"Why, Eddie, is that Daisy crying? What is the matter?" she asked, starting up.
"Oh, it's the new little girl that's come," replied Eddie, with cheerful unconcern. "And she won't stop crying. I've showed her Tatters and my Noah's Ark and the gray kitten; and 'tisn't any use—she's such a silly!"
"Oh! dear!" exclaimed Nora. "I must go down at once." And, hurriedly re-arranging her hair and dress, she ran down-stairs, followed by Eddie.
On the rug outside the drawing-room door crouched the little girl, shaken by a storm of passionate sobs. She had borne the separation from her weak and passive mother, with a quiet resignation mainly produced by the doctor's assurance that if she were good and did not worry her mother, who was going where she would be made better, she should soon see her again. The grave quietude which the child had maintained with a great effort had not given way, until Dr. Blanchard, in haste to reach an urgent "case," had put her inside his own door in charge of a servant. Then, the strangeness of everything about her, and the blank loneliness of the situation, fromherpoint of view, had apparently so oppressed her, that the unnatural composure gave way before a tornado of passionate abandonment. Mrs. Blanchard was out, but the nurse had tried her best to console and divert her, and so had Eddie and Daisy; but so far without avail. Nora could hardly help smiling, as she remembered her programme for the children's relation to each other, and saw how it had been reversed.
The plump little Daisy stood over her, looking concerned, but holding out her gray kitten as if it were the olive-branch of peace, while the neglected inhabitants of Noah's Ark lay in picturesque confusion in the background.
When Miss Blanchard appeared, however, matters changed a little, as she bent over the sobbing child with loving words and gestures, pushed aside the old hood and shawl, and smoothed the tangled mass of dark, curly hair, till the sobs grew fainter and the child allowed herself to be raised from the floor. Under the uncouth disguise of her outer raiment, now removed, she wore a neatly-made, though faded, print frock; which, though evidently outgrown, was whole and clean; and, for the first time, Miss Blanchard realized her unusual beauty of face and form, with the pleasure of one keenly sensitive to beauty of all kinds.
She had heard from Lizzie that "Cissy" was passionately fond of music, and the happy thought occurred to her of taking her into the drawing-room, and playing to her some sweet and simple melodies that were favorites of her own. The experiment succeeded beyond her hopes. The child listened like one entranced. Her large, soft, lustrous eyes dilated, and her whole face seemed lighted with a new expression, as she followed with evident appreciation every change of the music. It was as if the delight of listening absorbed her whole being. Then, as Nora began to sing to her, her delight seemed to increase. A dawning smile relaxed the sad curves of her lips, a dewy moisture suffused the lovely dark-gray eyes. It was clear, Miss Blanchard thought, that she had discovered here a musical soul.
"Does your mother sing to you sometimes?" she asked.
"Not much," said the child. "She likesmeto sing to her, best."
"Sing to me now, then," replied Nora.
But the child was too shy. That evening, however, when she was alone with the other children in the nursery, Nora heard her trying to hum over the airs of the songs she had sung to her, with wonderful accuracy and sweetness of tone. This discovery set her castle-building at once. There was no knowing what musical talent this little one might develop! And if she could aid her to develop it, she would thus help one girl, at least, out of the weary monotony of poorly paid and unremitting toil.
The following day was Sunday, and Nora had a headache, as was hardly surprising, after her unusual fatigue and excitement, so that it was only on the day following, that she and the little Cecilia, for whom some garments had meantime been remodelled out of old ones of Mrs. Blanchard's, were set down by the doctor at the door of the hospital.
It was a new experience for her, and she walked with some nervous dread along the whitewashed corridors, oppressed by the feeling that behind those white walls were being fought, unseen, many battles between disease and death on the one hand, and medical care and skill on the other. As she passed on, guided by the porter, she could catch glimpses, through partially open doors, of wards filled with "heavy cases"—every bed, apparently, tenanted; of others where convalescents were sitting among neat beds with snowy coverlets—pictures and plants giving an air of comfort to the place. At the end of a long passage, she found herself in a cheerful little room, with an open fire burning brightly in the grate, and her old acquaintance, Miss Spencer, Kitty Farrell's cousin, in her pretty nurse's uniform, sitting beside the bed on which lay the invalid she had come to see. The latter looked pale and weak, indeed, but seemed so different in her new surroundings and fresh white draperies, that Miss Blanchard would scarcely have recognized her. The little Cecilia threw herself upon her mother in a close, clinging embrace, which the nurse presently loosened gently, lifting her to a seat on the bed, where she could look at her mother without tiring her. The latter was evidently very weak, and scarcely cared to talk; but she looked gratefully, if shyly, at Miss Blanchard, and then lay with her beautiful dark-gray eyes, so like the child's, and half-screened by the long dark lashes, fixed on the little one beside her. The dusky hair that lay in a mass about her pale face, on the white pillow, seemed to make it paler by comparison, but also made her look even younger than Miss Blanchard had supposed her. The latter purposely made her visit very brief, but suggested that she and Miss Spencer should leave the mother and child alone, with the almost unnecessary caution "not to talk," to which neither seemed disposed. Miss Spencer led the way to the little sitting-room used by the nurses, which was then empty.
"How nice and neat it all is!" said Nora, as they sat down, her eyes coming back from their survey to rest admiringly on the serene, happy face of the young nurse. Janet or "Janie" Spencer, as her friends called her, had interested her very much in their occasional meetings. There was something about her, not easy to define, which attracted most people. She was a rather large, well-developed young woman, with her cousin Kitty's fairness of coloring, but not Kitty's exquisite delicacy of complexion and moulding. An expression of kindly good sense and good-humored benevolence seemed to shine in her clear eyes and to hover about the curves of her red lips; her calm, even manner was soothing in itself, and in her fresh picturesque uniform, Nora thought she looked like an impersonation of the divine art of healing.
"Well, how do you like your work?" asked Nora, eagerly.
"'Like' isn't the word!" was the reply. "It's intensely interesting. You get so absorbed in the interest of it that you never take time to think whether you like it or not! Of course, there are things you can't like in themselves, but you forget that, when you know that you are doing what is of real consequence. And then I think I always was cut out for a nurse. Ever since I was a child, I liked nothing so well as caring for sick people."
"We all thought it was very lovely of you to make up your mind to do it, though."
"Well, I simply couldn't go on as I was. You know there were some things I could never forget——"
Nora touched caressingly the soft hand that looked so strong and helpful, with all its softness. She had heard of the young lover whose sudden death had altered Janie Spencer's life. Presently she went on:
"That ordinary, humdrum, easy existence—so many of us girls at home, and no interests but calls and parties and novels and fancy-work—it seemed just trifling away life; and I thought if ever I could save any one who was ill ashewas, how sweet it would be!—almost as if I did it for him!"
"Then it wasn't Mr. Chillingworth's preaching, after all," said Nora, vaguely disappointed.
"Oh, I think that did decide me," she said. "It was one of his strongest sermons, I think, and it came just when I was feeling so sick of doing nothing in particular. He was speaking, you know, of the beauty of the Christian ideal of living for the good of others; and he gave as an example, the life of a hospital nurse, and how happy she might always be in realizing the truth of the words, 'Inasmuch as ye have done it to one or the least of these, ye have done it unto Me.' I think it wasthatthat decided me."
"But now," said Miss Spencer, after a short silence, "I suppose you don't know much about this poor young woman?"
"No," said Nora; "but I'm sure she has a history."
"So am I! One or two things she said made me suspect a romance of some kind. I notice that her wedding ring is very massive, and she has a habit of fingering it in a caressing sort of way."
"Poor thing! I suppose she's a widow."
"She wouldn't say, and I couldn't press her. It seemed to pain her to talk about it. My impression is that she isnot; but of course that is merely an impression."
"The child is passionately fond of music," said Nora. "I shouldn't wonder if she turned out to be a musical genius."
"Possibly, then, her father may have been one of those professionals who seem so lax in their matrimonial ideas, and desert their wives so easily.—At least, I've heard of such cases," she added. "I suppose the 'artistic temperament' as they call it, has a tendency to forsake ordinary lines."
"It's queer," said Nora, thoughtfully. "One would think music should always be an elevating influence."
"I'm sure it is, at its best," said Janet. "But it has another side, like most things."
"Oh dear!" said Nora, "this is a very puzzling world. Well, it's nice to be you, and to have found out just the work you are fitted for, and how you can best help other people."
And this thought clung to her as she walked home with the still silent Cecilia, through the damp, foggy December afternoon, the child bravely keeping down her strong inclination to cry, lest she should forfeit the privilege of going again. The world seemed, to Nora's imagination, to have taken the dull, cheerless aspect of the day, seen from the under side, from which she had lately been looking at it. And it seemed to her that they alone could be counted happy who knew how to lighten a little the cheerlessness and gloom. If she only knewhow!
The fog and moisture had turned to snow, and the cold grayness of the early winter dusk emphasized the cheeriness that lighted up Mrs. Blanchard's drawing-room with its warm glow. Nora was practising, perseveringly, the choruses that were to be sung that evening at the first general practice for the oratorio, whither Mr. Chillingworth was to escort her, after dinner, to which he had been invited. Mrs. Blanchard reclined luxuriously in an easy-chair in front of the fire, half-lulled to sleep by the combined influence of the heat and the music, undisturbed by the prattle of the children, who, in the absence of visitors, were in full possession. Cecilia held "Tatters," the pet terrier, cuddled close to her with one hand, while with the other she helped Eddie and Daisy to set up the animals from their Noah's Ark, in a "'nagery percession" between two lines of stiff, conical trees taken from Eddie's "village," and supposed to represent an "avenue," with occasional little painted wooden houses behind it. As several of the animals had lost some of their legs, the setting up was a task of some difficulty, and presented some curious situations, the maimed wolf having to lean for support against his neighbor the lamb, while a hen that had lost one of her stout pedestals had to be similarly propped up against a fox of equal size. The long procession having been finally completed, Nora was called to come and admire.
"See, Auntie, it isn't a Noah's Ark percession," said Eddie, "it's a 'nagery percession. And those ar'n't Noah and his sons either. They're Barnum and the keepers."
"Oh, young America!" said Nora, laughing, in a semi-soliloquy. "You must remodel everything, even Noah's Ark."
"Well, Noah's Ark was a sort of 'nagery," replied Eddie, answering the tone rather than the words, "and I guess Noah was about as clever as Mr. Barnum."
Nora walked back to the piano, concealing an irresistible laugh. After all, she thought, children had to interpret those old stories of the past through present-day experiences—but her own childish conceptions had never been quite so realistic.
Cecilia followed her to the piano, and stood by her in her usual attitude of absorbed attention, while Miss Blanchard went through the passage, "He Shall Feed His Flock Like a Shepherd." Neither heard the doorbell ring, and Mr. Chillingworth had quietly opened the door some time before his presence was noticed.
"Thank you," he said, advancing, with a smile, "I wanted to hear that to the end before you knew you had an audience of even one—though I should saytwo," he added, glancing at the child, whom in her altered dress and surroundings, he did not in the least recognize.
"Iwas listening, too," said Mrs. Blanchard, rousing herself to greet him, and continuing to her sister-in-law: "Oh, you needn't laugh, Nora, I could hear the music quite well, if my eyes were shut. There's nothing that soothes one so."
"Yes, I know you find it soothing, Sophy, dear," replied Nora, demurely, while Mr. Chillingworth discreetly held his peace. Meantime Cecilia had stolen away, back to the other children, whom the nurse had come to summon to tea. She recognized the clergyman at once, and she instinctively shrank from another encounter with him.
"You have a visitor there, I see," remarked Mr. Chillingworth, as the children disappeared. "What a pretty child she is! She has such lovely eyes. Who is she? Somehow her face seems familiar to me, or else she is like some one I know."
"Oh, I don't think you can have seen her before," said Nora. "She's the child of a poor young woman Will sent to the hospital—the young woman he was sent for to go to see that evening, you know."
"Oh, the one to whom you went to act the Good Samaritan? I meant to ask you how you found her."
"She was very ill indeed," replied Miss Blanchard, gravely; then turning fully round, she looked up at him and exclaimed: "Oh, Mr. Chillingworth, I never could have imagined any one living in such a wretched place! Scarcely any furniture, and the poor thing lying on such a miserable bed on the floor! And she seemed so refined and pretty! It is horrible to think that such things can be!"
Mr. Chillingworth half closed his eyes for a moment, as if to shut out the picture she conjured up. Such scenes always jarred terribly on his æsthetic sense, and on principle, he avoided them as much as possible. They always upset him so, and he could do so little to help!
"Yes, my dear Miss Blanchard, this fleeting life of ours has many mysteries about it, sad and strange enough, but we should only be making ourselves perpetually miserable, if we were always looking at them and trying to solve them. And then you must remember that things often look worse, when we see them from the outside. Human nature has a wonderful way of adapting itself to circumstances, and this life is only a fleeting one, you know. The great thing is—to lead the sufferers to look beyond!"
"Yes, I know," said Nora, somewhat impatiently. "But then, I do think it would be better, forusas well as for them, if we were to try to make it better for them now! That was what the Good Samaritan did—you spoke of just now, wasn't it, when the priest and the Levite passed by on the other side?"
"Undoubtedly, as you say, thatisbest for us, as it is for them," he replied. "Yes, the life for others is the true life.
"'The quality of mercy is not strained,It blesses him that gives and him that takes.'"
"'The quality of mercy is not strained,It blesses him that gives and him that takes.'"
Mr. Chillingworth always rendered the quotation so as to convey the impression that the "giver" was a good deal more to be considered than the "taker."
"Well, Nora did her duty as a Good Samaritan," interposed Mrs. Blanchard, tired of being left out of the conversation. "She stayed in that wretched room all night, and sat up with the poor woman. I only wonder she didn't catch something dreadful, herself."
"Is it possible!" the clergyman exclaimed. "But that seems too great a sacrifice on your part. Was there no one else at hand?"
"Yes," said Nora, with a touch of satire in her tone. "There was a poor girl, a mill hand, who had been working all day, and sitting up at night with this poor sick woman. I thought thatwastoo great a sacrifice!"
Mr. Chillingworth's dark eyes lighted up. "Ah," he said, "such scenes transfigure the dark places of life, do they not?"
Nora sighed—a little impatient sigh. She could not, it seemed, convey to the mind of any one else the intolerance she felt of a social state in which such hard conditions of life could prevail, for any portion of humanity. Every one about her seemed to acquiesce resignedly in the inevitable.
"And so you have added to your kindness, that of taking in the poor woman's child?" he continued.
"Yes," again interposed Mrs. Blanchard. "There seemed to be no one else to take care of her, so Nora begged to be allowed to take her in, and you know we are all her abject slaves!"
Nora laughed. "I'd like to see you an abject slave to any one," she said.
"Indeed, I feel abject enough just now," she replied, yawning slightly. "Mr. Chillingworth, how many visits do you think Nora and I paid this afternoon?"
"I shouldn't venture to guess," he said, smiling.
"Fifteen! not one less. Haven't I a right to feel tired after such a day's work? Just think of all the talking I've done."
"But then several of the people weren't at home, so we only had to leave the cards and come away," explained the severely truthful Nora.
"Well, eight visits, with all the talking that means, is a very good afternoon's work."
And having successfully diverted the conversation from such unpleasant topics, Mrs. Blanchard kept up a little skirmishing small-talk till dinner was announced.
Kitty Farrell came in to join them after dinner, as had been arranged. She was looking particularly bright and pretty in her soft white wraps. She had brought her father's neat little brougham, in which they drove down to the hall, where the practice would be held.
"I suppose you're both going to Mrs. Pomeroy's dinner-party, on Saturday evening?" said Mr. Chillingworth, on the way.
"I am," Nora replied, "and it is scarcely necessary to ask if Miss Farrell is."
"Indeed, I don't see any reason for taking it for granted," said Kitty, coquettishly; "but if you really want to know, I believe we're all going. It will be quite large for a dinner-party; so, Nora, mind you are to look your best!"
Just as they got out of the brougham, and stood full in the light of the lamp at the entrance, a young man, passing hurriedly, looked up and took a rapid survey of the trio. Nora caught the glance, and recognized the young man who had walked with her through the lamp-lighted streets a few evenings before. She was sorry that she had not had time to show that she recognized him, for he had interested her almost as much as the new trains of thought he had started.
The practice went on very much as all practices do. The choruses had to be gone over again and again, till the time and harmony were, in the conductor's estimation at least, approximately correct. Nora could not help wishing that some other words could have been used for the practice, than those carrying such sacred meanings and associations. She began to see why her Aunt Margaret did not care for oratorios, when she noticed some of the girls tittering over mistakes in the rendering of some of the most solemn and touching passages. Mr. Chillingworth watched it all carefully from the artistic point of view—which, for the time at least, he seemed to have disassociated from the religious. At last it was over, for that evening, and Kitty and Nora were resuming their wraps, while Mr. Chillingworth was holding an animated talk with the conductor and the accompanist, Herr Waldberg, on points connected with the rendering of some of the passages. Waldberg, his handsome face lighted up with the glow and sparkle of musical enthusiasm, came up with Mr. Chillingworth, and, courteously bowing to the young ladies, exchanged a few words with Kitty in an undertone. She lingered a moment, as Nora waited for her at the entrance.
"I needn't take you and Mr. Chillingworth out of your way to walk round with me," she said. "You know I didn't order the carriage to come back, as I didn't know just when it would be over, and father does not like to have the horses standing at night. But Mr. Waldberg has kindly offered to see me home, so you won't have to come all that way round, and it's snowing quite fast, isn't it?"
Nora felt vaguely dissatisfied, she hardly knew why, at the proposed arrangement. But of course she could offer no objection, and Mr. Chillingworth was by no means sorry to be permitted to walk home with Miss Blanchard,tête-à-tête. They were both enthusiasts in music, and could talk about it, the oratorio and its rendering, with more freedom from distraction than when Kitty, with her butterfly nature was at hand, ready at any moment to strike off on some other tack. And again, as they walked on, Nora observed that her unknown friend passed them at a rapid pace, but this time he was going the same way, and she did not know whether he observed her or not.
"What are you going to wear to-night, Nora?" asked Mrs. Blanchard, as the two still lingered in company over the breakfast-table, which the busy doctor had, as usual, quitted before them. This was always the most important question in Mrs. Blanchard's mind, when they were going to any entertainment.
"I suppose my black velvet will do, won't it?" said Nora, looking up from the newspaper in which she was, at the moment, reading a paragraph describing the miseries of poor sewing-women, and the pittance for which they are often compelled to give their long hours of toil.
"Well, I suppose so," said her sister-in-law, discontentedly, "though that black velvet certainly does seem too old for you. Why not wear that prettyécruand black lace costume?"
"But then," objected Nora, "I wore it at Mrs. Farrell's musical-party, and I don't want to wear it quite so soon again. Besides, this won't be a very big party."
"Not big, certainly, but awfully swell. Mrs. Pomeroy's dinner-parties always are. Just wait till you see! However, your black velvet does look quite elegant, and that old lace of Aunt Margaret's and her pearl cross look just lovely with it! They suit you, somehow; so perhaps you couldn't do better. But I wish you would get a new dress; crushed-strawberry satin would be so becoming, and you'll want it, for you will be going out a good deal this winter."
"No," said Nora, "I couldn't think of getting anything more now; I have all I really need, and it seems horrible to think of getting more than one needs, when some people have to live like this!" and she read aloud the paragraph that had caught her eye.
"Oh, dear!" said Mrs. Blanchard, "I wish you weren't always seeing such things. There always was and there always will be misery in the world, but what good does it do any one to make yourself miserable about it? And if you get a new dress made, doesn't that help somebody?"
Nora was always perplexed when other people's notions of political economy were arrayed on the side of selfish expenditure. Was the world built up onselfishnessafter all? If so, where was the place of self-sacrifice? But it did not seem as if it "helped people" very much "to wear out their lives" in return for the barest subsistence.
That afternoon, she took little Cecilia on a second visit to her mother. It was very cold, and the snow lay white on the hard, frozen streets; but Nora, well wrapped in her furs, felt the cold, keen air as exhilarating as a tonic, as they walked briskly on to the hospital, the child also wrapped warmly in the mufflings that Nora's care had provided. She had begun to be a little more communicative, but was evidently a fitful, uncertain child; in general reserved and quiet, though subject to fits of extreme excitability, in which it seemed as if nothing but music could soothe her. Both Dr. Blanchard and Nora had been studying her with much interest, the doctor declaring that under-feeding and a life of unnatural confinement and solitude must be responsible for many of her peculiarities. At the hospital, Miss Blanchard found Mrs. Travers getting on favorably. She showed more pleasure at seeing her child than on the previous occasion, and, in reply to Nora's inquiries, expressed herself as very comfortable there. "It would be strange if I were not," she added, "every one is so kind, Miss Spencer especially. She couldn't be kinder, if I were her sister."
And again Miss Blanchard was struck with her unusual refinement of tone and manner as well as of language. But she seemed rather shy and ill at ease, Nora thought, and she was about to turn aside to look up at Miss Spencer, when a gentle knock sounded, and Lizzie Mason entered. The invalid was evidently genuinely glad to see her, and held her hand, as if she could not let it go. Nora, as she watched them for a few moments, was pained to see that Lizzie looked as if she had been crying, and seemed particularly sad and depressed.
"I did not think of seeing you here," said Nora; "I thought you were engaged at this hour."
"It's Saturday, you know, miss. There's always a sort of a half-holiday on Saturday."
"Well, you look as if you needed a little fresh air," replied Nora, gently. "I'm afraid you have had some trouble."
Her kind voice and gentle words seemed too much for poor Lizzie. She bent down her head, as she sat by the bed, holding the invalid's hand, and sobbed quietly.
By degrees, Nora drew from her the cause of her grief. "Jim" had been going on badly, had been off on another "tear," incited thereto by jealousy of Nelly's flightiness, and of her mysterious admirer. He had been "run in" for drinking and disorderly conduct, and Lizzie had had to take most of the money she had been saving up for warm winter clothing, in order to pay his fine.
"Oh, Lizzie, why did you do that?" asked Miss Blanchard.
"Indeed, miss, how could I let Jim go to jail, and have mother fretting to break her heart? I'd rather starve!"
And Nora knew, in her heart, that the girl could not have done otherwise.
But that was not all. The manager had threatened to dismiss "Jim" unless he should behave better, and meantime had put him at lower work for lower wages.
"Perhaps I might ask young Mr. Pomeroy to speak a good word for him," Nora said. "I know him very well."
"Oh, no, miss, don't!" cried Lizzie, nervously; "it wouldn't do no good! The manager does as he thinks best, and they never interfere with him. Why, he cut down nearly all the girls' wages lately, and they knew they durstn't say a word! He'd discharge the first one that did! An' all that makes it so much harder now to get on."
Nora did all she could to console the poor girl, talked of "trust" and "patience," till the words, coming from one in her position, to one in Lizzie's, seemed almost to die on her tongue, and she wondered they were not thrown back in her face.
But Lizzie had learned her lesson of "patience" better, and when Mrs. Travers said, rather bitterly, "Ah, yes, it's a poor world for us poor women," Lizzie only said, wiping away her tears:
"Oh, well, we must make the best of it! Tain't no good frettin'!"
Nora offered, rather hesitatingly, to go to see Lizzie next afternoon, if she liked, and the offer was gratefully accepted.
"And maybe you could say a good word to Jim; he'll be at home then, and though I never can get Jim to go to church, I guess he would listen to you!—and p'raps Nelly might be there, too. I do wish you could get to know Nelly! She'd mind what you would say, a sight better than anything I can tell her."
Nora walked silently homeward, with a new sorrowful image before her. As she dressed for the dinner-party, the pale tear-stained face seemed still before her, and she was calculating how much it would cost to buy a good warm winter jacket for the half-clad girl.
Little Cecilia had begged to be allowed to help her to dress, and eagerly did all she was permitted to do, admiring with silent intentness the rich soft folds of the velvet that showed to such advantage the straight, graceful, rounded figure, and the white neck and arms that gleamed out of the fine old lace; and, what seemed to the child the most beautiful of all, the cross of pure, translucent pearls which so fitly adorned the white throat above the square-cut corsage. This old pearl cross, Aunt Margaret's parting gift, and a prized relic of her long-past girlhood, was Nora's favorite ornament. Its form was symbolical of a thousand tender, sacred associations, and the purity of the pearls seemed emblematic of a higher purity, divine and human. She liked to wear it as a reminder to herself of many things that she desired never to forget, even in the gladdest and most festive moment. And to-night it seemed connected in her thoughts with Lizzie's pale pathetic face, and her life of perpetual self-sacrifice.
"Well, you look very nice!" said Mrs. Blanchard, approvingly, as she came in to make an inspection—"only you're pale—you want some roses."
And as she spoke, she produced a lovely cluster of pink and blush roses, which she fastened on the creamy lace of Nora's corsage; while deftly twisting an opening bud among her silky coils of hair, to Cecilia's manifest delight.
"There," she said, "that lights it up a good deal!" and she walked back, casting critical glances at the general effect. "The severe style does suit you—that can't be denied!" she added.
"Oh, what lovely roses!" exclaimed Nora, bending her graceful head, to inhale their delicate fragrance. "It was so good of you to get them for me!"
"Well, I didn't get them, to tell the truth! I meant to get some, though; but this morning I got a little box from Mr. Chillingworth, with a note, begging that you and I would oblige him by wearing the contents. See, here are mine," pointing to a cluster of tea-roses on her own blue satin. "So you see I kept them for a surprise, sort ofcoup de grâce; now, I think that was quite a clever idea."
"But ought I really to wear them?" asked Nora, doubtfully. The "roses" had come to her face, now, as well as her dress, giving just the one touch which her sister-in-law had thought she lacked.
"Why, of course you can," replied Mrs. Blanchard, quickly. "Just as well as I can wear mine! It was so nice of the dear man to think of usboth!"
"It wasverykind, and there's nothing I like so well as roses," said Nora, again breathing in their fragrance; "and these made me think so much of summer and Rockland."
But it is doubtful whether it would have given her so much pleasure to wear them, in her present mood, had she known just what they cost!
When the little party reached Mrs. Pomeroy's sumptuous drawing-room—a blaze of light and color—most of the guests had already arrived. Mr. Pomeroy, a large, important looking man, who seemed to be on excellent terms with himself and with the world in general, greeted them with a rather pompous cordiality, and then retired to the background to continue his conversation with an old gentleman of somewhat grim and shaggy aspect, whose old-fashioned frock-coat contrasted somewhat oddly with his host's expansive shirt-front and irreproachable dress-suit. Mrs. Pomeroy was a rather small, dark-eyed woman, with a good deal of character and energy in her face, and a dress of sober richness, almost suggestive of Quakerism in its hue. Miss Pomeroy, rather tall, and dark, and good-looking, though with a slight hardness and discontent about the curves of her face, was engaged in an animated conversation with Mr. Chillingworth. Kitty Farrell—looking exquisite and radiant in some diaphanous, pink, silky texture, was appropriated, of course, by young Pomeroy. Her father, with a thin careworn face, quick and restless in his movements, was talking with Mr. Pomeroy and the old gentleman, while Mrs. Farrell, fair, languid, and most tastefully attired, reclined on a sofa beside Mrs. Pomeroy. There were some other people, including a banker and his wife—a Mr. and Mrs. Cheever, accompanied by a Miss Harley, an English lady with an English complexion and roundness of figure, who was paying them a visit, and on whose account, mainly, the party was given. Nora was speedily introduced to a young man who arrived almost simultaneously with themselves—fresh and good-looking, with dark-brown hair and full moustache, which parted in a frequent smile over very white teeth. He was introduced as "Mr. Archer," and Nora was trying to make up her mind whether she liked his face or not, when dinner was announced, and her new acquaintance offered his arm.
The dinner-table seemed like a miniature garden of exquisite flowers, amid which gleamed the silver, crystal, and costly Haviland china—a recent acquisition. Mr. Pomeroy was a man who always liked to be sure that he had "the best" of everything, and who regarded it as a duty to gratify his desire to the utmost. As Nora sat down and involuntarily took in the impression of beauty, brilliancy and costliness afforded by the whole, her thoughts went back once more to poor Lizzie's struggling life, with its sordid surroundings, and the winter jacket she couldn't buy. But Mr. Archer's amusing flow of talk, and the interest of finding out the ideas and tastes of a new acquaintance, soon diverted her thoughts. Mr. Chillingworth, who had taken in his hostess, was seated on her other side, and claimed a large share of her attention. A certain Mr. Wharton, of literary proclivities, and the old gentleman aforesaid, were nearly opposite.
"So good of you to come this evening," said Mrs. Pomeroy. "We shouldn't have fixed on Saturday, but it seemed the only evening we could have Miss Harley, who will be here only for a few days. But we thought you wouldn't mind, for once."
"Oh, I happened to be pretty well up with my work this week; so I could allow myself the pleasure, with a clear conscience," replied the clergyman.
The talk drifted about in the usual inconsequential manner of dinner-parties. The courses,entrées, et cætera, were many and elaborate, and were evidently thoroughly appreciated, by the gentlemen, at least. Mr. Archer smilingly noticed that Miss Blanchard declined wine, as indeed did the hostess, also, who had pronounced views on the subject of total abstinence, it appeared, although yielding to her husband's wish to have wine at his table. Mrs Pomeroy was indeed a "prominent worker," as theMinervawould have put it, on various philanthropic and mission boards So she hastened to reinforce Miss Blanchard in a playful skirmish as to the merits of total abstinence societies and of Prohibition, of which she was a strenuous advocate. Mr Pomeroy presently, however, shut off the discussion by telling his friends that they had better enjoy their champagne while they could, as Mrs Pomeroy was determined to take it from them altogether, and there was no knowing how soon she might succeed. And then he struck at once into a fresh subject.
"By the way, Wharton, that was a capital letter of yours in theMinervathe other day, on that last book of Henry George's."
"Glad you thought so," replied Mr Wharton, complacently. "I thought theMinervawas growing quite too enthusiastic over it, so I just touched them up a little on the subject."
"And you did to some purpose," said his host. "That was a good point you made, anyway—when you showed up the fallacy of that absurd assertion that the poor are growing poorer. I haven't read the book myself, but if that's how he talks, I should say it's great stuff!"
"Oh, that point's the thing!" rejoined Mr Wharton, pleased to dilate a little on a favorite subject. "If you grant him that, you have to grant him a great deal more. But of course it's absurd."
"Well," said Mr. Archer, his moustache parting over his white teeth, with his cynical smile—"I suppose we don't any of us live just as our ancestors did in Queen Elizabeth's time. I doubt if her majesty ever saw such a charmingly arranged dinner-table in her life!" Here he bowed toward the hostess. "But I happened to see something of the tenements of New York lately, in connection with a case which involved the proprietorship of some of them. I really think I'd rather have the Elizabethan style, so far as the laborer is concerned. But of course, all laborers don't live in rooms that would hardly be fit for a dog-kennel."
Nora's thoughts went off to the wretched apartment in which she had so lately spent the night, but she was too shy to join in a general conversation. Her brother, however, remarked tersely, that he saw some wretched enough kennels, even in Minton, and that, "if some quarters of the city were not soon looked after, they would be hearing of an outbreak of typhoid fever or diphtheria, the first thing."
"Oh, Doctor!" exclaimed Mrs. Farrell, in alarm. "You don't say so. I do hope itwillbe looked after soon!"
Mrs. Pomeroy, however, remarked that, for her part, she thought the poor people seemed very happy and comfortable, so far as she came in contact with them, in connection with the Clothing Club.
Mr. Archer smiled again. "By the way, Mr. Pomeroy," he remarked, "have you seen the new paper?"
"What new paper?" inquired the host.
"The Brotherhood, the new champion of the oppressed and down-trodden workmen! I tell you, you manufacturers will have to look out. You'll be brought to book for all your iniquities."
"Yes, I believe I did see a wretched little sheet of that name somewhere, started by some crank. But of course, I haven't time to look at such things."
"Ah," said Mr. Chillingworth, "I suppose that is the paper a young man came to canvass me for! I don't know whether he wanted me to take it or to write for it. But I see he has sent it to me."
"Oh,both, Mr. Chillingworth!" retorted Mr. Archer, smiling with mock persuasiveness. "The editor of it, Mr. Roland Graeme, is well known to me; in fact, I have the honor of having him at present in my office, and I can answer for him that he would be delighted to accept any contributions from your pen."
"Or from mine, say," remarked Mr. Wharton.
"I'm not so sure aboutyou! You are too much on the philosophical tack! You wouldn't have enough sympathy.The Brotherhood, you know, is founded on the idea of Christian fellow-feeling."
"Thanks, very much, for your good opinion!" retorted the other.
"I've heard a good deal about that fellow, Roland Graeme," remarked Mr. Pomeroy, in his tone of bland patronage. "I should say he hadn't enough to do! He's been aiding and abetting the 'Knights of Labor,' in every way he can; in fact, they say he's one, himself: and they're troublesome enough, without having better educated people, who ought to know better, putting their oars in!"
"'Knights,' indeed!" echoed Mrs. Pomeroy, sarcastically, "Preciousknights!"
"Why, they actually had the cheek to come and interviewme, lately," said Mr. Pomeroy. "They had a whole list of grievances that they wanted remedied. Willett wouldn't have anything to say to them, so they came on to me. And I believe this Roland Graeme was at the bottom of it."
"Well, he isn't half a bad fellow," said Mr. Archer, "but he's awfully soft in some ways. A child could get round him, quicker indeed than a grown-up person," he added, half to himself. "But what did you do? Did you grant their requests?"
"Not I! There were far too many. They wanted shorter hours, and bigger pay, and half-holidays, and all the rest of it. Oh, by the way, therewasone thing, Willett had been negligent about, some shafting that had been left uncovered; I had that inquired into and put right."
"Then the interview wasn't absolutely without results," remarked the elderly gentleman in the frock-coat, joining in the discussion for the first time, and speaking in a deep, guttural, Scotch voice and accent.
"Oh, I've no doubt we'd have put that all right in due time, without their interference," said the host, somewhat superciliously.
"Aye! After an accident, and an inquest, and a suit for damages," returned the Scotchman, with a dry smile and twinkle of the eye.
"Come! come! Mr. Dunlop, you have a rather bad opinion of us, I know; but for our own sakes, you know, we want to have everything right about the mills. And as for all these other things—why, if we went to pampering and coddling those people to that extent, they would think so much of themselves, that by and by they wouldn't want to work at all. Why now, if we were to do as they ask, increase their pay and shorten their hours, how could we compete with firms that went in the old way? The thing is preposterous. As it is, those people who get their pay regularly and have no care, are better off, this minute, if they only knew it, than we who have all the care and responsibility, that they know nothing about. Let me help you to a bit of partridge; you'll find it just right, I think."
"And would you be caring to exchange with one of them?" persisted Mr. Dunlop, as he accepted the slice of partridge.
"Why, no, of course, it wouldn't suit me any more than my work would suit them."
"That's a very fallacious test of yours, Mr. Dunlop," interposed the sagacious Mr. Wharton. "As Mr. Pomeroy says, what would suit one wouldn't suit another. And then, the environment we are accustomed to counts for something. Our friend here, accustomed to his charming surroundings, as a matter of course, could not lose them without real deprivation. But a man unused to them would find them only a burden. Depend upon it, things in this world find their own level after all."
"Of course they do," rejoined Mr. Pomeroy; "as for all this talk about 'Fraternity and Equality,' the stuff such people as this Graeme are so fond of spouting—poisonous trash!—it's simply making people discontented with the inevitable conditions of life, and doing them no possible good. It's so much rank poison, morally speaking, is it not, Mr. Chillingworth?"
The clergyman had been listening silently, but he now readily responded. "Oh, there is no doubt in my mind that all the evils complained of—and no doubt there are some hardships—can be remedied in only one way, in the spread of the Christian spirit of love and service which must eventually prevail over selfish and partial views."
"And that would probably have been your verdict, in the last generation, as against abolitionists like Garrison and Phillips and Whittier, would it not?" remarked Mr. Archer, in his even, cool, slightly satirical tones. "Slavery would die out gradually, as the Christian spirit spread among the planters. But then, the question would have been, again, Who shouldbegin? Slave-holder number one wouldn't want to begin till slave-holder number two did; so it would be difficult to see how the reformation would get started."
"Come now, Philip!" said Mrs. Pomeroy. The young man was a distant relation of hers, and took liberties accordingly. "You don't mean to put us all on a level with slave-holders, surely! This is a free country, I should hope; and no one is called on to do more for hisemployésthan he conveniently can."
"Ah, now, my dear cousin, that's a delightful sort of philosophy! Do you know, I've sometimes found it inconvenient to pay my clerks, when I had been going in heavily for opera-tickets—I'm glad to think I'm not called on to do more than I conveniently can."
Philip Archer could always turn the most serious argument into a joke when he pleased—and he always pleased at a certain point—but Mr. Wharton was not going to let him off so easily.
"Of course you were not serious in that analogy of yours," he said. "There can be no parallel between a distinct wrong to humanity, and purely relative matters like wages and hours."
"And are ye sure ye have a clear comprehension of whataretherightsof humanity?" struck in the deep Scotch voice. Mr. Dunlop had finished his partridge, and, having laid down his knife and fork, seemed ready to begin hostilities in earnest.
"I tell ye what it is," he went on, without waiting for a reply, "it would pay all you capitalists and employers just to take a look into things a little, to see what your men are doing and thinking—what the 'Knights' and 'Unions' are after—and consider if ye couldn't arrive at some rational understanding. There's nothing would propitiate them quicker than that. This thing's going to grow! It's young yet, and only totters on its feet; but by and by it will be as we say in Scotland, 'neither to haud nor to bind!' Awhile ago, ye were speaking of 'Fraternity and Equality,' Mr. Pomeroy. There was a third thing that went wi' them in the old days, that ye didna' mention! We're supposed to have gotLiberty, and it's bound to work out its own salvation. I tell ye there's a big, silent army, marshalling without fife or drum, and if ye persist in ignoring it, as the grandees of France did beforetheirRevolution,ye'llmaybe have a revolution, too. What if the men were growing nae poorer? They see you all growing richer, the style of living rising on all hands. Can they be o' the same stock with you, and no want to rise too? And then wi' your 'protection' an' your 'combines,' ye're loading them down wi' a greater weight o' taxation than it took to make your ancestors rise and fight, shoulder to shoulder, for their independence! But ye won't see it! It's been aye the way, 'Whom the gods would destroy they first make mad'!"
"Why, Mr. Dunlop, I had no idea you were such a pessimist! You must have been taking an extra dose of Carlyle!" said Mr. Pomeroy, evidently trying to smooth out a frown, and retain his usual bland exterior.
"Aye! I've read my 'French Revolution' to some purpose, an' human nature's the same in all places and ages," was the grim reply.
"And what would you have us poor blinded creatures do?" inquired his host; "take all our men into partnership? A nice muddle they'd soon make of it!"
Miss Harley had been listening with deep interest to the little skirmish, her cheek flushing slightly, and her clear eyes shining with some vivid emotion. Now she spoke, with a soft clearness of tone that seemed to give every word additional weight.
"I think," she said, "that we, in England, have got so much accustomed now to the wordcoöperation, that it begins to sound quite natural to us. Mr. Ruskin, of course, did a great deal to drive it into us, and a good many others have caught it up. And I can tell you something of the success of one experiment. My father had extensive works in Wiltshire. He had been reading Ruskin'sFors Clavigera, mainly on social matters, you know, and, being a Quaker, and having strict ideas as to duty, he began to think he wasn't using his men quite fairly. He knew, too, that there were some socialists among them, trying to breed mischief, and he thought he would try an experiment. So he invited a large number of the more intelligent of the men to meet him and hear his report of the state of the business. He laid it all before them, in the most precise and business-like way, explained the assets and debts—cost of working, annual proceeds, and all. He tried to give them an idea of the risks run, the capital needed, the fluctuations of trade, and so on, and then he told them that he would give to each man who proved his steadiness, and who chose to accept it, instead of wages, a certain share in the profits, graduated according to the value of his work. Of course it was only the picked men who accepted. The more shiftless and less intelligent preferred to take their ordinary wage, which was always a generous one, thinking 'a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush'. But the others made, my father used to say, 'capital partners'—they took such an interest in the business, were constantly suggesting little improvements and ways of saving waste, and were always on the lookout for all carelessness or 'scamped work' among the other men. And when a tight time came, they were able to convince the others that if they were kept on at all, it must be at a reduction. 'You seewecan't afford more,' I've heard one man say to another, going home from work. And when there were 'strikes' and failures all around, his business continued to live on, like an organic creature, as he used to say, drawing itself in or letting itself out according to circumstances. And sometimes the generosity of the men in a slack time used to bring tears to his eyes, as he would tell us about it with pleasure and pride."
Every one had listened with interest to the pleasant little episode. Mr. Chillingworth's dark eyes had lighted up with enthusiasm.
"Ah, that was beautiful, indeed!" he said, with a warmer spontaneity than usual. "Thank you, indeed, Miss Harley, for telling us about it. That is how things should stand between master and men. We have some noble men in the old land yet!"
"Now, Mr. Chillingworth," broke in his hostess, "you're not going to go back onus, surely!"
"By no means! but you must pardon an Englishman his pride in the old stock."
"I should quite imagine," remarked Mr. Pomeroy, "that in such an old country as England, so conservative in all social matters, and so tenacious of vested rights, such a plan of coöperation would answer very well. But it would be quite a different thing, in a more democratic community, to let workmen get in any degree a hand on the reins. Business is too complex here—financiering too delicate. It would be like letting a bull into a china shop."
A lady has one great advantage in an argument, that she cannot be abruptly choked off, especially by her host, no matter how distasteful her arguments may be. Perhaps Miss Harley was conscious of this advantage, for she forthwith proceeded to describe, at some length, a most successful profit-sharing enterprise which her father had taken her to see, at Guise, in French Flanders; a great foundry which owed its prosperity, mainly, to the zeal, and enterprise of Monsieur Godin, a disciple of Fourrier's, who had consecrated his life to elevate the condition of workingmen. The capital, she said, was gradually being transferred to the workmen, who already owned more than half a million dollars worth of stock; and the success, so far, was most encouraging. She then described enthusiastically the greatFamilistère, or residence establishment, begun by Godin about 1859—the large quadrangular buildings with courts covered in with glass, the coöperative shops and schools, the arrangements even for coöperative char-women, till it seemed as if she were quoting from some dreamer's Utopian fable. Mr. Archer took a mischievous delight in drawing her out on the subject, as Mr. Pomeroy subsided into silent endurance till, at length, to the host's evident relief, the ladies rose to leave the table, when he quickly switched the conversation off on a political track.
When the ladies adjourned to the drawing-room, which was so littered with costly knick-knacks that, as Nora afterwards averred, "it looked like a bazaar," that young lady gravitated by a natural attraction to Miss Harley's side, eager to ask her more questions about matters which had begun to interest her deeply. From Flanders, their talk soon drifted onwards to Germany and Italy. Nora, strange to say, had never yet been abroad, and cherished a most fresh and unsophisticated interest about those far countries which she had as yet seen only in books, pictures and dreams. Then they went on to talk of art; and, as a book of illustrations of Italian art lay conveniently at hand, they looked over a number of the engravings of old pictures together. They were lingering over the tragic face of Beatrice Cenci, with the mystic sorrow-laden eyes, which so attract and haunt the beholder; and Miss Harley was giving Nora an outline of her story, as you hear it in Rome, when the door opened, and Mr. Chillingworth entered, speedily finding his way to Miss Blanchard's side.
"I got tired of the politics in there," he said, smiling slightly, "so I thought I would set a good example. Ah! you're looking at the Cenci. What a tragedy lies sealed up in those dark eyes! What a type of the thousand tragedies that lie sealed up in many a ruin of those terrible old days!"
"And do you think we have no tragedies about us now?" asked Miss Harley, looking up at the tall figure above her.
"Oh yes, undoubtedly! But not so many, or so grim, I hope! And then, you know, we don't see present things quite so effectively, or in such good perspective as we do the past! We need a little distance, you see, in order to take things in as a whole."
"I suppose you are right, artistically speaking," replied Miss Harley, doubtfully. "But for myself, I must say, the sorrows of the real people about me always interest me more than the most romantic stories of the past."
"Now, don't try to persuade me that you are quite such a realist, Miss Harley, when you have shown what an idealist you are on social topics. What a noble man that father of yours must have been! I should like to know more of him. But come, Miss Blanchard, I see you are trying to make up your mind whether you're on Miss Harley's side or mine, and I don't want you to give judgment against me! Suppose you give us a little music, you and Miss Farrell. Can't we have a few airs from theMessiah, now? It would be such a good finish to the week's work—just what I need to put me in tune for to-morrow's duty!"
Nora colored a little at his thought-reading, but at once rose to comply with the request, which Miss Harley warmly endorsed. She had heard of Miss Blanchard's singing, and would be charmed to hear it for herself. There was a parlor-organ in a corner of the large room, in addition to the piano, and as they all agreed that this accompaniment would be much the more suitable for the music, Mr. Chillingworth gave his services as accompanist, playing with great taste and feeling. Nora sang the air, "He Shall Feed His Flock Like a Shepherd," and the other "He Was Despised and Rejected," with clear sweetness and pathetic expression, while a subdued stillness gradually stole over the little group of talkers at the other end of the room. Then, to check the little buzz of admiring comment, she insisted on Kitty's following at once with the air, "Come Unto Him All Ye That Are Weary and Heavy Laden:" Mr. Chillingworth took his turn in rendering, "Every Valley Shall Be Exalted," playing the beautiful undulating accompaniment for himself. Miss Pomeroy wanted to hear some of the choruses they had been practising, and they were just trying the angel's song, "Peace on Earth and Good Will to Men," when the other gentlemen entered the room.
The old gentleman, whose appearance and words had interested Nora a good deal, did not appear with the others, and she presently asked Mr. Archer, who came up to join her at the piano, what had become of him, and who and what he was.
"Oh, Dunlop always likes to slip away early," he said. "He's a queer old party! He's made a good deal of money in one way or other, so he's considered worth cultivating, and he knows it. He lives very quietly, they say; he's been a widower for years. He goes across the sea now and then, but always comes back 'to look after things.' He's got some ideas of his own, too, and he seems to take a great interest in this new paper of Graeme's—that 'crank' they were talking about. Now, I hope, since I have so amiably gratified your curiosity, you will gratify me by a song. I could catch distant echoes, tantalizingly remote, and now I want to hear the reality."
But Nora would sing only in the chorus they were just about to begin. She would not sing songs after the oratorio music.
When the chorus was over, Mrs. Pomeroy suggested that Mr. Chillingworth should give them a short poetical reading before the party broke up. "I know," she said, "that you'll give us something very nice, to dream on. Suppose you give us something from Browning. I just love to hear you read him! Clara, dear, won't you bring Mr. Chillingworth a volume of Browning?"
Miss Pomeroy, who belonged to a "Browning Club," speedily produced a volume which she knew contained a favorite reading of Mr. Chillingworth's. That gentleman seated himself where the soft light of a silver reading-lamp could fall most pleasantly on the book, while the rest of the company disposed themselves in various attitudes of luxurious repose, as people are apt to do after a sumptuous repast. Young Pomeroy threw himself on a sofa beside Kitty, where he could make whispered commentsad libitum. Nora found a place near Miss Harley, while Mr. Wharton lay back in an easy-chair with an expression of complaisant and critical expectancy.
It was the beautiful opening of the poem "Pippa Passes," that Mr. Chillingworth read, in a voice of musical quality and with a finished elocution, for he had paid special attention to that art. Perhaps it might have been objected that the reading suggested too much of the artist, and too little of the man. But Nora listened with keen and absorbed pleasure, as, through the music of the poet's lines and the reader's voice, one scene after another rose before her "inward eye." The glorious Italian morning just breaking over a sleeping country; the sunrise reddening, flickering, then "pure gold overflowing the world"; the little mill girl springing up, eager to lose not one minute of the long, lovely day, appealing to it, with its "long, blue solemn hours, serenely flowing" to "treat her well," and not spoil her one precious holiday by such gloom or showers as would not mar the pleasure of people richer in holidays and joys—the haughty beauty, the happy bride and groom, the boy and his mother, or Monsignore, in his dead brother's palace, the grandees of her little world: