The Unhallowed Harvest/Chapter 23
To restore the human body to a state of health after the shock of a severe illness is a long and tedious task. It is not different with the body politic; it is not different with communities, with churches, or with business.
April had melted into May, and May had blossomed into June before life in the city began to take on its normal aspect. The riot at the Malleson mills had been the climax of the labor troubles. It was the beginning of the end. The striking workmen and their sympathizers had neither the strength nor the courage to make any further demonstration of physical force. They were beaten, cowed, utterly disheartened. Strike-breakers and non-union workmen passed to and fro along the street unmolested, save that now and then the boastful bearing of some one of them invited an epithet or a blow. But there was no general disorder. The mills had been opened, the wheels were turning, smoke belched from the chimneys; but the complement of workmen had not yet been obtained. The strike had, indeed, been declared off, but Mr. Malleson refused, as he had said he would refuse, to take back any of the workmen who had voluntarily left his employ.
Westgate went to him, one day, and, in language which he alone dared use to him, pointed out the folly of his course. The mills were not being worked to half their capacity. They were being run at an actual loss. Business in the city was still stagnant. Some of the workmen had gone elsewhere, some of them were engaged in other occupations, many of them were still idle. It stood to reason that the old men, who were familiar with the plant and the machinery, could do much better and more profitable work than men who were new and untried. Indeed, that was already the experience of the management. Sound business judgment required the reëmployment of the old workmen. All this Westgate told the president of the company, and he told him more. He told him that the time for stubbornness and resentment had passed. That his men were human beings like himself. That he had no moral right to condemn them to poverty or chance employment simply to satisfy a grudge. That the time had come when charity for the weakness of others should be displayed, good feeling restored, and those friendly relations between capital and labor, which alone can ensure the prosperity of both, should be firmly reëstablished. And Westgate's counsel finally prevailed.
When it became known that Mr. Malleson was willing to let bygones be bygones, his old men came back to him, one by one, for he still refused to take them in a body, and were given their old places so far as that was practicable or possible. But Bricky Hoover did not come back. After the riot he had dropped out of sight. What had become of him no one knew. His tall and angular figure, crowned by the shock of dull red hair, was never again seen on the streets of the city.
Christ Church, too, pulled itself slowly out of the pit into which it had fallen. The resignation of the Reverend Robert Bruce Farrar as rector of the church was accepted without comment. No member of the vestry cared to criticize or condemn him further. So soon as his wife was able to travel he had gone away, to some out-of-the-way place in the far west it was said, where the calm serenity of Christ Church parish would never be disturbed by him again. Yet there were those who missed him; "sorrowing most of all . . . that they should see his face no more."
In due time the vestry notified the bishop, in accordance with the canon, that it proposed to elect, as rector of Christ Church, the Reverend Dr. Marbury, a man of good report and of great learning, devoted to the godly maintenance of organized religion in pursuance of the forms and customs of the Church.
So Dr. Marbury came. He was politic and gracious, kind-hearted and wise. Slowly but none the less effectively the breach in the parish was healed. The old parishioners came back. The institutions and charities of the church were placed once more upon a solid footing. The poor were relieved, the sick were visited, the lowly were befriended, the stranger was welcomed to the shelter of the church.
One beautiful September Sunday, at the close of the morning service, as Ruth Tracy and her mother moved down the aisle chatting with their friends and neighbors, Philip Westgate joined them. He had just returned from a long business journey in the far west. Mother and daughter greeted him pleasantly, and he accompanied them to their car waiting for them at the curb.
"Philip," said Mrs. Tracy, "you'll come and have luncheon with us to-day, won't you? I want to hear about that wonderful trip. We'll call for your mother on the way up—she always gets away from service ahead of me—and we'll have a nice, comfortable visit."
He glanced at Ruth's face, and, although she was looking the other way, he saw in it no sign of disapproval.
"Thank you, Mrs. Tracy!" he said. "It is very kind of you. I'm sure mother will enjoy it; and it will give me great pleasure to come."
He handed the elder woman into the car, and turned to Ruth. She was still looking away from him.
"Come, Ruth!" said her mother. "The car is waiting. What are you mooning about?"
"I was thinking," replied Ruth; but just there Westgate interrupted her:
"She was thinking," he suggested, "what a glorious day it would be to walk home."
The girl smiled and turned toward him. "If you mean that for an invitation, Philip," she said, "it's accepted."
Mrs. Tracy felt the balmy air sweep her face as she went on alone in luxurious flight, while the contemplation of the incident at the curb and its possible sequel gave her vastly more comfort and satisfaction than had the pious assurances of the Reverend Dr. Marbury in his morning sermon.
Both Ruth and Westgate recalled that September morning, a year before, when they had walked home together from the church, and discord had overtaken them on their way. But neither of them spoke of it. It was a thing too long gone by, and an incident that perhaps it were better, after all, to forget.
It was in the middle of the second block that Westgate said to her:
"I think I ought to tell you that I saw Mr. Farrar in the west."
"Indeed?"
Her face paled a little, and her breath came quickly; otherwise she manifested no loss of composure.
"Yes. He is settled in a parish in Apollo City. Our bishop made it possible for him to go there. I heard that he was there, and being in that neighborhood I went over to see him."
"I hope he is very happy and contented."
"I never saw a man more absorbed in his work, or more enthusiastic about it. You know Apollo City is the center of a great agricultural and grazing region. Farmers and stock men come fifty miles in their automobiles to church. He has captured them all. It is an extremely democratic community, and a democratic church. Why, he tells me that the present church building was erected by gifts of an exactly equal amount from three hundred subscribers. That gives you an idea of the social equality that prevails out there."
"He must be pleased with that."
"He is delighted with it. He feels that he has been fitted into his proper niche."
She waited a moment for him to continue his story, but he was silent. It was plain that if she would know more she must inquire. She felt that she must know more, and she inquired.
"And Mrs. Farrar? What about her?"
"Oh, she is quite herself again. She goes with him everywhere. At the time I visited them they had just returned from making a sick-call together, twenty-five miles away."
"That's splendid! How happy she must be!"
"I think she is, very happy. She looks it, and talks it. She seems to feel that she is helping her husband in his work, and that he depends on her, and that fact gives her supreme joy."
"I'm so glad!"
She put her handkerchief to her eyes and brushed away some tears that had gathered there. He saw the movement and he became silent. It was not his purpose nor his wish to arouse unhappy memories. She divined his thought, and, still eager for information, and fearful lest she might not receive it, she urged him impulsively.
"But tell me, Philip. Tell me everything. Was he glad to see you? Did he inquire about Christ Church? Does he feel bitterly toward us here?"
When he found that she really wanted to know he threw off his reserve.
"I think," he replied, "that he was very glad to see me, though I took him by surprise. He is not a man who harbors resentments, and, now that it is all over, I felt that I could not afford to hold any grudge against him. That is why I went to see him. I told him so; we got back on the old footing, and he opened his heart to me. Yes, he asked after all of you back here. And he wanted to know about Christ Church. Do you remember how eagerly Philip Nolan, the Man without a Country, drank in, on his death bed, the news from home? Well, Mr. Farrar reminded me of Nolan. And I told him—I told him everything I knew or could think of."
"Philip, you're an angel."
Again the handkerchief went to her eyes. Westgate, paying no heed to her exclamation, hurried on:
"And he has no bitter feeling toward any one. He couldn't lay up things like that. I've already told you that he's not a man who harbors resentments. It's not in his nature. But the memory of what he passed through here still haunts him. It always will haunt him. His experience was too terrible and tragic to be soon forgotten. Yet he blames no one but himself. He says the bishop was almost like a heavenly father to him."
"The bishop is a saint!"
Lest she should make a spectacle of herself on the street, Ruth gave a final dab at her eyes, and then resolutely put her handkerchief away.
"Oh," said Westgate, "I almost forgot to tell you. I saw Barry Malleson out there, too."
"You did? Barry Malleson?"
"Yes, he rode into Apollo City on horseback while I was there. He was flannel-shirted, soft-hatted, belted and spurred, in regular cowboy style. He had come up from about fifty miles down state with Jim Crane, Mrs. Bradley's brother. Crane has a ranch down there somewhere. You know he came east to his sister's funeral; Barry met him here, and when he went out into that country he hunted Crane up. It seems they have become great friends. They came up to Apollo City to buy stock, and incidentally to call on Mr. Farrar."
"How lovely! Was Barry glad to see you?"
"Glad! I thought he would never let go my hand. He insisted on my coming to visit him. He's living down at Nogalouche."
"Where?"
Ruth stopped in her tracks and turned to face her companion.
"At Nogalouche. Why?"
"Philip Westgate! Do you know that that's where Jane Chichester has gone? Her sister told me so yesterday. Do you—do you think she'll get him?"
"Heaven knows! Persistence is a jewel; and the man can't elude her forever."
"Poor Barry!"
"Why poor Barry? He might go farther and fare worse."
"Well, I don't know. I don't think—but it's nothing for me to worry about, after all."
"No."
They walked on in silence for a minute, then Ruth remembered something that she wanted to say to him:
"Philip, there's another thing I want to thank you for. Mrs. Malleson told me. She said it was not to be known. I don't know why she should tell me, but she did. It was about how you prevailed upon Mr. Malleson to take back the men who had left him, and give them their old places. Philip, it was—it was heavenly in you to do that."
They had reached the Tracy house, and were standing for a moment by the newel-post before ascending the steps.
"Yes," said Westgate; "what with peace in the mills, and peace in the church, the storm seems to be about over. There's only one cloud in the sky, and the shadow of that cloud rests on me alone. You can banish it. Everything else has been restored to its normal condition; is it not time for us to get back on the old footing? I want you. I have always wanted you. I have never wanted you so much as I do to-day. Will you come back to me?"
She looked up into his face with tear-wet eyes.
"Yes, Philip," she said; "I will."