The Unhallowed Harvest/Chapter 1
The Unhallowed Harvest
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 skilful 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 esca 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 such 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 glowing 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 fall 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.