LOVE VERSUS LAW
On the day following the conference with the bishop the rector of
Christ Church called at Philip Westgate’s office. He did not seek a
quarrel, but he did seek an explanation. He was not one to sit quietly
or fearfully under insinuations which might or might not reflect on
his personal character or his ministerial office. All his life he had
lived in the open, clear of conscience, afraid of no man. He would
live so still. Therefore he sought Westgate. The lawyer was in and
was not engaged. He still had a bitter taste in his mouth from the
night before. He was not wholly satisfied with what he had done at
the conference with the bishop. Under the clear light of day, in the
absence of any irritating impulses, his ardor cooled by the intervening
night, he had come to the conclusion that, in his interrogation of Mary
Bradley, he had overreached himself. He confided to his senior partner,
Mr. Tracy, his opinion that he had made a damned fool of himself.
And his senior partner fully agreed with him. It was, therefore, in
a spirit of partial humility that he received the rector of Christ
Church. But he made no explanations or apologies. He felt that whatever
of this nature he might owe to others, he owed nothing to this man. He
simply waited to be informed of the purpose of the call. He had not
long to wait, for his visitor had a habit of going directly to the
point.
“I want to talk with you, Mr. Westgate,” he said, “about the incident
of last evening. I would like to know your purpose in asking those last
questions of Mrs. Bradley.”
“I do not object to telling you,” replied Westgate. “It should have
been plain to you at the time. My purpose was to make it clear to the
bishop that the woman whom you or your friends produced in your behalf
was utterly unworthy to testify in any matter relating to the welfare
of the Church.”
“Why unworthy?”
“Because she is a menace to society, a disbeliever in God, a scoffer at
religion, a woman who violates all rules of womanly propriety at her
pleasure.”
“Why do you make that last assertion?”
“As she appears to be your assistant and associate in your economic
enterprises, I presumed that you were familiar with her character and
reputation. However, I may say that a woman who within three months of
her husband’s death spreads her alluring net to entrap the weak-minded
son of a millionaire, and at the same time openly consorts with another
man, a demagogue, an atheist, a vilifier of both Church and state,
surely such a woman cannot be described as a model of propriety.”
The minister, by the exercise of great self-restraint, maintained his
coolness and intrepidity.
“The two men to whom you refer,” he said, “are Barry Malleson and
Stephen Lamar. Will you kindly give me a single instance of unwomanly
conduct on the part of Mrs. Bradley with either of them?”
“Certainly! Had it not been for your interruption last night you would
have heard it all then and there. It is a fact, as I intended to make
her admit, that in the early evening, on the Malleson foot-bridge, she
indulged in most unseemly demonstrations of affection with this man
Lamar.”
“Was that the occasion to which you referred last evening?”
“It was.”
“And it is your information that Lamar is the man who was with her on
the bridge?”
“Certainly! I can prove it.”
“You are mistaken. I know who the man was, and it was not Stephen
Lamar.”
“Who was it, then?”
“It was I, Robert Farrar.”
“You!”
“It was I. I helped Mrs. Bradley across the bridge.”
“Impossible! This man had his arm around the woman’s waist.”
“I had my arm about Mrs. Bradley’s waist. In that manner I assisted her
across the bridge. Nor were there any demonstrations of affection of
any kind.”
The lawyer stared at his visitor in amazement. He could not conceive
why this man should so frankly assume responsibility for an act of
impropriety properly charged to another.
“I don’t believe you,” he said, bluntly. “You are trying, for some
inscrutable reason, to shield the woman.”
“The woman needs no protection save against such slanderous tongues as
yours.”
Westgate did not resent the remark. Indeed, he did not fully appreciate
it. He was too busily engaged in wondering at the minister’s attitude.
For a moment he did not even reply. Then he asked:
“Am I distinctly to understand that it was you and not Lamar who was
with Mrs. Bradley on the bridge?”
“I cannot make the statement of that fact too positive, nor can I state
too positively that on that occasion Mrs. Bradley conducted herself as
became a modest, refined, pure-minded woman. Westgate, some one has
been telling you one of those half-truths which are ‘ever the worst
of lies,’ and you have been only too eager to envelop it with an evil
motive.”
Still Westgate showed no resentment. He was apparently immersed in
thought.
“Do you realize,” he inquired at last, “what sort of a weapon you are
putting into my hands to-day――a weapon with which I can, at any moment,
blacken your character, and blast your career?”
“I realize nothing,” replied the rector, “except that a woman’s good
name has been attacked, and that it is my duty to defend her. If you
choose to divert the knowledge I have given you to the base uses of
slander, that will be your sin, not mine.”
At last Westgate began to wake up. His face paled and he rose to his
feet.
“Mr. Farrar,” he said, “I think this interview had better come to an
end.”
“I quite agree with you,” was the response. “My errand is done. I have
the explanation I came for. I believe that is all.”
“So far as I am concerned, it is.”
There were no more words on either side. The rector bowed politely, and
then left the office, as clear-eyed, as high-minded and unafraid as
when he entered it.
But on Westgate’s soul there lay a burden of knowledge which was to
tempt him sorely in the days to come.
The story of the sensational episode at the conference with the bishop
did not reach Barry Malleson’s ears until the second day after its
occurrence. It came, as one might have expected it would, burdened with
exaggerations. Barry was greatly disturbed. He walked aimlessly for a
while about his quarters at the mill, then he put on his overcoat, hat
and gloves, and announced that he was going up to see Phil Westgate.
But when he got as far as Main Street he changed his mind, and started
down-town instead. It had occurred to him that before attacking
Westgate it might be wise to get the facts in the case directly from
Mrs. Bradley. He would be more sure of his ground. When he reached
Mrs. Bradley’s office in the Potter Building he found her engaged. He
excused himself, backed out, paced up and down the hall for a few
minutes, and then went down to the street. He did not go back up-town,
but he walked down through the wholesale district, picked his way
among boxes and barrels, and examined crates of fruit and vegetables
and poultry. When, after a half hour, he returned to the office of the
League, he found Mrs. Bradley alone. She had expected that he would
return, and was waiting for him. It was not an unusual thing for him to
visit her there; scarcely a day had passed of late that he had not come
in on one errand or another. He was imbibing socialism slowly, as his
mental system was able to absorb the doctrine. So far as he understood
it he was willing to subscribe to its principles. There was a basic
element of justice underlying it all that quite appealed to him. It is
true that the socialists of the city did not greatly pride themselves
on their secretary’s new convert, but this accession to their ranks
gave deep satisfaction to Mrs. Bradley. Not that Barry’s assistance or
influence amounted to much, but that she knew the thing to be a thorn
in the flesh of Richard Malleson. Lying in the background of her mind,
living and throbbing, as it did on that disastrous day in court, was
still her revengeful purpose to annoy, to humiliate, to bring to defeat
and disaster, if possible, the man who was responsible for her having
been sent empty-handed from the hall of justice. Lamar understood her
motive and sympathized with her. He even suffered her, without marked
protest, to receive Barry’s open attentions. He knew that, in receiving
them, the one thought in her mind was to harass the young man’s
aristocratic father with the prospect of having for a daughter-in-law
that queen of the proletarians, Mary Bradley. There was many a quip
passed back and forth between them concerning Barry’s infatuation, and
many an exchange of meaning glances, as together they instructed him in
the elementary principles of socialism. And Barry, floundering beyond
his depth in both philosophy and love, frowned on by his father,
upbraided by his mother and sisters, ridiculed by his friends, sought
solace ever more and more frequently in the company of the woman who
had cast her spell upon him. He did not notice the care-worn look on
her face, and the weariness in her eyes, as he reëntered her office
that afternoon; the radiance of her smile made all else dim. And there
was no abatement from the usual warmth of her welcome.
“I’ve just heard,” said Barry, “about that affair up at Tracy’s night
before last. I was going up to have it out with Phil, but I decided to
come in and talk it over with you first.”
“I’m so glad you did,” she said. “I don’t want you to have it out with
him. I don’t want you to talk with him about it, or even mention it to
him.”
“But the thing’s all over town to-day.”
“Who――whom do they say it was who is alleged to have been with me on
the bridge?”
“Why, Phil and that crowd allow it was Steve, but some say it was me.
Now, you know I wasn’t there.”
The look of anxiety dropped from her face and she laughed merrily.
“Certainly!” she replied. “I know it was not you. And I’ve told you it
wasn’t Steve.”
“But it must have been somebody.”
“Do you doubt me, Barry?”
She had been calling him by his given name of late, and had given him
permission to call her by hers.
“N-no. Only the thing’s mighty funny. Jane Chichester swore she
couldn’t be mistaken.”
Mary Bradley laughed again.
“Ah!” she said; “then it was Miss Chichester who witnessed that
surprising exhibition of womanly immodesty. Don’t you think she was
giving rein to her imagination?”
“She might have been,” admitted Barry. “She does imagine things
sometimes. Do you know, I think she imagines, sometimes, that I’m
really going to marry her.”
“But you’re not, are you, Barry?”
“Mrs. Bradley!――I mean Mary――how can you ask such a question when you
know my only ambition is to marry you.”
“That’s very nice of you, Barry. But what would your father say to it?”
“Oh, he’s dead set against it, of course.”
“Why is he dead set against it?”
“He thinks you’re not in our class.”
“It would jolt his pride?”
“It would smash it. But you know, Mary, that would make no difference
to me.”
“It might cost you your job.”
“No fear of that. They can’t get along without me at the mill. Much of
the success of the company is due to the way I manage things there.”
“Indeed!” She smiled, and yet she felt that it was pathetic in a
way――this man’s confidence in his own ability, his open-mindedness
and sincerity. One thing only she rolled as a sweet morsel under her
tongue: Richard Malleson’s distress at his son’s infatuation.
But Barry’s mind still dwelt on the bridge incident. “If I thought,” he
said, “that there was the slightest thing in that story of Jane’s about
you and Steve――――”
She reached her hand across the table and laid it on his as she had a
habit of doing of late, and looked serenely into his eyes.
“Barry,” she said, “you dear old f――fellow! If I thought there was the
slightest danger of your getting jealous over that story, I’d make
Jane Chichester eat her words. As it is, ‘the least said the soonest
mended.’ Oh, here’s Steve now.”
Lifting her eyes at the sound of footsteps in the hall she had
discovered Lamar in the doorway, and had hastily withdrawn her hand.
“Come in, Steve,” she called out to him. “Barry’s here. We were just
talking about you.”
“And I’ve just been talking about you,” replied Steve as he entered the
room, giving scant notice to Barry, and seated himself at the end or
the table.
“What about me?” she inquired.
“I’ve just heard,” he replied, “about the affair up at Tracy’s the
other night, and about the way that bully-ragging lawyer heckled you. I
was going right up there to take it out of his hide, but I thought I’d
better come in first and get the thing straight.”
“That’s right, Steve. That’s what Barry did. Didn’t you, Barry?”
“Yes,” responded Barry. “I was going up there myself to have a reckoning
with Phil; but Mary says, ‘Don’t go.’”
“I say the same thing to you, Steve,” said the woman. “Don’t go. I
want the matter dropped. I don’t want either of you to discuss it with
another soul. If you do, the one that does it need never speak to me
again.”
She sat resolutely back in her chair, facing each man in turn, looking
at them with eyes of authority.
“But,” protested Lamar, “so far as I can understand, the whole town’s
talking about it.”
“Indeed!” she replied; “and which of you two gentlemen do they say was
with me on the bridge?”
“Why, they’re not quite sure.”
“Then we’ll settle it here among ourselves. Was it you, Steve?”
“I’ll swear it wasn’t,” emphatically.
“Good! Was it you, Barry?”
“No, Mrs. Bradley, on my soul it wasn’t.”
“There you are, gentlemen. Honors are even.” She laughed and added:
“Now you can shake hands and make up. The bridge incident is closed.”
But Lamar sat staring at Barry incredulously. He had made up his mind
that, since he had not been the man in the bridge case, it must
necessarily have been Barry. And he had come to Mary Bradley, not alone
for information with which to confront Westgate, but also to file a
vigorous protest with her against her conduct with his inconsequential
rival. Barry’s denial had taken the ground from under his feet. He
could scarcely believe that the man was telling the truth, yet no one
had ever known Barry to variate a hair’s breadth from the exact truth
as he understood it.
“Moreover,” added Mary Bradley, “it’s past closing time, and I want to
start home this minute, and I will thank you gentlemen to permit me to
close the office.”
Both men rose to their feet, expressed their regret at having delayed
her, said good-night to her, and went out together. Side by side they
walked up the street, chatting as they went, brother socialists,
friendly rivals for the favor of a fascinating woman. Lamar stopped at
the Silver Star, but Barry would not go in. He had not yet reached that
stage of the common fellowship game, where the drinking saloon has its
attractions. Lamar went in alone, sat down at a table in the room to
the rear of the bar, and over his glass of whiskey and soda he pondered
the thing he had that day heard concerning Mary Bradley. Who was it
who had crossed the bridge with her? Or was the story simply a vicious
slander made up out of whole cloth? So faint and far away that at first
he could barely grasp it, a suspicion arose. It took on form. It was
shadowy and tenuous indeed. It faded out only to reappear. And, ever
after, it followed him about, a ghost that he could not lay, and dared
not challenge.
* * * * *
It was a week after the conference that a letter came from the bishop
of the diocese to the vestry of Christ Church. In it he deplored
the quarrel that had arisen between certain of the vestrymen and
the rector. He was grieved over the bitterness of spirit that had
been displayed. He regretted that his godly judgment, exercised
individually, both with the rector and his people, had not availed
to settle the unhappy differences that were distracting the parish.
He was pained beyond measure at the untoward result of the evening
conference at the Tracy house. But since it seemed to be impossible
for the parties to the controversy either themselves to adjust their
differences or to accept such impartial advice as he had privately
given them, he should not assume, alone and unaided, to decide the
question of the forcible dissolution of the pastoral relation. He
should ask the advice of the Standing Committee, as was his right under
the canon. He should also consult with the chancellor of the diocese.
And, proceeding with their aid and counsel, he would, in due time,
render judgment on the matters in controversy.
“In the meantime, brethren,” read his closing admonition, “let the
spirit which was in Christ be in you all. Let not His religion be
brought into disrepute by this unseemly quarrel; and let the integrity
and dignity of the Church be maintained at all hazards.”
But the good bishop said, confidentially, to a brother prelate: “Oh,
that I could be a second Pilate, and take water and wash my hands
before this accusing multitude, and say, ‘I am innocent of the blood of
this just person, see ye to it.’”
It was true that the bishop had intended to ask the advice of the
Standing Committee, and to consult the chancellor of the diocese.
Not that he expected to receive much disinterested aid from either
source. For the chancellor was a well-known corporation lawyer whose
skill and experience had for years been at the service of capital and
of the ruling class. What his judgment would be in this matter could
be readily foreseen. Nor was the prospect of receiving helpful advice
from the Standing Committee much more encouraging. The presbyters of
this committee were mostly rectors of churches controlled by rich and
aristocratic members, or churches under the patronage and domination
of certain families of wealth; while the lay members were all of the
conservative, substantial, anti-socialistic type. It required no
prophetic power to discover with which party to the controversy they
would be in sympathy.
After considering the matter, the bishop felt that, after all, it
might be better for him to decide the case unaided. But how to decide
it; that was the question. If he should comply with the demand of
the vestry, and dissolve the pastoral relation, he would not only
be putting upon the Church the stigma of catering to the rich, and
disregarding and driving out the poor, but he would also be humiliating
and disgracing a man who, however mistaken he might be in his methods,
had violated no ecclesiastical law, and who was conscientiously and
earnestly striving to bring the religion of Jesus Christ home to the
common people. On the other hand, were he to sustain the rector, it
would mean giving serious offense to those important and wealthy
parishioners who in the past had made Christ Church the strongest and
most influential body in the diocese. And what then would happen?
Undoubtedly the church would be left to its fate; and its fate could
easily be foretold. For the bishop did not delude himself with the
belief or hope that the class of people who had recently become
attracted and attached to the rector, together with his old friends
who still stood by him, would either be able or willing to support
and maintain the customary activities of the church. Indeed, his
wide experience and his worldly wisdom led him to a far different
conclusion. So what was he to do? He decided that for the present
he would do nothing. He would delay his decision in the hope――a
forlorn hope, indeed――that the parties themselves would settle their
controversy, or that, before the day of necessary action should come, a
kind Providence would in some way relieve him of his embarrassment.
The agreement between the Malleson Manufacturing Company and its
employees was to expire on the first day of January. The men demanded
a new agreement, and, under the leadership of Bricky Hoover, set
about to obtain it. The new agreement, they declared, must provide
for a schedule of wages which would show a ten per cent. advance.
There must also be better pay for overtime, the discharge of all
non-union employees, and full recognition of the union in all matters
pertaining to the employment of labor. The men were sustained in
their demand by the local unions to which they belonged, and their
action was fully and formally approved by the central body. Of
course the Malleson Company protested, and declined to accede to the
demands. There were counter-propositions and conferences; but neither
side would yield. The first day of January came and went. By tacit
agreement work was continued, awaiting a settlement. But no settlement
came. Day by day the situation grew more critical. Finally, at a
mass-meeting of employees, peremptory instructions were given to the
strike committee, in pursuance of which an ultimatum was issued to
the company to the effect that unless within three days the demands
of the men were complied with the strike order would go into effect.
On the afternoon of the last day Richard Malleson called together his
board of directors, and, after careful and serious consideration of
the situation, they decided to yield. It was really the only thing
to do. Of course there was a choice between two evils; on the one
hand the practical wiping out of profits through increased wages and
shorter hours, on the other the disaster that would come with and
follow a long and costly strike. The president of the company advised
his associates to choose the first horn of the dilemma, and they did
so. But they chose it despairingly and resentfully, with bitterness
in their hearts. The men, of course, were jubilant. They had obtained
practically everything for which they had asked. On one point only had
they yielded. The seven non-union employees were permitted to remain.
But, as an offset, a clause was inserted in the new agreement to the
effect that no discrimination of any kind, at any time, should be made
against any one on account of his affiliation with a union, nor on
account of his participation in the controversy, nor on account――and
this was emphasized――of his leadership in the successful fight for
better conditions. So work did not cease, wages were advanced, hours
were shortened, the rights of labor had been sustained, a long step
had been taken toward the goal which the workingman has always in
view. Steve Lamar and Bricky Hoover were the heroes of the hour. The
first because he had so skilfully planned and directed the contest,
the second because, as leader and spokesman, he had come out of every
conference with flying colors, and by sheer persistence had brought
Richard Malleson and his capitalistic partners to their knees.
On the evening following the signing of the new wage-agreement the
barroom of the Silver Star was crowded. It was still early, but
there was barely standing room in the place. When Lamar and Hoover
entered together a great shout went up. Every foaming glass was held
high and clinked loudly, and drained to the bottom in their honor.
These, indeed, were the men to free labor from its chains. Smilingly,
deprecatingly as became them, they acknowledged the greeting and
passed on into the inner room which had been the scene of so many of
their conferences. When they were seated at a table, their glasses
half-drained, the tips of their cigars glowing cheerily, Lamar looked
at Bricky, smiled and said:
“Well?”
And Bricky smiled back and replied:
“Well?”
“So far so good,” said Lamar. “Now for the strike.”
“The what?” asked Bricky.
“The strike.”
“Why, man, ain’t that just what we’ve got away from with whole hides?”
“I wasn’t hell-bent on getting away from it, Bricky. Didn’t I tell you
a month ago, in this very room, that there’d got to be a strike?”
“Sure! But we’ve got what we wanted without it.”
“Not yet we haven’t.”
“What more do we want?”
“We want to smash Dick Malleson.”
Bricky pondered for a moment.
“Ye didn’t fall far short o’ smashin’ him,” he said finally. “But how
in heaven’s name will ye git a strike now?”
Lamar took an equal length of time before replying.
“Bricky,” he said at last, “you’ve got to be discharged.”
“Me? Discharged? What for?”
“Oh, anything. Neglect of duty. Impertinence. Sabotage. Can’t you see
that you’re what the diplomats call _non persona grata_ at capitalistic
headquarters? You’ve put up a successful fight. You’re a union leader.
You’re a warrior in the ranks of labor. Bricky, you’re an agitator,
you’re a menace; you’ve got to go. Confound you, man! Can’t you see
what I’m driving at?”
Bricky was not so dull but that he saw. Yet he did not seem to be very
favorably impressed with Lamar’s plan. He thought about it for a moment
before answering.
“So I’m to be made the goat, am I?” he said, at last.
“You’re to be made the goat. That’s right. But you’ll feed high.
Remember what I say: you’ll feed high.”
Again Bricky pondered. Then he repeated Lamar’s words:
“‘Neglect of duty. Impertinence. Sabotage.’ What the hell’s sabotage,
Steve?”
“Oh, creating a little incidental damage now and then. Monkeying with
the machinery. Putting it out of commission. I don’t mean stupidly
smashing it, you know. Just getting it out of order occasionally,
in a way that it’ll take half a day to fix it up. You can do it all
right. Keep it up. Spoil a piece of work once in a while. Be careless.
Be damned careless. Of course they’ll bring you up for it. They’ll
send you to the office. There’s where you can get in a nice line of
impertinence. You’ll get your walking papers. The boys won’t stand for
it. They won’t see you put upon. Not one of them. They’ll strike in
less than twelve hours. I know what I’m talking about.”
Still Bricky pondered. It was apparent that he was not enthusiastic
over the proposition. He did not refuse it, but he wanted to think it
over. It must have been a full minute before he looked up and inquired:
“And where do you say I get off?”
“At the corner of Greenback Avenue and Easy Street.”
Bricky filled his glass again, drained it and set it down.
“Steve,” he asked, “what you got agin old man Malleson anyhow? I should
naturally s’pose that if you had anything in for anybody you’d have it
in for the young cub.”
Lamar tossed his head impatiently.
“Oh,” he replied, “he counts for nothing. He’s simply a damned fool.
It’s the old man that I’ve got a grudge against.”
“What’s your grudge?”
“Well, for one thing, he sent John Bradley penniless to his grave. John
was a friend of mine.”
“So. But I don’t see as you’ve got any great kick comin’ there. John
left a perty good-lookin’ widder, didn’t he?”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Perty good friend o’ yourn, ain’t she?”
“I hope so. What are you driving at?”
“Oh, nothin’ much. Only if John was still on this earthly sp’ere your
chances would be more limited, wouldn’t they?”
Lamar laughed. “Perhaps so,” he said. “You’ve got a long head, Bricky.”
“Sure, I’ve got a long head. I can put two an’ two together as well as
the next man. The widder wants to smash Dick Malleson’s pocketbook. You
want to smash the widder’s heart. I ain’t blamin’ either of ye. Ye’ve
both got plenty of aggravation. So you want my help, do you, Steve?”
“I want your help.”
“An’ you’re willin’ to pay for it?”
“I’ll pay you well.”
“All right! Let’s git down to brass tacks. Push that button, will ye?
I’m dry.”
Lamar pushed the button. More liquid cheer was brought in. After that
the conference was still more confidential. At the end of twenty
minutes they rose, clinked their glasses, drank to each other’s
success, and left the place.
Stephen Lamar went straight from the Silver Star saloon to the home of
Mary Bradley on Factory Hill.
“I beg to report,” he said to her, “that your orders concerning Richard
Malleson are in process of execution.”
“What have you done to him?” she asked.
“I’ve compelled him to sign a new agreement to avoid a strike.”
“I know you have. You’ve given him a chance to save himself when you
might have crushed him.”
“Don’t be too fast. I know what I’m about. The new agreement will hurt
him more than two strikes would.”
“How do you make that out?”
“He can’t afford to pay the scale. It’s ruinous. It eats up all
profits. I know. I have it straight from his own office.”
“But it doesn’t wreck him. I want him wrecked. He’ll meet the scale by
raising the price of his product.”
“He can’t. Competition’s too keen. He’s not in the trust.”
“Oh, he’ll meet the situation somehow. He’s got a long head. You should
have had the strike. You’ve made a mistake.”
Lamar laughed. “You’re too impatient,” he said. “You don’t see the end
of the plot. There’s going to be a strike.”
“Who says so?”
“I do.”
“Haven’t the men just signed a new wage-scale?”
“Yes, but there’s going to be a strike just the same.”
“On what ground?”
“Bricky Hoover’s going to be discharged.”
“How do you know that?”
“Never mind how I know it. I know it. Bricky’s going to be discharged.
He’s an infernal agitator. He’s the idol of the men. They won’t see him
punished. There’ll be a strike within twenty-four hours after he gets
his papers. You wait and see.”
For a minute she sat quietly, turning the matter over in her mind. Then
she looked up at him.
“Steve,” she said, “you’re a wonder.” His scheme had become clear to
her.
“I can do a good deal,” he replied, “when there’s the right inducement.
In this case you’re the inducement.”
She paid little heed to his remark. She was again thinking. At last she
asked, as if to assure herself of the fact:
“You say the new wage-scale is ruinous?”
“Yes, I know it. It carries him more than half-way to financial
destruction.”
“And on top of that you propose to precipitate a strike?”
“Exactly. That will be the final twist of the rope.”
“Good! You’re doing bravely. Keep it up. You have my sympathy and
congratulations.”
“Thank you, Mary. But I want more than sympathy and congratulations.”
“What do you want? You know I have no money.”
“Money be damned! I want my reward.”
“What reward?”
“You know well enough. You said that when I had Richard Malleson
smashed I should have a man’s reward. I want a foretaste of it
to-night. I’ve earned it.”
“And what is a man’s reward?”
“It’s a woman’s love. There’s nothing else under heaven that’s worth
working for or fighting for.”
There was no doubt that he meant what he said. The look in his eyes,
the flush on his face, the big shoulders bent toward her, all proved
it. She, herself, knew that to obtain some manifestation of love from
her he would be willing to fight all the powers of earth and air. But
her countenance did not change by so much as the dropping of an eyelid.
She looked at him unflinchingly.
“I understand you,” she said. “You want me to say that I love you.”
“Yes. And not only to say it, but to prove it.”
Still she was calm, deliberate.
“Let me see,” she asked; “you have a wife?”
“Yes, but she’s nothing to me.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s no love between us. Marriage without love is legal
debasement. Love without marriage may reach the supreme height of human
happiness.”
Suddenly she appeared to grow interested. Her cheeks flushed and her
eyes shone. He thought she was seeing something of his vision.
“Do you think,” she asked, “that a married man has a moral right to
love a woman who is not his wife?”
“Undoubtedly, when the woman who is his wife has ceased to care for
him. The marriage contract is binding in conscience, and should be in
law, only so long as love lasts between the parties to it. You are
a socialist. You know what our doctrine is. In the coming socialist
commonwealth there will be no permanent marriage bond. It will be a
bond that can be dissolved at will. It will accommodate itself to the
happiness of those affected by it. That’s the doctrine of Marx and
Bebel and Belfort Bax. Then a man will be legally as well as morally
free to put off a dead love and take on a living one. It’s a living
love that, with your help, I shall take on to-night.”
She appeared to drink in his words.
“And what about the woman?” she asked; “the woman who loves a married
man? Has she a right to do that? Has she a right, if the time should be
opportune, to tell him so?”
“It’s the right of every woman to seek happiness where she can find it;
to ask for it if she will; it’s her duty to take it when it’s offered
to her, as I offer it to you to-night.”
“And, Steve, if a man’s wife is nothing to him, if she has no sympathy
with him, if she’s a millstone about his neck, and he can have the love
of another woman who is fond of him, oh, passionately fond of him, do
you think it would be wrong for either of them to give himself to――to
give herself unreservedly to the other? Do you, Steve? Do you?”
She was leaning toward him, eager, excited, her eyes glowing, her lips
parted, her white teeth gleaming, her breast heaving with emotion.
To the man who craved her she was wildly fascinating. He had never
before seen her when she so appealed to every atom of his nature. Drawn
irresistibly, he moved closer to her.
“Wrong?” he exclaimed. “Nothing under heaven would be more just. What
are laws in the face of a passion like ours? In the new socialistic
state there will be no such laws. And whatever would be right and of
good conscience then is right and of good conscience now, in spite of
all the capitalistic laws that were ever invented to oppress humanity.”
He moved still closer to her, and took up her hand which was hanging
loosely at her side, and held it and caressed it. She made no
remonstrance; she did not appear to notice what he was doing. It was
plain to him that this woman who had held him in check and at bay for
months was at last ready to yield to his importunities.
“That would be heavenly,” she said, and she seemed to be talking to
herself rather than to him, “heavenly! But we would need to hide it; we
would have to keep it secret――for a time.”
His face was so close to hers that she might have felt his breath upon
her cheek.
“No, dear,” he answered her, “we do not need to hide it. People who
know us and believe in us, and for whose opinions we care, will not
criticize us; all others may do so to their heart’s content. It will
not matter to us; we shall be supremely happy in spite of them.”
He passed his arm around her shoulders and drew her face against his.
Then, suddenly, she awoke. She threw his arm from her as if it had been
a serpent coiled about her body. She wrenched herself free from him,
and sprang to her feet. In the excitement her chair was overturned
and fell with a crash to the floor. The door leading from the kitchen
was pushed open from without, and an old woman, with frightened eyes,
looked in.
“What’s the matter, Mary?” she asked.
“Nothing, mother. Everything’s all right; come in.”
Lamar picked up the chair, and stood with flushed and scowling face.
“What was all the noise about?” asked the old woman.
“Why, Steve was just going, and he accidentally tipped over his chair
getting up, that’s all. You needn’t go back into the kitchen, mother.
Steve isn’t going to stay any longer.”
The man’s scowl deepened. “But there’s more I want to say to you,” he
said, “and I want to say it to you alone.”
“Not to-night, Steve. Some other time, perhaps. I want to think over
what you’ve already told me. You’ve given me some wonderful ideas, some
heavenly hopes. I want to think them over.”
“And I want my reward. I’ve earned it. I insist on having it.”
She laughed. “Steve’s joking, mother,” she said. She faced him jauntily.
“Not to-night, comrade. Wait till the wreck is more complete. Wait till
the socialist commonwealth is more nearly established. Oh, you shall
have it; in due time you shall have it――a man’s reward.”
She smiled up into his face as winsomely, as charmingly, as modestly,
as a young girl would smile into her first lover’s face on the eve of
her betrothal.
“Good-night, Steve,” she added, “and my thanks to you, and good luck to
you. Keep on. Revenge is sweet. But remember: there’s a thing that’s
sweeter than revenge.”
She helped him into his overcoat as she talked, gave him his cap, went
with him to the door, and closed it behind him as he passed out. When
he was gone the old woman said to her:
“Mary, I don’t like the look o’ things.”
“There’s nothing to worry about, mother.”
“But I don’t like the look o’ things,” she repeated. “That man ain’t
safe. I wish he wouldn’t come here any more.”
“Why, he’s as harmless as a baby.”
“He ain’t. He’s dangerous. I see it in his eyes. He’ll kill you some
day; I know he will.”
Mary Bradley laughed, and put her arm around the old woman’s waist, and
kissed her wrinkled face.
“You dear old fool!” she said. “Neither Crœsus nor the king could
induce him to hurt me by so much as a pin-prick. I can twist him round
my little finger every hour in the day.”
“Do you love him, Mary?”
“Let me tell you, mother. For what he has told me to-night, for the
hope he has given me, for the promise of pure joy he has set before me,
I adore him.”