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<h3 align="center">Chapter XLII</h3> Tuesday evening was one of those marvellously clear atmospheres of autumn which seem to be clearer from the contrast to the mists of the recent summer. The stars swarmed out in unnumbered hosts. “Seems to me I never saw so many stars,” one would say to another. The air had the sharp cleave of the frost in it. Everything was glittering with a white rime—the house roofs, and the levels of fields on the outskirts of the little city. Ellen had an errand down-town that evening, and she wrapped herself up warmly, putting on a fur collar which she had not worn since the winter before. She felt strangely nervous and disturbed as she set out. “Don't you want your father to go with you?” asked Fanny, for in some occult fashion the girl's perturbation seemed to be communicated to her. She followed her to the door. “Seems kind of lonesome for you to go alone,” she said, anxiously. “As if I minded! Why, it is as bright as day with the electric-lights, and there are houses almost all the way,” laughed Ellen. “Your father could go with you, or he could go for you.” “No, he couldn't go for me. I want to get one of the new catalogues at the library and pick out a book, and there is no sense in dragging father out. He has a cold, too. Why, there is nothing in the world to be afraid of, mother.” “Well, don't be any longer than you can help,” said Fanny. Ellen, as she passed her grandmother's house, saw a curtain drawn with a quick motion. That happened nearly every time she passed. She knew that the old woman was always on the lookout for her, and always bent on concealing it. Mrs. Zelotes never went into her son's house, and never spoke to Ellen in those days. She had aged rapidly during the past year, and even her erect carriage had failed her. She stooped rigidly when she walked. She was fairly racked with love and hatred of Ellen. She adored her, she could have kissed the ground she walked on, and yet she was so full of wrath against her for thwarting her hopes for her own advancement that she was conscious of cruel impulses in her direction. Ellen walked along rapidly under the vast canopy of stars, about which she presently began to have a singular impression. She felt as if they were being augmented, swelled as if by constantly oncoming legions of light from the space beyond space, and as if her little space of individuality, her tiny foothold of creation, was being constantly narrowed by them. “I never saw so many stars,” she said to herself. She looked with wonder at the Milky Way, which was like a zone of diamond dust. Suddenly a mighty conviction of God, which was like the blazing forth of a new star, was in her soul. Ellen was not in a sense religious, and had never united with the Congregational Church, which she had always attended with her parents; she had never been responsive to efforts made towards her so-called conversion, but all at once, under the stars that night, she told herself with an absolute certainty of the truth of it. “There is something beyond everything, beyond the stars, and beyond all poor men, and beyond me, which is enough for all needs. We shall have our portion in the end.” She had been feeling discouraged lately, although she would not own it even to herself. She saw Robert but seldom, and her aunt was no better. She often wondered if there could be anything before her but that one track of drudgery for daily bread upon which she had set out. She wondered if she ought not to say positively to Robert that there must be no thought of anything between them in the future. She wondered if she were not wronging him. Once or twice she had seen him riding with Miss Hemingway, and thought that, after all, that was a girl better suited to him, and perhaps if he had no hope whatever of her he might turn to the other to his own advantage. But to-night, with the clear stimulus of the frost in her lungs, and her eyes and soul dazzled with the multiplicity of stars, she began to have a great impetus of courage, like a soldier on the morning of battle. She felt as if she could fight for her joy and the joy of others, and victory would in the end be certain; that the chances of victory ran to infinity, and could not be measured. However, all the while, in spite of her stimulation of spirits, there was that vague sense of excitement, as over some impending crisis. That she could not throw off. Suddenly she found herself searching the road ahead of her, and often turning at the fancied sound of a footstep. She began to wish that her father had come with her; then she told herself how foolish she was, for he had a cold, and this keen air would have been sure to give him more. The electric-car passed her, and she had a grateful sense of companionship. She looked after its diminishing light in the distance, and almost wished that she had stopped it, but car-fares had to be counted carefully. She began to dread unspeakably passing the factories. She told herself that there was no sense in it, that it was not late, that the electric-light made it like high noon, that there was a watchman in each building, that there was nothing whatever to fear; but it was in vain. It was only by a great effort of her will that she did not turn and go back home when she reached Lloyd's. Lloyd's came first; then, a few rods farther, on the other side of the street, McGuire's, and then Briggs's. Ellen had a library book under her arm, and she clutched her dress-skirt firmly. A terror as to the supernatural was stealing over her. She felt as she had when waking in the night from some dreadful dream, though all the time she was dinning in her ears how foolish she was. She saw the lantern of the night-watchman in Lloyd's moving down a stair which crossed a window. She came opposite Lloyd's, and, just as she did so, saw a dark figure descending the right-hand flight of stairs from the entrance platform. She thought, from something in the carriage, that it was Mr. Lloyd, and hung back a little, reflecting that she would keep behind him all the way to town. The man reached the ground at the foot of the stairs, then there was a flash of fire from the shadow underneath, and a shot rang out. Ellen did what she could never have counted upon herself for doing. She ran straight towards the man, who had fallen prostrate like a log, and was down on the ground beside him, with his head on her lap, shouting for the night-watchman, whose name was McLaughlin. “McLaughlin!” she shouted. But there was no need of it, for he had heard the shot. The cry had not left Ellen's lips before she was surrounded by men, one of whom was Granville Joy, one was Dixon, and one was John Sargent. Joy and Sargent had met down-town, and were walking home together, when the shot rang out, and they had rushed forward. Then there was McLaughlin, the watchman of Lloyd's, and the two watchmen from Briggs's and McGuire's came pelting down their stairs, swinging their lanterns. They all stood around the wounded man and Ellen, and stared for a second. They were half stupefied. “My God! this is a bad job,” said Dixon. “Go for a doctor,” cried Ellen, hoarsely. “We're a pack of fools,” ejaculated Sargent, suddenly. Then he gave Granville Joy a push on the back. “Run for your life for the first doctor,” he cried, and was down on his knees beside the wounded man. Lloyd seemed to be quite insensible. There was a dark spot which was constantly widening in a hideous circle of death on his shirt-front when Sargent opened his coat and vest tenderly. “Is he—” whispered Ellen. She held one of Lloyd's hands in a firm clutch as if she would in such wise hold him to life. “No, not yet,” whispered Sargent. Dixon knelt down on the other side, and took Lloyd's other hand and felt his pulse. McLaughlin was rushing aimlessly up and down, talking as he went. “I never heard a thing till that shot came,” he kept repeating. “He'd jest been in to get his pocketbook he'd left in the office. I never heard a thing till I heard that shot.” Sargent was opening Lloyd's shirt. “McLaughlin, for God's sake stop talking and run for another doctor, in case Joy does not get one at once,” he cried; “then go to his house, and tell young Lloyd, but don't say anything to his wife.” “Poor Mrs. Lloyd,” whispered Ellen. The sick man sighed audibly. It seemed as if he had heard. The other watchmen stood looking on helplessly. “Why in thunder don't you two scatter, and see if you can't catch him,” cried Dixon to them. “He can't be far off.” But the words had no sooner left his mouth than up came a great Swede who was one of the workmen in Lloyd's, and he had Nahum Beals in a grasp as imperturbable as fate. The assassin, even with the strength of his fury of fanaticism, was as a reed in the grasp of this Northern giant. The Swede held him easily, walking him before him in a forced march. He had a hand of Nahum's in each of his, and he compelled Nahum's right hand to retain the hold of the discharged pistol. There was something terrible about the Swede as he drew near, a captor as unyielding and pitiless as justice itself. He was even smiling with a smile which showed his gums from ear to ear, but there was no joy in his smile, and no triumph. His blue eyes surveyed them all with the placid content of achievement. “I have him,” he said. “I heard him shoot, and I heard him run, and I stood still until he ran into my arms. I have him.” Nahum, in the grasp of this fate, was quivering from head to foot, but not from fear. “Is he dead?” he shouted, eagerly. “Hush up, you murderer,” cried Dixon. “We didn't want any such work as this, damn you. Keep fast hold of him, Olfsen.” “I will keep him fast,” replied the Swede, smiling. Then there was a swift clatter of wheels, and two doctors drove up, and men came running. The space in front of Lloyd's was black with men. Robert Lloyd was among them. Granville Joy had met him on the street. “You'd better go down to the factory, quick,” he had said, hoarsely. “There's trouble there; your uncle—” Robert pushed through the crowd, which made way respectfully for him. He knelt down beside the wounded man. “Is he—” he whispered to Sargent. “Not yet,” whispered Sargent, “but I'm afraid it's pretty bad.” “You here?” Robert said to Ellen. “Yes,” she answered, “I was passing when I heard the shot.” “See here,” said Robert, “I don't know but I am asking a good deal, but will you get into Dr. James's buggy, and let his man drive you to my aunt's, and you break it to her? She likes you. I must stay with him. I don't want her to know it first when he is brought home.” “Yes, that will be the best way,” said the other physician, who was the one regularly employed by the Lloyds. “Some one must tell her first, and if she knows this young lady—” “I will go,” said Ellen. Dr. Story whispered something to Ellen as she was getting into the buggy. Then Dr. James's man drove her away down the street. There was a little black mare harnessed to the buggy, and she went with nervous leaps of speed. When Ellen reached the Lloyd house she saw that it was blazing with light. Norman Lloyd was fond of brilliant light, and would have every room in his house illuminated from garret to cellar. As Ellen went up the stone steps she saw a woman's figure in the room at the right, which moved to an attitude of attention when she rang the bell. Before Ellen could inquire for Mrs. Lloyd of the maid who answered her ring there was a shrill cry from the room on the right. “Who is it? Who is it?” demanded the voice. Then, before Ellen could speak, Mrs. Lloyd came running out. “What is it?” she said. “Tell me quick. I know something has happened. Tell me quick. You came in Dr. James's buggy, and the man was driving fast. Tell me.” “Oh, Mrs. Lloyd,” said Ellen. Then she could say no more, but the other woman knew. “Is he dead?” she asked, hoarsely. “Oh, no, no, not dead.” “Hurt?” Ellen nodded, trembling. “How?” “He was shot.” “Who shot him?” “One of the workmen. They have him. Carl Olfsen found him.” “One of the workmen, when he has always been so good!” Suddenly Mrs. Lloyd seemed to gather herself together into the strength of action. “Are they bringing him home?” she asked Ellen, in a sharp, decisive voice. “I think they must be by this time.” “Then I've got to get ready for him. Come, quick.” There was by that time a man and two women servants standing near them, aghast. Mrs. Lloyd turned to the man. “Go down to the drug-store and get some brandy, there isn't any in the house,” said she; “then come back as quick as you can. Maggie, you see that there is plenty of hot water. Martha, you and Ellen come up-stairs with me, quick.” Ellen followed Mrs. Lloyd and the maid up-stairs, and, before she knew what she was doing, was assisting to put the room in perfect readiness for the wounded man. The maid was weeping all the time she worked, although she had never liked Mr. Lloyd. There was something about her mistress which was fairly abnormal. She kept looking at her. This gentle, soft-natured woman had risen above her own pain and grief to a sublime strength of misery. “Get the camphor, quick, Martha,” she said to the maid, who flew out, with the tears streaming. Ellen stood on one side of the bed, and Mrs. Lloyd on the other. Mrs. Lloyd had stripped off the blankets, and was pinning the sheet tightly over the mattress. She seemed to know instinctively what to do. “I wish you would bring that basin over here, and put it on the stand,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “Martha, you fetch more towels, and, Maggie, you run up garret and bring down some of those old sheets from the trunk under the window, quick.” This maid, who was as large and as ample as her mistress, fled out of the room with heavy, noiseless pads of flat feet. All the time Mrs. Lloyd worked she was evidently listening. She paid no attention to Ellen except to direct her. All at once she gave a great leap and stood still. “They're coming,” said she, though Ellen had heard nothing. Ellen went close to her, and took her two fat, cold hands. She could say nothing. Then she heard the roll of carriage-wheels in the street below. Mrs. Lloyd pulled her hands away from Ellen's and went to the head of the stairs. “Bring him right up here,” she ordered, in a loud voice. Ellen stood back, and the struggling procession with the prostrate man in the midst labored up the broad stairs. “Bring him in here,” said Mrs. Lloyd, “and lay him on the bed.” When Lloyd was stretched on the bed, the crowd drew back a little, and she bent over him. Then she turned with a sort of fierceness to the doctors. “Why don't you do something?” she demanded. She raised a hand with a repellant gesture towards the other men. “You had better go now,” said she. “I thank you very much. If there is anything you can do, I will let you know.” When Mrs. Lloyd was left with the two doctors and a young assistant, Robert, and Ellen, she said, cutting her words short as if she released every one from a mental grip: “I have got everything ready. Shall I go out now?” “I think you had better, Mrs. Lloyd,” said the family physician, pityingly. He went close to Ellen. “Can't you stay with her a little while?” he whispered. Ellen nodded. Then the physician spoke quite loudly and cheerfully to Mrs. Lloyd. “We are going to probe for the ball,” he said. “We must all hope for the best, Mrs. Lloyd.” Mrs. Lloyd made no reply. She bent again over her husband with a rigid face, and kissed him on his white lips, then she went out, with Ellen following. Norman Lloyd lived only two hours after he was shot. The efforts to remove the ball had to be abandoned. He was conscious only a few minutes. He suddenly began to look about him with comprehension. “Robert,” he said, in a far-away voice. Robert stooped closely over his uncle. The dying man looked up at him with an expression which he had never worn in life. “That man was insane,” whispered he, faintly. Then he added, “Look out for her, if she has to go through the operation. Take care of her. Make it as easy for her as you can.” “Then you know, Uncle Norman,” gasped Robert. “All the time, but it—pleased her to think I—did not. Don't let her know I knew. Take care—” Then Norman Lloyd relapsed into unconsciousness, and the whole room and the whole house became clamorous with his stertorous breathing. Mrs. Lloyd and Ellen came and stood in the doorway. The doctor whispered to them. Then the breathing ceased, although at first it was inconceivable that the silence did not continue to ring with it, and Mrs. Lloyd came into the room. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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