April had melted into May, and May had blossomed into June before life in the city began to take on its normal aspect. The riot at the Malleson mills had been the climax of the labor troubles. It was the beginning of the end. The striking workmen and their sympathizers had neither the strength nor the courage to make any further demonstration of physical force. They were beaten, cowed, utterly disheartened. Strike-breakers and non-union workmen passed to and fro along the street unmolested, save that now and then the boastful bearing of some one of them invited an epithet or a blow. But there was no general disorder. The mills had been opened, the wheels were turning, smoke belched from the chimneys; but the complement of workmen had not yet been obtained. The strike had, indeed, been declared off, but Mr. Malleson refused, as he had said he would refuse, to take back any of the workmen who had voluntarily left his employ.
Westgate went to him, one day, and, in language which he alone dared use to him, pointed out the folly of his course. The mills were not being worked to half their capacity. They were being run at an actual loss. Business in the city was still stagnant. Some of the workmen had gone elsewhere, some of them were engaged in other occupations, many of them were still idle. It stood to reason that the old men, who were familiar with the plant and the machinery, could do much better and more profitable work than men who were new and untried. Indeed, that was already the experience of the management. Sound business judgment required the reëmployment of the old workmen. All this Westgate told the president of the company, and he told him more. He told him that the time for stubbornness and resentment had passed. That his men were human beings like himself. That he had no moral right to condemn them to poverty or chance employment simply to satisfy a grudge. That the time had come when charity for the weakness of others should be displayed, good feeling restored, and those friendly relations between capital and labor, which alone can ensure the prosperity of both, should be firmly reëstablished. And Westgate’s counsel finally prevailed.
When it became known that Mr. Malleson was willing to let bygones be bygones, his old men came back to him, one by one, for he still refused to take them in a body, and were given their old places so far as that was practicable or possible. But Bricky Hoover did not come back. After the riot he had dropped out of sight. What had become of him no one knew. His tall and angular figure, crowned by the shock of dull red hair, was never again seen on the streets of the city.
Christ Church, too, pulled itself slowly out of the pit into which it had fallen. The resignation of the Reverend Robert Bruce Farrar as rector of the church was accepted without comment. No member of the vestry cared to criticize or condemn him further. So soon as his wife was able to travel he had gone away, to some out-of-the-way place in the far west it was said, where the calm serenity of Christ Church parish would never be disturbed by him again. Yet there were those who missed him; “sorrowing most of all ... that they should see his face no more.”
In due time the vestry notified the bishop, in accordance with the canon, that it proposed to elect, as rector of Christ Church, the Reverend Dr. Marbury, a man of good report and of great learning, devoted to the godly maintenance of organized religion in pursuance of the forms and customs of the Church.
So Dr. Marbury came. He was politic and gracious, kind-hearted and wise. Slowly but none the less effectively the breach in the parish was healed. The old parishioners came back. The institutions and charities of the church were placed once more upon a solid footing. The poor were relieved, the sick were visited, the lowly were befriended, the stranger was welcomed to the shelter of the church.
One beautiful September Sunday, at the close of the morning service, as Ruth Tracy and her mother moved down the aisle chatting with their friends and neighbors, Philip Westgate joined them. He had just returned from a long business journey in the far west. Mother and daughter greeted him pleasantly, and he accompanied them to their car waiting for them at the curb.
“Philip,” said Mrs. Tracy, “you’ll come and have luncheon with us to-day, won’t you? I want to hear about that wonderful trip. We’ll call for your mother on the way up—she always gets away from service ahead of me—and we’ll have a nice, comfortable visit.”
He glanced at Ruth’s face, and, although she was looking the other way, he saw in it no sign of disapproval.