by Homer Greene
CHAPTER III.
THE UNQUIET CONSCIENCE.
And Tom yielded.
The whisperings of conscience were drowned in the anticipation ofBennie's joy. The fear of personal violence would not have conqueredhim; neither would the fallacious argument of compensation bydestruction have done so. But that vision of Bennie, with eyes thatcould look into his eyes, with eyes that could see the houses and thebreakers, the trees and the birds and the flowers, that could evensee the far-off stars in the sky at night,--that was the vision thatcrowded out from Tom's mind the sharp distinction between right andwrong, and delivered him over wholly to the tempter.
But he felt the shame of it, nevertheless, as he answered, in a chokingvoice, at last,--
"Yes, I could. A hundred dollars 'd give sight to Bennie. I wouldn'tlie for it, but I'll keep still for it."
Lawyer Pleadwell doubled up his glasses, slipped them into a moroccocase, and slipped the case into his vest-pocket. His object wasaccomplished.
"Tom," he said, "you're a wise lad. If you keep on in this way, you'llmake a lawyer; and a lawyer, with so evenly balanced a conscience asyours, will be a credit to the profession."
Tom was not quite sure whether this was intended for a compliment ornot, so he simply said, "Yes, sir."
Pleadwell reached across the table for his high silk hat, motioned toCarolan to follow him, and went out, saying to Tom as he went,--
"You stay here and amuse yourself; we'll be back shortly."
Tom sat there alone quite still. His mind was in a tumult. Is it right?Is it _right_? Some unseen presence kept crowding the question in uponhim.
What would Bennie say to it?
What would Mommie say to it?
Yet there were no lies to be told; he was simply to hold his tongue.
But was it not shielding a criminal from just punishment? Was it notvirtually selling his honor for money? Would it not be better, afterall, to take back his promise, to do his duty fearlessly, and towork and wait, patiently and with a clear conscience, for means toaccomplish the desire of his heart for Bennie?
He was just getting into a state of painful indecision when Carolancame in alone, and closed the door carefully behind him. Without sayinga word, he handed to Tom, one by one, ten crisp, new ten-dollar bills.The boy had never in his life before seen so much money at one time.To hold it was like a scene in a fairy story; to own it was to be richbeyond belief. The whispers of conscience were again stilled in thenovelty of possessing wealth with which such blessings might be bought.
Tom took the money, folded it awkwardly, and placed it in the insidepocket of his vest. Carolan looked on with apparent satisfaction; thenwent and seated himself in the chair he had formerly occupied, withouthaving uttered a word.
This man was a marked character in the anthracite coal region twentyyears ago. He was known among the miners as "Silent Mike," was creditedwith much native ability and sharpness, and was generally believed tobe at the head, in the anthracite region, of the secret order of MollyMaguires. He was always shrewd enough not to implicate himself in anylawlessness. The fact that he so controlled the organization as to meethis personal ends caused it, eventually, to be split with internaldissensions. Then, as a new reign of law and order came in, and asorganized labor began to base itself on higher principles, and to workout its problem with less of vengeance and more of justice, the ordergradually passed out of existence.
Thinking there was nothing more to be said or done, Tom rose to go; butjust then Pleadwell entered, laid his silk hat carefully on the table,and motioned to him to be seated. Having taken his eye-glasses fromtheir case and adjusted them carefully on his nose, he said to Tom,--
"It will not be wise for you to make any large expenditures of moneyfor any purpose until after the trial; and in the mean time it willbe absolutely unsafe for you to disclose to any one the fact of yourhaving money or the means by which it was obtained. Your own discretionwill teach you this. You understand me, do you not?"
Tom nodded, and Pleadwell continued:
"There is one thing more that I desire to speak of: I have heard thatwhen you reached the foot of the hill on the night the breaker wasburned, you saw a man come from near the point where the fire brokeout, pass by you in the shadow of the building, and disappear aroundthe corner by the engine-room. Is this true?"
"Yes, sir."
"What kind of a looking man was this? Describe him."
"He was a short man," Tom replied, "kind o' slim, an' he didn't haveany whiskers"--a sudden thought seemed to strike the boy, and lookingfor a moment earnestly at Carolan, and then pointing his finger at him,he exclaimed,--
"Why, he looked just like--just like him!"
Carolan smiled grimly, but Pleadwell laughed aloud.
"Well, Tom," he said, "we shall not ask you to tell whom he looks like,but if I should require your presence at the trial, and should callyou to the witness-stand, you would have no objection, I presume, togiving a description of the man you saw pass by you in the shadow ofthe breaker, just as you have described him to me?"
"No," replied Tom, "not so long as it's true."
"Oh, I should expect you to say nothing that is not strictly true,"said Pleadwell. "I would not allow a witness of mine to tell a lie.Well, then, you are to be in the court-room here a week from nextTuesday morning at nine o'clock. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Carolan, put Thomas Taylor's name on that subpoena. You will consideryourself subpoenaed, Tom. Now," taking a heavy gold watch from hisfob-pocket and glancing at it, "you will have just time to catch thetrain north." Then stepping to the door between the two rooms, andthrowing it open, he said, "Harris, go to the station with this boy,buy his ticket, and see that he gets the right train."
Harris was the young man who came down with Tom, and he and the boywere soon on the street together, walking briskly toward the station.
An hour earlier, when they were coming in, Tom had been very talkativeand inquiring, but now his companion was able to get from him no morethan a simple "yes" or "no," and that only in answer to questions.
Conversation was impossible to the boy, with his mind so crowded withperplexing doubts. He could not even take notice of the shop-windows,or of the life in the streets, but followed blindly along by theside of Harris. Somehow he felt as though he were walking under aheavy weight, and that roll of money in his pocket seemed to beburning him where it rested against his breast. He imagined that thepeople he met looked at him suspiciously, as if they knew he had beenbribed--_bribed_!
The word came into his mind so suddenly, and with such startling force,that he stopped still in the street, and only recovered himself whenHarris turned and called to him.
They were just in time for the train.
Tom found a place in the corner of the car where he would be alone, andsat there thinking over what he had done, and trying to reason himselfinto justification of his conduct.
The conductor came along and punched his ticket, and looked at him sosharply that Tom wondered if he knew. But of course that was absurd.Then he tried to dismiss the matter from his mind altogether, and givehis attention to what he could see from the car-window.
Outside a drizzling rain was beginning to fall on the brown fieldsand leafless trees, and the autumn early twilight was fast deepeninginto darkness. It was very dismal and cheerless, and not at all thekind of outlook that could serve to draw Tom's mind from its task ofself-contemplation. It was but a few minutes, therefore, before thiscontroversy with himself was going on again, harder than before.
Somehow that strange word "bribed" kept haunting him. It soundedconstantly in his ears. He imagined that the people in the cars werespeaking it; that even the rhythmic rattle of the wheels upon the railskept singing it to him with monotonous reiteration, "Bribed! _bribed_!"
Tom thought, as he hurried down the street in the gathering darkness,out upon the plank walk, and up the long hill toward home, that he hadnever been so unhappy in all hi
s life before. It was strange, too,for he had so often dreamed of the great joy he should feel when thecoveted hundred dollars had been saved.
Well, he had it now, every cent of it, rolled up and tucked safely awayin the pocket of his vest; but instead of happiness, it had broughtmisery.
For the first time within his memory, the thought of meeting his motherand his brother gave him no pleasure. He would not tell them aboutthe money that night at any rate; he had decided upon that. Indeed,he had almost concluded that it would be better that they should notknow about it until after the trial. And then suppose they should notapprove! He was aghast at the very thought.
But Tom was a brave lad, and he put on a bright face before these two,and told them of his trip to Wilkesbarre, and about what he had seenand heard,--about the law-office, about Pleadwell and Carolan, aboutevery thing, indeed, but the bargain and the money.
He tried to eat his supper as if he enjoyed it, though every mouthfulseemed about to choke him, and on the plea of being very tired, he wentearly to bed. There he lay half the night debating with his conscience,trying to make himself believe that he had done right, yet feeling allthe time that he had stooped to dishonor.
He went over in his mind the way in which he should break the newsto Mommie and Bennie, and wondered how they would receive it; andalways beating upon his brain, with a regular cadence that followedthe pulsation of his heart, and with a monotonous rhythm that hauntedhim even after he had fallen into a troubled sleep, went that terribleword, _Bribed_!
* * * * *
The autumn days went by, and still the strike continued. There wereno signs of resumption, no signs of compromise. On the contrary, thebreach between the miners and the operators was growing daily wider.The burning of the Valley breaker and the arrest of Jack Rennie hadgiven rise to a bitterness of feeling between the two classes thathindered greatly an amicable settlement of their differences.
Acts of lawlessness were common, and it was apparent that but littleprovocation would be needed to bring on deeds of violence of adesperate nature. The cry of want began to be heard, and, as the winterseason was drawing near, suffering became more frequent among theimprovident and the unfortunate.
The Taylor family saw coming the time when the pittance of twentydollars that the boys had saved for Bennie must be drawn upon tofurnish food and clothing for them all. Tom had tried to get workoutside of the mines, but had failed; there were so many idle men andboys, and there was so little work to be done at that season of theyear. But the district school was open, not far from his home, and Tomwent there instead.
He was fond of books, and had studied much by himself. He could readvery well indeed. He used to read aloud to Bennie a great deal, andduring these days of enforced idleness the boys occupied much of theirtime in that way; finding their literature in copies of old newspaperswhich had been given to them, and in a few old books which had belongedto their father.
Indian Summer came late that year, but it was very fair. It lingeredday after day, with its still air, its far-sounding echoes, its hazylight and its smoky distances; and the brooding spirit of nature'squiet rested down, for a brief but beautiful season, about the unquietspirits of men.
On the afternoon of one of its most charming days, Tom and Benniesauntered out, hand in hand, as they always went, to where the hill,south of their little mining village, rose like a huge, upturned bowl,sloping downward from its summit to every point of the compass. Overin the little valley to the south lay the ruins of the burned breaker,still untouched; and off upon the other side, one could see thesparkling Susquehanna far up into the narrow valley where its waterssweep around the base of Campbell's Ledge; across to the blue mountainson the west; and down the famous valley of Wyoming, with its gray stonemonument in the middle distance, until the eastern hills crept in tointercept the view.
It was a dreamy day, and a day fit for dreams, and when the boysreached the summit of the hill, Tom lay down upon the warm sod, andsilently looked away to the haze-wrapped mountains, while Bennie satby his side, and pictured to his mind the view before him, as Tom haddescribed it to him many times, sitting in that very spot.
Poor Tom! These beautiful days had brought to him much perplexity ofmind, much futile reasoning with his conscience, and much, very much,of silent suffering.
Lying there now, in the sunlight, with open eyes, he saw, in reality,no more of the beautiful scene before him than did blind Bennie at hisside. He was thinking of the trial, now only three days distant, ofwhat he should be called upon to do and to say, and of how, after itwas all over, he must tell Mommie and Bennie about the hundred dollars.
Ah, there was the trouble! he could see his way clearly enough until itshould come to that; but how should he ever be able to tell to thesetwo a thing of which he tried to be proud, but of which, after all, hefelt guilty and ashamed?
Then, what would they say to him? Would they praise him for hisdevotion to Bennie, and for his cleverness in having grasped anopportunity? Or would they grieve over his lack of manly firmness andhis loss of boyish honor? Alas! the more he thought of it, the more hefeared that they would sorrow rather than rejoice.
But an idea came to Tom, as he lay there, thinking the matter over; theidea that perhaps he could learn what Bennie's mind would be on thesubject, without exciting any suspicion therein of what had actuallyoccurred. He resolved to try.
He hardly knew how best to approach the matter, but, after someconsideration, he turned to Bennie and said,--
"Bennie, do you s'pose Jack Rennie act'ally set fire to that breaker?"
"I shouldn't wonder a bit, Tom," replied Bennie; "those 'at know,him says he's dreadful bad. 'Taint so much worse to burn a breakerthan 'tis to burn a shaft-house, an' they say he act'ally did burn ashaft-house up at Hyde Park, only they couldn't prove it on him."
"Well, s'pose you'd 'a' seen--s'pose you could see, you know,Bennie--an' s'pose you'd 'a' seen Jack Rennie set fire to that breaker;would you tell on him?"
"Yes, I would," said Bennie, resolutely, "if I thought he'd never getpunished for it 'less I did tell on him."
"Well, don't you think," continued Tom, reflectively, "'at that'd besidin' with the wealthy _clapitulist_, against the poor laborer, whoain't got no other way to get even justice for himself, except to makethe rich _corpurations_ afraid of him, that way?"
Tom was using Pleadwell's argument, not because he believed in ithimself, but simply to see how Bennie would meet it.
Bennie met it by saying,--
"Well, I don't care; I don't b'lieve it's _ever_ right to burn up anything 'at belongs to anybody else; an' if I saw any one a-doin' it,I'd tell on him if"--Bennie hesitated a moment, and Tom looked upeagerly--"if I wasn't afraid o' the Molly Maguires. Jack Rennie's aMolly, you know."
"But _wouldn't_ you be afraid of 'em? s'pose one of 'em should come toyou an' say, 'Ben Taylor, if you tell on Jack, we'll put out your'--Imean 'cut off your tongue.' What'd you do?"
Bennie thought a moment.
"Well, I b'lieve I'd tell on him, anyway; an' then I'd get a pistol,an' I wouldn't let no Molly get nearer to me'n the muzzle of it."
In spite of his great anxiety, Tom laughed at the picture of weak,blind little Bennie holding a crowd of outlaws at bay, with a cockedrevolver in his hand. But he felt that he was not getting at the realquestion very fast, so he tried again.
"Well, Bennie, s'pose you'd 'a' seen him start that fire, an' he'd 'a'knowed it, an' he'd 'a' said to you, 'Ben Taylor, if you ever tell onme, I'll burn your Mommie's house down, an' I'll most kill your brotherTom!' _then_ what'd you do?"
Bennie hesitated. This was more of a poser.
"Well," he answered, at last, "if I'd 'a' b'lieved he'd 'a' done whathe said--I don't know--I guess I'd--well, maybe, if I didn't have totell any lie, I just wouldn't say any thing."
Tom's spirits rose; he felt that a great point was gained. Here was amatter in which Bennie would have been even less firm than he himselfhad been. N
ow was the time to come directly to the issue, to ask thefinal question.
Tom braced himself to the task. He tried to speak naturally andcarelessly, but there was a strange shortness of breath, and ahuskiness in his voice which he could not control; he could only hopethat Bennie would not notice it.
"Well, then, s'pose--just s'pose, you know--that _I'd_ seen Jack Rennieset fire to the breaker, an' 'at he knew I was goin' to tell on him,an' 'at he'd 'a' said to me, 'Tom, you got a blind brother Bennie,ain't you?' an' I'd 'a' said, 'Yes,' an' he'd 'a' said, 'What'll itcost to get Bennie's sight for him?' an' I'd 'a' said, 'Oh, maybe ahundred dollars,' an' he'd 'a' said, 'Here, Tom, here's a hundreddollars; you go an' get Bennie's eyes cured; an' don't you say anythin' about my settin' that fire.' What--what'd you 'a' done if you'd'a' been me?"
Tom raised himself to a sitting posture, and leaned toward Bennie, withflushed face and painful expectancy in his eyes.
He knew that for him Bennie's answer meant either a return to a measureof the old happiness, or a plunging into deeper misery.
The blind boy rose to his feet and stood for a moment as if lost inthought. Then he turned his sightless eyes to Tom, and said, veryslowly and distinctly,--
"If you'd 'a' took it, Tom, an' if you'd 'a' used it to cure me with,an' I'd 'a' known it, an' I'd 'a' got my sight, I don't believe--Idon't believe I should ever 'a' wanted to look at you, Tom, or wantedyou to see me; I'd 'a' been so 'shamed o' both of us."
