“Steve Lamar. He says there’ll be riots and bloodshed. And, if there is, the guilt of it will be on my head. You must stop it, Mr. Farrar. You must! You must!”
She dropped into a near-by chair, hid her face in her hands and fell to sobbing. It was the first time that either of these men had seen her thus broken in pride and strength, and for a moment they gazed at her and at each other in silence. Then the rector went to her, and laid a quieting hand on her shoulder.
“You mustn’t give way like this,” he said. “We need you. We need your courage, more now than ever before. I can’t understand this. You must have been misinformed. Lamar must be mistaken. If the men are willing to go back on Mr. Malleson’s terms he certainly can’t refuse them; he dare not; he must not!”
He was growing as excited and indignant over the situation as was Mary Bradley herself.
“Tell him so, Mr. Farrar!” exclaimed the woman. “Please go to him and tell him so. He won’t listen to the men. He won’t listen to Barry. He won’t listen to anybody. But maybe—there’s just a chance—that if you go to him again, and tell him this, he may see the wisdom of it, the justice of it, the absolute necessity of it.”
“I’ll go,” said the rector.
“And I’ll go with you,” exclaimed Barry, “to clinch the argument. He hasn’t listened to me before. Maybe he will now.”
She rose from her chair and looked at the two men from tear-filled eyes.
“You are both very brave,” she said, “and noble. And I know you’ll succeed. I know it. It can’t be otherwise. If you fail it will kill me, and I’ll have to go up to God with this sin on my soul.”