THE CONFLICT

Wolffert's book was never finished. When he got well, it was laid aside for more imperative work. The misery in the city had increased till it threatened the overthrow of everything. It was necessary to do his part to ameliorate the wretchedness; for his word was a charm in the foreign district where disturbance was most to be feared. He was the most talked of man in the city. He worked night and day.

For a little time it looked as though the efforts of the peace-makers, among whom were conspicuous in the poor section of the town John Marvel and Wolffert, to bring about a better feeling and condition were going to be successful. The men began to return to work. The cars were once more being operated, though under heavy police protection, Collis McSheen having had it made clear to him by his former friends like Canter and others that he must act or take the consequences.

One evening not long afterward, under prompting of an impulse to go and see how my poor woman and little Janet were coming on, and possibly not without some thought of Eleanor Leigh, who had hallowed her doorstep the last time I was there, I walked over to that part of the town. I took Dix along, or he took himself, for he was my inseparable companion these days. Eleanor Leigh had been there, but she had gone to the old Drummer's to see Elsa, who was ill, and had taken Janet with her. The mother said the child was afraid to go out on the street now, and Miss Eleanor thought it would do her good. The poor woman's pitiful face haunted me as I turned down the street. Though the men were returning to work, the effect of the strike was still apparent all through this section of the town. The streets were full of idlers, especially about the bar-rooms; and their surly looks and glum air testified to the general feeling.

Of all the gatherings of men that I have ever seen the most painful is that of men on a strike. They are a forlorn hope. In most a.s.semblies there is enthusiasm, spirit, resolve: something that beams forth with hope and sustains. Most of these exist in striking men; yet Hope is absent. In other a.s.semblages her radiant wings light up their faces; in strikes, it seems to me that the sombre shadow of care is always present. In this strike Wolffert had been one of the most interested observers. While he thought it unwise to strike, he advocated the men's right to strike and to picket, but not to employ violence. It was pa.s.sive resistance that he preached, and he deplored the death of McNeil as much as I did, or John Marvel. Only he charged it to McSheen and Wringman and even more to the hypocrisy of a society which tolerated their operations.

This strike had succeeded to the extent of causing great loss to and, rumor said, of financially embarra.s.sing Mr. Leigh; but had failed so far as the men were concerned, and it was known that it had failed. Its only fruit for the working people was misery. The only persons who had profited by it were men like McSheen and Wringman.

I held strong opinions about the rights of men in the abstract; under the influence of John Marvel's and Wolffert's unselfish lives, and the yet more potent influence of Eleanor Leigh, I had come to realize the beauty of self-sacrifice, even if I had not yet risen to the loftiness of its practice; but the difficulties which I saw in the application of our theories and my experience that night at the meeting, followed by the death of McNeil, had divided me from my old a.s.sociates like Wolffert. I could not but see that out of the movements inst.i.tuted, as Wolffert believed, for the general good of the working cla.s.ses, the real workingmen were become mere tools, and those who were glib of tongue, forward in speech, and selfish and shrewd in method, like McSheen and Wringman, used them and profited by them remorselessly, while the rest of the community were ground between the upper and the nether millstones. Even Wolffert, with his pure motives, had proved but an instrument in their hands to further their designs. Their influence was still at work, and under orders from these battening politicians many poor men with families still stood idle, with aims often as unselfish and as lofty as ever actuated patriots or martyrs, enduring hardship and privation with the truest and most heroic courage; whilst their leaders, like Wringman, who had been idle agitators during the time of prosperity, now rose on the crest of the commotion they had created, and blossomed into importance. The Nile courses through upper Egypt bearing its flood to enrich the lower lands; but the desert creeps and hangs its parched lips over the very brink.

I determined to go and inquire after Elsa myself. So, with Dix at my heel, I pa.s.sed through the foreign streets, crowded with the same dark-hued elements I had observed before, only now lowering and threatening as a cloud about to break, and walked over toward the little street in which the Loewens lived, and presently I fell in with Wolffert, who, like myself, appeared to have business in that direction.

Under the circ.u.mstances, I should have been glad to escape from him; but as he joined me I could not well do so, and we walked along together. He looked worn and appeared to be rather gloomy, which I set down to his disappointment at the turn affairs connected with the strike had taken, for I learned from him that, under the influence of Wringman, there was danger of a renewal of hostilities; that his efforts at mediation had failed, and he had at a meeting which he had attended, where he had advocated conciliatory measures, been hooted down. There was danger, he said, of the whole trouble breaking out again, and if so, the sympathy of the public would now be on the other side. Thinking more of the girl I was in pursuit of than of anything else, and having in mind the announcement of Mr. Leigh's losses and reported embarra.s.sment, I expressed myself hotly. If they struck again they deserved all they got--they deserved to fail for following such leaders as Wringman and refusing to listen to their friends.

"Oh, no, they are just ignorant, that is all--they don't know. Give them time--give them time."

"Well, I am tired of it all."

"Tired! Oh! don't get tired. That's not the way to work. Stand fast. Go and see John Marvel and get new inspiration from him. See how he works."

"Wolffert, I am in love," I said, suddenly. He smiled--as I remembered afterward, sadly.

"Yes, you are." There was that in his tone which rather miffed me. I thought he was in love, too; but not, like myself, desperately.

"You are not--and you don't know what it is. So, it is easy for you."

He turned on me almost savagely, with a flame in his eyes.

"Not--! I not! You don't dream what it is to be in love. You cannot. You are incapable--incapable!" He clutched at his heart. The whole truth swept over me like a flood.

"Wolffert! Why--? Why have you never--?" I could not go on. But he understood me.

"Because I am a Jew!" His eyes burned with deep fires.

"A Jew! Well, suppose you are. She is not one to allow that----"

He wheeled on me.

"Do you think--? Do you imagine I mean--? I would not allow myself--I could never--never allow myself--It is impossible--for me."

I gazed on him with amazement. He was transformed. The pride of race, the agony and subdued fury of centuries, flamed in him. I saw for the first time the spirit of the chosen people: Israel in bondage, yet arisen, with power to call down thunders from Heaven. I stood abashed--abashed at my selfish blindness through all my a.s.sociation with him. How often I had heedlessly driven the iron into his soul. With my arm over his shoulder I stammered something of my remorse, and he suddenly seized my hand and wrung it in speechless friendship.

As we turned into a street not far from the Loewens', we found ahead of us quite a gathering, and it was increasing momentarily. Blue-coated police, grim-looking or anxious, were standing about in squads, and surlier-looking men were a.s.sembling at the corners. It was a strike. I was surprised. I even doubted if it could be that. But my doubt was soon dispelled. At that moment a car came around a corner a few blocks away and turned into the street toward us. There was a movement in a group near me; a shout went up from one of them and in a second the street was pandemonium. That dark throng through which we had pa.s.sed poured in like a torrent. A bomb exploded a half block away, throwing up dirt and stones.

With a cry, "G.o.d of Israel!" Wolffert sprang forward; but I lost him in the throng. I found myself borne toward the car like a chip on a fierce flood. The next instant I was a part of the current, and was struggling like a demon. On the platform were a brawny driver and two policemen.

The motorman I recognized as Otto. As I was borne near the car, I saw that in it, among others, were an old man, a woman, and a child, and as I reached the car I recognized--I know not how--all three. They were the old Drummer, Eleanor Leigh, and the little girl, Janet McNeil. I thought I caught the eye of the young lady, but it may have been fancy; for the air was full of missiles, the gla.s.s was crashing and tingling; the sound of the mob was deafening. At any rate I saw her plainly. She had gathered up the scared child in her arms, and with white face, but blazing eyes, was shielding her from the flying stones and gla.s.s.

I was one of the first men on the car, and made my way into it, throwing men right and left as I entered it. I shall never forget the look that came into her eyes as she saw me. She rose with a cry and, stretching out her hands, pushed the child into my arms with a single word: "Save her." It was like an elixir; it gave me ten times the strength I had before. The car was blocked, and we descended from it--I in front protecting her--and fought our way through the mob to the outskirts, the old Drummer, a squad of policemen, and myself; I with the child by the hand to keep her near the ground and less exposed, and the old Drummer shielding us both and roaring like a lion. It was a warm ten minutes; the air was black with stones and missiles. The crowd seemed to have gone mad and were like ravening wolves. The presence of a woman and child had no effect on them but to increase their fury. They were mad with the insanity of mobbism. But at last we got through, though I was torn and bleeding. They were after the motorman and conductor. The latter had escaped into a shop and the door was shut; but the mob was not to be balked. Doors and windows were smashed in like paper. The mob poured in and rummaged everywhere for its victim, up-stairs and down, like terriers in a cellar after a rat. Fortunately for him, he had escaped out the back way. They looted the shop and then turned back to search for another victim. As we were near old Loewen's house we took the refugees there, and when they were in that place of safety, I returned to the scene of conflict. I had caught sight of several faces in the crowd that roused me beyond measure, and I went back to fight. If I had had a pistol that day, I should certainly have committed murder. I had seen Wringman covertly urging the mob on and Pushkin enjoying it.

Just as I stepped from the car with the child, trying to shield her and Eleanor Leigh, and with the old Drummer bulky and raging at my side, trying to shield us all and sputtering oaths in two languages, my eye reached across the mob and I had caught sight of McSheen's and Pushkin's heads above the crowd on the far edge of the mob where it was safe.

McSheen wore his impervious mask; the other's face was wicked with satisfaction, and he was laughing. A sudden desire to kill sprang into my heart. If I had not had my charges to guard, I should have made my way to him then. I came back for him now.

When I arrived, the fight had somewhat changed. Shops were being looted, wagons, trucks, and every sort of vehicle were being turned into the street by drivers who sympathized with the strike, to impede the restoration of order. The police, aroused at last and in deadly earnest, had formed in order and, under their hammering, the mob was giving way.

Only at one point they were making a stand. It was the corner where Pushkin had stood, and I made toward it. As I did so the crowd opened, and a group stamped itself indelibly in my mind. In the front line of the mob, Wolffert, tall and flaming, hatless, and with flying hair, swinging arms, and wide-open mouth, by turns trying to pacify the wild mob, by turns cursing and fighting a group of policemen--who, with flying clubs and drawn pistols, were hammering them and driving them slowly--was trying to make himself heard. Beyond these, away at the far edge of the mob the face of Pushkin, his silk hat pulled over his eyes.

As I gazed at him, he became deadly pale, and then turned as if to get away; but the crowd held him fast. I was making toward him, when a figure taller than his shoved in between us, pushing his way toward him.

He was fighting for his life. His head was bare and his face was bleeding. His back was to me; but I recognized the head and broad shoulders of Otto. It was this sight that drove the blood from Pushkin's face, and well it might; for the throng was being parted by the young Swede as water is parted by a strong swimmer. There was a pistol shot, then I saw the Swede's arm lifted with the lever in his hand, and the next second Pushkin's head went down. The cry that went up and the surging of the crowd told me what had happened, but I had no time to act; for at this moment I saw a half-dozen men in the mob fall upon Wolffert, who with bleeding face was still trying to hold them back, and he disappeared in the rush. I shouted to some officers by me, "They are killing a man there," and together we made our way through the crowd toward the spot. It was as I supposed--the adventurer was down. The young Swede had settled his account with him. He was unconscious, but he was still breathing. Wolffert, too, was stretched on the ground, battered almost beyond recognition. John Marvel, his own face bruised and bleeding, was on his knees beside him, supporting his head, and the police were beating the crowd back. As I drew near, Wolffert half rose.

"Don't beat them; they don't know." He sank back. The brawny young Swede, with a pistol bullet through his clothes, was already on the other side of the street, making his way out through the crowd.

Pushkin's and Wolffert's fall and the tremendous rush made by the police caused the mob to give way finally, and they were driven from the spot, leaving a half-dozen hatless and drunken leaders in the hands of the police.

Pushkin was taken up and was carried to a hospital, and John Marvel lifted Wolffert in his arms. Just as he was lifted, a stone struck me on the head, and I went down and knew no more.

When I came to, I was in a hospital. John Marvel was sitting beside me, his placid eyes looking down into mine with that mingled serenity and kindness which gave such strength to others. I think they helped me to live as they had helped so many other poor sufferers to die. I was conscious only for a moment, and then went off into an illness which lasted a long time, before I really knew anything. But I took him with me into that misty border-land where I wandered so many weeks, before returning to life, and when I emerged from it again, there he sat as before, serene, confident, and inspiring. He wore a mourning band on his sleeve.

"Where is Dix?" was the first thing I asked.

"He is all right--in good hands."

It was a long time before I could be talked to much; but when I was strong enough, he told me many things that had taken place. The strike was broken up. Its end was sad enough, as the end of all strikes is.

Wolffert was dead--killed in the final rush of the riot in which I was hurt. And so perished all his high aims and inefficient, unselfish methods. His father had come on and taken his body home: "A remarkable old man," said John. "He was proud of Leo, but could not get over the loss of the great merchant he would have been." Pushkin had recovered, and had been discharged from the hospital, and had just married Collis McSheen's daughter. "She would have him," said John. Wringman had disappeared. On the collapse of the strike, it had been found that he had sold out to Coll McSheen and the Argand companies, and furnished them information. He had now gone away, Marvel did not know where.

Langton, when I saw him later, thought he had been afraid to stay longer where so many men were who had lost their places through him.

"It is always the way--the innocent suffer, and the guilty escape," I murmured.

I felt Marvel's hand gently placed over my lips.

"Inscrutable; but it must be right," he said:

"'G.o.d moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform.'"

"I don't believe G.o.d had anything to do with it." I was bitter; for I was still thinking of Wolffert and Pushkin and McSheen.

"The doctors tell me that a hundredth part of an inch more, and a friend of mine would never have known anything again," said Marvel, gravely, looking down at me with sorrowful, kind eyes.

Under this argument _ad hominem_ I was silent, if not convinced. We are always ready to think Providence interferes in our especial behalf.

I started to ask after another who had been in the riot, but I could not frame the question. I saw that Marvel knew what I wished. I learned afterward that I had talked of her constantly during my delirium. She was well, he told me. She had not been hurt, nor had the child or old Loewen. She had left the city. Her father was involved now in a great lawsuit, the object of which Marvel did not know, and she had gone away.

"Where has she gone?"

He did not answer, and I took it for granted that he did not know.

"If I had been you, I would have found out where she went to," I said peevishly.

He took no notice of this. He only smiled. He did not say so; but I thought from his manner that she had gone abroad. He had had a note from her saying that she would be away a long time, and inclosing him a generous contribution for his poor.

"She is an angel," he said.