The
Unhallowed
Harvest

The
Unhallowed
Harvest

By
HOMER GREENE
Author of “The Lincoln Conscript,”
“Pickett’s Gap,” etc.

PHILADELPHIA
GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1917, by
George W. Jacobs & Company

Published March, 1917

All rights reserved

Printed in U. S. A.

Contents

The Unhallowed Harvest

CHAPTER I
AN ENFORCED VERDICT

The Reverend Robert Bruce Farrar entered the Common Pleas court-room and made his way down the center aisle to the railing that enclosed the space allotted to members of the bar. Had he been an ordinary citizen he would have stopped there. But he was not an ordinary citizen. Therefore he passed on into the railed enclosure to find his seat. He was rector of Christ Church; the oldest, wealthiest and most prominent religious organization in the city. Yet that fact alone would not have given him the distinction he enjoyed in this community. He was also an eloquent preacher, a profound scholar, a man of attractive and vigorous personality. Apparently he was not lacking in any of the qualities that make for success in the administration of the affairs of a large city parish. He had been rector of Christ Church for two years, and his worth and ability had been, during that time, abundantly proven. Moreover, by reason of his genial and sympathetic nature, he had endeared himself to the people of the parish, especially to the more humble members of his flock. He had, as the saying is, “a passion for humanity.” To those who toiled, who were in trouble or affliction, his heart went out in unaffected sympathy. He gave of his best to encourage, comfort and relieve them. Indeed, the only criticism made concerning him—and that was a suggestion rather than a criticism—was that possibly he neglected the souls of the rich to care for the bodies of the poor. He was deeply interested in problems of social ethics and economy, in fact in all problems having to do with the general welfare. He was a student of human character in all of its phases and manifestations. This it was, doubtless, that led him into becoming a frequenter of the courts. It was for this reason that the trial of causes had for him a strong and unfailing attraction. He was fond of looking on at the visible working of the machinery of the law. For there are few public places where human motives, as disclosed by human conduct, are brought more frequently and startlingly to the surface than in the court-room. It was a place, therefore, where the reverend gentleman was not only a frequent, but also a welcome visitor. He had a standing invitation to enter the bar enclosure, and to occupy a chair among his friends the lawyers. There had been occasions, indeed, occasions of great public interest, when the presiding judge, who chanced to be his senior warden, had had his rector up to sit beside him on the bench. But the case on trial this day was not an unusual one. It had attracted no particular attention, either among lawyers or laymen. Yet the rector of Christ Church was deeply interested in it. He had attended, so far as he had been able to do so, the sessions of the court in which it was being heard. It was what is known among lawyers as a negligence case. A workman, employed by a large manufacturing concern, had been seriously and permanently injured while engaged in the performance of the duties of his employment. An elevator on which he was riding, while making his way from one part of the factory to another, had suddenly gone wrong, and had plunged down through five stories, to become a heap of wreckage at the bottom of the shaft. And out from among the mass of splintered wood and broken and twisted iron and steel, he had been drawn, scarcely less broken and twisted and crushed than the inanimate things among which he had lain. An action had been brought, in his name, against the employing company, to compel it to compensate him for his injuries. This was the second day of the trial. It was late in the afternoon, and the case was drawing to a close. When the rector of Christ Church entered the court-room, Philip Westgate, for the defense, was making his closing argument to the jury. With relentless logic he was tearing down the structure which the experienced and skillful attorney for the plaintiff had built up. Although one of the younger members of a brilliant bar, it was freely predicted that the day was not far distant when he would be its leader. This thought lay distinctly in the mind of Richard Malleson, president of the defendant company, as he sat at the counsel’s table, and followed, with keen interest and satisfaction, the course of the argument.

He was not so witless as to believe that the jury would find in favor of his company, in view of the strong human appeal that had been made to them, and still would be made to them, on behalf of the plaintiff; yet his countenance expressed no anxiety, for his lawyer had assured him that, regardless of any adverse verdict, the case fell within a rule of law that would prevent a recovery. So, fair type of the prosperous business man, portly, well-dressed, shrewd-eyed, square-jawed, he sat contentedly and listened while Westgate whittled away his opponent’s case.

The plaintiff also was in court, sitting near by. But whether or not he understood what the learned counsel for the defense was saying, whether or not he heard his voice at all, no one, looking into his face, would have been able to discover. He sat there in a wheel-chair, a plaid robe covering his palsied and misshapen legs, his chin resting heavily on the broad scarf that covered his breast, his dull, gray face showing neither anxiety nor interest as Westgate made havoc of the evidence on which his case was built. To all outward appearance, though his whole economic future was at stake, he neither knew nor cared what was going on about him. For two days the rector of Christ Church had watched him as he sat there, listless, motionless, looking neither to the right nor left, apparently as unconcerned as though it were a stranger’s fate with which learned counsel were playing battledore and shuttlecock across the traverse jury box.

But if the plaintiff was indifferent, his wife, who sat by him, was not. She at least was alive and alert. Nothing escaped her observation and consideration; no point presented by counsel, no ruling made by the court, no statement given by witnesses, no expression on the faces of jurors, as evidence and argument fell upon their ears and sank into their presumably plastic minds. She was, apparently, still in her early thirties. She was neatly and cheaply clad, as became a workingman’s wife. Her figure was well-proportioned and supple, and her oval face, lighted with expressive and intelligent dark eyes, was strikingly handsome. She was following Westgate’s argument with intense but scornful interest. That she appreciated its strength and its brilliance was apparent; but it was also apparent that she was not in the least dismayed. To the clergyman, student of human character and emotions, her countenance presented a greater attraction than the attraction offered by eloquent counsel. He looked at her, wondered at her, sympathized with her.

Nor was the rector the only person in the room whose attention had been drawn to the woman’s face rather than to the eloquence of the speaking lawyer. At the clergyman’s side sat Barry Malleson, son of the president of the defendant company. He, also, had been in constant attendance at the trial. Not that his presence was necessary there; but, holding a nominally important, if not vitally necessary, position with the defendant company, he felt, as he expressed it, that he should be present to hearten up counsel in the case, and to give moral encouragement and protection to his father on whom a heavy verdict might fall with peculiar severity. With one hand ungloved, toying with his cane, he had sat and listened, with apparently deep interest, to Westgate’s speech. But whether the lawyer’s eloquence or the face of the plaintiff’s wife was the greater attraction, it would have been difficult to discover. For, while his ears appeared to be attuned to the one, his eyes were certainly fixed upon the other, and his gaze was one of distinct admiration.

When Westgate concluded his address and took his seat, Barry turned to the rector and whispered:

“Great speech, that of Phil’s, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” replied the rector. “From the standpoint of clear logic it was faultless.”

“Too bad he couldn’t have had twelve men with brains and education to take it in. Trying a case before an ordinary jury is more or less of a farce. Really, you know, the law ought to be so changed that only men of unusual intelligence, men with property interests of their own, could sit on a jury.”

The rector smiled. He was well aware of Barry’s undemocratic tendencies, and he knew just as well that to argue the point with him would be quite futile. Nevertheless, he said:

“Oh, I don’t know! It seems to me that heart and conscience should count for something in the jury box.”

“Ah,” replied Barry, “there’s your mistake. Cases should be decided according to law and logic, not according to sentiment. Take this case, now. Here’s a devilish—I beg your pardon!—an extraordinarily handsome woman, of the same general social class as most of the jurors. Plaintiff’s wife, you know. She goes to the stand and tells a moving tale of hardship and suffering. Sits there and turns eloquent eyes from counsel to witness and from witness to jury. Beauty in distress! Stalwart manhood in ruins! How are brains and logic going to win out against such a combination, before a jury made up of clerks and workingmen?”

“So far as my observation has gone,” replied the rector, “I’m inclined to think the ordinary jury deals out pretty even-handed justice.”

“Not when there’s a handsome woman in the case. Look at her now! By Jupiter! she’s a beauty!”

Barry’s enthusiasm was not unfounded, the plaintiff’s wife was in animated conversation with her lawyer during the brief interval preceding his address. Evidently she was pointing out to him some mistake in Westgate’s declarations, or fallacy in his logic. The jurors, the lawyers, the spectators in the court-room, were watching her, no less than were Barry Malleson and the Reverend Mr. Farrar. She was worth watching.

“Crude and uncultured, of course,” added Barry. “But, take such a face and figure as that, plus clothes and social training—she is already reputed to have brains,—and you would have a social queen. Gad!”

He turned his eyes away, as if to rest them for a moment on some less fascinating object. The clergyman did not seem to consider that his companion’s remarks called for any reply from him. People who knew Barry as well as Mr. Farrar did seldom took him very seriously.

The attorney for the plaintiff rose to make the concluding address to the jury. He had not the logical grasp of the case that his opponent had displayed, but he was more plausibly eloquent. He appealed more to the sympathies of the jurors than to their reason. He grew fierce in his denunciation of the greed and heartlessness of corporations in general, and of this corporation in particular. He became dramatic in his vivid description of the accident, and tearfully pathetic in depicting the future that lay before this man with the crushed body and the clouded mind. He called upon the jurors, as men of intelligence and conscience, to look to it that domineering wealth should not escape its just obligations to one whom it had carelessly crippled and cast aside; on whose home rested to-day the dark shadows of unspeakable pain and distressing poverty.

At the conclusion of his address many men in the court-room, including some of the jurors, wiped furtive tears from their eyes, and all of the women were openly weeping; all save one, the wife of the plaintiff. She did not weep. Her glowing dark eyes were tearless and triumphant. She looked into the sympathetic faces of the jurors and read their verdict there before they, themselves, had considered it. She knew that her long fight for justice on behalf of her crippled husband and herself was approaching its victorious end. Why should she weep?

Then Judge Bosworth began his charge to the jury. He gave a brief history of the case. He dwelt upon some of its more important phases as revealed by the evidence. He laid down the general rules of law governing this class of cases. He passed upon the requests of counsel for instruction to the jury. He said finally:

“Counsel for the defendant company has asked us to charge you that ‘under all the evidence in the case the verdict of the jury must be for the defendant.’ This is correct, and we so charge you; and, in doing so, we say that, except in the case of a common carrier, the uniform rule is that when recovery is sought on the ground of negligence of the defendant, the burden of proof is on the plaintiff, and in an action against an employer some specific act of negligence must be shown. No defect of any kind was shown in the elevator, nor was there any evidence which would justify a finding that it was unsafe for employees to use. Its falling was not shown to have been due to the breach of any duty owed by the employer to his employees. With the friction brake on it the engineer could have controlled it, and the only rational conclusion is that, instead of doing so, he carelessly let it drop with resultant consequences to this plaintiff which are not to be visited on the employer. This is one of those regrettable industrial accidents for which, in the present state of our laws, there appears to be no remedy in the way of compensation for injuries received.

“While the plaintiff is not charged with any contributory negligence, and while he has our undoubted sympathy, we cannot permit him to recover against a party that clearly has not been at fault. You will, therefore, in the case of John Bradley against the Malleson Manufacturing Company, render a verdict in favor of the defendant. It will not be necessary for you to leave the box. Mr. Gaylord,” to the prothonotary of the court, “you will please take the verdict of the jury.”

But before the prothonotary could get to his feet, Juror No. 7, sitting first in the front row, arose and addressed the court.

“Do I understand your Honor to say,” he inquired, “that the jury has no right to decide whether or not Mr. Bradley is entitled to damages?”

“No right whatever,” replied the judge. “In this case the law governs that question, and the law is exclusively for the court.”

“But,” persisted the juror, “it seems to me that the jury ought to decide, as a matter of fact, whether this company is responsible for Mr. Bradley’s injuries.”

The judge responded somewhat tartly:

“We have already explained to you that, in our opinion, the plaintiff has not made out a prima facie case. If we are in error he has his remedy by appeal.” And he gathered up the papers lying in front of him as though he had made an end of the matter.

But Juror No. 7 was not yet satisfied.

“It takes time and costs money to appeal,” he said. “If we could give the plaintiff a reasonable verdict now it would probably settle the case for good.”

If Judge Bosworth was impatient before, he was plainly vexed now, and he replied with some warmth:

“We cannot argue the matter with you nor permit you to argue it with us. We have considered the case carefully, and have directed a verdict for the defendant. We will not accept any other verdict. Our decision must stand until it is reversed by a higher court.”

“I meant no disrespect to your Honor,” said Juror No. 7, resuming his seat, “and I will of course obey the direction of the court; but, in my opinion, great injustice is being done.”

Some of the jurors nodded as if in affirmance of that opinion. All of them sat, with flushed faces, amazed at the temerity of their fellow-juror, wondering what the court would do or say next. The court-room was so still that the dropping of the proverbial pin could have been heard. But Judge Bosworth did not deign to reply. He turned again, sharply, to the prothonotary:

“Mr. Gaylord,” he said, “take the verdict.”

The prothonotary did as he was bidden:

“Gentlemen of the jury, hearken unto your verdict as the court has it recorded. In the case wherein John Bradley is plaintiff, and the Malleson Manufacturing Company is defendant, you find for the defendant. And so say you all?”

The jurors nodded their heads. The Bradley case was at an end.

“Mr. Duncan,” said the judge to the court crier, “you may adjourn court until ten o’clock to-morrow morning.”

The aged crier arose and droned out:

“Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye! The several courts are now adjourned till to-morrow morning at ten o’clock.”

It was not until then that Barry Malleson fairly recovered his breath. He and the rector had both arisen. “Did you ever hear of each a thing?” he asked. “The impertinence of the fellow! To stand there and criticize the honorable judge to his face! Why, he should have been fined for contempt of court, and imprisoned as well, without benefit of clergy too—no pun intended.”

“And none charged,” replied the rector. “I’m not sure, though, but that the man was more than half right.”

“Why, Mr. Farrar!” exclaimed Barry; “my dear sir! If juries were permitted to take the law into their own hands, what would become of our republican institutions? Where would be our guarantees of law and order? The next step in advancing civilization, sir, will be the complete abolition of the entire jury system.”

“Along with the obsolete form of democratic government, I suppose,” laughed the rector.

“I am not prepared at this moment,” replied Barry, “to go to that extreme; but incidents of unblushing presumption, such as we have just witnessed, make one feel that some kind of a curb must be put on the lower and less intelligent classes, or they will become actually tyrannical.”

In the meantime the judge had left the bench. The court-room audience was shuffling noisily out. The jurors, who had just rendered their enforced verdict, found their hats, and all except No. 7 strolled down the aisle by twos and threes discussing the sudden ending of the case. The lawyer for the plaintiff gathered up his books and papers, thrust them into his green bag, and then stopped to consult with the plaintiff’s wife. Westgate and his client strolled across the bar enclosure to where Barry and the rector were standing.

“Congratulations, old boy!” said Barry to the lawyer. “You did a fine piece of work!”

“Oh,” replied Westgate carelessly, “the case was easy. The law was all on our side.” He turned to the rector. “We are always glad to see you in court, Mr. Farrar.”

“The court-room is an extremely interesting place,” replied the clergyman.

“More interesting than profitable, if one is a litigant,” remarked Mr. Malleson. “I suppose, when the millennium comes, there will be no more litigation, Mr. Farrar?”

“No,” replied the clergyman. “The voice of the lawyer will no longer be heard in the land, and we shall have a thousand years of peace.”

Barry laughed, but the others only smiled.

“That’s one on me,” said Westgate. “Are you going our way, Mr. Farrar? Will you come along with us?”

“No,” replied the clergyman, “thank you! I want to stop and speak to Mrs. Bradley. A little consolation might not come amiss. She must be suffering severely from disappointment.”

“Good idea!” broke in Barry. “The woman is certainly to be pitied. No doubt she’s the victim of bad advice. I’ve a great mind to stop and talk to her myself, and explain the law to her, and the attitude of our company in the matter. It may be that she’s entirely ignorant and innocent.”

“Don’t fool yourself, Barry,” said Westgate. “She’s no weakling. I know. She may possibly accept condolence from Mr. Farrar, but I’m mighty certain she won’t accept it from you.”

“There’s no harm in trying, is there?” persisted Barry. “It would be extremely interesting and informing to hear the woman talk.”

Mr. Malleson turned to his son.

“You let Mrs. Bradley alone,” he said. “When she comes to her senses about this thing, and dismisses her shyster lawyer, we may do something for her; not as a matter of right, but as a matter of grace.”

“Certainly!” replied Barry, “as a matter of grace. That’s the only ground on which any of these people are entitled to help from any of us.”

In obedience to his father’s injunction he refrained from approaching Mrs. Bradley. Nevertheless he cast a longing eye in her direction and then, with apparent reluctance, followed his father and Westgate from the court-room.

But the rector of Christ Church remained. This tragedy in law had stirred him deeply. From his broad, humanitarian point of view, while the letter of the law had doubtless been upheld, justice, at the same time, had been mocked. He had not said so to defendant’s counsel, nor to the president of the defendant company. He had not cared to get into a controversy with them. But he realized, as perhaps no other spectator in the court-room had realized, how sharply and bitterly this unexpected termination of her year’s struggle for justice had fallen on the soul of the woman who had borne the burden of the fight. His quick sympathy went out to her. The desire to comfort her if possible, to help her if he could, was strong within him.

Not that her disappointment was especially manifest. She did not shrink, nor grow pale, nor weep, when she heard the charge of the court which virtually sentenced her to a life of unrelieved poverty and toil. She did not, even now, as she stood talking quietly with counsel, look like one who had just toppled from the pinnacle of hope to the pit of despair. Yet that she had done so there could be no doubt.

As her lawyer turned away, both the rector and Juror No. 7 approached her. She turned her back on the rector, and held out her hand to the juror, smiling on him as she did so.

“I don’t know you by name,” she said, “but I want to thank you for having the courage of your convictions. I’m told it’s not often a juror dares do what you’ve done to-day.”

The man was a little abashed as he replied:

“Oh, that’s all right! I don’t mind saying what I think to anybody. I wish I could have done something for you, though. I wish the jury could have got a chance at that case.”

“So do I. But the judge couldn’t afford to let you get a chance at it. He knew what you’d do with it. His rich friends would have been displeased. It was their money that elected him, wasn’t it?”

“Well, I don’t know about that. I guess he was elected fair enough. But, to my way of thinking, when it comes to doing justice, as between man and man, or man and corporation, twelve men are better able to decide than one, and if the law’s different from that, then the law ought to be changed.”

“Oh,” she said, “it doesn’t matter much about the law, nor about what anybody’s idea of justice is; the important thing is that the rich must stay rich, and the poor must stay poor. It’s the business of the lawyers and the judges to see that it’s done. That’s what they’re paid for. It would have set a bad example to the poor for my husband to have won his case. Some other poverty-stricken wretch might have tried by law to get a little of the justice that’s due him. They’ve won their point, but maybe they’ve made a mistake, after all. Maybe Richard Malleson has sowed the wind. I believe he has. Not that John Bradley will ever be able to resent what’s been done to him, but I will, and, as God lives, I’ll do it!”

The clergyman, standing near by, could not see her face; but her words came distinctly to his ears. Her voice rose slightly toward the end, but it was not so much its pitch as its expression of fierce determination that moved and startled him. The juror, too, seemed to be somewhat awed by the woman’s intensity, and waited a moment before answering her. Finally he said:

“I ain’t so sure as you seem to be that the rich, and those in power, are trying to keep the rest of us under their heels; but I am sure that justice hasn’t been done in your case, and if things like this keep on happening in our courts, something is going to drop in this country some day.”

“I believe you,” she replied; “and when it does drop, I pray that the first man it hits will be the one who is responsible for—this.”

She turned, with a slight gesture, toward the unobserving and apparently unthinking clod in the wheel-chair. Her face, visible now to the rector, with its flowing eyes and parted lips, was a picture of subdued but vindictive anger.

Apparently the juror thought it time to bring the conversation to an end, for he said:

“Well, I must be going. I just stopped to say I was sorry for you, and to say if I could help you any way I’d be glad to. My name is Samuel Major. I’m a wagon-maker. My shop is around on Mill Street.”

He held out his hand to her and she took it.

“Thank you,” she said, “for your sympathy and kindness, and for your interference in our behalf. It didn’t amount to anything, of course; it couldn’t. But it showed where you stood, and that’s what we want, nowadays, men who think, and who are not afraid to say what they think. Good-bye!”

“Good-bye!”

He hurried away, but turned back again to ask:

“Are you going to take the case up to a higher court? or haven’t you decided about that yet?”

“I have decided,” she replied. “I shall not take it up. I’m done with law and lawyers, and trying to get justice through the courts. Hereafter I’ll get it in my own way.”

It was not until the juror mentioned his name that the clergyman recognized him as an occasional attendant on the services at Christ Church. He had no pew nor sitting; but his children went to the Sunday-school, and the rector had called once or twice at the house, finding only the mother at home. So, as the man started toward the aisle, the clergyman intercepted him and shook hands with him.

“I, also,” he said, “want to thank you for your conscientious courage, and for your sympathy with these disappointed people. I’ve been waiting to condole with Mrs. Bradley myself, although I am a stranger to her.”

“You’ll find her pretty bitter.”

“So much the more need for sympathy.”

“Yes, it won’t come amiss. She’s been hard hit, and it isn’t right.”

“I believe you. That’s one of the problems that you and I, together with the rest of the American people, have got to thresh out sooner or later: how to right social wrongs without creating social calamities.”

“Well, I think you’re giving us some pretty good advice along that line. I’ve been once or twice to hear you preach lately, and it seems to me you’re on the right track.”

“I hope so. Come again.”

“Thank you! I intend to.”

The man went on down the aisle, and the rector walked back toward Mrs. Bradley. She had, in the meantime, been busying herself about her husband, buttoning his coat, putting his hat on his head, making him ready for the desolate journey home. The clergyman approached her.

“I am Mr. Farrar,” he said, “rector of Christ Church.”

“Yes,” she replied quietly, “I know who you are.”

“I have been deeply stirred by this case of yours. I want to give you my sympathy, and to talk with you about your husband and yourself.”

“Thank you! I have no time to talk now. I must hurry home.”

“Pardon me! I’ll not keep you. But I’ll call on you, if I may, at your leisure.”

“I shall have no leisure.”

“Then at your convenience.”

“It will not be convenient.”

It was strange that the woman who had so eloquently poured her grievance into the ears of the friendly juror should have become so suddenly taciturn and unapproachable. The clergyman could not understand it. But it was his business, as a servant of Christ, to break down barriers that separated him from human hearts, so he persisted.

“Surely,” he said, “you will not refuse to see me. I understand your disappointment. I realize your suffering. I may be able to comfort you, possibly to help you. Give me the opportunity to try.”

She straightened up then, and faced him.

“I don’t want to be rude to you,” she replied. “I have nothing against you. I’ve heard that you are well-intentioned toward men and women who work. But I have little use for preachers. They are hired by the rich, they associate with the rich, they are under the control of the rich. They have nothing in common with the class to which I belong, therefore they cannot help us. I am sure you can do no good, either to my husband or to me. I’d rather you wouldn’t come.”

She turned again to her husband and began to tuck in the plaid robe that covered his lap. The clergyman stood, startled and speechless. This was the first time in his life that he had been arraigned in this manner. After a moment, however, he gathered his thoughts sufficiently to say:

“I think you misjudge us, Mrs. Bradley. I know you misjudge me. It is my effort to do the Master’s will among all His people, rich or poor, humble or exalted.”

“Yes, that’s what they all say. But they do discriminate, and I don’t see how they can help it, and hold their jobs. No, I’d rather you wouldn’t come. I don’t want to see you.”

“I hope this is not your final answer.”

“It is my final answer.”

But the tone of her voice was not unkind as she said it, and in her eyes there was no look of hostility.

“Nevertheless,” he replied, “I shall not lose sight of you. I shall keep you in mind, and—I shall pray for you.”

She laughed a little at that.

“You’d only waste your breath,” she said. “John Bradley knows little about prayers, and I care less. If you want to be really kind to us you will simply let us alone and forget us.”

“I want to be really kind to you, Mrs. Bradley; therefore I cannot forget you; but I will respect your wish and will not trouble you, unless Providence should put it in my way to render you a Service which you will not resent.”

She took his proffered hand, but said nothing more to him. And when he had bidden good-bye to the unresponsive paralytic in the wheel-chair, he turned and left the court-room.

A tipstaff came up to help get John Bradley to the street. Through all the excitement of the closing hours of the trial the position of his body had not changed, nor had the expressionless stare of his eyes. There had been no indication in his face that he realized, in any degree, the importance of the litigation of which he was the center, nor its sudden and disastrous termination. Speechless, emotionless, unheeding and unlovely, he had sat the case through from the beginning with apparently no conception of its meaning or its outcome.

The tipstaff rolled the wheel-chair, with its human freight, down the aisle and into the hall, followed by Mary Bradley.

A janitor came into the room to sweep up the litter on the floor, and, as he swept, he hummed a plaintive ditty that had long been favored of him:

“John Jifkins, he to court would go;

Listen to the tale I tell!

His story it was full of woe;

His lawers fought, but the judge said no,

That Jifkins hadn’t a ghost of a show,

And it ended there. Ah well!

Heigh-ho!

Jingle the court-house bell.”

The janitor finished his song and his task and departed. Silence fell on the big room, and the shadows of the waning day crept in and took, each one, its accustomed place. Darkness came, and, under its cover, ghosts of old and unnumbered tragedies, enacted through the years within the confines of the four gray walls, came out to stride back and forth across the wide spaces, up and down the enclosure for the bar, and in and out among the vacant chairs of the jury box; to ascend even to the sacred precinct of the bench, and stand grimly behind the chair from which white-robed Justice, with her bandaged eyes and well-poised scales, was supposed to listen to the cry of all who sought her aid.

CHAPTER II
AN ACT OF CHARITY

The rector of Christ Church did keep in mind, as he had said he would, the disappointed litigant in the Bradley case. He thought of her often. The picture of her crippled and mindless husband as he sat in his wheel-chair in the court-room, staring blankly into space, came not infrequently before his eyes. Nor did he, in any service in which he read the prayer, “For a Person under Affliction,” forget, while reading it, those two, who had in very truth been visited with trouble and distress. But he respected the woman’s wish. He did not call upon her, he did not seek, in any way, to cross her path. It is true that he made some inquiry concerning her, and learned something of her condition, of her grievance against society, and of her personal history. But of this last there was not much to learn. She had been a laborer’s daughter; she had become a laborer’s wife. She had lost her only child by death. She was now supporting her crippled husband and herself by the labor of her hands. She had moved, with limited activities, in a narrow world. It was not an unusual story. The only circumstance that lifted it out of the commonplace was the fact of the woman’s exceptional beauty. It was true, also, that she was possessed of unusual mentality, and an education much better than that possessed by the wife of the average day-laborer, and these things set her somewhat apart from the other women of her social class. In all other respects there was nothing to distinguish her from them, many of whom, indeed, worked harder, and suffered more severe privations, than did she.

Yet the rector of Christ Church would not have been able, had he tried, to dismiss her and her affairs from his mind. One reason for this was that the Bradley case had aroused public interest, and had excited general comment.

It had formed the basis for a new attack on the courts. Labor and socialistic organizations had passed resolutions concerning it. Sensational newspapers had criticized sharply the action of Judge Bosworth in giving binding instructions to the jury. Shallow-minded controversialists had argued hotly, pro and con, concerning the powers of the courts under the state and federal constitutions. Indeed the case bade fair to become a cause celebre, not only in professional circles, but throughout the entire community. Mary Bradley’s face and figure had not before been unknown in the streets of the city. She was too beautiful to pass unnoticed, even in the cheap and modest costume of a laborer’s wife. But in these days she seldom went beyond the confines of Factory Hill, the district in which she lived, that she did not become an object of notice and a subject of comment, both on account of her beauty and of her relation to the Bradley case.

Another reason why the woman had not passed out of the rector’s mind was that, since the trial, she had been twice to the services at Christ Church. She had occupied an inconspicuous seat, far in the rear, but, looking out over his congregation, his sharp eye had caught sight of her, and her presence there had brought him a peculiar sense of satisfaction. She had, on both occasions, escaped before he had had an opportunity to greet her, and he did not consider that the fact of her presence there warranted any intrusion on her by him at her home.

The Reverend Mr. Farrar was not the only one who had noticed Mrs. Bradley at church. Many in his congregation had noted her presence, and had commented on it. On one occasion one of the church-wardens, who had stationed himself in the vestibule, spoke to her pleasantly as she passed out; but she barely noticed him, and he did not repeat his effort to extend to her the church’s welcome. Barry Malleson was among those who had seen her at church, and who was interested in her presence there. Not that Barry was concerned about her religious welfare, nor in the fact that her attendance added one more to the already large congregations. Religion and the propaganda of the Church had for him, as he himself said, “only an academic interest.” He attended the morning services because it was the thing for a gentleman to do; because the members of his family were devout worshipers there; and because the best and most exclusive people in the city, the people with whom he associated, were regular attendants.

It was not only at the church that he saw Mrs. Bradley; he came upon her now and then on the street. And each additional time that he saw her the fact of her remarkable beauty became more deeply impressed upon his not unimpressionable mind. He could not forget her. She appeared to him frequently when she was not within the range of his physical vision. Her countenance, her figure, her bearing and expression, the look in her wonderful eyes, had become familiar to him, though he had seen her only casually, and less than a dozen times. It was not a case of romantic attraction, for, although Barry was five and thirty, unmarried and unattached, the woman had a husband, such as he was, and Barry, despite his weaknesses, was clean-minded and sincere. He had had many affairs of the heart in his time; he had flitted from flower to flower; he had, after a way peculiarly his own, suggested marriage to more than one of the belles of the city, but none of those to whom he had thus spoken had taken him seriously; and from each romantic mishap he had made rapid and complete recovery. Perhaps Ruth Tracy had been the one most desired by him. She was handsome, brilliant, sympathetic, of aristocratic family, fitted to grace any man’s home; moreover she was the superlative choice of his mother and sisters. But, whenever he approached the topic of matrimony, she parried his advances, complimented him on his good looks, his faultless attire, and his manly bearing. She never said anything about his mental capacity. And then, suddenly, along came Phil Westgate, and, out from under his very eyes, captured the prize and bound her in golden chains of betrothal.

So Barry was free, heart-whole, ready for the next romantic adventure. If Mrs. Bradley had also been free and heart-whole things might possibly have been different; but, as it was, he gave strict obedience to his father’s injunction, issued in the court-room on a memorable day, and “let Mrs. Bradley alone.” For, whatever else he was, Barry Malleson was a gentleman.

The Reverend Robert Farrar was seated at his breakfast-table one September morning, a month after the trial, reading his morning paper. His three young children had already breakfasted, and the two older of them had been bundled off to school. His wife, sitting opposite to him, was still nibbling at her toast and sipping her coffee. In an obscure corner of the newspaper his eye fell upon a notice of the death of John Bradley. He had died from heart-failure, at the age of thirty-eight years. “He will be remembered,” the article concluded, “as the unsuccessful litigant in the celebrated case of Bradley vs. The Malleson Manufacturing Company.”

“I must go to her!” exclaimed Mr. Farrar, laying down his paper.

“Go to whom?” was the not unnatural inquiry of his wife.

“To Mrs. Bradley. I see here that her husband died yesterday afternoon. I believe his death lifts the bar of her prohibition, and opens the way to her conscience.”

“Is she the woman who refused to let you call on her after she had had the lawsuit?”

“Yes, but I believe she will have a different mind toward me now. This last affliction, if it may be called such, should make her not only willing to see me, but should also make her susceptible to religious influence.”

Mrs. Farrar said nothing, but the look on her face indicated that it was still her belief, as it had been from the start, that a woman who would refuse to permit Mr. Farrar to call on her for purposes of pious consolation was quite outside the bounds of susceptibility to any religious influence, exerted under any conditions. She had great admiration, not only for her husband’s intellectual force, but for his personal charm and persuasive power as well. She loved him, she believed in him, she trusted him implicitly; but she did not fully understand him. He trod in paths where she had neither the learning nor the ability to follow him; neither the mental nor the physical strength to share in the largeness of his thought, or in the intense application of that thought to the problems of his pastoral work. The most that she could do, and that she did faithfully, was to be a good wife and mother, to devote her spare time to the interests of the Church, and to find mild relaxation in the society of those people who, by reason of her birth and breeding, as well as of her position, welcomed her to their exclusive circles.

“I wish,” said the clergyman, expressing the continuation of his thought, “that I might make an opportunity for you to call on Mrs. Bradley. I believe that in her present misfortune she might be willing to accept the ministrations of a good woman of the Church.”

“Yes, dear. I will call on her if you wish it. Only I don’t see how I could possibly have any influence on a woman who doesn’t believe in the power of prayer. It seems so shocking to me.”

“I know. It is shocking. But I hope we shall find her now in a better frame of mind. I am told that she is a very superior woman, and I am anxious to get her into the Church. If you could only manage to approach her on some sort of social level. I believe that the trouble with all of us Church people, the reason why we don’t reach people of the humbler kind, is that we don’t make our social plane broad enough to take them in. We assume too much superiority. They don’t like it, and I can’t blame them. When we bring ourselves to meeting them on terms of social equality we shall get them to share with us our religious blessings, and I’m afraid not before.”

“Yes, dear.”

She felt that the conversation was already drifting beyond her easy comprehension, and that the only thing for her to do was to acquiesce. Yet, notwithstanding her respect for her husband’s social theories, the depths of which she was never quite able to comprehend, she could not help a feeling of revolt at the idea of associating, on terms of equality, with people of the cruder if not the baser sort, with such a person, for instance, as Mary Bradley, who ignored religion, and who had flouted the rector of Christ Church.

“And you know,” added the rector, “she has been twice lately to our morning services.”

“I know, but that doesn’t necessarily make her congenial. Do you really mean, Robert, that we should treat these people—a person like Mrs. Bradley, for instance,—exactly as our equals?”

“Certainly! Why not? Christ was no respecter of persons.”

“I know. And their husbands? And their children the same as our own? Should I, for instance, let Grace and Robbie play freely with the children on the street back of the rectory?”

“Those children are entitled to the benefit of the culture and good breeding of our own, and they can learn these things only by association.”

“But, Robert, dear, suppose our children should learn things from them that do not belong to culture and good breeding. As an example, Robbie came home the other day with an awful word, and when I asked him where he had got it, he said he had learned it from the McBreen boy on the back street.”

“Then,” said the rector, with an air of finality, “you should have seen the McBreen boy, and explained to him the naughtiness of the word, and requested him not to use it.”

“So I did, and he replied that he had learned it from his father, and if his father had a right to use it he had, and he’d like to see any stuck-up preacher’s wife stop him.”

The rector laughed a little, and rose from the table.

“Oh, well,” he said, “the principle holds good anyway. But we must apply it with judgment. We can spoil the best of our precepts by putting them into injudicious practice. And you always reach the end of an argument, Alice, by the ad absurdum route.”

He looked at his watch and added:

“I think I’ll go up to Mrs. Bradley’s this morning. My afternoon is full, and the sooner the call is made the better.”

But when he was ready to start, and had actually gotten to the hall-door, his wife called him back.

“Robert, dear,” she said, “don’t you think Ruth Tracy could do much better than I on that visit to Mrs. Bradley? I don’t want to shirk any of the parish work, really I don’t; but she is so much better adapted than I am to—to that sort of thing, you know; and she is so heartily in accord with your views on social equality and all that.”

“Well, perhaps; we’ll see. Don’t let it bother you. Maybe we’ll not get the opportunity to visit her anyway. I am only hoping that we shall.”

But he could not help thinking, as he went down the steps and out to the street, how much more effectively his parish work could be done, especially his work among the poor, if only his wife were possessed of greater zeal, of greater ability, of greater sympathy with the unfortunate and with those on whom the hand of adversity had fallen heavily. And, in logical sequence, his thought went on to consider what an ideal helpmate for a clergyman Ruth Tracy would be. She, indeed, had not only intellect and skill, not only the ability to manage successfully the social affairs of a parish, not only a pious zeal for the work of the Church, but also a broad sympathy for those who were in any kind of distress, and a charming personality that drew to her, irresistibly, all classes of people. Yet she was to marry a layman, Philip Westgate the lawyer, a vestryman of Christ Church, active in its business affairs; but a non-communicant, who, apparently, had never been impressed with the necessity of subscribing to the creed, or of identifying himself, religiously, with the Church. It was a comforting thought to the rector, however, that in the event of Miss Tracy’s marriage he would not necessarily lose her valued assistance as a helper in the parish work.

Still, it was a pity that she was not to become a minister’s wife. And with this thought fresh in his mind, as he turned the corner into Main Street, he ran plump into Westgate himself. The two men were going in the same direction and they walked on together.

“I see,” said the rector, “that John Bradley, against whom you obtained a verdict last month, died yesterday. I am going up to call on his widow.”

“Indeed!” was the reply. “I hadn’t heard of it; but I’m not surprised. I was not aware, though, that the Bradleys were in any way connected with the parish.”

“They are not. They are not affiliated with any religious organization, so far as I can learn. That is one reason why I am going up there.”

Westgate looked at the rector a little doubtfully, but made no reply.

“I have seen Mrs. Bradley at our services once or twice of late,” added the clergyman, “and it occurred to me that it might be an opportune time to tender to her the good offices of the Church. It may also well be that she is in need of material help.”

“That’s possible. It’s unfortunate that she didn’t accept Mr. Malleson’s offer at the time of the accident.”

“What was his offer? I hadn’t heard of it.”

“I presume not. Few people have. It’s popular to exploit the heartlessness of corporations, but there are not many who are willing to mention their deeds of generosity. Why, Mr. Malleson offered to pay all doctor’s bills made or to be made in connection with Bradley’s injury, and to make them a gift of fifteen hundred dollars besides. I considered that to be a very liberal offer, inasmuch as the company was not legally bound to pay them a penny.”

“And Mrs. Bradley rejected it?”

“Yes, she turned it down flat, and took up with Sheldrake—you know what kind of a lawyer he is—and Sheldrake brought suit for twenty-five thousand dollars damages—and lost his case, as I knew he would.”

“Why did Mrs. Bradley refuse your proposition?”

“Well, in the first place, because she didn’t consider the amount large enough; but principally because we offered it as a gratuity. She would have no gifts. We must acknowledge an obligation, and make our payment on that account, or she would have nothing to do with us. That’s the trouble with many of these people; they are too independent. They have no sense of proportion. They don’t appreciate their true relation to society. They quarrel with their bread and butter when it comes to them as a benevolence, and they refuse charity on the ground that they should receive help as a matter of right and not as a matter of grace.”

“I am not sure but that they are right, Westgate. A man is a man regardless of the accident of birth or wealth; and society owes to him something besides and better than charity. There is a feeling among the laboring classes that they are not getting their fair share of the wealth which they help to produce; and that, if they did get it, charity, as it is now known, would become obsolete. There would be no occasion for its exercise. I believe that they are more than half justified in that feeling. I can’t blame them for refusing to accept as a gift that which they should have as a right. I am becoming convinced that if the Kingdom of Christ is ever to come on this earth it will only be when social and economic equality obtains among all men.”

“Oh, that’s socialism, Mr. Farrar. That’s socialism pure and simple. I haven’t time to discuss that subject with you this morning. You see we’re here at my office building already. But come up to dinner some evening. Bring Mrs. Farrar with you. Mother is especially fond of Mrs. Farrar—and we’ll thresh the thing out. I’m prepared to demolish the doctrines of every socialist from Karl Marx to John Spargo.”

“Good! I’ll come. I’ll bring Mrs. Farrar. I anticipate an evening of real enjoyment.”

The two men shook hands and separated. But before the rector had gone two steps he turned and called to Westgate.

“I don’t want you to misunderstand me,” he said, when they again met, “not even temporarily. While there are many things in the socialist propaganda that appeal to me strongly, I do not swallow it in toto. I do not go much farther than the acceptance of the theory of social and economic equality of which I spoke. And there are some doctrines advocated by socialist leaders and writers with which I am entirely at variance.”

“How about the theory that the marriage tie should be freely dissolved at the will of the parties?” asked Westgate.

“That theory is abhorrent to me,” replied the minister. “I stand squarely with my Church on all matters relating to marriage; as I do on all other matters concerning which the Church has made any pronouncement.”

“That’s comforting, at least,” replied Westgate, smiling. “I suppose, however, that you accept the Marxian theory of surplus values?”

“I believe the principle is sound.”

“And the economic interpretation of history?”

“No. I am not ready to assent fully to that doctrine. It approaches too closely to the border of materialism to suit me. It is possible, however, that I do not completely understand it.”

“Well, I believe, when we have gone over the whole subject, that we shall find ourselves in accord on many things. It’s a fascinating theme, but neither of us has time to discuss it at length this morning. There is something, however, that I’ve been wanting to say to you for a long while, and it comes in here so exceedingly apropos that I’m greatly tempted to say it now.”

“Do so, by all means.”

“Thank you! I suppose it’s somewhat presumptuous for me, a non-communicant, even to appear to criticize the minister; but your sermons, especially of late, have seemed to some of us to savor of an attack on wealth; and you know that isn’t a particularly popular attitude for you to assume toward the congregation to which you preach.”

“Not an attack on wealth, Mr. Westgate, but on the prevailing methods of the use and distribution of wealth.”

“It amounts to the same thing.”

“By no means! I shall try to convince you when we have that discussion. I don’t think you understand the real meaning of the gospel which I am trying to preach. It is not a gospel of destruction, but of regeneration. And in my judgment the hearts of the rich need regenerating as much as do the consciences of the poor.”

“And I don’t think you understand the real meaning of the suggestion which I am trying to give you. You may call it a warning if you choose. It is not offered by way of criticism or complaint. The point is simply this: that you have a good many rich men in your church, and they give freely toward its support. You cannot afford to antagonize them unnecessarily.”

“I know what you mean, and I appreciate the point you make. It is not a new one to me. I have considered it many times. I have thought the thing out carefully and prayerfully, and I have determined to preach the gospel of Christ as I think He would preach it if He were on earth to-day. I can do no less and square myself with my own conscience.”

“But a clergyman should be politic as well as conscientious. I remember that the apostles were instructed to be ‘wise as serpents’ as well as ‘harmless as doves.’ Well, we can’t settle it on the street corner, that’s sure. We’ll have to broaden our discussion to take in this branch of the subject, and occupy two evenings with it instead of one. So come soon!”

They again separated, but it was Westgate this time who called the clergyman back.

“By the way,” he said, “you are going up to see Mrs. Bradley?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if you should find her in distress, economical distress, I mean, I am very sure that Mr. Malleson would be glad to contribute something toward her relief—two or three hundred dollars maybe; enough to pay funeral expenses and a little over. He harbors no resentment against her on account of the suit. He lays all that up against Sheldrake. Indeed, if the woman is suffering for necessaries, I should be glad to make a modest contribution myself.”

“Thank you! I’ll find out. But the impression that I have of her is that she would be more likely to resent than to accept any gratuity from either Mr. Malleson or you. Nevertheless, I will keep your offer in mind, and I will present it to her if it should appear to be desirable to do so.”

“Thank you!”

The rector again turned away, but he did not get to Factory Hill that morning. Before he had gone two blocks from Westgate’s office a parishioner came hurrying after him and besought him to go to see a sick girl living in another suburb of the city, a girl who felt that she could not close her eyes to the scenes of earth until she had bared her soul to the rector of Christ Church. So he went to her.

The Reverend Mr. Farrar was not the only one who discovered in the morning paper a notice of John Bradley’s death. Barry Malleson came upon it accidentally, as he came upon most other things of any moment, and it at once aroused his deep interest. He was at his desk in the president’s office at the factory, where he could be found practically every working day during office hours. His name appeared in the list of officers of the Malleson Manufacturing Company as vice-president. Some one said that it did no harm, and it tickled Barry’s vanity. His salary was quite satisfactory. His duties were not accurately defined, although they appeared to consist largely in obeying the president’s will, as a matter of fact, and of sustaining the burden of the conduct of the company’s affairs as a matter of personal belief. His father would have found it difficult to get along without him. He would have found it impossible to get along without his father. That Barry had his uses there can be no possible doubt. He was replete with suggestion, and that his suggestions were rarely acted upon never deterred nor discouraged him. He had a suggestion to make this morning in connection with John Bradley’s death. It came into his mind simultaneously with the reading of the death notice. He turned toward the man sitting at the desk across the room.

“Father,” he said, “the time has come when we should do something for Mrs. Bradley.”

The president of the Malleson Manufacturing Company did not look up from the work on which he was engaged, but he replied with a question:

“How’s that?”

“Her husband died yesterday.”

“Whose husband?”

“Mrs. Bradley’s. The man against whom we won the suit. I shouldn’t wonder if she might be financially embarrassed. It would be a fine opportunity to show that there is at least one corporation that has a soul.”

The president was looking up from his papers now; hard-eyed, square-jawed, smooth-shaven, immaculate.

“We have no right to give away our stockholders’ money,” he said shortly.

“I know, father; but this is a case where we can afford to overstep the limits a little and be generous. Personally, and as vice-president of the company, I would recommend that a small gratuity be given to the woman on account of her husband’s death. We have done as much when other employees have died.”

“But the others did not bring suit against us.”

“Well, she has no suit pending against us now. She refused to let Sheldrake take the case up to a higher court, or even to move for a new trial. I understand she told him she never wanted to see his face again. And Westgate said the other day that it was too late for her to do anything more, even if she should change her mind about it.”

The president mused for a moment before replying. Finally he said:

“As the woman seems to have come to her senses, and is probably in need, I suppose we might do as we have done in other cases. I never laid the blame for the suit on her, anyway. It was that ambulance-chaser of a lawyer that put her up to it.”

“That’s very true, father. What shall we give her?”

“Let’s see! What did we give McAndrew’s widow when he died?”

“Two hundred and fifty dollars. I know because I took the check to her myself, and she was so grateful she tried to kiss me. Gad!”

Barry felt cold shivers running over him now as he recalled his narrow escape from the proposed osculatory embrace of the unattractive and slatternly but grateful widow of the deceased workingman.

Mr. Malleson’s eyes twinkled mischievously.

“I remember the circumstance,” he said, and added: “Perhaps Mrs. Bradley will be similarly grateful.”

Barry leaned back in his chair and thrust his hands into his pockets.

“Well,” he said, contemplatively, and in all seriousness, “I would think twice before declining a favor of that kind from Mrs. Bradley. She’s a remarkably attractive woman.”

The president did not dwell further on the subject. It may have been because of its incongruity; it may have been because of some undefined feeling of foreboding that crossed his mind at that moment.

“You may ask Page,” he said, “to draw her a check for two hundred and fifty dollars. Tell him to run it through the expense account, and to put in the voucher a statement that it is received by Mrs. Bradley as a gratuity from this company.”

“Yes, sir.”

Barry rose with unusual alacrity, but before he reached the door his father called to him:

“A—Barry! Suppose you tell Page to make that four hundred instead of two fifty. There have been special hardships in this case, and the woman is undoubtedly capable of using the money judiciously.”

“Yes, father. I, myself, was just about to recommend four hundred dollars. I think she can put the money to good use.”

A little later Barry returned to the president’s room with Page, the treasurer, who brought with him a check and a voucher, both of which he handed to Mr. Malleson. The president examined the voucher carefully, signed the check, and handed the papers back to Page.

“Shall I send a special messenger up with them?” asked the treasurer.

“I’ll take them to her myself,” said Barry promptly.

Page turned to him with a smile.

“Hunting for a repetition of that experience with the Widow McAndrew, are you?” he asked.

Barry’s experience with the Widow McAndrew was one of the standing jokes among the office force of the company.

“Don’t mention it,” said Barry. “It gives me a chill now to think of it. You know I’m rather fastidious, Page, rather fastidious. And the woman wasn’t what you might call personally neat, and she’d been crying, and her hair wasn’t combed, and she certainly weighed not less than two hundred—no discoverable waist-line, you know; and when I saw her bearing down on me——”

The two men passed out of the room and closed the door behind them, Barry continuing with the relation of his oft-repeated story of the Widow McAndrew’s gratitude.

In the meantime the president of the company had plunged again into the work on his desk. But when the door closed on Barry and Page he looked up, laid down his pen, rose and walked over to one of the windows and stood for many minutes looking out into the plaza on which his factory buildings fronted, and up the narrow street that led toward the heart of the city.

CHAPTER III
IN THE PRESENCE OF DEATH

It was not until the afternoon of the day that he met Westgate on the street that the Reverend Mr. Farrar was able to go to Factory Hill. It was a suburban residence district, tenanted mostly by day-laborers and their families. It lay about two miles from the center of the city, on an elevated plateau overlooking the plant of the Malleson Manufacturing Company. The houses in the neighborhood were all small and unpretentious, and some of them were shabby and ill-kept. But the house that Mary Bradley occupied, small as it was, gave evidence of being well cared for by its tenant. The rector had no difficulty in finding it. Every one about there knew where Mrs. Bradley lived. He knocked at the crape-decorated door, and the mistress of the house, herself, opened it. When she saw who was standing there her face clouded. A visit from a clergyman was neither expected nor desired. But she felt that she could not afford to be remiss in hospitality, even to an unwelcome guest. So she invited him to come in. It was the living-room that he entered. From behind a closed door to the rear subdued sounds proceeded as though some one were working in the kitchen. Beyond another door, half opened, the rector caught a glimpse of a prone human body, covered over with a sheet. Otherwise Mary Bradley was alone. She made no pretense of being glad to see her visitor, but she set a chair for him, and waited until he should disclose his errand. And, now that he was here, he was at a loss to know just what he should say. He felt that this woman would resent any formal expression of sympathy, any meaningless platitudes, any pious attempt at consolation. So he compromised with his true errand by inquiring into the particulars of John Bradley’s death. There was not much for her to tell. He had failed, steadily, since the time of the trial. On the afternoon before, his heart had refused to perform its proper function, and all was soon over. She told it very briefly and concisely.

“And the funeral, Mrs. Bradley?”

“It will be to-morrow afternoon.”

The rector thought it possible that she might ask him to come and read at least a prayer; but she made no suggestion of the kind. He attempted to draw her into conversation concerning herself, but she was reticent. She was not discourteous, but she was totally unresponsive. Finally, failing to approach the subject by degrees, he said to her abruptly:

“I owe you an apology for coming here after you had declined to receive me; but I felt that, under changed conditions, a visit from me might not be wholly unwelcome. So I have run the risk of trespassing on your forbearance.”

She made no reply, and he went on:

“I have thought very often of you, and,” with a glance in the direction of the half-opened door, “of your unfortunate husband. I have many times wanted to give you such comfort as I could, such consolation as the Church offers to those in distress.”

“Thank you!” she replied; “but I have stood in no particular need of comfort; and I’m very sure the Church has nothing to offer me, in the way of consolation, that would be of the slightest benefit to me.”

This was not very encouraging, but the rector of Christ Church was not easily dismayed.

“Even so,” he said, “you might still wish, or might be willing, to have me, as a minister, take part in the funeral service. I should esteem it a privilege to do that, with your permission.”

“No,” she replied, “I can’t permit it. I appreciate your offer, but I don’t care to have the Church interested in my husband’s funeral.”

“Why not, Mrs. Bradley?”

She looked at him steadily for a moment before replying. Then she answered his question by asking another.

“What did the Church ever do for John Bradley in his lifetime that it should concern itself now about the burial of his body?”

He, too, paused for a moment before replying. Then he said:

“The Church did all for John Bradley that he would permit her to do. Her doors were always open to him. She urged him, in countless ways, to partake of the consolations of religion under her auspices and protection. I, as a minister of Christ, may have been remiss in the performance of my duty; doubtless I have been, but the Church has never been derelict in the performance of hers, and she remains always the same.”

She hastened to defend him against himself.

“You haven’t been remiss,” she declared. “You’ve done what you’ve considered your duty as far as you’ve been permitted to do it. I’ve nothing against you. You’re better than your Church. I’ve heard other people say that. I’ve been once or twice to hear you preach. I may go again. I like what you say. But I’ve no use for the Church. I judge the Church by the people who support it and manage it. And I don’t care for the people who support and manage your church and sit in most of the pews.”

“Why not, Mrs. Bradley?”

“Because they are rich and look down on us. They hire us and pay us our wages; they dole out a little charity when we are in hard luck, but they would consider it a disgrace to associate with us on any kind of terms of equality. They don’t regard us as human beings with the same right that they have to live comfortably and be happy. If their religion teaches them that, if their Church permits it, I don’t want any of their religion, nor anything to do with their Church.”

If he had succeeded in nothing else, he had at least succeeded in drawing her out, and in leading her to give expression to her grievance. But she had attacked the Church in a vulnerable spot, and it was his duty as a priest to defend the institution and its people.

“I believe,” he said, “that you unwittingly do the men and women of Christ Church an injustice. There are many of them who are rich, it is true. But there are many of these who have warm hearts and a keen sense of human justice. You know there are such persons as Christian capitalists.”

“Yes, I know. There,” pointing to the body in the next room, “lies one of their victims. John Bradley was killed by Christian capitalists.”

“Mrs. Bradley, you are severe and unjust.”

“Am I? Let me tell you.” She did not resent his reproof. She was perfectly calm; she was even smiling. But she wanted now to be heard. “Two years ago my husband worked in the Brookside factory, two miles down the river. You know the place. The company rented all the houses to its men. We had to take what they gave us; a miserable, dilapidated shack on the edge of a stagnant pond. My little girl took sick and pined away and the doctor said we ought not to keep her in such a place. When we thought she would die my husband went to the manager of the mills—he’s a shining light in the Church; not your church, but that doesn’t matter—and begged him, for the sake of the child, to give us a better house to live in. He told my husband that if he was not satisfied with the house the company had provided for him he was at liberty to quit his job; that his place could be filled in three hours’ time. Well, John did quit his job, and found work here at the Malleson. But it was too late—to save—my baby’s life.”

She paused, and a mist came over her eyes. For a moment the imperishable mother-love dominated her soul and silenced her tongue.

“That was very sad,” said the rector.

She repeated his words. “That was very sad.” After a moment she continued: “They gave John a good enough place at the Malleson, as good wages as any skilled workman gets; they drove him and bullied him as they do all of his kind—you know they are mere slaves, these factory workmen—and one day they put him into a cage, and some one there dropped him into a pit. When they took him out—well, he might better have been dead. You know; you saw him. Mr. Malleson sent a messenger to me with a paltry sum. I must accept it, not as compensation, but as a gift. And I must release all claims for damages. Naturally, I refused. I employed an attorney to bring suit and get what was justly due us. Mr. Malleson, he’s a pillar in your church, fought our claim with every weapon at his command. Mr. Westgate, his lawyer, a member of your vestry, set all of his wits to work to deprive us of our rights. But we would have won out against all of them if it hadn’t been that the judge on the bench, also a member, I believe, of your vestry, refused at the last minute to let the jury pass upon the case, and decided it himself, in favor of the Mallesons. I’m not a lawyer; I don’t know how it was done; perhaps you do. I only know that it was cruel and horribly unjust. Mr. Farrar, do you wonder that with these shining examples of your religion before me, and with two dead victims of your Christian capitalists to mourn over, I am not falling over myself in my haste to get into your Church?”

She turned her piercing eyes away from the minister’s face, to let them rest for a moment on the rigid, sheet-covered figure lying in the next room. Her cheeks were aglow, her breast was heaving, she had spoken from the fulness of a bitter heart. And the rector of Christ Church could not answer her. She used a kind of concrete logic that he was not prepared at that moment to refute. The best he could do was to try to postpone the issue.