The Unhallowed Harvest/Chapter 3
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.
"I shall not argue this out with you to-day," he said. "I feel that you are entirely wrong in your estimate of religion and the Church, and some day, when the severity of your affliction has passed, I want to come again and talk with you. In the meantime will you not reconsider your refusal to recognize the Church in the matter of the burial of your husband?"
"Why should I reconsider it? The Church has never recognized me. It never recognized John Bradley. Doling out charity is not recognition; inviting the poor to come and sit in the rear pews of your church is not recognition. Oh, I tell you, Mr. Farrar, I don't want charity from your Church people, nor sympathy, nor a chance to crowd in to your services; what I want is plain human justice, with a right to live comfortably and be decent and happy. And when they begin to give that to me, I'll begin to have some regard for their Church."
It was entirely plain to the rector that he could accomplish no religious purpose with this woman at this time, and he rose to go.
"I am sorry," he said, "for I really wanted to help you. I hope you believe that at any rate."
She rose in her turn. "I believe it," she said.
"And that my Master in heaven has compassion on you."
"I'll believe that when He repudiates the conduct toward me of most of His followers here."
It was her parting shot. He did not reply to it, but he held out his hand to bid her good-bye. She took it with no reluctance.
"Please understand," she said, "that my grievance is not against you personally. I believe you are good and conscientious."
"Thank you!"
The hum of an automobile came in to them from the street. The car had evidently stopped in front of Mrs. Bradley's premises. The next minute a knock was heard at her door. She went and opened it. Barry Malleson stood there, smiling.
"Mrs. Bradley, I believe?" he said.
"I am Mrs. Bradley."
"And I am Barry Malleson, vice-president of the Malleson Manufacturing Company."
"Yes?"
She stood in the doorway and he stood on the step. The door opened directly into the sitting-room where the Reverend Mr. Farrar was standing, ready to leave the house. Mrs. Bradley made no move, nor did she invite the vice-president of the Malleson Manufacturing Company to enter. He stood for a moment, expectantly, and then asked:
"May I come in, Mrs. Bradley? I am here on an important errand."
"Certainly!" she moved aside, and he entered. His eyes fell upon the rector.
"Why, Farrar!" he exclaimed, "this is certainly a surprise; I may say a most agreeable surprise."
"Thank you!" replied the minister. "I have been making a call of condolence on Mrs. Bradley. I am just going."
"Don't go on my account. In fact I'd rather you would stay. I want you to hear what a soulless corporation is going to do for a destitute widow."
It occurred to the rector that he had forgotten to inquire concerning Mrs. Bradley's physical needs, or to sound her on Westgate's generous proposition. It was evident that Barry was about to relieve him so far as any tender of charity was concerned; but he had no mind to stay and hear the vice-president of the Malleson Manufacturing Company blunder tactlessly through an offer that was certain to be resented and refused.
"Thank you!" he said, "but I have important matters to attend to in the city, and, with Mrs. Bradley's permission, I will go."
She had stood there listening, a suspicion of a smile shaping itself on the full and perfectly curved lips, a peculiar gleam in her dark eyes over which the lids were now partly drooping. She turned to the rector.
"I'd rather you would stay," she said. "I, also, want you to hear what this gentleman has to say."
"If you wish it, certainly!" He placed a chair for her, and they all seated themselves.
"That's very kind of you, Farrar, I'm sure," said Barry. He removed his gloves, and drew a long envelope from an inner pocket of his coat. Holding the envelope in his hand he continued:
"I have here, Mrs. Bradley, an evidence of the generosity and good will toward you of the Malleson Manufacturing Company of which I have the honor to be vice-president. The company recognizes the fact that at the time of the injuries which resulted in his death, your husband was in the employ of our company, and that through no fault of ours, and I presume I may safely say, through no fault of his, the accident happened which"
Barry suddenly stopped. He had caught sight, for the first time, of the sheeted and recumbent figure in the adjoining room. From a child he had had an unreasoning fear of dead bodies, and a dread of all the physical conditions and changes which the passing of life implies. The vision of death which confronted him stopped his flow of speech, and sent to the roots of his hair that chilly creepiness that strikes into the flesh when things dreaded and feared are suddenly seen. His wide eyes were fixed on the repellent object in the next room, and it was apparent that he was powerless to turn them away, for he said to the rector without looking at him:
"A—Farrar, would you mind closing that door?"
But the widow herself arose and went to the door and closed it tightly. When she resumed her seat, the smile on her lips was a trifle more pronounced, and the strange light in her eyes glimmered more noticeably.
"You know," said Barry, "a dead body always gets on my nerves, whether it's a horse or a dog or a man. I can't abide the sight of any of them. Well, as I was saying when we were interrupted—let me see! what was I saying?"
"You were speaking," said the widow, "of the generosity of your company."
"Yes," continued Barry, "the—the generosity of my company." He paused again. The untoward incident seemed to have quite broken the continuity of his thought.
"You know, Mrs. Bradley," he went on after a moment, "the company doesn't owe you anything."
"No," she replied, "the obligation is quite on the other side. I owe your company something which I shall some day try to repay—with interest."
Witless and unseeing, he blundered on: "Don't mention it, my good woman. Our company bears no resentment. In fact we have decided, on my recommendation as vice-president, to treat you as generously as we do widows of our employees with whom we have had no quarrel."
"And who have not imagined that they had rights which your company was bound to respect," said the widow.
"Exactly," replied Barry. "Who have not harassed us with ridiculous lawsuits, which they could never hope to win."
"I trust," said the widow, "that you will pardon me for that presumption. I didn't know, really, how ridiculous and unreasonable my lawsuit was until the judge informed me from the bench."
"No, I suppose not. But when you learned, by judicial pronouncement, in what a false position you had been placed, you discharged your lawyer and dropped the case. That was very wise and proper. And, in view of that fact, we have decided to be especially liberal toward you. We—we have usually paid to—to"
Whether his nerves had been unstrung by the sight of the death chamber, or whether his senses were being dulled by the fascination of magnetic eyes, of perfect, parted lips disclosing white and even teeth, of a feminine charm which appealed to him irresistibly; whatever may have been the cause, he had lost his easy loquacity and was stumbling along in a manner most unusual for him.
"We have generally paid," he repeated, "to widows of—of"
"Victims," she suggested.
"Yes; of victims of—of their own carelessness and lack of brains,—always as a gift—a gift pure and simple, you know—the sum of two hundred and fifty dollars."
"I understand," she said. "A pure and simple gift."
"Exactly."
"And a very munificent gift, considering the low social grade and primitive habits and general unworthiness of those who usually receive it." Stupid that he was, or stupefied, he did not come within a thousand miles of piercing the thin veil of her sarcasm.
"Very true," he replied. "But we recognize the fact that there have been peculiar hardships surrounding your case, and we desire to treat—you with still greater munificence."
"How extremely kind and considerate to an unfortunate victim of—circumstances."
"Yes; it is our purpose to be kind and considerate. Therefore we have decided—and as vice-president of the company I recommended the action—we have decided to make you a gift of four hundred dollars."
She lifted her hands as if in delighted astonishment.
"How extraordinary!" she exclaimed. "You overwhelm me by your liberality. Are you quite sure it won't interfere with paying dividends, or salaries, or anything like that?"
"Not—not at all, Mrs. Bradley." But he looked, for the first time during the interview, a bit uncertain, as if he had a dim sense of something, somewhere, not being exactly right.
During all this time the rector had sat without opening his lips. There had been no occasion for him to speak. With ever-growing astonishment he had watched Barry paving his own path to sure disaster. With ever-growing apprehension he had watched the rising tide of indignation in the woman's breast. Could it be possible that the fellow sitting there was so dim of vision, so witless in intellect, that he could not see the gathering thunder-clouds in her face, the gleam of lightning in her half-veiled eyes; could not realize that a storm, the fury of which would be terrible beyond belief, was about to break on his unprotected head? But the rector of Christ Church knew what was coming, if Barry did not, and he knew that the moment for the cataclysm had about arrived. He moved uneasily in his chair, and his movement attracted the widow's attention. She turned her eyes on him.
"We are keeping you," she said, "without cause. You need not wait any longer. I know what the situation is, and I can handle it without help. Thank you for staying as long as you have."
She rose and held out her hand to him. He took it, but he said:
"I can stay still longer if"
She interrupted him:
"It is not at all necessary. Indeed, I would prefer that you should go now."
It was plain to the rector that she did not care to have him witness her outburst of wrath when it should come. Yet he was not quite satisfied to go and leave Barry alone with her, unsuspecting and unprotected. It seemed a bit cowardly on his part, much as he might dread to see the hurricane. He half hoped that Barry would say something that would make it necessary for him to remain. But Barry said nothing of the kind. He simply shook hands and remarked that he would doubtless overtake the minister on the way back, and added that his errand was about done anyway, with the exception of handing Mrs. Bradley the check and getting her signature to the voucher, and he was sure that that could be done without ministerial help. Indeed, in his own mind, he was rather pleased than otherwise at the prospect of being alone for a few minutes with this remarkable woman, even with the stark body of her dead husband lying grimly in the next room.
So the Reverend Mr. Farrar went his way. The door closed behind him, and Mrs. Bradley and Barry turned back into the room, but they did not resume their seats. He lifted the flap of the envelope which he still held in his hand, and drew forth a check and a voucher.
"If you will kindly sign this receipt," he said, "I will hand you the check. I brought my fountain pen with me. I didn't know how you might be fixed here for writing materials."
"That was very thoughtful of you," she remarked.
She took the check and looked at it carefully.
"And is this," she asked, "your father's signature?"
"Yes. I sign checks only in his absence."
"And—might I keep this as a souvenir? He is such a great and good man."
"Why, you have to give up the check, you know, when you get your money."
"Indeed! How unfortunate!"
She took the voucher and examined it in its turn.
"And do I sign this?" she asked.
"Yes, if you please."
"Oh! I see," still looking at the paper, "that I receive the four hundred dollars as a gift."
"Yes, purely as a gift."
"Ah! Couldn't you put in somewhere how undeserving I am of it, and how grateful I am to get it?"
"Why, that's not necessary, Mrs. Bradley. We—we take all those things for granted, you know."
"Oh! And this says also that I release all claim for damages."
"Yes. We thought it best to put that in. You never can tell what may happen."
"I see! Don't you think that it ought also to say that I acknowledge my unworthiness and inferiority, and yield up my self-respect, and recognize my own deplorable social condition? Don't you?"
He did not reply. It was dawning on him at last that she had been trying to pierce him with shafts of ridicule. Now her manner was changing from gentle raillery into that of biting and open sarcasm. She threw the papers down on the table in front of him and backed away. She stood erect and dignified. Her eyes, widely open now, were luminous with wrath. Her lips were parted still, but not in smiles. The gleam of her white teeth was ominous. She was like a splendid leopard, not crouching, but ready to seize upon her prey. It would seem that only a fool could have been unaware of his peril. Yet Barry Malleson stood there, vaguely wondering why she should have grown suddenly sarcastic, and whether it was possible that she was about, after all, to decline the gratuity that he had offered to her. Of the fierce wrath that lay back of her piercing eyes, ready to flash in hot words from her tongue, he had no conception. Perhaps it was well that he had none. Heaven is often kind, in that way, to the mentally unfortunate.
But she was not quite ready for the leap. There was one thing to be settled first.
"Richard Malleson," she said, "has sent you with a message to me. Will you, in turn, kindly take a message from me to Richard Malleson?"
"With—with pleasure, Mrs. Bradley." But he spoke hesitatingly. There was a ring in her voice, a certain rising inflection that gave him a sense of uneasiness. It seemed to sound a vague alarm.
"Thank you! It is very appropriate to send the message by you, because, I believe, you are his son."
"Very true. I am his son."
His eyes were fixed on hers in open, frank, involuntary admiration. She saw his soul as plainly as though it had lain mapped and lettered before her.
"You—are—his son," she repeated slowly.
The lids again half veiled her eyes. The hard lines on her lips relaxed. She put her hand up against her heart as though she were stifled by some sudden and overwhelming emotion. A chair stood by her and she dropped into it and began to pass her fingers absent-mindedly across her forehead.
Barry was alarmed. He had noticed the quickened breathing, and the sudden pallor that had come into her face, and he feared that she was ill.
"Shall I call some one?" he said.
"Thank you, no. It was just a passing weakness. I've been on my feet a good deal and lost a good deal of sleep lately. Won't you please be seated?"
"No, I guess not. I won't trespass any longer on your time and strength. If you'll sign this voucher I'll go."
"Please be seated for a moment. There's something I want to tell you."
If there was any longer any wrath in her soul, her face did not show it, her voice did not indicate it. She looked up at him appealingly, with big and tender eyes. He could no more have refused her invitation to be seated than he could have refused to draw his next breath.
"It is very kind of you—and of your father—to offer me the money," she said, "but, really, I can't accept it."
"Oh, but you must accept it, Mrs. Bradley. Why won't you take it?"
"Well, we are not in immediate need."
"That's all right; you can lay it away."
"And I am opposed, on principle, to accepting charity."
"Then we won't call it charity."
"Or gifts from those who are better off than I am. I don't believe there should be any rich people to make gifts, nor any poor people to receive them. I think the wealth of the world should be more evenly distributed."
"Oh, but you're wrong there, Mrs. Bradley. I think I can convince you"
"I'm too tired to be convinced to-day, Mr. Malleson."
"Pardon me! I'll come again later on and we'll talk it over."
"As you wish."
"Say in the course of a week or two?"
"If you desire."
She rose, as if to conclude the interview, and took the check and voucher from the table and handed them to him.
"Can't I prevail on you," he said, "to accept this gift?"
"Not to-day, Mr. Malleson."
"When I come again?"
"Possibly. It is said that a woman is never twice of the same mind."
"Then I shall certainly come."
He was looking at her still with undisguised and ever-increasing admiration. Not that he was conscious of it. It was purely involuntary. He would not knowingly have sought, in this way, to impress or embarrass a woman whose husband's dead body was lying just back of the first closed door. For he was a gentleman, and had a gentleman's sense of the proprieties. But he was utterly powerless to hide the impression that the woman's beauty was making on him. Moreover it was a versatile beauty. In the brief space occupied by his visit he had seen its character diametrically change. From the strong, scornful, splendid type maintained during the greater part of his interview with her, it had been transformed into the tender, clinging, trusting variety that with many men is still more alluring. But, whatever its character, it held him irresistibly under its spell. He moved backward to the outer door, his gaze still fastened on the woman's face. She gave him her hand at parting. It was a warm, confident, lingering hand-clasp, attuned to the look in her eyes, to the modulation of her voice, to the general friendliness of her manner. It was not the art of coquetry. It was as much deeper and more subtle than that as the sea is deeper and more subtle than the shallow pool. A woman does not play the coquette while a sheet-covered thing that had been her husband lies ghastly still and gruesome in an adjoining room.
But when she heard the humming of the starting car, and knew that her recent visitor was well out of sight and hearing, she resumed her seat, locked her hands above her head, and permitted her fine lips to curve in a smile that was neither gentle nor tender, nor wholly void of guile.
The door from the kitchen was opened and a little old woman with a deeply wrinkled face thrust her head into the room.
"Has everybody gone, Mary?" she asked.
"Yes, mother."
"The first man that come was a preacher, wasn't he?"
"Yes, mother."
"Is he goin' to hold the funeral?"
"No."
"Why ain't he?"
"Because I don't choose to have him."
"Was the next man that come a preacher, too?"
"No, mother."
"Who was he?"
"He was Richard Malleson's—fool."