Part 28

“No, sir; but the Union has rights, and”--

“Please take your seat; only bidders can be heard now.”

“But who's to stand up for the rights of the laborin' man if”--

“You can, if you choose; but not here. This is a question of evidence.”

“Who's Bowker anyhow?” said Dempsey behind his hand to Quigg. “Ridin' 'round in his carriage and chokin' off free speech?” After some moments of thought the judge turned to the president of the board, and said in a measured, deliberate voice:--

“This signature, in my opinion, is a proper one. No fraud is charged, and under the testimony none was intended. The law gives Mrs. Grogan the right to use any title she chooses in conducting her business--her husband's name, or any other. The contract must stand as it is.”

Here the judge arose and entered his private office, shutting the door behind him.

Tom had listened with eyes dilating, every nerve in her body at highest tension. Her contempt for Rowan in his abuse of her; her anger against Dempsey at his insults; her gratitude to Babcock as he stood up to defend her; her fears for the outcome, as she listened to the calm, judicial voice of the judge,--each producing a different sensation of heat and cold,--were all forgotten in the wild rush of joy that surged through her as the judge's words fell upon her ear. She shed no tears, as other women might have done. Every fibre of her being seemed to be turned to steel. She was herself again--she, Tom Grogan!--firm on her own feet, with her big arms ready to obey her, and her head as clear as a bell, master of herself, master of her rights, master of everything about her. And, above all, master of the dear name of her Tom that nothing could take from her now--not even the law!

With this tightening of her will power there quivered through her a sense of her own wrongs--the wrongs she had endured for years, the wrongs that had so nearly wrecked her life.

Then, forgetting the office, the still solemnity of the place--even Babcock--she walked straight up to McGaw, blocking his exit to the street door.

“Dan McGaw, there's a word I've got for ye before ye l'ave this place, an' I'm a-going to say it to ye now before ivery man in this room.”

McGaw shrank back in alarm.

“You an' I have known each other since the time I nursed yer wife when yer boy Jack was born, an' helped her through when she was near dyin' from a kick ye give her. Ye began yer dirty work on me one night when me Tom lay sick, an' I threw ye out o' me kitchen; an' since that time ye've”--

“Here! I ain't a-goin' ter stand here an' listen ter yer. Git out o' me way, or I'll”--

Tom stepped closer, her eyes flashing, every word ringing clear.

“Stand still, an' hear what I've got to say to ye, or I'll go into that room and make a statement to the judge that'll put ye where ye won't move for years. There was enough light for me to see. Look at this”--drawing back her hood, and showing the bandaged scar.

McGaw seemed to shrivel up; the crowd stood still in amazement.

“I thought ye would. Now, I'll go on. Since that night in me kitchen ye 've tried to ruin me in ivery other way ye could. Ye've set these dead beats Crimmins and Quigg on to me to coax away me men; ye've stirred up the Union; ye burned me stable”--

“Ye lie! It's a tramp did it,” snarled McGaw.

“Ye better keep still till I get through, Dan McGaw. I've got the can that helt the ker'sene, an' I know where yer boy Billy bought it, an' who set him up to it,” she added, looking straight at Crimmins. “He might'a' been a dacent boy but for him.” Crimmins turned pale and bit his lip.

The situation became intense. Even the judge, who had come out of his private room at the attack, listened eagerly.

“Ye've been a sneak an' a coward to serve a woman so who never harmed ye. Now I give ye fair warnin', an' I want two or three other men in this room to listen; if this don't stop, ye'll all be behint bars where ye belong.--I mean you, too, Mr. Dempsey. As for you, Dan McGaw, if it warn't for yer wife Kate, who's a dacent woman, ye'd go to-day. Now, one thing more, an' I'll let ye go. I've bought yer chattel mortgage of Mr. Crane that's past due, an' I can do wid it as I pl'ase. You'll send to me in the mornin' two of yer horses to take the places of those ye burned up, an' if they're not in my stable by siven o'clock I'll be round yer way 'bout nine with the sheriff.”

Once outside in the sunlight, she became herself again. The outburst had cleared her soul like a thunder-clap. She felt as free as air. The secret that had weighed her down for years was off her mind. What she had whispered to her own heart she could now proclaim from the housetops. Even the law protected her.

Babcock walked beside her, silent and grave. She seemed to him like some Joan with flaming sword.

When they reached the road that led to her own house, her eyes fell upon Jennie and Carl. They had walked down behind them, and were waiting under the trees.

“There's one thing more ye can do for me, my friend,” she said, turning to Babcock. “All the old things Tom an' I did togither I can do by meself; but it's new things like Carl an' Jennie that trouble me--the new things I can't ask him about. Do ye see them two yonder! Am I free to do for 'em as I would? No; ye needn't answer. I see it in yer face. Come here, child; I want ye. Give me yer hand.”

For an instant she stood looking into their faces, her eyes brimming. Then she took Jennie's hand, slipped it into Carl's, and laying her big, strong palm over the two, said slowly:

“Now go home, both o' ye, to the house that'll shelter ye, pl'ase God, as long as ye live.”