and hatred of Ellen. She adored her, she could have kissed the
ground she walked on, and yet she was so full of wrath against her
for thwarting her hopes for her own advancement that she was
conscious of cruel impulses in her direction.
Ellen walked along rapidly under the vast canopy of stars, about
which she presently began to have a singular impression. She felt as
if they were being augmented, swelled as if by constantly oncoming
legions of light from the space beyond space, and as if her little
space of individuality, her tiny foothold of creation, was being
constantly narrowed by them.
"I never saw so many stars," she said to herself. She looked with
wonder at the Milky Way, which was like a zone of diamond dust.
Suddenly a mighty conviction of God, which was like the blazing
forth of a new star, was in her soul. Ellen was not in a sense
religious, and had never united with the Congregational Church,
which she had always attended with her parents; she had never been
responsive to efforts made towards her so-called conversion, but all
at once, under the stars that night, she told herself with an
absolute certainty of the truth of it. "There is something beyond
everything, beyond the stars, and beyond all poor men, and beyond
me, which is enough for all needs. We shall have our portion in the
end."
She had been feeling discouraged lately, although she would not own
it even to herself. She saw Robert but seldom, and her aunt was no
better. She often wondered if there could be anything before her but
that one track of drudgery for daily bread upon which she had set
out. She wondered if she ought not to say positively to Robert that
there must be no thought of anything between them in the future. She
wondered if she were not wronging him. Once or twice she had seen
him riding with Miss Hemingway, and thought that, after all, that
was a girl better suited to him, and perhaps if he had no hope
whatever of her he might turn to the other to his own advantage. But
to-night, with the clear stimulus of the frost in her lungs, and her
eyes and soul dazzled with the multiplicity of stars, she began to
have a great impetus of courage, like a soldier on the morning of
battle. She felt as if she could fight for her joy and the joy of
others, and victory would in the end be certain; that the chances of
victory ran to infinity, and could not be measured.
However, all the while, in spite of her stimulation of spirits,
there was that vague sense of excitement, as over some impending
crisis. That she could not throw off. Suddenly she found herself
searching the road ahead of her, and often turning at the fancied
sound of a footstep. She began to wish that her father had come with
her; then she told herself how foolish she was, for he had a cold,
and this keen air would have been sure to give him more. The
electric-car passed her, and she had a grateful sense of
companionship. She looked after its diminishing light in the
distance, and almost wished that she had stopped it, but car-fares
had to be counted carefully.
She began to dread unspeakably passing the factories. She told
herself that there was no sense in it, that it was not late, that
the electric-light made it like high noon, that there was a watchman
in each building, that there was nothing whatever to fear; but it
was in vain. It was only by a great effort of her will that she did
not turn and go back home when she reached Lloyd's.
Lloyd's came first; then, a few rods farther, on the other side of
the street, McGuire's, and then Briggs's.
Ellen had a library book under her arm, and she clutched her
dress-skirt firmly. A terror as to the supernatural was stealing
over her. She felt as she had when waking in the night from some
dreadful dream, though all the time she was dinning in her ears how
foolish she was. She saw the lantern of the night-watchman in
Lloyd's moving down a stair which crossed a window.
She came opposite Lloyd's, and, just as she did so, saw a dark
figure descending the right-hand flight of stairs from the entrance
platform. She thought, from something in the carriage, that it was
Mr. Lloyd, and hung back a little, reflecting that she would keep
behind him all the way to town.
The man reached the ground at the foot of the stairs, then there was
a flash of fire from the shadow underneath, and a shot rang out.
Ellen did what she could never have counted upon herself for doing.
She ran straight towards the man, who had fallen prostrate like a
log, and was down on the ground beside him, with his head on her
lap, shouting for the night-watchman, whose name was McLaughlin.
"McLaughlin!" she shouted. But there was no need of it, for he had
heard the shot. The cry had not left Ellen's lips before she was
surrounded by men, one of whom was Granville Joy, one was Dixon, and
one was John Sargent.
Joy and Sargent had met down-town, and were walking home together,
when the shot rang out, and they had rushed forward. Then there was
McLaughlin, the watchman of Lloyd's, and the two watchmen from
Briggs's and McGuire's came pelting down their stairs, swinging
their lanterns.
They all stood around the wounded man and Ellen, and stared for a
second. They were half stupefied.
"My God! this is a bad job," said Dixon.
"Go for a doctor," cried Ellen, hoarsely.
"We're a pack of fools," ejaculated Sargent, suddenly. Then he gave
Granville Joy a push on the back. "Run for your life for the first
doctor," he cried, and was down on his knees beside the wounded man.
Lloyd seemed to be quite insensible. There was a dark spot which was
constantly widening in a hideous circle of death on his shirt-front
when Sargent opened his coat and vest tenderly.
"Is he--" whispered Ellen. She held one of Lloyd's hands in a firm
clutch as if she would in such wise hold him to life.
"No, not yet," whispered Sargent. Dixon knelt down on the other
side, and took Lloyd's other hand and felt his pulse. McLaughlin was
rushing aimlessly up and down, talking as he went.
"I never heard a thing till that shot came," he kept repeating.
"He'd jest been in to get his pocketbook he'd left in the office. I
never heard a thing till I heard that shot."
Sargent was opening Lloyd's shirt. "McLaughlin, for God's sake stop
talking and run for another doctor, in case Joy does not get one at
once," he cried; "then go to his house, and tell young Lloyd, but
don't say anything to his wife."
"Poor Mrs. Lloyd," whispered Ellen.
The sick man sighed audibly. It seemed as if he had heard. The other
watchmen stood looking on helplessly.
"Why in thunder don't you two scatter, and see if you can't catch
him," cried Dixon to them. "He can't be far off."
But the words had no sooner left his mouth than up came a great
Swede who was one of the workmen in Lloyd's, and he had Nahum Beals
in a grasp as imperturbable as fate. The assassin, even with the
strength of his fury of fanaticism, was as a reed in the grasp of
this Northern giant. The Swede held him easily, walking him before
him in a forced march. He had a hand of Nahum's in each of his, and
he compelled Nahum's right hand to retain the hold of the discharged
pistol. There was something terrible about the Swede as he drew
near, a captor as unyielding and pitiless as justice itself. He was
even smiling with a smile which showed his gums from ear to ear, but
there was no joy in his smile, and no triumph. His blue eyes
surveyed them all with the placid content of achievement.
"I have him," he said. "I heard him shoot, and I heard him run, and
I stood still until he ran into my arms. I have him."
Nahum, in the grasp of this fate, was quivering from head to foot,
but not from fear.
"Is he dead?" he shouted, eagerly.
"Hush up, you murderer," cried Dixon. "We didn't want any such work
as this, damn you. Keep fast hold of him, Olfsen."
"I will keep him fast," replied the Swede, smiling.
Then there was a swift clatter of wheels, and two doctors drove up,
and men came running. The space in front of Lloyd's was black with
men. Robert Lloyd was among them. Granville Joy had met him on the
street.
"You'd better go down to the factory, quick," he had said, hoarsely.
"There's trouble there; your uncle--"
Robert pushed through the crowd, which made way respectfully for
him. He knelt down beside the wounded man. "Is he--" he whispered to
Sargent.
"Not yet," whispered Sargent, "but I'm afraid it's pretty bad."
"You here?" Robert said to Ellen.
"Yes," she answered, "I was passing when I heard the shot."
"See here," said Robert, "I don't know but I am asking a good deal,
but will you get into Dr. James's buggy, and let his man drive you
to my aunt's, and you break it to her? She likes you. I must stay
with him. I don't want her to know it first when he is brought
home."
"Yes, that will be the best way," said the other physician, who was
the one regularly employed by the Lloyds. "Some one must tell her
first, and if she knows this young lady--"
"I will go," said Ellen.
Dr. Story whispered something to Ellen as she was getting into the
buggy. Then Dr. James's man drove her away down the street.
There was a little black mare harnessed to the buggy, and she went
with nervous leaps of speed. When Ellen reached the Lloyd house she
saw that it was blazing with light. Norman Lloyd was fond of
brilliant light, and would have every room in his house illuminated
from garret to cellar.
As Ellen went up the stone steps she saw a woman's figure in the
room at the right, which moved to an attitude of attention when she
rang the bell.
Before Ellen could inquire for Mrs. Lloyd of the maid who answered
her ring there was a shrill cry from the room on the right.
"Who is it? Who is it?" demanded the voice.
Then, before Ellen could speak, Mrs. Lloyd came running out.
"What is it?" she said. "Tell me quick. I know something has
happened. Tell me quick. You came in Dr. James's buggy, and the man
was driving fast. Tell me."
"Oh, Mrs. Lloyd," said Ellen. Then she could say no more, but the
other woman knew.
"Is he dead?" she asked, hoarsely.
"Oh, no, no, not dead."
"Hurt?"
Ellen nodded, trembling.
"How?"
"He was shot."
"Who shot him?"
"One of the workmen. They have him. Carl Olfsen found him."
"One of the workmen, when he has always been so good!"
Suddenly Mrs. Lloyd seemed to gather herself together into the
strength of action.
"Are they bringing him home?" she asked Ellen, in a sharp, decisive
voice.
"I think they must be by this time."
"Then I've got to get ready for him. Come, quick."
There was by that time a man and two women servants standing near
them, aghast. Mrs. Lloyd turned to the man.
"Go down to the drug-store and get some brandy, there isn't any in
the house," said she; "then come back as quick as you can. Maggie,
you see that there is plenty of hot water. Martha, you and Ellen
come up-stairs with me, quick."
Ellen followed Mrs. Lloyd and the maid up-stairs, and, before she
knew what she was doing, was assisting to put the room in perfect
readiness for the wounded man. The maid was weeping all the time she
worked, although she had never liked Mr. Lloyd. There was something
about her mistress which was fairly abnormal. She kept looking at
her. This gentle, soft-natured woman had risen above her own pain
and grief to a sublime strength of misery.
"Get the camphor, quick, Martha," she said to the maid, who flew
out, with the tears streaming. Ellen stood on one side of the bed,
and Mrs. Lloyd on the other. Mrs. Lloyd had stripped off the
blankets, and was pinning the sheet tightly over the mattress. She
seemed to know instinctively what to do.
"I wish you would bring that basin over here, and put it on the
stand," said Mrs. Lloyd. "Martha, you fetch more towels, and,
Maggie, you run up garret and bring down some of those old sheets
from the trunk under the window, quick."
This maid, who was as large and as ample as her mistress, fled out
of the room with heavy, noiseless pads of flat feet.
All the time Mrs. Lloyd worked she was evidently listening. She paid
no attention to Ellen except to direct her. All at once she gave a
great leap and stood still.
"They're coming," said she, though Ellen had heard nothing. Ellen
went close to her, and took her two fat, cold hands. She could say
nothing. Then she heard the roll of carriage-wheels in the street
below.
Mrs. Lloyd pulled her hands away from Ellen's and went to the head
of the stairs.
"Bring him right up here," she ordered, in a loud voice.
Ellen stood back, and the struggling procession with the prostrate
man in the midst labored up the broad stairs.
"Bring him in here," said Mrs. Lloyd, "and lay him on the bed."
When Lloyd was stretched on the bed, the crowd drew back a little,
and she bent over him.
Then she turned with a sort of fierceness to the doctors.
"Why don't you do something?" she demanded. She raised a hand with a
repellant gesture towards the other men.
"You had better go now," said she. "I thank you very much. If there
is anything you can do, I will let you know."
When Mrs. Lloyd was left with the two doctors and a young assistant,
Robert, and Ellen, she said, cutting her words short as if she
released every one from a mental grip:
"I have got everything ready. Shall I go out now?"
"I think you had better, Mrs. Lloyd," said the family physician,
pityingly. He went close to Ellen.
"Can't you stay with her a little while?" he whispered.
Ellen nodded.
Then the physician spoke quite loudly and cheerfully to Mrs. Lloyd.
"We are going to probe for the ball," he said. "We must all hope for
the best, Mrs. Lloyd."
Mrs. Lloyd made no reply. She bent again over her husband with a
rigid face, and kissed him on his white lips, then she went out,
with Ellen following.
Norman Lloyd lived only two hours after he was shot. The efforts to
remove the ball had to be abandoned. He was conscious only a few
minutes. He suddenly began to look about him with comprehension.
"Robert," he said, in a far-away voice.
Robert stooped closely over his uncle. The dying man looked up at
him with an expression which he had never worn in life.
"That man was insane," whispered he, faintly. Then he added, "Look
out for her, if she has to go through the operation. Take care of
her. Make it as easy for her as you can."
"Then you know, Uncle Norman," gasped Robert.
"All the time, but it--pleased her to think I--did not. Don't let
her know I knew. Take care--"
Then Norman Lloyd relapsed into unconsciousness, and the whole room
and the whole house became clamorous with his stertorous breathing.
Mrs. Lloyd and Ellen came and stood in the doorway. The doctor
whispered to them. Then the breathing ceased, although at first it
was inconceivable that the silence did not continue to ring with it,
and Mrs. Lloyd came into the room.