The Unhallowed Harvest/Chapter 2
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.