"And, with the morn, those angel-faces smileWhich I have loved long since, and lost awhile—"
"And, with the morn, those angel-faces smileWhich I have loved long since, and lost awhile—"
the clergyman's gaze, as the observant Mr. Pomeroy noticed, grew strangely dreamy, as if he were absorbed by the influences of the song. He seemed to be seeing some inward vision, with pain in it as well as pleasure; and on the cessation of the music, he started as if awakened from a spell. Just then, the door opened, and a maid looked in to know if Mrs. Blanchard could tell when the doctor would be home.
"No, I'm sure I don't know," was the reply. "I thought he was back in the surgery by this time. Is it any one in a hurry?"
"Yes, it's a young gentleman wid a note, as wants him right off," said the girl, a new servant, unaccustomed as yet to the exigencies of a doctor's household.
"Oh," said Miss Blanchard, rising hastily from the piano, "I suppose it's some one from Mr. Easton's, for the medicine that Will told me about. I was to see him and give him a particular message. Excuse me, Mr. Chillingworth, I won't be long."
The clergyman seemed still preoccupied, and did not join in the talk of the others while she was gone. In a few minutes she returned, her cheek glowing and her eye bright with some new interest.
"What's the matter, Nora?" said Mrs. Blanchard, looking at her with some surprise.
"Oh," she replied, hurriedly, "it's a messenger from Mr. Alden, wanting Will at once, for a very sad case—a poor young woman who seems dying of bronchitis and exhaustion. And she has no one with her but a child. I think I must go myself, for I know quite well what to do. I didn't nurse Auntie through bronchitis last winter for nothing! I can take some fluid-beef and make her a little beef-tea, at any rate. And I know where there is some of the medicine Will prescribed for Auntie."
"Oh, dear! Iwishyou weren'tquiteso philanthropic. I don't like to let you go, but—I suppose you must, now you've taken up the idea. And if Mr. Alden knows about it, it must be all right. Will can go as soon as he's had dinner, and bring you back. I'll keep some dinner for you. I hope it isn't far, though."
"Oh, no, not very," replied Miss Blanchard. "I'm sorry to seem rude in leaving you all," she added, smiling, "but you see, if one doesn't go out to be a nurse, one must not let slip the opportunities Mr. Chillingworth was talking of just now."
"Certainly! It is most praiseworthy," said that gentleman, "and if you'll allow me, I shall be most happy to be your escort."
Mr. Pomeroy had come forward at the same moment with a similar request. But Miss Blanchard courteously declined both, saying that Mr. Alden's messenger would be escort enough.
"And I shall leave the address, as well as I can, on the surgery-slate," she added, "and Will can drive down when he's ready. I've no doubt the poor thing needs nourishment more than medicine. Of course I'll take some spirits with me, too," she added. "I believe it was that saved Auntie, little as she likes to admit it."
"Well, don't go taking bronchitis yourself," said her sister-in-law. "Mind you wrap up well, for it's raw and cold, as Mr. Pomeroy says."
"Oh, yes, don't be afraid!" said Nora brightly, as, with many regrets on the part of her friends, she left the pleasant, luxurious apartment.
"I believe," said Mrs. Blanchard, as the door closed after her and Eddie, who went to see her off, "that Nora wouldn't feel at home here, without some sick people to visit and look after. You see she always goes about everywhere with Aunt Margaret, in Rockland. Aunt Margaret's a regular Sister of Mercy, without a uniform, and Nora has always taken to going with her quite naturally. You know, Rockland's such a quiet little place, that there's hardly anything else to do in winter. That's one reason why I wanted Nora to spend the winter with us, for once, and see something different. She has been with Aunt Margaret so long that she has taken up all her ideas and ways."
"Then, Aunt Margaret must be a darling," said the enthusiastic Kitty, "for I am sure Nora is, if there ever was one! She and Janie Spencer are the best girls I know."
"It's nice to be one of Miss Farrell's friends," said Mr. Pomeroy. "I hope you do as well by me when I'm not there."
"You, indeed!" laughed Kitty, though she colored a little, or so thought Mr. Chillingworth, whose critical eye rested admiringly on the charmingpiquanteface with its delicate bloom, and the very fair hair, "thrown up" by an artistic Gainsborough hat of dark-blue velvet, with a long drooping feather. He was rather disconcerted by Miss Blanchard's sudden departure;—still there was no denying that Miss Kitty Farrell made a very charming picture, and, as Mr. Chillingworth was fond of saying to himself, "beauty has its uses."
"Well, they're gone!" announced Eddie, coming in presently.
"They—who?" asked his mother.
"Why, Aunt Nora, and the—man," said Eddie, slowly. He was going to say "the gentleman," but as he always heard his father talk of "men," he was trying to imitate him.
"Oh! the man Mr. Alden sent, I suppose. I hope he's all right," she added, a little uneasily. "But, of course he came for Doctor Blanchard himself," she continued, reassured.
"Oh, he's a real nice man!" said Eddie. "Ilike him. He talked to me while Auntie was getting the things ready. I hope he'll come here again!"
"Eddie is always taking such funny fancies!" said Mrs. Blanchard. "I'll have to ask Nora about this unknown cavalier."
Mr. Chillingworth's brow contracted—he scarcely knew why. He was sorry, now, that he had not more strongly pressed his escort on Miss Blanchard. He did not like the idea of her traversing the streets after dark, attended by an unknown "man" who had made himself so agreeable to Eddie. But it couldn't be helped now.
It was strange, after all, how much of the life and charm seemed to have gone out of the little party with Nora's departure—for she was not a great talker herself. Meantime she was on her way to her unknown patient, while her guide carried her basket, and, so far as he could, answered her questions about the poor woman in whom her interest had been so suddenly awakened.
When Roland Graeme's inquiry regarding the time of the doctor's return was answered by the entrance of a tall and graceful young lady, he naturally supposed her to be the doctor's wife. He met her with his usual frank and ready courtesy, addressing her as "Mrs. Blanchard, I presume?"—apologizing for the trouble he had given her, and describing briefly, but graphically, the condition of the patient on whose behalf he had come, as Mr. Alden's messenger.
Miss Blanchard, on her side, was surprised at encountering, in Roland Graeme's unusual type of face and expression, with the clear, candid, gray-blue eyes, so different an individual from the one she had expected to find waiting in the surgery. She expressed no surprise, however, but quietly corrected his mistake in addressing her, and, after listening attentively to his statement, added, after a moment or two of thought:
"As we don't know just when my brother will be in, I think I had better go with you myself, in the meantime; not that I pretend to any medical skill, but I have nursed a relative through an attack of bronchitis, and could take some things with me that I know would do her good."
Roland thanked her warmly, regarding her more attentively than he had done while absorbed in stating his errand. He could not help noticing the earnest and sympathetic expression of the dark-blue eyes, the fair forehead with its natural curve of dark-brown hair, untortured by "crimps," and the sweetness of the smile that seemed just to hover about the flexible mouth, as she—half-apologetically—made the unexpected offer. She was gone in a moment, and then his attention was monopolized by Eddie, who, with childish curiosity had followed his "Auntie," and with whom he had a delightful talk while awaiting the return of the doctor's volunteered substitute. For, to Roland Graeme, children were always delightful, doubtless because of the childlike element in his own nature.
But Miss Blanchard soon returned, ready for her expedition, with a small basket on her arm, of which Roland speedily relieved her, as they passed on through the now lighted streets, full of work-people returning from their daily toil. Roland, with the old-fashioned courtesy in which he had been trained, offered the young lady his arm—an offer which she courteously declined, with a touch of somewhat stately dignity. It was clear, indeed, that the firm elastic step needed no support. They walked on rapidly, Miss Blanchard asking more questions about their patient than Roland could answer, only explaining briefly that he and Mr. Alden had found her out, accidentally, through the child's appeal.
"Is it not sad," she said, taking a long breath, "how many such cases there must be around us that we never know? It puzzles me often to understand how such things can be."
"It's positively maddening, sometimes!" said Roland, irrepressibly breaking into the subject that was generally nearest his heart; "especially when one sees the cool, selfish indifference, with which so many people actually shut their eyes to these things; how they even help, so far as they are able, to crush their fellows down and to keep them down!"
"Why, how?—who would do that?" she asked.
"Employers are doing it all the time, and the rich employers are the worst. I suppose that is one reason why theyarerich! But if they did not generally keep their rates of payment down to the minimum they can get men and women to take, there could not be such hard, grinding poverty. The truth is, a large proportion of our laboring classes are always living next door to starvation, and if sickness or want of work comes, it is next door no longer!"
"That seems very strange to me," said Miss Blanchard, thoughtfully. "I have lived all my life in Rockland, a quiet little place among the hills;—where everybody knows everybody else, and where our one or two employers think it their duty to know all the circumstances of all their workers, and are always ready to help them on, and to tide them over a difficulty."
"Yes, that's beautiful!" said Roland. "I know there are such noble exceptions—and they are especially likely to occur in small places, where the fierce tide of competition for wealth and luxury isn't so irresistible, and people seem to have some humanity left! Here, in Minton, where I haven't been so very long, I know numbers of cases where people are living on what I call starvation wages—especially women. You see, operatives are so apt to leave everything to selfish managers, whose main object is to please the firm, and these managers are often guilty of positive inhumanity. There now," he said, as they passed a large building gleaming with long rows of lighted windows, from whose entrance a stream of young women was pouring forth; "there's a place where too many things are done, contrary to all sound principles of justice and humanity. The operatives are made simply working-machines, obliged to work more hours than any young woman should be allowed to do; miserably paid, and exposed to petty tyrannies enough to take out of their life any little comfort they might have in it."
"Whose place is it?" she asked.
"Pomeroy & Company's silk and woolen mills."
"Why, I know young Mr. Pomeroy very well!" exclaimed Miss Blanchard; "and his mother, Mrs. Pomeroy, is a very good woman! I'm sure they can't know about such things!"
"They probably then don't try to know," he replied. "That's the great trouble. The heads of such places are so fully occupied with the business part of their concerns, that they have no time to think of the people by whom the business is made."
As they passed the building, they came up with two of the girls who were standing engrossed in earnest conversation.
"Don't go, Nelly!" they heard one say to the other. "It won't come to no good, any way, and Jim would be that vexed, if he knew!"
"Oh, I guess he'd live to get over it," laughed the other. "Don'tyoubother about it, Liz!" And she turned toward them, as they passed, a pretty, pert face, beneath a mass of elaborately frizzed hair, and a very tawdry hat.
"Those poor girls!" Miss Blanchard remarked, as soon as they were out of hearing. "How little real interest or pleasure there must be in their lives! How it makes one wish that we, who have so many pleasant things in ours, could do something to brighten theirs!"
"Yes, indeed," replied Roland. "I've often thought about that, and people do try more than they did—in that way. But so long as the work hours are so protracted and so exhausting, you can't make life much brighter for them, do what you will. It's one of my ambitions to do something toward securing shorter hours all round. I believe every one would gain by it in the end."
"Yes, I suppose it is pretty hard to have such a long day of steady work at one thing—especially for girls. I am afraid I shouldn't like to have to do it," said Miss Blanchard, with a sigh.
"But, then, it doesn't do to judge altogether by the outside," rejoined her companion, in a more cheery tone. "I suppose, after all, 'Ilka blade o' grass has its ain drap o' dew.' The greater wickedness is," he added, "when heartless fools try to squeeze the one 'drap o' dew' out of it! But here's our destination."
They found Mr. Alden seated on the one broken chair, near the miserable pallet. The child lay curled up beside her mother, fast asleep. The invalid seemed somewhat revived, and able to talk a little. She fixed her eyes on Miss Blanchard, as she entered, with a strange, wild, almost hunted expression, which rather startled her visitor. Miss Blanchard's gentle, kindly greeting, with Mr. Alden's introduction, seemed to reassure her a little, however, and she swallowed a portion of the soothing medicine that Miss Blanchard had brought for relieving her harassing cough. Then the young lady produced a tiny spirit-lamp from her basket, and soon had prepared a little cup of hot beef-tea, doing it all with a quick and ready lightness that showed her to be quite at home in work of this kind. Mr. Alden and Roland felt themselves to be supernumeraries at once. The latter, indeed, after offering the young lady some scarcely needed assistance in her arrangements, began to think that it was time for him to retire, when a step was heard on the stairs, and a young girl entered, carrying a cup of tea. She hesitated a moment in surprise at the unexpected sight of the strangers, dimly seen by the light of the one poor lamp. Miss Blanchard thought she recognized the pale, eager face of the girl who had begged "Nelly" "not to go," as they had passed the two standing under the lamp-post. She was sure of it, when the girl approached the invalid, scarcely looking at the visitors, and said, in the same deaf penetrating tone:
"Well, Mrs. Travers, how do you feel yourself to-night?"
"A little better now, thank you, Lizzie, but I have been so ill to-day! I thought I was dying a while ago, and Cissy went out and brought back this gentleman, and he has been so kind!"
She spoke in a soft musical English voice, decidedly the voice of a lady, Mr. Alden thought. Then turning to him, she said, with some energy:
"This is my best friend! She has been so good to me—sat up with me at night after working all day! I'd have been dead before now, if it hadn't been for her."
Miss Blanchard, as she bent over the patient, with a cup of beef-tea which she was administering by teaspoonfuls, looked up at the new-comer, with a light of softened admiration in her expressive eyes, which recalled to Roland Graeme, as he chanced to catch it, the memory of his enjoyment of the Sistine Madonna, at Dresden, on a brief visit he had made to Europe. He had not thought of calling Miss Blanchard beautiful, nor did he now; still there was something, either in feature, or expression, or both, that reminded him of the most beautiful and spiritual of Raffaelle's Madonnas. He looked at the poor working-girl, however, with scarcely less of admiration in his honest eyes—little as there was of beauty in the pale, thin face, without any advantage of dress to make up for the defects of contour and coloring.
The invalid, with the wilfulness of illness, insisted on putting aside the broth for the cup of tea that Lizzie had brought her.
"You see, she's used to it," Lizzie said, apologetically. "I always bring her a cup of tea and a bit of toast before I take my own supper, and she likes it."
"Well," said Mr. Alden, "I ought to be going home, if I can't do anything more here; but I don't like leaving you alone till your brother comes, Miss Blanchard. Perhaps this good friend of Mrs. Travers wouldn't mind coming back when she has had her supper, and staying with you till your brother comes, or I return, which I shall do, in any case."
"I am going to stay here all night, Mr. Alden," said Miss Blanchard, decidedly.—"I shall be only too glad to relieve you," she said to Lizzie, who was looking at her in surprise. "It's too much for you, when you can't rest in the daytime, as I can easily do; and I don't mind being alone, Mr. Alden! However, if you will be more satisfied——"
"Indeed, miss," Lizzie eagerly interposed, "I'll be back in ten minutes, and stay with you as long as you like. It's so good of you to say you'll stay all night! I don't mind it generally, but to-night I am dead tired."
And she looked it.
Mr. Alden insisted on Roland's going home with him to tea, as he was so far from his own quarters; and, as soon as Lizzie had returned, they took their departure. Miss Blanchard begged that Mr. Alden would not return that evening, as her brother would soon be there to give her all necessary directions, and Mr. Alden could see him later as to what it would be best to do for the patient. She bade Roland, also, a cordial good-night, which he as cordially returned; thinking, with some regret, how little likely it was that he should have any opportunity of improving an acquaintance which, brief as it had been, had already strongly interested him.
"Miss Blanchard is one of my special admirations," said Mr. Alden, smiling, as they walked on together. "She's an uncommon type, and has been brought up in a very different atmosphere from Minton society. A quiet, refined country home, time and training for thought and study, good literature to grow up among, a wide-minded, philosophical father of the old school, and an aunt with the soul of a saint and the active benevolence of a Sister of Charity; it is no wonder that Nora Blanchard is a sort ofrara avisamong girls."
"You believe in heredity then, sir, and in environment?" said Roland.
The clergyman looked at him keenly, but with a genial smile. "Certainly," he said; "I believe in both, but I believe also in something else, that is not either; and in this lies the difference between my philosophy and that of the people who are so bent on makingautomataof us all. They always seem to me to give, in their own persons, a most apt illustration of the lines,
"'Unless above himself he canErect himself, how poor a thing is man!'"
"'Unless above himself he canErect himself, how poor a thing is man!'"
"Yes," replied Roland, "I believe we were meant to aspire. 'Excelsior' seems the motto of the universe."
"And a good motto, too! But here we are." And stopping at his own door, he admitted Roland and himself with his latch-key.
The light and warmth of Mr. Alden's hospitable home, with the rippling laughter of children's merry voices, seemed to Roland in delightful contrast with the raw, cold December evening without, as well as with the depressing influence of the miserable apartment they had just left. The father's return was greeted with joyous shouts from the little ones, and Roland was speedily included in the warm welcome. A bounteously spread tea-table, with its pretty pot of ferns in the centre, was awaiting Mr. Alden's arrival, and looked inviting enough to a young man who had been out in the chill air during most of the afternoon. The happy children's faces, the delicate and sweet-looking little mother, the freedom and unaffected gladness of the family life, strongly impressed Roland, and vividly recalled the associations of his own childhood. Grace, the helpful, eldest daughter, had, Roland thought, the sweetest, purest, sunniest face he had ever seen. The clear, frank eyes, with the light of a happy heart sparkling through their peaceful blue, the smile so sweet and sincere, the sunny, golden hair, and silvery, gleeful laugh, so childlike in its ring, fascinated him like a spell. No wonder, he thought, that the shadows cleared from Mr. Alden's thoughtful brow as soon as he crossed his own threshold. Yet, much of the family sunshine there was a reflection from Mr. Alden's own spirit. And, however the shadows of the world without might sometimes weigh on his own heart, he never allowed them to sadden his children, if he could help it. He was fond of exhorting his people to keep their children's childhood as happy as they could, without letting them grow selfish and heartless. And he would often quote Victor Hugo's expressive lines:
"Grief is a fruit God will not let growOn boughs too feeble to sustain its weight."
"Grief is a fruit God will not let growOn boughs too feeble to sustain its weight."
"Cultivate sympathy in your children," he would say, "but not so as to burden them prematurely"; and what he preached he practised. Meal-times were, for the children's sake, always bright and cheerful. Mr. Alden had the precious gift of humor, and it served him in good stead to balance a nature acutely sensitive to the pain, the ills and the discords of human life. He seldom failed to catch and bring home some little quaint or amusing experience, which, told as he could tell it, would provoke the good-natured laughter in which he believed, as one of the safety-valves of our nature. Frank, his eldest boy, Roland's first acquaintance in the family, inherited his father's tendency to see the humorous side of things, without, as yet, his counterbalancing depth of feeling; and so it often happened that the father and son together would set the little ones in a small uproar of laughter, which Mrs. Alden's love of propriety would often constrain her to try to keep in some sort of check. But it was no wonder that these children enjoyed their father's presence at meals, and missed it when he was absent.
After tea, the whole party adjourned to the parlor, which was purposely kept not too fine for the frequent incursions of the children. The younger ones rapidly improved their acquaintance with Roland, gathering close about him, reciting to him some of their pet rhymes, and examining him as to his acquaintance with their favorite stories. Fortunately he had read Grimm and Hans Andersen, and knew most of the stories that they had heard, over and over, from their father and Grace, who had caught up his knack of telling a story so as to be an acceptable substitute when "father" was too busy. Roland and they wereen rapportat once on the strength of his familiar acquaintance with "The Little Match Girl," "The Snow Maiden," "The Ugly Duckling," and "Prudent Elsie."
"Grace may be sorry they ever heard that," declared Frank, "for now she hears nothing but 'Prudent Elsie!' whenever she calls them back to put on their mufflers or overshoes."
"Oh, I don't mind!" said Grace, laughing. "I think "Prudent Elsie" a very nice name, isn't it, father, dear?"
Her father drew her close to him as she sat on the arm of his chair, with one hand resting caressingly on his shoulder.
"'Simple Susan' would suit you better, my dear; but 'what's in a name?'" he said, looking smilingly up into her bright face. "'A rose by any other name would smell as sweet!'"
"Come now, John," interposed Mrs. Alden, looking up from the little sock she was busily knitting; "I can't have you passing on to your daughter any of your old fine speeches to me."
"Infringing on your copyright, little mother?" he playfully returned, glancing fondly at the wife, who, Roland thought, must at Grace's age have looked a good deal like whatshedid, now.
Half an hour passed so quickly that Roland scarcely realized it. He was just beginning to fear that he might be inflicting his presence too long on the family circle, when Mr. Alden said:
"Now, Gracie, go to the piano! and you, youngsters, get your hymn-books. Mr. Graeme will excuse us, I know, if we go on with our little evening service." Then turning to Roland, he added: "We always have it at this hour, before the children grow sleepy."
Grace sat down at the piano, and in a clear young voice led the little choir, who had clustered around her, each eager to take part in the singing. Mr. Alden followed the hymn with a brief reading, and very simple prayer; and then the younger portion of the family said "Good-night," in due form. Roland, to whom these simple vespers had brought back vivid recollections from his own childhood, now thought it was time for him, also, to say "good-night" and take his departure.
"I will walk part of your way with you," said Mr. Alden. "I want to see Blanchard about what it is best to do for that poor young woman. He will be back by this time, I think. I hope he will advise her going to the hospital, where she will have proper care. She seems to have no one belonging to her but that poor child."
They walked together to Dr. Blanchard's, which was not very far from Roland's own quarters. Before they parted, Mr. Alden took down the young man's address. Then, holding his hand kindly, he said, "I should be glad to have you for a member of a certain little society for social reform, that I have lately started on a broadly Christian basis."
Roland hesitated a little. "I mustn't allow you to misconceive my position," he said. "I am not whatyouwould call a Christian; that is, I cannot at present see my way to accept what is called orthodox Christianity."
"Never mind that just now," said Mr. Alden. "And don't suppose that I can't appreciate honest difficulties of belief. But this society of mine is purposely made wider than Church lines. It is meant to include any one who loves the Christian ideal, and is willing to promote the practical influence of the Christian spirit in this selfish world. From what I have seen of you, I think you are one of that number."
The tone was kind, sympathetic, appreciative—something between that of a father and of an elder brother. Roland's responsive heart was touched.
"If you will take me in on that understanding, you can count on my willing service!" he said.
And with a cordial leave taking, they parted, Mr Alden taking his way to Dr Blanchard's house, Roland walking off to his lodging at his usual rapid pace. He had hours of work before him, and must be at it. When he reached the house in which he boarded, he let himself in with his latch-key, and bounded lightly up the stairs to his own apartment. It was not a large room, and certainly not luxurious, and its confusion of books and papers would have been the despair of any tidy housekeeper. Books, pamphlets, newspapers, were piled on shelves, tables and chairs, in a manner that to any eye but Roland's would have seemed hopeless confusion. Volumes of philosophy and poetry, ancient and modern, were scattered among piles of blue-books and reports of all kinds. On his writing-table, amidst loose sheets of manuscript and newspaper clippings, lay a well worn Bible, Thoreau's "Walden," Carlyle's "Sartor Resartus," Whittier's and Browning's poems, Emerson's Essays, and Henry George's "Progress and Poverty." Evidently the occupant of the room had somewhat varied tastes. And, while Roland is industriously looking over his clippings, sorting his manuscripts, and making a fair copy of his rough draft of a leader for the first number ofThe Brotherhood, let us take a retrospective glance over the history of the young man himself.
Roland Graeme was, by birth, a Canadian. His father had been a Scottish clergyman who had emigrated to Canada in early life; a man of poetical and dreamy temperament, of large and loving nature, which yet, by force of education and habit, had been somehow forced into the compress of an intricate and somewhat narrow creed; or at least had been led, like many others, by an intense veneration for ancient authority, to submit without chafing even to some articles against which his heart and moral intelligence would have strongly protested had he allowed them any voice in the matter. As it was, he worked on tranquilly, scorning worldly delights and living laborious days, troubling himself little about formal theology, and seeking to inspire his flock to love and practice the Christian graces, "against which there is no law." In temporal matters, he was as unpractical as he was unworldly, and, but for his wife's calm, judicious judgment and practical common-sense, would have been in perpetual financial straits. She, poor woman, had found it, indeed, no easy task to steer the family bark clear of the rocks on which the good minister's easy-going benevolence and trustful generosity were continually on the verge of wrecking it.
Roland was this good man's only son, and on him his father had concentrated all the ideality of his nature. Living in a remote country place, where no good grammar school was easily accessible, he had himself prepared his boy for college. Roland had absorbed eagerly all that his father had to teach him, of classic lore, of poetry, of nature, as well as the rudimentary, informal theology, that was, so to speak, filtered through the spectroscope of a mind which unconsciously rejected all that was harsh and narrow, allowing free passage only to what was akin to his own loving spirit. Under such paternal influences, intensified by his mother's strong religious nature, Roland had grown up with his whole being inspired and colored by the great principles of Christianity. The teachings of Christ himself, household words from his earliest infancy, had taken a firm hold of his plastic young soul. Principles of action seemed to him matters of course, which, as he too often afterward found, were, to the average Christian people with whom he came in contact, as an unknown tongue. Till he left his home, the boy supposed all the nominal Christian world to be only an extension of the little circle in his childhood's abode, and his fervid nature looked forward to something like a repetition of his father's life under new circumstances, possibly, with wider scope and under more congenial and hopeful surroundings.
But, when he went to college, his sanguine nature was painfully disenchanted by his first dip into the cold, commonplace reality. Many of his comrades seemed to him little better than baptized heathen. He saw things done, heard things said every day, by people who would have been indignant had any one denied them the name of Christian, that seemed to him in direct opposition to the spirit and teachings of the Master they professed to own. Many, even of the religious students he met, repelled him. Their religion for the most part seemed so shallow and conventional, their creed so hard and narrow, their ideals so worldly, that their conversation jarred and revolted him. He sought some refuge from his perplexities in writing to his mother, who sensibly reminded him that as he had had special privileges, he must not expect the same degree of religious culture from lads brought up under very different influences; that his own duty was, to hold fast by the truth he knew, and, in so far as he could by his example and influence, help others to see it, too. So the boy staunchly adhered to his principles, and was thought "an odd sort of fellow," but "with no harm in him," who could always be depended upon for a good turn, though a sort of "crank" on certain points, especially as regarded poetry and religion. He found no difficulty, with his natural talent and thorough preparation, in taking a high place in his classes, though his love of literature and general knowledge, combined with a natural dreaminess, kept him from taking the highest honors of his course. This was, perhaps, a slight disappointment to the good father, who cherished for his bright, enthusiastic boy, ambitions he had never entertained for himself. But, just at the close of Roland's undergraduate course, when he was already looking forward to beginning his theological studies, his father suddenly died.
It was a terrible blow to the lad, in more ways than one. His father had been so much to him, a centre of such passionate love and reverence, that life did not seem the same to him now that his father was no longer there to guide and advise his still immature mind, and to sympathize with his enthusiasms and aspirations. Moreover, this sad event seriously affected his own prospects. He could no longer, for the present at least, continue his professional studies. He must "buckle to" the task of providing for his mother and two younger sisters, whom it was necessary for him, in great measure, to support and educate. Teaching was the work readiest to hand, and he soon secured a fairly remunerative position, entailing, however, work which absorbed the greater portion of his time and strength. He toiled on, steadily, faithfully; finding, as time passed, much satisfaction in knowing that he was so well fulfilling the responsibilities bequeathed to him by his father. He still read omnivorously, seizing eagerly every fresh vein of thought, or view of life and nature that came in his way. Of course, modern science threw over him the glamour of its fascination, and he rapidly assimilated its leading facts and theories, with an avidity characteristic of his active and unresting mind, while, after the manner of young men, he did not always stop to discriminate between fact and theory. Nor did he always discern just whither the theory was leading him.
As he had by no means given up the hope of eventually prosecuting his theological studies, he began, as he could spare the time from his daily duties and the more secular reading that so fascinated him, to take up some of the old text-books which had been in his father's library. One of these was the intricate and elaborate compendium of doctrine which formed the standard creed of the ministry of his Church—an able synopsis of a certain rigid, scholastic, one-sided theology, having, for most thoughtful minds nowadays, the great fault that it attempts to compress into a series of logical propositions, mysteries far transcending human thought, and never thrown into this dogmatic form by the original teachers of Christianity. He found there, not only statements that seemed to conflict with the teachings of science, but also declarations concerning the deepest mysteries of Divine purpose, against which his heart and his sense of justice alike rose in passionate revolt, and which he could never have dreamed it possible to conjure out of the love-lighted pages of his New Testament. Was this, he thought, what his father had believed? Looking back on all he had ever heard from that father, he could not think so. At all events, he knew thathecould never believe it or profess to do so. His mother could give him little help in his perplexities. She had never troubled herself about abstruse theological questions. Her Bible was enough for her, and she did not think his father had felt himself bound to believe everything the theologians taught. Yet there was confronting him, this long series of definite propositions, subscription to which was the only entrance-gate to the ministry of the Church which was so dear to his imagination through a thousand traditions and tender associations. He felt that, for him, that gate was firmly barred.
But this was by no means all. The questioning and disintegrating process, once begun, did not stop here. The mystery of life and being seemed to have opened an abyss before him which he now seemed unable to bridge by the old simple faith that had hitherto been enough for him. Sceptical friends, by plausible arguments, increased this difficulty, and the attacks on the Divine origin of Christianity, which were constantly coming in his way, found a ready entrance into his perplexed mind, unarmed to repel them. A "horror of great darkness" seemed to have swallowed up the very foundations of his faith. Life and death—the present and the future—seemed shrouded in the cloud of unfathomable mystery which his baffled vision vainly strove to penetrate. Much thought about it became too heavy a burden to bear; and he practically gave up the struggle for light, making up his mind, for the present, to follow the one compass in his possession—the Christian ideal and conscience that had been developed and educated with his own growth, till it had become an inseparable part of his moral being. He was at least happy in having his life founded on this rock, even though his eyes might be for a time blinded as to the true source of his strength.
Some busy years had passed, lighted at least by the consciousness of practical duty honestly followed and of being the trusted prop and consolation of his mother's life; while for his sisters he did his best to secure as careful an education as had been bestowed on him. The interest that he had felt compelled to withdraw from speculative thought, he had thrown, all the more strongly, into some of the great practical questions of the day, unconscious that much of his early faith still survived in the enthusiasm with which he caught at every new plan or measure for lightening the load of the more burdened portion of humanity. Altruistic by inherited temperament, the "enthusiasm of humanity" gradually possessed him like a passion. It seemed as if the wrongs and woe of oppressed multitudes lay like an actual weight on his heart. He devoured the works of Henry George, as they came out, till these "Problems" absorbed his own mind, and the remedies proposed by George and others seemed to bring up the vision of a fair Utopia which might become the noble aim of a modern crusade. To devote himself and his life in some way to such an object, seemed to him the aim most worthy to set before himself. But, of course, his first duty was to provide for his mother and sisters.
An unexpected event, however, set him free from this obligation in a very agreeable way. The elder of his two sisters had been gradually and imperceptibly developing into a very charming and attractive young woman; and, much to Roland's surprise, he one day discovered in a wealthy young friend of his own a prospective brother-in-law, who was generously ready to provide a home for the mother of the bride he was eager to claim. And as his younger sister was almost ready for her own chosen vocation of teaching, Roland could now begin to think of a career for himself.
One of his most promising and congenial classmates at college, with whom he had always kept up a steady correspondence, had, some years before, gone to the United States, to engage in journalistic work, and had become the editor of the MintonMinerva. He had frequently urged Roland to join him there, setting before him the inducements of a wider sphere and a more active and busy life. Roland had always had strong republican sentiments and sympathies, and humanitarian instincts were still stronger in him than were local or traditional attachments and associations. There was the attraction, too, of possibly helping on a great "movement" in which he thoroughly believed, and then there was the fascination of new scenes and surroundings to one whose life for years had been so monotonous. He stuck to his post, however, till he had saved enough to supply his own simple needs for a year or two, and then set off on a rapid trip to those portions of the Old World which, from his childhood, he had most longed to see.
There, besides the old quaint cities and ruins, around which a thousand literary and historical associations clustered like the ivy which clothed them, and the glorious mountain scenery of which as a boy he had so often dreamed, he had found in his wanderings another subject of deep interest. This was the condition of those "forgotten millions," of which he had read so much of late. Here, as in other cases, he found all his conceptions fall far short of what he actually beheld—men, women and children, pent up in rank and wretched slums, fighting with gaunt famine for a miserable existence. He saw them, at early morning, searching heaps of rubbish for a few crusts, only too eagerly devoured. He saw young girls, forced to still more revolting means of procuring daily bread—means that dragged them rapidly down to worse than physical death. He saw young children, with haggard unchildlike faces, and most unchildlike sharpness and callous greed, born of the premature "struggle for existence" that was written on their pinched young features. He saw human beings who had not, literally, "where to lay their heads," glad to throw themselves down on the damp grass of city parks, yet driven from thence, and from every other resting-place, by the relentless order to "move on!" He knew that, of these multitudes, fighting hand to hand with starvation, many could not, by any effort, secure remunerative work. For these, there seemed nothing but despair and death, on an earth which could no longer make good for them the promise—"In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread." For them there was neither work nor bread. The sights he then saw burned themselves into his heart and brain forever. And, side by side with all this misery, he saw gorgeous displays of wealth and luxury, such as he had scarcely thought possible, outside of the "Arabian Nights;" evidences of idleabandonto voluptuous pleasure—of unblushing and reckless extravagance—until he wondered how it could be that a just and over-ruling Providence should not interfere; how it was that the earth did not open to swallow up these selfish cumberers of the ground. It was the old problem which perplexed the righteous soul of Job in the dawn of history—which has perplexed many a moralist and driven to despair many a bewildered enthusiast in all the ages. But if anything had been needed to intensify in him the "enthusiasm of humanity," the passion for reform; to grave on his heart the resolve to "open his mouth for the dumb, in the cause of all such as are left desolate," it was what he then saw of that hopeless, inarticulate hardship and misery, which rarely finds expression in speeches or pamphlets, but sometimes does find it, at last, in strikes and catastrophes! A little, too, he saw, ofthatunderlying social dynamite, and felt to his heart's core the gravity of the situation.
It was, therefore, with no room in his mind for trifling, and little for selfish aims, that Roland Graeme returned from abroad to take up the work of his life. He first, of course, paid a brief visit to his mother and sisters, to satisfy himself as to their happiness and comfort; and then, with his few belongings—chiefly books—he betook himself to his friend at Minton. Dick Burnett received him cordially, and at once gave him some light work, in the way of reporting and editorial writing, which would at least keep his purse moderately supplied, while he was also studying law in a lawyer's office, with the view of eventually entering that profession. To him, among other things, fell the work of reporting sermons for theMinerva, a task for which, of course, he was well fitted by his early training; and this was the reason why, for some months past, Mr. Chillingworth had wondered at the skill and accuracy with which his sermons had been synopsized for the benefit of the readers of theMinerva. In fact, he sometimes could not help admitting to himself, that, in clearness of thought and felicitous condensation, the abstract was almost an improvement on the sermon. Had he been aware that Roland Graeme was his unknown reporter, he would doubtless have been more affable in his greeting on the occasion of the young man's visit.
Minton was largely a manufacturing town, and Roland soon found that there were many wrongs around him calling for redress. His investigations speedily brought him into contact with leaders of the "Knights of Labor," and sympathy with their aims very soon led him to enroll himself in their ranks. He could not, indeed, remain a member after he should become a legal practitioner, as the rules of the order do not admit lawyers; but he could and would work with heart and soul for its objects, both in the ranks and outside them. He found the leaders cordially grateful for his aid and counsel, and in the sympathy and coöperation of some of the more intelligent workingmen he found much of the pleasure and stimulus of his new life. Of course, his efforts on their behalf sometimes evoked, from the "party of the other part," sentiments of a very different character; but Roland was happily so constituted as to care little for that; and, so long as he could carry a point for the benefit of his friends, theemployés, he could bear hard names with great equanimity. So absorbed was he, indeed, in his ideals and enthusiasms, that the "personal equation" had become very insignificant.
He found, however, that, in order to rouse the public mind on certain points, he wanted an opportunity for stronger expression than he could venture to use in his editorials in theMinerva, which, of course would not risk irretrievably offending its wealthy patrons. The editor, who was in part proprietor, was by no means uninterested in the "labor question," and was quite willing to go as far as he thought "safe" in its interests. But Roland wanted more liberty of speech for the burning thoughts that filled his breast; and the idea gradually took shape, in the course of their discussions in thesanctum, of issuing a small weekly journal to be devoted entirely to the object nearest to Roland's heart, his friend the editor being willing to afford all the facilities of the printing-office to the new journal, and even to bear part of the expense, which was also to be shared by an eccentric old Scotchman who boarded in the same house with Roland, and with whom he had struck up an odd sort of friendship.
Roland was determined to call his paperThe Brotherhood, so that it would bear in its very title the imprint of the truth which his Christian training had interwoven with every fibre of his being, and which, he also expressed in the motto, "All ye are brethren." In the simplicity of his heart, Roland imagined that every Christian minister must be as profoundly impressed with this great truth as he himself was, and that he could count on the warm sympathy which they, at least, would accord to his paper—intended, as the prospectus stated, "to bring this fundamental principle and its corollary, the Golden Rule, to bear on all social questions," including business arrangements and the relations of employer and employed. So obvious an application of practical Christianity must, he thought, enlist the cordial coöperation of those whose vocation was to teach it.
As we have seen, however, he sometimes found himself disappointed in this very natural expectation.
Roland was writing busily on, scarcely conscious of the lateness of the hour, absorbed in the pleasant task of pouring out on paper without restraint the passionate pleas and arguments with which his mind was filled, when he was roused by a rather peremptory knock at his door, immediately followed by the apparition of a rugged old face with gray shaggy locks and beard, surmounted by a picturesque redtoque.
"Weel, lad, hard at work? Have ye got yer firebrands all ready for the wee foxes' tails, that ye're gaun to send in amang the Philistines' corn? There's a bit o' yer' 'modern interpretation' for ye!" The voice was deep and guttural, and the accent a broad Doric.
"I hope you don't mean to compare me with that grim practical joker!" said Roland, pleasantly. "I'm sure I don't want to do anything destructive. My line is allconstructive."
"Aye, that's weel enough! But sometimes the t'ane can't be done without the t'ither. And ye'll soon be gettin' credit for that 'ither, or my name's no' Sandy Dunlop!"
"Sandy Dunlop," as he called himself, and as his friends called him, did not always indulge in broad Scotch; that, in his own estimation, would have been "throwing pearls before swine." He reserved it for his moments of expansion, for the seasons of unrestrained talk with the few in whose company he did expand; especially when, like Roland, they were of Scottish lineage, and could appreciate the beloved old Doric, his affection for which was one of the soft spots in a somewhat hard and caustic nature. Doubtless this point of sympathy was one of the attractions that drew him to Roland. But "Sandy Dunlop" was a shrewd judge of character.
Roland willingly threw down his pen, and settled himself back in his chair, for one of the rambling talks which offered a little recreation to his rather high-strung temperament.
"D'ye ken?" pursued the old man, "yon was a grand, simple kind o' way they used to have o' settlin' their disputes! nane o' yer vile newspaper calumniations or underhan' plottin's, but just a good honest tussle, and done wi' it."
"But you don't suppose I'm going to calumniate anybody, I hope!" said Roland, opening his eyes.
"You, laddie, deed na'! Weel I ken that," replied the old man, with a sort of chuckling grunt. "It's just some o' thae poleetical articles I've been readin', till I'm sick o' it all! When will ye get yerBrotherhoodideas into party politics? Tell me that, lad, if ye can!"
Roland smiled and sighed.
"Aye, aye! the warld'll tak' a wheen o' makin' over yet, an' it'll no be you nor me that'll do it. However, ye might read me some o' yer screeds," he added, looking at the young man with much the same air of grim patronage with which a sagacious old mastiff might regard a well-meaning but rash young terrier, attempting impossibilities.
As he spoke, the door below closed with a bang, and a snatch of an operatic air, hummedsotto voce, was borne to their ears, as rapid footsteps sounded lightly on the stairs.
"Here's that harum-scarum callant," said Mr. Dunlop, looking somewhat glum. A light tap at the door was scarcely answered by Roland's "Come in," when it was followed by the entrance of a young man of blonde complexion and rather slight figure, dressed much more fashionably than Roland. His blue eyes, fair hair, and Teutonic accent plainly bespoke his origin, and his greeting showed him to be on the most unceremonious terms with Roland, as he jauntily entered, nodding familiarly to the old Scot.
"A midnight meeting in the interests of theBrotherhood!" he exclaimed, theatrically, glancing at the sheets of manuscripts on Roland's desk, and at the expectant attitude of the old Scotchman. "I may come in for the rehearsal, too,nicht wahr?"
"Yes, if you will be quiet, and listen, and not interrupt too much," returned Roland.
"Quiet? Ah yes!—I will listen to the words of wisdom." And, throwing down his hat, he seated himself on one corner of Roland's writing-table, looking down at him with smiling expectancy. Mr. Dunlop, with both hands resting on the table before him, listened with head bent forward, and keen attention in his shrewd, observant eyes.
Roland read with rapid utterance, but feeling intonation, one sheet after another; first the leading article, setting forth the scope and objects of the paper, then one or two minor ones, touching on matters of detail. Mr. Dunlop occasionally interposed a criticism or a suggestion, which Roland noted for consideration, while the fair-haired young Teuton fired off a stray shot, now and then, at Roland's sometimes too florid periods, which the latter took good-humoredly—sensible that there was some ground for the strictures.
"He lets himself be run away with sometimes," said this critic, turning to Dunlop. "Keep cool,mein lieber, keep cool! Keep thy head and bridle-hand!"
"All very fine, Waldberg," said Roland. "See you practice what you preach. Of course, these last are only rough drafts. The first article I went over carefully with Burnett, and he thinks it will do well enough now, though I think that little modification of yours, Mr. Dunlop, is a decided improvement."
"Aye, lad—ye maun be canny! Nae guid in runnin' yer heid against stone walls, fortheytak' nae ill frae it, an' yer heid does. Now, guid-night to ye baith, an' remember it's time ye were in yer beds."
Waldberg threw himself into the chair the old man had left.
"Well, how did you find your parsons?" he asked. "Did they hail you as a brother, and promise to read and support theBrotherhood?"
Roland smiled somewhat grimly. "One of them did, at any rate—at least he promised to read it; and some of the others promised to give the subject their best consideration."
"Well, you did better than I expected," the young man replied, "but this one who promised to read it—this wonderful man—he wasn't the Reverend Cecil Chillingworth? I'd bet my head against that!"
"Why, what doyouknow about it?" asked Roland, in surprise.
"Oh, I've been having a sort of musical evening with him!" returned Waldberg, smiling. "I went in to make some arrangements about the practice for his oratorio—he's going to have the "Messiah" given for the benefit of his church, you know, and I'm to be accompanist, of course. So he got me to go over some of the tenor airs with him on his parlor-organ, while he sang them. He has really a good voice, and he is enthusiastic in music, if he is not in social reform."
"But how do you know about that last?" inquired Roland, who found it difficult to imagine Mr. Chillingworth talking freely to Waldberg. And what had become of the "important work" that prevented his having a few minutes to bestow onhim, and on these grave questions?
"Oh, very easily, indeed. He began to talk about some of the passages we were going over, for my benefit, of course. And we were discussing the question of a soprano for the air 'Come Unto Him, All Ye That Labor And Are Heavy-laden,' for which he said he specially wanted an effective rendering. He grew quite eloquent; I think he must have been rehearsing a bit of his Sunday sermon. He said the world was 'laboring and heavy-laden,' (thought I, 'That'strue enough') and 'that it was because men would not take upon them the right yoke. There was no end of nostrums, nowadays,' he said, (and I felt quite sure he was thinking of you and theBrotherhood,) 'but the only radical cure was the self-surrender of each individual heart to the yoke which is easy and the burden which is light.' There, you see how well I've got my lesson off by heart! You are welcome to that, for your report of his next sermon, in advance. It'll be there, sure enough!"
Roland could not help smiling at Waldberg's close imitation of Mr. Chillingworth's measured and impressive manner. But he sighed the next moment, a little impatient sigh, as he broke forth:
"That's the stereotyped way they all talk. But, how much 'self-surrender' does he get from his own 'prominent man,' Mr. Pomeroy, for instance?Hecould make a good many people's yoke easier and their burdens lighter if he chose! When men like that show the cure, we'll begin to believe in it. Yet he listens to Mr. Chillingworth, Sunday after Sunday, and I don't suppose he ever hears a word to wake him up to the fact that he's actually a murderer, in 'wearing out human creatures' lives.' But, in the name of all that's honest, Waldberg, how can you go through such a thing as the 'Messiah' with a man like Mr. Chillingworth, when you know you don't believe either in the theme or the treatment of it."
"Ah, but then, you don't understand Art,mein Roland; dramatically, you see, I can feel the very spirit of the music; as for the words, what matters? I rather suspect Mr. Chillingworth has a pretty good idea that I don't believe very much, and no doubt he thinks he is doing a good work in giving me some light, as we go along."
"Well, of course, you don't sing, only accompany," said Roland, meditatively.
"Oh, that's nothing," said Waldberg, coolly. "Professionals simply go in for art in all these things. I know one of the soloists, at any rate, that I am getting for him, believes even less than I do—an atheist out and out."
"Well, I knowIcould not stand up and sing parts of that oratorio, knowing how other people believe it," said Roland, "and I'm no atheist."
"No," said the other, "that's just where your scruple comes in. If you an were atheist, you wouldn't think it mattered much what you sang, so long as the music was good. As for the girls who sing the choruses, I don't think they know half the time what they're singing."
Roland thought of his father's old-fashioned veneration for the sacred words, and wondered how he would have borne what seemed to his own fastidious taste a profanation of them, even while he maintained his own negative position.
"There will be some pretty good voices in the choruses," continued Waldberg, critically. "Miss Farrell's is sweet and clear like a bell, though it is not very strong—wants compass. And another young lady I had the honor of accompanying at Miss Farrell's lastsoirée musi-cale—Miss Blanchard—has a very good voice too, plenty of feeling and expression, as far as she goes, and wonderfully distinct enunciation."
Roland had begun to listen with more interest. It was curious, as he had noticed before, that you no sooner met persons for the first time, than you were almost sure to hear of them very soon again.
Waldberg went on, not expecting a reply, simply talking because he liked it.
"Mr. Chillingworth hopes to get her into the choruses. He was quite set on putting her in for a solo, but she declined, and I think she's right. She could never fill a hall, but Chillingworth,entre nous, seems to admire her immensely."
"I have seen her," said Roland, carelessly. "She has a fine face, whatever her voice may be." And the Madonna-like vision rose again before him.
"Yes, she has a noble air, 'presence,' as you say, but she can't compare with Miss Farrell for looks.Sheis an exquisite creature,herrlich schöneshe looked that evening."
"Take care of yourself, Waldberg," said Roland, looking up with a smile, at his animated face. "She is not fair foryou."
"Oh, I am not selfish, like that!" retorted the other, but with a heightened color. "I can admire, where I can do no more; and Miss Farrell likes me to find her fair, if I mistake not."
"Oh, I suppose she can flirt!" replied Graeme. "Most of the young ladies here seem to be able to do that. Only 'beware,' she may be 'fooling thee.'"
"Thou art growing cynical,mein Roland! Thou thinkest too much! I shall bid thee good-night.Schlafe wohl!"
"Du auch!" returned Roland, who liked to keep up with Waldberg the German colloquialisms he had learned abroad. "Poor fellow," he said to himself, as he listened to the retreating footsteps, "I am afraid sheis'fooling' him." He had heard a great deal, of late, about Miss Farrell, who was one of "Herr Waldberg's" most promising pupils as a pianist, and from whom Roland believed that the young man was taking lessons of a more dangerous kind. However, after all, it was no business of his, and Waldberg ought to be able to take care of himself.
But he pondered a little over what seemed to him the strangeness of Mr. Chillingworth's finding it so easy to spend an hour or two enjoyably, talking music with a completely irreligious young man like Waldberg, while he could not sparehima few minutes for the discussion of matters which affected the well-being, higher and lower, of so many thousands, and which concerned the practical diffusion of principles of action which he had supposed must be at least as dear to the clergyman as they were to himself. Roland did not yet know how easily some men can absorb themselves in beautiful ideals and vague generalities, till the practical side of life, with its tiresome details and rude collisions, becomes for them almost non-existent.
And so Mr. Chillingworth "admired Miss Blanchard immensely"! Roland felt interest enough in the young lady to wish her a better fate than a man whom he had begun mentally to sum up as "an egoistic iceberg." However, his business in life was not to settle the destinies of either Mr. Chillingworth or Miss Blanchard, or even of Miss Farrell and Hermann Waldberg. So he presently forgot them all in finishing the article in which he had been interrupted, and then went to bed to sleep that sleep of the laborer, which is "sweet" only when neither brain nor muscles have been overstrained to exhaustion.
Mr. Alden found that Dr. Blanchard quite agreed with him as to the importance of getting their patient removed to the hospital. The doctor thought that her case was by no means hopeless, provided she could be supplied with the constant care and nourishment she so urgently needed, and this could scarcely be secured for her except in the hospital. Dr. Blanchard, who had all the ready, practical kindness which usually marks members of the medical profession, added to that of a naturally kind heart, willingly undertook to make the arrangements for the invalid's removal.
Miss Blanchard returned next morning with an encouraging report. The care and nourishing food given frequently during the night had produced a decided improvement; and though the disease was deeply seated, and the patient was reduced to extreme weakness, she had youth and strong vitality on her side, notwithstanding all the privations and misery she had evidently endured. From Lizzie Mason, who had sat with her for an hour or two of her vigil, Nora had heard, while the patient lay unconscious in a heavy slumber, some details about her past life which had gone to her heart, and had made her realize, with a sickening sensation, something of that struggle for life which a poor friendless woman, cast adrift in a busy world, must often endure.
Miss Blanchard felt herself strongly drawn toward the pale, wistful young girl, who had been so ready to sacrifice her own sorely-needed rest in order to care for the invalid, and had drawn from her many particulars of her hard-working life. It was a simple story, told in a very matter-of-fact, uncomplaining way; but involuntary tears of indignant sympathy started to the listener's thoughtful eyes at the unconscious revelation of hard, unremitting, monotonous toil for eleven, twelve, and sometimes thirteen hours a day, as the pressure of work required, and that under conditions unhealthy enough to depress the most vigorous young life.
"But cannot you find something better than that?" Nora asked; "some healthier as well as pleasanter work? Would it not be better to take to domestic service? Every one says it is so difficult to find girls qualified to do it faithfully and well, and I am sure you would do both. You know there is nothing in serving others to lower any right self-respect," she added, quietly; "and who it was who said that He came not to be ministered to but to minister."
"Yes," said Lizzie, "I heard Mr. Alden preach beautifully about that! I often go to his church, Sunday evenings, for it's the nearest, and he speaks so plain-like, I do admire to hear him. But it's notthatindeed, miss! I'd love, myself, to be in a good, quiet house, where one could sit down when one was tired, and not have to go out in the dark, all sorts of mornings, and have to be on the go all day! But, you see, if I live at home I can give mother my board, an' that's such a help to her. An' if I was in a place, I'd have to wear good clothes, an' that would eat up all my earnin's, an' mother needs all I can do to help her and the children. An' then my brother Jim's a little wild, and if I'm at home, I can look after him a bit."
Nora, interested in getting for herself a definite idea of this girl's daily life, drew her out a little more about this brother, the eldest of the family. He worked in the mill, too, and would be a great help to the family if it were not for his unsteadiness, which had run away with a good deal of his earnings, and he had once or twice been on the point of being discharged.
"He has never been the same boy," Lizzie said, sadly, "since he has taken up with Nelly Grove."
"That was the girl you were talking to this evening when I passed you, was it not?" asked Miss Blanchard.
"Yes, that was Nelly. She's not a bad-hearted little thing, but she's awful flighty and fond of pleasure. She's an orphan, too, an' her friends live in the country, so she hasn't any one to look after her here. I think she'd be good enough to Jim, if she was let alone, but there's a gentleman"—and Lizzie lowered her voice still further—"as turns her head with compliments an' attentions, an' it makes Jim so jealous that he just goes off on a tear, whenever he finds out about it, unless I can manage to coax him and stop him."
"I see," said Miss Blanchard, thoughtfully; "but what a shame it is!" And so, by force of cruel fate, as it seemed, this girl was as truly chained by invisible fetters to her daily toil among those relentless wheels and pulleys, as if she were a galley-slave. The plantation slaves, on the whole, were not so badly off. They had their regular hours of toil, but their hours of relaxation were free from care, and full of fun and frolic, and—which was another great relief—they had frequent change of labor. Roland Graeme's words occurred to her mind with a new force and significance. But how was it? Did not the Heavenly Father in whom she had been taught to believe, care for the sparrows, and did He not much more care for helpless girls? Was His care not for Lizzie as well as for her, in her pleasant, protected life? It was too deep a problem, and she remembered a saying of Goethe, which she had lately read that "Man is not born to solve the problem of the universe, but to find out what he has to do, and then to do that." And if she could hereafter do anything to help her less favored sisters, she then and there registered an unspoken vow that she would do what she could.
The following being as mild a day as was likely to occur that season, Dr. Blanchard recommended that Mrs. Travers should be at once removed to the St. Barnabas Hospital. But it was a task of some difficulty to gain her consent. She seemed to cling tenaciously to the privacy of her wretched little room, and to shrink nervously from the idea of a common hospital ward. She so clearly bore the impress of refinement and culture, that Nora felt as if it were inflicting an indignity on her to ask her to endure the trial; and she offered to bear, herself, the expense of a private room for a month, if the patient would consent to the removal. But what then was to be done with the little girl? She could not go to the hospital, and there seemed to be no room for her in Lizzie's overcrowded home.
"I'll take her in," said Mr. Alden, with his good-humored smile, as they were consulting over the difficulties in the way. But Nora demurred. He had enough of his own, and she did not want to put one more care on Mrs. Alden or Gracie. She took her sister-in-law aside for consultation, and presently returned triumphant. "Sophy says I may have her here," she said to her brother. "She's such a dear little grave creature, I don't think she'll give any trouble, and she will help to amuse Eddie and Daisy. They are almost too much for nurse, now baby's growing so lively."
"Trust Nora for finding the bright side of everything," said Dr. Blanchard, laughing. "She's a born optimist."
"Indeed, I thought I was growing pessimistic last night," said Nora. "It's horrible to find out, really, how so many people have to live!" she added, looking at Mr. Alden, with a perplexed look in her eyes, and a shadow over her usually bright face.
"And you've had no rest yet!" interposed her brother. "You must go and lie down at once. I'll see the poor woman transferred to her new quarters as safely as may be, and bring the child here; and you can go to see the mother another time."
Nora went to her dainty, quiet room—such a contrast to the one in which she had spent the night!—and, lying down on the soft luxurious bed, she tried to close her tired eyes in sleep; but it was rather a failure. A healthy youngphysique, accustomed to sleep only at regular hours, does not readily adapt itself to irregular rest; and heart and brain were still too much excited to encourage sleep. The aspect of the miserable little room seemed photographed on her inner sight; the oppressed breathing of the invalid, the sad glimpses into other people's lives, haunted her whenever she closed her eyes. As she lay there on her soft couch in the daintily-appointed room, with the pretty things about her with which girls like to surround themselves, and the light softly shaded to make an artificial twilight, visions rose before her of droning wheels and flashing shuttles, of long arrays of frames, such as she had seen in the factory some time before; and the thought of the girls with feelings and nerves like her own, tending, through so many weary hours, these senseless and relentless machines, oppressed her quick sensibilities like a nightmare. Then, when at last she fell into a brief, troubled slumber, she dreamed that she was following some one through mile after mile of endless corridors, all lined with that inexorable, never-ceasing machinery, tended by armies of pale, slender girls, many of them children. And whenever she desired to sit down to rest, her conductor kept beckoning her onward, and she seemed compelled to follow, on—on—would it never end! And as her companion looked round impatiently to urge her advance, she saw for the first time that it was the young man who had been her guide and escort the preceding evening. And, just then, Eddie, stealing on tip-toe into the room to see if "Auntie were awake yet," dispersed the illusion, and she awoke to a glad consciousness of liberty and restfulness, yet with a strange sense of latent pain behind it.
Nora lay still a little longer, thinking with some interest of the curious way in which the sights and sounds of waking hours interweave themselves into new and absurd combinations, when the guiding will is for the time off duty. She was naturally introspective, and had a special turn for psychological studies, in which her brother's line of thought harmonized with her own. But suddenly she was startled by sounds that stole into the quietude—sounds of a child's unrestrained, sobbing grief, intermingled with unsuccessful attempts at consolation.