Part 44 (1/2)
Myra could not speak any further; and the magistrate turned again to the policeman.
”You swear your charge is true?”
The policeman raised his hand.
”I swear.”
Rhona felt a stab as of lightning. She raised her hand high; her voice came clear, sharp, real, rising above the drone-like noise of the court.
”I swear it is not true. I never struck him. _He_ struck me!”
The magistrate's face reddened, a vein on his forehead swelled up, and he leaned toward Rhona.
”What you say, young lady”--there was a touch of pa.s.sion in his voice--”doesn't count. Understand? You're one of these strikers, aren't you? Well, the whole lot of you”--his voice rose--”are on a strike against G.o.d, whose princ.i.p.al law is that man should earn bread by the sweat of his brow.”
Rhona trembled before these unbelievable words. She stared into his eyes, and he went on pa.s.sionately:
”I've let some of you off with fines--but this has gone too far. I'll make an example of you. You shall go to the workhouse on Blackwells Island for five days. Next!”
Joe, too, was dazed. But he whispered to Rhona:
”Meet it bravely. I'll tell the girls!”
Her arm was grasped, she was pushed, without volition, through crowding faces; and at length, after another ride in the patrol wagon, she found herself on a narrow cot in a narrow cell. The door was slammed shut ominously. Dim light entered through a high aperture.
She flung herself down her whole length, and sobbed. Bitter was life for Rhona Hemlitz, seventeen years old....
Joe, in the court-room, had seized Myra's arm.
”Let us get out of this!”
They went through the gateway, up the aisle, out the dim entrance, into the streets. It was two in the morning, and the narrow canons were emptied of life, save the shadowy fleeting shape of some night prowler, some creature of the underworld. The air was a trifle less cold, and a fine hard snow was sifting down--crunched underfoot--a bitter, tiny, stinging snow--hard and innumerable.
Cavernous and gloomy seemed the street, as they trudged west, arm in arm. Myra had never been so stirred in her life; she felt as if things ugly and dangerous had been released in her heart; a flame seemed raging in her breast. And then as they went on, Joe found vent in hard words.
”And such things go on in this city--in this high civilization--and this is a part of life--and then they wonder why we are so unreasonable. It goes on, and they shut their eyes to it. The newspapers and magazines hush it up. No, no, don't give this to the readers, they want something pleasant, something optimistic! Suppress it! Don't let the light of publicity smite it and clear it up! Let it go on! Let the secret sore fester. It smells bad, it looks bad. Keep the surgeon away. We might lose subscribers, we might be accused of muck-raking. But I tell you,”
his voice rose, ”this world will never be much better until we face the worst of it! Oh,” he gave a heavy groan, ”Myra! Myra! I wonder if I ever will be happy again!”
Myra spoke from her heart.
”You're overworked, Joe; you're unstrung. Perhaps you see this too big--out of perspective!”
He spoke with intense bitterness.
”It's all my fault. It's all my fault. If I hadn't been so sleepy I'd have sent for a lawyer. I thought, of course, he'd be there!”
Myra spoke eagerly:
”That's just it, Joe. Oh, won't you take a rest? Won't you go away awhile? Just for your work's sake.”