He had drawn her into his arms, and, though clouds and darkness obscured the future, there could be no doubt that, to-night at least, they were still lovers.
CHAPTER IX
THE SPIRIT OF REVENGE
Ruth Tracy was as good as her word. She went to call on Mary Bradley. She found her in the little house on Factory Hill from the porch of which Stephen Lamar had addressed the crowd on the day of Bradley’s funeral. It was a bleak November afternoon; a Saturday half-holiday for the more favored class of workers; the busy end of a toilsome week for those whose occupations brought them no week-day respite. The rows of small, brown houses, some of them ill-kept and dilapidated, formed a cheerless foreground to an unattractive landscape. But Ruth Tracy was not unaccustomed to the appearance of an environment such as this, and she was not depressed by the scene. She had done much visiting among the poor. She had left her car at the foot of the hill, and had walked up. She had learned by experience that her work among these people was most effective when there was the least display of luxury.
From a man who overtook her on the street she inquired her way to the Bradley house.
“I am going there myself,” he replied, “and I’ll show you.”
He walked along with her—it was not more than a block or two—and brought her to Mrs. Bradley’s door. During this brief walk, however, she learned that her guide was no other than Stephen Lamar, of whom she had often heard, but whom she had not before, to her knowledge, seen. He had taken a personal interest, he told her, in Mrs. Bradley, and had found employment for her during the recent political campaign, at the headquarters of the Socialist party. She had done her work with such marked efficiency that the committee had kept her on as their secretary and as one of the promoters of their cause. They valued her services highly. The headquarters were closed on Saturday afternoons, and undoubtedly she would be at home. She was at home. When she opened her door in response to Lamar’s knock she was somewhat taken aback to see the labor-leader standing on her porch in company with a well-dressed young woman.
“I do not,” he said as they entered the house, “know the lady’s name nor her errand. I found her on the street, inquiring her way here. I came, myself, to see you about the notices for the Sunday afternoon meeting. There’s been a mistake. I’ll talk with you about it when your other visitor has gone. In the meantime I’ll step into the kitchen and have a little visit with your mother.”
“It’s not necessary for you to leave the room,” interrupted Ruth; “I simply came to make a social call on Mrs. Bradley. I’m Ruth Tracy, and I’ve heard of Mrs. Bradley through Mr. Farrar, the rector of Christ Church.”
The other woman’s face flushed at the mention of the rector’s name, but she gave no further sign of approval or disapproval of the errand of her guest. She placed a chair for Ruth, and motioned Lamar to a seat across the room. He thanked her, and made no further attempt to withdraw. He was glad to remain. He wanted to know the real purpose of Miss Tracy’s visit. He wanted to be able to checkmate any move which might be made toward influencing Mrs. Bradley to identify herself in any way with the Church. He feared that if she should look with favor on organized religion, she would, sooner or later, be lost to the cause of the workingmen, to the cause of socialism, and especially lost to him, Stephen Lamar. So he sat quietly and listened.