Again the rector sought to soothe and encourage her. He did not know what she meant by her self-accusations, but he knew that this was no time to inquire. Moreover, he was eager to be off on his errand. He took her hand and, holding it in his, walked with her down the hall to his street door, trying to speak comforting words. How comforting he did not know. What calmness came to her with his touch he did not dream. How precious in her heart she held the memory of that little journey to the outer air, he could not by any possible chance conceive.
At the street corner she left them. She did not look again at the rector. But she turned pleading eyes on Barry.
“You’ll come and tell me,” she implored, “what happens?”
“I’ll come,” said Barry, “if I get away alive.”
He smiled at her, lifted his hat, and then joined the rector who was already hurrying on his way. The morning was not cold, but it was raw and misty, and the air had in it an indescribable chill. The two men walked rapidly and in silence. Shivering workmen, with despondent faces, looked at them as they passed, and some lifted their caps awkwardly from tousled heads in recognition. It was no unusual sight to see the rector and Barry on the street together in these days, and no one commented on their appearance now. The men had no grievance against Barry. He had doubtless done what he could for them, but they knew him to be absolutely helpless, and they saw no possible gleam of hope in his direction. As for the rector, he was of course a friend to labor. He had proved that to them abundantly. But they no longer looked to him to lead them up out of slavery. As Steve Lamar said, he had lost his grip, if he had ever had one. Every effort of his on their behalf had been utterly useless, if indeed he had not, by these very efforts, plunged them into still deeper servitude. He had preached the religion of Christ to those in high places and it had availed nothing. He had preached it to men ground down by capital and suffering from hunger, and it had not served to right a single wrong, or relieve a single pang of distress. What they wanted was a religion that would not only affirm their rights, but would in fact obtain them. What they wanted was a man who could not only preach justice, but could get it; a man with material as well as spiritual power, a man who could force capital to its knees, and bring victory to the cause of labor. And the rector of Christ Church was not such a man. Wherefore they looked on with indifference as these two passed by.
Though it was still early morning Richard Malleson was in. He had been coming early to his office, and staying late. That his work and his anxiety were wearing on him there could be no doubt. His appearance indicated it. Within the last two months he had aged perceptibly. His hair had grown noticeably gray. Sharp lines had been etched into his face. His clothes no longer fitted his body snugly, and above his collar the skin of his neck hung in flabby, vertical folds. But his cold, gray eyes had lost none of their sharpness, and his square, aggressive jaws were even more firmly set than of old. He sent out word that he would see Mr. Farrar, but that Barry was not to be admitted. So the rector entered the office alone. The president of the company rose and shook hands formally with his visitor, and motioned him to a chair. Then he sat back and fingered his eye-glasses expectantly. The rector went at once to the point, as was his custom.
“My errand this morning,” he said, “is to tell you that I believe a way has been opened for the immediate resumption of work at your mills.”
“Yes?” There was no manifestation of surprise or of interest in either his voice or his manner.
“Yes. I understand that your men are willing to return on the old terms, without Bricky Hoover.”
“I believe that is true. I was so informed by a committee yesterday.”