Читать книгу The Electric Gun - Harold Johnston - Страница 7

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"Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?"—Marlowe.

THE next morning Jack Bruce was waiting at the gate of the women's lodging-house long before the hour at which the employees were accustomed to go to work. Presently the girls began to come out, generally in pairs, though, here and there could be seen one walking with slow step, alone. Most of the girls looked curiously at the handsome young workman; a few smiled, and one or two spoke, but he paid no attention beyond lifting his cap. His patience was at length rewarded by the appearance of Mary Heath.

She was still rather pale, but looked (in Jack's eyes, at least) more beautiful than ever. Her ivory complexion, clear-cut features, dark-fringed grey eyes, and soft, brown, wavy hair seemed to him to be the embodiment of all that was essential to womanly beauty. He had previously remarked her fine figure and springing step, and although just now she moved with less than her accustomed lightness of foot, it appeared to Bruce that the slightly languid air added a new charm to her personality.

She flushed with evident pleasure at the sight of Bruce, and as he took her hand—large, but shapely and white—in his, he felt that of all the women in the world, surely Mary Heath was the most desirable.

"Good morning, Mr. Bruce," she said in her low, sweet tones.

Jack at once was reminded of Shakespeare's words:—

Her voice was ever soft,

Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman

for Mary possessed that "excellent thing."

"How are you this morning?" he asked, anxiously.

"Quite well again, thank you!"

"I was very much upset all night," he said. "I couldn't sleep for thinking about that cowardly brute. I didn't give him half what he deserved."

"Poor man! He would hardly agree with you there," she remarked with a smile.

"Poor man!" echoed Jack. "Why, if I had broken every bone in his body it wouldn't have been sufficient punishment for his crime."

"And yet, in those old days, which appear so good to you, men often ill-treated women. I have read that, in some parts of Europe—in England even—men frequently beat women unmercifully," said Mary slyly.

Bruce was rather nonplussed by this flank attack, and walked along for a moment without speaking. Then he burst out:

"But you forget that the men you mention only ill-treated their wives, and, besides, in some mysterious fashion, it was regarded as an evidence of affection. Rather a crude way of expressing affection, I must, admit, but then, you see, they were the most ignorant and degraded men who behaved in this manner. Among the Tartars, for instance, a woman would complain: 'My husband never beats me now; he no longer loves me.' But that doesn't apply in the present case—to the fellow who struck you, I mean."

"It certainly seems a peculiar way of showing affection," observed Mary, ignoring his reference to her late assailant.

"Affection! They didn't know the meaning of the word. They had no more conception of love—of real love—than the beasts of the field. Why, I would cut off my right hand this instant if I dreamt that it would ever be raised in anger against the woman I love."

"The woman you love!" she cried involuntarily. Then, to hide her confusion: "Oh! your wife?"

Jack pulled up as if he had been shot.

"My wife I my wife! Well, I never. Why, I have no wife."

"Oh!" observed Mary in an indifferent tone, as if the subject had no interest for her.

"I haven't a wife—not yet," he went on, "and I never desired to have a wife till I met you." Then, taking her hand, he said earnestly:

"Mary, listen to me for one moment. I love you—love you with my whole heart. I have felt, from the first day I saw you, that you were the only woman in the world for me. Don't take your hand away. What do we care for these slaves around us? I myself am a child of the system, but, so far, I trust that I have retained the right to call myself a man."

"I am sure of that," she said softly.

"Thank you!" he exclaimed. "Now, don't think me hasty, but I—can you love me, Mary?"

"Oh, Mr. Bruce, but you know nothing about me. I may be a most objectionable person. Until you came so bravely to my rescue yesterday afternoon you had never even spoken to me."

At that moment the town clock began to strike.

"I must go," cried Mary.

"One moment," pleaded Jack. "Tell me that you are not angry with me."

"Why should I be angry?" she asked gently. "Angry when a man whom I esteem tells me that he—that he loves me! No, indeed! I am proud—and glad."

"Then you do love me!" cried Jack in rapture. "Oh, Mary, tell me that you love me, that you love me, oh! my darling!"

She raised her face, pale no longer, but blushing like a rose, her fine eyes suffused with tears, and whispered: "I do, Jack, I do; you know I love you," and turning from him, she ran up the steps to the factory.

* * *

Jack Bruce went through his task that day like a man in a dream. He made no serious mistake in his work, as his hands performed this mechanically, but his thoughts were with the sweet girl who had confessed her love for him that morning. Would the day never end? Surely it must be nearly five o'clock. He walked to the door and looked up at the town clock, which was visible from the bakehouse. Half past three! And his daily task was finished! Another hour and a half to wait before he could leave—before he would see Mary! see Mary! He repeated her name softly. Wasn't it a wonderful thing that such a girl should love him? Would five o'clock never come? It came at last, as most things do to those who wait (or to those who don't, for the matter of that), and hastily throwing off his linen overall, he hurried from the workroom.

The clothing workers came into the main street as he reached the corner—hundreds of them. Nearly last came Mary Heath. She was speaking to a delicate-looking, fair-haired woman, who appeared to be in trouble.

Mary nodded brightly when she saw Jack. Then, turning to her companion, she said:

"Let me introduce Mr. Bruce, Mrs. Freeman."

Jack bowed.

"Mrs. Freeman's little girl is in the Home, and has been ill," said Mary.

"Poor little child!" exclaimed Bruce. "I always feel sorry when I heat of any of the little ones being sick. It doesn't matter so much about men."

"I must go and see my poor child," cried Mrs. Freeman. "Good-bye, Mary, good afternoon, Mr. Bruce," and she was gone.

"Poor woman," sighed Mary.

"Yes, indeed," agreed Jack. "She is to be pitied. It must be hard enough for a mother to part with her child when it is in good health, but imagine a poor, suffering infant left to those nurses! Ugh! I know what that means. But come along, Mary, and let us go for a walk and forget unpleasant things for a time."

"Were you born here—in Sydney, I mean?" asked Mary presently, as they turned into the park.

"Yes. My birth certificate, which was with me when I was sent to the State Nursery at Kiama shows that I was born at Randwick in 1925—son of Edward Bruce, journalist, and Ellen McIntosh, his wife."

"Are your parents still living?"

"I am not sure about my father, but I find that my mother died in '26—the year in which I entered the Home. My father may be dead as well. He is not at the Home for Aged Workers at Callan Park. I have made enquiries several times. But then he would only reach the statutory retiring age this year, as he was thirty-five years old when I was born. I am a child of the System, you see, born in the year in which it came into force."

Mary looked thoughtful.

"Edward Bruce," she exclaimed. "Now, that is very strange. I am reading a book at present by an author of that name. How strange if it should have been written by your father. 'Liberty' is the title of it; have you read it?"

"No; I have never even seen it. Is it a local publication?"

Mary looked puzzled for a moment. "Oh! published in Sydney! I don't know. I picked it up one day last week, attracted by the title, but it seemed very dry, and I was just putting it back on the shelf when I noticed the author's name and decided to read it."

"Um!" remarked Jack. "But why did the author's name induce you to change your mind? There isn't anything uncommon about the name of Bruce."

"Oh, isn't there? You don't know everything, even though you have studied ancient history."

"But, I say, you are hinting that you knew my name before we met—before yesterday," said Jack, in a puzzled tone.

"Yes, I knew that your name was Jack Bruce the day after I arrived in Balmain," she answered calmly.

"But how?"

"Well, if you must know, because Mrs. Stokes, or rather her husband, told me."

Jack laughed.

"So you know the Stokes's, do you? George is a grand fellow, isn't he?"

"That is just what he said about you," she replied, without answering his question. "He was so enthusiastic that I could not do less than ask him to point out the paragon to me."

"I am afraid that I am very far from that," he laughed. "But I don't know," he added, more seriously, "I am beginning to get quite an exalted opinion of myself since this morning."

Mary smiled happily, and pressed his hand. They talked of purely personal matters for the next half hour, and who shall blame them? They were young—and in love.

"Oh, by the way," said Jack, "we have a new man in our establishment. Of course, that is nothing unusual, but the man is. It seems that he came from England only a few months ago to take up it position as inspector in one of the departments. I was speaking to him for a few minutes to-day. He was speaking about the great world—that world about which we never hear. Most of the poor creatures don't want to hear anything about it, I am afraid. You know what Lytton says:—'There is no place, however stagnant, which is not the great world to the people who move about in it.'"

"How true that is," she exclaimed.

"Yes, did you ever notice, when you read or hear something, that it has a familiar sound, just as if you had known it all along?"

"Yes, very often indeed," she cried eagerly.

"I knew that you must have noticed it," he went on. Then he murmured in a low tone:—

"The voice of genius speaks; the words ring true,

And, with the sound, there strangely comes to you

A sense of something known, familiar, old;

The words of wisdom are your own thoughts told."

"Who is the author of those lines?" she asked. "They are new to me."

He laughed shortly.

"Oh! those? The words are mine, but the thought was suggested by one of the writers of last century—Oliver Wendell Holmes."

"Your own verses! Oh! how nice," exclaimed Mary. "I think it must be just lovely to be a poet."

"A poet!" He looked at her in alarm. "Oh! I am not a poet, and am never likely to become one. Even if a man were a second Milton he would die 'mute and inglorious' in this God-forsaken country. But I am not just. I retract my condemnation of the land which holds Mary Heath."

"Ah, that was very nicely put, Jack," said Mary.

Some hypercritical persons may be disposed to blame Mary Heath, inasmuch as she was wanting in that coyness which was formerly regarded as one of the chief attractions of the sex. But it must be remembered that, although Socialism had brought about much that was evil, it had, at least, placed the sexes upon an equal footing. There was no longer any reason, other than mutual affection, why a man and a woman should choose one another. Mary Heath knew that when Jack Bruce gave expression to his love for her it was not a simulated affection which was offered her. Then it must not be forgotten that they had met under unusual circumstances, and this appealed to her woman's imagination.

In any land—in any society—Jack Bruce would have been a man to attract attention. Here, compared with the brutal, slouching creatures produced by the System, he appeared a very god. The large, intelligent and sparkling eye, the swelling nostrils, the firm, determined mouth and chin, and the athletic figure, reminded Mary of the description of the heroes who fought round Ilium. And, above all, he loved her! A woman may be temporarily attracted by physical beauty in a man, but, after all, it is the one who loves her who wins her heart.

"It is almost wrong for us to be so happy in the midst of so much misery," remarked Jack presently.

"Yes, I suppose so," replied Mary, slowly. "Still, you know, the first duty of any person is to himself—or herself. The Scriptures ask only that a man should love his neighbour as himself. He isn't expected to love him any better."

"Then I'm glad that you are not my neighbour, Mary," he whispered, "for I love you ten thousand times better than myself."

Jack's words were, doubtless, very silly and extravagant, though Mary would have resented such a view. She smiled and murmured: "Don't be absurd, Jack."

"Absurd!" he repeated. "You little know the depth of my feeling for you or you would not use such a word. Listen, Mary, tell you what I'll do for your sake. If it be humanly possible to do so I shall free this land from the tyranny under which it is now groaning.

"I have often thought," he resumed, "the people cannot really be such dumb, driven cattle as they appear. I have rehearsed speeches, to be delivered some day, fiery, biting words—exhortation—scorn—anything to rouse the souls which must be lying dormant in them. Is it possible that any man of British blood, speaking the tongue that has carried the message of freedom over the whole earth, that any such man can look back on the noble struggle of a thousand years for liberty, and not feel that blood boil in his veins at the thought that he is today a slave?"

"It does seem incredible," agreed Mary.

"Incredible!" he exclaimed. "Surely people whose ancestors won the Great Charter from one tyrant will not be content to bow the knee to another! Gray, the ex-inspector, about whom I was telling you, assures me that no one in England would believe him if he told them that Australians had degenerated so. By one stroke of the pen we have lost all the privileges—it would almost appear all the virtues—that the blood and tears of generations won for us."

Mary's eyes were overflowing as she looked up.

"Oh, Jack!" she said softly.

"Why, what is the matter?" he asked anxiously. "You are crying."

"You foolish boy!" cried Mary, smiling through her tears, "do you think that a woman never cries unless she happens to be in trouble? Your reading should have taught you, if experience hasn't done so, that a woman's tears mean everything—and nothing. A woman may cry with joy, or pride, or emotion, or just for the love of crying. I was crying, partly because of what we have lost, but chiefly because of what we are to regain—through you."

Jack thanked her by a pressure of the hand.

"I have felt lately," he said, "that I could bear the present intolerable condition of affairs no longer, and I had almost made up my mind to attempt single-handed to break down the System before I became like the rest of the poor creatures around us. But that was before I met you. Now I must be careful."

"Yes, oh! yes, do be careful, Jack," cried Mary, anxiously, all thought of the great deeds to be done vanishing in a moment at the prospect of danger to her lover.

Is there a woman in the world who is truly great who would not deem the "world well lost," provided that the loved one escaped the cataclysm? History records many instances where heroic women sacrificed their children for the sake of country or faith, but there is no authenticated case of a woman giving up the man she loved in order to save a nation from destruction. She would go to death herself, with a smile on her lips, in such a cause; but that is quite a different matter. Mary Heath was a good woman, but above all she was a loving woman.

"Promise me, Jack," she said earnestly, "that you will not take any risks in your attempt."

"I don't know that I can promise that, exactly," he replied. "I am afraid that I must take my share. You wouldn't like me to act the coward, would you?"

"I don't know; I don't want you to be hurt in any way."

Jack smiled. After all, it was very pleasant to know that his life was precious to someone, and that one Mary Heath.

"Now, Mary, you must not be foolish," he observed. "I promise that I will not rush into danger, but still, if there is danger to be faced (and I do not see how we are to accomplish anything without taking risks), I must not ask others to do what I dare not do myself. But I have a feeling that we shall be successful, and you know that 'he can conquer who believes he can.'"

"I wish I could do something to help you," she said, "but, unless it is by stirring up a revolt amongst the women on the subject of dress, I hardly think I could be of much use. If I were to tell them that you are in favour of allowing them to wear frills and ribbons and laces, and nice shoes and pretty hats, and—oh! everything they liked, you would he sure of the prayers and good wishes of all the women, at any rate."

Jack laughed.

"Well, perhaps they are right, after all," he remarked. "Many men in the old days appear to have spent their whole lives in efforts to obtain a star or a ribbon. They used to speak of the 'splendid spur' of ambition, though, in many cases, their reward was very little more than your women desire."

"Still, it must have been very nice to be present at some great Court function," urged Mary. "Just imagine a coronation now, with all the most distinguished men and beautiful women of the nation taking part! The bright uniforms, and the lovely dresses and jewels!"

"It would be very pretty, I have no doubt," he replied, "though I must confess that ceremony does not appeal to me. For centuries the great mass of the people believed that the monarch held his Crown by divine right. Indeed, that fiction is still retained, I believe, in certain documents. Then the absolute power of the monarch was taken away, and we had the 'king, with the advice of his Ministers.' After that, in our own case at least, came the apotheosis of the State; next, by the grace of God, we shall have the rule of the people."