"And what is so rare as a day in June?Then, if ever, come perfect days;Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,And over it softly her warm ear lays."
"And what is so rare as a day in June?Then, if ever, come perfect days;Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,And over it softly her warm ear lays."
The familiar lines rose to Roland's lips, as he came out of the quiet little country inn at Rockland, on a charming Sunday morning in that fairest of months. He had arrived late the evening before; and had put up, in the first instance, at the little hotel. As he took a stroll that morning about the outskirts of the pretty village, nestling under the shelter of wooded hills, beside a placid little inland lake reflecting in its liquid mirror the weeds and hills in their first summer verdure, he thought of Thoreau's "Walden," and wished that he could set up a little hermitage of his own, somewhere amid these green recesses. But a hermitage would never have contented Roland Graeme. He was, first and essentially, a lover of man. Even now, his eye rested with strongest interest on the large group of buildings, surrounded by neat white cottages, which he knew by instinct was Mr. Foster's "model mills."
But, this morning, as be whiled away an hour or two before church-time, in leisurely lingering through the "vernal wood," the balmy odors and the birds carolling among the trees seemed of themselves to breathe a refreshing influence—smoothing out, as if by magic, the creases of the winter's toil and worry, and inspiring with new life his somewhat jaded spirits and overtaxed nervous system. And a stranger thing than this happened to him. With the new, marvellous beauty of the summer landscape, that burst on his gladdened eyes like a revelation, there seemed interfused a higher, more subtle influence. How, he knew not—such things pass our knowing—and doubtless many things led up to it; but there and then, it seemed to him that the chilling mists of doubt had almost passed away from his soul He felt that once more the beliefs of his childhood were realities to him, though in an infinitely grander and more spiritual conception of them. He felt the divine Father and Saviour, the brooding Spirit of love and strength, closer and more real than the lovely vision around him. And he felt that he should never lose them more.
After that moment of exaltation, it was pleasant to go into the pretty little church, and sit there, in a remote corner, while the people passed in silently, in little groups. He soon saw Miss Blanchard and Cecilia, the latter, in a pretty white dress and broad straw hat, grown much taller than when he had first seen her, and showing now; he thought, traces of resemblance to her father, as well as to her mother. With them, he easily recognized the tall, portly, white-haired old gentleman to be "Squire Blanchard," as the people called him; and the lady with the silver curls clustered on a broad forehead, and the calm, loving, earnest eyes, as the "Aunt Margaret" of whom Nora had so often spoken. Only Cecilia, however, looking about her as children do, espied him, with a grave look of recognition, but without drawing the attention of any one else to his presence. It was pleasant too, after the service, and the simple, earnest sermon, to wait at the church door for Nora's bright, glad look of recognition, as she warmly greeted him and introduced him to her father and aunt. Mr. Blanchard pressed him to return with them at once, but he declined this, promising to come over in the afternoon and take up his quarters for a few days in the hospitable old-fashioned house, which could always accommodate half a dozen guests, if need were.
Accordingly, after the early dinner at the hotel, Roland made arrangements to have his traps sent to Mr. Blanchard's next morning, and set out with his satchel for the large white house which had been pointed out to him, on a gentle slope beside the lake. He passed the little rapid, stream that rushed into the lake at the outskirts of the village, affording water-power to the busy mills, and, after a pleasant walk by the lake shore, reached the large old house with its pillared portico and side piazza, standing at some distance from the road, and approached by a pretty drive, winding through a clump of pines and varied shrubbery. As he approached the house, he saw a graceful, white-robed figure, with a white-trimmed garden hat, rise from a shady corner of the lawn and come toward him, book in hand.
"This is our out-door drawing-room," Nora said, as she conducted him to a wide-spreading beech, under whose shade stood some garden-seats, where were seated her father and aunt. Cecilia, hovering about in the distance with a fine mastiff, came up and met his kindly greeting with evident pleasure. Mr. Blanchard, who thoroughly justified Mr. Alden's description, as "a worthy representative of an old Puritan family," entered at once into a conversation with Roland on his favorite subjects, in which the elder Miss Blanchard joined, with a clear insight and breadth of thought that surprised and impressed the guest, who speedily felt thoroughly at home. The lovely June afternoon passed only too quickly under the beech, till they were called in to the hospitable tea-table, tempting in its dainty simplicity, in the large dining-room, where the fragrant evening air came in through open windows which framed charming pictures of the lawn without, and the trees waving in the slanting sunlight.
"You, who have this all the time, can scarcely appreciate the beauty of it," remarked Roland, enthusiastically. "It takes eyes tired of the sights and sounds of a busy city, to enjoy these pictures as they deserve."
"Yes," said Mr. Blanchard; "I suspect contrast is an element that enters into all our enjoyment at present. Yet, I suppose the contrast need not always be between the fair and the ugly, but may be between different kinds of beauty."
"I hope so!" said Nora, eagerly. "I don't want contrasts like those wretched houses of Mr. Pomeroy's to help me to enjoy this. By the way, Mr. Graeme, I must show you to-morrow the cottage I hope to get in a week or two for the Masons. And Mr. Foster will take Jim in, if he will come. Lizzie of course can't work now."
"I think Jim will be glad to come, now," replied Roland. "One of the men told me that Nelly had thrown him over altogether. And I fancy he'll be glad to get out of Minton."
"Well, perhaps it's the best thing forhim!" said Nora. "But what of Nelly?"
"That I don't know," replied Roland, while Aunt Margaret asked Nora if she couldn't get hold of this poor girl, too; for she had already heard the history of all of Nora's friends.
"You will be glad to hear," said Roland, "that Willett has parted company with the mill. He gave warning because he said he couldn't keep things straight, if Mrs. and Miss Pomeroywouldcome about interfering. And Mr. Pomeroy had the good sense to accept his warning. So, now, my friend Turner has the place. And a very good manager he will make."
"Oh, I am glad of that!" said Nora. "And so Mrs. Pomeroy really does take an interest in the girls generally?"
"Oh, yes! she has quite waked up about it, I hear through Mr. Archer. She has begun to take quite a motherly charge of them. She is very anxious that Lizzie Mason should recover; indeed she feels most unhappy about it."
"Poor Lizzie!" said Nora, with a sigh. "And how is Mr. Farrell?"
"Much the same, I believe. He is very much like a child, and seems to take no interest in money matters now. The smallest things are sufficient to amuse him. Mr. Dunlop goes to see him sometimes. He's got an idea that he may have a similar experience, and he says it's a lesson on the vanity of human things to see Farrell now, after his long struggle for riches which would be nothing to him now if he had them."
"Ah," exclaimed Aunt Margaret, "how true it is, that, as a quaint old poet says, 'We dig in dross, with mattocks made of gold'!"
"And how is Kitty?" asked Nora.
"Oh, I am always hearing her praises sung," said Roland, smiling. "According to Waldberg, there never was such a girl. She is so bright, so contented, so helpful, such a support to her poor, weak mother, in the necessary retrenchments, the going to a small house, and all that! But I am sure that her own real happiness has a good deal to do with it."
"Dear little Kitty!" said Nora. "I am glad she has come out so well. She is a good-hearted little thing, though she used to seem to me a little frivolous."
"She would have been, I'm afraid," Roland remarked, "if adversity hadn't come in time to save her."
"Ah, I see that you're something of a philosopher," remarked Mr. Blanchard. "You believe that 'Sweet are the uses of adversity.'"
"I've found them so, myself," he replied, simply; "if it were only in enabling me to sympathize more with the troubles of others."
Nora amply fulfilled her promise of showing Roland everything that she thought would interest him about Rockland. He went, with much interest, over Mr. Foster's well-managed establishment, saw with pleasure its well-ventilated work-rooms, its well-stocked reading-rooms, the neat cottages of theemployés, each with its little garden, and all the arrangements by which economy and convenience were combined. He had some long talks with the public-spirited proprietor, and found that that gentleman fully agreed with him, in all his ideas about hours, remuneration, etc., and put them in practice as far as it was possible to do under the present system.
"But, of course," he said, "there must be either concerted or legislative action, before they can be fully carried out."
Then there were pleasant country expeditions with Miss Blanchard and Cecilia; walks and drives, or rides, and some delightful rows on the beautiful little lake, exploring its rocky shores and picturesque woodland nooks. And in these happy loiterings, the dreamy and poetical side of Roland's nature came out more prominently than Nora had ever seen it, kept down, as it had been, by his philanthropic cares. He was full of little poetical fancies, and many a favorite quotation rose readily to his lips, as they slowly rowed or walked home in the sunset light. Nor did he enjoy less their musical evenings, when Nora sang to him the songs he asked for, and little Cecilia was delighted to exhibit her own attainments, which were certainly very remarkable, considering her age, and the short period of training she had enjoyed.
The days passed all too swiftly for Roland; perhaps for Nora, too. They stood out through the hot busy weeks that followed, like Arcadian days, or rather like an interlude of inexpressible happiness, or flowing streams in a thirsty land. Such similes, at least, Roland's fancy easily found for them in abundance.
One evening, shortly before the too early close of Roland's visit, Mrs. Blanchard arrived with the children, for a lengthened stay. She was expected, but she brought with her an unexpected visitor—Mr. Chillingworth. Both Roland and Nora felt as if the unalloyed pleasure of the preceding days was somewhat shadowed now, but they were sincerely sorry for the pale and altered man. Cecilia, too, shrank shyly away from his awkward efforts to be affectionate to her.
"Mr. Graeme," said Mrs. Blanchard, "my husband wants you to take Mr. Chillingworth in hand, while you're here—to take him out to walk or fish, or anything you can get him to do. He's sunk into such a state of nervous depression, the doctor's quite afraid for him."
And Roland did his best, though at the cost of some self-sacrifice, for this, of course, put an end to the pleasant wanderings with Nora.
The evening before Roland was obliged regretfully to take his departure for Minton, as they all sat enjoying the pleasant summer twilight without—just passing into a glorious moonlight, Mr. Chillingworth was asked to give them a poetical reading, and, at Nora's request, made choice of Lowell's "Vision of Sir Launfal." He read it with heartfelt expression, especially in the stanzas that described the experiences of the returned and awakened Sir Launfal:
"Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate,For another heir in his earldom sate;An old, bent man, worn out and frail,He came back from seeking the Holy Grail;Little he recked of his earldom's loss,No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross,But deep in his soul the sign he wore,The badge of the suffering and the poor.The leper no longer crouched at his side,But stood before him glorified,Shining and tall and fair and straightAs the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate,—Himself the Gate, whereby men canEnter the temple of God in ManAnd the voice that was calmer than silence said,'Lo, it is I, be not afraidIn many climes, without avail,Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail;Behold it is here,—this cup which thouDidst fill at the streamlet for Me but now;This crust is my body, broken for thee,This water His blood that died on the tree;The Holy Supper is kept, indeed,In whatso we share with another's need,Not what we give, but what we share,—For the gift without the giver is bare;Who gives himself with his alms feeds three,—Himself, his hungering neighbor, and Me'Sir Launfal woke as from a swound—'The Grail in my castle here is found!Hang my idle armor up on the wall,Let it be the spider's banquet hall;He must be fenced with stronger mailWho would seek and find the Holy Grail.'"
"Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate,For another heir in his earldom sate;
An old, bent man, worn out and frail,He came back from seeking the Holy Grail;Little he recked of his earldom's loss,No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross,But deep in his soul the sign he wore,The badge of the suffering and the poor.
The leper no longer crouched at his side,But stood before him glorified,Shining and tall and fair and straightAs the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate,—Himself the Gate, whereby men canEnter the temple of God in Man
And the voice that was calmer than silence said,'Lo, it is I, be not afraidIn many climes, without avail,Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail;Behold it is here,—this cup which thouDidst fill at the streamlet for Me but now;This crust is my body, broken for thee,This water His blood that died on the tree;The Holy Supper is kept, indeed,In whatso we share with another's need,Not what we give, but what we share,—For the gift without the giver is bare;Who gives himself with his alms feeds three,—Himself, his hungering neighbor, and Me'
Sir Launfal woke as from a swound—'The Grail in my castle here is found!Hang my idle armor up on the wall,Let it be the spider's banquet hall;He must be fenced with stronger mailWho would seek and find the Holy Grail.'"
As he ended, he closed the book, and went silently out to stroll in the moonlight that was flecking the lawn with silvery lights and soft shadows from the spreading trees, while Nora and Roland also stepped out on the piazza, to enjoy the beauty of the night.
"I think Chillingworth has found outthat lasttruth for himself," said Roland. "And I know I've found, too, that I needed stronger mail than I once supposed. I too have been seeking for a 'Grail'—a panacea which is to be found only where I had stopped looking for it! But I think, if all Christian teachers were like Mr. Alden, I should have found it sooner."
Nora looked up with an eager look of pleasure. And then she turned away her eyes, glistening with a happy light and a glad emotion she could not quite conceal.
"Fetters and warder for the Graeme!"Scott.Lady of the Lake.
"Fetters and warder for the Graeme!"Scott.Lady of the Lake.
The two months that followed passed very quickly for Nora, more quickly than they did for Roland, in the hot, dusty town. She had her visitors from Minton,—Mr. Alden, who, came down, an ever-welcome guest, for a fortnight's rest, and told her of Roland's unwearied labors and his growing influence in Minton; and Miss Spencer, who came for a few days of refreshing change from her hospital wards. Lizzie Mason and her family were now settled in the cottage that Nora had secured for them. And Lizzie was intensely happy in the possession of a tiny flower-garden; though it was only too evident that she was in a settled decline, and would not, probably, see another summer. But, though quite aware of this, she was full of a serene peace that often recalled to Nora the "Story of Ida," which she had lent to Lizzie, in the days of their first acquaintance, and which had not been without results in a nature so fitted to receive its teaching.
One warm evening, late in August, Nora was slowly returning from a visit to Lizzie, when she heard a rapid step behind her, and, looking back, saw to her surprise, the very person she was at that moment thinking about—Roland Graeme.
"Why," she exclaimed, with astonishment, "I had no ideayouwere so near!"
"I only came down by this evening's train," he said, in a grave tone, as he shook hands, looking earnestly at her with an expression that brought the color to her cheek; "and I was just coming to report myself. There were some things I wanted to be the first to tell you."
They walked on, very slowly, up the drive, and turned aside to the seats under the beech-tree, Roland saying little till then. Both, indeed, seemed to have very little to say.
"I suppose," he began, "you have heard of Mr. Dunlop's sudden death."
"Yes,—Will wrote to us about it," she replied. "I knew it would be a great sorrow to you. You would miss him so much."
"I do,—more than I could have believed," he said, warmly. "He was so honest, so true, so practical, so kind-hearted, under all the seeming roughness. He has been the kindest of friends to me."
And he was silent for a little. Nora was silent, too. The whippoorwill in a neighboring thicket, indefatigably piping away at his interminable refrain, had it all to himself for awhile.
Then Roland spoke with an effort: "I almost hate to say it," he said, "for it seems heartless to speak of such things now; but Mr. Dunlop always said he would rather die suddenly, like that. And—I must say it some time—he has left the bulk of his property tome. Why, I cannot tell."
"Oh," exclaimed Nora, "I am so glad!"
"It is," he said, "in some measure, atrust. He left it to me, he said, in his will, because he knew that I should use it as he should wish it used, and could trust me fully. And in this light I mean to regard it. I have made my plans already. But there's one thing that it makes possible for me, that was not possible before,—to ask you for something that would be better than all this world's treasure to me. Can't you guess what it is,—dear?"
The last words were scarcely audible, as he bent to meet her sweet upward glance. Again the whippoorwill had it all to himself, and piped away more cheerily and industriously than ever, as if inspired, in his own love-making, by a human example. What he may have afterwards heard—is not to be repeated here. Philanthropists and reformers are not much wiser than other people, in such circumstances, and it would not be fair to "report" them. Besides, it might get into the "Minerva"—a thing, which of course, would be most distasteful to both.
They sat, for a long time, planning for the future, and trying to realize the present. It all seemed so natural,now. Their lives had been running so long in the same current of views, feeling, hopes, aspirations, that it seemed inevitable that the two streams should become one. Roland was not afraid, however, to speak of Grace, whose sweet memory, he said, he could never cease to cherish. His life would be the better always, for his reverential affection for her and for the uplifting effect of her death.
"And so," he said, after a long talk, "I shall keep upThe Brotherhood, of course. By and by it may have a real influence in the country. I shall not go on with law, though I am glad to have learned what I know; it will be so useful to me, hereafter. And a few of us are planning starting a factory in Minton, on the coöperative plan, as an experiment in that direction. I expect to be able to give a lecture, now and then, and I hope, also to do something by writing, outside ofThe Brotherhood. I have had an article accepted already by theAmerican Review.
"Oh, have you!" exclaimed Nora, delighted.
It was like Roland not to have said this till now.
"And I am to help Mr. Alden in his 'Good-fellows' Hall'—give them a Sunday afternoon address, sometimes. Perhaps—I don'tknow—but, some time, I might be even 'a preacher,' of Mr. Alden's sort. You would like that, dear, I know." Nora did not speak, but the expression of her glad eyes was enough.
"And how are Kitty and Mr. Waldberg?" asked Nora, by and by, with natural fellow-feeling.
"Oh, as happy as turtle-doves!" said Roland. For lovers can always see something amusing in the devotion of another pair of lovers, serious as is their own. "Waldberg is already looking out for the cottage of the future. He has steadied down, and forsworn speculation forever. Mr. Dunlop lefthima legacy, too."
"And what of Harold Pomeroy? Has he found consolation yet?"
"I don't imagine he needed any. I don't know much of him. I met that poor Nelly, the other day, very much overdressed. I don't think she works in the mill, now."
"I wonder if he kept his promise to me," said Nora thoughtfully.
"Oh, some men's promises are poor things!" he replied. "By the way, I haven't told you of Miss Pomeroy's engagement to Mr. Archer. It's just been announced. I asked him if I might congratulate him, and he said, in his usual way, he supposed I might if I liked,—it wouldn't do any harm."
Nora laughed outright. But not then, nor for long after, did Roland know all the reason for her amusement.
"And Wharton's gone for a trip to Europe," he continued. "People say he's gone to look up Miss Harley;hesays it's to inquire into the labor question over there. Whether she or Mr. Jeffrey converted him, I don't know; but he has certainly changed his position very much."
"And have you seen Mr. Chillingworth lately?" asked Nora.
"Yes," he replied, "I see him, now and then. His manner is always wonderfully kind, though I'm sure he can't have the pleasantest associations with me."
"Oh," said Nora, "I think you are wrong, there! He told Aunt Margaret that you had been of the greatest use to him, in helping him to realize, once more, truths that seemed to be drifting from his grasp."
"I'm sure I don't know how!" said Roland, simply, "but I'm glad if it is so. I hope poor little Cecilia will be happy with him. She will be a wonderful comfort and interest to him, by and by."
"I think," said Nora, "that she really is getting to be a little fond of him. She was a great deal with him, while he was here, and he is making all sorts of plans for her education. Oh, Ihope——"
Roland understood the thought which she did not express.
"I think," he said, quietly, "that she has enough of her father's self-contained nature to help to keep other things in check. We must hope for the best. But Mr. Chillingworth is certainly a greatly changed man. I heard him preach lately, and there was such a new note in him, less 'eloquence,' but much more of human sympathy! Well, we've all our limitations; and I've learned to see that 'The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small!' I can see that I've been too much in a hurry for results thatmusttake time to bring about."
"Yes; that's a mistake that we are all apt to make, in some way," said Nora, with a sigh. "But some lines of Browning that I read, the other day, were quite a comfort to me, in thinking of our mistakes. Let me give them to you.
"'God's gift was that man should conceive of truth,And yearn to gain it, catching at mistake,As midway help till he reach fact indeed.'"
"'God's gift was that man should conceive of truth,And yearn to gain it, catching at mistake,As midway help till he reach fact indeed.'"
"If we ever do!" replied Roland, sighing, in his turn. "But, even if it be only a 'midway help,' I can't help still hoping to see some reforms, like the 'eight-hours movement' and some other restrictive measures, carried out in my lifetime. The abolition of slavery looked much more hopeless, a generation or two ago!"
"But even these won't bring perfection and happiness, alone," said Nora, thoughtfully. "There must also be a higher moral ideal, and a higher strength in which to attain it."
"Oh, yes, I've learned that lesson," he replied, quickly. "I know that Law is not Love, nor the knowledge of right, alone, the power to reach it. I know, too, that, as Mr. Alden so often says, there's only one thing that can set this poor world really right, and that is, the growth of thebrother-love! And that must come from the Source of Love. Yet, we must all help on, as far as we can. I take comfort in a thought I found in my Thoreau—'The universe constantly and obediently answers to our conceptions; whether we travel fast or slow, the track is laid for us. Let us spend our lives in conceiving them. The poet or the artist never yet had so fair and noble a design, but some of his posterity at least could accomplish it.'"
"'And still it moves!'" quoted Nora, softly; and there was a long silence, once more. And, in the quiet dusk of the August evening, the whippoorwill piped on untiring; as the world, after all, is always singing its old songs over again, if only our ears are not too dull or too tired to hear them.
[1]For several passages in quotation marks in this chapter, the author is indebted to Henry George's works, to "Labor and Capital" by Edward Kellogg, and to articles in the "Popular Science Monthly," by George Iles, and Benjamin Reece.
[1]For several passages in quotation marks in this chapter, the author is indebted to Henry George's works, to "Labor and Capital" by Edward Kellogg, and to articles in the "Popular Science Monthly," by George Iles, and Benjamin Reece.
[2]George Cameron.
[2]George Cameron.
"'The Young Seigneur' is more than clever—it is bold, tantalizing, often witty, always original, and not without very happy characterization.... It promises us a Canadian writer of indisputable genius."—Toronto Globe.
"'The Young Seigneur' is more than clever—it is bold, tantalizing, often witty, always original, and not without very happy characterization.... It promises us a Canadian writer of indisputable genius."—Toronto Globe.
Thoroughly accurate and arranged in convenient form for handy reference.
Thoroughly accurate and arranged in convenient form for handy reference.