BOOK III.FLOOD AND FIRE.
CHAPTER I.“O’ER CRAG AND TORRENT, TILL THE NIGHT IS GONE.”
By the time the spring came again, it had become quite customary for Mr. Clare to preach at least once on Sunday at St. Andrew’s, and the rector had been nearly satisfied that such Socialism as his colleague was at all likely to preach was very harmless Socialism, indeed, scarcely deserving the name. Also, the rector was inclined to look through very rose-colored glasses at one who could bring to church such a stiff-necked generation as Dr. Richards and Karl Metzerott, even though the former might come partly for love of his wife and son, and the latter chiefly through jealousy of the preacher’s influence on Louis and at “Prices,” where the Emperor had begun to feel bitterly conscious of a rival.
Yet Mr. Clare put forward no claim either to supremacy or even influence; it was simply the effect of his personality that brought such crowds to St. Andrew’s, and made his lightest word a command to his friends and followers at “Prices.” So, at least, said Karl Metzerott; perhaps the truth was that Ernest Clare’s personality was as nearly transparent as is possible to human nature; it was not himself, but the truth that was in him, of which all round felt the power. But it is a question whether a due appreciation of this fact would have retarded the growth of the unfriendly feeling whereof Karl had only just begun to be conscious. Nevertheless, “Prices,” hitherto so united, had begun to show signs of splitting into two camps.There was no open division, but the waters were troubled by the Spirit of God, and the word had gone forth amongst them, “If the Lord be God, then follow Him: but if Baal, then follow him.”
Mr. Clare’s lectures, as they were called, on Sunday evening were overwhelmingly well attended, though the magnificent rendering of chorus, hymn, and anthem, that accompanied them, doubtless formed no unimportant part of the attraction. There were no formal prayers, an omission that scandalized some excellent people, including the Herr Pastor Schaefer, who took the duty upon himself to remonstrate with the delinquent. Mr. Clare’s reply was somewhat singular.
“‘Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire,Uttered or unexpressed,The motion of a hidden fireThat trembles in the breast.’
“‘Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire,Uttered or unexpressed,The motion of a hidden fireThat trembles in the breast.’
“‘Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire,Uttered or unexpressed,The motion of a hidden fireThat trembles in the breast.’
“‘Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire,
Uttered or unexpressed,
The motion of a hidden fire
That trembles in the breast.’
“If the hidden fire be not there, Herr Pastor,” he said, “how can it possibly tremble? If it be, the music will supply all it can ask; and if it be only a spark, I don’t want to extinguish it by the cold water of criticism.”
“But I do not understand you at all, Mr. Clare,” was the reply; “surely it is every one’s duty to pray.”
“You have been with them nearly twenty years, my friend; have they ever prayed with you?”
“It is quite true,” said the pastor, in genuine trouble and perplexity, “that religion seems to have little power over men in these days. Very few men ever pray at all; but it is not my fault: I praywiththem, or offer to do so; and there my responsibility ends.”
Mr. Clare was silent a moment, then he said gently, “If they ever seem willing to let me pray with them, I assure you I shall not be slow to comply.”
He was very silent and thoughtful for the remainder of the day, and in the evening propounded a very strange question to Father McClosky.
“I say, Bryan, if you were a shepherd, a literal shepherd, you know, and one of your sheep were to stray into the desert and be lost, what would you do?”
“Sure, I trust I’d seek till I found it,” replied the Father, with a look of inquiry.
“And if you couldn’t find it one way you’d try another, eh? You wouldn’t simply stand on the edge of the wilderness and cry ‘Co-nan, co-nan!’ and then turn back satisfied, saying, ‘Well, it’s not my fault; I’ve called you, and there my responsibility ends’?”
Father McClosky laughed, but quickly looked grave and troubled. “Sure, we clergy have much to answer for,” he said. “There’s mighty few of us, maybe none, but could say hismea culpato the sins of negligence and indifference. We’re all mighty unselfish about responsibility, and perfectly willing to make any one that wants it a present of our share.”
“I don’t think that peculiarity is confined to the clergy,” said Mr. Clare.
If it were, the remainder of this chapter might have remained a blank.
For the situation of Micklegard was, as this story has frequently indicated, upon a river, the physical beauty of which was the pride of every dweller upon its banks, though its moral character might be marred by treachery and fickleness. It was fed by mountain streams which were liable to a sudden rise at the time of the melting of the winter snows, or at any season after continuous heavy rain, and these floods, or “high water,” as they were euphoniously termed by those who seemed rather to prefer to have their cellars washed out occasionally, sometimesrose to the height of devastating inundations. The cause of their increased frequency and destructiveness was by some said to be the will of God; by others, a judgment on the wicked; others still ascribed it to the reckless destruction of the forests that had once clothed the hills to the top, and by retaining much of the snow on their sturdy branches, and, in spring, lessening the influence of the sun, had prevented its too rapid melting. That these views were at all reconcilable, that the will of God might be that the hills should bring righteousness to the people by teaching the reckless and money-loving that they could not safely trifle with the forces of nature, few seemed able to understand. Yet, if this lesson had been thoroughly learned, and followed out to its logical consequences, the calamity of which I have now to write would certainly never have occurred.
The winter which had just ended had been unusually mild; very little snow had fallen, even in the hills; but the months of April and May had been marked by an unusual rainfall, and the Mickle River, though not over its banks, stood at a height which, earlier in the year, would have been decidedly alarming, but which was viewed at this season with complacency as an excellent preparation for the summer droughts.
Ascension Day fell this year near the end of May, and the three Rogation days preceding it were, as usual, employed as days of prayer for spiritual but especially for temporal blessings. In some of the churches constant intercession was carried on from six in the morning to nine at night, but of these St. Andrew’s was not one.
“I fear I shall never be able to put much heart into a petition for earthly blessings,” said the rector to Ernest Clare, “though I would not say so publicly; and, of course, it is quite right to ask God’s blessing on the fruitsof the earth,” he added apologetically; “but to me ‘Thy Will be done’ includes everything.”
“‘Give us this day our daily bread,’” returned the other gravely.
“Yes, yes, I know; we have the best authority for it, I don’t deny that; but it seems to me more childlike just to trust God for things of earth, and spend one’s time in prayer for things of heaven.”
“‘Thy Will be doneon earth,’” replied the younger clergyman, “and His will is—as He has told us—to clothe and feed us, as He clothes the grass of the field and feeds the sparrows. And that will shall be done one day.”
“Ah! there you are with your Communism,” said the rector. “Well, it’s only a matter of feeling, and, I dare say, I’m wrong about it.”
“I wish we all had your faith, sir,” said Mr. Clare; “but don’t you think one sometimes learns to pray by needing to pray for bread? Then, afterwards, one can pray for the Bread of Heaven.”
“There is no doubt about that,” said the rector.
Ascension Day brought another heavy rainstorm to swell the Mickle River,—a storm which increased, with the accompaniment of furious winds, during the night, and on Friday. About the middle of the afternoon Mr. Clare, who, in his capacity of carpenter, had gone up-town to attend to a job, was passing a telegraph office on his way home, when he heard his name called loudly and anxiously; and, turning round, saw a young operator, well known to him and us, by the name of Heinz Rolf, with his body half out of the window, beckoning wildly.
“Good God, Mr. Clare! the most horrible disaster!” he gasped, as the clergyman obeyed the summons. “The dam—the Cannomore Dam—has burst; forty feet of water rushing down the Cannomore Valley—thirty thousandpeople in the waternow—and”—he paused with his eyes on Mr. Clare’s.
The Irish mind is not, like the German, fundamentally geographical; and for a moment the clergyman did not entirely grasp the situation.
“How terrible! When did it happen?” he said, with as yet no sense that the matter might concern him or his.
“The last message came a few minutes ago. Operator stood at her post till the last gasp—ticked over the wires, ‘This is my last message,’—then, I suppose, she was swept away, for we can’t get an answer from anywhere near there. The next news we have of the flood”—
“I see!” said Mr. Clare suddenly. “I see. The next news will be brought by the water itself!”
For a moment the two men stared at each other in horror. Then Mr. Clare said, “How much time have we to get ready for it? one hour? two?”
“Can’t hardly tell,” said one of the older operators, looking up from his instrument. “Of course, she loses force and swiftness as she comes along, and it won’t be no forty feet that we’ll get; but, with the river we’ve got now, I guess we’ll have all the water we want. We’ve telephoned the mayor’s office, and, probably, he’ll have the bells rung, to warn the people. My folks will have the flood over the tops of their chimneys, I guess, but I don’t see no way to help it. I can’t leave that door till the flood comes in at the window, or I won’t, anyway.”
“I’ll see to them,” said Ernest Clare, “and to your family, too, Heinz. I say, I suppose ‘Prices’ is above high-water mark?”
“It’s six foot, about, above all the high-water mark we havenow,” said the operator grimly. “I don’t say where it’ll be to-morrow; but, maybe, their third story won’t beverywet.”
“It’s as safe as anywhere,” said Heinz, “except the tops of the hills.”
“Just so,” replied the other, and Mr. Clare hurried away.
“I suppose this is the answer to your prayers in the early part of the week,” said Dr. Richards, when Mr. Clare warned him of the coming danger.
“I could not tell you about that,” returned the other, “it is hard to decide upon the meaning of a message until one has read it through. Meanwhile, my rooms at ‘Prices’ are entirely at your service; and I should advise you to take valuables, papers, and clothing. You’ll have time to pack them up if you’re not too long about it. Drive over in your buggy, doctor, and I’ll send a boy for the Ark.”
Not every one, however, was as easy to move as the Richardses.
“Is it a flood?” asked one Irish family whom he visited and warned. “Sure, floods is nothin’ when you’re used to ‘em, your Honor.” And not a step would they budge, until they and their shanty were washed away together.
Most people refused to believe that a flood was possible at that season of the year, or that the bursting of the Cannomore Dam could possibly affect the Mickle River.
But at seven o’clock in the evening the river was over its banks; at midnight it was within a foot and a half of the level of “Prices,” and reported to be still rising. There was no rush of a wall of water at this distance from the scene of the catastrophe; only a slow, steady, terrible, irresistible rising. Where now was the beautiful river whereof they had boasted? Instead of it, a boiling, foaming devil rushed headlong by them; its yellow waters swirling with wreckage and horrible with corpses. Truly, their pride was turned to their destruction!
“There are those families at the lower mill,” said Mr. Clare suddenly; “has any one heard of them?”
“They were warned,” said some one, “but whether the blame fools moved out or not, I can’t say.”
“If you will lend me your boat,” said Mr. Clare, “I will see after them.”
“You? there’s work for you here, Mr. Clare; besides, the current”—
“Plenty of boats are out already,” said another; “they’ll be seen after.”
“There’s room for one more,” replied the clergyman quietly, “and I didn’t win the silver oar in the single-scull race at college for nothing. Look up on the hills there, black with refugees from the water! Who will help me to bring them off?”
Not one, but three boat’s crews were immediately at his service, and more would have been forthcoming had the boats at command been more numerous.
“You, Louis? I don’t know,” said the clergyman kindly, as the boy pressed to his side. “What would your father say to me?”
“I shall go too,” said Karl Metzerott.
The rain beat fiercely down upon the seething river, the wind churned the foul waters into foam which it dashed in their faces as if in bitter mockery of their pitiful attempts to brave the power of the elements; beams and timbers, heavy enough to grind their boats into powder, shouldered each other down the stream, and impeded each other’s progress, as though they had been human beings engaged in the race for wealth. Over all lay darkness, for the gasworks were long since under water, but the feeble light of the lanterns they had brought flashed now on a man’s face set in the agony of death, the open eyes staring upward as if in accusation; now on heavy tresses of a woman’s long wet hair, wrapped by the wind round and round the beam to which she had clung till her strength failed her.
“Boys!” said Mr. Clare.
He stood to windward of them, and his every word could be distinctly heard. The men paused in the very act of manning the boats, and turned to look at him. His hat was off, and the lantern in his hand flashed fitfully, as it was beaten by the wind, upon his pure, strong face, and the eyes fixed upon them in longing tenderness, as though they also were in danger and needed rescue.
“Let us pray,” said Mr. Clare.
Certainly Fritz Rolf set the example, but no man there waited to find it out. Every hat was off in an instant.
“‘O Saviour of the World, Who by Thy cross and precious blood hast redeemed us, save us, and help us, we humbly beseech Thee, O Lord.’”
The next moment they were in the full course of the river, rushing with it down, down,—where!
There was no power of rowing upstream, and no need to row down. They could only keep the boat as steady as possible, and fend off the wreckage from every side, every man’s eyes strained meanwhile for any chance of saving life.
At last Ernest Clare gave a great cry. Dancing gayly down the river, as if at play upon the fearful tide, was a heavy, wooden cradle, hollowed from a single block. As it floated past him, Mr. Clare caught from it a little wailing baby, perhaps six months old. He gave it to Louis, who sat in the stern, and tried to steer as far as steering was possible. “Button it inside your coat,” he said, and Louis tried to obey. The child felt the grateful warmth, hushed its wailing, and even fell asleep from exhaustion. The little face peeped out just below the collar of the young man’s coat, his arm was round it, and he felt with a strange sensation the feeble throbbing of its baby bosom, and the sweet, warm baby breath stealing upward to his neck.
Now a huge beam went crashing against the window of a house round which the waters raged madly.
“It’s no matter,” said Fritz; “the man that lives there is a fellow with some snap to him. He moved out his family early this afternoon.”
The inhabitants of the next house had not been so fortunate, for faces were dimly visible in the dark windows, and voices were heard crying for rescue in the name of God.
One of the boats was filled with them, father, mother, and eight children, wet, cold, and miserable, crouching wretchedly in the bottom of the boat, and half disposed, as it tossed seemingly at the mercy of the stream, to think it a bad exchange for the house, which at least, as yet, stood firm.
Boat-load after boat-load was thus rescued, and set ashore at the nearest point whence they could make their way to a place of succor; for all the churches and public buildings, and many private houses, stood open that night, and warm food, shelter, and dry clothing were ready for all who claimed them.
And still the boats went on, on with the current, upon their errand of mercy.
Here delayed by the wreckage, there set free by a blow from some passing timber,—still they kept steadily on down the stream. And now there came to Louis a strange experience. For it seemed to him that before them moved a white Figure, wherein he recognized that which once trod the Sea of Galilee, and through the rushing of the waves and the roaring of the fierce wind there seemed to fall upon his ears the whisper, “Fear not, it is I.” And as all his life he had followed the Lord Christ, so now, he steered after the glimmer of that white form seen or fancied. And by faith or fancy it led them on till daybreak.
When they had returned home, drenched and exhausted, Louis laid his hand upon Mr. Clare’s arm, and smiled into his face with white lips but strangely shining eyes. “Mr. Clare,” he said, “oh, Mr. Clare, I have my wish, that I tried not to wish for. He has been very good to me. Iknownow that He is God, and that He could not—oh! Hecouldnot stay in Heaven while we suffered and died on earth; Hemustcome down to help and save us!”
“He is saving us now, Louis,” said Mr. Clare, “saving us by what seems the extremity of His wrath. ‘O Saviour of the world, Who by Thy cross and precious blood hast redeemed us, save us and help us, we humbly beseech Thee, O Lord’!”
CHAPTER II.“POLLY, PUT THE KETTLE ON.”
With the breathing of that first prayer and the attainment of Louis’ wish, the breach between the two parties at “Prices” became a self-evident fact; and though across the breach the bands of good-fellowship still held fast, even these no longer bound together the members of one household, but connected two opposing camps, the relations between which were manifestly strained.
Karl Metzerott called himself a reasonable man. He professed to have no personal feeling in the matter, no personal grudge against Mr. Clare. “No interloper,” he said, “could ever be to ‘Prices’ what he, Karl Metzerott, had been; and as for present influences, he was abundantly ready to welcome any that were good. Had he ever opposed this man Clare until he came out in his true colors? cunning, canting priest that he was! As for Louis, what he chose to believe was his own affair; it was a free country, surely, as far as a man’s conscience was concerned; and if what satisfied his father was not good enough for him, it was nobody’s business but that of their two selves.”
It was quite true that Mr. Clare was exerting all his powers, and putting forth his utmost influence; for one of those crucial questions had arisen which try men’s souls, and separate between the good and the evil.
The body of water which was known as Cannomore Lake had been increased immensely beyond its normal proportions by a dam of unusual height, and, as someundertook to prove by the laws of mechanics, of illegal proportions and construction. It was owned by a club of wealthy sportsmen, and used as a fishing-ground; and it was stated that the waste-gates, which the extra proportions and alleged unscientific construction of the dam made more than ever necessary, had been permanently stopped up, to prevent the escape of the fish; that the very building of the dam had been earnestly protested against; that the inhabitants of the valley had lived in constant terror of it; and that some months before the actual catastrophe it had been pronounced by skilled engineers in a dangerous condition. But the lake had also been used as a reservoir to supply the town which had suffered most heavily from its breaking bounds; and some were inclined to cast a part of the blame upon the authorities there; but it was a question whether in this matter they could have taken any measures, which would have been at all sufficient, without the consent of the club; since the dam could only have been thoroughly repaired after draining off the water, and at great cost.
“And of course in the height of the fishing season letting off the water was not to be dreamed of,” was the angry murmur; “for what to a club of millionnaires were the lives of a few thousand factory hands, compared with the enjoyment of their favorite sport?”
There were not wanting, either, allusions to the feeding of the carp in the Roman fish-ponds, which, it was darkly hinted, preceded by not soverymany years the fall of the Roman empire.
Against this spirit Ernest Clare felt it imperative to make all the stand possible. It was in itself but a trickle, yet it threatened a more terrible inundation than that of Cannomore, and he was ready, if necessary, to stop the leak with his own body.
“These are but newspaper reports,” be said. “No one knows, or can know, where lies the blame, until a thorough investigation has been held, which will not be possible for some time yet. And, even then, human justice is not infallible, and this is a matter of which it will be difficult to take an impartial view. Leave the question of retribution in the hands of God; you have enough to do in helping those who have suffered.”
“Ah!” said Karl Metzerott, “if there were a God, and He’ddoit, I’d ask nothing better.”
“See here, my friend,” said Mr. Clare, “suppose each and every member of that club to be as culpable as you believe him; would you exchange with him? his money and his guilt against your honest poverty and self-respect?”
“By ——! I’d see him in —— first!” was the reply.
“Then you are better off than he, as you deserve to be, and Godisdoing right by both of you,” said Mr. Clare.
“Do you suppose Henry Randolph would exchange withme?” was the scornful question.
“I have no opinion to offer about Mr. Randolph,” said Ernest Clare, “except, which indeed is not an opinion but a fact, that notwithstanding his very heavy losses by this flood, both here and at Cannomore, he has given more liberally to the Relief Fund than any other man in Micklegard.”
“And so he ought!” growled the shoemaker.
It may be imagined that such arguments did not alter the feeling in the shoemaker’s heart, though, no doubt, the clergyman’s influence worked powerfully to prevent the fire from spreading. But what was a real surprise to Mr. Clare was to find Pastor Schaefer openly in the ranks of his adversaries, and waving the banner of insurrection!
Mr. Clare now prayed and preached in the hall every Sunday night, and all the Emperor’s power was insufficientto prevent him, since the president and a majority of the board of managers were on the side of peace and order. The Herr Pastor meanwhile seemed to have picked up the other’s cast-off mantle; for he came out strongly in favor of Communism, which he found plenty of texts to justify, failing not to lay great stress on the sudden deaths of Ananias and Sapphira, the first renegades from that early Commune. And though he duly ascribed these to the hand of God, and even quoted “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord,” it was a material vengeance, which his hearers were quite able to appreciate, and, if need were, to imitate; therefore, it filled the church, and largely increased the pastor’s popularity.
Mr. Clare, however he might feel at having his own artillery thus turned against him,—or, rather, against the banner of the Prince of Peace,—gave no sign to the world; and, while he watched intently for an opportunity to conciliate his opponents, exhorted his followers to peace, with such words as “Love your enemies,” “Render unto Cæsar the things that be Cæsar’s,” and “The powers that be are ordained of God,” therefore their power can only be restricted or withdrawn by methods which are according to God’s will. And as His will is our individual sanctification, anything, any political measure,—such as bribery, conspiracy, or violence,—which tends to make individuals worse men rather than better, is not according to that will, and in the long-run is destructive of the very ends which it is supposed to promote.
There were not wanting instances from history to support this view, of which perhaps the strongest, next to the abolition of slavery in America, was the first, contrasted with the second, expulsion of the Stuarts from the throne of England. For he showed that, great as was Cromwell, and thorough as has been the victory in our times of theprinciples which he espoused, his mistaken method of advocating them, while it won a brief victory, secured as speedy a reverse. The beheading of Charles I. contained in itself the seed of the Restoration; but in 1688 the people had learned wisdom. The Seven Bishops unwittingly inaugurated a bloodless revolution when they preached, by word and example, the doctrine of passive resistance; and the dynasty then installed still holds possession of the English throne. “It is a great mistake in statecraft,” he ended, “to give a bad cause the advantage of a martyr.”
But it may be readily imagined that to men blinded by anger, and quivering from personal wrongs, such doctrines as these were eminently unpalatable. Even Father McClosky, though in public he stood by his friend stanchly, shook his head in private over the reference to James II., who was, he said, “a true son of the Church.”
Mr. Clare, however, admitted this point so immediately that the Father finally compromised upon the assurance—given and received by himself—that “many a big fool was in the bosom of Holy Church; but, sure, he’d be a bigger fool entirely if he wasn’t!”
One pleasant incident had broken the strain and stress of these days of trial. For more than forty-eight hours Micklegard had been cut off from the outside world. The railways were under water, the telegraph lines were down; the gas and water works were flooded; not a drop of milk was to be had, and a famine was threatened; but by prompt industry the last calamity was averted; and when a train at last rolled into the city, supplies had been gathered from “over the hills and far away,” to meet the demands, not only of home consumption, but also of the just arrived extra mouths.
The food question was naturally the all-important one at “Prices,” and in Miss Sally’s department, and was undergoinga thorough though informal discussion in that lady’s little sitting-room on the day of the arrival of the beforementioned train. The baby, whom Mr. Clare had rescued and Louis had brought home, contributed very decidedly to the informality of the proceedings, since he lay, peaceful and happy, upon the wide, calico-covered lounge, while Miss Sally, with the devoted air of a troubadour serenading his lady, ground out, from a very small, round music-box, held close at his ear, the mournful strains of “Home, sweet home!”
Nobody seemed to consider the situation at all a comical one. Karl Metzerott occupied his favorite position on the side of the table, and Polly was almost hidden by the huge account-book wherefrom she was reading the receipts and expenditures of the last week.
“The thing of it is, we’ve fed half of South Micklegard without charging a cent,” she concluded, “so, of course, we’ve lost by it considerable already, and the question is, how much longer we can keep the thing up.”
“You can’t let people starve,” said Miss Sally, looking round from her music.
“But now that the city is issuing rations”—
“Confound the city!” said Karl Metzerott. “Still, we can’t let our shareholders suffer; most of them have lost enough as it is. It might be best for me to see the mayor about that; and then, if we could call a general meeting of shareholders”—
But what this meeting was to have accomplished will never be known; for at this moment the shrill, wheezy strains of the music-box were taken up so softly and tenderly that it seemed an angel’s whisper rather than a mere mortal violin.
“Home, home, sweet, sweet home!Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home!”
“Home, home, sweet, sweet home!Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home!”
“Home, home, sweet, sweet home!Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home!”
“Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home!”
sang the violin, with soft exultation; while those within the room looked around amused, yet scarcely surprised, for violins were as plenty as blackberries in that community. But, when the measure became brisker, and the strain vividly exhortatory of a certain “Polly” to “put the kettle on,” in order that the company might “all take tea,” there was a sudden look of surprise, and—something else—on her namesake’s countenance, while Karl Metzerott roared in such stentorian tones that it was quite a mercy he didn’t wake the baby,—
“Franz Schaefer,bei Donder! Come in, you villain!”
So Franz—but was it indeed Franz who “came fiddling into the room”? twisting and turning about the jingling air with that magical bow of his, and tangling it so inextricably with Howard Payne’s immortal melody that it was easy to see how, to him, no place would be home where Polly didnotput the kettle on! If it were Franz, he had learned a language wherein his tongue was neither dull nor slow; but there was the same honest smile upon the face of the man of thirty that had once illuminated the countenance of the boy; and when he threw down his violin—or no! I misrepresent—even at that supreme moment, he laid it down as tenderly as a new-born baby—and then caught Polly in his arms and deliberately kissed her, she felt that it was still the boy’s true heart that beat against her own.
“Hurrah for the fellow who has learned to take his own part!” cried the Emperor; while Franz, without an idea of being witty, answered seriously, “In an orchestra, Mr. Metzerott, that is a very necessary thing!”
It soon transpired that he had by no means given up the position in the orchestra in B——, where he had made such an excellent reputation, though he confessed to an intention of returning to America when this same reputation shouldhave grown to such a height as to entitle him to a good place and fat salary under the Stars and Stripes. And that it was his intention that Polly should share the present honors of first violin and the possible future fatness, was as apparent as that she considered the difference of age at thirty and thirty-three by no means as absurd as it had seemed at eighteen and twenty-one.
It was all very natural, perfectly natural, Miss Sally said, with a sigh; wondering the while whom she could ever find to fill Polly’s place; so prompt, accurate, abhorrent of waste, even to a fault, and generally business-like as she had always been. And she was very patient with the reveries into which Polly now fell, even at the crucial period of the twelve-o’clock dinner,—with her calling of wrong tables, and attendants out of their proper order, whereby wrath and confusion were introduced into the kitchen department of “Prices;” and with her occasional mild oblivion as to the staying powers of a barrel of sugar and the sudden rise in the price of coffee.
In truth, Polly’s youth had come upon her suddenly and carried her off her feet; but, with this exception and her swain’s unusual constancy, there was nothing romantic or heroic about this pair of lovers. To sacrifice her happiness to the well-being of “Prices” was an idea for which Polly’s head had simply no room; and how very wide Franz would have opened his honest eyes at the notion that there might be nobler aims in life than the gain of a good place; or that his proposed fat salary could be considered by any one as robbed from some other fellow.
“Why don’t the other fellow play better than me?” Franz would have asked; and, if it had been pointed out to him that very possibly the other fellow might, he would have answered,—providing he could have been first convinced of this,—“But then, you see, he ain’t got the backbone!”
That one man should starve in a garret while another enjoyed a fat salary because of the superiority of his vertebral column was a part of the inequality of things which Franz could never have been brought to recognize in the abstract, though in the concrete he would have given his last crust to the “other fellow” without even stopping to divide it.
The world would fare ill without Franz and Polly, who, perhaps, add quite as much to the sum of human happiness as more self-devoted and far-seeing people. Indeed, in case of a clear duty, both can be sufficiently self-sacrificing; and though Franz will never believe the Commune is imminent until it is proclaimed from the Bartholdi statue to the Bay of ‘Frisco, yet, if he returns to America in time, he will, when any important questions are to be settled by the ballot, invariably vote on the right side.
They were married—of course, by Mr. Clare—in time to permit Franz’s return to take part in a musical festival in B——, and departed together, very happy, though amid some tears from Polly, promising to return in a few years at most.
CHAPTER III.PANSIES.
It was shortly before the wedding, during the prevalence of a “cool wave,” that Mr. Clare gave a “tea-party,” as Miss Sally called it. The “tea” consisted of coffee and small cakes, and the party was characterized by Dr. Richards, when he was invited to cast an eye over the list of guests, as likely to result as did the celebrated meeting of the Kilkenny cats. For it included not only Father McClosky, Pastor Schaefer, and the Rector of St. Andrew’s, but also a very High Church divine from North Micklegard who had recently got into trouble with his bishop by a too promiscuous use of certain technical phrases, a noted evangelist, and a Temperance lecturer. More than this number the room would not conveniently hold; and it must be admitted that, although they passed the time of day and discussed the recent flood as amicably as was to have been expected from men vowed to the service of humanity, there lurked in the corner of each reverend eye such a “say unto me Shibboleth,” that their host congratulated himself more than once upon the mollifying influence of the “cool wave,” and glanced appreciatingly at Father McClosky, who, strong in his hold upon the Rock of St. Peter, balanced his rotund person upon the hind-legs of his chair, and told anecdotes worthy of Joe Miller.
At last Mr. Clare, who had been rather grave and silent for some time, rapped slightly upon the table.
“My friends,” he said, “when I asked you to meet me here to-night, I mentioned my wish to discuss certain publicquestions, in a spirit of love and truth, with a number of representative men, who, as individuals, possess great influence over large constituencies. I will now add that these public questions have no reference to any theological dogma, or pious opinion that may be held or advocated by any of us; and, while I therefore am assured of greater unanimity than might otherwise be expected,”—here the orator smiled slightly,—“I hope for such diversity of view as may bring the truth most clearly to light.”
“Ye’re a set of black-hearted Protestants, all of ye,” said Father McClosky cheerfully; “but, sure, I’ve the coffee urn forninst me, and the blacker ye get, the more I’ll drink. So drive away, me boys, ’tis not meself will pay the piper.”
There was a general smile at this, and after a few references to possible vengeance wreaked by the coffee urn, in the form of dyspepsia, the High-Churchman courteously requested that Mr. Clare would state the questions upon which he desired their views.
“It is the cry of the day,” said Mr. Clare, “that Religion has lost her hold on the masses, and, among the educated classes, onmen; I wish to ask you, gentlemen, for your personal experience upon this matter, if you will be so kind; of course, with the understanding that every word shall be considered by all of us strictly confidential.”
“Well,myreligion is temperance,” said the lecturer, “and that hasn’t lost its hold on the masses, by a large majority. On the contrary, it is gaining ground every day.”
“I was prepared to hear you say so. Now may I ask what is the proportion—approximate, of course—between the number of men and women engaged in temperance work?”
“Why, the women are for us every time, except suchunfortunates as are themselves slaves of rum, a larger number than is generally believed, I regret to say, though there is no way of getting at the exact figures. And they are much more difficult to get hold of; in fact, if we look at the relative numbers of male and female drunkards—as near as we can estimate them—the proportion of those reformed will be about five to one. That is, of twenty male drunkards, known and unknown, and the same number of females, in the first case we might hope to reformall, in the second only four.”
Mr. Clare sighed. “Let us hope,” he said, “that a part, at least, of the sixteen, reform as they have sinned, in secret and unknown. And now,” he turned to the evangelist, “I suppose there is no doubt that your meetings are well attended?”
“Sometimes a cat could get her whiskers in,” replied that personage succinctly; “but there are plenty of backsliders.”
“And the proportion of men and women?”
“Well, some say there are—and some say there ain’t—several hundred thousand more women in the world than men, so naturally we have more at our meetings, and more women converts, but the proportion don’t go beyond what one might expect; and if more of ‘em are converted, fewer of ‘em backslide,” said the Evangelist.
There was a melancholy pause, then Father McClosky said with something of the expression of a dog that expects a beating,—
“I’ll speak next, and encourage ye. Phy is it, I don’t know, but there’s mighty fewmenthat comes aither to mass or confession nowadays, though the women are pretty faithful, the Blessed Mother be praised.”
“It is true,” said the High-Churchman; “the proportionis very discouraging: I have about six times as many female penitents as male.”
Father McClosky looked very quizzical just at this point; but, catching a pleading glance from his host, he helped himself to a cup of coffee, and left the floor to the rector of St. Andrew’s.
“My church has been very full of late,” he said, “and the increase has been chiefly men; the growth would be still more marked, I dare say,” he added, smiling, “if the expression of our host’s peculiar views were not restrained—muzzled, so to speak—out of deference to my feelings.”
He exchanged a glance of affectionate confidence with Ernest Clare, then the latter turned to Pastor Schaefer.
“It rests with you now to speak, Herr Pastor,” he said, “though I believe I know what your reply will be.”
“My church is full every Sunday,” said the pastor proudly, “and the men outnumber the women two to one.”
“And, I believe, formerly the proportions were reversed,” said Mr. Clare. “Gentlemen, my own experience has been similar to that of the Herr Pastor. When I began my ministry, I preached to congregations of women. This did not impress me as at all in order; for the Revelation of God was a revelation tomen; the Jewish Church was a church of men, the Bible was written for men, and Christianity was preached to men. Therefore, if it have now lost its hold upon them, it must be either that we men, as men, have undergone a radical change, or that the faith which once moved us is wrongly preached. Of course, an unbeliever would say that the world is outgrowing Christianity; but that women, as more conservative and less enlightened—as a class—than men, cling to it longest. But I am not addressing a party of unbelievers, but ofChristians, therefore we may dismiss that explanation at once.”
“But even though a man may not have outgrown his coat, yet if it has been fastened up behind by two or three heretical pins, he may not be able to put it on,” said Father McClosky innocently.
“Omitting the word heretical, which bears a different meaning to—perhaps—each of us, your conclusion was mine,” said Mr. Clare, smiling. “For I do not think, gentlemen, that human nature or even masculine nature has changed very much in the last eighteen hundred years.”
“It hasn’t changed materially since the days of Homer,” said the High-Churchman. “Love, war, and religion were the keys to it then. Love, competition, and money are the keys to it now.”
“That ain’t bad,” said the evangelist; “you wouldn’t mind my using that, would you? I could do more damage with it than you could.”
“You are most kind, and I am highly flattered,” said the High-Churchman.
“I’m kinder rusty on Homer,” said the lecturer, with a grin, “but I don’t think human nature has changed much since Jacob’s time. He took a deal of money in his, if I remember right, or cattle, which is much the same thing. Yet Jacob was a religious man, too; and the Jews were a religious people.”
“Their religion was slightly erratic at times, but no one can deny that they had plenty of it. Well, then, I suppose you all agree that the fault lies not in Christianity, or in the hearers of it, but in the manner of presenting it?”
“But whatisthe fault?” asked the rector of St Andrew’s earnestly.
“The form of religion which is gaining ground with themasses, and which is still the religion of men, is temperance,” said Mr. Clare. “Revivalists and evangelists, like our friend here, move the masses powerfully for a time, but, as he tersely expresses it, they backslide. Religious bodies, such as those which the rest of us represent, arelosing—let us admit the truth that we may amend our mistake—are losing ground with the masses as a whole, and with the men of the educated classes, every day of our lives.”
“I fear you are right,” said the High-Churchman, sighing, “though missions and street-preaching have done a good deal; but, as you say, they backslide. We cangetthem, but the thing is tokeepthem.”
“Exactly. Now, not to speak of the earliest ages of Christianity, religion still had some power when St. Leo saved Rome and the barbarian invaders bowed their heads to receive baptism! And in the Middle Ages”—
“The Ages of Faith!” sighed the High-Churchman.
“The Ages of Superstition and priestcraft,” cried the rector of St. Andrew’s.
“The Ages when Religion stood in the forefront of the battle for freedom and enlightenment,” said Mr. Clare. “Who drained the marshes and made the waste places fruitful? The monks! Who stood as protector between master and slave, oppressor and oppressed? The Church! Who were doctors, lawyers, teachers, musicians, and architects? The clergy, religious and secular. Then, as a result of their own very work, some of these ‘professions,’ as we still call them, passed into the hands of the laity; that is, those who studied medicine could find facilities for so doing elsewhere than in the cloister.”
“And the monks became jealous,” said the rector of St. Andrew’s.
“Their human nature was the same as ours,” was the reply; “besides, they really considered human learningsomething so dangerous in itself that it ought to be exercised only under the mighty protection of the Church. We must remember that the Cross was stamped upon what we still call a crucible, to protect it from the demons who guarded the secrets of nature, if we would understand the imprisonment of Friar Bacon. The less pious the experimenter, the more dangerous the experiment: and even the most religious trembled for his soul in drawing a pentagon, or setting free those dangerous creatures which we still call geists, ghosts, orgases.”
“The more fools they,” said the Lecturer.
“But, considering the faith of the scientific world now, are ye sure they were entirely wrong?” asked the Father.
“When oxygen and nitrogen produce water, or right doing produces a wrong effect, I shall be sure they were entirelyright,” replied Mr. Clare. “But we wander from our subject. Take the time of the Religious Wars. Had religion lost its powerthenover the masses?”
“The religion of Rome had, over a large part of them,” said the Pastor.
“Because the religion of Rome had become a drag on progress, instead of its banner-bearer,” said Mr. Clare.
Father McClosky took another cup of coffee. Mr. Clare glanced at him with a slight smile, and took up his subject a little farther on.
“Look at the English Revolution under Cromwell, and the times which immediately succeeded it. Neither religion nor its ministers were powerless to move the masses then.”
“But phwat’s your conclusion?” asked Father McClosky, with some irritation. “Give us the conclusion, and we can find out the premises ourselves.”
“You’ll feel better by and by, Bryan,” said his friend, laughing, “and in what I have to say now we’re all in thesame box, except that your church has rather the advantage. I believe, gentlemen, that the reason Religion has lost her hold on the masses is because, though not exactly a drag, she certainly no longer leads the van of progress. Why, it has even become a sort of reproach that such a man introduces politics into his pulpit! As if politics were not to the State what religion is to the individual!”
“Good!” said the temperance lecturer.
“But, my dear friend,” said the rector of St. Andrew’s gently, “you know we have already agreed that our congregations consist chiefly of women! Now, what would be the practical use of preaching high or low tariff, or free trade, to a set of non-voters? while, as for the men, even if they came to hear us, and considered a parson’s opinions worthy of anything more than silent contempt,—why, I really fear that the only effect we should produce would be that of a disgraceful row.”
“I should say so!” replied Mr. Clare, laughing; “but, my dear rector, the subjects you suggest belong to a past age of the world. You might as well spend your time in refuting the errors of the Donatists or Sabellians as to preach either tariff—high or low—or free trade. The issues are deeper now.”
“I really cannot see it,” said the rector.
“No; I fear we have not absorbed all the lessons of the Cannomore disaster,” replied Mr. Clare quietly.
“I have been much impressed lately,” said the High-Churchman, who had evidently been feeling around in his mind for the key of this enigma, “by the increasing frequency of the allusions in current literature to an imminent social revolution. Is that what you mean?”
“You do well to use the word imminent,” returned the other gravely.
“But you would not, surely, have us preachthat!”
“If we don’t, I fear it will preach to us,” said Mr. Clare.
“Well, to be sure, we all know your views,” said the evangelist, “and I guess most of us suspected what you were driving at; but I’ve converted too many to be an easy convert myself. You’ve got to prove it every time.”
“Prove what? the reality of the danger?”
“Well, no!” said the lecturer, “I admit the danger now and here. A government that licenses the sale of poison has got to fall, sooner or later, if God Almighty is the Ruler of heaven and earth.”
“IsHe the Ruler of earth?” asked Mr. Clare.
“Well! He rules over a set of awful rebels, I admit,” replied the lecturer.
“Then, see here, my friend; while you are blaming the government for failing to exercise a power that it doesn’t possess, don’t you feel that you waste time? Wouldn’t it be wiser and more economical of nervous force to give the power to the government first, and then require its exercise?”
“But how are you going to do it?” asked the lecturer.
“I don’t think that is the next question,” observed the High-Churchman; “you should ask first, how would government exercise such power if it possessed it?”
“Government can and does, at need, absolutely forbid the sale of liquors in a military camp,” said Mr. Clare; “and if the entire Union were one vast camp, garrisoned by an industrial army, working for and paid by government”—
“By George!” said the temperance lecturer.
“Now, to the rest of you,” said Mr. Clare, smiling at the lecturer’s sudden “satisfaction,” “I can present what I wish to say most succinctly, by reading a series of extracts from Lange’s ‘History of Materialism.’ The authority isa good one, and ought to weigh with us the more strongly because the author is—or was—not a nominal Christian.”
“But I do not agree with you!” cried the pastor, who had until now been completely silenced by Irish and American loquacity. “I cannot, as a Christian pastor, accept the authority of an infidel”—
“Not even when he agrees with you?” asked Mr. Clare, and began to read before the other could reply.
“‘The present state of things has often been compared with that of the ancient world before its dissolution.... We have the immoderate growth of riches, we have the proletariat, we have the decay of morals and religion; the present forms of government all have their existence threatened, and the belief in a coming general and mighty revolution is widely spread and deeply rooted.’
“Nor,” said Mr. Clare, “need we look for our Goths and Vandals only among the whites. It is my firm belief that only the establishment of a Commune can save us from a race war, the most deadly and terrible the world has ever seen. But to continue:—
“‘It is very probable that the energetic, even revolutionary efforts of this century to transform the form of society in favor of the poor and down-trodden masses, are very intimately connected with New-Testament ideas, though the champions of these efforts feel themselves bound in other respects to oppose what is nowadays called Christianity. History affords us a voucher for this idea in the fusion of religious and communistic ideas in the extreme left of the reformation movement of the sixteenth century.’”
“But what did Count Zinzendorff and his dear Moravians know of Communism, unless they learned it from the convents and the Church at large?” asked Father McClosky.
“Or the Book of Acts and the Bible at large,” said hisfriend. “Nevertheless, my dear Bryan, you are quite right. We have had to thank the religious orders for many things already. It is quite probable that the next generation will learn in their school histories that the ideal of Communism, ‘Nihil habentes; omnia possidentes,’ was kept alive in the cloister until the world was ready for it. The next extract deserves our very best attention, gentlemen.
“‘If it comes to the dissolution of our present civilization, it will hardly be that any existing church, and still less Materialism, will succeed to the inheritance; but from some unsuspected corner will emerge some utter absurdity, like the Book of Mormon, or Spiritualism, with which the justified ideas of the epoch will fuse themselves, to found a new centre of universal thought, to last, perhaps, for thousands of years.’”
“Theosophy?” said the High-Churchman, laughing, as the reader paused.
“I should be sorry to see theosophy raise the banner of Socialism, I confess,” said Mr. Clare. “Flimsy as it is, with its attempts at natural science, it advocates a pure morality, and has already proclaimed the Brotherhood of Man. Let it now come forward as the champion of the poor, and the masses will flock to it.”
“But, phy not,” asked the priest, “av it is so pure and moral as ye say?”
“It may seem to contradict my own principle, which is to welcome truth, wherever and however it be found,” said Mr. Clare; “but I don’t deprecate any influence that will make a man moral; I merely deprecate the occupation of the throne by any but the rightful heir. But we shall come to that presently. Let me read you a little more.
“‘There is but one means to meet the alternative of this revolution, or of a dim stagnation....Ideasand sacrifices may yet save our civilization, and transform thepath that leads through desolating revolutions into a path of beneficent reforms.... Even to-day, again, a new religious community might, by the power of its ideas and the charm of its social principles, conquer a world by storm.... Whether even out of the old confessions such a stream of new life might proceed, or whether conversely a religionless community could kindle a fire of such devouring force, we do not know. One thing, however, is certain. If the New is to come into existence and the Old is to disappear, two great things must combine,—a world-kindling ethical idea, and a social influence which is powerful enough to lift the depressed masses a great step forward. Sober reason, artificial systems, cannot do this. The victory over disintegrating egoism and the deadly chilliness of the heart will only be won by a great Ideal, which appears amongst the wondering peoples as a “stranger from another world,” and by demanding the impossible unhinges the reality!
“‘Often already has an epoch of materialism been but the stillness before the storm, which was to burst forth from unknown gulfs, and give a new shape to the world.... The social question stirs all Europe, a question on whose wide domain all the revolutionary elements of science, of religion, and of politics seem to have found the battleground for a great and decisive contest. Whether this battle remains a bloodless conflict of minds, or whether, like an earthquake, it throws down the ruins of a past epoch with thunder into the dust, and buries millions beneath the wreck, certain it is that the new epoch will not conquer unless it be under the banner of a great idea, which sweeps away egoism, and sets human perfection in human fellowship as a new aim, in place of restless toil, which looks only to personal gain.’
“That banner of a great idea,” said Mr. Clare, “shouldit not bear the figure of the seventh angel, the sounding of whose trumpet was followed by great voices in heaven, saying ‘The kingdom of the world is become the kingdom of our Lord and of His Christ; and He shall reign for ever and ever!’ Gentlemen, do you ask a stronger lever whereby to move the masses?”
There was a pause, then the High-Churchman said slowly, “You are an enthusiast, Mr. Clare, and enthusiasm is an exceedingly valuable quality when used on the right side. But, though, of course, you are not conscious of it, you talk very like a demagogue. One would wish, and we of the clergy give our lives, that all should be brought into the fold; but not for the sake of the loaves and fishes.”
“Does sheep ate fish?” asked Father McClosky with a look of inquiring innocence; but Mr. Clare frowned him into silence, and answered quickly,—
“The crying defect—perhaps I should say the worst heresy—of our day is, that it divides Christ. He is, we are told, perfect man and perfect God; but in practice we clergy, and Christians generally, represent Him as God only, leaving the beauty of His manhood, the religion of humanity, to those who deny His Godhead.”
“I don’t think I quite understand you,” said the High-Churchman.
“If you find a family starving,” said Mr. Clare, “you, as a man, relieve them to the extent of your last penny, and call upon your congregation to help. It is true that you do this because He says, ‘Inasmuch as ye do it unto these, ye do it unto me;’ but if the poor people themselves ask, ‘Why does God let us suffer when there is so much wealth in the world, and He is Almighty?’ you reply, ‘My dear friends, we must not dispute God’s decrees. He makes some men rich and others poor, and He doth all things well. But He feeds all with the bread of heavenwho call upon Him, and when you come to that land where we shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more, He shall wipe away all tears from off all faces.’”
The High-Churchman laughed good-humoredly. “In that connection it sounds very like a satire, or would, to the starving family,” he said. “But it is sound doctrine for all that, Mr. Clare.”
“It has saved the world for nearly nineteen centuries,” said Mr. Clare. “Yet the inevitable deduction of the starving family would be, either that God understood nothing of human needs and desires, or that, however good His meaning and intentions, His power was limited.”
“But things of earth are as dust to Him,” said the rector of St. Andrew’s. “It is the things of heaven that are permanent and real. What will be to us a little more or less hunger or sorrow or cold or nakedness, when we awake up satisfied, after His likeness?”
Mr. Clare regarded the speaker with a glance of reverent tenderness. “Most true,” he said gently, “and therefore you never give to any temporal needs?”
“You’ve got him there,” said the evangelist. “Well, I see what you mean, Mr. Clare, but Idon’tsee what you are going to do about it. Now, I, for one, don’t think Socialism a practicable thing; I may wish it was, but I think it ain’t; so do you expect me to preach a kingdom that I don’t believe would run two months?”
“People said that our present form of government was impracticable,” replied Mr. Clare, “and there were many prophecies as to the length of time it would last.”
“Prophecies which you want to fulfil?”
“By no means. Sudden and sweeping changes are exactly what I deprecate; but when a form of government has once taken root, I don’t see any objection to its bearing leaf, flower, and fruit. I hope we shall always have aUnited States and a President thereof; though I might wish for a few more amendments to the Constitution.”
“All right,” said the evangelist. “Which am I to preach about first?”
“Whichever you most strongly believe to be right and just. For instance, take the trusts and syndicates; do you believe they are pleasing to your King and mine?”
“Well, you know, trusts—why, you can’t have progress without the freedom of the individual; and the freedom of the individual sometimes leads to some other individual being robbed and murdered.”
“That’s all the answer I want,” said Mr. Clare, laughing. “Well, then, our railroads and telegraph lines,—are they managed as they would be by a company of angels?”
“There are angels andangels,” said the evangelist.
“Are the profits arising from manufactures, etc., equitably divided between labor and capital?”
“That depends on your notion of equity, and who does the dividing.”
“Then it seems to me,” said Mr. Clare, “that you have a very fair collection of subjects for sermons on hand, in all of which our Lord Jesus, both as a man and as King of the whole earth, takes a deep and practical interest.”
“But,” said the High-Churchman, “Imight preach such things, Mr. Clare, for I have no wife and children dependent on me; and, as for our friends here,”—he indicated the evangelist and the lecturer,—“the multitudes would flock to hear them. But there is many a poor preacher would starve if he acted as you would have him; for, remember, the laity hold the purse-strings.”
“Let him starve, then, in God’s name,” said Mr. Clare passionately; “have we not just heard how the things of earth are as dust beside the things of heaven? And ifthe first kingdom has its martyrs, shall not also the second? But I do not believe,” he went on more quietly, “that such a course, whatever loss or want it might entail, whatever sacrifices of one’s own personal likings and idiosyncrasies, would involve absolute starvation. The money is notallin the pockets of the capitalists as yet, and a man who lost one pulpit would find another, poorer, perhaps, but more powerful. Besides, what I want—the only thing of real use—is not a sermon here or there, but a general advance all along the line; a proclamation by the divines of every shade of opinion that God Almighty takes an interest in politics.”
“It would be an evangelical alliance worth having,” said the High-Churchman.
“It would be a power,” said Mr. Clare.
“The clerical vote, if it were solid, would be worth buying up,” said the lecturer. And the evangelist added, “But what steps would you take to organize your new alliance, and what would you call it?”
“Oh! don’t accuse me of trying to found a party,” said Mr. Clare. “I have no idea of the kind, I assure you; neither party nor partisans.Myparty is ‘all those who love the Lord Jesus Christ in sincerity;’ my emblem is the Cross; and the counter-sign, ‘Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.’”
“I’m glad you don’t want to wave the red flag,” said the lecturer; “the old Stars and Stripes are good enough for me.”
“Long may they wave,” said Mr. Clare. “No. I don’t feel drawn towards the red flag; it is too distinctive, and would be a beacon rather than a standard to most people. If I were to change my colors at all,” he went on, smiling, “though I hope never to do so, I should adopt these.”
He took up a china flower-pot, very prettily decoratedby Annie Rolf’s own hand, wherein were growing large, richly colored purple and gold pansies.
“The gold of love and the purple of self-devotion—of martyrdom at need,” he said.