“Mother, I want you to stay in back!”
She looked at him, as if drinking her fill of his face.
“You’re right, Joe,” she whispered, and turned and went out.
Billy was standing at the stove, a frightened boy, but he gripped the poker in his hand.
“Billy,” said Joe, quietly, “run down and tell Rann to keep ’em out of the press-room.”
Billy edged to the door, opened it, and fled.
Joe was quite alone. He sat down at his desk and took up the telephone.
“Hello, Central!” his voice was monotonous in its lowness and tenseness.
“Hello!”
“Give me police headquarters–_quick_!”
Central seemed startled.
“Police–? Yes, right away! Hold on!–Here they are!”
“Hello! Police headquarters!” came a man’s voice.
“This is Joe Blaine.” Joe gave his address. “There’s a riot in front of the house–a big mob. Send over a patrol wagon on the jump!”
At that moment there was a wild crash of glass, and a heavy stone sang through the air and knocked out the stove-pipe–pipe and stone falling to the floor with a rumble and rattle–and from the mob rose murderous yells.
So Joe was able to add:
“They’ve just smashed my window with a stone. You’d better come damn fast.”
“Right off!” snapped Headquarters.
Joe put down the telephone, and stepped quietly over the room and out into the hall. Even at that moment the hall door burst wide and a frenzied push and squabble of men poured forth upon him. In that brief glimpse, in the dim storm-light, Joe saw faces that were anything but human–wild animals, eyes blood-shot, mouths wide, and many fists in the air above their heads. There was no mercy, no thought, nothing civilized–but somehow the demon-deeps of human nature, crusted over with the veneer of gentler things, had broken through. Worse than anything was the crazy hum, rising and rising, the hoarse notes, the fierce discord, that beat upon his brain as if to drown him under.
Joe tried to shout:
“Keep back! I’ll shoot! Keep back!”
But at once the rough bodies, the terrible faces were upon him, surrounding him, pushing him. He seized a little man who was jumping for his throat–seized and shook the little beast.
“Get back!” he cried.
Fists pushed into his eyes, blows began to rain upon his body and his head. He ducked. He felt himself propelled backward by an irresistible force. He felt his feet giving way. Warm and reeking breath blew up his nostrils. He heard confused cries of: “Kill him! That’s him! We’ve got him!” Back and back he went, the torn center of a storm, and then something warm and sweet gushed over his eyes, earth opened under him and he sank, sank through soft gulfs, deeper and deeper, far from the troublous noise of life, far, far–into an engulfing blackness.
The flood poured on, gushing down the stair-way, at the foot of which Rann and his two men stood, all armed with wrenches and tools.
Rann shouted.
“I’ll break the head of any one who comes!”
The men in advance tried to break away, well content to leave their heads whole, but those in the rear pushed them on. Whack! whack! went the wrench–the leader fell. But then with fierce screams the mob broke loose, the three men were swept into the vortex of a fighting whirlpool. Some one opened the basement gate from the inside and a new stream poured in. The press-room filled–crowbars got to work–while men danced and wildly laughed and exulted in their vandal work. Then suddenly arose the cry of, “Police!” Tools dropped; the mob turned like a stampede of cattle, crushed for the doors, cried out, caught in a trap, and ran into the arms of blue-coated officers….
When Joe next opened his eyes and looked out with some surprise on the same world that he was used to, he found himself stretched in his bed and a low gas-flame eyeing him from above. He put out a hand, because he felt queer about the head, and touched bandages. Then some one spoke in his ear.
“You want to keep quiet, Mr. Blaine.”
He looked. A doctor was sitting beside him.
“Where’s mother?” he asked.
“Here I am, Joe.” Her voice was sweet in his ears.
She was sitting on the bed at his feet.
“Come here.”
She took the seat beside him and folded his free hand with both of hers.
“Mother–I want to know what’s the matter with me–every bit of it.”
“Well, Joe, you’ve a broken arm and a banged-up head, but you’ll be all right.”
“And you–are you all right?”
“Perfectly.”
“They didn’t go in the kitchen?”
“No.”
“And the press?”
“It’s smashed.”
“And the office?”
“In ruins.”
“How about Rann and the men?”
“Bruised–that’s all.”
“The police came?”
“Cleaned them out.”
There was a pause; then Joe and his mother looked at each other with queer expressions on their faces, and suddenly their mellow laughter filled the room.
“Isn’t it great, mother? That’s what we get!”
“Well, Joe,” said his mother, “what do you expect?”
Suddenly then another stood before him–bowed, remorseful, humble. It was Sally Heffer, the tears trickling down her face.
She knelt at the bedside and buried her face in the cover.
“It’s my fault!” she cried. “It’s my fault!”
“Yours, Sally?” cried Joe, quite forgetting the “Miss.” “How so?”
“I–I went to Marrin’s and got the girls out.”
“Got the girls out?” Joe exclaimed. “Where are they?”
“On the street.”
“Bring them into the ruins,” said Joe, “and organize them. I’m going to make a business of this thing.”
Sally looked up aghast.
“But I–I ought to be shot down. It’s I that should have been hurt.”
Joe smiled on her.
“Sally! Sally! what an impetuous girl you are! What would I do without you?”
VII
OF THE THIRTY THOUSAND
One wonderful January twilight, when the clear, cold air seemed to tremble with lusty health, Myra sat alone in the Ramble, before the little frozen pond. And she thought:
“This is the bench we sat on; and it was here, that morning, that we quarreled; and this is the little pond; and those the trees–but how changed! how changed!”
A world-city practises magic. Any one who for years has slept in her walls and worn the pave of her streets and mingled with her crowds and her lighted nights, is changed by her subtle enchantment into a child of the city. He is never free thereafter. The metropolis may send him forth like a carrier-pigeon, and he may think he is well rid of his mistress, but the homing instinct inevitably draws him back. “All other pleasures,” as Emerson said of love, “are not worth its pains.” Myra thought that she hated New York–the great nervous sea of life, whose noise and stress and tragedy had shattered her health. She had longed for the peace of nature; she had gone forth to the meadows and the mountains, and for a long time been content with the sounds of the barnyard and the farm, the wind and the brook; she had sunk, as it were, into the arms of the earth and rested on that great nourishing breast. She loved pure air, far horizons, quiet, and the mysterious changes of the landscape. She thought she was done with the city forever. For had she not found that the Vision of White Towers seen that first evening was hollow and bitter at the heart, that beneath the beauty was dust and horror, routine and disease?
But one snow-bound morning as she gazed out from the quiet house and saw the limitless white of the world, the fences buried, the trees loaded, the earth lost under the gray heavens, suddenly she was filled with a passionate desire for _life_. She was amazed at the restlessness in her heart. But she could not shake it off. Her desire was very definite–to walk down Eightieth Street, to hear and see the trolleys bounding down the little hill to Seventy-ninth Street, to shop on Third Avenue, to go threading her way through the swarm of school children outside the school gates. And then subtly she felt the elixir of a Broadway night, the golden witchery of the lights, the laughter-smitten people, the crowded cars and motors, the shining shops, the warmth of the crowd. A thousand memories of streets and rooms, of people and of things, flooded her mind. The country seemed barren and cold and lonely. She was grievously homesick. It was as if the city cried: “It is winter; the world is dark and dead. Come, my children, gather together; gather here in my arms, you millions; laugh and converse together, toil together, light fires, turn on lights, warm your hands and souls at my flaming hearth. We will forget the ice and the twilight! Come, winter is the time for human beings!”
And so Myra awoke to the fact that she was indeed a child of the city–that the magic was in her blood and the enchantment in her heart. It was useless to recall the mean toil, the narrow life, the unhealthy days. These, dropped in the great illusion of crowded New York, were transformed into a worthy struggle, a part of the city’s reality. She suddenly felt as if she would go crazy if she stayed in the country–its stillness stifled her, its emptiness made her ache.
But there was a deeper call than the call of the city. She wanted to be with Joe. Her letters to him had been for his sake, not hers. She had tried to save him from herself, to shut him out and set him free, to cure him of his love. Desperately she did this, knowing that the future held nothing for them together. And for a time it had been a beautiful thing to do, until finally she was compelled to believe that he really was cured. His notes were more and more perfunctory, until, at last, they ceased altogether. Then, when she knew she had lost him, it seemed to her that she had condemned herself to a barren, fruitless life; that the best had been lived, and it only remained now to die. She had given up her “whole existence,” cast out that by which she truly lived. There were moments of inexpressible loneliness, when, reading in the orchard, or brooding beside some rippling brook, she glanced southward and sent her silent cry over the horizon. Somewhere down there he was swallowed in the vastness of life; she remembered the lines of his face, his dark melancholy eyes, his big human, humorous lips, his tall, awkward strength; she felt still those kisses on her lips; felt his arms about her; the warmth of his hand; the whisper of his words; and the wind in the oaks.
That afternoon at the riverside he had cast his future at her feet. She had been offered that which runs deeper than hunger or dream or toil, the elemental, the mystic, the very glory of a woman’s life. She had been offered a life, too, of comradeship and great issues. And now, when these gifts were withdrawn, she knew she would nevermore have rest or joy in this world. Is not life the adventure of a man and a woman going forth together, toiling, and talking, and laughing, and creating on the road to death? Is not earth the mating-place for souls? Out of nature we rise and seek out each other and mate and make of life a glory and a mystery. This is the secret of youth, and the magic of all music and of all sorrow and of all toil. Or, so it seemed to Myra.
There is no longing in the world so tragic or terrible as that of men and women for each other. And so Myra had her homesickness for the city transfused and sharpened by her overmastering love. She fought with herself bitterly; she resolved to wait for one more mail. Nothing came in that mail.
Then she evaded the issue. There were practical reasons for her return. Her health was quite sound again, she had been idle long enough; it was time to get back to work. What if she did return to the city? Surely it was not necessary to seek out Joe. It would be enough to be near him. He need not be troubled. So vast is the city that he would not know of her presence. What harm, then, in easing her heart, in getting back into the warmth and stir of life?
With a young girl’s joy she packed her trunk and took the train for New York, and at sunset, as she rode in the ferry over the North River, she stood bravely out on deck, faced the bitter and salt wind, and saw, above the flush of the waters, that breathless skyline which, like the prow of some giant ship, seemed making out to sea. Lights twinkled in windows, signal-lamps gleamed red and green on the piers, chimneys smoked, and as the ferry nosed its way among the busy craft of the river, Myra exulted. She was coming back! This again was New York, real, right there, unbudged, her thousand lights like voices calling her home. The ferry landed; she hurried out and took a surface car And how good the crowd seemed, how warm the noise and the lights, what gladness was in the evening ebb-tide of people, how splendid the avenues shone with their sparkle and their shops and their traffic! She felt again the good hard pave under her feet. She met again a hundred familiar scenes. The vast flood of life seemed to engulf her, suck her up as if to say: “Well, you’re here again! Come, there is room! Another human being!”
All about her was rich life, endless sights, confusion and variety. The closing darkness was pierced with lights, windows glowed, people were hurrying home. It was all as she had left it. And she felt then that the city was but Joe multiplied, and that Joe was the city. Both were cosmopolitan, democratic, tragic, light-hearted, many-faceted. Both were careless and big and easy and roomy. Both had a great freedom about them. And what a freedom the city had!–nothing snowbound here, but invitation, shops open, cars gliding, the millions transported back and forth, everything open and inviting.
She was glad for her neat back room–for gas-lights and running water–for the comfort and ease of life. She was glad even to sit in the crowded dining-room, and that night she was glad to lie abed and hear the city’s heart pounding about her–that old noise of whistles on the river, that old thunder of the elevated train.
But she found that nearness to Joe made it impossible to keep away from him. Just as of old she had found excuses for going up to the trembling printery, so now she felt that somehow she must seek him out. She kept wondering what he was doing at that particular moment. Was he toiling or idling? Was he with his mother? Did he still wear the same clothes, the same half-worn necktie, the same old lovable gray hat? What would he say, how would he look, if she suddenly confronted him? Myra had to laugh softly to herself. She saw the wonder in his face, the open mouth, the flashing eyes. Or, would he be embarrassed? Was there some other woman–one who accorded with his ideals–one who could share his life-work? Of course she hoped that there was. She hoped he had found some one worthy of him. But the thought gave her intense misery. Why had he thrown his life away and gone down into that foolish and shoddy neighborhood? Surely when she saw him she would be disappointed by the changes in him. He would be more than ever a fanatic–more than ever an unreasonable radical. He might even be vulgarized by his environment–might have taken its color, been leveled down by its squalor.
She must forget the new Joe and cleave to the old Joe. Next afternoon, walking out, almost involuntarily, she turned west and entered the Park. The trees were naked, a lacy tracery of boughs against the deep-blue sky. She followed the curve, she crossed the roadway, she climbed the hill to the Ramble. She began to tingle with the keen, crisp air, and with the sense of adventure. It was almost as if she were going to meet Joe–as if they had arranged a secret meeting. She took the winding paths, she passed the little pool. There was the bench! But empty.
Then she sat down on that bench, and looked out at the naked wilderness of trees, at the ice in the pond, at the sodden brown, dead grasses. The place was wildly forlorn and bare. When they had last been here the air had been tinged with the haunting autumn, the leaves had been falling, the pool had been deep with the heavens. And again she thought:
“This is the bench we sat on; and it was here, that morning, that we quarreled; this is the little pond, and those the trees–but how changed! how changed!”
Then as she sat there she beheld the miracle of color. Behind her, between the black tree trunks, the setting sun was a liquid red splendor, daubing some low clouds with rosiness, and all about her, in the turn between day and night, the world, which before was a blend in the strong light, now divided into a myriad sharp tints. The air held a tinge of purple, the distance a smoky violet, the brown of the grasses was a strong brown, the black of the trunks intensely black. Out among distant trees she saw a woman and child walking, and the child’s scarlet cloak seemed a living thing as it swayed and moved. How sharp and distinct were the facts of earth! how miraculously tinted! what tones of blue and red, of purple and black! It was the sunset singing its hymn of color, and it made her feel keenly the mystery and beauty of life–the great moments of solution and peace–the strange human life that inhabits for a brief space this temple of a million glories. But something was missing, there was a great lack, a wide emptiness. She resolved then to see Joe.
It was not, however, until the next afternoon that she took the elevated train to Ninth Street and then the crosstown car over the city. She alighted in the shabby street; she walked up to the entrance; she saw over the French windows a big canvas sign, “Strike Headquarters.” Within, she thought she saw a mass of people. This made her hesitate. She had expected to find him alone. And somehow, too, the place was even shabbier, even meaner than she had expected. And so she stood a moment–a slender, little woman, her hands in a muff, a fur scarf bound about her throat, her gray eyes liquid and luminous, a rosy tint in her cheeks, her lips parted and releasing a thin steam in the bitter winter air. Overhead the sky was darkening with cloud-masses, a shriveling wind dragged the dirty street, and the world was desolate and gray. The blood was pulsing in Myra’s temples, her heart leaped, her breath panted. And as she hesitated a girl passed her, a girl about whose breast was bound a placard whereon were the words:
JOIN THE STRIKE
OF THE THIRTY THOUSAND
What strike? What did it mean? Was Joe in a strike? She thought he had been editing a paper. She had better not intrude. She turned, as if to fly, and yet hesitated. Her feet refused to go; her heart was rebellious. Only a wall divided him from her. Why should she not see him? Why not a moment’s conversation? Then she would go and leave him to his work.
Another girl passed her and paused–a girl also placarded, a girl with a strange beauty, somewhat tall, with form well rounded, with pale face full of the fascination of burning eagerness. This girl’s eyes were a clear blue, her lips set tight, and her light-brown hair blew beautifully about her cheeks. She was, however, but thinly clothed, and her frail little coat was short and threadbare.
She spoke to Myra–a rich, sympathetic voice.
“Are you looking for Mr. Blaine?”
“Yes–” said Myra, almost gasping. “Is he in?”
“He’s always in!” The girl smiled.
“There’s nothing the matter?”
“With him? No! But come, come out of the cold!”
There was nothing to do but follow. The girl opened a door and they entered the office. It was crowded with girls and women and men. Long benches were about the wall, camp-stools filled the floor. Many were seated; on two of the benches worn-out men were fast asleep, and between the seats groups of girls were talking excitedly. Several lights burned in the darkening room, and Myra saw swiftly the strange types–there were Jewish girls, Italian girls, Americans, in all sorts of garbs, some very flashy with their “rat”-filled hair, their pompadours, their well-cut clothes, others almost in rags; some tall, some short, some rosy-cheeked, many frail and weak and white. At a table in the rear Giotto was receiving money from Italians and handing out union cards. He looked as if he hadn’t slept for nights.
Myra was confused. She felt strangely “out” of all this; strangely, as if she were intruding. The smell of the place offended her, especially as it was mixed with cheap perfumes; and the coarse slangy speech that flashed about jarred on her ear. But at the same time she was suffocating with suspense.
“Where is he?” she murmured–they were standing right within the door.
“Over there!” the girl pointed.
But all Myra saw was a black semicircle of girls leaning over some one invisible near the window.
“He’s at his desk, and he’s talking with a committee. You’d better wait till he’s finished!”
This news choked Myra. Wait? Wait here? Be shut out like this? She was as petulant as a child; she felt like shedding tears.
But the girl at her side seemed to be playing the part of hostess, and she had to speak.
“What strike is this?”
The girl was amazed.
“_What strike_! Don’t you know?”
Myra smiled.
“No–I don’t. I’ve been out of the city.”
“It’s the shirtwaist-makers’ strike.”
“Oh! I see!” said Myra, mechanically.
“It’s the biggest woman’s strike that ever was. Thirty thousand out–Italians, Jews, and Americans.”
“Yes?” Myra was not listening.
Suddenly then the door was flung open and a well-dressed girl rushed in, crying shrilly:
“Say, girls, what do you think?”
A group gathered about her.
“What’s up? What’s the news? Don’t stand there all day!”
The girl spoke with exultant indignation.
“I’ve been arrested!”
“Arrested! _You_!”
“And I didn’t do nothing, either–I was good. What do you think of this? The judge fined me ten dollars. Well, let me tell you, I’m going to _get something_ for those ten dollars! I’m going to raise–hell!”
“You bet! Ain’t it a shame?”
And the group swallowed her up.
Myra wondered why the girl had been arrested, and was surprised at her lack of shame and humiliation.
But she had not much time for thought. The door opened again, and Sally Heffer entered, sparkling, neat, eyes clear.
At once cries arose:
“Here’s Sal! Hello, Sally Heffer! Where have you been?” Girls crowded about. “What’s the news? Where did you come from?”
Where had Myra heard that name before?
Sally spoke with delicious fastidiousness.
“_I’ve_ been to Vassar.”
“Vassar College?”
“Yes, Vassar College–raised fifty dollars!”
“Sally’s it, all right! Say, Sal, how did they treat you? Stuck up?”
“Not a bit,” said Sally. “They were ever so good to me. They’re lovely girls–kind, sweet, sympathetic. They wanted to help and they were very respectful, but”–she threw up her hands–“_oh, they’re ignorant_!”
There was a shout of laughter. Myra was shocked. A slum girl to speak like this of Vassar students? She noticed then, with a queer pang, that Sally made for the window group, who at once made a place for her. Sally had easy access to Joe.
The girl at her side was speaking again.
“You’ve no idea what this strike means. There’s some rich women interested in it–they work right with us, hold mass-meetings, march in the streets–they’re wonderful. And some of the big labor-leaders and even some of the big lawyers are helping. There’s one big lawyer been giving all his time. You see, we’re having trouble with the police.”
“Yes, I see,” said Myra, though she didn’t see at all, and neither did she care. It seemed to her that she could not wait another instant. She must either go, or step over to his desk.
“Is he still so busy?” she asked.
“Yes, he is,” said the girl. “Do you know him personally?”
Myra laughed softly.
“A little.”
“Then you heard how he was hurt?”
“_Hurt_!” gasped Myra. Her heart seemed to grow small, and it was pierced by a sharp needle of pain.
“Yes, there was a riot here–the men came in and smashed everything.”
“And Mr. Blaine? _Tell me_!” The words came in a blurt.
“Had his arm broken and his head was all bloody.”
Myra felt dizzy, faint.
“But he’s–better?”
“Oh, he’s all right now.”
“When did this happen?”
“About six weeks ago!”
Six weeks! That was shortly after the last letter came. Myra was suffering agony, and her face went very pale.
“How did it happen?” she breathed.
“Oh, he called some strikers traitors, and they came down and broke in. It’s lucky he wasn’t killed.”
He had suffered, he had been in peril of his life, while she was resting in the peace of the country. So this was a strike, and in this Joe was concerned. She looked about the busy room; she noticed anew the sleeping men and the toiling Giotto; and suddenly she was interested. She was wrenched, as it were, from her world into his. She felt in the heart of a great tragedy of life. And all the time she kept saying over and over again:
“His arm was broken! his head bloody! and I wasn’t here! I wasn’t at his side!”
And she had thought in her country isolation that life in the city wasn’t real. What a moment that must have been when Joe faced the rioters–when they rushed upon him–when he might have been killed! And instead of deterring him from his work, here he was in the thick of it, braving, possibly, unspeakable dangers. Then, glancing about, it seemed to her that these girls and men were a part of his drama; he gave them a new reality. This was life, pulsing, immediate, tragic. She must go to him–she mustn’t delay longer.
She took a few steps forward, and at almost the same moment the girls about Joe left him, scattering about the room. Then she saw him. And what a spectacle! He was in his shirt-sleeves, his hair was more tousled than ever, and his face was gray–the most tragic face she had ever seen–gray, sunken, melancholy, worn, as if he bore the burden of the world. But in one hand he held a pen, and in the other–a ham sandwich. It was a big sandwich, and every few moments he took a big bite, as he scratched on. Myra’s heart was wrung with love and pity, with remorse and fondness, and mainly with the tragi-comedy of his face and the sandwich.
She stood over him a moment, breathless, panting, her throat full of blood, it seemed. Then she stooped a little and whispered:
“Joe.”
He wheeled round; he looked up; his gray face seemed to grow grayer; his lips parted–he was more than amazed. He was torn away, as it were, from all business of life.
“Why,” he said under his breath, “it’s you, Myra!”
“Yes”–tears stood in her eyes–“it’s I.”
He surveyed her up and down, and then their eyes met. He ran his hand through his hair.
“You–you–” he murmured. “And how well you look, how strong, how fresh! Sit down! sit down!”
She took the seat, trembling. She leaned forward.
“But you–you are killing yourself, Joe.”
He smiled sadly.
“It’s serious business, Myra.”
She gazed at him, and spoke hard.
“Is there no end to it? Aren’t you going to rest, ever?”
“End? No end now. The strike must be won.”
He was trying to pull himself together. He gave a short laugh; he sat up.
“So you’re back from the country.”
“Yes, I’m back.”
“To stay?”
“To stay.”
“You’re cured, then?”
“Yes,” she smiled, “cured of many things. I like the city better than I thought!”
He gave her a sharp look.
“So!” Then his voice came with utter weariness: “Well, the city’s a queer place, Myra. Things happen here.”
Somehow she felt that he was standing her off. Something had crept in between them, some barrier, some wall. He had already emerged from the shock of the meeting. What if there were things in his life far more important than this meeting? Myra tried to be brave.
“I just wanted to see you–see the place–see how things were getting on.”
Joe laughed softly.
“Things _are_ getting on. Circulation’s up to fifteen thousand–due to the strike.”
“How so?”
“We got out a strike edition–and the girls peddled it around town, and lots subscribed. It’s given the paper a big boost.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Myra found herself saying.
“_You_ glad?” If only his voice hadn’t been so weary! “That’s strange, Myra.”
“It _is_ strange!” she said, her eyes suffused again. His gray, tragic face seemed to be working on the very strings of her heart. She longed so to help him, to heal him, to breathe joy and strength into him.
“Joe!” she said.
He looked at her again.
“Yes, Myra.”
“Oh–I–” She paused.
He smiled.
“Say it!”
“Isn’t there some way I can help?”
A strange expression came to his face, of surprise, of wonder.
“_You_ help?”
“Yes–I–“
“Mr. Blaine! Mr. Blaine!” Some one across the room was calling. “There’s an employer here to see you!”
Joe leaped up, took Myra’s hand, and spoke hastily.
“Wait and meet my mother. And come again–sometime. Sometime when I’m not so rushed!”
And he was gone–gone out of the room.
Myra arose, still warm with the touch of his hand–for his hand was almost fever-warm. All that she knew was that he had suffered and was suffering, and that she must help. She was burning now with an eagerness to learn about the strike, to understand what it was that so depressed and enslaved him, what it was that was slowly killing him. Her old theories met the warm clasp of life and vanished. She forgot her viewpoint and her delicacy. Life was too big for her shallow philosophy. It seized upon her now and absorbed her.
She strode back to the young girl, who she learned later was named Rhona Hemlitz, and who was but seventeen years old.
She said: “Tell me about the strike! Can’t we sit down together and talk? Have you time?”
“I have a little time,” said Rhona, eagerly. “We can sit here!”
So they sat side by side and Rhona told her. Rhona’s whole family was engaged in sweat-work. They lived in a miserable tenement over in Hester Street, where her mother had been toiling from dawn until midnight with the needle, with her tiny brother helping to sew on buttons, “finishing” daily a dozen pairs of pants, and making–_thirty cents_.
Myra was amazed.
“Thirty cents–dawn till midnight! Impossible!”
And then her father–who worked all day in a sweatshop.
“And you–what did you do?” asked Myra.
Rhona told her. She had worked in Zandler’s shirtwaist factory–bending over a power-machine, whose ten needles made forty-four hundred stitches a minute. So fast they flew that a break in needle or thread ruined a shirtwaist; hence, never did she allow her eyes to wander, never during a day of ten to fourteen hours, while, continuously, the needles danced up and down like flashes of steel or lightning. At times it seemed as if the machine were running away from her and she had to strain her body to keep it back. And so, when she reeled home late at night, her smarting eyes saw sharp showers of needles in the air every time she winked, and her back ached intolerably.
“I never dreamt,” said Myra, “that people had to work like that!”
“Oh, that’s not all!” said Rhona, and went on. Her wages were rarely over five dollars a week, and for months, during slack season, she was out of work–came daily to the factory, and had to sit on a bench and wait, often fruitlessly. And then the sub-contracting system, whereunder the boss divided the work among lesser bosses who each ran a gang of toilers, speeding them up mercilessly, “sweating” them! And so the young girls, sixteen to twenty-five years old, were sapped of health and joy and womanhood, and, “as Mr. Joe wrote, the future is robbed of wives and mothers!”
Myra was amazed. She had a new glimpse of the woman problem. She saw now how millions of women were being fed into the machine of industry, and that thus the home was passing, youth was filched of its glory, and the race was endangered. This uprising of the women, then, meant more than she dreamed–meant the attempt to save the race by freeing the women from this bondage. Had they not a right then to go out in the open, to strike, to lead marches, to sway meetings, to take their places with men?
Such thoughts, confused and swift, came to her, and she asked Rhona what had happened. How had the strike started? First, said Rhona, there was the strike at Marrin’s–a spark that set off the other places. Then at Zandler’s conditions had become so bad that one morning Jake Hedig, her boss, a young, pale-faced, black-haired man, suddenly arose and shouted in a loud voice throughout the shop:
“I am sick of slave-driving. I resign my job.”
The boss, and some of the little bosses, set upon him, struck him, and dragged him out, but as he went he shouted lustily:
“Brothers and sisters, are you going to sit by your machines and see a fellow-worker used this way?”
The machines stopped: the hundreds of girls and the handful of men marched out simultaneously. Then, swiftly the sedition had spread about the city until a great night in Cooper Union, when, after speeches of peace and conciliation, one of the girls had risen, demanded and secured the floor, and moved a general strike. Her motion was unanimously carried, and when the chairman cried, in Yiddish: “Do you mean faith? Will you take the old Jewish oath?” up went two thousand hands, with one great chorus:
“If I turn traitor to the cause I now pledge, may this hand wither from the arm I now raise.”
By this oath Rhona was bound. And so were thirty thousand others–Americans, Italians, Jews–and with them were some of the up-town women, some of the women of wealth, some of the big lawyers and the labor-leaders and reformers.
“Some of the up-town women!” thought Myra. She was amazed to find herself so interested, so wrought up. And she felt as if she had stumbled upon great issues and great struggles; she realized, dimly, that first moment, that this strike was involved in something larger, something vaster–swallowed up in the advance of democracy, in the advance of woman. All the woman in her responded to the call to arms.
And she was discovering now what Joe had meant by his “crisis”–what he had meant by his fight for “more democracy; a better and richer life; a superber people on earth. It was a real thing. She burned now to help Joe–she burned to do for him–to enter into his tragic struggle–to be of use to him.
“What are you going to do now?” she asked Rhona.
“Now? Now I must go picketing.”
“What’s picketing?”
“March up and down in front of a factory and try to keep scabs out.”
“What are scabs?” asked ignorant Myra.
Rhona was amazed.
“You don’t even know that? Why, a scab’s a girl who tries to take a striker’s job and so ruin the strike. She takes the bread out of our mouths.”
“But how can you stop her?”
“Talk to her! We’re not allowed to use violence.”
“How do you do it?”
Rhona looked at the eager face, the luminous gray eyes.
“Would you like to see it?”
“Yes, I would.”
“But it’s dangerous.”
“How so?”
“Police and thugs, bums hanging around.”
“And you girls aren’t afraid?”
Rhona smiled.
“We don’t show it, anyway. You see, we’re bound to win.”
Myra’s eyes flashed.
“Well, if you’re not afraid, I guess I haven’t any right to be. May I come?”
Rhona looked at her with swift understanding.
“Yes, please do come!”
Myra rose. She took a last look about the darkening room; saw once more the sleeping men, the toiling Giotto, the groups of girls. Something tragic hung in the air. She seemed to breathe bigger, gain in stature, expand. She was going to meet the test of these newer women. She was going to identify herself with their vast struggle.
And looking once more, she sought Joe, but could not find him. How pleased he would be to know that she was doing this–doing it largely for him–because she wanted to smooth out that gray face, and lay her cheek against its lost wrinkles, and put her arm about his neck, and heal him.
Tears dimmed her eyes. She took Rhona’s arm and they stepped out into the bleak street. Wind whipped their faces like quick-flicked knives. They walked close together.
“Is it far?” asked Myra.
“Quite far. It’s over on Great Jones Street!”
And so Myra went, quite lost in the cyclone of life.
VIII
THE ARREST
They gained the corner of Great Jones Street–one of those dim byways of trade that branch off from the radiant avenues. As they turned in the street, they met a bitter wind that was blowing the pavement clean as polished glass, and the dark and closing day was set off sharply by the intense lamps and shop-lights. Here and there at a window a clerk pressed his face against the cold pane and looked down into the cheerless twilight, and many toilers made the hard pavement echo with their fast steps as they hurried homeward.
“There they are,” said Rhona.
Two girls, both placarded, came up to them. One of them, a thin little skeleton, pitiably ragged in dress, with hollow eyes and white face, was coughing in the cuff of the wind. She was plainly a consumptive–a little wisp of a girl. She spoke brokenly, with a strong Russian accent.
“It’s good to see you yet, Rhona. I get so cold my bones ready to crack.”
She shivered and coughed. Rhona spoke softly.
“Fannie, you go right home, and let your mother give you a good drink of hot lemonade with whiskey in it. And take a foot-bath, too.”
Fannie coughed again.
“Don’t you tell me, Rhona. Look out for yourself. There gets trouble yet on this street.”
Myra drew nearer, a dull feeling in her breast. Rhona spoke easily:
“None of the men said anything or did anything, did they?”
“Well, they say things; they make angry faces, and big fists, Rhona. Better be careful.”
“Where are they?”
“By Zandler’s doorway. They get afraid of the cold.”
Rhona laughed softly, and put an arm about the frail body.
“Now you run home, and don’t worry about me! I can take care of myself. I expect another girl, anyway.”
“Good-night, Rhona.”
“Good-night–get to bed, and don’t forget the hot lemonade!”
The two girls departed, blowing, as it were, about the corner and out of sight. Rhona turned to Myra, whose face was pallid.
“Hadn’t you better go back, Miss Craig? You see, I’m used to these things.”
“No,” said Myra, in a low voice. “I’ve come to stay.”
She was thinking of tiny Fannie. What! Could she not measure to a little consumptive Russian?
“All right,” said Rhona. “Let’s begin!”
They started to walk quietly up and down before the darkened loft building–up fifty yards, down fifty yards. A stout policeman slouched under a street-lamp, swinging his club with a heavily gloved hand, and in the shadow of the loft-building entrance Rhona pointed out to Myra several ill-looking private detectives who danced up and down on their toes, blew their hands, smoked cigarettes, and kept tab of the time.
“It’s they,” whispered Rhona, “who make all the trouble. Some of them are ex-convicts and thugs. They are a rough lot.”
“But why is it allowed?” asked Myra.
Rhona laughed.
“Why is anything allowed?”
The wind seemed to grow more and more cruel. Myra felt her ear-lobes swelling, the tip of her nose tingled and her feet and hands were numb. But they held on quietly in the darkening day. It all seemed simple enough–this walking up and down. So this was picketing!
Myra spoke softly as they turned and walked west.
“Have many of the girls been arrested?”
“Oh yes, a lot of them.”
“Have they been disorderly?”
“Some of them have. It’s hard to keep cool, with scabs egging you on and calling you cowards.”
“And what happens to them if they are arrested?”
“Oh, fined–five, ten dollars.”
They turned under the lamp; the policeman rose and sank on one foot after the other; they walked quietly back. Then, as they passed the doorway of the loft building, one of the young men stepped forward into the light. He was a square-set, heavy fellow, with long, square, protruding jaw, and little monkey eyes. His bearing was menacing. He stepped in front of the girls, who stopped still and awaited him. Myra felt the blood rush to her head, and a feeling of dizziness made her tremble. Then the man spoke sharply:
“Say, you–you can’t go by here.”
Myra gazed at him as if she were hypnotized, but Rhona’s eyes flashed.
“Why not?”
“Don’t jaw me,” said the man. “But–_clear out_!”
Rhona tried to speak naturally.
“Isn’t this a public street? Haven’t I a right to walk up and down with my friend?”
Then Myra felt as if she were struck by lightning, or as if something sacred in her womanhood had been outraged.
With a savage growl: “You little sheeny!” the man suddenly struck out a fist and hit Rhona in the chest. She lurched, doubled, and fell, saving herself with her hands. Myra did not move, but a shock of horror went through her.
The two other young men in the doorway came forward, and home-goers paused, drew close, looked on curiously and silently. One nudged another.
“What’s up?”
“Don’t know!”
The thug muttered under his breath:
“Pull her up by her hair; we’ll run her in!”
But Rhona had scrambled to her feet. She was too wild to cry or speak. She glanced around for help, shunning the evil monkey eyes. Then she saw the policeman under the lamp. He was still nonchalantly swinging his club.
She gave a gasping sob, pushing away Myra’s offered help, and struggled over to him. He did not move. She stood, until he glanced at her. Then she caught his eye, and held him, and spoke with strange repression, as the crowd drew about them. Myra was in that crowd, dazed, outraged, helpless. She heard Rhona speaking:
“Do you think a man has any right to strike a girl?”
He did not answer; she still held his eyes.
“Do you think a man has any right to strike a girl?”
Still he said nothing, and the crowd became fascinated by the fixity of gaze of the two. Rhona’s voice sharpened:
“_Do you think a man has any right to strike a girl_?”
The officer cleared his throat and looked away.
“Oh,” he muttered carelessly, “it’s all right. You people are always kicking, anyway.”
Rhona’s voice rose.
“I ask you to arrest him.”
Several in the crowd backed this with mutterings. The policeman twirled his stick.
“Oh, all right!” he called. “Come along, Blondy!”
Blondy, the thug, came up grinning.
“Pinching me, John?” he asked.
“Sure.” The policeman smiled, and then seized Blondy and Rhona each by an arm and started to march them toward Broadway. Myra followed wildly. Her mind was in a whirl and the bitter tears blurred her eyes. What could she do? How could she help? She sensed in the policeman’s word a menace to Rhona. Rhona was in trouble, and she, Myra, was as good as useless in this crisis. She suddenly understood the helplessness of the poor and the weak, especially the poor and weak women. What could they do against this organized iniquity? Against the careless and cruel world? It was all right for gentlewomen in gentle environment to keep to the old ideals of womanhood–to stay at home and delegate their citizenship to the men. But those who were sucked into the vortex of the rough world, what of these? Were they not right in their attempts to organize, to rebel, to fight in the open, to secure a larger share of freedom and power?
But if these were Myra’s feelings and thoughts–a sense of outrage, of being trampled on–they were little things compared with the agony in Rhona’s breast. A growing and much-pleased crowd surrounded her, flinging remarks:
“Lock-steps for yours! Hello, Mamie! Oh, you kid! Now will you be good! Carrie, go home and wash the dishes!”
And one boy darted up and snapped the placard from her waist. The crowd laughed, but Rhona was swallowing bitter tears.
They passed down Broadway a block or two, and then turned west. Brilliant light from the shop windows fell upon the moving scene–the easy-going men, the slouching, shrill boys, and the girl with her pale set face and uncertain steps. All the world was going home to supper, and Rhona felt strangely that she was now an exile–torn by the roots from her warm life to go on a lonely adventure against the powers of darkness. She had lost her footing in the world and was slipping into the night. She felt singularly helpless; her very rage and rebellion made her feel frail and unequal to the task. To be struck down in the street! To be insulted by a crowd! She had hard work to hold her head erect and keep back the bitter sobs.
Up the darkened street they went, the crowd gradually falling away. And suddenly they paused before the two green lamps of the new station-house, and then in a moment they had vanished through the doorway.
Myra rushed up, panting, to a policeman who stood on the steps.
“I want to go in–I’m with _her_.”
“Can’t do it, lady. She’s under arrest.”
“Not she,” cried Myra. “The man.”
“Oh, we’ll see. You run along–keep out of trouble!”
Myra turned, confused, weak. She questioned a passer-by about the location of Ninth Street. “Up Broadway–seven or eight blocks!” She started; she hurried; her feet were winged with desperate fear. What could be done? How help Rhona? Surely Joe–Joe could do something. He would know–she would hasten to him and get his aid. That at least she could do.
Now and then a bitter sob escaped her. She felt that she had lost her self-respect and her pride. Like a coward she had watched Rhona attacked, had not even raised her voice, had not, even attempted interference. They might have listened to a well-dressed woman, a woman of refinement. And she had done nothing–just followed the crowd, nursing her wounded pride. She began to feel that the world was a big place, and that those without money or position are at the mercy of the powerful. She began to revise her opinion of America, more keenly than ever she understood Joe’s passion for more democracy. And she had a sense, too, that she had never really known life–that her narrow existence had touched life at but a few minor points–and that the great on-struggle of the world, the vast life of the race, the million-eddying evolution were all outside her limits. Now she was feeling the edge of new existences. The knowledge humbled, almost humiliated her. She wondered that Joe had ever thought well of her, had ever been content to share his life with her.
Driven by these thoughts and by her fear and her apprehension for Rhona’s safety, she plunged west, borne by the wind, buffeted, beaten, blown along. The lights behind the French windows were like beacons in a storm. She staggered into the hall, entered the room. Her hair was wild about her face, her cheeks pale, her eyes burning.
The room was still crowded, intensely busy. She noticed nothing, but pushed her way to Joe’s desk. He was talking with two girls.
She confronted him.
“Joe!”
He lifted his gray, tragic face, amazed.
“You still here?”
It was as if he had forgotten her. But Myra was not now thinking of herself. She spoke, breathlessly:
“Joe, I think Rhona Hemlitz is in trouble.”
“How so?”
“She was knocked down by a thug, and she had him arrested, but I’m afraid _she’s_ arrested.”
A dangerous light came into Joe’s eyes.
“All right! All right! Where did this happen?”
“On Great Jones Street.”
“Well and good,” he muttered.
“But isn’t there anything to do?” cried Myra.
“Why, if she’s not arrested, she’ll come here and report, and if she doesn’t come I’ll go over to the Night Court at nine this evening.”
“I must go with you,” cried Myra.
“You?” He looked at her, and then suddenly he asked: “But how did you come to hear of this?”
“I was picketing with her.”
A great change came over Joe’s face, as if he beheld a miracle.
“Myra! So you have been picketing!”
Her face went very white.
“Don’t! Don’t!” she breathed painfully, sinking in a chair. “I was a coward, Joe–I didn’t do anything to help her!”
“But what could you do?”
“Oh, something, anything.”
He glanced at her keenly, and a swift smile lit his features. He spoke very gently.
“Myra, you step in back to my mother. Take supper with her. Keep her company. I’m afraid I’m neglecting mother these days.”
“And the Night Court?” Myra was swallowing sobs.
“I’ll look in for you at nine o’clock.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Oh, thank you.”
It was something that he thought her worthy.
IX
RHONA
When the policeman with Rhona and Blondy passed up the steps between the green lamps of the new station-house, they found themselves in a long room whose warmth was a fine relief. They breathed more easily, loosened their coats, and then stepped forward. A police sergeant sat behind a railing, writing at a low desk, a low-hanging, green-shaded electric bulb above him.
Rhona felt that she had to speak quickly and get in her word before the others. She tried to be calm, but a dull sob went with the words.
“That man struck me–knocked me down. I’ve had him arrested.”
The sergeant did not look up. He went on writing. Finally he spoke, easily:
“True, Officer?”
The policeman cleared his throat.
“The other way round, Sergeant. _She_ struck the _man_.”
Rhona breathed hard, a feeling in her breast of her heart breaking. She gasped:
“That’s not true. He struck me–he struck me.”
The sergeant glanced up.
“What’s your name?”
Rhona could not answer for a moment. Then, faintly:
“Rhona Hemlitz.”
“Age?”
“Seventeen.”
“Address?”
“—- Hester Street.”
“Occupation?”
“Shirtwaist-maker.”
“Oh!” he whistled slightly. “Striker?”
“Yes.”
“Picketing?”
“Yes.”
“Held for Night Court trial. Lock her up, Officer.”
Blackness closed over the girl’s brain. She thought she was going into hysterics. Her one thought was that she must get help, that she must reach some one who knew her. She burst out:
“I want to telephone.”
“To who?”
“Mr. Blaine–Mr. Blaine!”
“West Tenth Street feller?”
“Yes.”
The sergeant winked to the policeman.
“Oh, the matron’ll see to that! Hey, Officer?”
Rhona felt her arm seized, and then had a sense of being dragged, a feeling of cool, fetid air, a flood of darkness, voices, and then she knew no more. The matron who was stripping her and searching her had to get cold water and wash her face….
Later Rhona found herself in a narrow cell, sitting in darkness at the edge of a cot. Through the door came a torrent of high-pitched speech.
“Yer little tough, reform! reform! What yer mean by such carryings-on? I know yer record. Beware of God, little devil….”
On and on it went, and Rhona, dazed, wondered what new terror it foreboded. But then without warning the talk switched.
“Yer know who I am?”
“Who?” quavered Rhona.
“The matron.”
“Yes?”
“I divorced him, I did.”
“Yes.”
“My husband, I’m telling yer. Are yer deef?”
Suddenly Rhona rose and rushed to the door.
“I want to send a message.”
“By-and-by,” said the matron, and her rum-reeking breath came full in the girl’s face. The matron was drunk.
For an hour she confided to Rhona the history of her married life, and each time that Rhona dared cry, “I want to send a message!” she replied, “By-and-by.”
But after an hour was ended, she remembered.
“Message? Sure! Fifty cents!”
Rhona clutched the edge of the door.
“Telephone–I want to telephone!”
“Telephone!” shrieked the matron. “Do yer think we keep a telephone for the likes of ye?”
“But I haven’t fifty cents–besides, a message doesn’t cost fifty cents–“
“Are yer telling _me_?” the matron snorted. “Fifty cents! Come now, hurry,” she wheedled. “Yer know as yer has it! Oh, it’s in good time you come!”
Her last words were addressed to some one behind her. The cell door was quickly opened; Rhona’s arm was seized by John, the policeman, and without words she was marched to the curb and pushed into the patrol wagon with half a dozen others. The wagon clanged through the cold, dark streets, darting through the icy edge of the wind, and the women huddled together. Rhona never forgot how that miserable wagonful chattered–that noise of clicking teeth, the pulse of indrawn sighs, and the shivering of arms and chests. Closer and closer they drew, as if using one another as shields against the arctic onslaught, a couple of poor women, and four unsightly prostitutes, the scum of the lower Tenderloin. One woman kept moaning jerkily:
“Wisht I was dead–down in my grave. It’s bitter cold–“
The horses struck sparks against the pave, the wheels grided, and the wagon-load went west, up the shadowy depths of Sixth Avenue, under the elevated structure, and stopped before Jefferson Market Court. The women were hustled out and went shuddering through long corridors, until at last they were shoved into a large cell.
* * * * *
At about the same moment Myra and Joe emerged from the West Tenth Street house and started for the court-house. They started, bowing their heads in the wind, holding on to their hats.
“Whew!” muttered Joe. “This is a night!”
Myra did not dare take his arm, and he spoke a little gruffly.
“Better hang on to me.”
She slipped her arm through his then, gratefully, and tried to bravely fight eastward with him.
Joe was silent. He walked with difficulty. Myra almost felt as if she were leading him. If she only could have sent him home, nursed him and comforted him! He was so weary that she felt more like sending him to bed than dragging him out in this bitter weather.
More and more painfully he shuffled, and Myra brooded over him as if he were hers, and there was a sad joy in doing this, a sad glory in leading him and sharing the cruel night with him.
In this way they gained the corner of Sixth Avenue. Across the way loomed the illuminated tower-topped brick court-house.
“Here it is,” said Joe.
Myra led him over, up the steps, and through the dingy entrance. Then they stepped into the court-room and sat down on one of the benches, which were set out as in a school-room.
The place was large and blue, and dimly lighted. The judge’s end of it was screened off by wire netting. Up on a raised platform sat the magistrate at his desk, his eyes hidden by a green shade, his bald head radiant with the electric light above him. Clerks hovered about him, and an anaemic indoor policeman, standing before him, grasped with one hand a brass rail and with the other was continually handing up prisoners to be judged. All in the inclosed space stood and moved a mass of careless men, the lawyers, hangers-on, and all who fatten upon crime–careless, laughing, nudging, talking openly to the women of the street. A crass scene, a scene of bitter cynicism, of flashy froth, degrading and cheap. Not here to-night the majesty of the law; here only a well-oiled machine grinding out injustice.
Joe and Myra were seated among a crowd of witnesses and tired lawyers. The law’s delay seemed to steep the big room with drowsiness; the air was warm and breathed in and out a thousand times by a hundred lungs. Myra looked about her at the weary, listless audience. Then she looked at Joe. He had fallen fast asleep, his head hanging forward. She smiled sadly and was filled with a strange happiness. He had not been able to hold out any longer. Well, then, he should sleep, she thought; she would watch alone.
Then, as she sat and gazed, a drunken woman in the seat before her fell sound asleep. At once the big special officer at the little gate of wire netting came thumping down the aisle, leaned close, and prodded her shoulder with his forefinger, crying:
“Wake up, there!”
She awoke, startled, and a dozen laughed.
Myra had a great fear that the officer would see Joe. But he didn’t. He turned and went back to his post.
Myra watched eagerly–aware of the fact that this scene was not as terrible to her as it might have been. The experience of the day had sharpened her receptivity, broadened her out-look. She took it for what it was worth. She hated it, but she did not let it overmaster her.
There was much business going forward before the judge’s desk, and Myra had glimpses of the prisoners. She saw one girl, bespectacled, hard, flashy, pushed to the bar, and suddenly heard her voice rise shrill and human above the drone-like buzzing of the crowd.
“You dirty liar; I’ll slap yer face if yer say that again!”
A moment later she was discharged, pushed through the little gateway, and came tripping by Myra, shouting shrilly:
“I’ll make charges against him–I’ll break him–I will!”
Several others Myra saw.
A stumpy semi-idiot with shining, oily face and child-staring eyes, who clutched the railing with both big hands and stood comically in huge clothes, his eyes outgazing the judge. He was suddenly yanked back to prison.
A collarless wife-beater, with hanging lips and pleading dog’s eyes, his stout Irish wife sobbing beside him. He got “six months,” and his wife came sobbing past Myra.
Then there was an Italian peddler, alien, confused, and in rags, soon, however, to be set free; and next a jovial drunk, slapping the officers on the back, lifting his legs in dance-like motions and shouting to the judge. He was lugged away for a night’s rest.
And then, of course, the women. It was all terrible, new, undreamed of, to Myra. She saw these careless Circes of the street, plumed, powdered, jeweled, and she saw the way the men handled and spoke to them.
Scene after scene went on, endless, confused, lost in the buzz and hum of voices, the shuffle of feet. The air grew warmer and more and more foul. Myra felt drowsy. She longed to put her head on Joe’s shoulder and fall asleep–sink into peace and stillness. But time and again she came to with a jerk, started forward and eagerly scanned the faces for Rhona. What had happened to the girl? Would she be kept in jail overnight? Or had something worse happened? An increasing fear took possession of her. She felt in the presence of enemies. Joe was asleep. She could not question him, could not be set at ease. And how soundly he slept, breathing deeply, his head hanging far forward. If only she could make a pillow for that tired head!
She was torn between many emotions. Now she watched a scene beyond the netting–something cynical, cheap, degrading–watched it with no real sense of its meaning–wondered where she was and how she had come–and why all this was going on. Then she would turn and look piteously at Joe, her face sharp with yearning. Then she would drowse, and awake with a start. She kept pinching herself.
“If I fall asleep Rhona may get through without us–something will happen!”
It must have been past midnight. There was no sign of Rhona. Each new face that emerged from the jail entrance was that of a stranger. Again an overwhelming fear swept Myra. She touched Joe’s arm.
“Joe! Joe!” she whispered.
He did not answer; his hand moved a little and dropped. How soundly he slept! She smiled then, and sat forward, determined to be a brave woman.
Then glancing through the netting she spied Blondy and his friends laughing together. She saw the evil monkey eyes. At once she was back sharply in Great Jones Street, trembling with outrage and humiliation. She tried to keep her eyes from him, and again and again looked at him and loathed him.
“If,” she thought, “he is here, perhaps the time has come.”
Again she searched the new faces, and gave a little cry of joy. There was Rhona, pale, quiet, her arm in the hand of the policeman who had made the arrest.
Myra turned to Joe.
“Joe! Wake up!”
He stirred a little.
“Joe! Joe! Wake up!”
He gave a great start and opened his eyes.
“What is it?” he cried. “Do they want union cards?”
“Joe,” she exclaimed, “Rhona’s here.”
“Rhona?” He sat upright; he was a wofully sleepy man. “Rhona?” Then he gazed about him and saw Myra.
“Oh, Myra!” He laughed sweetly. “How good it is to see you!”
She paled a little at the words.
“Joe,” she whispered, “we’re in the court. Rhona’s waiting for us.”
Then he understood.
“And I’ve been sleeping, and you let me sleep?” He laughed softly. “What a good soul you are! Rhona! Come, quick!”
They arose, Joe rubbing his eyes, and stepped forward. Myra felt stiff and sore. Then Joe spoke in a low voice to the gate-keeper, the gate opened, and they entered in.
X
THE TRIAL
Rhona had spent the evening in the women’s cell, which was one of three in a row. The other two were for men. The window was high up, and a narrow bench ran around the walls. Sprawled on this were from thirty to forty women; the air was nauseating, and the place smelled to heaven. Outside the bars of the door officers lounged in the lighted hall waiting the signal to fetch their prisoners. Now and then the door opened, a policeman entered, picked his woman, seized upon her, and pulled her along without speaking to her. It was as if the prisoners were dumb wild beasts.
For a while Rhona sat almost doubled up, feeling that she would never get warm. Her body would be still a minute, and then a racking spasm took her and her teeth chattered. A purple-faced woman beside her leaned forward.
“Bad business on the street a night like this, ain’t it? Here, I’ll rub your hands.”
Rhona smiled bitterly, and felt the rub of roughened palms against her icy hands. Then she began to look around, sick with the smell, the sudden nauseous warmth. She saw the strange rouged faces, the impudent eyes, the showy headgear, flashing out among the obscure faces of poor women, and as she looked a filthy drunk began to rave, rose tottering, and staggered to the door and beat clanging upon it, all the while shrieking:
“Buy me the dope, boys, buy me the dope!”
Others pulled her back. Women of the street, sitting together, chewed gum and laughed and talked shrilly, and Rhona could not understand how prisoners could be so care-free.
All the evening she had been dazed, her one clear thought the sending of a message for help. But now as she sat in the dim, reeking cell, she began to realize what had happened.
Then as it burst upon her that she was innocent, that she had been lied against, that she was helpless, a wild wave of revolt swept her. She thought she would go insane. She could have thrown a bomb at that moment. She understood revolutionists.
This feeling was followed by abject fear. She was alone … alone…. Why had she allowed herself to be caught in this trap? Why had she struck? Was it not foolhardy to raise a hand against such a mammoth system of iniquity? Over in Hester Street her poor mother, plying the never-pausing needle, might be growing anxious–might be sending out to find her. What new trouble was she bringing to her family? What new touch of torture was she adding to the hard, sweated life? And her father–what, when he came home from the sweatshop so tired that he was ready to fling himself on the bed without undressing, what if she were missing, and he had to go down and search the streets for her?
If only Joe Blaine had been notified! Could she depend on that Miss Craig, who had melted away at the first approach of peril? Yet surely there must be help! Did not the Woman’s League keep a lawyer in the court? Would he not be ready to defend her? That was a ray of hope! She cheered up wonderfully under it. She began to feel that it was somehow glorious to thus serve the cause she was sworn to serve. She even had a dim hope–almost a fear–that her father had been sent for. She wanted to see a familiar face, even though she were sure he would upbraid her for bringing disgrace upon the family.
So passed long hours. Prisoners came in–prisoners went out. Laughter rose–cries–mutterings; then came a long silence. Women yawned. Some snuggled up on the bench, their heads in their neighbors’ laps, and fell fast asleep. Rhona became wofully tired–drooped where she sat–a feeling of exhaustion dragging her down. The purple-faced woman beside her leaned forward.
“Say, honey, put your head in my lap!”
She did so. She felt warmth, ease, a drowsy comfort. She fell fast asleep….
“No! No!” she cried out, “it was _he_ struck _me_!”
She had a terrible desire to sob her heart out, and a queer sensation of being tossed in mid-air. Then she gazed about in horror. She was on her feet, had evidently been dragged up, and John, the policeman, held her arm in a pinch that left its mark. Gasping, she was shoved along through the doorway and into a scene of confusion.
They stood a few minutes in the judge’s end of the court-room–a crowd eddying about them. Rhona had a queer feeling in her head; the lights blinded her; the noise seemed like the rush of waters in her ears. Then she thought sharply:
“I must get myself together. This is the court. It will be all over in a minute. Where’s Mr. Joe? Where’s the lawyer? Where’s my father?”
She looked about eagerly, searching faces. Not one did she know. What had happened? She felt the spasm of chills returning to her. Had Miss Craig failed her? Where was the strikers’ lawyer? Were there friends waiting out in the tired audience, among the sleepy witnesses? Suddenly she saw Blondy laughing and talking with a gaudy woman in the crowd. She trembled all at once with animal rage…. She could have set upon him with her nails and her teeth. But she was fearfully afraid, fearfully helpless. What could she do? What would be done with her?
John pushed her forward a few steps; her own volition could not take her, and then she saw the judge. This judge–would he understand? Could he sympathize with a young girl who was wrongly accused? The magistrate was talking carelessly with his clerk, and Rhona felt in a flash that all this, which to her was terrible and world-important, to him was mere trivial routine.
She waited, her heart pounding against her ribs, her breath coming short and stifled. Then all at once she saw Joe and Myra as they entered the gate, and a beautiful smile lit up her face. It was a blessed moment.
They came up; Joe spoke in a low breath.
“Rhona, have you seen the lawyer about?”
“No,” she muttered.
Joe looked around. He stood above that crowd by half a head. Then he muttered bitterly to Myra:
“Why isn’t that fellow here to-night? You shouldn’t have let me sleep!”
Myra was abashed, and Rhona, divining his misery, felt quite alone again, quite helpless.
Suddenly then she was pushed forward, and next the indoor policeman was handing her up to the judge, and now she stood face to face with her crisis. Again her heart pounded hard, her breath shortened. She was dimly aware of Joe and Myra behind her, and of Blondy and his friends beside her. She looked straight at the magistrate, not trusting herself to glance either side.
The magistrate looked up and nodded to the policeman.
“What’s the charge?” His voice was a colorless monotone.
“Assault, your Honor. This girl was picketing in the strike, and this private detective told her to move on. Then she struck him.”
Rhona felt as if she could burst; she expected the magistrate to question her; but he continued to address the policeman.
“Any witnesses?”
“These other detectives, your Honor.”
The magistrate turned to Blondy’s friends.
“Is what the policeman says true?”
“Yes,” they chorused
Joe spoke clearly.
“Your Honor, there’s another witness.”
The magistrate looked at Joe keenly.
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Blaine–Joe Blaine.”
“The editor?”
“Yes.”
The magistrate spoke sharply:
“I can tell you now you’ll merely damage the case. I don’t take the word of such a witness.”
Joe spoke easily.
“It’s not my word. Miss Craig here is the witness. She saw the assault.”
The magistrate looked at Myra.
“What were you doing at the time?”
Myra spoke hardly above a whisper, for she felt that she was losing control of herself.
“I–I was walking with Miss Hemlitz.”
“Walking? You mean picketing.”
“Yes.”
“Well, naturally, your word is not worth any more than the prisoner’s. You should have been arrested, too.”
Myra could not speak any further; and the magistrate turned again to the policeman.
“You swear your charge is true?”
The policeman raised his hand.
“I swear.”
Rhona felt a stab as of lightning. She raised her hand high; her voice came clear, sharp, real, rising above the drone-like noise of the court.
“I swear it is not true. I never struck him. _He_ struck me!”
The magistrate’s face reddened, a vein on his forehead swelled up, and he leaned toward Rhona.
“What you say, young lady”–there was a touch of passion in his voice–“doesn’t count. Understand? You’re one of these strikers, aren’t you? Well, the whole lot of you”–his voice rose–“are on a strike against God, whose principal law is that man should earn bread by the sweat of his brow.”
Rhona trembled before these unbelievable words. She stared into his eyes, and he went on passionately:
“I’ve let some of you off with fines–but this has gone too far. I’ll make an example of you. You shall go to the workhouse on Blackwells Island for five days. Next!”
Joe, too, was dazed. But he whispered to Rhona:
“Meet it bravely. I’ll tell the girls!”
Her arm was grasped, she was pushed, without volition, through crowding faces; and at length, after another ride in the patrol wagon, she found herself on a narrow cot in a narrow cell. The door was slammed shut ominously. Dim light entered through a high aperture.
She flung herself down her whole length, and sobbed. Bitter was life for Rhona Hemlitz, seventeen years old….
* * * * *
Joe, in the court-room, had seized Myra’s arm.
“Let us get out of this!”
They went through the gateway, up the aisle, out the dim entrance, into the streets. It was two in the morning, and the narrow canons were emptied of life, save the shadowy fleeting shape of some night prowler, some creature of the underworld. The air was a trifle less cold, and a fine hard snow was sifting down–crunched underfoot–a bitter, tiny, stinging snow–hard and innumerable.
Cavernous and gloomy seemed the street, as they trudged west, arm in arm. Myra had never been so stirred in her life; she felt as if things ugly and dangerous had been released in her heart; a flame seemed raging in her breast. And then as they went on, Joe found vent in hard words.
“And such things go on in this city–in this high civilization–and this is a part of life–and then they wonder why we are so unreasonable. It goes on, and they shut their eyes to it. The newspapers and magazines hush it up. No, no, don’t give this to the readers, they want something pleasant, something optimistic! Suppress it! Don’t let the light of publicity smite it and clear it up! Let it go on! Let the secret sore fester. It smells bad, it looks bad. Keep the surgeon away. We might lose subscribers, we might be accused of muck-raking. But I tell you,” his voice rose, “this world will never be much better until we face the worst of it! Oh,” he gave a heavy groan, “Myra! Myra! I wonder if I ever will be happy again!”
Myra spoke from her heart.
“You’re overworked, Joe; you’re unstrung. Perhaps you see this too big–out of perspective!”
He spoke with intense bitterness.
“It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t been so sleepy I’d have sent for a lawyer. I thought, of course, he’d be there!”
Myra spoke eagerly:
“That’s just it, Joe. Oh, won’t you take a rest? Won’t you go away awhile? Just for your work’s sake.”
He mused sadly:
“Mother keeps saying the same thing.”
“She’s right!” cried Myra. “Joe, you’re killing yourself. How can you really serve the strike if you’re in this condition?”
He spoke more quietly.
“They need me, Myra. Do you think I’m worse off than Rhona?”
Myra could not answer this. It is a curious fact that some of the terrible moments of life are afterward treasured as the great moments. Looked back upon, they are seen to be the vital step forward, the readjustment and growth of character, and not for anything would any real man or woman miss them. Afterward Myra discovered that this night had been one of the master nights of her life, and when she repictured that walk up Tenth Street at two in the morning, through the thin sifting snow, the big tragic man at he; side, it seemed a beautiful and wonderful thing. They had been all alone out in the city’s streets, close together, feeling as one the reality of life, sharing as one the sharp unconquerable tragedy, suffering together against the injustice of the world.
But at the moment she felt only bitter, self-reproachful, and full of pity for poor human beings. It was a time when the divine creatures born of woman seemed mere little waifs astray in a friendless universe, somehow lost on a cruel earth, crying like children in the pitiless night, foredoomed and predestined to broken hearts and death. It seemed a very sad and strange mystery, and more sad, more strange to be one of these human beings herself.
They reached the house. Lights were still burning in the office, and when they entered they found the District Committee sitting about the red stove, still working out the morrow’s plans. Giotto was there, Sally Heffer, and Jacob Izon, and others, tired, pale, and huddled, but still toiling wearily with one another. As Joe and Myra came in they looked up, and Sally rose.
“Is she–” she began, and then spoke angrily, “I can see she’s been held.”
Joe smiled sadly.
“Sent to the workhouse for five days.”
Exclamations of indignation arose. The committee could not believe it.
“I wish,” cried impetuous Sally, “that magistrate were my husband. I’d throw a flatiron at his head and put some castor-oil in his soup!”
Joe laughed a little. He looked at his watch, and then at Myra.
“Myra,” he said, gently, “it’s two o’clock–too late to go home. You must sleep with mother.”
Myra spoke softly.
“No–I can get home all right.”
He took her by the arm.
“Myra,” he leaned over, “do just this one thing for me.”
“I will!” she breathed.
He led her in through his room, and knocked softly.
“Mother!”
“Yes,” came a clear, wide-awake voice. “I’m awake, Joe.”
“Here’s Myra. May she stay with you?”
“Good!”
Myra went in, but turned.
“Joe,” she said, tremulously, “you’re not going to stay up with that committee?”
“They need me, Myra.”
“But, Joe,” her voice broke–“this is too much of a good thing–“
Joe’s mother interrupted her.
“Better leave the boy alone, Myra–to-night, anyway.”
Joe laughed.
“I’ll try to cut it short! Sweet dreams, ladies!”
For long they heard his voice mingled with the others, as they lay side by side in the black darkness. But Myra was glad to be near him, glad to share his invisible presence. After she had told Joe’s mother about Rhona, the two, unable to sleep, talked quietly for some time. Drawn together by their love for Joe–and Joe’s mother was quick in divining–they felt as if they knew each other intimately, though they had met for the first time that afternoon, when Myra, having reported Rhona’s arrest to Joe, groped her way blindly to the rear kitchen and stood, trying not to sob, before the elder woman.
She had asked:
“Are you Mrs. Blaine?” and had gone on. “I’m Myra–Myra Craig. Joe and I used to know each other.”
Whereupon Joe’s mother, remembering something Joe had said of writing to a Myra Craig in the country, suddenly understood. There was a swift, “What! You and he–?” a sob from Myra, and the two were in each other’s arms. Then followed supper and a quiet evening.
And now in the darkness they lay and talked.
“I’ve been worrying about Joe,” Mrs. Blaine mused, softly.
“Why?”
“Can’t you see why?”
“He looks badly,” Myra sighed.
“Joe,” said his mother, quietly, “is killing himself. He doesn’t listen to me, and I don’t want to interfere too much.”
“Isn’t there anything to be done?”
There was a silence and then Joe’s mother spoke in a strange personal voice.
“What if _you_ could do something.”
Myra could hardly speak.
“I?”
“You.” A hand caught hers. “Try. He’s simply giving his life to the cause.”