“Very well, Mary; I won't.” And he didn't. But, looking at Mary, it seemed that she was just as unhappy as if he had.
He turned to an old man who had hobbled into the room on crutches. “Poor old comrade! Poor old friend!” His voice seemed to break with pity. “They have worked you like an old mule, until your skin is cracked and your joints grown hard; but they have not been so kind to you as to an old mule—they have left you to suffer!”
To a pale young woman who staggered towards him, coughing, he cried: “What can I do for you? They are starving you to death! You need food—and I have no food to give!” He raised his arms, in sudden wrath. “Bring forth the masters of this city, who starve the poor, while they themselves riot in wantonness!”
But the members of the Chamber of Commerce and of the Bankers' Association of Western City were not within hearing, nor are their numbers as a rule to be found in the telephone book. Carpenter looked about the place, now lined pretty well with cripples and invalids. Only a couple of hours of spreading rumor had been needed to bring them forth, unholy and dreadful secrets, dragged from the dark corners and back alley-ways of these tenements. He gazed from one crooked and distorted face to another, and put his hand to his forehead with a gesture of despair. “No, no!” he said. “It is of no use!” He lifted his voice, calling once more to the masters of the city. “You make them faster than I can heal them! You make them by machinery—and he who would help them must break the machine!”
He turned to me; and I was startled, for it was as if he had been inside my mind. “I know, it will not be easy! But remember, I broke the empire of Rome!”
That was his last flare. “I can do no more,” he whispered. “My power is gone from me; I must rest.” And his voice gave way. “I beg you to go, unhappy poor of the world! I have done all that I can do for you tonight.”
And silently, patiently, as creatures accustomed to the voice of doom, the sick and the crippled began to hobble and crawl from the room.
XXII
He sat on the edge of the couch, gazing into space, lost in tragic thought; and Mary and I sat watching him, not quite certain whether we ought to withdraw with the rest. But he did not seem aware of our presence, so we stayed.
In our world it is not considered permissible for people to remain in company without talking. If the talk lags, we have to cast hurriedly about in our minds for something to say—it is called “making conversation.” But Carpenter evidently did not know about this custom, and neither of us instructed him. Once or twice I stole a glance at Mary, marvelling at her. All her life she had been a conversational volcano, in a state of perpetual eruption; but now, apparently she passed judgment on her own remarks, and found them not worth making.