Roland Graeme's full report of Mr. Jeffrey's lecture appeared the following evening in theMinerva. It was not strange, all things considered, that Mr. Pomeroy threw down the paper with disgust, declaring that if such stuff was scattered broadcast among the men, it was no wonder that he had so much trouble.
"What's the matter?" asked his daughter, looking up anxiously.
He did not answer at once, and her brother, who was examining the contents of his gold-mounted cigar-case, replied nonchalantly:
"Oh, only what might have been expected, after last night! The men have been making another row about higher pay, and when father told them that he proposed to run his works himself, they had the impudence to tell him that he could run them by himself. So I suppose that means that they won't put in an appearance to-morrow; and just when there's a lot of work on hand to finish, too!"
"Oh," exclaimed Mrs. Pomeroy, "how disgraceful! And after what you did for them a little while ago!"
"That wasn't for the men, mamma!" said Miss Pomeroy.
"Oh, I knew no good would come of doing anything to please them!" said the young man. "I consider you're responsible for it, Clara, for coaxing father into it."
"Well," said Miss Pomeroy, "I wonder, Harold, after all you heard last night, you can talk like that! Why should we have so muchmorethan we need, and all these people so much less?"
Young Pomeroy whistled. "Well, I declare!" he exclaimed. "Do you hear that, father! Here's Clara out on the 'Rights of Labor'! The reason we have so much more, is because father had so much more to begin with,—the money to buy the machinery, and the head to use it!"
"But that's no reason why the men who help him to use it mightn't be better paid!Youlike a good salary for what you do to help, and I don't suppose that's worth a great deal!" she retorted, coolly.
"Much you know about it! But if all these people get only a little more every week, it would make a big difference to father, don't you see? And, you know, even Mr. Jeffrey said that single firms couldn't afford to raise the wages, or they'd be crowded out. And you like as well as anybody to have your trips to Europe and Newport, and all the rest of it."
"I am sick of Newport," she replied. "And I'd rather never see Europe again, than think I was going at the expense of keeping other people drudging for a pittance! But you know very well father can afford a good deal of extra pay, end never feel it. You know you can—papa?"
Mr. Pomeroy had been listening to the discussion in silence. It rather amused him that his daughter should come out in such distinct opposition to her own interests; and, as she was decidedly his favorite, he did not care to take sides with Harold against her. Moreover, it always gratified his purse-pride to have his wealth put at a high estimate. So he only stretched himself out in his easy-chair, remarking, drily:
"It's well you haven't the business to manage, my dear. However, I am going to have a long talk with Willett to-morrow, and if it seems to me that the concern can stand it, I don't mind a little extra pay. Only don't complain if you can't get quite so many new dresses."
"I don't care for that," she said. "I've always had more than I could wear, and lots of people have to go without enough to keep them warm. It makes one feel mean, just to think of it."
Mrs. Pomeroy looked annoyed. She always wore grave colors, having some vague idea that these were more "consistent" than bright ones, but she loved rich and handsome materials, and as she "took an interest" in the Clothing Club, she did not see any reason for "feeling mean." And was she not at that moment embroidering an expensive cushion for a charitable bazaar—intended to coax a few dollars out of some one who had no idea of "giving, hoping for nothing again"?
"I wish you wouldn't take up these socialistic ideas, Clara," she said. "I do hope you haven't been talking to that young Graeme that Philip talks about! Why, Harold tells me Nora Blanchard actually bows to him, and that he's been at the house. I think it's very queer! I told Philip he mustn't think of bringing himhere."
"Oh, you needn't be alarmed, mamma," the young lady replied. "I haven't the honor of even a bowing acquaintance with Mr. Graeme, and I don't suppose he's in the least anxious to visit here!"
Miss Pomeroy knew very well, from Roland's lecture, that he was better bred, better read, more thoughtful, and better worth knowing than half the people who did visit them; but where would be the use of trying to convey this impression to her mother, in whose eyes Roland was little better than a "communist" and therefore "worse than an infidel"?
"If you're going out, Harold," said Miss Pomeroy, "will you call a cab for me?"
"Where are you going to-night, then?" asked her mother.
"Oh, only to the Girls' Club," she replied, carelessly. "We're having a little informal sort of concert for them to-night, and I promised to go."
"Well," said Mrs. Pomeroy, "I wonder what we shall have next. When I was young, girls thought tract distribution and collecting for missions good enough for them. Now, they must have all sorts of new-fangled ideas! Where's the use of taking these girls out of their homes at night, when they've been out all day?"
"If you saw some of their homes!" Miss Pomeroy replied. "And some of them havenone!"
"I say, Clara," said her brother, lingering a little, "suppose you take me with you to help! I don't mind sacrificing myself to that extent. I'll read them the "Bad Little Boy," or anything else you like."
"Thank you for nothing! We don't haveanyboys there," she replied, severely.
"Well, that's gratitude, I must say. But still, I'll come for you if you like. What time? Ten? or half-past nine?"
"Half-past nine will do," she replied. "Really, Harold is in a wonderfully obliging mood, to-night!" she remarked, as she left the room to get ready.
"You don't half do your brother justice," said the fond mother.
At the concert, the girls were whispering among themselves about the rumored strike, but of course nothing reached Miss Pomeroy's ears. Neither did she observe a little stolen talk between her brother, as he waited for her at the door, and Nellie Grove, as she went out alone, avoiding Lizzie, who looked very sad and downcast.
"May I come to see you to-morrow, Miss Blanchard?" said Lizzie, watching her opportunity. "You know there isn't going to be any work at the mill, and there's something I want to speak to you about."
"Why, areyouall going to strike too?" asked Nora, who had heard that the crisis was imminent.
"Oh no, miss! but there's no use our going when there's no one to work the machinery. So we'll have a whole holiday, and that is splendid!"
"Oh, I see," said Nora. "Well, come whenever you like. I shall be in all the morning."
The next day was one of those exquisite winter days that are most apt to come in February, when the sun rises softly through a light haze that idealizes the commonest objects. Even Pomeroy & Company's mill looked almost poetical in the early morning sunshine; but it stood still and silent, no whirr of machinery breaking the morning stillness, no troops of workers hastening toward it from their hurried breakfast.
A few girls who had not heard of the strike arrived; but turned away again, as they knew, by the unwonted stillness, that there was no work going on. Willett, the manager, himself once a workingman, now turned into a petty tyrant, very willing to mete to others the measure he had himself received, walked about grumbling, or scolding the little message-boys, who lingered about the place. He read the letters that came in, and then grumbled again, because some of them contained large orders for a particular kind of mixed silk and woolen goods, of which a large quantity was wanted immediately. Finally, on receipt of a note from Mr. Pomeroy, he settled down with a frown to a series of elaborate calculations, made from the pages of the great folios of accounts that lay on the office table. Meantime, the men at their homes enjoyed their unusual holiday, slept in, or lounged about aimlessly, discussing the prospects of speedy success, while they wondered wistfully, at times, how long this unproductive idleness was likely to last.
Lizzie, however, did not arrive till pretty late in the afternoon; just as Nora, despairing of her coming, was going out for a long walk, to enjoy the unusual beauty of the exquisite winter day.
"I'm so sorry, miss," she said, "that I couldn't come sooner. But I've been awful worried all day—about Jim! He's been out drinkin' with some roughs; an' they've been puttin' him up to all sorts of mischief. An' he's been hearin' about Nelly bein' out walkin' the other night—with young Mr. Pomeroy—and it's just set him crazy; he's vowin' he'll do him a mischiefsure!"
"Was it Mr. Pomeroy, then, that you told me about before?" asked Nora, dismayed at this proof of what she had hoped was mere talk.
"Yes. But indeed I wouldn't have told you now, only I'm dreadful 'fraid there'll be a row! My little brother's an errand-boy in the mill, an' he happened to tell Jim that young Mr. Pomeroy was in the office, goin' over accounts with Mr. Willett; an' now Jim has got a plan in his head of goin' with two or three of his comrades, to wait for him, when he goes home at dusk, and give him an awful thrashin', you know there's one place that's pretty lonely on the road. An' there's no knowin' what Jim will do when his blood's up—an' the drink in his head! I seen him, lately, foolin' with a revolver, though where he got it, I don't know."
"And why can't you go and warn the police to look out?" asked Nora, hastily, too much shocked at this unexpected turn of things to consider it calmly.
"Oh, Miss Blanchard! how could I do that, an' have Jim 'run in' again the first thing? If he knew I came an' toldyou, even, he'd half kill me, the way he's in now! I've been thinkin' an' thinkin', an' there's only one way I can see to stop mischief, and that is, if you could only manage to walk home with Mr. Pomeroy this evenin'."
"I?" asked Nora, much startled at such a proposition.
"Yes, miss, if you were there, IknowJim wouldn't lay a hand on him. He thinks an awful lot of you mostly for the notice you've took of Nelly—for all he's so mad at her just now. If you were walkin' with Mr. Pomeroy he'd never think of makin' any row. You could keep talkin' with him all the way, so they'd know you were there. And then no one need ever know anything about it. And when Jim's sober to-morrow, you might come and talk to him a bit. But if you could only get Mr. Pomeroy to stop hangin' round Nelly, it would be best of all. That was what I wanted to ask you, any way. For I do think he would, if you spoke to him."
Nora had been rapidly thinking the matter over, as Lizzie spoke. At least, she thought, she couldtry. And the crisis, such as it was, appealed to a natural, chivalrous love of adventure, that she doubtless inherited from her brave pioneer ancestors.
"Well, Lizzie," she said, "I'll do what you ask, and I only hope it will prove effectual."
And then she stopped Lizzie's torrent of warm gratitude by making some inquiries about Mrs. Travers. Lizzie was evidently unwilling to say anything about her friend's weakness, but Nora drew from her enough to show that the poor young woman was subject to fits of restless excitability, when it seemed as if shemusthave the stimulus she craved.
"She's told me she could jump over a ten-barred gate to get it, at such times," Lizzie said, sorrowfully. "And then she'd be down in the depths of misery afterwards. An' the poor little thing would look so scared, when her mother took these turns! She wouldn't know what to make of it, though she did get kind of used to it, too."
Nora had not, just then, much time to think of Mrs. Travers, however. As soon as Lizzie left her, she began to arrange her plan of operation. She would have to do something that would surprise Mr. Harold Pomeroy a little, but that could not be helped. Had her brother been there, she would have solved the problem by askinghimto call for Mr. Pomeroy and drive him home, giving him a hint of her reason; but he was out on his rounds, and there was no knowing how long he might be away. And Nora knew that it would not do to risk anything; for, independently of the consequences to those chiefly concerned, any lawless act of violence of this kind would seriously complicate matters, and, moreover, bring additional odium on Mr. Graeme and on the cause in which she had become so strongly interested.
She took a long walk alone, in the dreamy slanting sunshine of the mild winter afternoon, the genial balmy air, and the soft purplish haze seeming like a presage of the coming spring. The calm beauty of the approaching evening, the rose and amber tints of the western sky as the sun set red through the haze, soothed the slight nervous excitement that her errand naturally produced. She walked a long way past the Pomeroy mill, noting, in her walk, how many wretched-looking houses there were, just like Lizzie's, in its close vicinity; and thinking that these were, doubtless, the places where her brother apprehended an outbreak of some epidemic, as soon as the warm weather of spring should have set in.
She took good care, however, to be back at the mill, before Harold Pomeroy should be likely to think of returning. It was getting near dusk, and the office windows alone were lighted, the rest of the building looming up, dark and blank—a contrast to its usual effect at this hour. Nora walked up, unhesitatingly, and knocked at the office door.
"I should like to speak to Mr. Harold Pomeroy, if he is here," she said to the manager, who opened the door and looked much surprised at seeing his visitor.
"Miss Blanchard!" exclaimed young Pomeroy, as he recognized her? "Why, what——"
Nora did not give him time to go on. "I've been taking a long walk," she said, "and am rather late in getting home. I was told you were here, and thought I would ask for your escort back."
"I shall be only too happy," he said, though not without some natural surprise at the direction she had chosen for her walk. But Miss Blanchard was evidently a young lady of peculiar fancies, and, no doubt, she had been looking up some of her queer acquaintances.
"We'll do the rest of these to-morrow, Willett, and I'll report progress, so far," he said, with an air of satisfaction. "Now, Miss Blanchard, I'm at your service. Will you take my arm?"
Nora accepted it, a thing she had never done before, and they walked on together through the still, clear twilight, while bells were chiming and lights gleaming out through the winter dusk.
"What a lovely evening, and how it makes one begin to think of spring!" said Miss Blanchard, as they came out.
And then she went on talking in a somewhat louder tone than usual, about everything she could think of, making young Pomeroy wonder no less at her very unusual loquacity, than he had done at her unexpected appearance. He never knew the reason of either, nor did he notice the strained attention of his companion during the whole walk; how she scrutinized every corner and archway they passed, till she began to be afraid lest her companion should notice her anxiety and hear the loud beating of her heart. They had come about a third of the way, when Nora's quick eye caught sight of some dark figures hovering in the shadow of a line of warehouses with open gateways, and her strained ear caught something like a muttered consultation. She talked on in a still louder tone, not allowing her companion time to put in a word, lest he might, by any chance, say something that might aggravate or enrage the men. As they drew near, she saw that they seemed to move back a little, then edged off to a corner near; and, as Nora and her companion reached it, they saw them clattering heavily away, growling out oaths, all butone, who stood still in the shadow, and whom Nora's quick ear could hear, as he hissed out, between his teeth:
"You —— white-livered coward! You must get a woman to take care of you!"
"There go some of Graeme's amiable 'Knights'!" sneered Harold Pomeroy, who had not caught the words, but knew that something abusive had been said. "That's what comes of strikes. The men loaf about and get drunk and then they get into rows and riots! That's making things better, I suppose!"
Nora had suddenly collapsed into silence in the middle of a sentence. The nervous strain had been too much for her, and she could not think of anything more to say, just at that moment.
She only replied to her companion's remark, in a dreamy way—"Yes, it's a pity when such things have to be."
Harold Pomeroy went on talking, but she scarcely listened to him. She was bracing herself for the latter part of her task, not less difficult than the first. If her companion was puzzled by her sudden change of manner, he was still more surprised at her next speech.
"Mr. Pomeroy," she began, in a voice low, and somewhat tremulous, from the effort it cost her to speak at all; "do you remember an old Bible story about a rich man who had great flocks and herds, yet sent and took away a poor man's lamb that he prized very much; and what was said about him?"
"Yes, I believe I have some such vague recollection," he replied.
"Well, then," she continued, "suppose that you were a poor young man who had to work at some steady, monotonous, uninteresting labor from early morning till late at night. And suppose Kitty were a poor girl slaving away for so many long hours a day——"
"What a horrible supposition!" he broke in; but she went on without noticing the interruption.
"And, suppose that some rich young man, likeyou, for instance, who was engaged to a rich and beautiful young lady, were to try to come between you and Kitty, and flatter her into thinking she was too good for you——"
"Perhaps she'd be about right!" he muttered.
"And break up, perhaps, her and your happiness for life. How do you think you'd like it?"
"Oh, I see what you're hinting at," he replied, having by this time got over his momentary discomposure. "I see some one's been gossiping, making much ado about nothing! What harm is there in a little fun and nonsense with a pretty girl, even if sheissilly?"
"Mr. Pomeroy," exclaimed Nora, in a voice unsteady with indignation, "did you ever read the fable of the boys and the frogs?"
"Miss Blanchard," he replied, now in a tone half apologetic, "you high-strung young ladies are always making mistakes, when you try to judge about other people who don't feel like you. That girl hasn't any heart at all; all she cares about is to have a good time; so what amuses me doesn't hurt her; and if it did set her against marrying a lout like that surly young Mason, so much the better for her, and for him, too! She can do better for herself if she likes, and if she ever marries him she'll lead him a dance, I can tell you!"
"Mr. Pomeroy," said Nora, severely, "you know in your heart better than that. I want you to promise me to have nothing more to do with Nelly Grove."
He began to whistle, then checked himself. "And what if I don't?" he asked.
"Then I shall have to tell Kitty," she said, decidedly.
"And if I do promise, you'll promise to say nothing about it, will you? I supposesomewomen can keep a secret!"
"Yes, I am quite willing to promise that," she said.
"Well then—honor bright—I hereby promise to renounce Nelly and all her works; will that satisfy you?"
"Yes," said Nora, shortly.
"And Kitty is never to hear a word about it! I don't want to give her a good excuse, or what she might think a good excuse, for her flirtation with Waldberg. You might reverse your story on my behalf; for it seems to me that a poor young man is trying to poach on my preserves. You'd better give him and Kitty a little of the admonition you've been good enough to bestow on me!"
Through Nora's mind there had been running, since Lizzie's visit, that afternoon, some lines she had long ago learned by heart, in one of Macaulay's Lays. They were from "Virginia," and she just remembered snatches of them.
"Our very hearts that were so high sank down beneath your will;Riches, and lands and power and state—ye have them;—keep them still;But leave the poor Plebeian his single tie to life—The sweet, sweet love of daughter, of sister, and of wife.Spare us the inexpiable wrong, the unutterable shame,That turns the coward's heart to steel—the sluggard's blood to flameLest, when our latest hope is fled, ye taste of our despair,And learn by proof, in some wild hour, how much the wretched dare!"
"Our very hearts that were so high sank down beneath your will;Riches, and lands and power and state—ye have them;—keep them still;But leave the poor Plebeian his single tie to life—The sweet, sweet love of daughter, of sister, and of wife.Spare us the inexpiable wrong, the unutterable shame,That turns the coward's heart to steel—the sluggard's blood to flameLest, when our latest hope is fled, ye taste of our despair,And learn by proof, in some wild hour, how much the wretched dare!"
But her cheek burned a little as she felt that it would be "casting pearls before swine" to appeal further to Harold Pomeroy's sensibilities, hardened—almost atrophied—as these were, by a life of unrestrained self-indulgence. A young man, who had never learned to consider the feelings of an animal, but regarded it merely as an instrument for his own amusement, who "went in" for pigeon-matches when he had the chance, and docked his horse's tail, and tortured him with a cruel check rein, without an atom of compunction for the creature's suffering, was not likely to be over-particular when he came to deal with human beings whom he also looked upon as an inferior order of beings at that. To Nora, he was a puzzle, and she gave him up in despair.
Yet the young man was, after all, a little impressed by her earnest appeal. "She really does seem to take an awful lot of trouble about other people!" he thought, wonderingly, as he walked homeward, after leaving Miss Blanchard at her brother's door. "I really believe she walked out all that way to-night, just to have the chance of giving me that lecture. Too bad I can't tell Kitty about it!" and he laughed a little over the adventure.
He never knew the real meaning of Miss Blanchard's unusual procedure. It had the effect, however, of preventing an act of violence which would have seriously imperilled the success of the strike and even of the labor movement in Minton, as well as what Mr. Harold Pomeroy would have thought of much more consequence,—his own preservation of a whole skin.
That night, it happened that Roland Graeme, harassed by a natural anxiety as to the results of the strike, with which he well knew public opinion would be sure to connect his efforts after reform, felt unusually wakeful, and, fearing a sleepless night unless he took some means to quiet his nervous excitement, set out for a long walk after his evening's work had been completed. This was a favorite expedient of his for securing sleep when wakeful, and sometimes it succeeded.
By a natural sort of fascination, he involuntarily took the direction of Mr. Pomeroy's mill, which at present occupied so much of his thoughts, and walked some distance past it, into the open country, till he felt as if the physical exercise had sufficiently quieted his nerves, and turned to retrace his steps under the light of a late, waning moon, which seemed, as such moons are apt to do, to give a sombre and ghostly aspect to the familiar features of the scene. As he approached the mill, in doing which he had to pass a long alley that led to a rear entrance close to a small canal, he heard the thick voices of men, evidently intoxicated, who seemed engaged in a noisy altercation. He was almost sure, even in the distance, that one of the voices was Jim Mason's, which he had often noticed as somewhat peculiar.
"I suppose they have been making a night of it at 'The Haven,' and are going home 'full,' as they call it," he thought to himself in disgust.
"The Haven" was a drinking saloon, close to the alley which ran to the rear of the works, and was also a part of Mr. Pomeroy's property; and, at a distance, he could not be sure whether they had come out of the saloon, or out of the alley. Just as he reached the alley, however, he stopped short, as the penetrating odor of burning wood made itself distinctly perceptible. With a flash, a possibility that had often occurred to him rushed to his mind, and he turned down the alley in order to find out its cause. As he proceeded, it grew more and more distinct. He came at last to a gate leading into the courtyard, and found that it yielded at once to his strong push, but whether this was due to its having been previously forced open, or to the unconscious force he had himself exerted, he did not stop to think, and could never afterwards be sure. But, once inside, he saw what made his heart stand still with dismay. An already strong jet of flame was licking its greedy way along the base of an out-building used for the deposit of rubbish from the mill, and, as he could see, evidently full of inflammable material. Just beyond it was a storehouse, which he felt sure must in all probability contain oil and other combustibles used in the works. There was not a moment to be lost, and he, single-handed, could do nothing. He rushed up the alley at full speed—shouting "Fire!" as he ran; smashed in the office windows, till he had fully roused the sleepy watchman, and sent him off to give the alarm, and then made his way, breathless, to a street in the near vicinity, in which lived his friend Turner and many more of the operatives. In less time than he could have believed possible, he was making his way back, at the head of a half-clad band of men who flocked after him, more from the irresistible impulse which draws men to a scene of excitement and danger, than from any definite purpose of saving Mr. Pomeroy's mill. There must still intervene some minutes, at least, before the fire-engines could reach the spot; and they were fateful minutes, for the fire was making rapid headway, and its lurid glare now overpowered the pallid moonlight.
"Now, Turner, you know all the ropes. Tell us what's best to do," said Roland.
"That storehouse is full of oil-barrels," said the man, gasping with breathless excitement. "If the boys would turn to and get them out into the water,—and there are axes here to tear up the roof and other connections!"
"Come on, boys!" Roland shouted, tearing off his coat. "Let's get at it at once! Some of you go and help Turner with the barrels, and I'll help with the chopping!"
But the men sullenly held back; and Roland, looking round, saw, in the bright glare of the leaping flames, that Jim and his friends, who must have heard the alarm and hurried back, were already there, and were evidently rousing the worst passions of their comrades, by their oaths and invectives against the owners of the mill. Roland fairly rushed at the surly, irresolute group of men who stood divided between the instinctive impulse to save their workshops, and the grudge they had so long silently nourished against the proprietor, and the "boss." Why should they toil to save a place in which they might never do another day's work? For there had been already floating rumors, spread by the manager, that Mr. Pomeroy intended to send away for non-union men.
But Roland felt the gravity of the crisis, and felt that hemustget them to work, for he could easily see the disastrous consequences that would result, if it should be represented and believed—as it would certainly be—that the strike had resulted in an incendiary fire. For the next few moments, it seemed to him rather as if he were listening to some one else, than speaking in his own proper person,—that the strong, burning words, the voice of stern authority, came from some other personality, so little seemed his conscious volition to be concerned in it. In ringing tones he commanded them to follow. Were they going to sacrifice their very livelihood to a childish impulse of vindictive malice? Had they no concern for the valuable machines they had tended so long? Would they let the mill become a mass of ruin, ruin tothemselves, not to the owner, who, of course, would have his insurance, and could easily bear any trifling loss?
His tone even more than his words had a prompt effect, and the reference to the machinery touched a chord of feeling of which they had been previously unconscious. Roland's words called up a picture of the wrecked and twisted bars and coils which they had seen, some months before, in the ruins of a burned mill. Should the familiar machinery, which had so long been like a part of their daily life, be wrecked like that? No! they must try to save it! And so the scale turned. That incalculable element, on which the action of a crowd depends, was swayed round to Roland's side, as he shouldered his axe, calling the men again to follow either Turner or himself. And presently, he had the satisfaction of seeing at work a sufficient force to hack and tear away the roof of the burning building, so as to prevent the fire from spreading to the main part of the factory on the one side or to the store house on the other. "Don't go at it so hard," he heard one and another exclaim, "you'll hurt yourself, Mr. Graeme!" as he wielded his axe with the unnatural force of a white-heat of excitement. And, though he could feel the hot breath of the flames as they rolled up their red tongues, amid the dense clouds of smoke that now began to rise from the oil-soaked ruins below that fed the conflagration, Roland felt himself thrilled with a keener, more passionate sense of delight than he remembered ever feeling in his whole life before, in the sensation of encounter with some deadly monster, calling forth all the reserve force of his being into a hand-to-hand struggle with the fiery foe.
Meantime Turner, with his following, was equally hard at work, rolling out the oil-barrels, till they were all safely turned over, out of harm's way, into the little canal in the rear, where Roland could see them bobbing about, as he came down from the roof with his improvised body of sappers, to give place to the play of the fire-engine, which had by this time arrived. Scarcely a moment had been lost from the time when the fire had been discovered, and, thanks to the preventive efforts of Roland and the men, the fire was confined to the building in which it had begun, and was speedily under control. As Roland stood, at length, relieved from his self-imposed task, and, panting with unaccustomed toil, watched the hissing stream of water which seemed to meet in mortal combat the cruel flames that turned, under its charge, into white clouds of harmless steam, he felt a fierce exultation that surprised himself, as if in watching the death-throes of some ruthless destroyer. He could, ever after, better understand the fascination which draws the brave firemen to their arduous task, or even—what it had previously been difficult for him to take in—the fierce joy of victory in battle.
"It's well you went for them as you did, Mr. Graeme," said the voice of Turner, startling him out of his absorption. "If they hadn't set to work to fight the fire, it would have been all over town by morning that the strikers had started it!"
"Of course, Turner, I felt that!" replied Roland, who did not feel at all sure himself, however, that some of them hadnotdone it. "Did you see Jim Mason helping at all?"
"Oh, yes," he rejoined, "he took a hand at the barrels, in his surly way, muttering oaths all the time. But he couldn't keep still, if he wanted to, when there's anything going on—for all his sulkiness."
Roland said nothing more, but thought a good deal, as at last, tired, and smoked and grimy, he made his way homeward, after all further danger was over. He could not divest himself of the idea that Jim, in his present vindictive temper, had had a hand in the business. Still he had no positive evidence, and it would be most unjust to associate the young man's name with a grave crime, without any proof. He was heartily glad that he had none, and that his conscience relieved him of the burden of what, had he felt it a duty, he would have done so reluctantly. He talked the matter over with Miss Blanchard, one day when he met her at Mr. Alden's and walked home with her, after receiving warm congratulations on his action at the fire. He knew that she could be trusted to keep as rigid a silence as himself; and it was some relief to himself to unburden his mind of suspicions, though he carefully pointed out that they were no more.
"But how do you suppose the fire could have originated, if it was not an incendiary one?" asked Nora, anxiously.
"Oh, that is not difficult to imagine," he replied. "It might easily have started from spontaneous combustion. Turner tells me it is by no means uncommon for fire to originate spontaneously from rubbish of that kind, soaked with oil and dust, especially when the sun begins to have more power. He says that there had been gross carelessness on Willett's part, in not having had that accumulation disposed of long ago."
"Well, I'm glad to know it can be accounted for without Jim's intervention!" she said. "So, we'll give him the benefit of the doubt."
"Certainly," said Roland; but in his own mind he could not get over the painful impression, nor, to say truth, could Nora herself.
Of course there was a rumor that the fire had had an incendiary origin;—favored by Willett, to cover his own carelessness. But there was no shadow of proof, and the fact that the men had worked so well to save the property had great weight in preventing the rumor from gaining any general credence.
Mr. Pomeroy had tranquilly slept through that night, knowing nothing of the fire till next morning; for Willett, who had not arrived on the scene till the fire was almost subdued, did not think it worth while to disturb him about what seemed so trifling an affair, particularly as even the small damage sustained was covered by insurance. And as the firemen gave full publicity to the prompt turn-out ofemployés, and their successful efforts, with Roland at their head, to arrest the spread of the fire, Mr. Pomeroy could not avoid a certain grudging recognition of the fact that he owed to their promptness, in all probability, the prevention of a great deal more inconvenience than any that the strike itself could have caused. This consideration had, of course, its effect in bringing the contest to a speedy termination. It turned out, after all, that the examination of the books, and a consultation thereupon, satisfied Mr. Pomeroy that the firm could, without any real inconvenience, afford to pay its operatives at a higher rate. No doubt his daughter's remarks, taken in connection with Mr. Jeffrey's lecture, had their effect in bringing him to act on this knowledge. And another very weighty consideration, of course, had been the reception of the large orders, already referred to, and the difficulty and inconvenience of having, on short notice, to import a sufficient number of skilled workmen from a distance. And thus it came about that, two or three days after the fire, the leader of the strike received notice that, if the men would return to work at once, they should receive both the increase of wages and the Saturday half-holiday they had asked for. The girls, also, through Miss Pomeroy's urgent intercession, received a small increase of pay. And the fact that the firm could well afford to do this, without embarrassment, proved that the strike had justice on its side.
But, for all that, "public opinion," that is, the opinion of the upper stratum of Minton intelligence, was decidedly "down" on Roland Graeme and his troublesome organ. He was generally considered as the arch-conspirator against the peace and profits of the wealthy manufacturer, against the "good old ways," in which things had run so long without any of this tiresome fuss and friction, that over-zealous champions, false friends of the laborer, were so busy in creating.
The MintonEagle, the most formidable rival of theMinerva, began to see a chance of making capital out of the evident sympathy of the latter paper with many of the views ascribed to Roland Graeme; and Dick Burnet soon received strong hints from the other joint-proprietors of theMinerva, that he had better take in sail in that direction, and steer a safer course, for, naturally, to the proprietors, it was asine quâ nonthat the paper shouldpay.
Dick Burnet had much more of the professional journalist than of the pure philanthropist in his composition, and though interested in labor-reform, he was by no means prepared to become a martyr in its cause. He told Roland, therefore, with regret, that he must not only discontinue the noticing and reprinting of articles fromThe Brotherhood, but that he feared it would be necessary to make arrangements for having it printed elsewhere, as the reputed connection was considered damaging to theMinerva'sinterests. This was, of course, a cause of no little worry and anxiety to Roland, as he had enough on his hands, without the charge of the mechanical arrangements; but it was a still greater pain to him to see his friend Burnet, as it seemed to him, deserting the cause of principle for that of expediency. However, his genial spirit of charity made allowances for his friend that he would not have made for himself, could such a descent on his own part have been conceivable. He talked the matter over with Mr. Dunlop, and the old Scotchman's practical shrewdness as well as his purse came to Roland's aid, in devising new arrangements.
This was not, however, the only matter pressing on Roland's mind, as February passed into March, and the first mild spring-like days came with their physically relaxing influence. He was sharing the fate of every idealist in reform, meeting with unlooked for discouragements and perplexities, pained by frequently encountering precisely the same spirit of selfishness in the employed that had so disgusted him in the employers; and when, occasionally, his friends, the "Knights," had a social entertainment of their own, his taste was jarred by the tone of the comic songs and recitations which seemed most to tickle the audience. The material enjoyed by audiences of greater pretension to "culture" might not, in general, be much more elevated, but at least the humor was not quite so broad, the wit not quite so coarse; and yet, while Roland felt jarred and dissatisfied, he admitted that he was unreasonable, that it was useless to expect fine fruit from ungrafted trees, and that the low tone of taste which he regretted was a natural result of lack of opportunity for true cultivation. It only intensified his desire for a better state of things; but, at the same time, these experiences often tended to depress and dishearten him. And the long strain of high pressure was telling on him, also.
He was uneasy, too, about Waldberg, who had of late developed a feverish anxiety to "make a fortune," quite alien to his former happy, easy-going, romantic disposition. Roland rightly guessed that a growing attachment to Miss Farrell was at the root of it, combined with the too evident fact that she greatly preferred him to her much less interestingfiancé; and that, if he only had money enough, he might easily carry the day, yet. Mr. Farrell was a broker, who had made his large fortune mainly by speculation; and young Waldberg had heard from him stories of "lucky ventures," till he had been inspired with a strong desire to try the experiment himself. This desire was encouraged and promoted by one of Mr. Farrell's clerks, and with him for counselor, Waldberg had begun to gamble in stocks and "margins" to such small extent as he was able, notwithstanding Roland's strong disapproval and remonstrances.
Roland would, however, seek some respite from these various subjects of disquietude by a visit to Mr. Alden's house, or by a long walk, in the bright, lengthening afternoons. One charming and unusually mild afternoon, the day before the public performance of the oratorio which had been in preparation so long, he had prolonged his walk by the river, past even the suburbs of the city, and was returning about sunset. He had reached the gateway leading to Mr. Pomeroy's handsome residence, which stood at a little distance from the street, when he noticed, just inside it, a sight that always made him sick at heart, and seemed like a dark blot on the brightness of the day. It was the sight of a woman, apparently young, who had been seated on the ground in the shelter of a cluster of trees, and whom two policemen were endeavoring to raise to her feet. Mr. Pomeroy, returning home a few minutes before, had discovered her sitting there, evidently in a state of intoxication, and, in his usual bland manner, had handed her over to the first policeman he espied. As she came out, assisted by the policemen, Roland got a glimpse of her face, and heard a word or two, in a soft English voice. He was horrified, as the conviction flashed on him that it was the woman he had gone to succor, on the December evening when we first made his acquaintance,—Miss Blanchard'sprotégée, Mrs. Travers.
He hastened up to the policemen, and begged them to let him call a cab and take her to the hospital. But the men only looked at him sneeringly, as they remarked:
"Oh, yes, no doubt you'd like to get her off! Expect she's an old friend. But she's got to go withus, now."
Roland drew back, disgusted and shocked, seeing the futility of further interference. But how could he tell Miss Blanchard of such a catastrophe!
As he stood watching their departure, something bright on the ground, glittering in the yellow, slanting sunlight, caught his eye. He picked it up. It was a small locket, apparently gold, though worn and dim, with a monogram on one side. It must, he thought, have been dropped by the poor woman as she came out. He put it into his pocket, to keep it safe for her, and went home to dinner, considering, as he walked on slowly, for once, which it would be better to do, to tell Miss Blanchard or to send word to the hospital. At any rate he would go to the police-station next day, and endeavor to procure her release.
But, after dinner, as he sat in his room, still undecided, he chanced to think again of the locket, and, taking it out, examined it more closely. It opened easily, disclosing two miniature photographs, and a lock of dark hair enclosed with one of them. He saw that one of the portraits was that of a lovely girl in whom he easily recognized "Mrs. Travers." But when he looked at the other he nearly dropped the locket in his amazement. For, despite the changes that ten years will make in a man's appearance, he could not doubt that the original of the portrait was—Mr. Chillingworth!
Nora had been, that afternoon, practising industriously, with a view to having her part in the coming oratorio as perfect as possible; when she was interrupted by a very unexpected visitor, Miss Spencer.
"I'm so glad to see you," she said, warmly. "So you've actually come to see me at last!"
"Ihadto come, unfortunately;" said Miss Spencer, her usually serene face looking anxious and distressed. "I am sorry to say, I have some bad news for you."
"About Mrs. Travers?" asked Nora, with prompt divination.
"Yes. She has had one of her restless fits lately. You know I've been giving her some light work to do about the wards, just to keep her employed, and I hoped the fit would wear off. But to-day, she slipped out, and has never come back. We've sent in various directions, but have got no news of her. Lizzie Mason's people have seen nothing of her. I knew she didn't know your address, but still I thought it was just possible she might have found her way here."
"No," replied Nora. "But what can have happened to her?"
"I suppose it's the old story," said Miss Spencer, with a sigh; then, lowering her voice, she said:
"I know a good deal about her now, and I think I ought to tell you her story, as she told it to me a few days ago. I meant to tell you about it, the first time I had a good opportunity. But it is rather private. She wanted me to promise not to tell any one, but, I didn't promise, absolutely.
"There's no one else in," said Nora. "Sophy's out, and Will's away attending some medical convention, and Cecilia's gone out for a walk with the other children."
"Then, I'll try to tell it to you, as she told it tome—by snatches. Part of it, of course, I had to guess at, putting things together as I best could."
"Yes, I understand," replied Nora.
"Well, as you know already, she's English, and only came out a few years ago, under very distressing circumstances. It's a very long story, but I'll tell it as briefly as I can.
"It seems that her father died from the effects of drinking;—probablyhewas a 'dipsomaniac,' too; and—her own mother having died during her infancy—she had to live with a step-mother who was by no means kind to her. She got a situation when only sixteen, as a nursery-governess with a lady who pitied her, and treated her most kindly. About a year after she went there, a young clergyman came to stay at the house. She must have been a most lovely girl, and he seems at once to have fallen desperately in love. She was, evidently, easily won. She says he was very handsome, and, I suppose, otherwise attractive. The lady she was with, must, I think, have promoted the match. I suppose she thought it was an excellent thing for her. So, after a very short engagement, they were married from the house of this lady, who wouldn't let her go back to her step-mother. She had only one aunt, the wife of her father's brother, a good and kind woman; who, however, was in straitened circumstances, and lived in a distant village. And I suppose her husband didn't care to have much to do with her relations.
"His curacy—for he was only a curate—was in a small town not far from London. At first she seems to have been very happy, but, by and by she began to feel lonely. I fancy her husband began to find that she wasn't much of a companion for him, for she hadn't had the chance of much education, though she has quite a taste for painting flowers. So, I suppose, when his affection began to cool down a little, he began to tire a little of her constant society and of the quiet life they led. He was passionately fond of music, and used to go up to London frequently, for concerts and lectures, leaving her often alone for a day or two at a time. She must always have been excitable, and she began to have fits of crying when she was alone, and by and by she was attacked by neuralgia, to which she had previously been subject. The doctor unhappily recommended stimulants, and her hereditary taste for them rapidly developed. The habit grew stronger and stronger, and at last her husband discovered that she was sometimes not quite herself. She seems to have had false friends, too, who tempted her. He, of course, was terribly shocked and angry when he found it out. Probably it broke the spell that her beauty had exerted to hold his affection. He declared that if she continued the practice, he would not keep her with him. But when the fit came upon her, she seemed to have no power to resist it, so she passed some miserable weeks, trying to keep from it, and, when she could not resist, in terror lest he should find it out.
"At last the crisis came. One warm day she went to visit one of these 'friends'—drank to excess—tried to get home—but, between the heat and the effect of the stimulant, sank down, unable to walk, and was brought home in that condition, insensible. Her husband left the house half frantic, I suppose, leaving a note for her to read when she came to herself, in which he told her they must part, at least until she was thoroughly reformed; that he could not risk the consequences to his usefulness in his profession, of having such a scandal in his house, and that he would pay for her maintenance in her aunt's house, if she would receive her; but, for the present, he would see her no more."
"Oh, how cruel!" exclaimed Nora, who had listened in silent dismay to the tragic tale.
"Well, I'm afraid nine out of ten men of his temperament would have done the same," replied Miss Spencer. "But, the poor thing was stunned when she realized it all. She had no choice, however, except to do what he directed. She went to live with her aunt in the country village, while her husband, too miserable, probably, to go on with his work, got leave of absence and came for a trip to America.
"A few months later, her child was born; but she was so terrified lest the husband should take the little one from her, that she would not let him be told of its existence. He did not write to her, directly, only sending the remittances to her aunt. And he did not return from America, but resigned his charge in England, and accepted one out here, glad, doubtless, not to be exposed to meet the curious or pitying looks of old acquaintances.
"When her child was a few months old, her aunt died, and her only cousin, a woman some years older than herself, received an invitation to come out here, to take a sort of housekeeper's place with a friend of hers who had settled on a Western farm, and was in bad health. This poor girl, who still loved her husband devotedly, was seized with a great desire to come out with her, thinking that she too, could get a situation, and then she would no longer need his money, which it hurt her to receive, thinking that he could regard her only as a burden. She of the sea, she would see him sometimes, and she would be near him in case he were ill. Unhappily she could not subdue the fatal craving, and she had no hope of her husband's taking her back; indeed, she seems to have believed that his affection for her was utterly dead.
"So she set out, with her cousin and her child, for New York. They had nearly reached land, when a collision occurred at night, and their steamer was so injured that it speedily sank. In the hurry and confusion, Mrs. Travers and her cousin were put into different boats, and the one the cousin was in, was lost. She and her baby were saved, but she lay in a half-unconscious condition for days afterwards, from the fright and exposure. It happened that her cousin and she had accidentally exchanged handkerchiefs, and hers, marked with her name, was found on the body, when it was picked up, next day. And so, in the newspaper accounts of the accident, her name was given in the list of the lost. Her cousin's name was Travers, which had been her own maiden name. When she recovered and saw her own name in the list of the lost passengers, a strange idea took hold of her. She would leave it so, she thought, and if her husband should see the name, he would cease to think of her as a burden, and perhaps come to think more kindly of her, as we generally do of the dead. And she felt that, with a different name, she could make a new beginning in the new land. She went on to the destination for which they were bound, and, having explained the death of her cousin, she was accepted in her place, notwithstanding the drawback of her child. As her cousin's name was Travers,shewas naturally called Mrs. Travers, and she encouraged the mistake.
"What was her real name?" asked Nora, very quietly. A strange idea had occurred to her, which she would not entertain, yet could not quite reject.
"I don't know, I can only guess," replied Janet. "Well," she continued, "she seems to have been tolerably comfortable there for three or four years. Her cousin's friend knew her weakness, and was most careful not to let her be exposed to temptation; and when, at times, she did, notwithstanding, go wrong—it was overlooked, partly for her own sake and partly for that of her dead cousin, and also of the little child, whom every one was fond of.
"At last, this good friend died, and then she had to look for a new home, the husband's mother coming to take charge. She kept track of her husband's movements, and, as he had left his first parish for a large city charge, she thought she would try to get a situation somewhere near him, so that she might see him occasionally, taking care to do so unobserved by him. Her old enemy still kept its hold on her; and again and again deprived her of a home. She had been very much embittered against religion, through her husband's throwing her off, for she thought that had something to do with it; and had absolutely nothing to hold by except her affection for her child, for whose sake she would have kept straight, if she could. When she couldn't get a place, she tried to maintain herself by taking in sewing, or by selling her little paintings of flowers on cards, which I suppose people bought more out of charity than anything else, in these days of chromos. She says she doesn't know what she would have done, for some time past, but for poor Lizzie Mason, who was always ready to share with her what little she had."
"And all this time her husband thought her dead! Is he still alive?" asked Nora, in a scarcely audible tone. She had grown very pale.
"Yes, he is alive, and he still thinks her dead."
"And suppose he were to have married again?"
"I think she never thought of that, till lately. If that had been likely, I suppose she would have spoken. She did try to send for him, when she thought herself dying, on the child's account; but the attempt failed."
Both were silent for a few minutes. Nora, with a throbbing heart, and bewildered mind, was going back in thought to the story, trying to piece things together; remembering, with a pang, Miss Harley's remarks, and trying to fight down a conviction that was too strong to resist. Miss Spencer, who had divined the truth without being actually told by "Mrs. Travers," sat full of silent sympathy for the shock she feared it would be to Miss Blanchard,—yet not venturing to say a word. She had purposely left the conclusion of her story somewhat vague, so as not to let the disclosure come too suddenly.
"Well," said Nora, after a short silence, in the same low tone, "you suspect something—what is it?"
"Everything points to one conclusion only—I am afraid," she replied.
"Yes, but it seems incredible. If one could onlyknow, for sure!"
They heard the children coming and the sound of their merry voices—Cecilia's lower tones mingling with the others. Nora rang the bell, and told the maid not to let them come to the drawing-room, and to bring some tea there for Miss Spencer and herself.
"Sophy is not coming back till late," she said, "and I had dinner with the children, so I don't want anything but a cup of tea; and you will stay, won't you? There are so many things I want to ask, yet. But I couldn't talk to poor little Cecilia, just after hearing all this!"
They sat together in low-toned consultation, with long silences between; till the evening light had faded out, and only the firelight shed its fitful gleams about them. At last, however, Miss Spencer declared she must go, as her turn for duty would come on before long.
"And they may have heard some news of her by this time," she said.
Just then there was a ring at the door. Nora started up with nervous dread lest the visitor might, by any chance, prove to be one whom, just then, she felt she could hardly bear to meet. As she listened to catch the voice at the door, she heard Roland Graeme's clear, low tones, asking whether Miss Blanchard were at home, as he wished particularly to see her. Instantly it flashed upon her mind that he brought some news of the lost one, for it must be something very special that brought him at this unusual hour.
As he entered, Nora saw that he looked much agitated, and, as she introduced him to Miss Spencer, she said:
"I believe, Mr. Graeme, you have come to tell us where Mrs. Travers is!"
He looked surprised at her guess; then, recollecting that Miss Spencer had been the poor woman's nurse, he replied:
"You know, then, that she is out of the hospital?"
Nora assented, and Miss Spencer explained the anxiety her departure had caused; and then Roland, as briefly and gently as possible, told what he had seen. The two girls listened in silence, inexpressibly shocked; tears of pain and pity starting to Nora's eyes, as she fixed them on the firelight and called up the mental image of the poor young woman, dragged away, and locked into a police-cell. Miss Spencer, with her nurse's practical instinct, was thinking what could be done next.
"We must try to get her out as soon as possible, Mr. Graeme," she said.
"Yes," he said, "I will go round in the morning and do what I can. I suppose they'll let her off with a fine—at worst."
"Oh, I should hope so!" exclaimed Nora. "Only do get her out and send her back to the hospital! We must keep her there, till something definite can be done for her."
"There's something else," he said, with an effort. "I foundthislying on the road after she was gone, and I think it must be hers. Will you take charge of it, Miss Spencer?"
He hoped she would not think of examining it then, but both girls looked at it with eager scrutiny.
"Oh, I've often noticed it!" said Miss Spencer. "She always wore it round her neck, and seemed afraid of any one's touching it."
As they examined it, they noticed the peculiar monogram, three "C's" intertwined together on one side, and the word, "Celia," engraved on the other. Nora took it and pressed the spring. One look at the two portraits was enough to settle the question they had been discussing, beyond a doubt.
No one spoke Mr. Chillingworth's name, but all felt that they knew his sad secret; and knew, too, that of which he himself had not the slightest idea.
When her visitors were gone, Nora sat for a long time gazing into the flickering firelight, thankful that she could be alone and undisturbed. She wanted to try to think quietly; to calm, if possible, the tumult of conflicting feelings that contended for the mastery, intense pity for the poor woman, in whose lot she had been led to feel so strong an interest; bitter disappointment and indignation with the man of whom she had thought so highly, who had so heartlessly thrown aside the duties he owed, as a man and a minister of Christ, to the woman whom he had taken "for better or worse," in her weakness and misery; and yet, also, mingled with a sorrowful sense of "the pity of it" all, and with something of that divine quality of compassionate charity, which is always ready to believe that, "Tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner."
To Nora, indeed, with her own simple directness, staunch loyalty, and passionate impulse to help and sympathize, it was almost impossible to understand the workings of a self-centred, coldly fastidious nature like Mr. Chillingworth's. Yet she dimly felt that he, too, must have suffered, and must suffer much more; and suffering always, to some extent, enlisted her sympathy. But he had shattered her ideal, and that was indeed hard to get over and forgive. His eloquent expositions and high standard of moral duty, his glowing appeals to live the nobler life, had so captivated her imagination, as to attract her irresistibly to theman, whom she in her inexperience identified with the ideals he preached. If he himself had so failed, how could he teach others? And bitter tears rose to her eyes as she thought of the contrast between the mental image she had cherished and the poor and pitiable reality. And as, moreover, there rose before her the picture of Mr. Pomeroy, a man Mr. Chillingworth treated with special consideration, handing over this poor woman to the police with bland unconcern, she could not refrain from one of those sweeping conclusions in which an enthusiastic nature is so apt to indulge, in a moment of bitter disappointment. Was it all mere talk, then? Did no one try to live out the spirit of the Master they all professed to honor? Was there no one who aimed at being really Christ-like, at "loving his neighbor as himself"? Was thereno one? But almost at once—with a sharp pang of self-reproach—came the recollection of Mr. Alden's earnest life of love and labor, of Grace's sweet loving nature, of her own brother, never talking about grand ideals, but living and working from hour to hour; of Miss Spencer's happy and tender ministry in the laborious service of suffering humanity; of poor Lizzie Mason's life of humble self-sacrifice; and, last but not least, of Roland Graeme, with his self-forgetful enthusiasm and his passion for helping and raising the down-trodden and oppressed. Yes, she was glad to think of such examples. And yet, as far as she knew, Lizzie Mason was not a "professing Christian;" and Roland Graeme—did they not call him an "unbeliever"? It was a bewildering puzzle to her, with hera prioriconceptions. Might it then be true that, while some people—so-called believers—only "believedthey believed," others, so-called unbelievers, only believed that they didnotbelieve? And she remembered the Master's own grieved expostulation:—
"Why call ye me Lord! Lord! and do not the things which I say?"
"Why call ye me Lord! Lord! and do not the things which I say?"
But, beneath all the heart-sickness produced by this miserable story, she was dimly conscious of an involuntary relief from a conflict which had been going on in her mind, for some time, between what she wished to think about Mr. Chillingworth, and the disappointing conviction that was being forced in upon that underlying consciousness which will not be hoodwinked even by strong inclination. Of whatever kind had been the attraction that had biassed her in Mr. Chillingworth's favor, it was broken now, forever; and her present temptation was, perhaps, in her youthful intolerance, to think too hardly of him, to forget what most people would call the "extenuating circumstances," and his blindness and limitations. But, in a nature like Nora's, a long-cherished ideal dies hard. And at last, retreating to the seclusion of her own room, she threw herself on her knees—the natural instinct of an oppressed heart—the pain soon finding expression in irresistible tears, which at least brought some relief.
Next morning, Roland was in attendance at the police court, and succeeded in procuring the release of the so-called "Mrs. Travers," by the payment of a fine, thereby saving the poor victim of a hereditary craving from a period of humiliating confinement in gaol, among criminals of the lowest class. His interference called forth sneering and ill-natured comments from some of the low bystanders, of a type whose natural tendency is to put the worst possible construction on every action. But for this he cared little, putting the unhappy young woman into a cab, and sending her to the hospital, while he himself hurried back to his office-work, satisfied with having rescued one sufferer from further degradation.
Miss Spencer was ready to receive her without a reference to this miserable episode. But when, exhausted and miserable, her beauty quite obscured by the effects of the intoxication and of her wretched night, the poor girl, as she still seemed, was led back into the peaceful retreat she had so insanely left, she threw one look around her, and then cast herself at the nurse's feet in a passion of tears and sobs. And in the same spirit in which the Man of Sorrows had comforted and encouraged the repentant Magdalen, did the tender-hearted Christian nurse comfort and encourage this poor penitent. This, at least, was the thought that passed through the mind of Nora, who, having come early to the hospital to inquire whether the wanderer had returned, was an unnoticed but deeply interested spectator of the scene.
Nora never knew how she got through the performance of the oratorio that evening. The brilliancy of the scene, the dress-display, the crowded audience, distasteful as they were in her present mood, were powerless to banish oppressive thoughts, and that scene in the hospital, which stood before her, as the touching chorus rose in all the tender beauty of the music:—
"Surely He hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows; He was wounded for our transgressions; He was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon Him, and with His stripes we are healed."
"Surely He hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows; He was wounded for our transgressions; He was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon Him, and with His stripes we are healed."
As she stood singing these words with her heart in her voice, and that sad scene before her, she caught Roland's earnest absorbed eyes, lighted with a softened emotion that made her for the moment wonder whether he, too, had the same thought in his mind. But she carefully avoided looking at Mr. Chillingworth, who, with an unusually bright and animated expression, was enjoying to the full both the music and the "success" which every one declared the oratorio to be. The soloists were admirable both in voice and manner, the choruses had been carefully practised and were remarkably well rendered, the "Halellujah Chorus" in particular, bursting forth with great effect, and, as the MintonMinervaexpressed it, "taking the house by storm." It seemed to thrill through every nerve of Roland Graeme, as he caught the grand old words:
"The kingdom of this world has become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ; and He shall reign for ever and ever!"
"The kingdom of this world has become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ; and He shall reign for ever and ever!"
In his own sense he could profoundly sympathize with the glorious hope.
Mr. Chillingworth sang in this and some other choruses, though he preferred to be a listener and spectator through the greater part of it. He naturally sought Miss Blanchard at the close, to exchange congratulations on the result of the long preparation. But her response was not the natural, enthusiastic one he expected, and he noticed her unusual paleness, attributing it to over-fatigue, a plea she was very ready to adopt, as an excuse for getting off to her cab, with her sister-in-law, as soon as possible.
It often happens, when we are thinking with dread and anxiety how some particular crisis is to be passed, that the "logic of events" settles it for us in a totally unexpected manner. While Nora was perplexing herself as to what was to be done with this secret, of which Mr. Chillingworth ought to be told, circumstances arose that gave her thoughts a new direction, and took matters for the present entirely out of her hands.