Part 44 (2/2)
He mused sadly:
”Mother keeps saying the same thing.”
”She's right!” cried Myra. ”Joe, you're killing yourself. How can you really serve the strike if you're in this condition?”
He spoke more quietly.
”They need me, Myra. Do you think I'm worse off than Rhona?”
Myra could not answer this. It is a curious fact that some of the terrible moments of life are afterward treasured as the great moments.
Looked back upon, they are seen to be the vital step forward, the readjustment and growth of character, and not for anything would any real man or woman miss them. Afterward Myra discovered that this night had been one of the master nights of her life, and when she repictured that walk up Tenth Street at two in the morning, through the thin sifting snow, the big tragic man at he; side, it seemed a beautiful and wonderful thing. They had been all alone out in the city's streets, close together, feeling as one the reality of life, sharing as one the sharp unconquerable tragedy, suffering together against the injustice of the world.
But at the moment she felt only bitter, self-reproachful, and full of pity for poor human beings. It was a time when the divine creatures born of woman seemed mere little waifs astray in a friendless universe, somehow lost on a cruel earth, crying like children in the pitiless night, foredoomed and predestined to broken hearts and death. It seemed a very sad and strange mystery, and more sad, more strange to be one of these human beings herself.
They reached the house. Lights were still burning in the office, and when they entered they found the District Committee sitting about the red stove, still working out the morrow's plans. Giotto was there, Sally Heffer, and Jacob Izon, and others, tired, pale, and huddled, but still toiling wearily with one another. As Joe and Myra came in they looked up, and Sally rose.
”Is she--” she began, and then spoke angrily, ”I can see she's been held.”
Joe smiled sadly.
”Sent to the workhouse for five days.”
Exclamations of indignation arose. The committee could not believe it.
”I wish,” cried impetuous Sally, ”that magistrate were my husband. I'd throw a flatiron at his head and put some castor-oil in his soup!”
Joe laughed a little. He looked at his watch, and then at Myra.
”Myra,” he said, gently, ”it's two o'clock--too late to go home. You must sleep with mother.”
Myra spoke softly.
”No--I can get home all right.”
He took her by the arm.
”Myra,” he leaned over, ”do just this one thing for me.”
”I will!” she breathed.
He led her in through his room, and knocked softly.
”Mother!”
”Yes,” came a clear, wide-awake voice. ”I'm awake, Joe.”
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