The Nine-Tenths Part 45

"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."

There was a silence a little while. The tears were wet upon Myra's cheeks.

"Mrs. Blaine."

"Yes, dear."

"Tell me about yourself--what you've been doing--both of you."

And as Mrs. Blaine told her, time and time again Myra laughed softly, or was glad the darkness concealed those unbidden tears.

But as Mrs. Blaine spoke of the attack of Marrin's men, Myra was thrilled.

"But what happened afterward?" she cried. "Isn't he in danger now?

Mightn't there be another attack?"

Joe's mother's voice rang.

"Afterward? It was wonderful. The whole neighborhood rose to Joe's side.

They even started a subscription to rebuild the press. Oh, the people here are amazing!"

"And the men who mobbed him?"

"Many were arrested, but Joe did not appear against them, and the men from Marrin's were the first to come in and tell of their remorse. As for the thugs and criminals--they don't dare lift their heads. Public opinion is hot against them."

Thus they talked, intimately, sweetly, and at last the elder woman kissed the younger good-night.

"But, dear, you've been crying!"

"Oh, I'm so glad to be here!" sobbed Myra. "So glad to be with you!"

And even then she had a sense of the greatness and wonder of that day; how new and untapped forces in her nature were emerging; how the whole seeming of life--"These shows of the night and day"--was changing for her; how life was deepening down to its bitter roots, roots bitter but miraculously sheathed in crystalline springs; in sweet waters, in beauty and love and mystery. It was the finding of her own soul--a power great enough to endure tragedy and come forth to a richer laughter and a wiser loveliness. Only thus does life reveal its meanings and its miracles, and prove that it is an adventure high and fine, ever tending higher, ever more enriched with faith and marvelous strength, and that mirth that meets the future with an expectant smile.

So thinking, so feeling, she grew drowsier, sank deeper--her body tired in every muscle, in every bone--her mind unable to keep awake; and so she faded into the pure rest of sleep.

XI

THE WORKHOUSE

That next day was as a dream to Rhona. Not until evening did it become real. Breakfast was brought to her cell, but she did not taste it. Next she was led out by a policeman to the street and packed in the patrol wagon with eight other women. The morning was gray, with a hard sifting snow, and as the wagon b.u.mped over cobblestones, Rhona breathed deep of the keen air.

The ride seemed without end; but next she was in a ferry; and then, last, was hurried into a long gray building on Blackwells Island.

Her cell was fairly large, and contained two cots, one against each wall. She was left disconsolately alone, numb, in despair, and moving about in a dream.