“BLACK AS THE PIT”
It was Friday afternoon that the riot took place. It was now Sunday
morning, and the first day of April. The sun was shining gloriously.
Birds were chirping in the bare trees. The first springing green was
giving life to the rectory lawn. But the rector of Christ Church,
looking out from his window toward the street, neither saw nor heard
these signs of the wakening season. The sound of the tolling church
bell struck upon his ears. He knew that the hour for morning service
was approaching, but the knowledge gave him little concern. His
children were playing in the hall. He paid no heed to them. It was not
that he was ill in body, but that he was sick in soul. His wound had
been severe, but it had not placed his life in jeopardy. A glancing
blow from a flying brick that had crashed through the glass panel of
the door behind him had first laid his scalp open to the bone. He was
still weak from the shock of the blow and from loss of blood. But
prompt and skilful surgical attention, and a robust constitution, were
bringing him rapidly back into his customary form. It was not the
result of the violent and brutal assault upon his body from which he
was suffering to-day; it was rather the awakening knowledge of what
that assault implied. The toilers for whose sake he had dared the
displeasure of the powerful, the oppressed for whom he had pleaded and
fought, the poverty-stricken whose sufferings he had relieved with his
own hands and out of his own pittance, had repudiated and repulsed
him, and finally had stoned him. Could ingratitude reach greater
depths? Had a bitterer cup than this ever been held to the lips of any
minister of that Christ who alone had felt the extreme bitterness of
ingratitude?
And yet he scarcely knew the half of what these toilers thought of
him to-day. He had no conception of the strong resentment――resentment
without cause that burned in their hearts against him. He had preached
fairly enough indeed; but what had he actually done for them? He had
declaimed against the power of capital, but capital had not loosened
its grip on them by so much as the breadth of a hair. He had been
charitable to them, oh, yes! and had visited their sick with pious
consolation, and had lured them into unwitting friendship for him and
his church, and had opened his parish hall to them on a March day, and
what had been the purpose of it all? Only that he might betray them,
at the last, into the hands of those tyrannical masters who had hired
him, and whom they had repudiated once and for all. For had he not,
when the hour came to strike the final blow for victory, thrown himself
across their path, besought them to surrender to their oppressors, and
when they would not, called them to their faces fools and cowards and
murderers? One brick against his pious skull? He should have had a
thousand. Curses on him and his sinister religion with its meaningless
sop to socialism, and its cloven hoof hidden under its clerical robes!
Ah! but the denunciation of the poor was as nothing to the condemnation
of the rich. By the teaching of his social heresies he had led the
ignorant and the thoughtless into an attitude toward society that was
bound to result in violence and bloodshed, as it had resulted. He had
disgraced the religion he was supposed to preach. He had degraded
his Church, and debased his high calling. He had opened their sacred
buildings to a profane and howling crowd. The walls of their parish
hall had echoed with incendiary speeches, with appeals to the worst
passions of the heart, with jeers and curses and the crack and crash
of churchly furniture. And out from the doors of this profanated
house had issued a riotous and bloodthirsty mob, bent on destroying
the property if not the lives of some of the most law-abiding and
God-fearing citizens of the city or the state. What degradation! What
unheard of sacrilege!
And in the midst and at the height of this disgraceful riot which he
had done so much to precipitate, what a spectacle this discredited
priest had made of himself! Alternately appealing to and denouncing
the reckless mob that surrounded him, he had aroused only their scorn
and resentment, until one of them, more daring than his companions,
had felled the offending minister with a common brick. Disgusting
enough, indeed! But that was not the worst of it; oh, by no means!
For, as he lay sprawling and unconscious on the steps, surrounded by
rioters and ruffians, had not a woman of the lower class, a socialist,
an anarchist, an atheist, a consorter with desperate characters, a
woman whose vulgar husband had been scarce six months dead, had not she
rushed to his side, and embraced him, and kissed him, and wept over
him, and shrieked to the crowd that he was the only man she had ever
loved?
But when they reached this dramatic climax of the clergyman’s
degradation, the scandalized gossips spoke in whispers lest some one,
overhearing them, should charge them with spreading unclean tales.
Had the rector of Christ Church known the things that loose tongues
were saying of him, had he known what had happened after he fell
unconscious on the office steps――for no one had yet had the hardihood
to tell him, and the newspapers, with becoming decency, had failed to
publish the incident――would he have gone into his pulpit that April
morning to preach to his people the gospel of a sinless Christ? It is
not to be doubted. For he would have felt in his heart that he was
guiltless and without stain, and, as yet, he had not known fear.
Indeed, he had not yet acknowledged his defeat. He was hurt, grieved,
humiliated, but not conquered. His spirit was not that of the Hebrew
psalmist pouring out his soul in the de profundis. It was rather that
of Henly’s hero thundering his pagan defiance at fate. The lines came
into his mind now as he stood gazing from his window into the sunlight
on the lawn, and brought to him a strange and unchristian consolation.
“Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
“In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody but unbowed.”
At the hour for service he entered the church, robed himself, and
followed the poor remnant of his choir to the chancel in reverent
processional. But when he looked out upon his congregation he
experienced a shock more painful to him than that caused by the
rioter’s brick. There was but a handful of worshipers in the church.
Pew after pew was empty. Great sections of pews were wholly devoid of
occupants. Men and women whose devotion to the Church had led them, up
to this time, against their inclinations, to continue their attendance
on its services, were unwilling to-day, after the events of the past
week, to hear the prayers and lessons read, or a sermon preached, by
a priest who had so forgotten the duty and the dignity of his sacred
calling. And of the toilers who had crowded the pews and overflowed
into the aisles scarcely more than a month before, only a beggarly
few were here to-day. Rich and poor alike had deserted and repudiated
him. Even Ruth Tracy was not in her accustomed place, nor could his
searching eyes discover her anywhere in the church. Mary Bradley,
too, was absent. Had both these women, from whom he had drawn so much
comfort and inspiration in the past, on whom he had leaned in absolute
confidence, of whose supreme loyalty he had never had the shadow of
a doubt; had they too fallen by the wayside, too weak and skeptical
to follow him to the end of the heaven-ordained path he had chosen to
tread? Would God Almighty be the next to desert him?
For the first time in all his hapless crusade his heart began to fail
him, a strange and insidious weakness, crept in upon him. His hand
trembled as he lifted the book and read:
“The Lord is in His holy temple. Let all the earth keep silence before
Him.”
The sound of his voice came back to him in dull echoes from the waste
of vacant pews.
“Dearly beloved brethren, the Scripture moveth us in sundry places――――”
His voice failed him, and he paused. But it was only for a moment. With
stern resolution he fought back his weakness, gathered new strength,
and went on with his service.
His sermon that morning――he had prepared it early the preceding
week――was based upon the parable of the householder and the tares.
“God help us,” he said in closing, “if we have mistaken the command of
our Lord, and have gone out to gather up the tares, and, inadvertently
and foolishly, have rooted up also the wheat with them. It were
doubtless better that they should have grown together till the harvest
time, when the Lord of the harvest, himself, would have gathered and
separated them.”
Then he sent out the alms-basins, and they came back to him to be
presented at the altar, lined with a pathetic pittance.
As it was the first Sunday in the month he proceeded with the
administration of the Holy Communion. He uncovered the bread and
the wine and set them out on the Lord’s table. But there were few to
partake of them. The chancel rail which, in other days, had been filled
many times in succession with devout communicants, had room enough now
and much to spare to accommodate all who had remained for the passing
of the consecrated elements.
Soberly, devoutly, with a tenderness he had never felt before, he
performed the office of the communion. It was only at the benediction
that his heart and voice again failed him, and the last “Amen” came
almost with a sob from his lips.
After the service was ended a few of his friends, men and women,
remained to clasp his hand, to inquire about his wound, and to give him
sympathy and encouragement. They were those who had stood by him and
would still stand by him, even though they saw the church falling into
wreck about his feet, because they believed in him and loved him. But
not much was said. The feeling on the part of both priest and people
was too deep to find ready expression in words. And when they came out
into the open air they found that dark clouds had obscured the sun, and
that the wind was blowing cold across the flying buttresses of the gray
stone church.
As for Ruth Tracy, she could not have done otherwise than absent
herself from the morning service. Her cheeks were still burning because
of the revelation made to her by Mrs. Farrar, and because of Westgate’s
disclosure of the gossip of the town. After those things had come the
riot with its tragical incidents, the murderous assault on the rector,
the scandalous outcry of Mary Bradley. What wonder that she felt the
solid ground of faith sinking beneath her feet, and that, frightened
and dismayed, she dared not leave her home, and almost feared to look
the members of her own household in the face. And what wonder that, in
her distress, her mind and heart turned, half-unconsciously, toward
the lover whom she had dismissed, as being the one person in all the
world who had soul and strength enough to rescue her from herself.
It was not greatly different with Mary Bradley. If the public, by
reason of Friday’s incident, had learned the secret of her heart, it
would not find her so bold and shameless on the Sunday following as
even to be seen outside her door. Indeed, from the hour when she had
been thrust out from his presence, and had crept moaning home with
her blood-stained garments on her, she had held herself in strict
seclusion. Lamar had come, demanding an interview. The old woman with
the wrinkled face had opened the door an inch, and had told him that
Mary would not see him. He came again the following day and made his
demand insistent. The old woman obeyed her instructions.
“You can’t see her,” she said. “Nobody can’t see her.”
“But I’ve got to see her. There’s a thing I’ve got to settle with her.”
“You can’t settle with her to-day.”
“To-morrow, then?”
“No, not to-morrow, nor next week, nor next year. She’s through with
ye.”
“You infernal hag! What do you know about it? You go tell her to come
out or I’ll drag her out.”
The old woman slammed the door in his face and locked and bolted it,
and he went away cursing.
There were other callers――the sympathetic, the curious, the evil-minded.
There was one answer at the door to all of them: Mrs. Bradley would see
no one.
On Sunday evening, at dusk, Barry Malleson came. In response to his
knock the old woman opened the door a crack.
“You can’t see her,” she said, before Barry had even a chance to speak.
“She don’t see nobody.”
“Maybe,” replied Barry, deprecatingly, “if she knew who it was she
might be willing.”
“Don’t make no difference who it is,” responded the old woman. “She
wouldn’t see the Lord from heaven.”
Without further ado she closed the door and bolted it, and Barry turned
sadly away.
But Mary Bradley, sitting alone in her room, thought she caught the
sound of a familiar voice.
“Mother,” she said, “was that Barry Malleson?”
And, without waiting for a reply, she swept across the room, unbolted
the door, flung it open and called out to him:
“Barry!”
“Yes, Mary.”
“Come back! I want you.”
He came gladly. She took him into the little sitting-room. The shades
at the windows were drawn close, and the lamp on the table burned
dimly. Barry remembered the time when he came there and saw, through
a partly opened doorway, the sheeted body of John Bradley lying in an
adjoining room. It was not a pleasant memory.
In the half-light of the place the woman’s face looked ghastly. Perhaps
it was due to the way in which the shadows fell on it. Her eyes were
still large and luminous indeed, but under them were dark crescents,
and the fine curve of her lips was lost in a pathetic droop. Barry,
looking on her, pitied her.
“I didn’t come to bother you,” he said. “I just wanted to see you. I
wanted to tell you――――”
She interrupted him: “I know. You are so good. I don’t deserve it. I
couldn’t blame you if you hated me.”
“I don’t hate you, Mary. I love you. I don’t care what they say. I
don’t care what you said on the office steps that day. I love you.”
“You mustn’t talk that way any more, Barry. I mustn’t let you. I ought
never to have let you talk that way, or think that way. I did you a
wrong. In my eagerness for revenge on others I did you a great wrong.
I am sorry now. It was wicked in me to deceive you.”
“Yes, that’s what they say to me. They always told me you were
deceiving me. It doesn’t matter if you were. I harbor no resentment nor
jealousy. I’ll start in all over again. I’ll begin my courtship anew,
if you’ll let me. And I’ll teach you to outlive your love for the other
fellow. That’s what I came to tell you to-night.”
“Barry, you have a heart of gold.”
“Yes. You know that other fellow is impossible, Mary. He has a wife and
children. And he’s a good man. No better man ever lived.”
“That’s true, Barry. Oh, that’s very true. He’s too good to have been
made the victim of my reckless folly. But I thought they had killed
him. I thought they had killed him, and I was wild. I know he wasn’t
killed, but I haven’t heard from him for two days. The suspense has
been terrible. Barry, tell me what you know about him. Have you seen
him?”
Her hands, lying on the table, were clasped tightly together, and she
looked across at him as though she were ready to devour his anticipated
words.
“Why, yes,” replied Barry. “I went to see him Saturday. He had a bad
wound on his head, but the doctor fixed him up all right, and he’ll get
over it in a few days. In fact he held service yesterday as usual.”
She gave a great sigh of relief.
“I’m so glad!” she exclaimed, and repeated: “I’m so glad!”
“I don’t think,” added Barry, “that the brick-bat hurt him nearly as
much as the fact that it came from the ranks of those whom he had
befriended.”
“I know. They were cowards; ingrates! They had murder in their hearts.
As for me I’m through with them――forever.”
The old blaze of indignation came into her eyes, and the ghost of a
flame crept into her cheeks.
“I’m beginning to feel the same way about it,” replied Barry. “You know
I can’t stand for what those fellows did to Farrar.”
Her mind turned to another phase of the catastrophe.
“Barry,” she asked, “does he know――――” She paused, but he divined the
question that was in her thought.
“I don’t believe,” he replied, “that he knows a thing. He was knocked
insensible, and there isn’t anybody who would go and tell him such a
thing――unless it might be――――”
“Who?”
“Jane Chichester.”
After that, for a moment, neither Mrs. Bradley nor her visitor spoke.
Both appeared to be deeply immersed in thought. Finally the woman
looked up at him.
“Barry,” she said, “I’m going away.”
“Going away?”
“Yes. I can’t stay here. It’s impossible. I must go. For his sake I
must go. I’ve thought it all out. I’ve begun to get ready.”
“When are you going?”
“To-morrow, maybe. Next day, surely. I shall slip quietly away. No one
but you will know it till after I’ve gone.”
“Where are you going?”
“Out to my brother Jim’s ranch. He has written for mother and me to
come to him. We’ll go now.”
“And I’ll go with you.”
“You must not do that, Barry.”
“Then I’ll come later.”
“No, Barry. I would only destroy your peace of mind and all your
opportunities. Some day, very soon I hope, this dreadful trouble will
be over, and then you’ll get back into the old life again, and be
happy.”
“I shall never be happy without you.”
“Oh, yes, you will. You will forget me. You must forget me. I have
been a traitor to you. I have been willing to sacrifice you to satisfy
a passion for revenge. I have used you as a mere instrument to carry
out my desires. I can atone for my wickedness only in one way: by
compelling you to blot me out of your memory.”
Barry looked at her in dumb incredulity. He had no conception of what
lay in her mind, he could not fathom the meaning of the words she spoke
to him. After a moment he said:
“I don’t know anything about it, Mary. I don’t understand it at all. I
only know that if you go away and leave me――like that, it will break my
heart.”
She reached across the table and took both his hands in hers, as she
had done once in her office in the Potter Building, and she looked into
his eyes with a look vastly more tender and confident than she had
given him on that day.
“Barry,” she said, “you believe in me?”
“With all my heart.”
“And you believe I am trying to do what is best for both of us?”
“I suppose you are.”
“Then, for my sake, do what I ask of you. Don’t follow me. Don’t try
to find me. Don’t try to learn anything about me. And if the day or
the hour should ever come when I feel that your true happiness can be
promoted, even by one little jot, through any word or act of mine, I
shall give it to you. There, you must be satisfied with that, Barry;
you must.”
As in the old days he had been unable to deny her anything she chose to
ask, so now, under the spell of her gaze, he had no power to refuse her
request. She rose from the table, still holding his hands in hers, and
moved with him toward the door. He hardly knew that he was being led.
“And, Barry,” she added, “you will do me one more favor? You have been
my friend, my brother, my loyal and devoted helper in everything. You
will do me one more favor?”
“A hundred.”
“If――if he should learn what I said and did that day, will you tell
him, Barry――will you tell him that it is true that I love him, and that
because I love him I have dropped out of his life forever? Will you
tell him, Barry?”
“Sure; I’ll tell him.”
“Thank you! You are the dearest friend I ever had, the most loyal and
unselfish. There, good-night!”
She released his hands, put her arms up about his neck, drew down his
face to hers, and kissed him.
“There,” she said again, “good-night! Good-bye!”
Amazed, thrilled, speechless, Barry found himself on the porch of the
house, the door closed behind him, darkness, silence and the distant
lights of the city before him as he stood.
Back of the closed door, again locked and bolted, Mary Bradley resumed
her preparation for flight. Emotions, whispering and thundering by
turns, followed each other in quick succession across her mind. Ah,
but they were right who charged her with having a romantic fondness
for the minister! It was more than a fondness. It was the one blinding
passion of her pinched and sunless life, and it mattered little to her
now who knew it. Time was when she had hoped, in some unknown way,
in some ideal social state, by means of which she had but a dim and
dream-driven conception, to gratify her longing. That was when, as a
modern, scouting law, flouting religion, decrying the social order,
she had deluded herself with the belief that she had a moral right
to seek happiness where she could find it. Born in penury, reared to
toil, trained to godlessness, steeped in a philosophy that taught her
that love should never be restrained by man-made barriers, she had had
neither the will nor the conscience to curb or master her imperious
desire. But now the end had come. The cup from which she would have
drunk had been struck from her lips. It lay shattered at her feet, the
red wine spilled and lost. So she must take herself away, out of his
life. Not that she loved him less, but rather more; and so, loving him
more, she was ready, for his sake, to sacrifice herself in order that
reproach might never again fall upon him.
Through half the night, toiling and tempest-driven, she prepared for
her departure. But when Monday came the desire to linger for yet
another day overpowered her will, and she yielded. She ate little,
slept little, talked little, but moved unceasingly about her narrow
rooms. To the queries and protests and misgivings of her querulous old
mother she turned, for the most part, a deaf ear. At dusk, on Monday
evening, as if through some sudden impulse, she put on her hat and coat.
“Where you goin’?” inquired the old woman.
“I don’t know, mother.”
“How long you goin’ to be gone?”
“A few minutes maybe; maybe forever.”
“You talk queer; you act queer. I don’t want you to go out.”
“No harm will come to me, mother.”
“I don’t know about that. You might meet Steve.”
“I’m not afraid of him.”
“And if you meet him he might kill ye.”
“Mother, you’re crazy.”
She bent over and kissed the wrinkled old face, unbolted the door, and
went out into the night. The full moon was rising. Houses where poverty
dwelt and desolation reigned were gilded on the east by the softest
and most beautiful of all lights that ever rest on the dwelling-places
of men. Westerly the shadows were deep and forbidding. Cloaked and
veiled, the woman moved alone along the deserted street. Near the foot
of the hill she reached the lane that led to the foot-bridge across
the stream above the mill. She turned in at the entrance and came
presently to the bridge. She stood by the railing and looked out across
the moonlit roofs of the factory buildings to the twinkling lights of
the city that lay below her. Her eyes saw them, indeed, but to her mind
they were invisible. It was on this bridge that she had once felt the
touch and pressure of his supporting arm. And thereafter life had held
no dearer hope for her than that she might once again experience such
exultant joy. The very memory of it was sweeter than stolen waters on
the lips of youth. After a few minutes she passed on, retracing, street
after street, the path by which they had come that night. Midway of a
certain block she paused. It was here that he had met her. But she did
not turn back. She continued her journey until she reached Ruth Tracy’s
door. Not that she thought of entering here; she had no desire to do
that. But it was here that he had found comfort and help in his arduous
work, and so the very place was precious in her sight. It had never
occurred to her to be jealous of Ruth Tracy. She had never conceived
that the rector could stain his soul by falling in love with any other
woman. But it came into her mind now, suddenly, that if her own desire
for his love had been fulfilled, he would have proved himself equally
as weak and wicked as though his affection had been centered on another
than herself; some woman not his wife. Perhaps his God had saved him
from debasement. Perhaps her passion for him, even though he should
know of it, would excite in him only pity and disgust.
She did not tarry at the Tracy house, but turned back at once toward
the center of the city. The warm, clear night had brought many people
into the streets. It was not a careless nor a merry crowd. Sober and
sullen looking men stood listlessly on corners, or strolled aimlessly
along the pavement. Sad-eyed women, with shawls covering their heads,
passed by. Children, thinly clad, with soiled faces and stockingless
feet, gazed hungrily in at the shop windows. She knew many of these
people by sight and name, but she did not stop to speak to any of them,
and, heavily veiled as she was, they did not recognize her.
At the corner by the Silver Star saloon she met Stephen Lamar. Hoping
that he would not recognize her she bowed her head and hurried on. But
he was not to be deceived nor passed by. He thrust himself across her
path.
“Wait!” he said; “I want a word with you.”
“I can’t wait,” she replied. “I am in haste. I have an errand to do.”
“You have no errand half so important as is my business with you.”
“But I don’t choose to talk with you.”
She made as if to pass on, but again he blocked her path.
“I know you don’t,” he replied, “but I choose to talk with you, and I’m
going to do it――now.”
His voice rose at the end, and he moved nearer to her. It was plain
that he was both angry and determined. It was plain too that he had
been drinking. His utterance was hoarse and thick, and he slurred an
occasional word, as half-drunken men do. The controversy attracted the
attention of people passing by, and they stopped to look and listen.
She dreaded a scene. It would doubtless be wiser to humor him.
“Very well,” she said. “You may walk with me. I am going toward home.”
“No,” he replied, “I’ll not walk with you. We’ll go in here to the
Silver Star, and sit down quietly, and have it out alone.”
He took her arm, turned her about, and moved with her to the side door
of the saloon. She did not demur. So long as he must talk with her it
might as well be there as elsewhere. They entered, crossed the hall,
and went into the private room, scene of many conferences between the
labor leader and Bricky Hoover the workmen’s champion.
An aproned waiter came in and stood at attention.
“Bring a glass of vermouth for this lady,” said Lamar, “and the usual
whiskey for me; and be quick about it.”
He sat at the table and held his head in his hand, but he did not speak
to her again until the drinks had been served.
Now that she saw him clearly in the light of the hanging electric lamp,
she saw that he was changed. His face was gray, haggard and unshaven,
and when his blood-shot eyes were open they rolled strangely. It was no
wonder that his appearance gave evidence of the strain and suffering he
had undergone. He had passed three terrible days and nights since that
moment when he had seen this woman pillow the blood-stained head of the
preacher on her breast, and had heard her declare her love for him. He
had scarcely given a second thought to the fact that his position as
a labor-leader was in jeopardy if it was not entirely lost; that the
workingmen who had followed him blindly and confidently in times past
had now turned upon him, denounced him and repudiated him. But that
the woman with whom, as the whole city knew, he was desperately in
love should publicly, shamelessly, in his very presence, declare her
passionate fondness for this discredited priest, that was more than
human nature could endure. It roused every bitter, hateful, malignant
passion of which his heart was capable. He had sought her at her home
and she had refused to see him. The refusal had made him desperate. So,
without sleep, without food, torn with jealousy, consumed by rage, his
brain fired by constant and deep potations, he had waited and watched
his chance to settle with her. Now he had it.
She did not drink her wine, but he drained his glass of whiskey at a
gulp. Then he got up and went over and turned the key in the lock of
the door leading into the hall.
“Steve,” she said, “unlock that door.”
“I don’t want to be interrupted,” he explained. “This is a private
interview.”
“Unlock that door!”
He looked into her eyes to see how determined she might be, and it was
evident that he saw. The corners of his mouth twitched in a curious
smile, but he unlocked the door, and came back and sat down again at
the table opposite her.
“Now,” she asked, “what is it that you want to say to me?”
“I want to know why you treat me like a dog.”
“Why should I treat you like a man?”
“Because I’ve done a man’s work for you. I brought on this strike
because you wanted it brought on. When you came and begged me to have
it called off I moved heaven and earth to carry out your will, but it
couldn’t be done. It was too late. I told you it was too late. But I
did my best. And what happened? A riot. A bloody, dirty riot. I blasted
my own career. These workingmen are through with me. They are cursing
me to-night for a coward and a traitor. They can go to hell cursing for
all I care. But as for you, I want pay for what I’ve done for you. Do
you hear? I want my pay!”
“What kind of pay?”
“I want you.”
“You can’t have me.”
She straightened up in her chair and looked him resolutely in the eyes.
She saw his lip working but no sound came from them. It was a full
minute before he regained the use of his voice. Then he asked, calmly
enough:
“Why can’t I have you?”
“Because I don’t love you. No other reason is necessary.”
“I’ll make you love me; if not to-night, then to-morrow; if not
to-morrow, then next day. Oh, I can do it. You know I can do it.”
He leaned across the table toward her and continued:
“We’ll go away from here. This is only a pest-hole anyway. We’ll go
away. We’ll live in luxury. Oh, we can do it. I have enough. These
fools don’t know it, but I haven’t worked for ’em all these years just
for the love o’ the thing. There’s been money in it.”
He laughed a little, mechanically, as though at his own shrewdness, and
again continued:
“So it’s all right. You’ll go. You’ve got to go. I can’t live without
you. I won’t live without you.”
Again his voice rose excitedly, his mouth twitched, his face took on a
strange and evil expression. She began to fear him. She decided that
she must, for her own safety, bring the interview to a close, and do
it in so peremptory a manner as to silence him. Rising to her feet she
said:
“It’s only a waste of breath to discuss it, Steve. I cannot and shall
not do what you wish. I don’t want to see you again nor talk to you
again. And I don’t want you ever again to come near me. Now, I’m going
home.”
“Not yet. Just a moment. It happens, for instance, that you’re in love
with some one else?”
“That is none of your business.”
“By God, it is my business! Oh, I know! I saw you. I heard you, when
you thought his damned skull was cracked, and you whined over him as
if he were a sick baby. What right have you got, anyway, to love this
married priest?”
He was bellowing like a mad beast now; but she did not cower, nor
tremble, nor show any sign of fear. In the face of danger it was her
place to be resolute.
“A right,” she answered him, “that requires no permission from you.”
“You don’t deny it, then?”
“I don’t deny it.”
“And you’re not ashamed of it?”
“I’m not ashamed of it. I glory in it.”
He had not risen with her, but he pulled himself, now, unsteadily to
his feet.
“I’ve got only one answer to make to that,” he said. “You fondle that
black-coated, white-livered priest just once more, and I’ll send the
souls of both of you straight to hell.”
“Steve, you coward, what do you mean?”
“Mean? I mean what I say. I’ll have what belongs to me or I’ll kill the
man that robs me, and the woman that lets him. He had his kisses last
Friday. I haven’t had mine yet. But I’m going to have ’em――to-night.”
He started toward her, staggering as he went. She backed away from him
and tried to reach the door, but he blocked her path.
“Let me pass!” she cried. “Don’t you dare to stop me! Don’t you dare to
lay a finger on me!”
He paid no heed to her command. He lurched forward, even as she spoke,
and before she could escape him he had seized her and crushed her in
his arms. She cried out in terror, and tried to free herself, but she
was helpless. Half-drunken as he was, he seemed, nevertheless, to be
possessed of maniacal strength. Men in the barroom adjoining heard the
cry and the struggle, and burst into the room and released her from
his grasp, and held her assailant while she hurried away. When he saw
that she was gone he became suddenly calm, self-possessed, genial. He
showed no resentment toward those who had caught and restrained him.
He simulated good-nature as shrewdly and cleverly as do the criminal
insane. His captors, now his companions, lent themselves readily to the
deception. Now that the incident was closed it was of small moment to
them. It was not a thing of rare occurrence, anyway, to have the sodden
hangers-on at the Silver Star aroused by a woman’s scream.
So Steve went out and mingled familiarly with the men at the bar;
laughed at their questionable jokes about his gallantry, tossed dice
with them, drank with them, and bade them good-night with as much ease
and carelessness as though his heart were not a seething whirlpool of
murderous thought.
As for Mary Bradley, she hastened through the streets toward her home,
her face burning with anger and humiliation. If she had disliked and
hated Stephen Lamar before, she loathed him now. Then, suddenly, she
remembered his threat against her and the rector. What did he mean by
it? Murder? She paused in her swift pace, overcome by fear. Not fear
for herself. It mattered little what vengeance he might choose to
inflict on her. But was the man whom she loved in danger? Would this
desperate, drink-crazed monster seek to carry out his threat against
the rector of Christ Church? Was it not her duty to warn the intended
victim? For one moment she stood irresolute, then she turned in her
tracks and hastened back toward the center of the city.