BOOK II.ALTRUISM.
CHAPTER I.AFTER TWELVE YEARS.
It was a brilliant day towards the lamb-like end of a March, whose beginning had been of a particularly leonine character. The leaf-buds upon the trees showed faint lines of green along their smooth circumference of delicate brown; the dry, dead grass of winter had been replaced by young blades of a tender verdure; yet the air was cool and pleasantly crisp, though the sunshine, as every one said, was warm enough for June.
At the South Micklegard railroad station, a short, jolly-looking gentleman seemed to differ from the prevailing opinion as to the heat; for his hands were in his pockets, and his overcoat buttoned closely over his stout form up to the smooth-shaven chin.
Up and down the sunniest part of the platform he walked briskly, with at every turn so impatient a glance along the track that, by and by, a porter, wheeling up his empty truck to be in readiness for the coming freight, paused to ask him a question.
“It’s not leaving us you are, Father?”
“No, no, Denny, not so bad as that; only waiting for a friend. She’s late to-day?” with a motion of his head towards the point whence the train should have appeared half an hour before. Denny, however, was in no danger of misunderstanding the figuratively feminine pronoun.
“Av it was the furst toime, she’d’ a ’slipped the track,” he said dryly. “That ould tin o’clock niver gits in till noon.”
“Then ye should have telephoned me to that intent,” replied the father, with a twinkle in his eye. “Didn’t I leave me sermon in the midst to hurry down here? And if I miss me dinner to finish it, ’twill be the worse for you sinners, I promise ye, Denny.”
Denny grinned, and pulled his forelock; but at this moment a distant whistle announced the approach of the train, and he wheeled his truck leisurely away, while Father McClosky restored his handkerchief to his pocket, and drew his plump figure into a posture of erect expectancy.
The Rev. Bryan McClosky had been for fifteen years in charge of St. Clement’s Church, a dingy and unbeautiful brick structure on an obscure street in South Micklegard. His congregation were chiefly poor working-people; and the few outsiders who recognized the rare qualities of head and heart which were joined to his unimpressive and somewhat undignified exterior, were disposed to wonder that the authorities of his Church, with all their well-known tact and skill at making the most of their material, should have kept such a man so long in such an obscure position.
Perhaps, however, the authorities, as usual, knew their own business best. Bryan McClosky was by birth one of the people among whom he labored. His father had been an Irish peasant, and Bryan’s first memories of home were of a cabin wherein pigs and chickens were as much members of the household as himself. Natural talent and education had done much to raise him above the level of his former associates, but he was still one of them at heart. By his present congregation he was simply idolized; and, though they stood in no manner of awe of him, the real reverence which they gave and he fully deserved was not at all impaired by his readiness to laugh and joke on all butveryimproper occasions.
Into his religious opinions there would seem to be noneed to inquire, since they were to be found in the doctrinal formulas of a Church which tolerates no private judgment of such matters. Nevertheless, there had not been wanting, in high ecclesiastical quarters, rumors as to the potential heterodoxy of Father McClosky,—a heterodoxy which showed itself in just a little over-charity towards heretics, and a too great readiness to unite with them in schemes for the public welfare. He had even been admonished once or twice—or, if that word be too harsh, gently interrogated—on these matters, but in every case was able to prove himself so clearly right, and within the letter of the law, that the only results were, on the part of the authorities, a conviction that while it was best to keep him where he would do least harm, it would also be wisest not to drive him to extremities; and on his side, a habit of good-humored denunciation of his Protestant friends as heretics, and destined to a considerable amount of future discomfort, which, accompanied by a twist of his mouth and a twinkle of his black eyes, was, as he often remarked, “perfectly orthodox, and hurt nobody.”
The true key to his character was his loyalty to the Church which had fed, clothed, and educated him. She might not be as infallible as she thought herself; it might even be that she had, historically and doctrinally, made mistakes; but if he admitted these to himself, he was too true a son to allow any one else to guess that he did so. Moreover, there was no one in the world for whose comfort and well-being he cared less than for those of the Rev. Bryan McClosky, so he was not likely to resent the lack of ecclesiastical preferment; and as his gravest doubts were whether he should himself be more at home in any other church than that of his birth, or whether he possessed the personal infallibility necessary to start a church of his own, he asked nothing better than to devote his life to the peoplewhose coarse, ignorant, sometimes stupid and brutalized faces were upturned so eagerly Sunday after Sunday to his pulpit, or bowed beneath his benediction from the altar.
The person for whom he had waited so long at last stepped upon the platform, and was greeted as a “thief of the world” and a “blazin’ heretic,” to the grinning amusement of Denny and one or two others. Ernest Clare took the matter very quietly, though there was a gleam in his blue eyes and a certain compression about his mouth, that seemed to show that quietude was rather acquired than innate to a man of his character.
He was considerably above the medium height, and magnificently proportioned; indeed, his muscular development was usually the first item of his personal appearance to attract attention. It was only a second glance, with most people, that noted the calm, pure face, with its smooth, white brow, clear eyes, and firm, steadfast lips. There was something rather wonderful about those eyes, under the straight, dark brows and long, black lashes; they were so soft and utterly still in their calm, blue depths, while over their surface glanced lights of fun or anger, or darkened clouds of sorrow. Some one who loved him had once said that Ernest Clare had two souls,—one which bore the burden and heat of the day, and one which abode ever upon the spiritual mountain-tops, rapt in the contemplation of things ineffable,—and that these two souls were mirrored in his eyes. When she said it, it had been true only at times; now the two souls were one.
“It’s but a step to ‘Prices,’” said Father McClosky; “will ye walk, or ride?”
“Of course, after that delicate hint, I will walk,” replied Mr. Clare, with a smile of amusement.
“Sure, I only meant shank’s mare for ye to ride on, and carry your valise at that. Oh, ye heretic! if you did butknow how glad I am to see you, and have a chance to convert ye.”
“I believe that, Bryan; part of it, anyway. Could you get a room for me at this famous co-operative place of yours?”
“Two of them,—bedroom and study.”
“Study? Whew! don’t you know I’m out of a job and poor as a church-mouse?”
“I gathered as much; but the rooms were vacated the very day I got your letter, and, as it’s not often two communicating ones can be had at ‘Prices,’ why, I took them. I know ye’ve some scheme afoot, ye spalpeen, and ye might as well be comfortable while ye carry it out.”
“But”—
“And av ye’ve no money to pay for it, there’s them that has. Things is dirt-cheap at ‘Prices,’ anyway.”
“Oh, I’ve a hundred or so that will keep me going for a while. Tell me something about these Prices of yours.”
“Here’s the place, itself, will tell ye more than I can.”
They had halted before a large block of buildings, not of a particularly fine or imposing architecture. In fact, they had been originally dwelling-houses, then had been turned into stores, and had been applied to their present purpose with as little alteration as was practically possible. The corner house still bore over its entrance the words, “Männerchor Gesangverein;” but above this, in huge golden letters running along as much of the conglomerate building as possible, shone this inscription, “The Prices.”
“Will ye go to your rooms—I have the key in me pocket—or will ye see the place first?” asked Father McClosky. “It’s half-past eleven, and dinner is from twelve till two. I take mine at one usually, the way I won’t be interferin’ with the factory hands and teachers and the like, that has only one hour to call their own.”
Ernest Clare smiled. “Factory hands and teachers,—et id genus omne!” he said. “I think I’ll go over the building, Bryan. But do you take all your meals here? I know you’ve a house of your own.”
“Except when I brew me a cup of coffee on my little gas stove of an inclement morning,” replied the little priest, with a twinkle of his black eye. “Sure, it saves me the expense of a housekeeper, and a mighty lot of trouble. I’ve an old woman now to clean and go away peacefully, and one of me acolytes looks after the fires; and av he don’t burn the house down some fine day, he’ll do mighty well.”
“But couldn’t you rent your house, and take a room here? You’d save still more, then.”
“No doubt; but—well, Ernest, I like me little house. It’s quieter and more convenient; besides, it joins the church, and I’d not like to rent it; besides that, I’d get into trouble av I did. But it’s mighty convenient to eat here; though, to be sure, the half of them is blazing heretics, like yourself, and the rest howling infidels and bloody-minded atheists. But heretic food agrees mighty well with a Catholic digestion, I find. Here, ye can leave your gripsack in the janitor’s office.” He led the way as he spoke into the main door, within which a glass door at the side showed a small room, chiefly furnished with shelves, hooks, etc., for the reception of hats, umbrellas, and the like.
“This is Bruno Schaefer, janitor by the divine right of hereditary descent,” said Father McClosky, as a pleasant-looking young man sprang up from his seat beside a table, upon which lay several large books. “His brother Franz was the first under the presentrégime.”
Bruno smiled broadly at this Irish heredity as he took Mr. Clare’s grip, umbrella, and hat, in exchange for a celluloid check.
“Franz has been studying music in Germany, and now plays first violin in some famous orchestra beyant there; and Bruno is to be a heretic preacher like his father,” continued the priest. “He has a quiet berth of it here, meanwhile, eh, Bruno? ample facilities for study.”
“With a few interruptions thrown in,” replied the young man in a clear, pleasant voice.
“Well, this present interruption is the Reverend Ernest Clare, though why a heretic should be reverend, I can’t say. He has rooms on the fourth floor of the third house, and ye must learn to know him by sight as soon as ye hear him comin’.”
“I couldn’t help doing that,” said Bruno, looking with admiration, not unmixed with confusion, at his visitor’s stalwart physique.
“But I hope Mr. Clare did not understand me to complain”—
“Not at all,” said Ernest Clare, extending his hand and pressing Bruno’s cordially. “I find it harder myself to rejoice in interruptions than in any other minor trial of this life; but in your case I should think them not only an excellent drill in patience, but also a fine opportunity to study human nature.”
“That’s very true, Mr. Clare, thank you, sir,” said the young man.
“Ye villain! but ye’re a true Irishman!” said Father McClosky, as they walked on. “There ye’ve preached that lad a sermon, and given him a staff to help him on, with just a turn of your smooth tongue.”
“A staff? Oh! you mean that suggestion about interruptions. I should rather call that a fly-fan,” said Ernest Clare with a twinkle in his eye and a twist of the corner of his firm lips that made his Irish blood still more evident. He was, indeed, a native-born American; but hisfather had left rather a different class in Ireland from that to which McCloskypèrebelonged, to be equally hardworking and almost equally poor in America. The sons had spent their early youth together until Bryan had been taken charge of, at his father’s death, by the Church, to be educated for a priest. Later in life they had met again; but if there were any bond between them, formed at that time, and of special strength and tenderness, it was such as would have estranged ordinary men, and even between these was only tacitly understood. Neither had ever put it into words.
“I suppose Herr Bruno is one of your heretics,” continued Mr. Clare; “if I like your Jews, Turks, and Infidels as well in proportion, Bryan”—
“Ah! he’s a fine lad, Bruno! but is it Turks ye say? Thank the pigs, we’re not troubled with the likes of them. Nor the Jews don’t take kindly to us either; but I’ll show you the grandfather of all the infidels presently, so ye’ve good luck.”
He opened as he spoke a large double swing door, which led into a dining-hall, well lit and ventilated, where, at various-sized tables, about two hundred persons could be accommodated. Only about half of these tables, however, were laid for dinner, for which Father McClosky proceeded to account.
“Ye see,” he said, “it’s only them that lives in the house, or works near by, that can spare the time to go and come. Teachers at a distance, or hands in the mills or the pottery, mostly has their dinner sent. I’ll show ye the wagon starting, in five minutes from now. Then, the mothers of families where there’s many little children finds it more convenient to take their dinners at home, too, though most of them come for supper, even the babies.”
“It must be a pretty sight,” said Ernest Clare.
Father McClosky shrugged his shoulders. “It’s Bedlam broke loose,” he said; “but sure they enjoy it, and them that don’t can stay at home. It’s a free country, and no man has a better right at ‘Prices’ than any other.”
“And which costs more—for that is the grand criterion nowadays—to eat here, or have one’s meals sent?”
“Both, and nayther,” replied the priest, “the charge is exactly the same; but of course there’s more wear and tear of property in sending. But, as that comes out of the pockets of the stockholders, it is not supposed that they will incur the loss without necessity.”
“Then all the patrons are stockholders?”
“They must be, to the extent, at least, of one share, which is five dollars. The directors found it necessary to pass a by-law to that intent, or else, as they said, just put up with regular boarding-house grumbles. Now, every one has an interest in saving, and them that can, help with the work. That saves hired labor, and makes the dividends larger.”
“Then you do pay dividends to your stockholders? I thought it was only to the workers, and that stockholders were to receive merely a fair interest on their investment.”
“We’ve two classes of stockholders,” said Father McClosky. “Those who are also patrons, and those who are not. The last named get five per cent on every dollar as promptly as pay-day comes; but the others, since they have a hand in the work,—or a tooth in it, annyhow,—we consider entitled to a share in the profits. We find it’s a good working principle. I’ve a hundred dollars in it meself, that paid me—interest and dividend—about the likes of seven dollars, last year, and sure it’s a great joy to me now when a fast day comes round.”
“So you take self-interest as the moving spring of your work?”
“Ye must take men as ye find them, Ernest, me boy. I’m not speakin’ of meself, that has neither chick nor child, brother nor sister, wife nor husband belonging to me,” said Father McClosky with intense seriousness and earnestness; “for sure it’s little matter to me if I’m full or hungry; but for a man who has little children, to whom a few dollars makes all the difference between comfort and privation,—why, ye can’t blame him if he has an eye to the main chance, as folks call it.”
“But has such a man as that always five dollars in hand to pay for his one necessary share?”
“Sure he don’t need it, av he’s enough to pay for his meals—and, as I said before, it’s but little he needs for that. He comes here and enters his name as an applicant for what we call the patron’s share, and makes arrangements for his meals, as to the number in his family and the cost per day; then he pays ten cents a week extra on his share until the whole five dollars is paid, and, the day he hands in his last instalment, gets his certificate of stock and twenty-five cents interest; for, ye see, fifty weeks is almost a year, and the directors do it as an encouragement to him.”
“Suppose he pays his five dollars down.”
“So he ought, if he’s got it, and he gets his quarter back again, but only on one share. Sure, it’s not a society for the promotion of avarice that we are.”
“I see. And one share is sufficient to enable a whole family to become patrons.”
“Yes, that is, all who are under age or not self-supporting. We find the young folks eager enough to become shareholders when they begin to work for themselves.”
“I dare say. Ah! there is the wagon you spoke of.”
They had been standing near a window overlooking a large, paved yard, into which, as he spoke, a wagon rattledat storming pace, and simultaneously a side door opened and two or three boys appeared, each bearing a tray full of tin pails. Each pail was marked in large red letters, legible to Mr. Clare at his window, with the name of the mill, factory, or schoolhouse to which it was destined, and a small white ticket just above bore that of the individual to whom it belonged. It was marvellous to see the swiftness and ease with which the loading was accomplished and the boys vanished, even though one of them stopped to “give a back” to the others, who “leap-frogged” over it into the open door.
“Boys will be boys,” said Father McClosky, “and, sure, exercise promotes digestion. Now, that wagon,” pointing to where it had just disappeared, “will be back inside of half an hour, ready to fill any other orders. There’s mighty good things in some of them buckets, let me tell ye. Miss Sally never stints on them. She says they use up what would be wasted, corners of pie and ends of cake and the like, stray apples and oranges, too, and always a kind thought for any poor girl that’s away from home, or a bone-tired teacher, with no one belonging to her.”
“Is Miss Sally one of your heretics?”
“She’s an angel, av shedon’tlook it! Come, I dare say she’ll let us into the kitchen, although it’s the busy time with them, and ye mustn’t expect a word with her; but it’s worth seeing.”
It proved to be. A large room, about half the size of the dining-hall, was lined on two sides with tables, a third row occupying the middle of the floor, with gangways between every two. Another side of the room showed a line of ranges in full blast. Between fifteen and twenty young people of both sexes were working under the direction of Sally Price, twelve years more gaunt and gray than when we last saw her, but with an alert, wide-awake quicknessin her manner very different from the listless, quiet despair that long ago had aroused the sympathy of Dora Metzerott. A cook was in charge of each range, and a sub-cook stood ready to wait upon each. Along the fourth side of the room ran a double row of electric bells, each bearing the number of the table with which it was connected, and at a desk beneath them sat Polly, as pretty, and apparently as young as ever, though now, in truth, nearly in her thirtieth year.
“My friend Mr. Clare, Miss Polly,” said the priest. “He wants to see how you send in a meal at ‘Prices.’ We’ll not disturb annybody.”
Polly smiled, but in a pre-occupied way, and observed, with her eye upon the clock, which was upon the stroke of twelve, that if they didn’t mind the bells ringing over their heads, they could get a good view at that end of the room, and be in nobody’s way.
“The orders are left, and the tables engaged at any time during the morning,” explained the priest; “so when a bell rings, they know exactly who it is, and what he wants. The hour also is specified, and av he comes on time, his dinner is dished and ready.”
“Suppose he comes early, or late?”
“Then he don’t get it until the time, or gets it cold. ‘Prices’ believes in military punctuality.”
As he spoke, the clock struck twelve, and an electric bell sounded.
“Number 25. One!” cried Polly, clearly and distinctly. A brisk-looking girl whisked some dishes on a tray, and started for the door, beside which she paused to receive a celluloid check from a girl who sat at a high desk, with a big book, a box of checks of varying values, and a cash-box before her.
“That’s the cashier,” continued the father, who hadpaused to mutter an “Ave” while this was occurring. “She looks in her big book for the order belonging to 25, and gives the girl a check according. It’s a ready-money business here. The waiters are all numbered as well as the bells, and take their turn in regular rotation.”
“The discipline is truly military,” observed Mr. Clare.
“Ah! ye’re conversant with Sunday schools, and that’s why ye take notice of the same,” said Father McClosky.
“And who of these are volunteer workers?” asked Ernest Clare, watching closely the busy scene before him.
“All of them arethat,” returned the father; “but Miss Sally, Miss Polly, the cashier, treasurer, secretary, and six cooks get regular salaries. The man that drives the wagon is an expressman by trade, and owns his team; he is hired by the year, and, being a stockholder and patron, charges very fairly. As for these girls and boys, they enjoy the work. There are regular relays of them; and these are arranged so as to intersperse work with books and healthful play, according to the rhyme. On Saturdays and Sundays, the teachers and some of the factory hands take their turn at cooking—as sub-cooks, that is—and waiting; and, sure, it’s a great diversion to them, especially the teachers, after using their brains all the week.”
“Rest is really only a change of labor, then, to them?”
“It’s purely voluntary, ye know,” said the priest. “None of them need do a hand’s turn av they don’t like, though I won’t say but what public opinion would have some weight; but those that are weak or sickly Miss Sally looks out for, and won’t let them do a stroke more than is good for them.”
“Miss Sally has it in her power to make or mar everything, it seems to me.”
“Ay! ye come to that, after all, Ernest. Didn’t ye say a while ago that the mainspring of this work was self-interest?Well, ye was wrong. Self-interest is only the balance-wheel; the mainspring is love of our neighbor. We couldn’t keep things going a day but for that. The root of the whole business was Christian charity, and the branches partake of the same life.”
“You have simply helped the growth or lessened the friction by making one’s neighbor’s interests identical, for the most part, with one’s own,” said Ernest Clare.
“As they should be. As long as men are individuals they will have individual interests; but one man’s food and clothing were never meant to be gained at the expense of his neighbor, as we can see when the matter is carried to its ultimate conclusion.”
“As how, for instance?”
“Well, in the case of shipwrecked mariners, or them dirty cannibals that ate one another for pleasure,” said the priest. “Sure, aither of them is only the main principle of our modern civilization stripped of its glittering adjuncts.”
Mr. Clare did not answer. There was a glance in his eye and a quiver at the corner of his mouth, very like amusement; yet he realized in the depths of his great loving heart the awful truth of the picture which his friend had drawn in such quaint colors.
“I think,” he said at last, “that I had rather not be a cannibal, that is—rich.”
The carpenter’s shop, tin-shop, jeweller’s, dry-goods, shoemaker’s, and other shops, were all on the first floor, facing upon some one of the four streets that bounded “Prices.” Above these were the dressmaker’s and milliner’s establishments; but there was little here to notice or describe, as the one distinctive feature of each separate business was, that it was owned by the company and managed by salaried workmen. There was one buying agent for the collective establishment, whose business was to fillthe orders, transmitted, through the executive committee, from the heads of departments. These, therefore, while they had plenty of work, had little or no anxiety. Their salaries were secure, and their only care the business of the day. Literally, they took no thought for the morrow.
“We find our shops are very popular among the rich folks at the North End,” said Father McClosky; “they say we give good weight and good measure, and every article just what it professes to be, no less. A man—sure, it’s a Christian he calls himself; and he has a fashionable shoe-store up-town, and was mad at us for under-selling him—and says he to me, ‘So you have adopted the maxim “Honesty is the best policy.” How do you find it works?’ says he. ‘Maxim,’ says I; ‘that’s no maxim at all,’ I says; ‘it’s aither a fact or a lie, and mostly the latter,’ says I; ‘but it ought to be the universal fact that it is with us,—sure, I mean universally the fact that we find it,’ says I.”
“And so it will be, some day.”
“It’s always of a hopeful disposition ye were, Ernest. There’s too much cross-grained selfishness in the world for that day to come soon, I’m thinkin’.”
“I did not say, soon,” replied Ernest Clare quietly. “I do not know when it will come, or how; and there are times when one gets discouraged; but I believe itwillcome, Bryan. However, I am not ready to talk yet about my own beliefs, hopes, or plans. Is this my door?” for they had now reached the lodging department, where rooms were rented singly or in suites, to individuals or families.
“Sure ye’re pretty high up, but, with an elevator, that’s just as convenient as the ground floor. And there’s a fire-escape just beyond, and mighty handy, in case of need; though, for myself, I’d rather burn up alive like a Christian, than break me neck down one of them things,” said the priest as he applied his key to the door.
CHAPTER II.NEO-SOCIALISM.
Much to the surprise of Father McClosky, the key declined to enter the key-hole, for excellent Communistic reasons: there was a key already there. Moreover, voices, one very loud, the other very tearful, sounded on the other side of the door.
The priest drew back, with a sorrowful gesture. “It’s Mrs. Kellar,” he said. “She is what we call our Matron, for want of a better name;die Hausfrau, the Germans call her. She sees to the rooms, gives out the bed-linen and so on, and is an invaluable person, so clean and conscientious. But—well, one must haveles défauts de ses qualités, as the French say; and though she is a born ruler and manager, shehasgot a tongue and a temper. Of course, she has a pass-key to every room, and I suppose something has gone wrong in here, and she is scolding the unfortunate perpetrator.”
“Then we had better go in; I dare say it is nothing of any consequence that has happened,” said Ernest Clare, much amused by his friend’s correct English, which betrayed an inward perturbation very flattering to Frau Kellar’s powers of eloquence.
“I suppose we had,” said the little man hesitatingly; but with the touch of the door-knob his courage seemed to return. “Sure, she’s a well-meaning woman,” he said with a smile; “and as for temper, it’s not an Irishman that can cast a stone at her, from Malachi with the Collar of Gold, to the blessed St. Kevin himself.”
“Here he opened wide the door;” but there was a great deal more than darkness within. It was a neatly but plainly furnished sitting-room, with a brown-painted pine table, covered with a red cloth, four cane-seated chairs, and one large rocking-chair, a few empty pine bookshelves lining one side, an engraving or so, and a cheerful-looking carpet, on which—alas!—a hod of coals had been overturned. A small, pale, nervous-looking girl, with weak blue eyes and reddish hair, was on her knees beside the coals, picking them up in a weakly ineffective manner, that seemed to add fuel to the flame of Frau Kellar’s righteous anger, to the outpouring of which the victim returned no answer save the tears which dropped fast over the bridge of her nose, and, being brushed aside by a grimy hand, by no means added to her beauty.
The entrance of the two clergymen seemed to put the last stroke to her misery, for she immediately fell over on her face upon the coals, and lay there, making no sound, but shaking from head to foot with hysterical passion.
“Why, what’s all this?” said the priest good-humoredly. “Is that Lena Schaefer? You haven’t been making Lena cry, Mrs. Kellar?”
“The lazy good-for-nothing!” cried Mrs. Kellar. “Will tears pick up the coals, I should like to know?”
“Not so well as a pair of hands,” said Mr. Clare cheerfully. “Come, Miss Lena, since this is to be my room, I have the best right to work in it, haven’t I?”
He picked up the thin, light form as if she had been a child, and set her, literally, to dry off, in the rocking-chair, which she only half filled, and whence, overcome with amazement, she peeped from under the shadow of her apron at the handsome gentleman on his knees remedying the results of her carelessness.
“It’s a poor welcome for you, Mr. Clare,” said FrauKellar. “I came in to see if everything was in order, and found the fire nearly gone out; so I rang for Lena, as these rooms are her business, and the silly thing, before she could get the coal on the fire, dropped the hod, and then couldn’t do nothing but cry.”
As she explained, she had made a futile effort to assist in remedying the evil, which Mr. Clare had silently but decidedly refused.
“Sure, I suppose she came in such haste that her hand shook. Isn’t it right I am, Lena?”
“The bell rang so loud it frightened me,” said Lena, who had been making a brave struggle for self-control. “I didn’t forget the fire, Father; it was only that I didn’t put on quite enough coal.”
“And ain’t the best of us liable to errors of judgment?” said the priest. “Give the child leave to run away now, Mrs. Kellar, and bathe her eyes. She’ll feel better when she’s had her dinner.”
“I’d like to sweep up the dust for you, sir,” said the girl, with a look of appealing confidence, which made her face, despite its homeliness and grimy tear-stains, not absolutely unattractive.
“To-morrow,” said Ernest Clare, smiling down at her, “to-morrow you shall do whatever you like, but for to-day Father McClosky’s advice is the best. A good dinner is the medicine you need.” He bowed her from the room as if she had been the first lady in the land—poor Lena, who had never had the door opened for her since she was tall enough to reach the knob—and said as she passed him, “I am glad you have the care of these rooms, for I am sure you will take great pains with them; but I will try to give you as little trouble as possible.”
Lena did not reply; poor girl, her face and eyes were not in condition even to look an answer; but she went awaywith a heart overrunning with gratitude, and a firm determination that, while she had strength to crawl, Mr. Clare should never have cause to complain of neglect.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Kellar had seized the hearth-broom, and was busily getting rid of the relics of the catastrophe. No one offered to relieve her of the duty; the priest had seated himself, and was quietly looking on, and Ernest Clare passed through the open door into his bedroom, in order to remove from his hands the traces of his late occupation.
“Sure, it’s a pity,” began the priest, after a moment or two—
“Don’t speak to me, Father McClosky,” said the woman, half petulantly; “ain’t I calling myself worse names yet than I’ve called Lena already?”
“But calling names is no good, Mrs. Kellar; though I admit there’s a power of satisfaction in it at times.”
“That’s so, Father. That poor girl! Did not Dr. Richards say that the best hope for her health is in the regular hours and regular work here? and didn’t I take her from her father’s house to have her under my eye”—
“Well, well, we are none of us perfect,” said the priest consolingly; “but I think ye should try to remember one thing, Mrs. Kellar. It’s a great thing we are doing here for the poor, and there’s a many would like to see something of the kind prevail all through the land; but that sort of thing, Mrs. Kellar, ye may call it Communism, or Socialism, or whatever ye like, but av there isn’t self-control and loving-kindness at the bottom of it, ’twill be a hell on earth.”
“Indeed, you are right, Father, and I’ve said so already many a time,” returned Frau Kellar, with her apron to her eyes; “but it don’t tie my tongue when I once get to scolding.”
“Nothing will do that but the grace of God,” said the priest. “Av ye was a Catholic, ye’d have the Sacraments to help ye; but, sure, even as a Protestant, ye have Him who is above all Sacraments. There’s a little book I lent Miss Sally once about the Blessed Laurence. He was a poor lay brother in a monastery; but he had an abiding sense of the presence of God, even amongst his pots and kettles. Sure, he said it made no difference to him whether he was kneeling before the Blessed Sacrament, itself, or working in his kitchen—it was the monastery cook he was—for God was with him just the same. And so, av his pots boiled over, or his subordinates failed in their duty, or whatever happened, he was always at peace, and never ruffled or excited about anything.”
“I could never be as good as that,” sighed Frau Kellar.
“Sure, Rome wasn’t built in a day,” returned the priest encouragingly. “Anyhow, it’s the only cure for speaking first and thinking after, to have your mind full of Him and your heart of His love. For out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh, and then the afterthought would find nothing to repent of.”
“You’ll lend me the book, won’t you, Father?” she asked humbly. “Do you suppose the Blessed Laurence was better than Miss Sally?”
“I’ll lend ye the book with pleasure, but ye’ll find little there beyond what I’ve told ye. There was but little to say of a poor, ignorant man that could not even read. And as for Miss Sally, sure, it’s not for me to measure degrees of goodness; but I’ll tell ye one thing, if Miss Sallyisa saint, she’s not aware of it. Is it going you are? God be good to you,” and, as he pressed her hand, the good little man added, “Av ye was a Catholic, ye know, I could be of more use to ye.”
“Sure, I ought to have tried harder to convert her to thetrue faith,” he thought, when he was left alone; “but she might have been the death of poor Lena av I’d distracted her mind with arguments, so I applied the remedy that was handiest; but it’s the best, after all, for all beliefs, and maybe He don’t see the difference between Catholic and Protestant that some of us do here below.”
“Bryan,” said Mr. Clare, re-entering at this moment. He took his stand on the hearth-rug, and looked down upon his friend with a look that was half amused and all reverent; then he said, “I don’t wonder now at the success of ‘Prices.’ I understand it.”
“Do ye, now?” said the priest, returning a glance in which sympathy was mingled with a comical embarrassment; for Father McClosky was exceedingly shy, not only of his own good works, but of having his dealings with one heretic known to another. Also he stood rather in awe of the keen, clear, logical brain opposite him.
“I believe so,” replied Mr. Clare, laughing outright, “except in one point, and that a minor one. Is the present stock company nominally the same—of course I know it is not exactly—that owned the Maennerchor Club House twelve years ago?”
“That’s aisely answered,” replied the priest, with an air of relief at which his friend laughed again. “It is, nominally. There was maybe twenty or a dozen shareholders at that time who wanted the club-house chiefly for their own recreation; for the most of them was rich men, and, so it paid expenses, they didn’t look for dividends. When Miss Sally took the care of it, and they began to see how things was going, they behaved mighty well; first, they reduced the par value of a share to five dollars, as we have it now, and gave every shareholder one vote and no more. And, shure, that’s fair enough,” continued the Father, with a conscientious desire to be logical whenever he could;“for av a rich man has twenty votes in a meeting of shareholders, why shouldn’t he vote twenty times for president?”
“Because human nature is happily illogical, and seldom follows out false premises to their ultimate conclusions,” said Ernest Clare, with a gravity which was belied by the twinkle in his eye.
“Oh, get out with your logic and your ultimate conclusions! It’s because the fellow that tried it on first would be mobbed, that’s why. Conclusions, indeed!”
“Well, go on,” with a laugh; “what was the effect of manhood suffrage in this particular instance?”
“Theultimateeffect—since ye like the word so well—is that they get five per cent on their money, and have their recreation just the same. For the club-house is mostly as it was, and, shareholders not necessarily belonging to the club, the members have their parlor, dining-room, and hall to themselves whenever they like. The only difference is that the hall is never rented to the public now; and on occasions of balls, concerts, and the like, they ain’t apt to shut out any regular patrons of ‘Prices’ who want to get in.”
“Are any of the old shareholders now members of the board of managers?”
“Four or five of them, and we’ve the same president and secretary. But the real business is transacted by the executive committee, three in number, and two constituting a quorum.”
“It’s a flexible arrangement, at any rate.”
“It’s beautiful,” said the priest with enthusiasm, “and works as easy as rolling off a log.”
“Ah! that simile reminds me of my own situation. I have emphatically rolled offmylog.”
“Ye wrote me ye had resigned your charge.”
“Resigned! Did you ever hear of the grand bounce?”said Mr. Clare drolly. “Because that’s what I got for preaching Socialism.”
“Mother of Moses! Tell us about that.”
“Well, you know I always held the opinion that to call nothing one’s own, to hold all things in common, is the flower and crown of Christianity. But it wasmerelyan opinion, not a belief; I was what you might call adilettanteSocialist. My first call was to a fashionable church as assistant, as you remember; and when this last charge was offered me, I slipped into it, some way. I suppose I had become accustomed to a life among people of wealth and cultivation; and, besides, there was at the time some external pressure, though quite unconscious on the part of the person who exerted it. I wanted to be in a position which no one need be ashamed to share with me.”
His voice had grown hoarse and low, and Father McClosky bent his brow on his hand without attempting a reply. After a moment the speaker continued,—
“Well, that is all over now; and I can thank Him for her life and—for her death. But it cut to the roots of my life; it tore the scales from my eyes, and showed me the true meaning of all that I saw around me. I could be adilettanteno longer. Yet just because the commonplace business arrangements of the world had suddenly become so terrible, so openly subversive of God’s order and out of harmony with His creation, I did my utmost to avoid giving offence. I could not expect my people to see at a glance the hollowness and falsity of all they had been trained to believe right and just, or to spring with one bound to the height which I had attained through many struggles and much tribulation. But one cannot be so gentle, so considerate, that a congregation of millionnaires will not take offence at being told that every dollar they own, beyond what is needful for themselves and their families, is awrong to Christ’s poor; that the Jewish land-laws were of divine appointment, and a model for our imitation; and that every man, woman, and child has a moral right, and should have a legal one, to an equal share of the wealth—not the money—belonging to the nation.”
Father McClosky drew a long breath. “Ye saidthatto them?” he said.
“You think it required courage; but I assure you the difficulty was to restrain my words, not to bring them out. I had much ado sometimes to keep from calling them a generation of vipers, and warning them to flee from the wrath to come. But the millionnaire of to-day is in much the same position as the Southern slaveholder of the last generation. The houses, lands, stocks, bonds, and what not of the one appear to him as much his rightful possession as the negroes of the other did to him. And the analogy can be traced still farther; for, convince the millionnaire that his dollars are not rightfully his, and how is he going to get rid of them?”
“Ye’re right enough there,” said the priest; “he can’t bury money, drown it, or give it away without doing infinite harm to other people. It’s the old story, Clare; the fathers ate the sour grapes, and the childer has the toothache. But what brought your matters to a crisis at last?”
“A course of lectures on the Sermon on the Mount,” said Mr. Clare, smiling, “after which they could bear with me no longer. I am bound to say, however, that they acted in as delicate and gentlemanly a manner as possible. They did not even call a formal vestry meeting to ask me to resign; it was merely intimated to me by my senior warden that if I had any other opening in view, he thought—personally—that it would be better to consider it, as the doctrine I had lately preached might betrue, but itwasn’t exactly practical, andnotvery acceptable to the people. He was very kind—good old man!—but it was evident that he looked upon me as a crank, pure and simple.”
“Sure, I can imagine the whole interview,” said the Father, shaking with laughter at Mr. Clare’s evident effort not to imitate the senior warden’s voice and gestures. “But what are ye going to do about it?”
“Well,” he replied, “I have, as I told you, a few hundred dollars in hand; and I don’t know a parish in the United States where I could stay for a year, preaching as I must preach. The only thing I see is to fall back on my trade, working with my hands, like St. Paul, and chargeable to no man. Then I should be God’s freeman, and able to lift up my voice against the crying evils of the day, not being in bondage to any man.”
Father McClosky sprang from his seat and paced the room excitedly; but the very excess of his sympathy made him try to act as brake or cog-wheel upon his friend’s enthusiasm.
“Ye blatherskite!” he said, “I suppose ye’ll be after starting a new church, with yourself for pope!”
“On the contrary, I am orthodox of the orthodox,” said Mr. Clare. “I had a talk with my bishop a day or two ago, and found him very sympathetic, though with a reserved opinion that I was making too much ado about very little. No, McClosky, to every age its own conflicts. The sixteenth century did its work pretty thoroughly; a new Church in our days is an anachronism. The great battles of the nineteenth century must be fought, not among the hills of dogma, but in the plain of Conduct, which is watered by the river of Brotherly Love.”
“And do you expect a Catholic to join ye in underrating dogma?”
“God’s heaven bends alike over hill and plain,” said the other gently.
“Sure it’s a beautiful poet ye are,” said the priest with would-be sarcasm. He continued his walk for a few more moments, then said slowly, “But it’s not denyin’ I am that such soldiers as you are wanted on the right side. It’s mighty little brotherly love for any but themselves that Socialism has shown so far.”
“I hope to see the day,” said Ernest Clare calmly, “when the Golden Rule will be the Socialist’s motto, and the Sermon on the Mount hisvade mecum. They must be if we are to have law and order, not a reign of anarchy. And that is why, Bryan, I feel that my course isnotmuch ado about nothing. One way or the other, Socialism must come; and it will be all the difference in the world whether Christianity leads or follows the movement.”
“I make but little doubt that Holy Church will be equal to the occasion,” said Father McClosky; “sure she has the principle in herself, in her clergy and her religious orders. What is a monastery or nunnery but a commune?”
“You are right! And I fancy the Spirit of the Age has something to say to the revival of the religious orders in my own church, though our new monks and nuns would be the first to protest against that view of the matter. No, I don’t doubt the willingness of anybodyof Christians to fall into line, once the change is made and established by law; I only doubt our readiness to lead; yet, unless we do lead, I see small hope of the new kingdom being established.”
“Without violence,” corrected the priest.
“At all,” said the other. “The kingdom of the Prince of Peace cannot be established by the sword.”
Father McClosky rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “And what is it ye mean to do?” he said.
“To maintain myself by my trade; if possible, in connection with ‘Prices;’ after that, to do what I can.”
“Then the first thing ye’d better be at,” said the Father, “is to come to dinner; for, sure, the clock is on the stroke of one!”