Helen of the Old House Part 42

James McIver called but she would not see him.

When they urged her to retire and rest, she answered always with the same words: "I must be here when he awakens--I must."

And they, loving her, understood.

It was as if the a.s.sa.s.sin's hand had torn aside the curtain of material circ.u.mstances and revealed suddenly the realities of their inner lives.

They realized now that this man, who had in their old-house days won the first woman love of his girl playmate, had held that love against all the outward changes that had taken her from him. John and his mother knew, now, why Helen had never said "Yes" to Jim McIver. Peter Martin and Mary knew why, in Captain Charlie's heart, there had seemed to be no place for any woman save his sister.

At intervals the man on the bed moved uneasily, muttering low words and disconnected fragments of speech. Army words--some of them were--as if his spirit lived for the moment again in the fields of France. At other times the half-formed phrases were of his work--the strike--his home.

Again he spoke his sister's name or murmured, "Father," or "John." But not once did Helen catch the word she longed to hear him speak. It was as if, even in his unconscious mental wanderings, the man still guarded the name that in secret he had held most dear.

Three times during the day he opened his eyes and looked about--wonderingly at first--then as though he understood. As one contented and at peace, he smiled and drifted again into the shadows.

But now at times his hand went out toward her with a little movement, as though he were feeling for her in the dark.

About midnight he seemed to be sleeping so naturally that they persuaded Helen to rest. At daybreak she was again at her post.

Mrs. Ward and Mary had gone, in their turn, for an hour or two of sorely needed rest. Peter Martin was within call downstairs. John, who was watching with his sister, had left the room for the moment and Helen was at the bedside alone.

Suddenly through the quiet morning air came the deep-toned call of the Mill whistle.

As a soldier awakens at the sound of the morning bugle, Captain Charlie opened his eyes.

Instantly she was bending over him. As he looked up into her face she called his name softly. She saw the light of recognition come into his eyes. She saw the glory of his love.

"Helen," he said--and again, "Helen."

It was as if the death that claimed him had come also for her.

For the first time in many months the voice of the Mill was not heard by the Interpreter in his little hut on the cliff. Above the silent buildings the smoke cloud hung like a pall. From his wheel chair the old basket maker watched the long procession moving slowly down the hill.

There were no uniforms in that procession--no military band with m.u.f.fled drums led that solemn march--no regimental colors in honor of the dead. There were no trappings of war--no martial ceremony. And yet, to the Interpreter, Captain Charlie died in the service of his country as truly as if he had been killed on the field of battle.

Long after the funeral procession had pa.s.sed beyond his sight, the Interpreter sat there at the window, motionless, absorbed in thought.

Twice silent Billy came to stand beside his chair, but he did not heed.

His head was bowed. His great shoulders stooped. His hands were idle.

There was a sound of some one knocking at the door.

The Interpreter did not hear.

The sound was repeated, and this time he raised his head questioningly.

Again it came and the old basket maker called, "Come in."

The door opened. Jim McIver entered.

CHAPTER XXVII

JAKE VODELL'S MISTAKE

Since that night of the tragedy McIver had struggled to grasp the hidden meaning of the strange series of incidents. But the more he tried to understand, the more he was confused and troubled. Nor had he been able, strong-willed as he was, to shake off the feeling that he was in the midst of unseen forces--that about him mysterious influences were moving steadily to some fixed and certain end.

In constant touch, through his agents, with the strike situation, he had watched the swiftly forming sentiment of the public. He knew that the turning point of the industrial war was near. He did not deceive himself. He knew Jake Vodell's power. He knew the temper of the strikers. He saw clearly that if the a.s.sa.s.sin who killed Captain Charlie was not speedily discovered the community would suffer under a reign of terror such as the people had never conceived. And, what was of more vital importance to McIver, perhaps, if the truth was not soon revealed, Jake Vodell's charges that the murder was inspired by McIver himself would become, in the minds of many, an established fact. With the full realization of all that would result to the community and to himself if the ident.i.ty of the murderer was not soon established, McIver was certain in his own mind that he alone knew the guilty man.

To reveal what he believed to be the truth of the tragedy would be to save the community and himself--and to lose, for all time, the woman he loved. McIver did not know that through the tragedy Helen was already lost to him.

In his extremity the factory owner had come at last to the man who was said to wield such a powerful influence over the minds of the people.

He had never before seen the interior of that hut on the cliff nor met the man who for so many years had been confined there. Standing just outside the door, he looked curiously about the room with the unconscious insolence of his strength.

The man in the wheel chair did not speak. When Billy looked at him he signaled his wishes in their silent language, and, watching his visitor, waited.

For a long moment McIver gazed at the old basket maker as if estimating his peculiar strength, then he said with an unintentional touch of contempt in his heavy voice, "So _you_ are the Interpreter."

"And you," returned the man in the wheel chair, gently, "are McIver."

McIver was startled. "How did you know my name?"

"Is McIver's name a secret also?" came the strange reply.

McIver's eyes flashed with a light that those who sat opposite him in the game of business had often seen. With perfect self-control he said, coolly, "I have been told often that I should come to see you but--" he paused and again looked curiously about the room.

The Interpreter, smiling, caught up the unfinished sentence. "But you do not see how an old, poverty-stricken and crippled maker of baskets can be of any use to you."

McIver spoke as one measuring his words. "They tell me you help people who are in trouble."

"Are you then in trouble?" asked the Interpreter, kindly.

The other did not answer, and the man in the wheel chair continued, still kindly, "What trouble can the great and powerful McIver have? You have never been hungry--you have never felt the cold--you have no children to starve--no son to be killed."

"I suppose you hold me personally responsible for the strike and for all the hards.h.i.+ps that the strikers have brought upon themselves and their families?" said McIver. "You fellows who teach this brotherhood-of-man rot and never have more than one meal ahead yourselves always blame men like me for all the suffering in the world."

The Interpreter replied with a dignity that impressed even McIver. "Who am I that I should a.s.sume to blame any one? Who are you, sir, that a.s.sume the power implied by either your acceptance or your denial of the responsibility? You are only a part of the whole, as I am a part.

You, in your life place, are no less a creature of circ.u.mstances--an accident--than I, here in my wheel chair--than Jake Vodell. We are all--you and I, Jake Vodell, Adam Ward, Peter Martin, Sam Whaley--we are all but parts of the great oneness of life. The want, the misery, the suffering, the unhappiness of humanity is of that unity no less than is the prosperity, peace and happiness of the people. Before we can hope to bring order out of this industrial chaos we must recognize our mutual dependence upon the whole and acknowledge the equality of our guilt in the wretched conditions that now exist."

As the Interpreter spoke, James McIver again felt the movement of those unseen forces that were about him. His presence in that little hut on the cliff seemed, now, a part of some plan that was not of his making.

He was awed by the sudden conviction that he had not come to the Interpreter of his own volition, but had been led there by something beyond his understanding.

"Why should your fellow workmen not hate you, sir?" continued the old basket maker. "You hold yourself apart, superior, of a cla.s.s distinct and separate. Your creed of cla.s.s is intolerance. Your very business policy is a declaration of cla.s.s war. Your boast that you can live without the working people is madness. You can no more live without them than they can live without you. You can no more deny the mutual dependence of employer and employee with safety to yourself than Samson of old could pull down the pillars of the temple without being himself buried in the ruins."

By an effort of will McIver strove to throw off the feeling that possessed him. He spoke as one determined to a.s.sert himself. "We cannot recognize the rights of Jake Vodell and his lawless followers to dictate to us in our business. It would mean ruin, not only of our industries, but of our government."

"Exactly so," agreed the Interpreter. "And yet, sir, you claim for yourself the right to live by the same spirit of imperialism that animates Vodell. You make the identical cla.s.s distinction that he makes. You appeal to the same cla.s.s intolerance and hatred. You and Jake Vodell have together brought about this industrial war in Millsburgh. The community itself--labor unions and business men alike--is responsible for tolerating the imperialism that you and this alien agitator, in opposition to each other, advocate. The community is paying the price."

The factory owner flushed. "Of course you would say these things to Jake Vodell."