# The Unhallowed Harvest/Chapter 15

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 villifier 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 of 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 mem​bers, 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."