# The Unhallowed Harvest/Chapter 12

Three days after the vestry meeting at which the resolution of dismissal was adopted, Westgate received a note from his fiancée asking him to call that evening. He was not slow to read between the lines of her message the fact that she desired to talk with him about the Farrar case. From the day of their Sunday walk the preceding September their differences concerning the trouble in the church had grown ever greater. The matter had been discussed between them many times and with great frankness, but of late the discussions had not been marked by that intimacy of feeling which had before characterized them. The controversy had not been unfriendly, but it had been fruitless and deadening. Nor was there any longer any hope of a reconciliation of opinion. While Ruth became more and more deeply absorbed in the regeneration of the church after the manner advocated by its rector, and gave increasingly of her time and ability to the crusade, Westgate, on the contrary, became more thoroughly convinced that the entire scheme was Utopian, impractical and visionary, and must end in disaster to the church, and in eventual defeat and humiliation for those who were engaged in it. To both of the lovers the situation was poignant and extreme. Westgate felt it the most deeply because for him there were no compensations. He had not the spiritual absorption in the contest that would lead to a certain satisfaction of the soul whether it were won or lost. His interest was simply that of a man convinced of the mighty economic ​value of the Church to the community, and willing to fight for its integrity. To win his fight and thereby lose his sweetheart would be an empty and a bitter victory. To yield his honest convictions and play the hypocrite in order to retain her confidence and love would be cowardly and base. In no direction could he see light or hope. But with Ruth the case was different. Filled with religious zeal she was fighting for an ideal. That in itself was soul-satisfying. Even out of defeat would spring joy that she had fought. Her lover's approval, even his affection, was not a sine qua non to her. His image in her heart was often overshadowed by her absorption in the struggle for new life in the Church. The heroic figure of her rector, battling against odds, with splendid confidence in the justice of his cause, loomed ever larger in her mind as she went forth with him into the thick of the contest. Not that she was in any way disloyal to her lover. He was still her heart's high choice. But a greater thing than human love had entered her soul, a thing that called for sacrifice and sharp self-denial, even to the breaking, if necessary, of earth's dearest ties.
Westgate knew all this, so it was with no anticipation of a joyful meeting that he called upon her in response to her request.
There was no lack of cordiality in her greeting, but her face bore a look of determination that he had not often seen there. She did not waste time in explaining the purpose of her request.
"I asked you to come," she said, "because I have learned that it was you who prepared and offered the resolution in the vestry meeting calling for the dismissal of the rector."
"It was I," he replied.
"And I wanted to know whether you acted solely in the belief that it would be for the good of the church to have him go, or whether you were actuated by some other motive."
​"I will tell you frankly. I had two motives for my conduct. In the first place I believed, and still believe, that I was acting for the best interests of Christ Church. In the second place it is my desire to secure Mr. Farrar's removal from this community so that you shall be outside the sphere of his influence."
"Why do you wish that?"
She did not seem to be surprised or vexed at the outspoken declaration of his purpose.
"Because," he replied, "I want to give you an opportunity to be restored to mental health; and I want to give myself an opportunity to regain so much of your confidence and affection as I have already lost."
"If it were true that you had lost them, Philip, would it not be your own fault?"
"No. I place the blame wholly on this man who has influenced you to my detriment."
"You misjudge him, Philip, and you misunderstand me. I have not been overpersuaded, and I am not abnormal. If it were true that I have lost my mental balance, and if you wanted to restore it, you have gone about it in quite the wrong way. To attempt to shatter a cause on which my heart is set, and to initiate a movement to discredit and disgrace the bravest and most high-souled and far-seeing man that ever preached the gospel of Christ from any pulpit in this city; that is not the way to quiet my mind, or to retain my confidence and affection."
She said it with determination, but not in anger, for her eyes were moist and her lip was trembling.
He, man that he was, was not able to hold himself in quite so complete control.
"Listen, Ruth!" he exclaimed. "This man who is now your ideal will some day be shattered into his original elements. Of this I have no doubt. If he will then remake himself on sound principles, there will still be in him vast possibilities for good. As it is, he is a menace to the Church and a destroyer of human ​happiness. Pardon me, but I cannot look with equanimity on such a situation as faces me to-night."
"And it is a situation that is not necessary. It is all so very sad because it is so very unnecessary."
"What do you mean by that, Ruth?"
"I mean that if you would only see these things as I do; they are so perfectly plain; if you would only join me in this work; it is so inspiring; you would be such a help, such a power, a man to be honored and idealized. Oh, Philip! If I have loved you before, I would worship you then!"
She leaned toward him with clasped hands, flushed face, eyes that were burdened with yearning. He went over to her and put his arm about her shoulder as she sat.
"You are tempting me, Ruth. You know that I would give up everything that an honest man could give up for your sake. But if I were to stultify myself you would only despise me in the end."
"That is true, Philip. Whatever you do must be done in sincerity. You must believe in the cause."
"And that is so utterly impossible."
"And so grievously sad."
She sighed, and folded her hands in her lap, and looked away into immaterial distance. After a moment she added:
"But at least it is not necessary that you should openly and aggressively join Mr. Farrar's enemies."
"I should be less than a man," he replied, "to hold the opinions that I do and fail to oppose both him and his destructive schemes."
"And you are determined to crush him if you can?"
"I am determined to put an end, if possible, to his mischievous activities in this parish. No other course is open to me."
She lifted Westgate's arm from her shoulder, rose, crossed over to the window, held back the curtain, and ​looked out into the night. When she turned back into the room it was apparent, from the look on her face, that her resolution was fixed.
"Philip," she said, "I believe it will be better for both of us to break our engagement to marry."
"Ruth, you are beside yourself!"
"No; I am quite sane, and I am very much in earnest. I have thought it all out, and I have made up my mind. We are better apart. I release you from any obligation on your part; I want to be released from any obligation on mine."
"Ruth! I can't do that. It's not necessary. It's absurd! Within the next six months this trouble will all have blown over. Must I do without you for a lifetime because of a flurry like this?"
He went toward her and would have taken her hands in his, but she moved away from him.
"No, Philip, it's not absurd. This trouble, as you say, may all have gone by in six months; but that doesn't matter. I am convinced to-night that we are so—so fundamentally different; so diametrically opposed to each other in all of our ideals concerning those things which are really worth while, that there never could be any harmony between us, never. It is fortunate that we have discovered it in time."
"Ah, but you mistake the true basis for harmony. It doesn't lie in having the same religious beliefs, or even in having the same ethical ideals. It lies in——"
"Please don't, Philip! You only hurt me; and it's useless. My mind is completely made up, and I want to end it—now."
He looked at her for a long time without answering. He was debating with himself. Perhaps, after all, she was right. Perhaps it would be wise to give her rein to-night, to release her from her promise, and to win her back when she should be disillusioned, as in time she surely would be. And yet he could not quite ​bring himself to the point of yielding. His silence filled her with apprehension. She looked at him with frightened eyes.
"Philip," she pleaded, "if you have ever loved me, you will let me go free."
Still he did not answer her.
"Philip! I demand it. It is my right as a woman."
"Very well. I submit. I will not hold you against your will. You are free."
She went up to him then and took both his hands in hers.
"Thank you, dear!" she said. "You are so good. You were always good to me. You have never been kinder to me than you have been to-night. You have never been dearer to me than you are at this moment."
Holding his hands thus she lifted her face to his and kissed him.
Buffeting the wind and snow as he journeyed homeward that night, Westgate thought little of the December blasts. His mind was filled with the tragic climax of his one great love. He knew that she looked upon her act as irrevocable, as the definite parting of ways that would never again be joined, and that he had no right to consider it otherwise. But, out of the clouds and darkness that surrounded him, one momentous fact thrust itself in upon his memory: in the midst of her cruelty to him she had kissed him. She had not declared that she would be his friend; she had not hoped that he would be happy; she had not promised to pray for him; she had not said any of the inane things that most girls feel it incumbent on them to say on such occasions, and for that he was duly grateful; but—she had kissed him.
The breaking of the engagement between Westgate and Ruth Tracy was more than a nine days' wonder. As the fact became known, and no attempt was made to conceal it, the parish was stirred anew. Every one ​surmised correctly the causes that had led to it, and all were agreed that it was a most unfortunate ending to an ideal romance. Ruth's mother, when she was told of it, collapsed. For three days she housed herself and was inconsolable. She had grown to be very fond of Westgate. And for once Ruth's father dropped his reticence, and expressed himself in language which, though fluent, was not quite fit for Ruth to listen to, and certainly would have been entirely inappropriate for public repetition. For he, too, was fond of his junior partner, he had great respect for the young man's proved ability, and he had looked forward with intense satisfaction to his coming marriage with Ruth.
By no one was the news of the broken engagement received with approval, unless, possibly, by the rector of Christ Church. Not that he was indifferent to the disappointment or suffering of others; by no means. But the separation cleared the way for Ruth's progress toward higher realms of Christian service. It would permit her to give her undivided allegiance to the work in which he himself was so vitally interested. That it was a selfish consideration on his part did not occur to him. That the event was the first logical calamity, the first tragic result of an ill-considered crusade, or that it was the forerunner of still more tragic events which the future was bound to bring, never once crossed his mind. One of his former friends, commenting on the minister's failure to see the trend of circumstances, said that the man was living in a fool's paradise.
But the fact of the breaking of the engagement was food and drink to Jane Chichester. Not that she personally had anything at stake. But she loved a sensation. She would almost have given her chance of salvation to have heard the conversation between Westgate and Ruth on the night of the separation. From every one whom she met, either by chance or design, she gleaned what information she could concerning the ​unhappy event; and, not even then filled to repletion, she resolved to call at the first decent opportunity on Ruth herself, and learn at first hand, if possible, the intimate details of the tragedy. Mary Bradley too was interested; and not only interested but deeply concerned. Not that she deprecated the breaking of the engagement. Quite the contrary. She had never felt that a woman with Ruth Tracy's ideals could be happy with a man like Westgate, apostle of conservatism, pledged to the perpetuation of the present iron-clad social order, a man toward whom her resentment had never waned since the day he had compassed her defeat in a court of law. But for Miss Tracy she had an ever-growing respect, and admiration, and fondness. While she regarded her as still bound, in a way, by religious superstition, and the conventions of society, she nevertheless gave her credit for having noble aspirations, and for seeking by every possible means to realize them. And especially did she give her credit for having cast off such a drag on her ambitions as Westgate was and always would have been. It was a fine and courageous thing to do, and more fine and courageous because she undoubtedly loved him. Mary Bradley felt that she wanted to tell her so; that she wanted to give her a word of encouragement and comfort and hope. In spite of many invitations from Ruth to do so, she had never yet called at the Tracy house. She had felt that such action would be not quite consistent, either with her social position or her present vocation. But the time had come now to cast these considerations aside, to visit Ruth Tracy in her home, to invade the precincts of aristocracy and conservatism, and carry courage and comfort to the "prisoner of hope" environed there by subtle and antagonistic forces.
So, one cold, clear December afternoon, she made her way to the unfamiliar neighborhood of Fountain Park. It was the same afternoon that Jane Chichester had chosen for her call on Ruth. Miss Chichester had ​found her intended victim at home, and had sought, by various artifices, to draw from her the true story of the breaking of the engagement. But Ruth either did not or would not understand her visitor's desire, and the probability was each minute growing stronger that Miss Chichester would depart entirely barren of the information which she had come to secure. It was at this juncture that Mrs. Bradley was announced. Miss Chichester caught the name.
"Good heavens!" she exclaimed, in a stage whisper; "is it that socialist widow?"
Miss Tracy nodded.
"Then, for goodness' sake, let me escape."
"No, Jane, you stay right where you are."
By this time the maid was ushering the visitor into the presence of the other two women. It was not pleasing to Mary Bradley to find Miss Chichester there. The fact would interfere with if it did not entirely destroy the purpose of her errand. But she manifested neither surprise nor disappointment. She entered the room, not with as much grace, perhaps, but certainly with as much ease and composure as though she had all her life been accustomed to making her entry into drawing-rooms. She was received cordially by Ruth who was sincerely glad to see her, and coldly by Miss Chichester who would much rather have seen any one else in the city. There was some casual conversation, in which Miss Chichester only incidentally joined, and then, possibly through inadvertence, possibly by design, the action of the vestry in demanding the dismissal of the rector was referred to.
"I know you don't agree with me, Ruth," said Miss Chichester, "but, in my opinion, we shall never have peace in the parish till that man goes."
"And in my opinion," responded Ruth, "we shall never have righteousness nor real happiness in the parish until the church as a body accepts his views. What do you think, Mrs. Bradley?"
​"I quite agree with you," replied the widow, quietly.
Miss Chichester would have taken anything from Ruth Tracy in the way of verbal opposition, without a shadow of resentment; but to be openly antagonized by this person who had presumed to force herself socially into one of the most exclusive drawing-rooms on the hill—she could not listen and hold herself completely in abeyance. However, she ignored the widow and addressed her forthcoming remark exclusively to Ruth.
"I should think, my dear," she said, "that with the sad experience you have recently had, which everybody says was a direct result of the trouble Mr. Farrar has got the church into, you would hesitate about believing that either righteousness or happiness could result from his schemes."
A flush came into Mrs. Bradley's cheeks, but she held her peace. She well knew that Miss Tracy was fully capable of fighting her own battles. Ruth showed no sign of resentment. Her face had paled slightly, but she spoke without feeling or excitement.
"You must remember, Jane," she said, "that, where one person may have suffered because of the upheaval in the church, a hundred have found hope and satisfaction in the gospel that is being preached to them."
"Oh," retorted Miss Chichester, "those people that come to church nowadays are merely sensation hunters. They come, and listen, and smack their lips, and go away just as irreligious and atheistic and destructive as they were before they came. Those are largely the kind of people who are encouraging Mr. Farrar to make this fight. Of course, I don't include you, dear."
"You include me, perhaps?" Mrs. Bradley smiled as she asked the question, and her white teeth shone.
"There's an old saying," replied Miss Chichester, "to this effect: 'If the shoe fits, put it on.'"
Mrs. Bradley laughed outright; not meanly, but merrily.
​"I think it fits," she replied.
"Moreover," continued Miss Chichester, her temper rising with every word, "a scheme like Mr. Farrar's, that encourages people of no standing whatever to attempt to break into good society, and to seek companionship with our best young men, is a scheme that ought to be crushed."
It was perfectly apparent that after that declaration no entente cordiale could be either established or maintained among the three women present. Ruth looked worried, Mrs. Bradley bit her lip and did not answer, and Miss Chichester, after a moment of uncertainty, rose to go. She turned to Ruth.
"I'm so sorry for you, dear," she said, "even if it is all your own fault. I know how to sympathize with you, because my own heart is almost broken."
She gave her eyes a dab or two with her handkerchief, said good-bye to Ruth, ignored Mrs. Bradley, and departed.
"I'm extremely sorry," said the remaining guest, when the door had closed behind the first visitor, "to have come here and made trouble."
"Oh," replied Ruth, "I don't mind Miss Chichester. I have always known her. What worries me is that you may have taken her too seriously. You don't know, as I do, that her heart is so much better than her tongue."
"I think most people are really better than they seem. But Miss Chichester appears to have a deep personal grievance against me. I have heard of it before this. I don't fully understand it."
"Jane thinks you are trenching on her preserves."
"In the matter of Barry Malleson?"
"I believe so."
"Is she engaged to be married to him?"
"She says she is not, but she thinks she might be if it were not for your alluring influence over him."
Mrs. Bradley laughed a little before she replied.
​"Poor Mr. Malleson! To be so beset. But if Miss Chichester is not engaged to him I do not see that I owe her anything." She turned suddenly to her hostess. "Miss Tracy, would you think it my duty to forbid Mr. Malleson to see me?"
"I don't know why it should be. Do you?"
"No. Only that I'm not in his class, that I have nothing against him, that he appears to be an extremely well-intentioned young man, and that his association with me, slight as it has been, has already subjected him to much criticism."
"Those are not good reasons, Mrs. Bradley. Barry cares nothing for criticism. The fact that he is well-intentioned prevents any unjust reflections upon you. And, so far as I am concerned, I should be delighted to see you become intensely and permanently interested in each other. As I view the matter, in the light of my present beliefs, I think it is just such relationships that modern society needs for its regeneration."
"Thank you! That is practically what Mr. Farrar said to me."
"Did he talk with you about Barry?"
"Incidentally."
"And he approved of Barry's interest in you?"
"He appeared to."
"I hope you will follow his advice, Mrs. Bradley."
But Mrs. Bradley evidently did not care to continue the discussion of this particular subject. At any rate she changed the topic of conversation abruptly by saying:
"I came to tell you how brave and wise I think you are, Miss Tracy."
Ruth looked up questioningly, and her visitor continued:
"I mean in the matter of breaking your engagement. I don't want to intrude into your personal affairs, but I felt that I must tell you how greatly I admire your courage."
​"You are very kind."
"So many of us choose the easiest way, the most delightful path. It is splendid once in a while to see a woman govern her conduct by high principles and a stern sense of duty, though it requires great sacrifice."
"I appreciate what you say, though I am not fully deserving of your commendation. I cannot feel that the sacrifice was so very great on my part, but I am intensely sorry for him. He is so sincere and good."
"You mean Mr. Westgate?"
"Yes."
"I have no sympathy——" she checked herself suddenly and then added: "We'll not talk about it any more. I simply felt that if I could say but one word that would give you the least bit of courage and hope, I wanted to say it."
"You have cheered and encouraged me."
"Thank you! Now let's talk about something else."
When Mrs. Bradley chose to talk she was an interesting and entertaining talker. And she was in a talkative mood to-day. The conversation having turned on her own vocation, she told about her present work, and about the ambitions and ideals of the socialistic group with which she was connected. Mentally alert, and eager to hear and to read, she had readily imbibed and easily assimilated the doctrines of the school of Marx and Bebel, and their more vigorous if less illustrious followers. These doctrines appealed to her reason and to her sense of social justice. She rejoiced in the effort to raise the economic level of the working class, and, by the same token, to drag down those pompous ones who ruled by reason of unjust wealth. She believed in the necessity for revolutionizing the social order. It was a part of her work to sow the seeds of such a revolution, and she explained by what methods that work was accomplished. Miss Tracy was not only interested in the recital, she was fascinated. The story was dramatic and absorbing.
​"But," she said finally, "you must in some way, Mrs. Bradley, connect it up with religion, or it will come to naught in the end."
"I am not so sure of that," was the reply. "I've been studying on that part of it, and reading what little I can find to read, and listening, too, whenever I can hear it talked about."
"I am sure you must get great help from Mr. Farrar's sermons. I'm so glad to see you in church every Sunday morning."
"Yes; I come quite regularly. I'm always interested in the sermon."
"Mr. Farrar is very grateful to you for giving him such splendid assistance in his fight."
"I try to help him. I think he's a very wise and good man."
"He is, indeed. You can rest assured of that."
"And being so wise and good he deserves to be very happy."
"I think he almost glories in this warfare for righteousness."
"He should be happy and satisfied in all of his relations in order to do his best work."
"I presume he is thus happy and satisfied."
"I don't know. I've been told that his wife is not in sympathy with him; that she doesn't understand him and doesn't appreciate him. If that is so it's a pitiful situation."
"If it is so, it is certainly unfortunate, but I do not quite credit that story."
Mrs. Bradley went on as though she had not heard.
"A man such as he is ought to have a wife of the same mind with him. She ought to be one with him in everything. She ought to give herself up completely to him and to his work. And she would have a rich reward, because I believe such a man as he is could love intensely."
She had been looking away into some glowing ​distance as she spoke, but now she turned her eyes full upon her hostess.
"I have known of marriages like that," she said, "and they have been perfect; perfect, such as your marriage to Mr. Westgate never could have been; such as your marriage, some day, to some other man must be, for you deserve it, and you must have it. A woman who loses an experience like that loses the better part of her life."
She spoke with such intense earnestness that her listener was startled, and hardly knew how to reply. There was a moment's pause and then Ruth said, feeling even while she said it that she was saying the wrong thing:
"I suppose your own experience as a wife leads you to say that, Mrs. Bradley."
"My own experience? Oh, no! My own marriage was a very commonplace affair. People who are as poor as we were, always hard at work, straining to make both ends meet, have little time for love-making. Besides, my husband was not a man for any woman to idolize."
If Ruth was surprised at this frank avowal, she succeeded in concealing her surprise. It occurred to her that possibly the woman was primitive, and that her finer sensibilities had not yet been fully developed. But that she was genuine and well-intentioned there could be no doubt.
"That was unfortunate," replied Ruth. "Every marriage should have for its basis mutual and whole-souled affection."
"Yes. That is true. I neither received it, nor had it. And I feel, somehow—it was my fault of course, for I didn't have to marry him—but I feel somehow as if I'd been robbed of that to which every woman is entitled."
It was a delicate subject, and Ruth hardly knew how to handle it. But a thought came into her mind and she gave expression to it.
​"It's not too late yet for you to have that experience, Mrs. Bradley. I am sure your heart can still be profoundly stirred by some great love."
"Oh, I know that, Miss Tracy. I know that. But to love without being loved in return—that's torture; it's not happiness."
"And why shouldn't you be loved in return?"
"I don't know. Oh, I don't know. Do you think, do you imagine, by the wildest stretch of hope and fancy do you conceive it to be possible that my love should be returned?"
She had risen to her feet. Her voice was tremulous with excitement. Her eyes had in them that appealing look that had pierced to the depth of Barry Malleson's heart. But she did not wait for Miss Tracy to answer her. She turned abruptly toward the door.
"I must go now," she said. "It's already dusk. And it's a long way home."
When she reached the hall she faced about. There was something she still wanted to say.
"Don't take it to heart, Miss Tracy. Your own broken romance, I mean. He was never the man for you. You have ideals. He has none. There are a thousand women with whom he will be just as well satisfied as he would have been with you. But for you there is but one man in all the world. And when he comes to you you will know him, and you will love him, and you will be supremely, oh, supremely happy. For there's nothing so beautiful, so wonderful, so heavenly in a woman's life as this love for the one man, if only he loves her."
That it came from her heart as well as from her lips, this message of hope and comfort, there could be no shadow of doubt. Her eyes were full of it, her countenance was aglow with it. But what lay back of it in her own life's experience that should give it such eloquent and passionate voice?
Before Ruth could recover sufficiently from her sur​prise to reply intelligently the woman had said good-bye and was gone. She hurried down the pavement in the December dusk, looking neither to the right nor left. The night was cold, the air was frosty, the stars were beginning to show in the clear sky. At the corner of Grove Street and Fountain Lane Stephen Lamar met her. He came upon her suddenly and she was startled.
"You shouldn't have frightened me so," she said.
"I was waiting for you," he replied. "I knew you were in the Tracy house."
"How did you know it?"
"A socialist friend of mine saw you go in and told me."
"And what business was it of your socialist friend where I went?"
"To speak frankly, Mary, they don't like your consorting so freely with people of that class: this Tracy girl, and the fighting parson, and half-baked young Malleson and others of that ilk."
"I've told you before, Steve, that when your crowd wants my job they can have it. I'll get out any day. But—I shall choose my own friends."
"They don't want you to throw up your job. In fact you're indispensable. But it's because you are so important that your association with these people is injurious to the cause."
She half stopped and faced him.
"Steve," she said, "why did you come up here to meet me?"
It was such an abrupt breaking off of the former topic of conversation that Lamar replied awkwardly:
"Why, I—I wanted to tell you this."
"What else did you want to tell me?"
"I wanted to tell you that I heard to-day that you are likely to marry young Malleson. He's been asked if there's an engagement, and he doesn't deny it. The thing has got on my nerves. I felt that I couldn't ​sleep without getting an assurance from you that there's nothing in it."
"Let me see. I told you once that if you would do something for me you should have your reward."
"Yes."
"And you haven't done it."
"The job is under way. You can't do a thing of that kind in a day. The agreement with the men expired less than a week ago."
"You think you will bring what I wish to pass?"
"I surely do."
"Then you needn't be afraid of Barry Malleson. A thousand of his kind will not keep your reward from you."
"Thank you, Mary. I knew all along that you were only pulling the wool over his eyes, but this infernal story to-day got me going."
"Dismiss it from your mind. How far are you going to walk with me?"
"To Main Street. I promised to meet Bricky Hoover at the Silver Star at half-past five."
"Good! I shall take a car from there to the foot of Factory Hill."
An automobile turned the corner slowly within three feet of them as they walked. A woman, sitting alone in the tonneau, looked out at them sharply, and turned her head to watch them as she went by. It was Miss Chichester. They both recognized her.
"A friend of yours," said Lamar.
"A friend of a friend of mine," was the reply. "She has found a new reason for poisoning his mind concerning me."
"What is that?"
"I have been seen walking with Steve Lamar on a secluded street after nightfall."
He laughed. "That is indeed an offense," he said. "Let us do something that will enlarge it into a scandal."
​"For instance?"
"I might kiss you when I leave you at the corner."
She turned toward him as she walked.
"Do you remember," she asked him, "that story of Judas who betrayed his Master with a kiss?"
"From the Christian fable? Yes."
"Well, the man whom I kiss is marked for swift destruction."
"I would suffer the penalty and rejoice in it."
"You are not the man."
She stopped abruptly at the crossing, said good-night to him, and turned away before he could recover from the shock of his surprise. It was not the first time she had closed a conversation with him suddenly and left him mystified, and wondering at the meaning of her words. He stood on the corner and watched her out of sight, and then, with mind ill at ease, he turned in at the Silver Star.
Mary Bradley hurried on down Main Street, but she did not take a car. She was in a mood for walking, cold as the night was. At the first corner she turned, went a block to the west, and thence followed a residence street running parallel with Main. It was not yet six o'clock but the street was practically deserted. It was a good neighborhood, however, and she was not timid. Both Hazzard and Emberly, vestrymen of Christ Church, lived on this street. She knew the Emberly house in the next block. As she approached it a man descended the steps of it and started away in the direction in which she was going. She thought, as she saw him in the shadow, that it was Lamar. He was of nearly the same height, build and carriage, and it was easy for her to be mistaken. But when, instinctively, he turned his face back toward her, feeling that some one was following him whom he knew, she saw at once that it was the rector of Christ Church. He waited until she reached him, and they walked on together. He too was going in the direction of Factory Hill. A ​sick call which he had been prevented all the afternoon from reaching, must be made before dinner time. He was in a cheerful mood. Emberly had given him encouraging news. He told it to Mrs. Bradley as they went along. But, for some reason which he could not understand, she was more than usually reticent, and when she spoke it was in monosyllables. It was not a sullen reticence, but rather a physical inability, as though she were laboring for breath. Five blocks farther down she said:
"I turn here and cross the foot-bridge. It's much nearer for me."
"I will go with you," he replied.
"But it will take you out of your way."
"It doesn't matter. Besides, it's an unfrequented route, and you shouldn't go alone at this hour."
She made no further objection, and he turned with her, and they came presently to the end of the foot-bridge. It was a suspension bridge, narrow and unstable, swung across the gorge above the Malleson mills to accommodate employees of that concern. The wire cables that supported it hung so low that at the center they were scarcely knee-high above the floor, and that was covered with ice. It rocked and swayed with them as they walked upon it. Before they were half-way across Mary Bradley's foot slipped. She sank to her knee and would have fallen over the side of the bridge had not the minister caught her, flung his arm around her waist and helped her to her feet.
"You're not hurt?" he asked.
"No—except—my ankle."
She was trembling with fright, and, when she tried to move on, the weakness of her injured foot made the attempt too hazardous and she hesitated. Two-thirds of the icy bridge had yet to be crossed.
"Shall we go back?" he asked.
"No," she replied, "we will go on."
The minister's arm was still about her waist. It was ​a wise precaution. If it had not been there she would surely have plunged to the bottom of the gorge before the remainder of the crossing could have been accomplished. She wondered afterward why, with that first taste of an earthly heaven sweet upon her soul's lips, she had not, herself, sought life's end. At the farther end of the bridge he released her, and they turned and looked back over the perilous way they had come. Across the stream, in a circle of light thrown into the street by a swinging arc lamp, stood an automobile. A woman, sitting alone in the tonneau, swathed in furs, was looking over at them. They had not heard the car, they had not until that moment seen it, it was too far away now for its occupant to be identified. But Mary Bradley knew, nevertheless, who had seen them.
"It was a dangerous crossing," said the rector as they turned up the hill, and the car across the gorge moved on.
"It was a rapturous crossing," said Mary Bradley in her heart as, clinging to her companion's arm, she limped weakly toward her home. But, if she had been reticent before the accident, she was silent now. The power of speech seemed almost to have left her. The minister respected her mood and did not question her. Doubtless pain or weariness or embarrassment had its effect upon her, and he did not choose to be intrusive. He left her at her door, and heard the querulous voice of the old woman of the house in impatient questioning as he turned away.
Mary Bradley gave brief greeting to her mother as she entered, but she went hurriedly and sat by the window in the darkened living-room. She watched the stalwart figure of the rector of Christ Church until it was lost in the shadows of the dimly-lighted street. She pressed her face against the pane and peered into the darkness after the last vestige of an outline or a motion had been swallowed up.
Her mother called to her from the kitchen.
​"Ain't you comin' to your supper, Mary?"
"Yes, mother."
But she did not come. She still sat with her face against the window, staring into the night.
Again the old woman called to her, impatiently.
"Why don't you come? Your supper's gittin' cold."
"I'm coming, mother."
Still she did not come.
What was it in the darkness, in the sweet twilight beyond the darkness, in the red glory of some forbidden morning, that drew and held her eyes of clay?