“I don’t know about that. You might meet Steve.”
“I’m not afraid of him.”
“And if you meet him he might kill ye.”
“Mother, you’re crazy.”
She bent over and kissed the wrinkled old face, unbolted the door, and went out into the night. The full moon was rising. Houses where poverty dwelt and desolation reigned were gilded on the east by the softest and most beautiful of all lights that ever rest on the dwelling-places of men. Westerly the shadows were deep and forbidding. Cloaked and veiled, the woman moved alone along the deserted street. Near the foot of the hill she reached the lane that led to the foot-bridge across the stream above the mill. She turned in at the entrance and came presently to the bridge. She stood by the railing and looked out across the moonlit roofs of the factory buildings to the twinkling lights of the city that lay below her. Her eyes saw them, indeed, but to her mind they were invisible. It was on this bridge that she had once felt the touch and pressure of his supporting arm. And thereafter life had held no dearer hope for her than that she might once again experience such exultant joy. The very memory of it was sweeter than stolen waters on the lips of youth. After a few minutes she passed on, retracing, street after street, the path by which they had come that night. Midway of a certain block she paused. It was here that he had met her. But she did not turn back. She continued her journey until she reached Ruth Tracy’s door. Not that she thought of entering here; she had no desire to do that. But it was here that he had found comfort and help in his arduous work, and so the very place was precious in her sight. It had never occurred to her to be jealous of Ruth Tracy. She had never conceived that the rector could stain his soul by falling in love with any other woman. But it came into her mind now, suddenly, that if her own desire for his love had been fulfilled, he would have proved himself equally as weak and wicked as though his affection had been centered on another than herself; some woman not his wife. Perhaps his God had saved him from debasement. Perhaps her passion for him, even though he should know of it, would excite in him only pity and disgust.
She did not tarry at the Tracy house, but turned back at once toward the center of the city. The warm, clear night had brought many people into the streets. It was not a careless nor a merry crowd. Sober and sullen looking men stood listlessly on corners, or strolled aimlessly along the pavement. Sad-eyed women, with shawls covering their heads, passed by. Children, thinly clad, with soiled faces and stockingless feet, gazed hungrily in at the shop windows. She knew many of these people by sight and name, but she did not stop to speak to any of them, and, heavily veiled as she was, they did not recognize her.
At the corner by the Silver Star saloon she met Stephen Lamar. Hoping that he would not recognize her she bowed her head and hurried on. But he was not to be deceived nor passed by. He thrust himself across her path.
“Wait!” he said; “I want a word with you.”
“I can’t wait,” she replied. “I am in haste. I have an errand to do.”
“You have no errand half so important as is my business with you.”