diff options
| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:15:10 -0700 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:15:10 -0700 |
| commit | 8ed8664f632aca9bb98efa43f663a5501f639d9a (patch) | |
| tree | eb345fe45150da058df25d342fb0e1ab5834fa80 /515-h | |
Diffstat (limited to '515-h')
| -rw-r--r-- | 515-h/515-h.htm | 8453 |
1 files changed, 8453 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/515-h/515-h.htm b/515-h/515-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1c08788 --- /dev/null +++ b/515-h/515-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,8453 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<HTML> +<HEAD> + +<META HTTP-EQUIV="Content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> + +<TITLE> +The Project Gutenberg E-text of Margret Howth, A Story of To-day, +by Rebecca Harding Davis +</TITLE> + +<STYLE TYPE="text/css"> +BODY { color: Black; + background: White; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +P {text-indent: 4% } + +P.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +P.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: small } + +P.letter {font-size: small ; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.finis { text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +</STYLE> + +</HEAD> + +<BODY> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Margret Howth, A Story of To-day, by +Rebecca Harding Davis + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Margret Howth, A Story of To-day + +Author: Rebecca Harding Davis + +Posting Date: September 13, 2008 [EBook #515] +Release Date: May, 1996 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARGRET HOWTH, A STORY OF TO-DAY *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Keller. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +MARGRET HOWTH. +</H1> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +A STORY OF TO-DAY +</H2> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +by +</H3> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +Rebecca Harding Davis +</H2> + +<BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +"My matter hath no voice to alien ears." +</H3> + +<BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +TO MY MOTHER. +</H3> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CONTENTS +</H2> + +<P> +<TABLE ALIGN="center" WIDTH="80%"> +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="25%"> +<A HREF="#chap01">CHAPTER I</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="25%"> +<A HREF="#chap02">CHAPTER II</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="25%"> +<A HREF="#chap03">CHAPTER III</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="25%"> +<A HREF="#chap04">CHAPTER IV</A> +</TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap05">CHAPTER V</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap06">CHAPTER VI</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap07">CHAPTER VII</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII</A> +</TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap09">CHAPTER IX</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap10">CHAPTER X</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap11">CHAPTER XI</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> </TD> +</TR> + +</TABLE> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap01"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER I. +</H3> + +<P> +Let me tell you a story of To-Day,—very homely and narrow in its scope +and aim. Not of the To-Day whose significance in the history of +humanity only those shall read who will live when you and I are dead. +We can bear the pain in silence, if our hearts are strong enough, while +the nations of the earth stand afar off. I have no word of this To-Day +to speak. I write from the border of the battlefield, and I find in it +no theme for shallow argument or flimsy rhymes. The shadow of death +has fallen on us; it chills the very heaven. No child laughs in my +face as I pass down the street. Men have forgotten to hope, forgotten +to pray; only in the bitterness of endurance, they say "in the morning, +'Would God it were even!' and in the evening, 'Would God it were +morning!'" Neither I nor you have the prophet's vision to see the age +as its meaning stands written before God. Those who shall live when we +are dead may tell their children, perhaps, how, out of anguish and +darkness such as the world seldom has borne, the enduring morning +evolved of the true world and the true man. It is not clear to us. +Hands wet with a brother's blood for the Right, a slavery of +intolerance, the hackneyed cant of men, or the blood-thirstiness of +women, utter no prophecy to us of the great To-Morrow of content and +right that holds the world. Yet the To-Morrow is there; if God lives, +it is there. The voice of the meek Nazarene, which we have deafened +down as ill-timed, unfit to teach the watchword of the hour, renews the +quiet promise of its coming in simple, humble things. Let us go down +and look for it. There is no need that we should feebly vaunt and +madden ourselves over our self-seen rights, whatever they may be, +forgetting what broken shadows they are of eternal truths in that calm +where He sits and with His quiet hand controls us. +</P> + +<P> +Patriotism and Chivalry are powers in the tranquil, unlimited lives to +come, as well as here, I know; but there are less partial truths, +higher hierarchies who serve the God-man, that do not speak to us in +bayonets and victories,—Mercy and Love. Let us not quite neglect +them, unpopular angels though they be. Very humble their voices are, +just now: yet not altogether dead, I think. Why, the very low glow of +the fire upon the hearth tells me something of recompense coming in the +hereafter,—Christmas-days, and heartsome warmth; in these bare hills +trampled down by armed men, the yellow clay is quick with pulsing +fibres, hints of the great heart of life and love throbbing within; +slanted sunlight would show me, in these sullen smoke-clouds from the +camp, walls of amethyst and jasper, outer ramparts of the Promised +Land. Do not call us traitors, then, who choose to be cool and silent +through the fever of the hour,—who choose to search in common things +for auguries of the hopeful, helpful calm to come, finding even in +these poor sweet-peas, thrusting their tendrils through the brown +mould; a deeper, more healthful lesson for the eye and soul than +warring truths. Do not call me a traitor, if I dare weakly to hint +that there are yet other characters besides that of Patriot in which a +man may appear creditably in the great masquerade, and not blush when +it is over; or if I tell you a story of To-Day, in which there shall be +no bloody glare,—only those homelier, subtiler lights which we have +overlooked. If it prove to you that the sun of old times still shines, +and the God of old times still lives, is not that enough? +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +My story is very crude and homely, as I said,—only a rough sketch of +one or two of those people whom you see every day, and call "dregs," +sometimes,—a dull, plain bit of prose, such as you might pick for +yourself out of any of these warehouses or back-streets. I expect you +to call it stale and plebeian, for I know the glimpses of life it +pleases you best to find; idyls delicately tinted; passion-veined +hearts, cut bare for curious eyes; prophetic utterances, concrete and +clear; or some word of pathos or fun from the old friends who have +endenizened themselves in everybody's home. You want something, in +fact, to lift you out of this crowded, tobacco-stained commonplace, to +kindle and chafe and glow in you. I want you to dig into this +commonplace, this vulgar American life, and see what is in it. +Sometimes I think it has a new and awful significance that we do not +see. +</P> + +<P> +Your ears are openest to the war-trumpet now. Ha! that is +spirit-stirring!—that wakes up the old Revolutionary blood! Your +manlier nature had been smothered under drudgery, the poor daily +necessity for bread and butter. I want you to go down into this common, +every-day drudgery, and consider if there might not be in it also a +great warfare. Not a serfish war; not altogether ignoble, though even +its only end may appear to be your daily food. A great warfare, I +think, with a history as old as the world, and not without its pathos. +It has its slain. Men and women, lean-jawed, crippled in the slow, +silent battle, are in your alleys, sit beside you at your table; its +martyrs sleep under every green hill-side. +</P> + +<P> +You must fight in it; money will buy you no discharge from that war. +There is room in it, believe me, whether your post be on a judge's +bench, or over a wash-tub, for heroism, for knightly honour, for purer +triumph than his who falls foremost in the breach. Your enemy, Self, +goes with you from the cradle to the coffin; it is a hand-to-hand +struggle all the sad, slow way, fought in solitude,—a battle that +began with the first heart-beat, and whose victory will come only when +the drops ooze out, and sudden halt in the veins,—a victory, if you +can gain it, that will drift you not a little way upon the coasts of +the wider, stronger range of being, beyond death. +</P> + +<P> +Let me roughly outline for you one or two lives that I have known, and +how they conquered or were worsted in the fight. Very common lives, I +know,—such as are swarming in yonder market-place; yet I dare to call +them voices of God,—all! +</P> + +<P> +My reason for choosing this story to tell you is simple enough. +</P> + +<P> +An old book, which I happened to find to-day, recalled it. It was a +ledger, iron-bound, with the name of the firm on the outside,—Knowles +& Co. You may have heard of the firm: they were large woollen +manufacturers: supplied the home market in Indiana for several years. +This ledger, you see by the writing, has been kept by a woman. That is +not unusual in Western trading towns, especially in factories where the +operatives are chiefly women. In such establishments, they can fill +every post successfully, but that of overseer: they are too hard with +the hands for that. +</P> + +<P> +The writing here is curious: concise, square, not flowing,—very +legible, however, exactly suited to its purpose. People who profess to +read character in chirography would decipher but little from these +cramped, quiet lines. Only this, probably: that the woman, whoever she +was, had not the usual fancy of her sex for dramatizing her soul in her +writing, her dress, her face,—kept it locked up instead, intact; that +her words and looks, like her writing, were most likely simple, mere +absorbents by which she drew what she needed of the outer world to her, +not flaunting helps to fling herself, or the tragedy or comedy that lay +within, before careless passers-by. The first page has the date, in +red letters, October 2, 1860, largely and clearly written. I am sure +the woman's hand trembled a little when she took up the pen; but there +is no sign of it here; for it was a new, desperate adventure to her, +and she was young, with no faith in herself. She did not look +desperate, at all,—a quiet, dark girl, coarsely dressed in brown. +</P> + +<P> +There was not much light in the office where she sat; for the factory +was in one of the close by-streets of the town, and the office they +gave her was only a small square closet in the seventh story. It had +but one window, which overlooked a back-yard full of dyeing vats. The +sunlight that did contrive to struggle in obliquely through the dusty +panes and cobwebs of the window, had a sleepy odour of copperas latent +in it. You smelt it when you stirred. The manager, Pike, who brought +her up, had laid the day-books and this ledger open on the desk for +her. As soon as he was gone, she shut the door, listening until his +heavy boots had thumped creaking down the rickety ladder leading to the +frame-rooms. Then she climbed up on the high office-stool (climbed, I +said, for she was a little, lithe thing) and went to work, opening the +books, and copying from one to the other as steadily, monotonously, as +if she had been used to it all her life. Here are the first pages: see +how sharp the angles are of the blue and black lines, how even the +long columns: one would not think, that, as the steel pen traced them +out, it seemed to be lining out her life, narrow and black. If any +such morbid fancy were in the girl's head, there was no tear to betray +it. The sordid, hard figures seemed to her types of the years coming, +but she wrote them down unflinchingly: perhaps life had nothing better +for her, so she did not care. She finished soon: they had given her +only an hour or two's work for the first day. She closed the books, +wiped the pens in a quaint, mechanical fashion, then got down and +examined her new home. +</P> + +<P> +It was soon understood. There were the walls with their broken +plaster, showing the laths underneath, with here and there, over them, +sketches with burnt coal, showing that her predecessor had been an +artist in his way,—his name, P. Teagarden, emblazoned on the ceiling +with the smoke of a candle; heaps of hanks of yarn in the dusty +corners; a half-used broom; other heaps of yarn on the old toppling +desk covered with dust; a raisin-box, with P. Teagarden done on the lid +in bas-relief, half full of ends of cigars, a pack of cards, and a +rotten apple. That was all, except an impalpable sense of dust and +worn-outness pervading the whole. One thing more, odd enough there: a +wire cage, hung on the wall, and in it a miserable pecking chicken, +peering dolefully with suspicious eyes out at her, and then down at the +mouldy bit of bread on the floor of his cage,—left there, I suppose, +by the departed Teagarden. That was all, inside. She looked out of +the window. In it, as if set in a square black frame, was the dead +brick wall, and the opposite roof, with a cat sitting on the scuttle. +Going closer, two or three feet of sky appeared. It looked as if it +smelt of copperas, and she drew suddenly back. +</P> + +<P> +She sat down, waiting until it was time to go; quietly taking the dull +picture into her slow, unrevealing eyes; a sluggish, hackneyed +weariness creeping into her brain; a curious feeling, that all her life +before had been a silly dream, and this dust, these desks and ledgers, +were real,—all that was real. It was her birthday; she was twenty. +As she happened to remember that, another fancy floated up before her, +oddly life-like: of the old seat she made under the currant-bushes at +home when she was a child, and the plans she laid for herself, when she +should be a woman, sitting there,—how she would dig down into the +middle of the world, and find the kingdom of the griffins, or would go +after Mercy and Christiana in their pilgrimage. It was only a little +while ago since these things were more alive to her than anything else +in the world. The seat was under the currant-bushes still. Very +little time ago; but she was a woman now,—and, look here! A chance +ray of sunlight slanted in, falling barely on the dust, the hot heaps +of wool, waking a stronger smell of copperas; the chicken saw it, and +began to chirp a weak, dismal joy, more sorrowful than tears. She went +to the cage, and put her finger in for it to peck at. Standing there, +if the vacant life coming rose up before her in that hard blare of +sunlight, she looked at it with the same still, waiting eyes, that told +nothing. +</P> + +<P> +The door opened at last, and a man came in,—Dr. Knowles, the principal +owner of the factory. He nodded shortly to her, and, going to the +desk, turned over the books, peering suspiciously at her work. An old +man, overgrown, looking like a huge misshapen mass of flesh, as he +stood erect, facing her. +</P> + +<P> +"You can go now," he said, gruffly. "Tomorrow you must wait for the +bell to ring, and go—with the rest of the hands." +</P> + +<P> +A curious smile flickered over her face like a shadow; but she said +nothing. He waited a moment. +</P> + +<P> +"So!" he growled, "the Howth blood does not blush to go down into the +slime of the gutter? is sufficient to itself?" +</P> + +<P> +A cool, attentive motion,—that was all. Then she stooped to tie her +sandals. The old man watched her, irritated. She had been used to the +keen scrutiny of his eyes since she was a baby, so was cool under it +always. The face watching her was one that repelled most men: +dominant, restless, flushing into red gusts of passion, a small, +intolerant eye, half hidden in folds of yellow fat,—the eye of a man +who would give to his master (whether God or Satan) the last drop of +his own blood, and exact the same of other men. +</P> + +<P> +She had tied her bonnet and fastened her shawl, and stood ready to go. +</P> + +<P> +"Is that all you want?" he demanded. "Are you waiting to hear that +your work is well done? Women go through life as babies learn to +walk,—a mouthful of pap every step, only they take it in praise or +love. Pap is better. Which do you want? Praise, I fancy." +</P> + +<P> +"Neither," she said, quietly brushing her shawl. "The work is well +done, I know." +</P> + +<P> +The old man's eye glittered for an instant, satisfied; then he turned +to the books. He thought she had gone, but, hearing a slight clicking +sound, turned round. She was taking the chicken out of the cage. +</P> + +<P> +"Let it alone!" he broke out, sharply. "Where are you going with it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Home," she said, with a queer, quizzical face. "Let it smell the +green fields, Doctor. Ledgers and copperas are not good food for a +chicken's soul, or body either." +</P> + +<P> +"Let it alone!" he growled. "You take it for a type of yourself, eh? +It has another work to do than to grow fat and sleep about the +barnyard." +</P> + +<P> +She opened the cage. +</P> + +<P> +"I think I will take it." +</P> + +<P> +"No," he said, quietly. "It has a master here. Not P. Teagarden. Why, +Margret," pushing his stubby finger between the tin bars "do you think +the God you believe in would have sent it here without a work to do?" +</P> + +<P> +She looked up; there was a curious tremour in his flabby face, a shadow +in his rough voice. +</P> + +<P> +"If it dies here, its life won't have been lost. Nothing is lost. Let +it alone." +</P> + +<P> +"Not lost?" she said, slowly, refastening the cage. "Only I think"—— +</P> + +<P> +"What, child?" +</P> + +<P> +She glanced furtively at him. +</P> + +<P> +"It's a hard, scraping world where such a thing as that has work to do!" +</P> + +<P> +He vouchsafed no answer. She waited to see his lip curl bitterly, and +then, amused, went down the stairs. She had paid him for his sneer. +</P> + +<P> +The steps were but a long ladder set in the wall, not the great +staircase used by the hands: that was on the other side of the factory. +It was a huge, unwieldy building, such as crowd the suburbs of trading +towns. This one went round the four sides of a square, with the yard +for the vats in the middle. The ladders and passages she passed down +were on the inside, narrow and dimly lighted: she had to grope her way +sometimes. The floors shook constantly with the incessant thud of the +great looms that filled each story, like heavy, monotonous thunder. It +deafened her, made her dizzy, as she went down slowly. It was no short +walk to reach the lower hall, but she was down at last. Doors opened +from it into the ground-floor ware-rooms; glancing in, she saw vast, +dingy recesses of boxes piled up to the dark ceilings. There was a +crowd of porters and draymen cracking their whips, and lounging on the +trucks by the door, waiting for loads, talking politics, and smoking. +The smell of tobacco, copperas, and burning logwood was heavy to +clamminess here. She stopped, uncertain. One of the porters, a short, +sickly man, who stood aloof from the rest, pushed open a door for her +with his staff. Margret had a quick memory for faces; she thought she +had seen this one before as she passed,—a dark face, sullen, +heavy-lipped, the hair cut convict-fashion, close to the head. She +thought too, one of the men muttered "jail-bird," jeering him for his +forwardness. "Load for Clinton! Western Railroad!" sung out a sharp +voice behind her, and, as she went into the street, a train of cars +rushed into the hall to be loaded, and men swarmed out of every +corner,—red-faced and pale, whiskey-bloated and heavy-brained, Irish, +Dutch, black, with souls half asleep somewhere, and the destiny of a +nation in their grasp,—hands, like herself, going through the slow, +heavy work, for, as Pike the manager would have told you, "three +dollars a week,—good wages these tight times." For nothing more? +Some other meaning may have fallen from their faces into this girl's +subtile intuition in the instant's glance,—cheerfuller, remoter aims, +hidden in the most sensual face,—homeliest home-scenes, low climbing +ambitions, some delirium of pleasure to come,—whiskey, if nothing +better: aims in life like yours differing in degree. Needing only to +make them the same——did you say what? +</P> + +<P> +She had reached the street now,—a back-street, a crooked sort of lane +rather, running between endless piles of warehouses. She hurried down +it to gain the suburbs, for she lived out in the country. It was a +long, tiresome walk through the outskirts of the town, where the +dwelling-houses were,—long rows of two-story bricks drabbled with +soot-stains. It was two years since she had been in the town. +Remembering this, and the reason why she had shunned it, she quickened +her pace, her face growing stiller than before. One might have fancied +her a slave putting on a mask, fearing to meet her master. The town, +being unfamiliar to her, struck her newly. She saw the expression on +its face better. It was a large trading city, compactly built, shut in +by hills. It had an anxious, harassed look, like a speculator +concluding a keen bargain; the very dwelling-houses smelt of trade, +having shops in the lower stories; in the outskirts, where there are +cottages in other cities, there were mills here; the trees, which some +deluded dreamer had planted on the flat pavements, had all grown up +into abrupt Lombardy poplars, knowing their best policy was to keep out +of the way; the boys, playing marbles under them, played sharply "for +keeps;" the bony old dray-horses, plodding through the dusty crowds, +had speculative eyes, that measured their oats at night with a +"you-don't-cheat-me" look. Even the churches had not the grave repose +of the old brown house yonder in the hills, where the few +field-people—Arians, Calvinists, Churchmen—gathered every Sunday, and +air and sunshine and God's charity made the day holy. These churches +lifted their hard stone faces insolently, registering their yearly alms +in the morning journals. To be sure the back-seats were free for the +poor; but the emblazoned crimson of the windows, the carving of the +arches, the very purity of the preacher's style, said plainly that it +was easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a man +in a red wamus to enter the kingdom of heaven through that gate. +</P> + +<P> +Nature itself had turned her back on the town: the river turned aside, +and but half a river crept reluctantly by; the hills were but bare +banks of yellow clay. There was a cinder-road leading through these. +Margret climbed it slowly. The low town-hills, as I said, were bare, +covered at their bases with dingy stubble-fields. In the sides +bordering the road gaped the black mouths of the coal-pits that +burrowed under the hills, under the town. Trade everywhere,—on the +earth and under it. No wonder the girl called it a hard, scraping +world. But when the road had crept through these hills, it suddenly +shook off the cinders, and turned into the brown mould of the +meadows,—turned its back on trade and the smoky town, and speedily +left it out of sight contemptuously, never looking back once. This was +the country now in earnest. +</P> + +<P> +Margret slackened her step, drawing long breaths of the fresh cold air. +Far behind her, panting and puffing along, came a black, burly figure, +Dr. Knowles. She had seen him behind her all the way, but they did not +speak. Between the two there lay that repellent resemblance which made +them like close relations,—closer when they were silent. You know +such people? When you speak to them, the little sharp points clash. +Yet they are the few whom you surely know you will meet in the life +beyond death, "saved" or not. The Doctor came slowly along the quiet +country-road, watching the woman's figure going as slowly before him. +He had a curious interest in the girl,—a secret reason for the +interest, which as yet he kept darkly to himself. For this reason he +tried to fancy how her new life would seem to her. It should be hard +enough, her work,—he was determined on that; her strength and +endurance must be tested to the uttermost. He must know what stuff was +in the weapon before he used it. He had been reading the slow, cold +thing for years,—had not got into its secret yet. But there was power +there, and it was the power he wanted. Her history was simple enough: +she was going into the mill to support a helpless father and mother; it +was a common story; she had given up much for them;—other women did +the same. He gave her scanty praise. Two years ago (he had keen, +watchful eyes, this man) he had fancied that the homely girl had a +dream, as most women have, of love and marriage: she had put it aside, +he thought, forever; it was too expensive a luxury; she had to begin +the life-long battle for bread and butter. Her dream had been real and +pure, perhaps; for she accepted no sham love in its place: if it had +left an empty hunger in her heart, she had not tried to fill it. Well, +well, it was the old story. Yet he looked after her kindly as he +thought of it; as some people look sorrowfully at children, going back +to their own childhood. For a moment he half relented in his purpose, +thinking, perhaps, her work for life was hard enough. But no: this +woman had been planned and kept by God for higher uses than daughter or +wife or mother. It was his part to put her work into her hands. +</P> + +<P> +The road was creeping drowsily now between high grass-banks, out +through the hills. A sleepy, quiet road. The restless dust of the +town never had been heard of out there. It went wandering lazily +through the corn-fields, down by the river, into the very depths of the +woods,—the low October sunshine slanting warmly down it all the way, +touching the grass-banks and the corn-fields with patches of russet +gold. Nobody in such a road could be in a hurry. The quiet was so +deep, the free air, the heavy trees, the sunshine, all so full and +certain and fixed, one could be sure of finding them the same a hundred +years from now. Nobody ever was in a hurry. The brown bees came along +there, when their work was over, and hummed into the great purple +thistles on the road-side in a voluptuous stupor of delight. The cows +sauntered through the clover by the fences, until they wound up by +lying down in it and sleeping outright. The country-people, jogging +along to the mill, walked their fat old nags through the stillness and +warmth so slowly that even Margret left them far behind. As the road +went deeper into the hills, the quiet grew even more penetrating and +certain,—so certain in these grand old mountains that one called it +eternal, and, looking up to the peaks fixed in the clear blue, grew +surer of a world beyond this where there is neither change nor death. +</P> + +<P> +It was growing late; the evening air more motionless and cool; the +russet gold of the sunshine mottled only the hill-tops now; in the +valleys there was a duskier brown, deepening every moment. Margret +turned from the road, and went down the fields. One did not wonder, +feeling the silence of these hills and broad sweeps of meadow, that +this woman, coming down from among them, should be strangely still, +with dark questioning eyes dumb to their own secrets. +</P> + +<P> +Looking into her face now, you could be sure of one thing: that she had +left the town, the factory, the dust far away, shaken the thought of +them off her brain. No miles could measure the distance between her +home and them. At a stile across the field an old man sat waiting. +She hurried now, her cheek colouring. Dr. Knowles could see them going +to the house beyond, talking earnestly. He sat down in the darkening +twilight on the stile, and waited half an hour. He did not care to +hear the story of Margret's first day at the mill, knowing how her +father and mother would writhe under it, soften it as she would. It +was nothing to her, he knew. So he waited. After a while he heard the +old man's laugh, like that of a pleased child, and then went in and +took her place beside him. She went out, but came back presently, +every grain of dust gone, in her clear dress of pearl gray. The +neutral tint suited her well. As she stood by the window, listening +gravely to them, the homely face and waiting figure came into full +relief. Nature had made the woman in a freak of rare sincerity. There +were no reflected lights about her; no gloss on her skin, no glitter in +her eyes, no varnish on her soul. Simple and dark and pure, there she +was, for God and her master to conquer and understand. Her flesh was +cold and colourless,—there were no surface tints on it,—it warmed +sometimes slowly from far within; her voice, quiet,—out of her heart; +her hair, the only beauty of the woman, was lustreless brown, lay in +unpolished folds of dark shadow. I saw such hair once, only once. It +had been cut from the head of a man, who, unconscious, simple as a +child, lived out the law of his nature, and set the world at +defiance,—Bysshe Shelley. +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor, talking to her father, watched the girl furtively, took in +every point, as one might critically survey a Damascus blade which he +was going to carry into battle. There was neither love nor scorn in +his look,—a mere fixedness of purpose to make use of her some day. He +talked, meanwhile, glancing at her now and then, as if the subject they +discussed were indirectly linked with his plan for her. If it were, +she was unconscious of it. She sat on the wooden step of the porch, +looking out on the melancholy sweep of meadow and hill range growing +cool and dimmer in the dun twilight, not hearing what they said, until +the sharpened, earnest tones roused her. +</P> + +<P> +"You will fail, Knowles." +</P> + +<P> +It was her father who spoke. +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing can save such a scheme from failure. Neither the French nor +German Socialists attempted to base their systems on the lowest class, +as you design." +</P> + +<P> +"I know," said Knowles. "That accounts for their partial success." +</P> + +<P> +"Let me understand your plan practically," eagerly demanded her father. +</P> + +<P> +She thought Knowles evaded the question,—wished to leave the subject. +Perhaps he did not regard the poor old school-master as a practical +judge of practical matters. All his life he had called him thriftless +and unready. +</P> + +<P> +"It never will do, Knowles," he went on in his slow way. "Any plan, +Phalanstery or Community, call it what you please, founded on self +government, is based on a sham, the tawdriest of shams." +</P> + +<P> +The old school-master shook his head as one who knows, and tried to +push the thin gray hairs out of his eyes in a groping way. Margret +lifted them back, so quietly that he did not feel her. +</P> + +<P> +"You'll call the Republic a sham next!" said the Doctor, coolly +aggravating. +</P> + +<P> +"The Republic!" The old man quickened his tone, like a war-horse +scenting the battle near at hand. "There never was a thinner-crusted +Devil's egg in the world than democracy. I think I've told you that +before?" +</P> + +<P> +"I think you have," said the other, dryly. +</P> + +<P> +"You always were a Tory, Mr. Howth," said his wife, in her placid, +creamy way. "It is in the blood, I think, Doctor. The Howths fought +under Cornwallis, you know." +</P> + +<P> +The school-master waited until his wife had ended. +</P> + +<P> +"Very true, Mrs. Howth," he said, with a grave smile. Then his thin +face grew hot again. +</P> + +<P> +"No, Dr. Knowles. Your scheme is but a sign of the mad age we live in. +Since the thirteenth century, when the anarchic element sprang +full-grown into the history of humanity, that history has been chaos. +And this republic is the culmination of chaos." +</P> + +<P> +"Out of chaos came the new-born earth," suggested the Doctor. +</P> + +<P> +"But its foundations were granite," rejoined the old man with nervous +eagerness,—"granite, not the slime of yesterday. When you found +empires, go to work as God worked." +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor did not answer; sat looking, instead, out into the dark +indifferently, as if the heresies which the old man hurled at him were +some old worn-out song. Seeing, however, that the school-master's +flush of enthusiasm seemed on the point of dying out, he roused himself +to gibe it into life. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Mr. Howth, what will you have? If the trodden rights of the +human soul are the slime of yesterday, how shall we found our empire to +last? On despotism? Civil or theocratic?" +</P> + +<P> +"Any despotism is better than that of newly enfranchised serfs," +replied the school-master. +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor laughed. +</P> + +<P> +"What a successful politician you would have made? You would have had +such a winning way to the hearts of the great unwashed!" +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Howth laid down her knitting. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear," she said, timidly, "I think that is treason." +</P> + +<P> +The angry heat died out of his face instantly, as he turned to her, +without the glimmer of a covert smile at her simplicity. She was a +woman; and when he spoke to the Doctor, it was in a tone less sharp. +</P> + +<P> +"What is it the boys used to declaim, their Yankee hearts throbbing +under their round-aborts? 'Happy, proud America!' Somehow in that way. +'Cursed, abased America!' better if they had said. Look at her, in the +warm vigour of her youth, most vigorous in decay! Look at the germs +and dregs of nations, creeds, religions, fermenting together! As for +the theory of self-government, it will muddle down here, as in the +three great archetypes of the experiment, into a paling, miserable +failure!" +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor did not hear. Some sharper shadow seemed to haunt him than +the downfall of the Republic. What help did he seek in this girl? His +keen, deep eyes never left her unconscious face. +</P> + +<P> +"No," Mr. Howth went on, having the field to himself,—"we left Order +back there in the ages you call dark, and Progress will trumpet the +world into the ditch." +</P> + +<P> +"Comte!" growled the Doctor. +</P> + +<P> +The school-master's cane beat an angry tattoo on the hearth. +</P> + +<P> +"You sneer at Comte? Because, having the clearest eye, the widest +sweeping eye ever given to man, he had no more? It was to show how far +flesh can go alone. Could he help it, if God refused the prophet's +vision?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sure, Samuel," interrupted his wife with a sorrowful earnestness, +"your own eyes were as strong as a man's could be. It was ten years +after I wore spectacles that you began. Only for that miserable fever, +you could read shorthand now." +</P> + +<P> +Her own blue eyes filled with tears. There was a sudden silence. +Margret shivered, as if some pain stung her. Holding her father's bony +hand in hers, she patted it on her knee. The hand trembled a little. +Knowles's sharp eyes darted from one to the other; then, with a +smothered growl, he shook himself, and rushed headlong into the old +battle which he and the school-master had been waging now, off and on, +some six years. That was a fight, I can tell you! None of your +shallow, polite clashing of modern theories,—no talk of your +Jeffersonian Democracy, your high-bred Federalism! They took hold of +the matter by the roots, clear at the beginning. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Howth's breath fairly left her, they went into the soul of the +matter in such a dangerous way. What if Joel should hear? No doubt he +would report that his master was an infidel,—that would be the next +thing they would hear. He was in the kitchen now: he finished his +wood-chopping an hour ago. Asleep, doubtless; that was one comfort. +Well, if he were awake, he could not understand. That class of +people——And Mrs. Howth (into whose kindly brain just enough of her +husband's creed had glimmered to make her say, "that class of people," +in the tone with which Abraham would NOT have spoken of Dives over the +gulf) went tranquilly back to her knitting, wondering why Dr. Knowles +should come ten times now where he used to come once, to provoke Samuel +into these wearisome arguments. Ever since their misfortune came on +them, he had been there every night, always at it. She should think he +might be a little more considerate. Mr. Howth surely had enough to +think of, what with his—his misfortune, and the starvation waiting for +them, and poor Margret's degradation, (she sighed here,) without +bothering his head about the theocratic principle, or the Battle of +Armageddon. She had hinted as much to Dr. Knowles one day, and he had +muttered out something about its being "the life of the dog, Ma'am." +She wondered what he meant by that! She looked over at his bearish +figure, snuff-drabbled waistcoat, and shock of black hair. Well, poor +man, he could not help it, if he were coarse, and an Abolitionist, and +a Fourierite, and——She was getting a little muddy now, she was +conscious, so turned her mind back to the repose of her stocking. +Margret took it very quietly, seeing her father flaming so. But +Margret never had any opinions to express. She was not like the +Parnells: they were noted for their clear judgment. Mrs. Howth was a +Parnell. +</P> + +<P> + "The combat deepens,—on, ye brave!"<BR> +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor's fat, leathery face was quite red now, and his sentences +were hurled out in a sarcastic bass, enough to wither the marrow of a +weak man. But the school-master was no weak man. His foot was entirely +on his native heath, I assure you. He knew every inch of the ground, +from the domination of the absolute faith in the ages of Fetichism, to +its pseudo-presentment in the tenth century, and its actual subversion +in the nineteenth. Every step. Our politicians might have picked up an +idea or two there, I should think! Then he was so cool about it, so +skilful! He fairly rubbed his hands with glee, enjoying the combat. +And he was so sure that the Doctor was savagely in earnest: why, any +one with half an ear could hear that! He did not see how, in the very +heat of the fray, his eyes would wander off listlessly. But Mr. Howth +did not wander; there was nothing careless or two-sided in the making +of this man,—no sham about him, or borrowing. They came down +gradually, or out,—for, as I told you, they dug into the very heart of +the matter at first,—they came out gradually to modern times. Things +began to assume a more familiar aspect. Spinoza, Fichte, Saint +Simon,—one heard about them now. If you could but have heard the +school-master deal with these his enemies! With what tender charity +for the man, what relentless vengeance for the belief, he pounced on +them, dragging the soul out of their systems, holding it up for slow +slaughter! As for Humanity, (how Knowles lingered on that word, with a +tenderness curious in so uncouth a mass of flesh!)—as for Humanity, it +was a study to see it stripped and flouted and thrown out of doors like +a filthy rag by this poor old Howth, a man too child-hearted to kill a +spider. It was pleasanter to hear him when he defended the great Past +in which his ideal truth had been faintly shadowed. How he caught the +salient tints of the feudal life! How the fine womanly nature of the +man rose exulting in the free picturesque glow of the day of crusader +and heroic deed! How he crowded in traits of perfected manhood in the +conqueror, simple trust in the serf, to colour and weaken his argument, +not seeing that he weakened it! How, when he thought he had cornered +the Doctor, he would colour and laugh like a boy, then suddenly check +himself, lest he might wound him! A curious laugh, genial, +cheery,—bubbling out of his weak voice in a way that put you in mind +of some old and rare wine. When he would check himself in one of these +triumphant glows, he would turn to the Doctor with a deprecatory +gravity, and for a few moments be almost submissive in his reply. So +earnest and worn it looked then, the poor old face, in the dim light! +The black clothes he wore were so threadbare and shining at the knees +and elbows, the coarse leather shoes brought to so fine a polish! The +Doctor idly wondered who had blacked them, glancing at Margret's +fingers. +</P> + +<P> +There was a flower stuck in the button-hole of the school-master's +coat, a pale tea-rose. If Dr. Knowles had been a man of fine +instincts, (which his opaque shining eyes would seem to deny,) he might +have thought it was not unapt or ill-placed even in the shabby, scuffed +coat. A scholar, a gentleman, though in patched shoes and trousers a +world too short. Old and gaunt, hunger-bitten even it may be, with +loose-jointed, bony limbs, and yellow face; clinging, loyal and brave, +to the quaint, delicate fancies of his youth, that were dust and ashes +to other men. In the very haggard face you could find the quiet purity +of the child he had been, and the old child's smile, fresh and +credulous, on the mouth. +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor had not spoken for a moment. It might be that he was +careless of the poetic lights with which Mr. Howth tenderly decorated +his old faith, or it might be, that even he, with the terrible +intentness of a real life-purpose in his brain, was touched by the +picture of the far old chivalry, dead long ago. The master's voice grew +low and lingering now. It was a labour of love, this. Oh, it is so +easy to go back out of the broil of dust and meanness and barter into +the clear shadow of that old life where love and bravery stand eternal +verities,—never to be bought and sold in that dusty town yonder! To +go back? To dream back, rather. To drag out of our own hearts, as the +hungry old master did, whatever is truest and highest there, and clothe +it with name and deed in the dim days of chivalry. Make a poem of +it,—so much easier than to make a life! +</P> + +<P> +Knowles shuffled uneasily, watching the girl keenly, to know how the +picture touched her. Was, then, she thought, this grand, dead Past so +shallow to him? These knights, pure, unstained, searching until death +for the Holy Grail, could he understand the life-long agony, the +triumph of their conflict over Self? These women, content to live in +solitude forever because they once had loved, could any man understand +that? Or the dead queen, dead that the man she loved might be free and +happy,—why, this WAS life,—this death! But did pain, and martyrdom, +and victory lie back in the days of Galahad and Arthur alone? The +homely face grew stiller than before, looking out into the dun sweep of +moorland,—cold, unrevealing. It baffled the man that looked at it. +He shuffled, chewed tobacco vehemently, tilted his chair on two legs, +broke out in a thunder-gust at last. +</P> + +<P> +"Dead days for dead men! The world hears a bugle-call to-day more +noble than any of your piping troubadours. We have something better to +fight for than a vacant tomb." +</P> + +<P> +The old man drew himself up haughtily. +</P> + +<P> +"I know what you would say,—Liberty for the low and vile. It is a +good word. That was a better which they hid in their hearts in the old +time,—Honour!" +</P> + +<P> +Honour! I think, Calvinist though he was, that word was his religion. +Men have had worse. Perhaps the Doctor thought this; for he rose +abruptly, and, leaning on the old man's chair, said, gently,— +</P> + +<P> +"It is better, even here. Yet you poison this child's mind. You make +her despise To-Day; make honour live for her now." +</P> + +<P> +"It does not," the school-master said, bitterly. "The world's a +failure. All the great old dreams are dead. Your own phantom, your +Republic, your experiment to prove that all men are born free and +equal,—what is it to-day?" +</P> + +<P> +Knowles lifted his head, looking out into the brown twilight. Some word +of pregnant meaning flashed in his eye and trembled on his lip; but he +kept it back. His face glowed, though, and the glow and strength gave +to the huge misshapen features a grand repose. +</P> + +<P> +"You talk of To-Day," the old man continued, querulously. "I am tired +of it. Here is its type and history," touching a county newspaper,—"a +fair type, with its cant, and bigotry, and weight of uncomprehended +fact. Bargain and sale,—it taints our religion, our brains, our +flags,—yours and mine, Knowles, with the rest. Did you never hear of +those abject spirits who entered neither heaven nor hell, who were +neither faithful to God nor rebellious, caring only for themselves?" +</P> + +<P> +He paused, fairly out of breath. Margret looked up. Knowles was +silent. There was a smothered look of pain on the coarse face; the +school-master's words were sinking deeper than he knew. +</P> + +<P> +"No, father," said Margret, hastily ending his quotation, "'io non +averei creduto, che [vita] tanta n' avesse disfatta.'" +</P> + +<P> +Skilful Margret! The broil must have been turbid in the old man's +brain which the grand, slow-stepping music of the Florentine could not +calm. She had learned that long ago, and used it as a nurse does some +old song to quiet her pettish infant. His face brightened instantly. +</P> + +<P> +"Do not believe, then, child," he said, after a pause. "It is a noble +doubt, in Dante or in you." +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor had turned away; she could not see his face. The angry +scorn was gone from the old master's countenance; it was bent with its +usual wistful eagerness on the floor. A moment after he looked up with +a flickering smile. +</P> + +<P> +"'Onorate l' altissmo poeta!'" he said, gently lifting his finger to +his forehead in a military fashion. "Where is my cane, Margret? The +Doctor and I will go and walk on the porch before it grows dark." +</P> + +<P> +The sun had gone down long before, and the stars were out; but no one +spoke of this. Knowles lighted the school-master's pipe and his own +cigar, and then moved the chairs out of their way, stepping softly that +the old man might not hear him. Margret, in the room, watched them as +they went, seeing how gentle the rough, burly man was with her father, +and how, every time they passed the sweet-brier, he bent the branches +aside, that they might not touch his face. Slow, childish tears came +into her eyes as she saw it; for the school-master was blind. This had +been their regular walk every evening, since it grew too cold for them +to go down under the lindens. The Doctor had not missed a night since +her father gave up the school, a month ago: at first, under pretence of +attending to his eyes; but since the day he had told them there was no +hope of cure, he had never spoken of it again. Only, since then, he had +grown doubly quarrelsome,—standing ready armed to dispute with the old +man every inch of every subject in earth or air, keeping the old man in +a state of boyish excitement during the long, idle days, looking +forward to this nightly battle. +</P> + +<P> +It was very still; for the house, with its half-dozen acres, lay in an +angle of the hills, looking out on the river, which shut out all +distant noises. Only the men's footsteps broke the silence, passing +and repassing the window. Without, the October starlight lay white and +frosty on the moors, the old barn, the sharp, dark hills, and the +river, which was half hidden by the orchard. One could hear it, like +some huge giant moaning in his sleep, at times, and see broad patches +of steel blue glittering through the thick apple-trees and the bushes. +Her mother had fallen into a doze. Margret looked at her, thinking how +sallow the plump, fair face had grown, and how faded the kindly blue +eyes were now. Dim with crying,—she knew that, though she never saw +her shed a tear. Always cheery, going placidly about the house in her +gray dress and Quaker cap, as if there were no such things in the world +as debt or blindness. But Margret knew, though she said nothing. When +her mother came in from those wonderful foraging expeditions in search +of late pease or corn, she could see the swollen circle round the eyes, +and hear her breath like that of a child which has sobbed itself tired. +Then, one night, when she had gone into her mother's room, after she +was in bed, the blue eyes were set in a wild, hopeless way, as if +staring down into years of starvation and misery. The fire on the +hearth burned low and clear; the old worn furniture stood out +cheerfully in the red glow, and threw a maze of twisted shadow on the +floor. But the glow was all that was cheerful. To-morrow, when the +hard daylight should jeer away the screening shadows, it would unbare a +desolate, shabby home. She knew; struck with the white leprosy of +poverty; the blank walls, the faded hangings, the old stone house +itself, looking vacantly out on the fields with a pitiful significance +of loss. Upon the mantel-shelf there was a small marble figure, one of +the Dancing Graces: the other two were gone, gone in pledge. This one +was left, twirling her foot, and stretching out her hands in a dreary +sort of ecstasy, with no one to respond. For a moment, so empty and +bitter seemed her home and her life, that she thought the lonely dancer +with her flaunting joy mocked her,—taunted them with the slow, gray +desolation that had been creeping on them for years. Only for a moment +the morbid fancy hurt her. +</P> + +<P> +The red glow was healthier, suited her temperament better. She chose +to fancy the house as it had been once,—should be again, please God. +She chose to see the old comfort and the old beauty which the poor +school-master had gathered about their home. Gone now. But it should +return. It was well, perhaps, that he was blind, he knew so little of +what had come on them. There, where the black marks were on the wall, +there had hung two pictures. Margret and her father religiously +believed them to be a Tintoret and Copley. Well, they were gone now. +He had been used to dust them with a light brush every morning, +himself, but now he said always,— +</P> + +<P> +"You can clean the pictures to-day, Margret. Be careful, my child." +</P> + +<P> +And Margret would remember the greasy Irishman who had tucked them +under his arm, and flung them into a cart, her blood growing hotter in +her veins. +</P> + +<P> +It was the same through all the house; there was not a niche in the +bare rooms that did not recall a something gone,—something that should +return. She willed that, that evening, standing by the dim fire. What +women will, whose eyes are slow, attentive, still, as this Margret's, +usually comes to pass. +</P> + +<P> +The red fire-glow suited her; another glow, warming her floating fancy, +mingled with it, giving her every-day purpose the trait of heroism. +The old spirit of the dead chivalry, of succour to the weak, life-long +self-denial,—did it need the sand waste of Palestine or a tournament +to call it into life? Down in that trading town, in the thick of its +mills and drays, it could live, she thought. That very night, perhaps, +in some of those fetid cellars or sunken shanties, there were vigils +kept of purpose as unselfish, prayer as heaven-commanding, as that of +the old aspirants for knighthood. She, too,—her quiet face stirred +with a simple, childish smile, like her father's. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, mother!" she said, stroking down the gray hair under the cap, +"shall you sleep here all night?" laughing. +</P> + +<P> +A cheery, tender laugh, this woman's was,—seldom heard,—not far from +tears. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Howth roused herself. Just then, a broad, high-shouldered man, in +a gray flannel shirt, and shoes redolent of the stable, appeared at the +door. Margret looked at him as if he were an accusing spirit,—coming +down, as woman must, from heights of self-renunciation or bold resolve, +to an undarned stocking or an uncooked meal. +</P> + +<P> +"Kittle's b'ilin'," he announced, flinging in the information as a +general gratuity. +</P> + +<P> +"That will do, Joel," said Mrs. Howth. +</P> + +<P> +The tone of stately blandness which Mrs. Howth erected as a shield +between herself and "that class of people" was a study: a success; the +resume of her experience in the combat that had devoured half her life, +like that of other American house-keepers. "Be gentle, but let them +know their place, my dear!" The class having its type and exponent in +Joel, stopped at the door, and hitched up its suspenders. +</P> + +<P> +"That will DO, Joel," with a stern suavity. +</P> + +<P> +Some idea was in Joel's head under the brush of red hair,—probably the +"anarchic element." +</P> + +<P> +"Uh was wishin' toh read the G'zette." Whereupon he advanced into the +teeth of the enemy and bore off the newspaper, going before Margret, as +she went to the kitchen, and seating himself beside a flaring +tallow-candle on the table. +</P> + +<P> +Reading, with Joel, was not the idle pastime that more trivial minds +find it; a thing, on the contrary, to be gone into with slow spelling, +and face knitted up into savage sternness, especially now, when, as he +gravely explained to Margret, "in HIS opinion the crissis was jest at +hand, and ev'ry man must be seein' ef the gover'ment was carryin' out +the views of the people." +</P> + +<P> +With which intent, Joel, in company with five thousand other +sovereigns, consulted, as definitive oracle, "The Daily Gazette" of +Towbridge. The school-master need not have grumbled for the old time: +feodality in the days of Warwick and of "The Daily Gazette" was not so +widely different as he and Joel thought. +</P> + +<P> +Now and then, partly as an escape-valve for his overcharged conviction, +partly in compassion to the ignorance of women in political economics, +he threw off to Margret divers commentaries on the text, as she passed +in and out. +</P> + +<P> +If she had risen to the full level of Joel's views, she might have +considered these views tinctured with radicalism, as they consisted in +the propriety of the immediate "impinging of the President." Besides, +(Joel was a good-natured man, too, merciful to his beast,) Nero-like, +he wished, with the tiger drop of blood that lies hid in everybody's +heart, that the few millions who differed with himself and the +"Gazette" had but one neck for their more convenient hanging, "It's all +that'll save the kentry," he said, and believed it, too. +</P> + +<P> +If Margret fell suddenly from the peak of outlook on life to the homely +labor of cooking supper, some of the healthy heroic flush of the +knightly days and the hearth-fire went down with her, I think. It +brightened and reddened the square kitchen with its cracked stove and +meagre array of tins; she bustled about in her quaint way, as if it had +been filled up and running over with comforts. It brightened and +reddened her face when she came in to put the last dish on the +table,—a cosy, snug table, set for four. Heroic dreams with poets, I +suppose, make them unfit for food other than some feast such as Eve set +for the angel. But then Margret was no poet. So, with the kindling of +her hope, its healthful light struck out, and warmed and glorified +these common things. Such common things! Only a coarse white cloth, +redeemed by neither silver nor china, the amber coffee, (some that +Knowles had brought out to her father—"thrown on his hands; he +couldn't use it,—product of slave-labour!—never, Sir!") the delicate +brown fish that Joel had caught, the bread her mother had made, the +golden butter,—all of them touched her nerves with a quick sense of +beauty and pleasure. And more, the gaunt face of the blind old man, +his bony hand trembling as he raised the cup to his lips, her mother +and the Doctor managing silently to place everything he liked best near +his plate. Wasn't it all part of the fresh, hopeful glow burning in +her consciousness? It brightened and deepened. It blotted out the +hard, dusty path of the future, and showed warm and clear the success +at the end. Not much to show, you think. Only the old home as it once +was, full of quiet laughter and content; only her mother's eyes clear +shining again; only that gaunt old head raised proudly, owing no man +anything but courtesy. The glow deepened, as she thought of it. It +was strange, too, that, with the deep, slow-moving nature of this girl, +she should have striven so eagerly to throw this light over the future. +Commoner natures have done more and hoped less. It was a poor gift, +you think, this of the labour of a life for so plain a duty; hardly +heroic. She knew it. Yet, if there lay in this coming labour any +pain, any wearing effort, she clung to it desperately, as if this +should banish, it might be, worse loss. She tried desperately, I say, +to clutch the far, uncertain hope at the end, to make happiness out of +it, to give it to her silent gnawing heart to feed on. She thrust out +of sight all possible life that might have called her true self into +being, and clung to this present shallow duty and shallow reward. +Pitiful and vain so to cling! It is the way of women. As if any human +soul could bury that which might have been, in that which is! +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor, peering into her thought with sharp, suspicious eyes, +heeded the transient flush of enthusiasm but little. Even the pleasant +cheery talk that pleased her father so was but surface-deep, he knew. +The woman he must conquer for his great end lay beneath, dark and cold. +It was only for that end he cared for her. Through what cold depths of +solitude her soul breathed faintly mattered little. Yet an idle fancy +touched him, what a triumph the man had gained, whoever he might be, +who had held the master-key to a nature so rare as this, who had the +kingly power in his hand to break its silence into electric shivers of +laughter and tears,—terrible subtile pain, or joy as terrible. Did he +hold the power still? He wondered. Meanwhile she sat there, unread. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap02"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER II. +</H3> + +<P> +The evening came on, slow and cold. Life itself, the Doctor thought, +impatiently, was cool and tardy here among the hills. Even he fell into +the tranquil tone, and chafed under it. Nowhere else did the evening +gray and sombre into the mysterious night impalpably as here. The +quiet, wide and deep, folded him in, forced his trivial heat into +silence and thought. The world seemed to think there. Quiet in the +dead seas of fog, that filled the valleys like restless vapour curdled +into silence; quiet in the listening air, stretching gray up to the +stars,—in the solemn mountains, that stood motionless, like +hoary-headed prophets, waiting with uplifted hands, day and night, to +hear the Voice, silent now for centuries; the very air, heavy with the +breath of the sleeping pine-forests, moved slowly and cold, like some +human voice weary with preaching to unbelieving hearts of a peace on +earth. This man's heart was unbelieving; he chafed in the oppressive +quiet; it was unfeeling mockery to a sick and hungry world,—a dead +torpor of indifference. Years of hot and turbid pain had dulled his +eyes to the eternal secret of the night; his soul was too sore with +stumbling, stung, inflamed with the needs and suffering of the +countless lives that hemmed him in, to accept the great prophetic calm. +He was blind to the prophecy written on the earth since the day God +first bade it tell thwarted man of the great To-Morrow. +</P> + +<P> +He turned from the night in-doors. Human hearts were his proper study. +The old house, he thought, slept with the rest. One did not wonder +that the pendulum of the clock swung long and slow. The frantic, +nervous haste of town-clocks chorded better with the pulse of human +life. Yet life in the veins of these people flowed slow and cool; +their sorrows and joys were few and life-long. The enduring air suited +this woman, Margret Howth. Her blood could never ebb or flow with +sudden gusts of passion, like his own, throbbing, heating continually: +one current, absorbing, deep, would carry its tide from one eternity to +the other, one love or one hate. Whatever power was in the tide should +be his, in its entirety. It was his right. Was not his aim high, the +highest? It was his right. +</P> + +<P> +Margret, looking up, saw the man's eye fixed on her. She met it +coolly. All her short life, this strange man, so tender to the weak, +had watched her with a sort of savage scorn, sneering at her childish, +dreamy apathy, driving her from effort to effort with a scourge of +contempt. What did he want now with her? Her duty was light; she took +it up,—she was glad to take it up; what more would he have? She put +the whole matter away from her. +</P> + +<P> +It grew late. She sat down by the lamp and began to read to her +father, as usual. Her mother put away her knitting; Joel came in +half-asleep; the Doctor put out his everlasting cigar, and listened, as +he did everything else, intently. It was an old story that she +read,—the story of a man who walked the fields and crowded streets of +Galilee eighteen hundred years ago. Knowles, with his heated brain, +fancied that the silence without in the night grew deeper, that the +slow-moving air stopped in its course to listen. Perhaps the simple +story carried a deeper meaning to these brooding mountains and solemn +sky than to the purblind hearts within. It was a far-off story to +them,—very far off. The old school-master heard it with a lowered +head, with the proud obedience with which a cavalier would receive his +leader's orders. Was not the leader a knights the knight of truest +courage? All that was high, chivalric in the old man sprang up to own +him Lord. That he not only preached to, but ate and drank with +publicans and sinners, was a requirement of his mission; nowadays——. +Joel heard the "good word" with a bewildered consciousness of certain +rules of honesty to be observed next day, and a maze of crowns and +harps shining somewhere beyond. As for any immediate connection +between the teachings of this book and "The Daily Gazette," it was pure +blasphemy to think of it. The Lord held those old Jews in His hand, of +course; but as for the election next month, that was quite another +thing. If Joel thrust the history out of the touch of common life, the +Doctor brought it down, and held it there on trial. To him it was the +story of a Reformer who, eighteen centuries ago, had served his day. +Could he serve this day? Could he? The need was desperate. Was there +anything in this Christianity, freed from bigotry, to work out the +awful problem which the ages had left for America to solve? He doubted +it. People called this old Knowles an infidel, said his brain was as +unnatural and distorted as his body. God, looking down into his heart +that night, saw the savage wrestling there, and judged him with other +eyes than theirs. +</P> + +<P> +The story stood alive in his throbbing brain demanding hearing. All +things were real to this man, this uncouth mass of flesh that his +companions sneered at; most real of all, the unhelped pain of life, the +great seething mire of dumb wretchedness in streets and alleys, the cry +for aid from the starved souls of the world. You and I have other work +to do than to listen,—pleasanter. But he, coming out of the mire, his +veins thick with the blood of a despised race, had carried up their +pain and hunger with him: it was the most real thing on earth to +him,—more real than his own share in the unseen heaven or hell. By +the reality, the peril of the world's instant need, he tried the +offered help from Calvary. It was the work of years, not of this night. +Perhaps, if they who preach Christ crucified had doubted him as this +man did, their work in the coming heaven might be higher,—and ours, +who hear them. When the girl had finished reading, she went out into +the cool air. The Doctor passed her without notice. He went, in his +lumbering way, down the hill into the city; glad to go; the trustful, +waiting quiet oppressed, taunted him. It sent him back more mad +against Destiny, his heart more bitter in its great pity. Let him go +to the great city, with its stifling gambling-hells, its negro-pens, +its foul cellars;—his place and work. If he stumble blindly against +unconquerable ills, and die, others have so stumbled and so died. Do +you think their work is lost? +</P> + +<P> +Margret stood looking down at the sloping moors and fog. She, too, had +her place and work. She thought that night she saw it clearly, and +kept her eyes fixed on it, as I said. They plodded steadily down the +wide years opening before her. Whatever slow, unending toil lay in +them, whatever hungry loneliness, or coarseness of deed, she saw it +all, shrinking from nothing. She looked at the big blue-corded veins +in her wrist, full of untainted blood,—gauged herself coolly, her +lease of life, her power of endurance,—measured it out against the +work waiting for her. No short task, she knew that. She would be old +before it was finished, quite an old woman, hard, mechanical, worn out. +But the day would be so bright, when it came, it would atone for all: +the day would be bright, the home warm again; it would hold all that +life had promised her of good. +</P> + +<P> +All? Oh, Margret, Margret! Was there no sullen doubt in the brave +resolve? Was there no shadow just then, dark, ironical, blotting out +father and mother and home, creeping nearer, less alien to your soul +than these, than even your God? +</P> + +<P> +If any such cold, masterful shadow rose out of years gone, and clutched +at the truest life of her heart, she stifled it, and thrust it down. +And yet, leaning on the gate, and thinking vacantly, she remembered a +time when through that shadow, she believed more in a God than she did +now. When, by the help of that very dead hope, He of whom she read +to-night stood close, an infinitely tender Helper, that with the +differing human loves she knew, had loved His mother and Mary. +Therefore, a Helper. Now, struggle as she would for warmth or healthy +hopes, the world was gray and silent. Her defeated woman's nature +called it so, bitterly. Christ was a dim, ideal power, heaven far-off. +She doubted if it held anything as real as that which she had lost. +</P> + +<P> +As if to bring back the old times more vividly to her, there happened +one of those curious little coincidences with which Fate, we think, has +nothing to do. She heard a quick step along the clay road, and a muddy +little terrier jumped up, barking, beside her. She stopped with a +suddenness strange in her slow movements. "TIGER!" she said, stroking +its head with passionate eagerness. The dog licked her hand, smelt her +clothes to know if she were the same: it was two years since he had +seen her. She sat there, softly stroking him. Presently there was a +sound of wheels jogging down the road, and a voice singing snatches of +some song, one of those cheery street-songs that the boys whistle. It +was a low, weak voice, but very pleasant. Margret heard it through the +dark: she kissed the dog with a strange paleness on her face, and stood +up, quiet, attentive as before. Tiger still kept licking her hand, as +it hung by her side: it was cold, and trembled as he touched it. She +waited a moment, then pushed him from her, as if his touch, even, +caused her to break some vow. He whined, but she hurried away, not +waiting to know how he came, or with whom. Perhaps, if Dr. Knowles had +seen her face as she looked back at him, he would have thought there +were depths in her nature which his probing eyes had never reached. +</P> + +<P> +The wheels came close, and directly a cart stopped at the gate. It was +one of those little wagons that hucksters drive; only this seemed to be +a home-made affair, patched up with wicker-work and bits of board. It +was piled up with baskets of vegetables, eggs, and chickens, and on a +broken bench in the middle sat the driver, a woman. You could not help +laughing, when you looked at the whole turn-out, it had such a +make-shift look altogether. The reins were twisted rope, the wheels +uneven. It went jolting along in such a careless, jolly way, as if it +would not care in the least, should it go to pieces any minute just +there in the road. The donkey that drew it was bony and blind of one +eye; but he winked the other knowingly at you, to ask if you saw the +joke of the thing. Even the voice of the owner of the establishment, +chirruping some idle song, as I told you, was one of the cheeriest +sounds you ever heard. Joel, up at the barn, forgot his dignity to +salute it with a prolonged "Hillo!" and presently appeared at the gate. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm late, Joel," said the weak voice. It sounded like a child's, near +at hand. +</P> + +<P> +"We can trade in the dark, Lois, both bein' honest," he responded, +graciously, hoisting a basket of tomatoes into the cart, and taking out +a jug of vinegar. +</P> + +<P> +"Is that Lois?" said Mrs. Howth, coming to the gate. "Sit still, +child. Don't get down." +</P> + +<P> +But the child, as she called her, had scrambled off the cart, and stood +beside her, leaning on the wheel, for she was helplessly crippled. +</P> + +<P> +"I thought you would be down to-night. I put some coffee on the stove. +Bring it out, Joel." +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Howth never put up the shield between herself and this member of +"the class,"—because, perhaps, she was so wretchedly low in the social +scale. However, I suppose she never gave a reason for it even to +herself. Nobody could help being kind to Lois, even if he tried. Joel +brought the coffee with more readiness than he would have waited on +Mrs. Howth. +</P> + +<P> +"Barney will be jealous," he said, patting the bare ribs of the old +donkey, and glancing wistfully at his mistress. +</P> + +<P> +"Give him his supper, surely," she said, taking the hint. +</P> + +<P> +It was a real treat to see how Lois enjoyed her supper, sipping and +tasting the warm coffee, her face in a glow, like an epicure over some +rare Falernian. You would be sure, from just that little thing, that +no sparkle of warmth or pleasure in the world slipped by her which she +did not catch and enjoy and be thankful for to the uttermost. You +would think, perhaps, pitifully, that not much pleasure or warmth would +ever go down so low, within her reach. Now that she stood on the +ground, she scarcely came up to the level of the wheel; some deformity +of her legs made her walk with a curious rolling jerk, very comical to +see. She laughed at it, when other people did; if it vexed her at all, +she never showed it. She had turned back her calico sun-bonnet, and +stood looking up at Mrs. Howth and Joel, laughing as they talked with +her. The face would have startled you on so old and stunted a body. +It was a child's face, quick, eager, with that pitiful beauty you +always see in deformed people. Her eyes, I think, were the kindliest, +the hopefullest I ever saw. Nothing but the livid thickness of her +skin betrayed the fact that set Lois apart from even the poorest +poor,—the taint in her veins of black blood. +</P> + +<P> +"Whoy! be n't this Tiger?" said Joel, as the dog ran yelping about him. +"How comed yoh with him, Lois?" +</P> + +<P> +"Tiger an' his master's good friends o' mine,—you remember they allus +was. An' he's back now, Mr. Holmes,—been back for a month." +</P> + +<P> +Margret, walking in the porch with her father, stopped. +</P> + +<P> +"Are you tired, father? It is late." +</P> + +<P> +"And you are worn out, poor child! It was selfish in me to forget. +Good-night, dear!" +</P> + +<P> +Margret kissed him, laughing cheerfully, as she led him to his +room-door. He lingered, holding her dress. +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps it will be easier for you to-morrow than it was to-day?" +hesitating. +</P> + +<P> +"I am sure it will. To-morrow will be sure to be better than to-day." +</P> + +<P> +She left him, and went away with a step that did not echo the promise +of her words. +</P> + +<P> +Joel, meanwhile, consulted apart with his mistress. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course," she said, emphatically.—"You must stay until morning, +Lois. It is too late. Joel will toss you up a bed in the loft." +</P> + +<P> +The queer little body hesitated. +</P> + +<P> +"I can stay," she said, at last. "It's his watch at the mill to-night." +</P> + +<P> +"Whose watch?" demanded Joel. +</P> + +<P> +Her face brightened. +</P> + +<P> +"Father's. He's back, mum." +</P> + +<P> +Joel caught himself in a whistle. +</P> + +<P> +"He's very stiddy, Joel,—as stiddy as yoh." +</P> + +<P> +"I am very glad he has come back, Lois," said Mrs. Howth, gravely. +</P> + +<P> +At every place where Lois had been that day she had told her bit of +good news, and at every place it had been met with the same kindly +smile and "I'm glad he's back, Lois." +</P> + +<P> +Yet Joe Yare, fresh from two years in the penitentiary, was not exactly +the person whom society usually welcomes with open arms. Lois had a +vague suspicion of this, perhaps; for, as she hobbled along the path, +she added to her own assurance of his "stiddiness" earnest explanations +to Joel of how he had a place in the Croft Street woollen-mills, and +how Dr. Knowles had said he was as ready a stoker as any in the +furnace-rooms. +</P> + +<P> +The sound of her weak, eager voice was silent presently, and nothing +broke the solitary cold of the night. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap03"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER III. +</H3> + +<P> +The morning, when it came long after, came quiet and cool,—the warm +red dawn helplessly smothered under great waves of gray cloud. +Margret, looking out into the thick fog, lay down wearily again, +closing her eyes. What was the day to her? +</P> + +<P> +Very slowly the night was driven back. An hour after, when she lifted +her head again, the stars were still glittering through the foggy arch, +like sparks of brassy blue, and hills and valleys were one drifting, +slow-heaving mass of ashy damp. Off in the east a stifled red film +groped through. It was another day coming; she might as well get up, +and live the rest of her life out;—what else had she to do? +</P> + +<P> +Whatever this night had been to the girl, it left one thought sharp, +alive, in the exhausted quiet of her brain: a cowardly dread of the +trial of the day, when she would see him again. Was the old struggle +of years before coming back? Was it all to go over again? She was +worn out. She had been quiet in these two years: what had gone before +she never looked back upon; but it made her thankful for even this +stupid quiet. And now, when she had planned her life, busy, useful, +contented, why need God have sent the old thought to taunt her? A +wild, sickening sense of what might have been struggled up: she thrust +it down,—she had kept it down all night; the old pain should not come +back,—it should not. She did not think of the love she had given up +as a dream, as verse-makers or sham people do; she knew it to be the +quick seed of her soul. She cried for it even now, with all the fierce +strength of her nature; it was the best she knew; through it she came +nearest to God. Thinking of the day when she had given it up, she +remembered it with a vague consciousness of having fought a deadly +struggle with her fate, and that she had been conquered,—never had +lived again. Let it be; she could not bear the struggle again. +</P> + +<P> +She went on dressing herself in a dreary, mechanical way. Once, a +bitter laugh came on her face, as she looked into the glass, and saw +the dead, dull eyes, and the wrinkle on her forehead. Was that the face +to be crowned with delicate caresses and love? She scorned herself for +the moment, grew sick of herself, balked, thwarted in her true life as +she was. Other women whom God has loved enough to probe to the depths +of their nature have done the same,—saw themselves as others saw them: +their strength drying up within them, jeered at, utterly alone. It is +a trial we laugh at. I think the quick fagots at the stake were fitter +subjects for laughter than the slow gnawing hunger in the heart of many +a slighted woman or a selfish man. They come out of the trial as out +of martyrdom, according to their faith: you see its marks sometimes in +a frivolous old age going down with tawdry hopes and starved eyes to +the grave; you see its victory in the freshest, fullest lives in the +earth. This woman had accepted her trial, but she took it up as an +inflexible fate which she did not understand; it was new to her; its +solitude, its hopeless thirst were freshly bitter. She loathed herself +as one whom God had thought unworthy of every woman's right,—to love +and be loved. +</P> + +<P> +She went to the window, looking blankly out into the gray cold. Any one +with keen analytic eye, noting the thin muscles of this woman, the +protruding brain, the eyes deep, concealing, would have foretold that +she would conquer in the fight; force her soul down,—but that the +forcing down would leave the weak, flaccid body spent and dead. One +thing was certain: no curious eyes would see the struggle; the body +might be nerveless or sickly, but it had the great power of reticence; +the calm with which she faced the closest gaze was natural to her,—no +mask. When she left her room and went down, the same unaltered quiet +that had baffled Knowles steadied her step and cooled her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +After you have made a sacrifice of yourself for others, did you ever +notice how apt you were to doubt, as soon as the deed was irrevocable, +whether, after all, it were worth while to have done it? How mean +seems the good gained! How new and unimagined the agony of empty hands +and stifled wish! Very slow the angels are, sometimes, that are sent +to minister! +</P> + +<P> +Margret, going down the stairs that morning, found none of the +chivalric unselfish glow of the night before in her home. It was an +old, bare house in the midst of dreary stubble fields, in which her +life was slowly to be worn out: working for those who did not +comprehend her; thanked her little,—that was all. It did not matter; +life was short: she could thank God for that at least. +</P> + +<P> +She opened the house-door. A draught of cold morning air struck her +face, sweeping from the west; it had driven the fog in great gray banks +upon the hills, or in shimmering swamps into the cleft hollows: a vague +twilight filled the space left bare. Tiger, asleep in the hall, rushed +out into the meadow, barking, wild with the freshness and cold, then +back again to tear round her for a noisy good-morning. The touch of +the dog seemed to bring her closer to his master; she put him away; she +dared not suffer even that treachery to her purpose: the very +circumstances that had forced her to give him up made it weak cowardice +to turn again. It was a simple story, yet one which she dared not tell +to herself; for it was not altogether for her father's sake she had +made the sacrifice. She knew, that, though she might be near to this +man Holmes as his own soul, she was a clog on him,—stood in his +way,—kept him back. So she had quietly stood aside, taken up her own +solitary burden, and left him with his clear self-reliant life,—with +his Self, dearer to him than she had ever been. Why should it not be +dearer? She thought,—remembering the man as he was, a master among +men: fit to be a master. She,—what was she compared to him? He was +back again; she must see him. So she stood there with this persistent +dread running through her brain. +</P> + +<P> +Suddenly, in the lane by the house, she heard a voice talking to +Joel,—the huckster-girl. What a weak, cheery sound it was in the cold +and fog! It touched her curiously: broke through her morbid thought as +anything true and healthy should have done. "Poor Lois!" she thought, +with an eager pity, forgetting her own intolerable future for the +moment, as she gathered up some breakfast and went with it down the +lane. Morning had come; great heavy bars of light fell from behind the +hills athwart the banks of gray and black fog; there was shifting, +uneasy, obstinate tumult among the shadows; they did not mean to yield +to the coming dawn. The hills, the massed woods, the mist opposed +their immovable front, scornfully. Margret did not notice the silent +contest until she reached the lane. The girl Lois, sitting in her +cart, was looking, attentive, at the slow surge of the shadows, and the +slower lifting of the slanted rays. +</P> + +<P> +"T' mornin' comes grand here, Miss Marg'et!" she said, lowering her +voice. +</P> + +<P> +Margret said nothing in reply; the morning, she thought, was gray and +cold, like her own life. She stood leaning on the low cart; some +strange sympathy drew her to this poor wretch, dwarfed, alone in the +world,—some tie of equality, which the odd childish face, nor the +quaint air of content about the creature, did not lessen. Even when +Lois shook down the patched skirt of her flannel frock straight, and +settled the heaps of corn and tomatoes about her, preparatory for a +start, Margret kept her hand on the side of the cart, and walked slowly +by it down the road. Once, looking at the girl, she thought with a +half smile how oddly clean she was. The flannel skirt she arranged so +complacently had been washed until the colours had run madly into each +other in sheer desperation; her hair was knotted with relentless +tightness into a comb such as old women wear. The very cart, patched +as it was, had a snug, cosy look; the masses of vegetables, green and +crimson and scarlet, were heaped with a certain reference to the glow +of colour, Margret noticed, wondering if it were accidental. Looking +up, she saw the girl's brown eyes fixed on her face. They were +singularly soft, brooding brown. +</P> + +<P> +"Ye 'r' goin' to th' mill, Miss Marg'et?" she asked, in a half whisper. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. You never go there now, Lois?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, 'm." +</P> + +<P> +The girl shuddered, and then tried to hide it in a laugh. Margret +walked on beside her, her hand on the cart's edge. Somehow this +creature, that Nature had thrown impatiently aside as a failure, so +marred, imperfect, that even the dogs were kind to her, came strangely +near to her, claimed recognition by some subtile instinct. +</P> + +<P> +Partly for this, and partly striving to forget herself, she glanced +furtively at the childish face of the distorted little body, wondering +what impression the shifting dawn made on the unfinished soul that was +looking out so intently through the brown eyes. What artist sense had +she,—what could she know—the ignorant huckster—of the eternal laws +of beauty or grandeur? Nothing. Yet something in the girl's face made +her think that these hills, this air and sky, were in fact alive to +her,—real; that her soul, being lower, it might be, than ours, lay +closer to Nature, knew the language of the changing day, of these +earnest-faced hills, of the very worms crawling through the brown +mould. It was an idle fancy; Margret laughed at herself for it, and +turned to watch the slow morning-struggle which Lois followed with such +eager eyes. +</P> + +<P> +The light was conquering. Up the gray arch the soft, dewy blue crept +gently, deepening, broadening; below it, the level bars of light struck +full on the sullen black of the west, and worked there undaunted, +tinging it with crimson and imperial purple. Two or three coy +mist-clouds, soon converted to the new allegiance, drifted giddily +about, mere flakes of rosy blushes. The victory of the day came slowly, +but sure, and then the full morning flushed out, fresh with moisture +and light and delicate perfume. The bars of sunlight fell on the lower +earth from the steep hills like pointed swords; the foggy swamp of wet +vapour trembled and broke, so touched, rose at last, leaving patches of +damp brilliance on the fields, and floated majestically up in radiant +victor clouds, led by the conquering wind. Victory: it was in the +cold, pure ether filling the heavens, in the solemn gladness of the +hills. The great forests thrilling in the soft light, the very sleepy +river wakening under the mist, chorded with a grave bass in the rising +anthem of welcome to the new life which God had freshly given to the +world. From the sun himself, come forth as a bridegroom from his +chamber, to the flickering raindrops on the road-side mullein, the +world seemed to rejoice, exultant in victory. Homely, cheerier sounds +broke the outlined grandeur of the morning, on which Margret looked +wearily. Lois lost none of them; no morbid shadow of her own balked +life kept their meaning from her. +</P> + +<P> +The light played on the heaped vegetables in the old cart; the bony +legs of the donkey trotted on with fresh vigour. There was not a +lowing cow in the distant barns, nor a chirping swallow on the +fence-bushes, that did not seem to include the eager face of the little +huckster in their morning greetings. Not a golden dandelion on the +road-side, not a gurgle of the plashing brown water from the +well-troughs, which did not give a quicker pleasure to the glowing +face. Its curious content stung the woman walking by her side. What +secret of recompense had the poor wretch found? +</P> + +<P> +"Your father is here, Lois," she said carelessly, to break the silence. +"I saw him at the mill yesterday." +</P> + +<P> +Her face kindled instantly. +</P> + +<P> +"He's home, Miss Marg'et,—yes. An' it's all right wid him. Things +allus do come right, some time," she added, in a reflective tone, +brushing a fly off Barney's ear. +</P> + +<P> +Margret smiled. +</P> + +<P> +"Always? Who brings them right for you, Lois?" +</P> + +<P> +"The Master," she said, turning with an answering smile. +</P> + +<P> +Margret was touched. The owner of the mill was not a more real verity +to this girl than the Master of whom she spoke with such quiet +knowledge. +</P> + +<P> +"Are things right in the mill?" she said, testing her. +</P> + +<P> +A shadow came on her face; her eyes wandered uncertainly, as if her +weak brain were confused,—only for a moment. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"They'll come right!" she said, bravely. "The Master'll see to it!" +</P> + +<P> +But the light was gone from her eyes; some old pain seemed to be +surging through her narrow thought; and when she began to talk, it was +in a bewildered, doubtful way. +</P> + +<P> +"It's a black place, th' mill," she said, in a low voice. "It was a +good while I was there: frum seven year old till sixteen. 'T seemed +longer t' me 'n 't was. 'T seemed as if I'd been there allus,—jes' +forever, yoh know. 'Fore I went in, I had the rickets, they say: +that's what ails me. 'T hurt my head, they've told me,—made me +different frum other folks." +</P> + +<P> +She stopped a moment, with a dumb, hungry look in her eyes. After a +while she looked at Margret furtively, with a pitiful eagerness. +</P> + +<P> +"Miss Marg'et, I think there BE something wrong in my head. Did YOH +ever notice it?" +</P> + +<P> +Margret put her hand kindly on the broad, misshapen forehead. +</P> + +<P> +"Something is wrong everywhere, Lois," she said, absently. +</P> + +<P> +She did not see the slow sigh with which the girl smothered down +whatever hope had risen just then, listened half-attentive as the +huckster maundered on. +</P> + +<P> +"It was th' mill," she said at last. "I kind o' grew into that place +in them years: seemed to me like as I was part o' th' engines, +somehow. Th' air used to be thick in my mouth, black wi' smoke 'n' +wool 'n' smells. +</P> + +<P> +"In them years I got dazed in my head, I think. 'T was th' air 'n' th' +work. I was weak allus. 'T got so that th' noise o' th' looms went on +in my head night 'n' day,—allus thud, thud. 'N' hot days, when th' +hands was chaffin' 'n' singin', th' black wheels 'n' rollers was alive, +starin' down at me, 'n' th' shadders o' th' looms was like snakes +creepin',—creepin' anear all th' time. They was very good to me, th' +hands was,—very good. Ther' 's lots o' th' Master's people down +there, though they never heard His name: preachers don't go there. But +He'll see to 't. He'll not min' their cursin' o' Him, seein' they +don't know His face, 'n' thinkin' He belongs to th' gentry. I knew it +wud come right wi' me, when times was th' most bad. I knew"—— +</P> + +<P> +The girl's hands were working together, her eyes set, all the slow +years of ruin that had eaten into her brain rising before her, all the +tainted blood in her veins of centuries of slavery and heathenism +struggling to drag her down. But above all, the Hope rose clear, +simple: the trust in the Master: and shone in her scarred +face,—through her marred senses. +</P> + +<P> +"I knew it wud come right, allus. I was alone then: mother was dead, +and father was gone, 'n' th' Lord thought 't was time to see to +me,—special as th' overseer was gettin' me an enter to th' poor-house. +So He sent Mr. Holmes along. Then it come right!" +</P> + +<P> +Margret did not speak. Even this mill-girl could talk of him, pray for +him; but she never must take his name on her lips! +</P> + +<P> +"He got th' cart fur me, 'n' this blessed old donkey, 'n' my room. Did +yoh ever see my room, Miss Marg'et?" +</P> + +<P> +Her face lighted suddenly with its peculiar childlike smile. +</P> + +<P> +"No? Yoh'll come some day, surely? It's a pore place, yoh'll think; +but it's got th' air,—th' air." +</P> + +<P> +She stopped to breathe the cold morning wind, as if she thought to find +in its fierce freshness the life and brains she had lost. +</P> + +<P> +"Ther' 's places in them alleys 'n' dark holes, Miss Marg'et, like th' +openin's to hell, with th' thick smells 'n' th' sights yoh'd see." +</P> + +<P> +She went back with a terrible clinging pity to the Gehenna from which +she had escaped. The ill of life was real enough to her,—a hungry +devil down in those alleys and dens. Margret listened, waked +reluctantly to the sense of a different pain in the world from her +own,—lower deeps from which women like herself draw delicately back, +lifting their gauzy dresses. +</P> + +<P> +"Miss Marg'et!" +</P> + +<P> +Her face flashed. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Lois?" +</P> + +<P> +"Th' Master has His people 'mong them very lowest, that's not for such +as yoh to speak to. He knows 'em: men 'n' women starved 'n' drunk into +jails 'n' work-houses, that 'd scorn to be cowardly or mean,—that +shows God's kindness, through th' whiskey 'n' thievin', to th' orphints +or—such as me. Ther' 's things th' Master likes in them, 'n' it'll +come right, it'll come right at last; they'll have a chance—somewhere." +</P> + +<P> +Margret did not speak; let the poor girl sob herself into quiet. What +had she to do with this gulf of pain and wrong? Her own higher life +was starved, thwarted. Could it be that the blood of these her +brothers called against HER from the ground? No wonder that the +huckster-girl sobbed, she thought, or talked heresy. It was not an +easy thing to see a mother drink herself into the grave. And yet—was +she to blame? Her Virginian blood was cool, high-bred; she had learned +conservatism in her cradle. Her life in the West had not yet quickened +her pulse. So she put aside whatever social mystery or wrong faced her +in this girl, just as you or I would have done. She had her own pain +to bear. Was she her brother's keeper? It was true, there was wrong; +this woman's soul lay shattered by it; it was the fault of her blood, +of her birth, and Society had finished the work. Where was the help? +She was free,—and liberty, Dr. Knowles said, was the cure for all the +soul's diseases, and—— +</P> + +<P> +Well, Lois was quiet now,—ready to be drawn into a dissertation on +Barney's vices and virtues, or her room, where "th' air was so strong, +'n' the fruit 'n' vegetables allus stayed fresh,—best in THIS town," +she said, with a bustling pride. +</P> + +<P> +They went on down the road, through the corn-fields sometimes, or on +the river-bank, or sometimes skirting the orchards or barn-yards of the +farms. The fences were well built, she noticed,—the barns wide and +snug-looking: for this county in Indiana is settled by New England +people, as a general thing, or Pennsylvanians. They both leave their +mark on barns or fields, I can tell you! The two women were talking +all the way. In all his life Dr. Knowles had never heard from this +silent girl words as open and eager as she gave to the huckster about +paltry, common things,—partly, as I said, from a hope to forget +herself, and partly from a vague curiosity to know the strange world +which opened before her in this disjointed talk. There were no morbid +shadows in this Lois's life, she saw. Her pains and pleasures were +intensely real, like those of her class. If there were latent powers +in her distorted brain, smothered by hereditary vice of blood, or foul +air and life, she knew nothing of it. She never probed her own soul +with fierce self-scorn, as this quiet woman by her side did;—accepted, +instead, the passing moment, with keen enjoyment. For the rest, +childishly trusted "the Master." +</P> + +<P> +This very drive, now, for instance,—although she and the cart and +Barney went through the same routine every day, you would have thought +it was a new treat for a special holiday, if you had seen the perfect +abandon with which they all threw themselves into the fun of the thing. +Not only did the very heaps of ruby tomatoes, and corn in delicate +green casings, tremble and shine as though they enjoyed the fresh light +and dew, but the old donkey cocked his ears, and curved his scraggy +neck, and tried to look as like a high-spirited charger as he could. +Then everybody along the road knew Lois, and she knew everybody, and +there was a mutual liking and perpetual joking, not very refined, +perhaps, but hearty and kind. It was a new side of life for Margret. +She had no time for thoughts of self-sacrifice, or chivalry, ancient or +modern, watching it. It was a very busy ride,—something to do at +every farm-house: a basket of eggs to be taken in, or some egg-plants, +maybe, which Lois laid side by side, Margret noticed,—the pearly white +balls close to the heap of royal purple. No matter how small the +basket was that she stopped for, it brought out two or three to put it +in; for Lois and her cart were the event of the day for the lonely +farm-houses. The wife would come out, her face ablaze from the oven, +with an anxious charge about that butter; the old man would hail her +from the barn to know "ef she'd thought toh look in th' mail yes'rday;" +and one or the other was sure to add, "Jes' time for breakfast, Lois." +If she had no baskets to stop for, she had "a bit o' business," which +turned out to be a paper she had brought for the grandfather, or some +fresh mint for the baby, or "jes' to inquire fur th' fam'ly." +</P> + +<P> +As to the amount that cart carried, it was a perpetual mystery to Lois. +Every day since she and the cart went into partnership, she had gone +into town with a dead certainty in the minds of lookers-on that it +would break down in five minutes, and a triumphant faith in hers in its +unlimited endurance. "This cart 'll be right side up fur years to +come," she would assert, shaking her head. "It 's got no more notion +o' givin' up than me nor Barney,—not a bit." Margret had her +doubts,—and so would you, if you had heard how it creaked under the +load,—how they piled in great straw panniers of apples: black apples +with yellow hearts, scarlet veined,—golden pippin apples, that held +the warmth and light longest,—russet apples with a hot blush on their +rough brown skins,—plums shining coldly in their delicate purple +bloom,—peaches with the crimson velvet of their cheeks aglow with the +prisoned heat of a hundred summer days. +</P> + +<P> +I wish with all my heart somebody would paint me Lois and her cart! +Mr. Kitts, the artist in the city then, used to see it going past his +room out by the coal-pits every day, and thought about it seriously. +But he had his grand battle-piece on hand then,—and after that he went +the way of all geniuses, and died down into colourer for a +photographer. He met them, that day, out by the stone quarry, and +touched his hat as he returned Lois's "Good-morning," and took a couple +of great pawpaws from her. She was a woman, you see, and he had some +of the school-master's old-fashioned notions about women. He was a +sickly-looking soul. One day Lois had heard him say that there were +pawpaws on his mother's place in Ohio; so after that she always brought +him some every day. She was one of those people who must give, if it +is nothing better than a Kentucky banana. +</P> + +<P> +After they passed the stone quarry, they left the country behind them, +going down the stubble-covered hills that fenced in the town. Even in +the narrow streets, and through the warehouses, the strong, dewy air +had quite blown down and off the fog and dust. Morning (town morning, +to be sure, but still morning) was shining in the red window-panes, in +the tossing smoke up in the frosty air, in the very glowing faces of +people hurrying from market with their noses nipped blue and their eyes +watering with cold. Lois and her cart, fresh with country breath +hanging about them, were not so out of place, after all. House-maids +left the steps half-scrubbed, and helped her measure out the corn and +beans, gossiping eagerly; the newsboys "Hi-d!" at her in a friendly, +patronizing way; women in rusty black, with sharp, pale faces, hoisted +their baskets, in which usually lay a scraggy bit of flitch, on to the +wheel, their whispered bargaining ending oftenest in a low "Thank ye, +Lois!"—for she sold cheaper to some people than they did in the market. +</P> + +<P> +Lois was Lois in town or country. Some subtile power lay in the +coarse, distorted body, in the pleading child's face, to rouse, +wherever they went, the same curious, kindly smile. Not, I think, that +dumb, pathetic eye, common to deformity, that cries, "Have mercy upon +me, O my friend, for the hand of God hath touched me!"—a deeper, +mightier charm, rather: a trust down in the fouled fragments of her +brain, even in the bitterest hour of her bare life,—a faith faith in +God, faith in her fellow-man, faith in herself. No human soul refused +to answer its summons. Down in the dark alleys, in the very vilest of +the black and white wretches that crowded sometimes about her cart, +there was an undefined sense of pride in protecting this wretch whose +portion of life was more meagre and low than theirs. Something in them +struggled up to meet the trust in the pitiful eyes,—something which +scorned to betray the trust,—some Christ-like power in their souls, +smothered, dying, under the filth of their life and the terror of hell. +A something in them never to be lost. If the Great Spirit of love and +trust lives, not lost! +</P> + +<P> +Even in the cold and quiet of the woman walking by her side the homely +power of the poor huckster was wholesome to strengthen. Margret left +her, turning into the crowded street leading to the part of the town +where the factories lay. The throng of anxious-faced men and women +jostled and pushed, but she passed through them with a different heart +from yesterday's. Somehow, the morbid fancies were gone: she was +keenly alive; the coarse real life of this huckster fired her, touched +her blood with a more vital stimulus than any tale of crusader. As she +went down the crooked maze of dingy lanes, she could hear Lois's little +cracked bell far off: it sounded like a Christmas song to her. She half +smiled, remembering how sometimes in her distempered brain the world +had seemed a gray, dismal Dance of Death. How actual it was +to-day,—hearty, vigorous, alive with honest work and tears and +pleasure! A broad, good world to live and work in, to suffer or die, +if God so willed it,—God, the good! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap04"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER IV. +</H3> + +<P> +She entered the vast, dingy factory; the woollen dust, the clammy air +of copperas were easier to breathe in; the cramped, sordid office, the +work, mere trifles to laugh at; and she bent over the ledger with its +hard lines in earnest good-will, through the slow creeping hours of the +long day. She noticed that the unfortunate chicken was making its +heart glad over a piece of fresh earth covered with damp moss. Dr. +Knowles stopped to look at it when he came, passing her with a surly +nod. +</P> + +<P> +"So your master's not forgotten you," he snarled, while the blind old +hen cocked her one eye up at him. +</P> + +<P> +Pike, the manager, had brought in some bills. +</P> + +<P> +"Who's its master?" he said, curiously, stopping by the door. +</P> + +<P> +"Holmes,—he feeds it every morning." +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor drawled out the words with a covert sneer, watching the cold +face bending over the desk, meantime. +</P> + +<P> +Pike laughed. +</P> + +<P> +"Bah! it's the first thing he ever fed, then, besides himself. Chickens +must lie nearer his heart than men." +</P> + +<P> +Knowles scowled at him; he had no fancy for Pike's scurrilous gossip. +</P> + +<P> +The quiet face was unmoved. When he heard the manager's foot on the +ladder without, he tested it again. He had a vague suspicion which he +was determined to verify. +</P> + +<P> +"Holmes," he said, carelessly, "has an affinity for animals. No +wonder. Adam must have been some such man as he, when the Lord gave +him 'dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air.'" +</P> + +<P> +The hand paused courteously a moment, then resumed its quick, cool +movement over the page. He was not baffled. +</P> + +<P> +"If there were such a reality as mastership, that man was born to rule. +Pike will find him harder to cheat than me, when he takes possession +here." +</P> + +<P> +She looked up now. +</P> + +<P> +"He came here to take my place in the mills,—buy me out,—articles +will be signed in a day or two. I know what you think,—no,—not worth +a dollar. Only brains and a soul, and he 's sold them at a high +figure,—threw his heart in,—the purchaser being a lady. It was +light, I fancy,—starved out, long ago." +</P> + +<P> +The old man's words were spurted out in the bitterness of scorn. The +girl listened with a cool incredulity in her eyes, and went back to her +work. +</P> + +<P> +"Miss Herne is the lady,—my partner's daughter. Herne and Holmes +they'll call the firm. He is here every day, counting future profit." +</P> + +<P> +Nothing could be read on the face; so he left her, cursing, as he went, +men who put themselves up at auction,—worse than Orleans slaves. +Margret laughed to herself at his passion; as for the story he hinted, +it was absurd. She forgot it in a moment. +</P> + +<P> +Two or three gentlemen down in one of the counting-rooms, just then, +looked at the story from another point of view. They were talking low, +out of hearing from the clerks. +</P> + +<P> +"It's a good thing for Holmes," said one, a burly, farmer-like man, who +was choosing specimens of wool. +</P> + +<P> +"Cheap. And long credit. Just half the concern he takes." +</P> + +<P> +"There is a lady in the case?" suggested a young doctor, who, by virtue +of having spent six months in the South, dropped his r-s, and talked of +"niggahs" in a way to make a Georgian's hair stand on end. +</P> + +<P> +"A lady in the case?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course. Only child of Herne's. HE comes down with the dust as +dowry. Good thing for Holmes. 'Stonishin' how he's made his way up. +If money 's what he wants in this world, he's making a long stride now +to 't." +</P> + +<P> +The young doctor lighted his cigar, asserting that— +</P> + +<P> +"Ba George, some low people did get on, re-markably! Mary Herne, now, +was best catch in town." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think money is what he wants?" said a quiet little man, +sitting lazily on a barrel,—a clergyman, Vandyke; whom his clerical +brothers shook their heads when they named, but never argued with, and +bowed to with uncommon deference. +</P> + +<P> +The wool-buyer hesitated with a puzzled look. +</P> + +<P> +"No," he said, slowly; "Stephen Holmes is not miserly. I've knowed him +since a boy. To buy place, power, perhaps, eh? Yet not that, +neither," he added, hastily. "We think a sight of him out our way, +(self-made, you see,) and would have had him the best office in the +State before this, only he was so cursedly indifferent." +</P> + +<P> +"Indifferent, yes. No man cares much for stepping-stones in +themselves," said Vandyke, half to himself. +</P> + +<P> +"Great fault of American society, especially in the West," said the +young aristocrat. "Stepping-stones lie low, as my reverend friend +suggests; impudence ascends; merit and refinement scorn such dirty +paths,"—with a mournful remembrance of the last dime in his +waistcoat-pocket. +</P> + +<P> +"But do you," exclaimed the farmer, with sudden solemnity, "do you +understand this scheme of Knowles's? Every dollar he owns is in this +mill, and every dollar of it is going into some castle in the air that +no sane man can comprehend." +</P> + +<P> +"Mad as a March hare," contemptuously muttered the doctor. +</P> + +<P> +His reverend friend gave him a look,—after which he was silent. +</P> + +<P> +"I wish to the Lord some one would persuade him out of it," persisted +the wool-man, earnestly looking at the attentive face of his listener. +"We can't spare old Knowles's brain or heart while he ruins himself. +It's something of a Communist fraternity: I don't know the name, but I +know the thing." +</P> + +<P> +Very hard common-sense shone out of his eyes just then at the +clergyman, whom he suspected of being one of Knowles's abettors. +</P> + +<P> +"There's two ways for 'em to end. If they're made out of the top of +society, they get so refined, so idealized, that every particle flies +off on its own special path to the sun, and the Community 's broke; and +if they're made of the lower mud, they keep going down, down +together,—they live to drink and eat, and make themselves as near the +brutes as they can. It isn't easy to believe, Sir, but it's true. I +have seen it. I've seen every one of them the United States can +produce. It's FACTS, Sir; and facts, as Lord Bacon says, 'are the +basis of every sound speculation.'" +</P> + +<P> +The last sentence was slowly brought out, as quotations were not +exactly his forte, but, as he said afterwards,—"You see, that nailed +the parson." +</P> + +<P> +The parson nodded gravely. +</P> + +<P> +"You'll find no such experiment in the Bible," threw in the young +doctor, alluding to "serious things" as a peace-offering to his +reverend friend. +</P> + +<P> +"One, I believe," dryly. +</P> + +<P> +"Well," broke in the farmer, folding up his wool, "that's neither here +nor there. This experiment of Knowles's is like nothing known since +the Creation. Plan of his own. He spends his days now hunting out the +gallows-birds out of the dens in town here, and they're all to be +transported into the country to start a new Arcadia. A few men and +women like himself, but the bulk is from the dens, I tell you. All +start fair, level ground, perpetual celibacy, mutual trust, honour, +rise according to the stuff that's in them,—pah! it makes me sick!" +</P> + +<P> +"Knowles's inclination to that sort of people is easily explained," +spitefully lisped the doctor. "Blood, Sir. His mother was a +half-breed Creek, with all the propensities of the redskins to +fire-water and 'itching palms.' Blood will out." +</P> + +<P> +"Here he is," maliciously whispered the woolman. "No, it's Holmes," he +added, after the doctor had started into a more respectful posture, and +glanced around frightened. +</P> + +<P> +He, the doctor, rose to meet Holmes's coming footstep,—"a low fellah, +but always sure to be the upper dog in the fight, goin' to marry the +best catch," etc., etc. The others, on the contrary, put on their hats +and sauntered away into the street. +</P> + +<P> +The day broadened hotly; the shadows of the Lombardy poplars curdling +up into a sluggish pool of black at their roots along the dry gutters. +The old school-master in the shade of the great horse-chestnuts +(brought from the homestead in the Piedmont country, every one) husked +corn for his wife, composing, meanwhile, a page of his essay on the +"Sirventes de Bertrand de Born." Joel, up in the barn by himself, +worked through the long day in the old fashion,—pondering gravely +(being of a religious turn) upon a sermon by the Reverend Mr. Clinche, +reported in the "Gazette;" wherein that disciple of the meek Teacher +invoked, as he did once a week, the curses of the law upon +slaveholders, praying the Lord to sweep them immediately from the face +of the earth. Which rendering of Christian doctrine was so much +relished by Joel, and the other leading members of Mr. Clinche's +church, that they hinted to him it might be as well to continue +choosing his texts from Moses and the Prophets until the excitement of +the day was over. The New Testament was,—well,—hardly suited for +the—emergency; did not, somehow, chime in with the lesson of the hour. +I may remark, in passing, that this course of conduct so disgusted the +High Church rector of the parish, that he not only ignored all new +devils, (as Mr. Carlyle might have called them,) but talked as if the +millennium were un fait accompli, and he had leisure to go and hammer +at the poor dead old troubles of Luther's time. One thing, though, +about Joel: while he was joining in Mr. Clinche's petition for the +"wiping out" of some few thousands, he was using up all the fragments +of the hot day in fixing a stall for a half-dead old horse he had found +by the road-side. +</P> + +<P> +Perhaps, even if the listening angel did not grant the prayer, he +marked down the stall at least, as a something done for eternity. +</P> + +<P> +Margret, through the stifling air, worked steadily alone in the dusty +office, her face bent over the books, never changing but once. It was +a trifle then; yet, when she looked back afterwards, the trifle was all +that gave the day a name. The room shook, as I said, with the +thunderous, incessant sound of the engines and the looms; she scarcely +heard it, being used to it. Once, however, another sound came +between,—an iron tread, passing through the long wooden corridor,—so +firm and measured that it sounded like the monotonous beatings of a +clock. She heard it through the noise in the far distance; it came +slowly nearer, up to the door without,—passed it, going down the +echoing plank walk. The girl sat quietly, looking out at the dead +brick wall. The slow step fell on her brain like the sceptre of her +master; if Knowles had looked in her face then, he would have seen +bared the secret of her life. Holmes had gone by, unconscious of who +was within the door. She had not seen him; it was nothing but a step +she heard. Yet a power, the power of the girl's life, shook off all +outward masks, all surface cloudy fancies, and stood up in her with a +terrible passion at the sound; her blood burned fiercely; her soul +looked out, her soul as it was, as God knew it,—God and this man. No +longer a cold, clear face; you would have thought, looking at it, what +a strong spirit the soul of this woman would be, if set free in heaven +or in hell. The man who held it in his grasp went on carelessly, not +knowing that the mere sound of his step had raised it as from the dead. +She, and her right, and her pain, were nothing to him now, she +remembered, staring out at the taunting hot sky. Yet so vacant was the +sudden life opened before her when he was gone, that, in the +desperation of her weakness, her mad longing to see him but once again, +she would have thrown herself at his feet, and let the cold, heavy step +crush her life out,—as he would have done, she thought, choking down +the icy smother in her throat, if it had served his purpose, though it +cost his own heart's life to do it. He would trample her down, if she +kept him back from his end; but be false to her, false to himself, that +he would never be! +</P> + +<P> +The red bricks, the dusty desk covered with wool, the miserable chicken +peering out, grew sharper and more real. Life was no morbid nightmare +now; her weak woman's heart found it near, cruel. There was not a pain +nor a want, from the dumb question in the dog's eyes that passed her on +the street, to her father's hopeless fancies, that did not touch her +sharply through her own loss, with a keen pity, a wild wish to help to +do something to save others with this poor life left in her hands. +</P> + +<P> +So the day wore on in the town and country; the old sun glaring down +like some fierce old judge, intolerant of weakness or shams,—baking +the hard earth in the streets harder for the horses' feet, drying up +the bits of grass that grew between the boulders of the gutter, scaling +off the paint from the brazen faces of the interminable brick houses. +He looked down in that city as in every American town, as in these +where you and I live, on the same countless maze of human faces going +day by day through the same monotonous routine. Knowles, passing +through the restless crowds, read with keen eye among them strange +meanings by this common light of the sun,—meanings such as you and I +might read, if our eyes were clear as his,—or morbid, it may be, you +think? A commonplace crowd like this in the street without: women with +cold, fastidious faces, heavy-brained, bilious men, dapper 'prentices, +draymen, prize-fighters, negroes. Knowles looked about him as into a +seething caldron, in which the people I tell you of were atoms, where +the blood of uncounted races was fused, but not mingled,—where creeds, +philosophies, centuries old, grappled hand to hand in their +death-struggle,—where innumerable aims and beliefs and powers of +intellect, smothered rights and triumphant wrongs, warred together, +struggling for victory. +</P> + +<P> +Vulgar American life? He thought it a life more potent, more tragic in +its history and prophecy, than any that has gone before. People called +him a fanatic. It may be that he was one: yet the uncouth old man, +sick in soul from some pain that I dare not tell you of; in his own +life, looked into the depths of human loss with a mad desire to set it +right. On the very faces of those who sneered at him he found some +trace of failure, something that his heart carried up to God with a +loud and exceeding bitter cry. The voice of the world, he thought, +went up to heaven a discord, unintelligible, hopeless,—the great blind +world, astray since the first ages! Was there no hope, no help? +</P> + +<P> +The sun shone down, as it had done for six thousand years; it shone on +open problems in the lives of these men and women, of these dogs and +horses who walked the streets, problems whose end and beginning no eye +could read. There were places where it did not shine: down in the +fetid cellars, in the slimy cells of the prison yonder: what riddles of +life lay there he dared not think of. God knows how the man groped for +the light,—for any voice to make earth and heaven clear to him. +</P> + +<P> +There was another light by which the world was seen that day, rarer +than the sunshine, and purer. It fell on the dense crowds,—upon the +just and the unjust. It went into the fogs of the fetid dens from +which the coarser light was barred, into the deepest mires of body +where a soul could wallow, and made them clear. It lighted the depths +of the hearts whose outer pain and passion men were keen to read in the +unpitying sunshine, and bared in those depths the feeble gropings for +the right, the loving hope, the unuttered prayer. No kind thought, no +pure desire, no weakest faith in a God and heaven somewhere, could be +so smothered under guilt that this subtile light did not search it out, +glow about it, shine under it, hold it up in full view of God and the +angels,—lighting the world other than the sun had done for six +thousand years. I have no name for the light: it has a name,—yonder. +Not many eyes were clear to see its—shining that day; and if they did, +it was as through a glass, darkly. Yet it belonged to us also, in the +old time, the time when men could "hear the voice of the Lord God in +the garden in the cool of the day." It is God's light now alone. +</P> + +<P> +Yet Lois caught faint glimpses, I think, sometimes, of its heavenly +clearness. I think it was this light that made the burning of +Christmas fires warmer for her than for others, that showed her all the +love and outspoken honesty and hearty frolic which her eyes saw +perpetually in the old warm-hearted world. That evening, as she sat on +the step of her frame-shanty, knitting at a great blue stocking, her +scarred face and misshapen body very pitiful to the passers-by, it was +this that gave to her face its homely, cheery smile. It made her eyes +quick to know the message in the depths of colour in the evening sky, +or even the flickering tints of the green creeper on the wall with its +crimson cornucopias filled with hot shining. She liked clear, vital +colours, this girl,—the crimsons and blues. They answered her, +somehow. They could speak. There were things in the world that like +herself were marred,—did not understand,—were hungry to know: the +gray sky, the mud streets, the tawny lichens. She cried sometimes, +looking at them, hardly knowing why: she could not help it, with a +vague sense of loss. It seemed at those times so dreary for them to be +alive,—or for her. Other things her eyes were quicker to see than +ours: delicate or grand lines, which she perpetually sought for +unconsciously,—in the homeliest things, the very soft curling of the +woollen yarn in her fingers, as in the eternal sculpture of the +mountains. Was it the disease of her injured brain that made all +things alive to her,—that made her watch, in her ignorant way, the +grave hills, the flashing, victorious rivers, look pitifully into the +face of some starved hound, or dingy mushroom trodden in the mud before +it scarce had lived, just as we should look into human faces to know +what they would say to us? Was it weakness and ignorance that made +everything she saw or touched nearer, more human to her than to you or +me? She never got used to living as other people do; these sights and +sounds did not come to her common, hackneyed. Why, sometimes, out in +the hills, in the torrid quiet of summer noons, she had knelt by the +shaded pools, and buried her hands in the great slumberous beds of +water-lilies, her blood curdling in a feverish languor, a passioned +trance, from which she roused herself, weak and tired. +</P> + +<P> +She had no self-poised artist sense, this Lois,—knew nothing of +Nature's laws, as you do. Yet sometimes, watching the dun sea of the +prairie rise and fall in the crimson light of early morning, or, in the +farms, breathing the blue air trembling up to heaven exultant with the +life of bird and forest, she forgot the poor vile thing she was, some +coarse weight fell off, and something within, not the sickly Lois of +the mill, went out, free, like an exile dreaming of home. +</P> + +<P> +You tell me, that, doubtless, in the wreck of the creature's brain, +there were fragments of some artistic insight that made her thus rise +above the level of her daily life, drunk with the mere beauty of form +and colour. I do not know,—not knowing how sham or real a thing you +mean by artistic insight. But I do know that the clear light I told +you of shone for this girl dimly through this beauty of form and +colour; alive. The Life, rather; and ignorant, with no words for her +thoughts, she believed in it as the Highest that she knew. I think it +came to her thus in imperfect language, (not an outward show of tints +and lines, as to artists,)—a language, the same that Moses heard when +he stood alone, with nothing between his naked soul and God, but the +desert and the mountain and the bush that burned with fire. I think +the weak soul of the girl staggered from its dungeon, and groped +through these heavy-browed hills, these colour-dreams, through the +faces of dog or man upon the street, to find the God that lay behind. +So she saw the world, and its beauty and warmth being divine as near to +her, the warmth and beauty became real in her, found their homely +reflection in her daily life. So she knew, too, the Master in whom she +believed, saw Him in everything that lived, more real than all beside. +The waiting earth, the prophetic sky, the very worm in the gutter was +but a part of this man, something come to tell her of Him,—she dimly +felt; though, as I said, she had no words for such a thought. Yet even +more real than this. There was no pain nor temptation down in those +dark cellars where she went that He had not borne,—not one. Nor was +there the least pleasure came to her or the others, not even a cheerful +fire, or kind words, or a warm, hearty laugh, that she did not know He +sent it and was glad to do it. She knew that well! So it was that He +took part in her humble daily life, and became more real to her day by +day. Very homely shadows her life gave of His light, for it was His: +homely, because of her poor way of living, and of the depth to which +the heavy foot of the world had crushed her. Yet they were there all +the time, in her cheery patience, if nothing more. To-night, for +instance, how differently the surging crowd seemed to her from what it +did to Knowles! She looked down on it from her high wood-steps with an +eager interest, ready with her weak, timid laugh to answer every +friendly call from below. She had no power to see them as types of +great classes; they were just so many living people, whom she knew, and +who, most of them, had been kind to her. Whatever good there was in +the vilest face, (and there was always something,) she was sure to see +it. The light made her poor eyes strong for that. +</P> + +<P> +She liked to sit there in the evenings, being alone, yet never growing +lonesome; there was so much that was pleasant to watch and listen to, +as the cool brown twilight came on. If, as Knowles thought, the world +was a dreary discord, she knew nothing of it. People were going from +their work now,—they had time to talk and joke by the way,—stopping, +or walking slowly down the cool shadows of the pavement; while here and +there a lingering red sunbeam burnished a window, or struck athwart the +gray boulder-paved street. From the houses near you could catch a +faint smell of supper: very friendly people those were in these houses; +she knew them all well. The children came out with their faces washed, +to play, now the sun was down: the oldest of them generally came to sit +with her and hear a story. +</P> + +<P> +After it grew darker, you would see the girls in their neat blue +calicoes go sauntering down the street with their sweethearts for a +walk. There was old Polston and his son Sam coming home from the +coal-pits, as black as ink, with their little tin lanterns on their +caps. After a while Sam would come out in his suit of Kentucky jean, +his face shining with the soap, and go sheepishly down to Jenny Ball's, +and the old man would bring his pipe and chair out on the pavement, and +his wife would sit on the steps. Most likely they would call Lois down, +or come over themselves, for they were the most sociable, cosiest old +couple you ever knew. There was a great stopping at Lois's door, as +the girls walked past, for a bunch of the flowers she brought from the +country, or posies, as they called them, (Sam never would take any to +Jenny but "old man" and pinks,) and she always had them ready in broken +jugs inside. They were good, kind girls, every one of them,—had taken +it in turn to sit up with Lois last winter all the time she had the +rheumatism. She never forgot that time,—never once. +</P> + +<P> +Later in the evening you would see a man coming along, close by the +wall, with his head down, the same Margret had seen in the mill,—a +dark man, with gray, thin hair,—Joe Yare, Lois's old father. No one +spoke to him,—people always were looking away as he passed; and if old +Mr. or Mrs. Polston were on the steps when he came up, they would say, +"Good-evening, Mr. Yare," very formally, and go away presently. It +hurt Lois more than anything else they could have done. But she +bustled about noisily, so that he would not notice it. If they saw the +marks of the ill life he had lived on his old face, she did not; his +sad, uncertain eyes may have been dishonest to them, but they were +nothing but kind to the misshapen little soul that he kissed so warmly +with a "Why, Lo, my little girl!" Nobody else in the world ever called +her by a pet name. +</P> + +<P> +Sometimes he was gloomy and silent, but generally he told her of all +that had happened in the mill, particularly any little word of notice +or praise he might have received, watching her anxiously until she +laughed at it, and then rubbing his hands cheerfully. He need not have +doubted Lois's faith in him. Whatever the rest did, she believed in +him; she always had believed in him, through all the dark years, when +he was at home, and in the penitentiary. They were gone now, never to +come back. It had come right. If the others wronged him, and it hurt +her bitterly that they did, that would come right some day too, she +would think, as she looked at the tired, sullen face of the old man +bent to the window-pane, afraid to go out. But they had very cheerful +little suppers there by themselves in the odd, bare little room, as +homely and clean as Lois herself. +</P> + +<P> +Sometimes, late at night, when he had gone to bed, she sat alone in the +door, while the moonlight fell in broad patches over the square, and +the great poplars stood like giants whispering together. Still the far +sounds of the town came up cheerfully, while she folded up her +knitting, it being dark, thinking how happy an ending this was to a +happy day. When it grew quiet, she could hear the solemn whisper of +the poplars, and sometimes broken strains of music from the cathedral +in the city floated through the cold and moonlight past her, far off +into the blue beyond the hills. All the keen pleasure of the day, the +warm, bright sights and sounds, coarse and homely though they were, +seemed to fade into the deep music, and make a part of it. +</P> + +<P> +Yet, sitting there, looking out into the listening night, the poor +child's face grew slowly pale as she heard it. It humbled her. It +made her meanness, her low, weak life so plain to her! There was no +pain nor hunger she had known that did not find a voice in its +articulate cry. SHE! what was she? The pain and wants of the world +must be going up to God in that sound, she thought. There was +something more in it,—an unknown meaning of a great content that her +shattered brain struggled to grasp. She could not. Her heart ached +with a wild, restless longing. She had no words for the vague, +insatiate hunger to understand. It was because she was ignorant and +low, perhaps; others could know. She thought her Master was speaking. +She thought that unknown Joy linked all earth and heaven together, and +made it plain. So she hid her face in her hands, and listened, while +the low harmony shivered through the air, unheeded by others, with the +message of God to man. Not comprehending, it may be,—the poor +girl,—hungry still to know. Yet, when she looked up, there were warm +tears in her eyes, and her scarred face was bright with a sad, deep +content and love. +</P> + +<P> +So the hot, long day was over for them all,—passed as thousands of +days have done for us, gone down, forgotten: as that long, hot day we +call life will be over some time, and go down into the gray and cold. +Surely, whatever of sorrow or pain may have made darkness in that day +for you or me, there were countless openings where we might have seen +glimpses of that other light than sunshine: the light of that great +To-Morrow, of the land where all wrongs shall be righted. If we had +but chosen to see it,—if we only had chosen! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap05"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER V. +</H3> + +<P> +Now that I have come to the love part of my story, I am suddenly +conscious of dingy common colors on the palette with which I have been +painting. I wish I had some brilliant dyes. I wish, with all my +heart, I could take you back to that "Once upon a time" in which the +souls of our grandmothers delighted,—the time which Dr. Johnson sat up +all night to read about in "Evelina,"—the time when all the celestial +virtues, all the earthly graces were revealed in a condensed state to +man through the blue eyes and sumptuous linens of some Belinda Portman +or Lord Mortimer. None of your good-hearted, sorely-tempted villains +then! It made your hair stand on end only to read of them,—going +about perpetually seeking innocent maidens and unsophisticated old men +to devour. That was the time for holding up virtue and vice; no trouble +then in seeing which were sheep and which were goats! A person could +write a story with a moral to it, then, I should hope! People that were +born in those days had no fancy for going through the world with +half-and-half characters, such as we put up with; so Nature turned out +complete specimens of each class, with all the appendages of dress, +fortune, et cetera, chording decently. The heroine glides into life +full-charged with rank, virtues, a name three-syllabled, and a white +dress that never needs washing, ready to sail through dangers dire into +a triumphant haven of matrimony;—all the aristocrats have high +foreheads and cold blue eyes; all the peasants are old women, +miraculously grateful, in neat check aprons, or sullen-browed +insurgents planning revolts in caves. +</P> + +<P> +Of course, I do not mean that these times are gone: they are alive (in +a modern fashion) in many places in the world; some of my friends have +described them in prose and verse. I only mean to say that I never was +there; I was born unlucky. I am willing to do my best, but I live in +the commonplace. Once or twice I have rashly tried my hand at dark +conspiracies, and women rare and radiant in Italian bowers; but I have +a friend who is sure to say, "Try and tell us about the butcher next +door, my dear." If I look up from my paper now, I shall be just as apt +to see our dog and his kennel as the white sky stained with blood and +Tyrian purple. I never saw a full-blooded saint or sinner in my life. +The coldest villain I ever knew was the only son of his mother, and she +a widow,—and a kinder son never lived. Doubtless there are people +capable of a love terrible in its strength; but I never knew such a +case that some one did not consider its expediency as "a match" in the +light of dollars and cents. As for heroines, of course I have seen +beautiful women, and good as fair. The most beautiful is delicate and +pure enough for a type of the Madonna, and has a heart almost as warm +and holy. (Very pure blood is in her veins, too, if you care about +blood.) But at home they call her Tode for a nickname; all we can do, +she will sing, and sing through her nose; and on washing-days she often +cooks the dinner, and scolds wholesomely, if the tea-napkins are not in +order. Now, what is anybody to do with a heroine like that? I have +known old maids in abundance, with pathos and sunshine in their lives; +but the old maid of novels I never have met, who abandoned her soul to +gossip,—nor yet the other type, a life-long martyr of unselfishness. +They are mixed generally, and not unlike their married sisters, so far +as I can see. Then as to men, certainly I know heroes. One man, I +knew, as high a chevalier in heart as any Bayard of them all; one of +those souls simple and gentle as a woman, tender in knightly honour. +He was an old man, with a rusty brown coat and rustier wig, who spent +his life in a dingy village office. You poets would have laughed at +him. Well, well, his history never will be written. The kind, sad, +blue eyes are shut now. There is a little farm-graveyard overgrown +with privet and wild grape-vines, and a flattened grave where he was +laid to rest; and only a few who knew him when they were children care +to go there, and think of what he was to them. But it was not in the +far days of Chivalry alone, I think, that true and proud souls have +stood in the world unwelcome, and, hurt to the quick, have turned away +and dumbly died. Let it be. Their lives are not lost, thank God! +</P> + +<P> +I meant only to ask you, How can I help it, if the people in my story +seem coarse to you,—if the hero, unlike all other heroes, stopped to +count the cost before he fell in love,—if it made his fingers thrill +with pleasure to touch a full pocket-book as well as his mistress's +hand,—not being withal, this Stephen Holmes, a man to be despised? A +hero, rather, of a peculiar type,—a man, more than other men: the very +mould of man, doubt it who will, that women love longest and most +madly. Of course, if I could, I would have blotted out every meanness +before I showed him to you; I would have told you Margret was an +impetuous, whole-souled woman, glad to throw her life down for her +father, without one bitter thought of the wife and mother she might +have been; I would have painted her mother tender, (as she was,) +forgetting how pettish she grew on busy days: but what can I do? I +must show you men and women as they are in that especial State of the +Union where I live. In all the others, of course, it is very +different. Now, being prepared for disappointment, will you see my +hero? +</P> + +<P> +He had sauntered out from the city for a morning walk,—not through the +hills, as Margret went, going home, but on the other side, to the +river, over which you could see the Prairie. We are in Indiana, +remember. The sunlight was pure that morning, powerful, tintless, the +true wine of life for body or spirit. Stephen Holmes knew that, being a +man of delicate animal instincts, and so used it, just as he had used +the dumb-bells in the morning. All things were made for man, weren't +they? He was leaning against the door of the school-house,—a red, +flaunting house, the daub on the landscape: but, having his back to it, +he could not see it, so through his half-shut eyes he suffered the +beauty of the scene to act on him. Suffered: in a man, according to +his creed, the will being dominant, and all influences, such as beauty, +pain, religion, permitted to act under orders. Of course. +</P> + +<P> +It was a peculiar landscape,—like the man who looked at it, of a +thoroughly American type. A range of sharp, dark hills, with a sombre +depth of green shadow in the clefts, and on the sides massed forests of +scarlet and flame and crimson. Above, the sharp peaks of stone rose +into the wan blue, wan and pale themselves, and wearing a certain air +of fixed calm, the type of an eternal quiet. At the base of the hills +lay the city, a dirty mass of bricks and smoke and dust, and at its far +edge flowed the river,—deep here, tinted with green, writhing and +gurgling and curdling on the banks over shelving ledges of lichen and +mud-covered rock. Beyond it yawned the opening to the great West,—the +Prairies. Not the dreary deadness here, as farther west. A plain, +dark russet in hue,—for the grass was sun-scorched,—stretching away +into the vague distance, intolerable, silent, broken by hillocks and +puny streams that only made the vastness and silence more wide and +heavy. Its limitless torpor weighed on the brain; the eyes ached, +stretching to find some break before the dull russet faded into the +amber of the horizon and was lost. An American landscape: of few +features, simple, grand in outline as a face of one of the early gods. +It lay utterly motionless before him, not a fleck of cloud in the pure +blue above, even where the mist rose from the river; it only had +glorified the clear blue into clearer violet. +</P> + +<P> +Holmes stood quietly looking; he could have created a picture like +this, if he never had seen one; therefore he was able to recognize it, +accepted it into his soul, and let it do what it would there. +</P> + +<P> +Suddenly a low wind from the far Pacific coast struck from the amber +line where the sun went down. A faint tremble passed over the great +hills, the broad sweeps of colour darkened from base to summit, then +flashed again,—while below, the prairie rose and fell like a dun sea, +and rolled in long, slow, solemn waves. +</P> + +<P> +The wind struck so broad and fiercely in Holmes's face that he caught +his breath. It was a savage freedom, he thought, in the West there, +whose breath blew on him,—the freedom of the primitive man, the +untamed animal man, self-reliant and self-assertant, having conquered +Nature. Well, this fierce, masterful freedom was good for the soul, +sometimes, doubtless. It was old Knowles's vital air. He wondered if +the old man would succeed in his hobby, if he could make the slavish +beggars and thieves in the alleys yonder comprehend this fierce +freedom. They craved leave to live on sufferance now, not knowing their +possible divinity. It was a desperate remedy, this sense of unchecked +liberty; but their disease was desperate. As for himself, he did not +need it; that element was not lacking. In a mere bodily sense, to be +sure. He felt his arm. Yes, the cold rigor of this new life had +already worn off much of the clogging weight of flesh, strengthened the +muscles. Six months more in the West would toughen the fibres to iron. +He raised an iron weight that lay on the steps, carelessly testing +them. For the rest, he was going back here; something of the cold, +loose freshness got into his brain, he believed. In the two years of +absence his power of concentration had been stronger, his perceptions +more free from prejudice, gaining every day delicate point, acuteness +of analysis. He drew a long breath of the icy air, coarse with the +wild perfume of the prairie. No, his temperament needed a subtiler +atmosphere than this, rarer essence than mere brutal freedom The East, +the Old World, was his proper sphere for self-development. He would go +as soon as he could command the means, leaving all clogs behind. ALL? +His idle thought balked here, suddenly; the sallow forehead contracted +sharply, and his gray eyes grew in an instant shallow, careless, +formal, as a man who holds back his thought. There was a fierce +warring in his brain for a moment. Then he brushed his Kossuth hat +with his arm, and put it on, looking out at the landscape again. +Somehow its meaning was dulled to him. Just then a muddy terrier came +up, and rubbed itself against his knee. "Why, Tige, old boy!" he said, +stooping to pat it kindly. The hard, shallow look faded out; he half +smiled, looking in the dog's eyes. A curious smile, unspeakably tender +and sad. It was the idiosyncrasy of the man's face, rarely seen there. +He might have looked with it at a criminal, condemning him to death. +But he would have condemned him, and, if no hangman could be found, +would have put the rope on with his own hands, and then most probably +would have sat down pale and trembling, and analyzed his sensations on +paper,—being sincere in all. +</P> + +<P> +He sat down on the school-house step, which the boys had hacked and +whittled rough, and waited; for he was there by appointment, to meet +Dr. Knowles. +</P> + +<P> +Knowles had gone out early in the morning to look at the ground he was +going to buy for his Phalanstery, or whatever he chose to call it. He +was to bring the deed of sale of the mill out with him for Holmes. The +next day it was to be signed. Holmes saw him at last lumbering across +the prairie, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. Summer or +winter, he contrived to be always hot. There was a cart drawn by an +old donkey coming along beside him. Knowles was talking to the driver. +The old man clapped his hands as stage-coachmen do, and drew in long +draughts of air, as if there were keen life and promise in every +breath. They came up at last, the cart empty, and drying for the day's +work after its morning's scrubbing, Lois's pock-marked face all in a +glow with trying to keep Barney awake. She grew quite red with +pleasure at seeing Holmes, but went on quickly as the men began to +talk. Tige followed her, of course; but when she had gone a little way +across the prairie, they saw her stop, and presently the dog came back +with something in his mouth, which he laid down beside his master, and +bolted off. It was only a rough wicker-basket which she had filled +with damp plushy moss, and half-buried in it clusters of plumy fern, +delicate brown and ashen lichens, masses of forest-leaves all shaded +green with a few crimson tints. It had a clear woody smell, like +far-off myrrh. The Doctor laughed as Holmes took it up. +</P> + +<P> +"An artist's gift, if it is from a mulatto," he said. "A born +colourist." +</P> + +<P> +The men were not at ease,—for some reason; they seized on every trifle +to keep off the subject which had brought them together. +</P> + +<P> +"That girl's artist-sense is pure, and her religion, down under the +perversion and ignorance of her brain. Curious, eh?" +</P> + +<P> +"Look at the top of her head, when you see her," said Holmes. "It is +necessity for such brains to worship. They let the fire lick their +blood, if they happen to be born Parsees. This girl, if she had been a +Jew when Christ was born, would have known him as Simeon did." +</P> + +<P> +Knowles said nothing,—only glanced at the massive head of the speaker, +with its overhanging brow, square development at the sides, and lowered +crown, and smiled significantly. +</P> + +<P> +"Exactly," laughed Holmes, putting his hand on his head. "Crippled +there by my Yorkshire blood,—my mother. Never mind; outside of this +life, blood or circumstance matters nothing." +</P> + +<P> +They walked on slowly towards town. Surely there was nothing in the +bill-of-sale which the old man had in his pocket but a mere matter of +business; yet they were strangely silent about it, as if it brought +shame to some one. There was an embarrassed pause. The Doctor went +back to Lois for relief. +</P> + +<P> +"I think it is the pain and want of such as she that makes them +susceptible to religion. The self in them is so starved and humbled +that it cannot obscure their eyes; they see God clearly." +</P> + +<P> +"Say rather," said Holmes, "that the soul is so starved and blind that +it cannot recognize itself as God." +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor's intolerant eye kindled. +</P> + +<P> +"Humph! So that's your creed! Not Pantheism. Ego sum. Of course you +go on with the conjugation: I have been, I shall be. I,—that covers +the whole ground, creation, redemption, and commands the hereafter?" +</P> + +<P> +"It does so," said Holmes, coolly. +</P> + +<P> +"And this wretched huckster carries her deity about her,—her +self-existent soul? How, in God's name, is her life to set it free?" +</P> + +<P> +Holmes said nothing. The coarse sneer could not be answered. Men with +pale faces and heavy jaws like his do not carry their religion on their +tongue's end; their creeds leave them only in the slow oozing +life-blood, false as the creeds may be. +</P> + +<P> +Knowles went on hotly, half to himself, seizing on the new idea +fiercely, as men and women do who are yet groping for the truth of life. +</P> + +<P> +"What is it your Novalis says? 'The true Shechinah is man.' You know +no higher God? Pooh! the idea is old enough; it began with Eve. It +works slowly, Holmes. In six thousand years, taking humanity as one, +this self-existent soul should have clothed itself with a freer, +royaller garment than poor Lois's body,—or mine," he added, bitterly. +</P> + +<P> +"It works slowly," said the other, quietly. "Faster soon, in America. +There are yet many ills of life for the divinity within to conquer." +</P> + +<P> +"And Lois and the swarming mass yonder in those dens? It is late for +them to begin the fight?" +</P> + +<P> +"Endurance is enough for them here, and their religions teach them +that. They could not bear the truth. One does not put a weapon into +the hands of a man dying of the fetor and hunger of the siege." +</P> + +<P> +"But what will this life, or the lives to come, give to you, champions +who know the truth?" +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing but victory," he said, in a low tone, looking away. +</P> + +<P> +Knowles looked at the pale strength of the iron face. +</P> + +<P> +"God help you, Stephen!" he broke out, his shallow jeering falling off. +"For there IS a God higher than we. The ills of life you mean to +conquer will teach it to you, Holmes. You'll find the Something above +yourself, if it's only to curse Him and die." +</P> + +<P> +Holmes did not smile at the old man's heat,—walked gravely, steadily. +</P> + +<P> +There was a short silence. Knowles put his hand gently on the other's +arm. +</P> + +<P> +"Stephen," he hesitated, "you're a stronger man than I. I know what +you are; I've watched you from a boy. But you're wrong here. I'm an +old man. There's not much I know in life,—enough to madden me. But I +do know there's something stronger,—some God outside of the mean devil +they call 'Me.' You'll learn it, boy. There's an old story of a man +like you and the rest of your sect, and of the vile, mean, crawling +things that God sent to bring him down. There are such things yet. +Mean passions in your divine soul, low, selfish things, that will get +the better of you, show you what you are. You'll do all that man can +do. But they are coming, Stephen Holmes! they're coming!" +</P> + +<P> +He stopped, startled. For Holmes had turned abruptly, glancing over at +the city with a strange wistfulness. It was over in a moment. He +resumed the slow, controlling walk beside him. They went on in silence +into town, and when they did speak, it was on indifferent subjects, not +referring to the last. The Doctor's heat, as it usually did, boiled +out in spasms on trifles. Once he stumped his toe, and, I am sorry to +say, swore roundly about it, just as he would have done in the new +Arcadia, if one of the jail-birds comprising that colony had been +ungrateful for his advantages. Philanthropists, for some curious +reason, are not the most amiable members of small families. +</P> + +<P> +He gave Holmes the roll of parchment he had in his pocket, looking +keenly at him, as he did so, but only saying, that, if he meant to sign +it, it would be done to-morrow. As Holmes took it, they stopped at the +great door of the factory. He went in alone, Knowles going down the +street. One trifle, strange in its way, he remembered afterwards. +Holding the roll of paper in his hand that would make the mill his, he +went, in his slow, grave way, down the long passage to the loom-rooms. +There was a crowd of porters and firemen there, as usual, and he +thought one of them hastily passed him in the dark passage, hiding +behind an engine. As the shadow fell on him, his teeth chattered with a +chilly shudder. He smiled, thinking how superstitious people would say +that some one trod on his grave just then, or that Death looked at him, +and went on. Afterwards he thought of it. Going through the office, +the fat old book-keeper, Huff, stopped him with a story he had been +keeping for him all day. He liked to tell a story to Holmes; he could +see into a joke; it did a man good to hear a fellow laugh like that. +Holmes did laugh, for the story was a good one, and stood a moment, +then went in, leaving the old fellow chuckling over his desk. Huff did +not know how, lately, after every laugh, this man felt a vague scorn of +himself, as if jokes and laughter belonged to a self that ought to have +been dead long ago. Perhaps, if the fat old book-keeper had known it, +he would have said that the man was better than he knew. But +then,—poor Huff! He passed slowly through the alleys between the +great looms. Overhead the ceiling looked like a heavy maze of iron +cylinders and black swinging bars and wheels, all in swift, ponderous +motion. It was enough to make a brain dizzy with the clanging thunder +of the engines, the whizzing spindles of red and yellow, and the hot +daylight glaring over all. The looms were watched by women, most of +them bold, tawdry girls of fifteen or sixteen, or lean-jawed women from +the hills, wives of the coal-diggers. There was a breathless odour of +copperas. As he went from one room to another up through the ascending +stories, he had a vague sensation of being followed. Some shadow +lurked at times behind the engines, or stole after him in the dark +entries. Were there ghosts, then, in mills in broad daylight? None +but the ghosts of Want and Hunger and Crime, he might have known, that +do not wait for night to walk our streets: the ghosts that poor old +Knowles hoped to lay forever. +</P> + +<P> +Holmes had a room fitted up in the mill, where he slept. He went up to +it slowly, holding the paper tightly in one hand, glancing at the +operatives, the work, through his furtive half-shut eye. Nothing +escaped him. Passing the windows, he did not once look out at the +prophetic dream of beauty he had left without. In the mill he was of +the mill. Yet he went slowly, as if he shrank from the task waiting +for him. Why should he? It was a simple matter of business, this +transfer of Knowles's share in the mill to himself; to-day he was to +decide whether he would conclude the bargain. If any dark history of +wrong lay underneath, if this simple decision of his was to be the +struggle for life and death with him, his cold, firm face told nothing +of it. Let us be just to him, stand by him, if we can, in the midst of +his desolate home and desolate life, and look through his cold, +sorrowful eyes at the deed he was going to do. Dreary enough he +looked, going through the great mill, despite the power in his quiet +face. A man who had strength for solitude; yet, I think, with all his +strength, his mother could not have borne to look back from the dead +that day, to see her boy so utterly alone. The day was the crisis of +his life, looked forward to for years; he held in his hand a sure +passport to fortune. Yet he thrust the hour off, perversely, trifling +with idle fancies, pushing from him the one question which all the +years past and to come had left for this day to decide. +</P> + +<P> +Some such idle fancy it may have been that made the man turn from the +usual way down a narrow passage into which opened doors from small +offices. Margret Howth, he had learned to-day, was in the first one. +He hesitated before he did it, his sallow face turning a trifle paler; +then he went on in his hard, grave way, wondering dimly if she +remembered his step, if she cared to see him now. She used to know +it,—she was the only one in the world who ever had cared to know +it,—silly child! Doubtless she was wiser now. He remembered he used +to think, that, when this woman loved, it would be as he himself would, +with a simple trust which the wrong of years could not touch. And once +he had thought—— Well, well, he was mistaken. Poor Margret! Better +as it was. They were nothing to each other. She had put him from her, +and he had suffered himself to be put away. Why, he would have given +up every prospect of life, if he had done otherwise! Yet he wondered +bitterly if she had thought him selfish,—if she thought it was money +he cared for, as the others did. It mattered nothing what they +thought, but it wounded him intolerably that she should wrong him. +Yet, with all this, whenever he looked forward to death, it was with +the certainty that he should find her there beyond. There would be no +secrets then; she would know then how he had loved her always. Loved +her? Yes; he need not hide it from himself, surely. +</P> + +<P> +He was now by the door of the office;—she was within. Little Margret, +poor little Margret! struggling there day after day for the old father +and mother. What a pale, cold little child she used to be! such a +child! yet kindling at his look or touch, as if her veins were filled +with subtile flame. Her soul was—like his own, he thought. He knew +what it was,—he only. Even now he glowed with a man's triumph to know +he held the secret life of this woman bare in his hand. No other human +power could ever come near her; he was secure in possession. She had +put him from her;—it was better for both, perhaps. Their paths were +separate here; for she had some unreal notions of duty, and he had too +much to do in the world to clog himself with cares, or to idle an hour +in the rare ecstasy of even love like this. +</P> + +<P> +He passed the office, not pausing in his slow step. Some sudden +impulse made him put his hand on the door as he brushed against it: +just a quick, light touch; but it had all the fierce passion of a +caress. He drew it back as quickly, and went on, wiping a clammy sweat +from his face. +</P> + +<P> +The room he had fitted up for himself was whitewashed and barely +furnished; it made one's bones ache to look at the iron bedstead and +chairs. Holmes's natural taste was more glowing, however smothered, +than that of any saffron-robed Sybarite. It needed correction, he +knew; here was discipline. Besides, he had set apart the coming three +or four years of his life to make money in, enough for the time to +come. He would devote his whole strength to that work, and so be +sooner done with it. Money, or place, or even power, was nothing but a +means to him: other men valued them because of their influence on +others. As his work in the world was only the development of himself, +it was different, of course. What would it matter to his soul the day +after death, if millions called his name aloud in blame or praise? +Would he hear or answer then? What would it matter to him then, if he +had starved with them, or ruled over them? People talked of +benevolence. What would it matter to him then, the misery or happiness +of those yet working in this paltry life of ours? In so far as the +exercise of kindly emotions or self-denial developed the higher part of +his nature, it was to be commended; as for its effect on others, that +he had nothing to do with. He practised self-denial constantly to +strengthen the benevolent instincts. That very morning he had given +his last dollar to Joe Byers, a half-starved cripple. "Chucked it at +me," Joe said, "like as he'd give a bone to a dog, and be damned to +him! Who thanks him?" To tell the truth, you will find no fairer +exponent than this Stephen Holmes of the great idea of American +sociology,—that the object of life is TO GROW. Circumstances had +forced it on him, partly. Sitting now in his room, where he was +counting the cost of becoming a merchant prince, he could look back to +the time of a boyhood passed in the depths of ignorance and vice. He +knew what this Self within him was; he knew how it had forced him to +grope his way up, to give this hungry, insatiate soul air and freedom +and knowledge. All men around him were doing the same,—thrusting and +jostling and struggling, up, up. It was the American motto, Go ahead; +mothers taught it to their children; the whole system was a scale of +glittering prizes. He at least saw the higher meaning of the truth; he +had no low ambitions. To lift this self up into a higher range of +being when it had done with the uses of this,—that was his work. +Self-salvation, self-elevation,—the ideas that give birth to, and +destroy half of our Christianity, half of our philanthropy! Sometimes, +sleeping instincts in the man struggled up to assert a divinity more +terrible than this growing self-existent soul that he purified and +analyzed day by day: a depth of tender pity for outer pain; a fierce +longing for rest, on something, in something, he cared not what. He +stifled such rebellious promptings,—called them morbid. He called it +morbid, too, the passion now that chilled his strong blood, and wrung +out these clammy drops on his forehead, at the mere thought of this +girl below. +</P> + +<P> +He shut the door of his room tightly: he had no time to-day for +lounging visitors. For Holmes, quiet and steady, was sought for, if +not popular, even in the free-and-easy West; one of those men who are +unwillingly masters among men. Just and mild, always; with a peculiar +gift that made men talk their best thoughts to him, knowing they would +be understood; if any core of eternal flint lay under the simple, +truthful manner of the man, nobody saw it. +</P> + +<P> +He laid the bill of sale on the table; it was an altogether practical +matter on which he sat in judgment, but he was going to do nothing +rashly. A plain business document: he took Dr. Knowles's share in the +factory; the payments made with short intervals; John Herne was to be +his endorser: it needed only the names to make it valid. Plain enough; +no hint there of the tacit understanding that the purchase-money was a +wedding dowry; even between Herne and himself it never was openly put +into words. If he did not marry Miss Herne, the mill was her father's; +that of course must be spoken of, arranged to-morrow. If he took it, +then? if he married her? Holmes had been poor, was miserably poor yet, +with the position and habits of a man, of refinement. God knows it was +not to gratify those tastes that he clutched at this money. All the +slow years of work trailed up before him, that were gone,—of hard, +wearing work for daily bread, when his brain had been starving for +knowledge, and his soul dulled, debased with sordid trading. Was this +to be always? Were these few golden moments of life to be traded for +the bread and meat he ate? To eat and drink,—was that what he was +here for? +</P> + +<P> +As he paced the floor mechanically, some vague recollection crossed his +brain of a childish story of the man standing where the two great roads +of life parted. They were open before him now. Money, money,—he took +the word into his heart as a miser might do. With it, he was free from +these carking cares that were making his mind foul and muddy. If he +had money! Slow, cool visions of triumphs rose before him outlined on +the years to come, practical, if Utopian. Slow and sure successes of +science and art, where his brain could work, helpful and growing. Far +off, yet surely to come,—surely for him,—a day when a pure social +system should be universal, should have thrust out its fibres of light, +knitting into one the nations of the earth, when the lowest slave +should find its true place and rightful work, and stand up, knowing +itself divine. "To insure to every man the freest development of his +faculties:" he said over the hackneyed dogma again and again, while the +heavy, hateful years of poverty rose before him that had trampled him +down. "To insure to him the freest development," he did not need to +wait for St. Simon, or the golden year, he thought with a dreary gibe; +money was enough, and—Miss Herne. +</P> + +<P> +It was curious, that, when this woman, whom he saw every day, came up +in his mind, it was always in one posture, one costume. You have +noticed that peculiarity in your remembrance of some persons? Perhaps +you would find, if you looked closely, that in that look or indelible +gesture which your memory has caught there lies some subtile hint of +the tie between your soul and theirs. Now, when Holmes had resolved +coolly to weigh this woman, brain, heart, and flesh, to know how much +of a hindrance she would be, he could only see her, with his artist's +sense, as delicate a bloom of colouring as eye could crave, in one +immovable posture,—as he had seen her once in some masquerade or +tableau vivant. June, I think it was, she chose to represent that +evening,—and with her usual success; for no woman ever knew more +thoroughly her material of shape or colour, or how to work it up. Not +an ill-chosen fancy, either, that of the moist, warm month. Some +tranced summer's day might have drowsed down into such a human form by +a dank pool, or on the thick grass-crusted meadows. There was the full +contour of the limbs hid under warm green folds, the white flesh that +glowed when you touched it as if some smothered heat lay beneath, the +snaring eyes, the sleeping face, the amber hair uncoiled in a languid +quiet, while yellow jasmines deepened its hue into molten sunshine, and +a great tiger-lily laid its sultry head on her breast. June? Could +June become incarnate with higher poetic meaning than that which this +woman gave it? Mr. Kitts, the artist I told you of, thought not, and +fell in love with June and her on the spot, which passion became quite +unbearable after she had graciously permitted him to sketch her,—for +the benefit of Art. Three medical students and one attorney, Miss +Herne numbered as having been driven into a state of dogged despair on +that triumphal occasion. Mr. Holmes may have quarrelled with the +rendering, doubting to himself if her lip were not too thick, her eye +too brassy and pale a blue for the queen of months; though I do not +believe he thought at all about it. Yet the picture clung to his +memory. +</P> + +<P> +As he slowly paced the room to-day, thinking of this woman as his wife, +light blue eyes and yellow hair and the unclean sweetness of +jasmine-flowers mixed with the hot sunshine and smells of the mill. He +could think of her in no other light. He might have done so; for the +poor girl had her other sides for view. She had one of those sharp, +tawdry intellects whose possessors are always reckoned "brilliant +women, fine talkers." She was (aside from the necessary sarcasm to +keep up this reputation) a good-humoured soul enough,—when no one +stood in her way. But if her shallow virtues or vices were palpable at +all to him, they became one with the torpid beauty of the oppressive +summer day, and weighed on him alike with a vague disgust. The woman +luxuriated in perfume; some heavy odour always hung about her. Holmes, +thinking of her now, fancied he felt it stifling the air, and opened +the window for breath. Patchouli or copperas,—what was the +difference? The mill and his future wife came to him together; it was +scarcely his fault, if he thought of them as one, or muttered, +"Damnable clog!" as he sat down to write, his cold eye growing colder. +But he did not argue the question any longer; decision had come keenly +in one moment, fixed, unalterable. +</P> + +<P> +If, through the long day, the starved heart of the man called feebly +for its natural food, he called it a paltry weakness; or if the old +thought of the quiet, pure little girl in the office below came back to +him, he—he wished her well, he hoped she might succeed in her work, he +would always be ready to lend her a helping hand. So many years (he +was ashamed to think how many) he had built the thought of this girl as +his wife into the future, put his soul's strength into the hope, as if +love and the homely duties of husband and father were what life was +given for! A boyish fancy, he thought. He had not learned then that +all dreams must yield to self-reverence and self-growth. As for taking +up this life of poverty and soul-starvation for the sake of a little +love, it would be an ignoble martyrdom, the sacrifice of a grand +unmeasured life to a shallow pleasure. He was no longer a young man +now; he had no time to waste. Poor Margret! he wondered if it hurt her? +</P> + +<P> +He signed the deed, and left it in the slow, quiet way natural to him, +and after a while stooped to pat the dog softly, who was trying to +lick his hand,—with the hard fingers shaking a little, and a smothered +fierceness in the half-closed eye, like a man who is tortured and alone. +</P> + +<P> +There is a miserable drama acted in other homes than the Tuileries, +when men have found a woman's heart in their way to success, and +trampled it down under an iron heel. Men like Napoleon must live out +the law of their natures, I suppose,—on a throne, or in a mill. +</P> + +<P> +So many trifles that day roused the undercurrent of old thoughts and +old hopes that taunted him,—trifles, too, that he would not have +heeded at another time. Pike came in on business, a bunch of bills in +his hand. A wily, keen eye he had, looking over them,—a lean face, +emphasized only by cunning. No wonder Dr. Knowles cursed him for a +"slippery customer," and was cheated by him the next hour. While he +and Holmes were counting out the bills, a little white-headed girl +crept shyly in at the door, and came up to the table,—oddly dressed, +in a frock fastened with great horn buttons, and with an old-fashioned +anxious pair of eyes, the color of blue Delft. Holmes smoothed her +hair, as she stood beside them; for he never could help caressing +children or dogs. Pike looked up sharply,—then half smiled, as he +went on counting. +</P> + +<P> +"Ninety, ninety-five, AND one hundred, all right,"—tying a bit of tape +about the papers. "My Sophy, Mr. Holmes. Good girl, Sophy is. Bring +her up to the mill sometimes," he said, apologetically, "on 'count of +not leaving her alone. She gets lonesome at th' house." +</P> + +<P> +Holmes glanced at Pike's felt hat lying on the table: there was a rusty +strip of crape on it. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said Pike, in a lower tone, "I'm father and mother, both, to +Sophy now." +</P> + +<P> +"I had not heard," said Holmes, kindly. "How about the boys, now?" +</P> + +<P> +"Pete and John 's both gone West," the man said, his eyes kindling +eagerly. "'S fine boys as ever turned out of Indiana. Good eddications +I give 'em both. I've felt the want of that all my life.. Good +eddications. Says I, 'Now, boys, you've got your fortunes, nothing to +hinder your bein' President. Let's see what stuff 's in ye,' says I. +So they're doin' well. Wrote fur me to come out in the fall. But I'd +rather scratch on, and gather up a little for Sophy here, before I stop +work." +</P> + +<P> +He patted Sophy's tanned little hand on the table, as if beating some +soft tune. Holmes folded up the bills. Even this man could spare time +out of his hard, stingy life to love, and be loved, and to be generous! +But then he had no higher aim, knew nothing better. +</P> + +<P> +"Well," said Pike, rising, "in case you take th' mill, Mr. Holmes, I +hope we'll be agreeable. I'll strive to do my best,"—in the old +fawning manner, to which Holmes nodded a curt reply. +</P> + +<P> +The man stopped for Sophy to gather up her bits of broken "chayney" +with which she was making a tea-party on the table, and went +down-stairs. +</P> + +<P> +Towards evening Holmes went out,—not going through the narrow passage +that led to the offices, but avoiding it by a circuitous route. If it +cost him any pain to think why he did it, he showed none in his calm, +observant face. Buttoning up his coat as he went: the October sunset +looked as if it ought to be warm, but he was deathly cold. On the +street the young doctor beset him again with bows and news: Cox was his +name, I believe; the one, you remember, who had such a Talleyrand nose +for ferreting out successful men. He had to bear with him but for a +few moments, however. They met a crowd of workmen at the corner, one +of whom, an old man freshly washed, with honest eyes looking out of +horn spectacles, waited for them by a fire-plug. It was Polston, the +coal-digger,—an acquaintance, a far-off kinsman of Holmes, in fact. +</P> + +<P> +"Curious person making signs to you, yonder," said Cox; "hand, I +presume." +</P> + +<P> +"My cousin Polston. If you do not know him, you'll excuse me?" +</P> + +<P> +Cox sniffed the air down the street, and twirled his rattan, as he +went. The coal-digger was abrupt and distant in his greeting, going +straight to business. +</P> + +<P> +"I will keep yoh only a minute, Mr. Holmes"—— +</P> + +<P> +"Stephen," corrected Holmes. +</P> + +<P> +The old man's face warmed. +</P> + +<P> +"Stephen, then," holding out his hand, "sence old times dawn't shame +yoh, Stephen. That's hearty, now. It's only a wured I want, but it's +immediate. Concernin' Joe Yare,—Lois's father, yoh know? He's back." +</P> + +<P> +"Back? I saw him to-day, following me in the mill. His hair is gray? +I think it was he." +</P> + +<P> +"No doubt. Yes, he's aged fast, down in the lock-up; goin' fast to the +end. Feeble, pore-like. It's a bad life, Joe Yare's; I wish 'n' 't +would be better to the end"—— +</P> + +<P> +He stopped with a wistful look at Holmes, who stood outwardly +attentive, but with little thought to waste on Joe Yare. The old +coal-digger drummed on the fire-plug uneasily. +</P> + +<P> +"Myself, 't was for Lois's sake I thowt on it. To speak plain,—yoh'll +mind that Stokes affair, th' note Yare forged? Yes? Ther' 's none +knows o' that but yoh an' me. He's safe, Yare is, only fur yoh an' me. +Yoh speak the wured an' back he goes to the lock-up. Fur life. D' yoh +see?" +</P> + +<P> +"I see." +</P> + +<P> +"He's tryin' to do right, Yare is." +</P> + +<P> +The old man went on, trying not to be eager, and watching Holmes's face. +</P> + +<P> +"He's tryin'. Sendin' him back—yoh know how THAT'll end. Seems like +as we'd his soul in our hands. S'pose,—what d' yoh think, if we give +him a chance? It's yoh he fears. I see him a-watchin' yoh; what d' +yoh think, if we give him a chance?" catching Holmes's sleeve. "He's +old, an' he's tryin'. Heh?" +</P> + +<P> +Holmes smiled. +</P> + +<P> +"We didn't make the law he broke. Justice before mercy. Haven't I +heard you talk to Sam in that way, long ago?" +</P> + +<P> +The old man loosened his hold of Holmes's arm, looked up and down the +street, uncertain, disappointed. +</P> + +<P> +"The law. Yes. That's right! Yoh're just man, Stephen Holmes." +</P> + +<P> +"And yet?"—— +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. I dun'no'. Law's right, but Yare's had a bad chance, an' he's +tryin'. An' we're sendin' him to hell. Somethin' 's wrong. But I +think yoh're a just man," looking keenly in Holmes's face. +</P> + +<P> +"A hard one, people say," said Holmes, after a pause, as they walked on. +</P> + +<P> +He had spoken half to himself, and received no answer. Some blacker +shadow troubled him than old Yare's fate. +</P> + +<P> +"My mother was a hard woman,—you knew her?" he said, abruptly. +</P> + +<P> +"She was just, like yoh. She was one o' th' elect, she said. Mercy's +fur them,—an' outside, justice. It's a narrer showin', I'm thinkin'." +</P> + +<P> +"My father was outside," said Holmes, some old bitterness rising up in +his tone, his gray eye lighting with some unrevenged wrong. +</P> + +<P> +Polston did not speak for a moment. +</P> + +<P> +"Dunnot bear malice agin her. They're dead, now. It wasn't left fur +her to judge him out yonder. Yoh've yer father's Stephen, 'times. +Hungry, pitiful, like women's. His got desper't' 't th' last. Drunk +hard,—died of 't, yoh know. But SHE killed him,—th' sin was writ +down fur her. Never was a boy I loved like him, when we was boys." +</P> + +<P> +There was a short silence. +</P> + +<P> +"Yoh're like yer mother," said Polston, striving for a lighter tone. +"Here,"—motioning to the heavy iron jaws. "She never—let go. +Somehow, too, she'd the law on her side in outward showin', an' th' +right. But I hated religion, knowin' her. Well, ther' 's a day of +makin' things clear, comin'." +</P> + +<P> +They had reached the corner now, and Polston turned down the lane. +</P> + +<P> +"Yoh 'll think o' Yare's case?" he said. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. But how can I help it," Holmes said, lightly, "if I am like my +mother, here?"—putting his hand to his mouth. +</P> + +<P> +"God help us, how can yoh? It's hard to think father and mother leave +their souls fightin' in their childern, cos th' love was wantin' to +make them one here." +</P> + +<P> +Something glittered along the street as he spoke: the silver mountings +of a low-hung phaeton drawn by a pair of Mexican ponies. One or two +gentlemen on horseback were alongside, attendant on a lady within, Miss +Herne. She turned her fair face, and pale, greedy eyes, as she passed, +and lifted her hand languidly in recognition of Holmes. Polston's face +coloured. +</P> + +<P> +"I've heered," he said, holding out his grimy hand. "I wish yoh well, +Stephen, boy. So'll the old 'oman. Yoh'll come an' see us, soon? +Ye'r' lookin' fagged, an' yer eyes is gettin' more like yer father's. +I'm glad things is takin' a good turn with yoh; an' yoh'll never be +like him, starvin' fur th' kind wured, an' havin' to die without it. +I'm glad yoh've got true love. She'd a fair face, I think. I wish yoh +well, Stephen." +</P> + +<P> +Holmes shook the grimy hand, and then stood a moment looking back to +the mill, from which the hands were just coming, and then down at the +phaeton moving idly down the road. How cold it was growing! People +passing by had a sickly look, as if they were struck by the plague. He +pushed the damp hair back, wiping his forehead, with another glance at +the mill-women coming out of the gate, and then followed the phaeton +down the hill. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap06"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VI. +</H3> + +<P> +An hour after, the evening came on sultry, the air murky, opaque, with +yellow trails of colour dragging in the west: a sullen stillness in the +woods and farms; only, in fact, that dark, inexplicable hush that +precedes a storm. But Lois, coming down the hill-road, singing to +herself, and keeping time with her whip-end on the wooden measure, +stopped when she grew conscious of it. It seemed to her blurred fancy +more than a deadening sky: a something solemn and unknown, hinting of +evil to come. The dwarf-pines on the road-side scowled weakly at her +through the gray; the very silver minnows in the pools she passed, +flashed frightened away, and darkened into the muddy niches. There was +a vague dread in the sudden silence. She called to the old donkey, and +went faster down the hill, as if escaping from some overhanging peril, +unseen. She saw Margret coming up the road. There was a phaeton behind +Lois, and some horsemen: she jolted the cart off into the stones to let +them pass, seeing Mr. Holmes's face in the carriage as she did so. He +did not look at her; had his head turned towards the gray distance. +Lois's vivid eye caught the full meaning of the woman beside him. The +face hurt her: not fair, as Polston called it: vapid and cruel. She +was dressed in yellow: the colour seemed jeering and mocking to the +girl's sensitive instinct, keenly alive to every trifle. She did not +know that it is the colour of shams, and that women like this are the +most deadly of shams. As the phaeton went slowly down, Margret came +nearer, meeting it on the road-side, the dust from the wheels stifling +the air. Lois saw her look up, and then suddenly stand still, holding +to the fence, as they met her. Holmes's cold, wandering eye turned on +the little dusty figure standing there, poor and despised. Polston +called his eyes hungry: it was a savage hunger that sprang into them +now; a gray shadow creeping over his set face, as he looked at her, in +that flashing moment. The phaeton was gone in an instant, leaving her +alone in the road. One of the men looked back, and then whispered +something to the lady with a laugh. She turned to Holmes, when he had +finished, fixing her light, confusing eyes on his face, and softening +her voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Fred swears that woman we passed was your first love. Were you, then, +so chivalric? Was it to have been a second romaunt of 'King Cophetua +and the Beggar Maid?'" +</P> + +<P> +He met her look, and saw the fierce demand through the softness and +persiflage. He gave it no answer, but, turning to her, kindled into +the man whom she was so proud to show as her capture,—a man far off +from Stephen Holmes. Brilliant she called him,—frank, winning, +generous. She thought she knew him well; held him a slave to her +fluttering hand. Being proud of her slave, she let the hand flutter +down now somehow with some flowers it held until it touched his hard +fingers, her cheek flushing into rose. The nerveless, spongy +hand,—what a death-grip it had on his life! He did not look back once +at the motionless, dusty figure on the road. What was that Polston had +said about starving to death for a kind word? LOVE? He was sick of +the sickly talk,—crushed it out of his heart with a savage scorn. He +remembered his father, the night he died, had said in his weak ravings +that God was love. Was He? No wonder, then, He was the God of women, +and children, and unsuccessful men. For him, he was done with it. He +was here with stronger purpose than to yield to weaknesses of the +flesh. He had made his choice,—a straight, hard path upwards; he was +deaf now and forever to any word of kindness or pity. As for this +woman beside him, he would be just to her, in justice to himself: she +never should know the loathing in his heart: just to her as to all +living creatures. Some little, mean doubt kept up a sullen whisper of +bought and sold,—sold,—but he laughed it down. He sat there with his +head steadily turned towards her: a kingly face, she called it, and she +was right,—it was a kingly face: with the same shallow, fixed smile on +his mouth,—no weary cry went up to God that day so terrible in its +pathos, I think: with the same dull consciousness that this was the +trial night of his life,—that with the homely figure on the road-side +he had turned his back on love and kindly happiness and warmth, on all +that was weak and useless in the world. He had made his choice; he +would abide by it,—he would abide by it. He said that over and over +again, dulling down the death-gnawing of his outraged heart. +</P> + +<P> +Miss Herne was quite contented, sitting by him, with herself, and the +admiring world. She had no notion of trial nights in life. Not many +temptations pierced through her callous, flabby temperament to sting +her to defeat or triumph. There was for her no under-current of +conflict, in these people whom she passed, between self and the unseen +power that Holmes sneered at, whose name was love; they were nothing +but movables, pleasant or ugly to look at, well- or ill-dressed. There +were no dark iron bars across her life for her soul to clutch and shake +madly,—nothing "in the world amiss, to be unriddled by and by." +Little Margret, sitting by the muddy road, digging her fingers dully +into the clover-roots, while she looked at the spot where the wheels +had passed, looked at life differently, it may be;—or old Joe Yare by +the furnace-fire, his black face and gray hair bent over a torn old +spelling-book Lois had given him. The night, perhaps, was going to be +more to them than so many rainy hours for sleeping,—the time to be +looked back on through coming lives as the hour when good and ill came +to them, and they made their choice, and, as Holmes said, did abide by +it. +</P> + +<P> +It grew cool and darker. Holmes left the phaeton before they entered +town, and turned back. He was going to see this Margret Howth, tell +her what he meant to do. Because he was going to leave a clean record. +No one should accuse him of want of honour. This girl alone of all +living beings had a right to see him as he stood, justified to himself. +Why she had this right, I do not think he answered to himself. +Besides, he must see her, if only on business. She must keep her place +at the mill: he would not begin his new life by an act of injustice, +taking the bread out of Margret's mouth. LITTLE MARGRET! He stopped +suddenly, looking down into a deep pool of water by the road-side. +What madness of weariness crossed his brain just then I do not know. +He shook it off. Was he mad? Life was worth more to him than to other +men, he thought; and perhaps he was right. He went slowly through the +cool dusk, looking across the fields, up at the pale, frightened face +of the moon hooded in clouds: he did not dare to look, with all his +iron nerve, at the dark figure beyond him on the road. She was sitting +there just where he had left her: he knew she would be. When he came +closer, she got up, not looking towards him; but he saw her clasp her +hands behind her, the fingers plucking weakly at each other. It was an +old, childish fashion of hers, when she was frightened or hurt. It +would only need a word, and he could be quiet and firm,—she was such a +child compared to him: he always had thought of her so. He went on up +to her slowly, and stopped; when she looked at him, he untied the linen +bonnet that hid her face, and threw it back. How thin and tired the +little face had grown! Poor child! He put his strong arm kindly about +her, and stooped to kiss her hand, but she drew it away. God! what did +she do that for? Did not she know that he could put his head beneath +her foot then, he was so mad with pity for the woman he had wronged? +Not love, he thought, controlling himself,—it was only justice to be +kind to her. +</P> + +<P> +"You have been ill, Margret, these two years, while I was gone?" +</P> + +<P> +He could not hear her answer; only saw that she looked up with a white, +pitiful smile. Only a word it needed, he thought,—very kind and firm: +and he must be quick,—he could not bear this long. But he held the +little worn fingers, stroking them with an unutterable tenderness. +</P> + +<P> +"You must let these fingers work for me, Margret," he said, at last, +"when I am master in the mill." +</P> + +<P> +"It is true, then, Stephen?" +</P> + +<P> +"It is true,—yes." +</P> + +<P> +She lifted her hand to her head, uncertainly: he held it tightly, and +then let it go. What right had he to touch the dust upon her +shoes,—he, bought and sold? She did not speak for a time; when she +did, it was a weak and sick voice. +</P> + +<P> +"I am glad. I saw her, you know. She is very beautiful." +</P> + +<P> +The fingers were plucking at each other again; and a strange, vacant +smile on her face, trying to look glad. +</P> + +<P> +"You love her, Stephen?" +</P> + +<P> +He was quiet and firm enough now. +</P> + +<P> +"I do not. Her money will help me to become what I ought to be. She +does not care for love. You want me to succeed, Margret? No one ever +understood me as you did, child though you were." +</P> + +<P> +Her whole face glowed. +</P> + +<P> +"I know! I know! I did understand you!" +</P> + +<P> +She said, lower, after a little while,— +</P> + +<P> +"I knew you did not love her." +</P> + +<P> +"There is no such thing as love in real life," he said, in his steeled +voice. "You will know that, when you grow older. I used to believe in +it once, myself." +</P> + +<P> +She did not speak, only watched the slow motion of his lips, not +looking into his eyes,—as she used to do in the old time. Whatever +secret account lay between the souls of this man and woman came out +now, and stood bare on their faces. +</P> + +<P> +"I used to think that I, too, loved," he went on, in his low, hard +tone. "But it kept me back, Margret, and"—— +</P> + +<P> +He was silent. +</P> + +<P> +"I know, Stephen. It kept you back"—— +</P> + +<P> +"And I put it away. I put it away to-night, forever." +</P> + +<P> +She did not speak; stood quite quiet, her head bent on her breast. His +conscience was clear now. But he almost wished he had not said it, she +was such a weak, sickly thing. She sat down at last, burying her face +in her hands, with a shivering sob. He dared not trust him self to +speak again. +</P> + +<P> +"I am not proud,—as a woman ought to be," she said, wearily, when he +wiped her clammy forehead. +</P> + +<P> +"You loved me, then?" he whispered. +</P> + +<P> +Her face flashed at the unmanly triumph; her puny frame started up, +away from him. +</P> + +<P> +"I did love you, Stephen. I did love you,—as you might be, not as you +are,—not with those inhuman eyes. I do understand you,—I do. I know +you for a better man than you know yourself this night." +</P> + +<P> +She turned to go. He put his hand on her arm; something we have never +seen on his face struggled up,—the better soul that she knew. +</P> + +<P> +"Come back," he said, hoarsely; "don't leave me with myself. Come back, +Margret." +</P> + +<P> +She did not come; stood leaning, her sudden strength gone, against the +broken wall. There was a heavy silence. The night throbbed slow about +them. Some late bird rose from the sedges of the pool, and with a +frightened cry flapped its tired wings, and drifted into the dark. His +eyes, through the gathering shadow, devoured the weak, trembling body, +met the soul that looked at him, strong as his own. Was it because it +knew and trusted him that all that was pure and strongest in his +crushed nature struggled madly to be free? He thrust it down; the +self-learned lesson of years was not to be conquered in a moment. +</P> + +<P> +"There have been times," he said, in a smothered, restless voice, "when +I thought you belonged to me. Not here, but before this life. My soul +and body thirst and hunger for you, then, Margret." +</P> + +<P> +She did not answer; her hands worked feebly together, the dull blood +fainting in her veins. +</P> + +<P> +Knowing only that the night yawned intolerable about her, that she was +alone,—going mad with being alone. No thought of heaven or God in her +soul: her craving eyes seeing him only. The strong, living man that +she loved: her tired-out heart goading, aching to lie down on his +brawny breast for one minute, and die there,—that was all. +</P> + +<P> +She did not move: underneath the pain there was power, as Knowles +thought. +</P> + +<P> +He came nearer, and held up his arms to where she stood,—the heavy, +masterful face pale and wet. +</P> + +<P> +"I need you, Margret. I shall be nothing without you, now. Come, +Margret, little Margret!" +</P> + +<P> +She came to him, then, and put her hands in his. +</P> + +<P> +"No, Stephen," she said. +</P> + +<P> +If there were any pain in her tone, she kept it down, for his sake. +</P> + +<P> +"Never, I could never help you,—as you are. It might have been, once. +Good-by, Stephen." +</P> + +<P> +Her childish way put him in mind of the old days when this girl was +dearer to him than his own soul. She was so yet. He held her close to +his breast, looking down into her eyes. She moved uneasily; she dared +not trust herself. +</P> + +<P> +"You will come?" he said. "It might have been,—it shall be again." +</P> + +<P> +"It may be," she said, humbly. "God is good. And I believe in you, +Stephen. I will be yours some time: we cannot help it, if we would: +but not as you are." +</P> + +<P> +"You do not love me?" he said, flinging her off, his face whitening. +</P> + +<P> +She said nothing, gathered her damp shawl around her, and turned to go. +Just a moment they stood, looking at each other. If the dark square +figure standing there had been an iron fate trampling her young life +down into hopeless wretchedness, she forgot it now. Women like Margret +are apt to forget. His eye never abated in its fierce question. +</P> + +<P> +"I will wait for you yonder, if I die first," she whispered. +</P> + +<P> +He came closer, waiting for an answer. +</P> + +<P> +"And—I love you, Stephen." +</P> + +<P> +He gathered her in his arms, and put his cold lips to hers, without a +word; then turned, and left her slowly. +</P> + +<P> +She made no sign, shed no tear, as she stood, watching him go. It was +all over: she had willed it, herself, and yet—he could not go! God +would not suffer it! Oh, he could not leave her,—he could not!—He +went down the hill, slowly. If it were a trial of life and death for +her, did he know or care?—He did not look back. What if he did not? +his heart was true; he suffered in going; even now he walked wearily. +God forgive her, if she had wronged him!—What did it matter, if he +were hard in this life, and it hurt her a little? It would come +right,—beyond, some time. But life was long.—She would not sit down, +sick as she was: he might turn, and it would vex him to see her +suffer.—He walked slowly; once he stopped to pick up something. She +saw the deep-cut face and half-shut eyes. How often those eyes had +looked into her soul, and it had answered! They never would look so +any more.—There was a tree by the place where the road turned into +town. If he came back, he would be sure to turn there.—How tired he +walked, and slow!—If he was sick, that beautiful woman could be near +him,—help him.—SHE never would touch his hand again,—never again, +never,—unless he came back now.—He was near the tree: she closed her +eyes, turning away. When she looked again, only the bare road lay +there, yellow and wet. It was over, now. +</P> + +<P> +How long she sat there she did not know. She tried once or twice to go +to the house, but the lights seemed so far off that she gave it up and +sat quiet, unconscious, except of the damp stone-wall her head leaned +on, and the stretch of muddy road. Some time, she knew not when, there +was a heavy step beside her, and a rough hand shook hers where she +stooped, feebly tracing out the lines of mortar between the stones. It +was Knowles. She looked up, bewildered. +</P> + +<P> +"Hunting catarrhs, eh?" he growled, eying her keenly. "Got your father +on the Bourbons, so took the chance to come and find you. He'll not +miss ME for an hour. That man has a natural hankering after treason +against the people. Lord, Margret! what a stiff old head he'd have +carried to the guillotine! How he'd have looked at the canaille!" +</P> + +<P> +He helped her up gently enough. +</P> + +<P> +"Your bonnet's like a wet rag,"—with a furtive glance at the worn-out +face. A hungry face always, with her life unfed by its stingy few +crumbs of good; but to-night it was vacant with utter loss. +</P> + +<P> +She got up, trying to laugh cheerfully, and went beside him down the +road. +</P> + +<P> +"You saw that painted Jezebel to-night, and"——stopping abruptly. +</P> + +<P> +She had not heard him, and he followed her doggedly, with an occasional +snort or grunt or other inarticulate damn at the obstinate mud. She +stopped at last, with a quick gasp. Looking at her, he chafed her limp +hands,—his huge, uncouth face growing pale. When she was better, he +said, gravely,— +</P> + +<P> +"I want you, Margret. Not at home, child. I want to show you +something." +</P> + +<P> +He turned with her suddenly off the main road into a by-path, helping +her along, watching her stealthily, but going on with his disjointed, +bearish growls. If it stung her from her pain, vexing her, he did not +care. +</P> + +<P> +"I want to show you a bit of hell: outskirt. You're in a fit state: +it'll do you good. I'm minister there. The clergy can't attend to it +just now: they're too busy measuring God's truth by the States'—Rights +doctrine, or the Chicago Platform. Consequence, religion yields to +majorities. Are you able? It's only a step." +</P> + +<P> +She went on indifferently. The night was breathless and dark. Black, +wet gusts dragged now and then through the skyless fog, striking her +face with a chill. The Doctor quit talking, hurrying her, watching her +anxiously. They came at last to the railway-track, with long trains of +empty freight-cars. +</P> + +<P> +"We are nearly there," he whispered. "It's time you knew your work, +and forgot your weakness. The curse of pampered generations. 'High +Norman blood,'—pah!" +</P> + +<P> +There was a broken gap in the fence. He led her through it into a +muddy yard. Inside was one of those taverns you will find in the +suburbs of large cities, haunts of the lowest vice. This one was a +smoky frame, standing on piles over an open space where hogs were +rooting. Half a dozen drunken Irishmen were playing poker with a pack +of greasy cards in an out-house. He led her up the rickety ladder to +the one room, where a flaring tallow-dip threw a saffron glare into the +darkness. A putrid odour met them at the door. She drew back, +trembling. +</P> + +<P> +"Come here!" he said, fiercely, clutching her hand. "Women as fair and +pure as you have come into dens like this,—and never gone away. Does +it make your delicate breath faint? And you a follower of the meek and +lowly Jesus! Look here! and here!" +</P> + +<P> +The room was swarming with human life. Women, idle trampers, +whiskey-bloated, filthy, lay half-asleep, or smoking, on the floor, and +set up a chorus of whining begging when they entered. Half-naked +children crawled about in rags. On the damp, mildewed walls there was +hung a picture of the Benicia Boy, and close by, Pio Nono, crook in +hand, with the usual inscription, "Feed my sheep." The Doctor looked +at it. +</P> + +<P> +"'Tu es Petrus, et super hanc'—— Good God! what IS truth?" he +muttered, bitterly. +</P> + +<P> +He dragged her closer to the women, through the darkness and foul smell. +</P> + +<P> +"Look in their faces," he whispered. "There is not one of them that is +not a living lie. Can they help it? Think of the centuries of serfdom +and superstition through which their blood has crawled. Come +closer,—here." +</P> + +<P> +In the corner slept a heap of half-clothed blacks. Going on the +underground railroad to Canada. Stolid, sensual wretches, with here +and there a broad, melancholy brow, and desperate jaws. One little +pickaninny rubbed its sleepy eyes, and laughed at them. +</P> + +<P> +"So much flesh and blood out of the market, unweighed!" +</P> + +<P> +Margret took up the child, kissing its brown face. Knowles looked at +her. +</P> + +<P> +"Would you touch her? I forgot you were born down South. Put it down, +and come on." +</P> + +<P> +They went out of the door. Margret stopped, looking back. +</P> + +<P> +"Did I call it a bit of hell? It 's only a glimpse of the under-life +of America,—God help us!—where all men are born free and equal." +</P> + +<P> +The air in the passage grew fouler. She leaned back faint and +shuddering. He did not heed her. The passion of the man, the terrible +pity for these people, came out of his soul now, writhing his face, and +dulling his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"And you," he said, savagely, "you sit by the road-side, with help in +your hands, and Christ in your heart, and call your life lost, quarrel +with your God, because that mass of selfishness has left you,—because +you are balked in your puny hope! Look at these women. What is their +loss, do you think? Go back, will you, and drone out your life +whimpering over your lost dream, and go to Shakspeare for tragedy when +you want it? Tragedy! Come here,—let me hear what you call this." +</P> + +<P> +He led her through the passage, up a narrow flight of stairs. An old +woman in a flaring cap sat at the top, nodding,—wakening now and then, +to rock herself to and fro, and give the shrill Irish keen. +</P> + +<P> +"You know that stoker who was killed in the mill a month ago? Of +course not,—what are such people to you? There was a girl who loved +him,—you know what that is? She's dead now, here. She drank herself +to death,—a most unpicturesque suicide. I want you to look at her. +You need not blush for her life of shame, now; she's dead.—Is Hetty +here?" +</P> + +<P> +The woman got up. +</P> + +<P> +"She is, Zur. She is, Mem. She's lookin' foine in her Sunday suit. +Shrouds is gone out, Mem, they say." +</P> + +<P> +She went tipping over the floor to something white that lay on a board, +a candle at the head, and drew off the sheet. A girl of fifteen, +almost a child, lay underneath, dead,—her lithe, delicate figure +decked out in a dirty plaid skirt, and stained velvet bodice,—her neck +and arms bare. The small face was purely cut, haggard, patient in its +sleep,—the soft, fair hair gathered off the tired forehead. Margret +leaned over her, shuddering, pinning her handkerchief about the child's +dead neck. +</P> + +<P> +"How young she is!" muttered Knowles. "Merciful God, how young she +is!—What is that you say?" sharply, seeing Margret's lips move. +</P> + +<P> +"'He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.'" +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, child, that is old-time philosophy. Put your hand here, on her +dead face. Is your loss like hers?" he said lower, looking into the +dull pain in her eyes. Selfish pain he called it. +</P> + +<P> +"Let me go," she said. "I am tired." +</P> + +<P> +He took her out into the cool, open road, leading her tenderly +enough,—for the girl suffered, he saw. +</P> + +<P> +"What will you do?" he asked her then. "It is not too late,—will you +help me save these people?" +</P> + +<P> +She wrung her hands helplessly. +</P> + +<P> +"What do you want with me?" she cried. "I have enough to bear." +</P> + +<P> +The burly black figure before her seemed to tower and strengthen; the +man's face in the wall light showed a terrible life-purpose coming out +bare. +</P> + +<P> +"I want you to do your work. It is hard, it will wear out your +strength and brain and heart. Give yourself to these people. God calls +you to it. There is none to help them. Give up love, and the petty +hopes of women. Help me. God calls you to the work." +</P> + +<P> +She went, on blindly: he followed her. For years he had set apart this +girl to help him in his scheme: he would not be balked now. He had +great hopes from his plan: he meant to give all he had: it was the +noblest of aims. He thought some day it would work like leaven through +the festering mass under the country he loved so well, and raise it to +a new life. If it failed,—if it failed, and saved one life, his work +was not lost. But it could not fail. +</P> + +<P> +"Home!" he said, stopping her as she reached the stile,—"oh, Margret, +what is home? There is a cry going up night and day from homes like +that den yonder, for help,—and no man listens." +</P> + +<P> +She was weak; her brain faltered. +</P> + +<P> +"Does God call me to this work? Does He call me?" she moaned. +</P> + +<P> +He watched her eagerly. +</P> + +<P> +"He calls you. He waits for your answer. Swear to me that you will +help His people. Give up father and mother and love, and go down as +Christ did. Help me to give liberty and truth and Jesus' love to these +wretches on the brink of hell. Live with them, raise them with you." +</P> + +<P> +She looked up, white; she was a weak, weak woman, sick for her natural +food of love. +</P> + +<P> +"Is it my work?" +</P> + +<P> +"It is your work. Listen to me, Margret," softly. "Who cares for you? +You stand alone to-night. There is not a single human heart that calls +you nearest and best. Shiver, if you will,—it is true. The man you +wasted your soul on left you in the night and cold to go to his +bride,—is sitting by her now, holding her hand in his." +</P> + +<P> +He waited a moment, looking down at her, until she should understand. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think you deserved this of God? I know that yonder on the muddy +road you looked up to Him, and knew it was not just; that you had done +right, and this was your reward. I know that for these two years you +have trusted in the Christ you worship to make it right, to give you +your heart's desire. Did He do it? Did He hear your prayer? Does He +care for your weak love, when the nations of the earth are going down? +What is your poor hope to Him, when the very land you live in is a +wine-press that will be trodden some day by the fierceness and wrath of +Almighty God? O Christ!—if there be a Christ,—help me to save it!" +</P> + +<P> +He looked up,—his face white with pain. After a time he said to her,— +</P> + +<P> +"Help me, Margret! Your prayer was selfish; it was not heard. Give up +your idle hope that Christ will aid you. Swear to me, this night when +you have lost all, to give yourself to this work." +</P> + +<P> +The storm had been dark and windy: it cleared now slowly, the warm +summer rain falling softly, the fresh blue stealing broadly from behind +the gray. It seemed to Margret like a blessing; for her brain rose up +stronger, more healthful. +</P> + +<P> +"I will not swear," she said, weakly. "I think He heard my prayer. I +think He will answer it. He was a man, and loved as we do. My love is +not selfish; it is the best gift God has given me." +</P> + +<P> +Knowles went slowly with her to the house. He was not baffled. He knew +that the struggle was yet to come; that, when she was alone, her faith +in the far-off Christ would falter; that she would grasp at this work, +to fill her empty hands and starved heart, if for no other reason,—to +stifle by a sense of duty her unutterable feeling of loss. He was +keenly read in woman's heart, this Knowles. He left her silently, and +she passed through the dark passage to her own room. +</P> + +<P> +Putting her damp shawl off, she sat down on the floor, leaning her head +on a low chair,—one her father had given her for a Christmas gift when +she was little. How fond Holmes and her father used to be of each +other! Every Christmas he spent with them. She remembered them all +now. "He was sitting by her now, holding her hand in his." She said +that over to herself, though it was not hard to understand. +</P> + +<P> +After a long time, her mother came with a candle to the door. +</P> + +<P> +"Good-night, Margret. Why, your hair is wet, child!" +</P> + +<P> +For Margret, kissing her good-night, had laid her head down a minute on +her breast. She stroked the hair a moment, and then turned away. +</P> + +<P> +"Mother, could you stay with me to-night?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why, no, Maggie,—your father wants me to read to him." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I know. Did he miss me to-night,—father?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not much; we were talking old times over,—in Virginia, you know." +</P> + +<P> +"I know; good-night." +</P> + +<P> +She went back to the chair. Tige was there,—for he used to spend half +of his time on the farm. She put her arm about his head. God knows +how lonely the poor child was when she drew the dog so warmly to her +heart: not for his master's sake alone; but it was all she had. He +grew tired at last, and whined, trying to get out. +</P> + +<P> +"Will you go, Tige?" she said, and opened the window. +</P> + +<P> +He jumped out, and she watched him going towards town. Such a little +thing, it was! But not even a dog "called her nearest and best." +</P> + +<P> +Let us be silent; the story of the night is not for us to read. Do you +think that He, who in the far, dim Life holds the worlds in His hand, +knew or cared how alone the child was? What if she wrung her thin +hands, grew sick with the slow, mad, solitary tears?—was not the world +to save, as Knowles said? +</P> + +<P> +He, too, had been alone; He had come unto His own, and His own received +him not: so, while the struggling world rested, unconscious, in +infinite calm of right, He came close to her with human eyes that had +loved, and not been loved, and had suffered with that pain. And, +trusting Him, she only said, "Show me my work! Thou that takest away +the pain of the world, have mercy upon me!" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap07"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VII. +</H3> + +<P> +For that night, at least, Holmes swept his soul clean of doubt and +indecision; one of his natures was conquered,—finally, he thought. +Polston, if he had seen his face as he paced the street slowly home to +the mill, would have remembered his mother's the day she died. How the +stern old woman met death half-way! why should she fear? she was as +strong as he. Wherein had she failed of duty? her hands were clean: +she was going to meet her just reward. +</P> + +<P> +It was different with Holmes, of course, with his self-existent soul. +It was life he accepted to-night, he thought,—a life of growth, +labour, achievement,—eternal. +</P> + +<P> +"Ohne Hast, aber ohne Rast,"—favourite words with him. He liked to +study the nature of the man who spoke them; because, I think, it was +like his own,—a Titan strength of endurance, an infinite capability of +love, and hate, and suffering, and over all, (the peculiar identity of +the man,) a cold, speculative eye of reason, that looked down into the +passion and depths of his growing self, and calmly noted them, a lesson +for all time. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"Ohne Hast." Going slowly through the night, he strengthened himself by +marking how all things in Nature accomplish a perfected life through +slow, narrow fixedness of purpose,—each life complete in itself: why +not his own, then? The windless gray, the stars, the stone under his +feet, stood alone in the universe, each working out its own soul into +deed. If there were any all-embracing harmony, one soul through all, +he did not see it. Knowles—that old sceptic—believed in it, and +called it Love. Even Goethe himself, what was it he said? "Der +Allumfasser, der Allerhalter, fasst und erhalt er nicht, dich, mich, +sich selbst?" +</P> + +<P> +There was a curious power in the words, as he lingered over them, like +half-comprehended music,—as simple and tender as if they had come from +the depths of a woman's heart: it touched him deeper than his power of +control. Pah! it was a dream of Faust's; he, too, had his Margaret; he +fell, through that love. +</P> + +<P> +He went on slowly to the mill. If the name or the words woke a subtile +remorse or longing, he buried them under restful composure. Whether +they should ever rise like angry ghosts of what might have been, to +taunt the man, only the future could tell. +</P> + +<P> +Going through the gas-lit streets, Holmes met some cordial greeting at +every turn. What a just, clever fellow he was! people said: one of +those men improved by success: just to the defrauding of himself: saw +the true worth of everybody, the very lowest: hadn't one spark of +self-esteem: despised all humbug and show, one could see, though he +never said it: when he was a boy, he was moody, with passionate likes +and dislikes; but success had improved him, vastly. So Holmes was +popular, though the beggars shunned him, and the lazy Italian +organ-grinders never held their tambourines up to him. +</P> + +<P> +The mill street was dark; the building threw its great shadow over the +square. It was empty, he supposed; only one hand generally remained to +keep in the furnace-fires. Going through one of the lower passages, he +heard voices, and turned aside to examine. The management was not +strict, and in case of a fire the mill was not insured: like Knowles's +carelessness. +</P> + +<P> +It was Lois and her father,—Joe Yare being feeder that night. They +were in one of the great furnace-rooms in the cellar,—a very +comfortable place that stormy night. Two or three doors of the wide +brick ovens were open, and the fire threw a ruddy glow over the stone +floor, and shimmered into the dark recesses of the shadows, very +home-like after the rain and mud without. Lois seemed to think so, at +any rate, for she had made a table of a store-box, put a white cloth on +it, and was busy getting up a regular supper for her father,—down on +her knees before the red coals, turning something on an iron plate, +while some slices of ham sent up a cloud of juicy, hungry smell. +</P> + +<P> +The old stoker had just finished slaking the out-fires, and was putting +some blue plates on the table, gravely straightening them. He had +grown old, as Polston said,—Holmes saw, stooped much, with a low, +hacking cough; his coarse clothes were curiously clean: that was to +please Lois, of course. She put the ham on the table, and some +bubbling coffee, and then, from a hickory board in front of the fire, +took off, with a jerk, brown, flaky slices of Virginia johnny-cake. +</P> + +<P> +"Ther' yoh are, father, hot 'n' hot," with her face on +fire,—"ther'—yoh—are,—coaxin' to be eatin'.—Why, Mr. Holmes! +Father! Now, ef yoh jes' hedn't hed yer supper?" +</P> + +<P> +She came up, coaxingly. What brooding brown eyes the poor cripple had! +Not many years ago he would have sat down with the two poor souls, and +made a hearty meal of it: he had no heart for such follies now. +</P> + +<P> +Old Yare stood in the background, his hat in his hand, stooping in his +submissive negro fashion, with a frightened watch on Holmes. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you stay here, Lois?" he asked, kindly, turning his back on the old +man. +</P> + +<P> +"On'y to bring his supper. I couldn't bide all night 'n th' mill," the +old shadow coming on her face,—"I couldn't, yoh know. HE doesn't mind +it." +</P> + +<P> +She glanced quickly from one to the other in silence, seeing the fear +on her father's face. +</P> + +<P> +"Yoh know father, Mr. Holmes? He's back now. This is him." +</P> + +<P> +The old man came forward, humbly. +</P> + +<P> +"It's me, Marster Stephen." +</P> + +<P> +The sullen, stealthy face disgusted Holmes. He nodded, shortly. +</P> + +<P> +"Yoh've been kind to my little girl while I was gone," he said, +catching his breath. "I thank yoh, Marster." +</P> + +<P> +"You need not. It was for Lois." +</P> + +<P> +"'T was fur her I comed back hyur. 'T was a resk,"—with a dumb look of +entreaty at Holmes,—"but fur her I thort I'd try it. I know't was a +resk; but I thort them as cared fur Lo wud be merciful. She's a good +girl, Lo. She's all I hev." +</P> + +<P> +Lois brought a box over, lugging it heavily. +</P> + +<P> +"We hev n't chairs; but yoh'll sit down, Mr. Holmes?" laughing as she +covered it with a cloth. "It'd a warm place, here. Father studies 'n +his watch, 'n' I'm teacher,"—showing the torn old spelling-book. +</P> + +<P> +The old man came eagerly forward, seeing the smile flicker on Holmes's +face. +</P> + +<P> +"It's slow work, Marster,—slow. But Lo's a good teacher, 'n' I'm +tryin',—I'm tryin' hard." +</P> + +<P> +"It's not slow, Sir, seein' father hed n't 'dvantages, like me. He was +a"—— +</P> + +<P> +She stopped, lowering her voice, a hot flush of shame on her face. +</P> + +<P> +"I know." +</P> + +<P> +"Be n't that'll 'xcuse, Marster, seein' I knowed noght at the +beginnin'? Thenk o' that, Marster. I'm tryin' to be a different man. +Fur Lo. I AM tryin'." +</P> + +<P> +Holmes did not notice him. +</P> + +<P> +"Good-night, Lois," he said, kindly, as she lighted his lamp. +</P> + +<P> +He put some money on the table. +</P> + +<P> +"You must take it," as she looked uneasy. "For Tiger's board, say. I +never see him now. A bright new frock, remember." +</P> + +<P> +She thanked him, her eyes brightening, looking at her father's patched +coat. +</P> + +<P> +The old man followed Holmes out. +</P> + +<P> +"Marster Holmes"—— +</P> + +<P> +"Have done with this," said Holmes, sternly. "Whoever breaks law +abides by it. It is no affair of mine." +</P> + +<P> +The old man clutched his hands together fiercely, struggling to be +quiet. +</P> + +<P> +"Ther' 's none knows it but yoh," he said, in a smothered voice. "Fur +God's sake be merciful! It'll kill my girl,—it 'll kill her. Gev me +a chance, Marster." +</P> + +<P> +"You trouble me. I must do what is just." +</P> + +<P> +"It's not just," he said, savagely. "What good'll it do me to go back +ther'? I was goin' down, down, an' bringin' th' others with me. What +good'll it do you or the rest to hev me ther'? To make me afraid? +It's poor learnin' frum fear. Who taught me what was right? Who +cared? No man cared fur my soul, till I thieved 'n' robbed; 'n' then +judge 'n' jury 'n' jailers was glad to pounce on me. Will yoh gev me a +chance? will yoh?" +</P> + +<P> +It was a desperate face before him; but Holmes never knew fear. +</P> + +<P> +"Stand aside," he said, quietly. "To-morrow I will see you. You need +not try to escape." +</P> + +<P> +He passed him, and went slowly up through the vacant mill to his +chamber. +</P> + +<P> +The man sat down on the lower step a few moments, quite quiet, crushing +his hat up in a slow, steady way, looking up at the mouldy cobwebs on +the wall. He got up at last, and went in to Lois. Had she heard? The +old scarred face of the girl looked years older, he thought,—but it +might be fancy. She did not say anything for a while, moving slowly, +with a new gentleness, about him; her very voice was changed, older. +He tried to be cheerful, eating his supper: she need not know until +to-morrow. He would get out of the town to-night, or—— There were +different ways to escape. When he had done, he told her to go; but she +would not. +</P> + +<P> +"Let me stay til' night," she said. "I be n't afraid o' th' mill." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, Lo," he said, laughing, "yoh used to say yer death was hid here, +somewheres." +</P> + +<P> +"I know. But ther' 's worse nor death. But it'll come right," she +said, persistently, muttering to herself, as she leaned her face on her +knees, watching,—"it'll come right." +</P> + +<P> +The glimmering shadows changed and faded for an hour. The man sat +quiet. There was not much in the years gone to soften his thought, as +it grew desperate and cruel: there was oppression and vice heaped on +him, and flung back out of his bitter heart. Nor much in the future: a +blank stretch of punishment to the end. He was an old man: was it easy +to bear? What if he were black? what if he were born a thief? what if +all the sullen revenge of his nature had made him an outcast from the +poorest poor? Was there no latent good in this soul for which Christ +died, that a kind hand might not have brought to life? +</P> + +<P> +None? Something, I think, struggled up in the touch of his hand, +catching the skirt of his child's dress, when it came near him, with +the timid tenderness of a mother touching her dead baby's hair,—as +something holy, far off, yet very near: something in his old +crime-marked face,—a look like this dog's, putting his head on my +knee,—a dumb, unhelpful love in his eyes, and the slow memory of a +wrong done to his soul in a day long past. A wrong to both, you say, +perhaps; but if so, irreparable, and never to be recompensed. Never? +</P> + +<P> +"Yoh must go, my little girl," he said at last. +</P> + +<P> +Whatever he did must be done quickly. She came up, combing the thin +gray hairs through her fingers. +</P> + +<P> +"Father, I dunnot understan' what it is, rightly. But stay with +me,—stay, father!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yoh've a many frien's, Lo," he said, with a keen flash of jealousy. +"Ther' 's none like yoh,—none." +</P> + +<P> +"Father, look here." +</P> + +<P> +She put her misshapen head and scarred face down on his hand, where he +could see them. If it had ever hurt her to be as she was, if she had +ever compared herself bitterly with fair, beloved women, she was glad +now, and thankful, for every fault and deformity that brought her +nearer to him, and made her dearer. +</P> + +<P> +"They're kind, but ther' 's not many loves me with true love, like yoh. +Stay, father! Bear it out, whatever it be. Th' good time 'll come, +father." +</P> + +<P> +He kissed her, saying nothing, and went with her down the street. When +he left her, she waited, and, creeping back, hid near the mill. God +knows what vague dread was in her brain; but she came back to watch and +help. +</P> + +<P> +Old Yare wandered through the great loom rooms of the mill with but one +fact clear in his cloudy, faltering perception,—that above him the man +lay quietly sleeping who would bring worse than death on him to-morrow. +Up and down, aimlessly, with his stoker's torch in hand, going over the +years gone and the years to come, with the dead hatred through all of +the pitiless man above him,—with now and then, perhaps, a pleasanter +thought of things that had been warm and cheerful in his life,—of the +corn-huskings long ago, when he was a boy, down in "th' Alabam',"—of +the scow his young master gave him once, the first thing he really +owned: he was almost as proud of it as he was of Lois when she was +born. Most of all remembering the good times in his life, he went back +to Lois. It was all good, there, to go back to. What a little chub +she used to be! Remembering, with bitter remorse, how all his life he +had meant to try and do better, on her account, but had kept putting +off and putting off until now. And now—— Did nothing lie before him +but to go back and rot yonder? Was that the end, because he never had +learned better, and was a "dam' nigger"? +</P> + +<P> +"I'll NOT leave my girl!" he muttered, going up and down,—"I'll NOT +leave my girl!" +</P> + +<P> +If Holmes did sleep above him, the trial of the day, of which we have +seen nothing, came back sharper in sleep. While the strong self in the +man lay torpid, whatever holier power was in him came out, undaunted by +defeat, and unwearied, and took the form of dreams, those slighted +messengers of God, to soothe and charm and win him out into fuller, +kindlier life. Let us hope that they did so win him; let us hope that +even in that unreal world the better nature of the man triumphed at +last, and claimed its reward before the terrible reality broke upon him. +</P> + +<P> +Lois, over in the damp, fresh-smelling lumber-yard, sat coiled up in +one of the creviced houses made by the jutting boards. She remembered +how she used to play in them, before she went into the mill. The +mill,—even now, with the vague dread of some uncertain evil to come, +the mill absorbed all fear in its old hated shadow. Whatever danger +was coming to them lay in it, came from it, she knew, in her confused, +blurred way of thinking. It loomed up now, with the square patch of +ashen sky above, black, heavy with years of remembered agony and loss. +In Lois's hopeful, warm life this was the one uncomprehended monster. +Her crushed brain, her unwakened powers, resented their wrong dimly to +the mass of iron and work and impure smells, unconscious of any +remorseless power that wielded it. It was a monster, she thought, +through the sleepy, dreading night,—a monster that kept her wakeful +with a dull, mysterious terror. +</P> + +<P> +When the night grew sultry and deepest, she started from her half-doze +to see her father come stealthily out and go down the street. She must +have slept, she thought, rubbing her eyes, and watching him out of +sight,—and then, creeping out, turned to glance at the mill. She +cried out, shrill with horror. It was a live monster now,—in one +swift instant, alive with fire,—quick, greedy fire, leaping like +serpents' tongues out of its hundred jaws, hungry sheets of flame +maddening and writhing towards her, and under all a dull and hollow +roar that shook the night. Did it call her to her death? She turned +to fly, and then——He was alone, dying! He had been so kind to her! +She wrung her hands, standing there a moment. It was a brave hope that +was in her heart, and a prayer on her lips never left unanswered, as +she hobbled, in her lame, slow way, up to the open black door, and, +with one backward look, went in. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap08"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VIII. +</H3> + +<P> +There was a dull smell of camphor; a farther sense of coolness and +prickling wet on Holmes's hot, cracking face and hands; then silence +and sleep again. Sometime—when, he never knew—a gray light stinging +his eyes like pain, and again a slow sinking into warm, unsounded +darkness and unconsciousness. It might be years, it might be ages. +Even in after-life, looking back, he never broke that time into weeks +or days: people might so divide it for him, but he was uncertain, +always: it was a vague vacuum in his memory: he had drifted out of +coarse, measured life into some out-coast of eternity, and slept in its +calm. When, by long degrees, the shock of outer life jarred and woke +him, it was feebly done: he came back reluctant, weak: the quiet +clinging to him, as if he had been drowned in Lethe, and had brought +its calming mist with him out of the shades. +</P> + +<P> +The low chatter of voices, the occasional lifting of his head on the +pillow, the very soothing draught, came to him unreal at first: parts +only of the dull, lifeless pleasure. There was a sharper memory +pierced it sometimes, making him moan and try to sleep,—a remembrance +of great, cleaving pain, of falling giddily, of owing life to some one, +and being angry that he owed it, in the pain. Was it he that had borne +it? He did not know,—nor care: it made him tired to think. Even when +he heard the name, Stephen Holmes, it had but a far-off meaning: he +never woke enough to know if it were his or not. He learned, long +after, to watch the red light curling among the shavings in the grate +when they made a fire in the evenings, to listen to the voices of the +women by the bed, to know that the pleasantest belonged to the one with +the low, shapeless figure, and to call her Lois, when he wanted a +drink, long before he knew himself. +</P> + +<P> +They were very long, pleasant days in early December. The sunshine was +pale, but it suited his hurt eyes better: it crept slowly in the +mornings over the snuff-coloured carpet on the floor, up the brown +foot-board of the bed, and, when the wind shook the window-curtains, +made little crimson pools of mottled light over the ceiling,—curdling +pools, that he liked to watch: going off, from the clean gray walls, +and rustling curtain, and transparent crimson, into sleeps that lasted +all day. +</P> + +<P> +He was not conscious how he knew he was in a hospital: but he did know +it, vaguely; thought sometimes of the long halls outside of the door, +with ranges of rooms opening into them, like this, and of very barns of +rooms on the other side of the building with rows of white cots where +the poorer patients lay: a stretch of travel from which his brain came +back to his snug fireplace, quite tired, and to Lois sitting knitting +by it. He called the little Welsh-woman, "Sister," too, who used to +come in a stuff dress, and white bands about her face, to give his +medicine, and gossip with Lois in the evening: she had a comical voice, +like a cricket chirping. There was another with a real Scotch brogue, +who came and listened sometimes, bringing a basket of undarned +stockings: the doctor told him one day how fearless and skilful she +was, every summer going to New Orleans when the yellow fever came. She +died there the next June: but Holmes never, somehow, could realize a +martyr in the cheery, freckled-faced woman whom he always remembered +darning stockings in the quiet fire-light. It was very quiet; the +voices about him were pleasant and low. If he had drifted from any +shock of pain into a sleep like death, some of the stillness hung about +him yet; but the outer life was homely and fresh and natural. +</P> + +<P> +The doctor used to talk to him a little; and sometimes one or two of +the patients from the eye-ward would grow tired of sitting about in the +garden-alleys, and would loiter in, if Lois would give them leave; but +their talk wearied him, jarred him as strangely as if one had begun on +politics and price-currents to the silent souls in Hades. It was +enough thought for him to listen to the whispered stories of the +sisters in the long evenings, and, half-heard, try and make an end to +them; to look drowsily down into the garden, where the afternoon +sunshine was still so summer-like that a few holly-hocks persisted in +showing their honest red faces along the walls, and the very leaves +that filled the paths would not wither, but kept up a wholesome ruddy +brown. One of the sisters had a poultry-yard in it, which he could +see: the wall around it was of stone covered with a brown feathery +lichen, which every rooster in that yard was determined to stand on, or +perish in the attempt; and Holmes would watch, through the quiet, +bright mornings, the frantic ambition of the successful aspirant with +an amused smile. +</P> + +<P> +"One 'd thenk," said Lois, sagely, "a chicken never stood on a wall +before, to hear 'em, or a hen laid an egg." +</P> + +<P> +Nor did Holmes smile once because the chicken burlesqued man: his +thought was too single for that yet. It was long, too, before he +thought of the people who came in quietly to see him as anything but +shadows, or wished for them to come again. Lois, perhaps, was the most +real thing in life then to him: growing conscious, day by day, as he +watched her, of his old life over the gulf. Very slowly conscious: with +a weak groping to comprehend the sudden, awful change that had come on +him, and then forgetting his old life, and the change, and the pity he +felt for himself, in the vague content of the fire-lit room, and his +nurse with her interminable knitting through the long afternoons, while +the sky without would thicken and gray, and a few still flakes of snow +would come drifting down to whiten the brown fields,—with no chilly +thought of winter, but only to make the quiet autumn more quiet. +Whatever honest, commonplace affection was in the man came out in a +simple way to this Lois, who ruled his sick whims and crotchets in such +a quiet, sturdy fashion. Not because she had risked her life to save +his; even when he understood that, he recalled it with an uneasy, heavy +gratitude; but the drinks she made him, and the plot they laid to +smuggle in some oysters in defiance of all rules, and the cheerful, +pock-marked face, he never forgot. +</P> + +<P> +Doctor Knowles came sometimes, but seldom: never talked, when he did +come: late in the evening generally: and then would punch his skin, and +look at his tongue, and shake the bottles on the mantel-shelf with a +grunt that terrified Lois into the belief that the other doctor was a +quack, and her patient was totally undone. He would sit, grum enough, +with his feet higher than his head, chewing an unlighted cigar, and +leave them both thankful when he saw proper to go. +</P> + +<P> +The truth is, Knowles was thoroughly out of place in these little +mending-shops called sick-chambers, where bodies are taken to pieces, +and souls set right. He had no faith in your slow, impalpable cures: +all reforms were to be accomplished by a wrench, from the abolition of +slavery to the pulling of a tooth. +</P> + +<P> +He had no especial sympathy with Holmes, either: the men were started +in life from opposite poles: and with all the real tenderness under his +surly, rugged habit, it would have been hard to touch him with the +sudden doom fallen on this man, thrown crippled and penniless upon the +world, helpless, it might be, for life. He would have been apt to tell +you, savagely, that "he wrought for it." +</P> + +<P> +Besides, it made him out of temper to meet the sisters. Knowles could +have sketched for you with a fine decision of touch the role played by +the Papal power in the progress of humanity,—how far it served as a +stepping-stone, and the exact period when it became a wearisome clog. +The world was done with it now,—utterly. Its breath was only poisoned, +with coming death. So the homely live charity of these women, their +work, which no other hands were ready to take, jarred against his +abstract theory, and irritated him, as an obstinate fact always does +run into the hand of a man who is determined to clutch the very heart +of a matter. Truth will not underlie all facts, in this muddle of a +world, in spite of the Positive Philosophy, you know. +</P> + +<P> +Don't sneer at Knowles. Your own clear, tolerant brain, that reflects +all men and creeds alike, like colourless water, drawing the truth from +all, is very different, doubtless, from this narrow, solitary soul, who +thought the world waited for him to fight down his one evil before it +went on its slow way. An intolerant fanatic, of course. But the truth +he did know was so terribly real to him, there was such sick, throbbing +pity in his heart for men who suffered as he had done! And then, +fanatics must make history for conservative men to learn from, I +suppose. +</P> + +<P> +If Knowles shunned the hospital, there was another place he shunned +more,—the place where his Communist buildings were to have stood. He +went out there once, as one might go alone to bury his dead out of his +sight, the day after the mill was burnt,—looking first at the smoking +mass of hot bricks and charred shingles, so as clearly to understand +how utterly dead his life-long scheme was. He stalked gravely around +it, his hands in his pockets; the hodmen who were raking out their +winter's firewood from the ashes remarking, that "old Knowles didn't +seem a bit cut up about it." Then he went out to the farm he had meant +to buy, as I told you, and looked at it in the same stolid way. It was +a dull day in October. The river crawled moodily past his feet, the +dingy prairie stretched drearily away on the other side, while the +heavy-browed Indiana hills stood solemnly looking down the plateau +where the buildings were to have risen. +</P> + +<P> +Well, most men have some plan of life, into which all the strength and +the keen, fine feeling of their nature enter; but generally they try to +make it real in early youth, and, balked then, laugh ever afterwards at +their own folly. This poor old Knowles had begun to block out his +dream when he was a gaunt, gray-haired man of sixty. I have known men +so build their heart's blood, and brains into their work, that, when it +tumbled down, their lives went with it. His fell that dull day in +October; but if it hurt him, no man knew it. He sat there, looking at +the broad plateau, whistling softly to himself, a long time. He had +meant that a great many hearts should be made better and happier there; +he had dreamed——God knows what he had dreamed, of which this reality +was the foundation,—of how much world-freedom, or beauty, or kindly +life this was the heart or seed. It was all over now. All the +afternoon the muddy sky hung low over the hills and dull prairie, while +he sat there looking at the dingy gloom: just as you and I have done, +perhaps, some time, thwarted in some true hope,—sore and bitter +against God, because He did not see how much His universe needed our +pet reform. +</P> + +<P> +He got up at last, and without a sigh went slowly away, leaving the +courage and self-reliance of his life behind him, buried with that one +beautiful, fair dream of life. He never came back again. People said +Knowles was quieter since his loss; but I think only God saw the depth +of the difference. When he was leaving the plateau, that day, he +looked back at it, as if to say good-bye,—not to the dingy fields and +river, but to the Something he had nursed so long in his rugged heart, +and given up now forever. As he looked, the warm, red sun came out, +lighting up with a heartsome warmth the whole gray day. Some blessing +power seemed to look at him from this grave yard of his hopes, from the +gloomy hills, the prairie, and the river, which he never was to see +again. His hope accomplished could not have looked at him with surer +content and fulfilment. He turned away, ungrateful and moody. Long +afterwards he remembered the calm and brightness which his hand had not +been raised to make, and understood the meaning of its promise. +</P> + +<P> +He went to work now in earnest: he had to work for his +bread-and-butter, you understand? Restless, impatient at first; but we +will forgive him that: you yourself were not altogether submissive, +perhaps, when the slow-built expectation of life was destroyed by some +chance, as you called it, no more controllable than this paltry burning +of a mill. Yet, now that the great hope was gone on which his brain +had worked with rigid, fierce intentness, now that his hands were +powerless to redeem a perishing class, he had time to fall into +careless, kindly habit: he thought it wasted time, remorsefully, of +course. He was seized with a curiosity to know what plan in living +these people had who crossed his way on the streets; if they were +disappointed, like him. Humbled, he hardly knew why: vague, uncertain +in action. Quit dogging old Huff with his advice; trotted about the +streets with a cowed look, that, if one could have seen into the jaded +old heart under his snuffy waistcoat, would have seemed pitiful enough. +He went sometimes to read the papers to old Tim Poole, who was +bed-ridden, and did not pish or pshaw once at his maundering about +secession, or the misery in his back. Went to church sometimes: the +sermons were bigotry, always, to his notion, sitting on a back seat, +squirting tobacco-juice about him; but the simple, old-fashioned hymns +brought the tears to his eyes:—"They sounded to him like his mother's +voice, singing in Paradise:" he hoped she could not see how things had +gone on here,—how all that was honest and strong in his life had +fallen in that infernal mill. Once or twice he went down Crane Alley, +and lumbered up three pair of stairs to the garret where Kitts had his +studio,—got him orders, in fact, for two portraits; and when that +pale-eyed young man, in a fit of confidence, one night, with a very red +face drew back the curtain from his grand "Fall of Chapultepec," and +watched him with a lean and hungry look, Knowles, who knew no more +about painting than a gorilla, walked about, looking through his fist +at it, saying, "how fine the chiaroscuro was, and that it was a +devilish good thing altogether." "Well, well," he soothed his +conscience, going downstairs, "maybe that bit of canvas is as much to +that poor chap as the Phalanstery was once to another fool." And so +went on through the gas-lit streets into his parishes in cellars and +alleys, with a sorer heart, but cheerfuller words, now that he had +nothing but words to give. +</P> + +<P> +The only place where he hardened his heart was in the hospital with +Holmes. After he had wakened to full consciousness, Knowles thought +the man a beast to sit there uncomplaining day after day, cold and +grave, as if the lifeful warmth of the late autumn were enough for him. +Did he understand the iron fate laid on him? Where was the strength of +the self-existent soul now? Did he know that it was a balked, defeated +life, that waited for him, vacant of the triumphs he had planned? "The +self-existent soul! stopped in its growth by chance, this omnipotent +deity,—the chance burning of a mill!" Knowles muttered to himself, +looking at Holmes. With a dim flash of doubt, as he said it, whether +there might not, after all, be a Something,—some deep of calm, of +eternal order, where he and Holmes, these coarse chances, these +wrestling souls, these creeds, Catholic or Humanitarian, even that +namby-pamby Kitts and his picture, might be unconsciously working out +their part. Looking out of the hospital-window, he saw the deep of the +stainless blue, impenetrable, with the stars unconscious in their +silence of the maddest raging of the petty world. There was such calm! +such infinite love and justice! it was around, above him; it held him, +it held the world,—all Wrong, all Right! For an instant the turbid +heart of the man cowered, awestruck, as yours or mine has done when +some swift touch of music or human love gave us a cleaving glimpse of +the great I AM. The next, he opened the newspaper in his hand. What +part in the eternal order could THAT hold? or slavery, or secession, or +civil war? No harmony could be infinite enough to hold such discords, +he thought, pushing the whole matter from him in despair. Why, the +experiment of self-government, the problem of the ages, was crumbling +in ruin! So he despaired, just as Tige did the night the mill fell +about his ears, in full confidence that the world had come to an end +now, without hope of salvation,—crawling out of his cellar in dumb +amazement, when the sun rose as usual the next morning. +</P> + +<P> +Knowles sat, peering at Holmes over his paper, watching the languid +breath that showed how deep the hurt had been, the maimed body, the +face outwardly cool, watchful, reticent as before. He fancied the +slough of disappointment into which God had crushed the soul of this +man: would he struggle out? Would he take Miss Herne as the first step +in his stair-way, or be content to be flung down in vigorous manhood to +the depth of impotent poverty? He could not tell if the quiet on +Holmes's face were stolid defiance or submission: the dumb kings might +have looked thus beneath the feet of Pharaoh. When he walked over the +floor, too, weak as he was it was with the old iron tread. He asked +Knowles presently what business he had gone into. +</P> + +<P> +"My old hobby in an humble way,—the House of Refuge." +</P> + +<P> +They both laughed. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, it is true. The janitor points me out to visitors as +'under-superintendent, a philanthropist in decayed circumstances.' +Perhaps it is my life-work,"—growing sad and earnest. +</P> + +<P> +"If you can inoculate these infant beggars and thieves with your +theory, it will be practice when you are dead." +</P> + +<P> +"I think that," said Knowles, gravely, his eye kindling,—"I think +that." +</P> + +<P> +"As thankless a task as that of Moses," said the other, watching him +curiously. "For YOU will not see the pleasant land,—YOU will not go +over." +</P> + +<P> +The old man's flabby face darkened. +</P> + +<P> +"I know," he said. +</P> + +<P> +He glanced involuntarily out at the blue, and the clear-shining, +eternal stars. +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose," he said, after a while, cheerfully, "I must content myself +with Lois's creed, here,—'It'll come right some time.'" +</P> + +<P> +Lois looked up from the saucepan she was stirring, her face growing +quite red, nodding emphatically some half-dozen times. +</P> + +<P> +"After all," said Holmes, kindly, "this chance may have forced you on +the true road to success for your new system of Sociology. Only +untainted natures could be fitted for self-government. Do you find the +fallow field easily worked?" +</P> + +<P> +Knowles fidgeted uneasily. +</P> + +<P> +"No. Fact is, I'm beginning to think there 's a good deal of an +obstacle in blood. I find difficulty, much difficulty, Sir, in giving +to the youngest child true ideas of absolute freedom, and unselfish +heroism." +</P> + +<P> +"You teach them these by reason alone?" said Holmes, gravely. +</P> + +<P> +"Well,—of course,—that is the true theory; reason is the only yoke +that should be laid upon a free-born soul; but I—I find it necessary +to have them whipped, Mr. Holmes." +</P> + +<P> +Holmes stooped suddenly to pat Tiger, hiding a furtive smile. The old +man went on, anxiously,— +</P> + +<P> +"Old Mr. Howth says that is the end of all self-governments: from +anarchy to despotism, he says. Brute force must come in. Old people +are apt to be set in their ways, you know. Honestly, we do not find +unlimited freedom answer in the House. I hope much from a woman's +assistance: I have destined her for this work always: she has great +latent power of sympathy and endurance, such as can bring the Christian +teaching home to these wretches." +</P> + +<P> +"The Christian?" said Holmes. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, yes. I am not a believer myself, you know; but I find that it +takes hold of these people more vitally than more abstract faiths: I +suppose because of the humanity of Jesus. In Utopia, of course, we +shall live from scientific principles; but they do not answer in the +House." +</P> + +<P> +"Who is the woman?" asked Holmes, carelessly. +</P> + +<P> +The other watched him keenly. +</P> + +<P> +"She is coming for five years. Margret Howth." +</P> + +<P> +He patted the dog with the same hard, unmoved touch. +</P> + +<P> +"It is a religious duty with her. Besides, she must do something. +They have been almost starving since the mill was burnt." +</P> + +<P> +Holmes's face was bent; he could not see it. When he looked up, +Knowles thought it more rigid, immovable than before. +</P> + +<P> +When Knowles was going away, Holmes said to him,— +</P> + +<P> +"When does Margret Howth go into that devils' den?" +</P> + +<P> +"The House? On New-Year's." The scorn in him was too savage to be +silent. "It is the best time to begin a new life. Yourself, now, you +will have fulfilled your design by that time,—of marriage?" +</P> + +<P> +Holmes was leaning on the mantel-shelf; his very lips were pale. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I shall, I shall,"—in his low, hard tone. +</P> + +<P> +Some sudden dream of warmth and beauty flashed before his gray eyes, +lighting them as Knowles never had seen before. +</P> + +<P> +"Miss Herne is beautiful,—let me congratulate you, in Western fashion." +</P> + +<P> +The old man did not hide his sneer. +</P> + +<P> +Holmes bowed. +</P> + +<P> +"I thank you, for her." +</P> + +<P> +Lois held the candle to light the Doctor out of the long passages. +</P> + +<P> +"Yoh hev n't seen Barney out 't Mr. Howth's, Doctor? He's ther' now." +</P> + +<P> +"No. When shall you have done waiting on this—man, Lois? God help +you, child!" +</P> + +<P> +Lois's quick instinct answered,— +</P> + +<P> +"He's very kind. He's like a woman fur kindness to such as me. When I +come to die, I'd like eyes such as his to look at, tender, pitiful." +</P> + +<P> +"Women are fools alike," grumbled the Doctor. "Never mind. 'When you +come to die?' What put that into your head? Look up." +</P> + +<P> +The child sheltered the flaring candle with her hand. +</P> + +<P> +"I've no tho't o' dyin'," she said, laughing. +</P> + +<P> +There was a gray shadow about her eyes, a peaked look to the face, he +never saw before, looking at her now with a physician's eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Does anything hurt you here?" touching her chest. +</P> + +<P> +"It's better now. It was that night o' th' fire. Th' breath o' th' +mill, I thenk,—but it's nothin'." +</P> + +<P> +"Burning copperas? Of course it's better! Oh, that's nothing!" he +said, cheerfully. +</P> + +<P> +When they reached the door, he held out his hand, the first time he +ever had done it to her, and then waited, patting her on the head. +</P> + +<P> +"I think it'll come right, Lois," he said, dreamily, looking out into +the night. "You're a good girl. I think it'll all come right. For +you and me. Some time. Good-night, child." +</P> + +<P> +After he was a long way down the street, he turned to nod good-night +again to the comical little figure in the door-way. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap09"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER IX. +</H3> + +<P> +If Knowles hated anybody that night, he hated the man he had left +standing there with pale, heavy jaws, and heart of iron; he could have +cursed him, standing there. He did not see how, after he was left +alone, the man lay with his face to the wall, holding his bony hand to +his forehead, with a look in his eyes that if you had seen, you would +have thought his soul had entered on that path whose steps take hold on +hell. +</P> + +<P> +There was no struggle in his face; whatever was the resolve he had +reached in the solitary hours when he had stood so close upon the +borders of death, it was unshaken now; but the heart, crushed and +stifled before, was taking its dire revenge. If ever it had hungered, +through the cold, selfish days, for God's help, or a woman's love, it +hungered now, with a craving like death. If ever he had thought how +bare and vacant the years would be, going down to the grave with lips +that never had known a true wife's kiss, he remembered it now, when it +was too late, with bitterness such as wrings a man's heart but once in +a lifetime. If ever he had denied to his own soul this Margret, called +her alien or foreign, it called her now, when it was too late, to her +rightful place; there was not a thought nor a hope in the darkest +depths of his nature that did not cry out for her help that night,—for +her, a part of himself,—now, when it was too late. He went over all +the years gone, and pictured the years to come; he remembered the money +that was to help his divine soul upward; he thought of it with a curse, +getting up and pacing the floor of the narrow room, slowly and quietly. +Looking out into the still starlight and the quaint garden, he tried to +fancy this woman as he knew her, after the restless power of her soul +should have been chilled and starved into a narrow, lifeless duty. He +fancied her old, and stern, and sick of life, she that might have been +what might they not have been, together? And he had driven her to this +for money,—money! +</P> + +<P> +It was of no use to repent of it now. He had frozen the love out of +her heart, long ago. He remembered (all that he did remember of the +blank night after he was hurt) that he had seen her white, worn-out +face looking down at him; that she did not touch him; and that, when +one of the sisters told her she might take her place, and sponge his +forehead, she said, bitterly, she had no right to do it, that he was no +friend of hers. He saw and heard that, unconscious to all else; he +would have known it, if he had been dead, lying there. It was too late +now: why need he think of what might have been? Yet he did think of it +through the long winter's night,—each moment his thought of the life +to come, or of her, growing more tender and more bitter. Do you wonder +at the remorse of this man? Wait, then, until you lie alone, as he had +done, through days as slow, revealing as ages, face to face with God +and death. Wait until you go down so close to eternity that the life +you have lived stands out before you in the dreadful bareness in which +God sees it,—as you shall see it some day from heaven or hell: money, +and hate, and love will stand in their true light then. Yet, coming +back to life again, he held whatever resolve he had reached down there +with his old iron will: all the pain he bore in looking back to the +false life before, or the ceaseless remembrance that it was too late +now to atone for that false life, made him the stronger to abide by +that resolve, to go on the path self-chosen, let the end be what it +might. Whatever the resolve was, it did not still the gnawing hunger +in his heart that night, which every trifle made more fresh and strong. +</P> + +<P> +There was a wicker-basket that Lois had left by the fire, piled up with +bits of cloth and leather out of which she was manufacturing Christmas +gifts; a pair of great woollen socks, which one of the sisters had told +him privately Lois meant for him, lying on top. As with all of her +people, Christmas was the great day of the year to her. Holmes could +not but smile, looking at them. Poor Lois!—Christmas would be here +soon, then? And sitting by the covered fire, he went back to +Christmases gone, the thought of all others that brought Margret +nearest and warmest to him: since he was a boy they had been together +on that day. With his hand over his eyes, he sat quiet by the fire +until morning. He heard some boy going by in the gray dawn call to +another that they would have holiday on Christmas week. It was coming, +he thought, rousing himself,—but never as it had been: that could +never be again. Yet it was strange how this thought of Christmas took +hold of him, after this,—famished his heart. As it approached in the +slow-coming winter, the days growing shorter, and the nights longer and +more solitary, so Margret became more real to him,—not rejected and +lost, but as the wife she might have been, with the simple, passionate +love she gave him once. The thought grew intolerable to him; yet there +was not a homely pleasure of those years gone, when the old +school-master kept high holiday on Christmas, that he did not recall +and linger over with a boyish yearning, now that these things were over +forever. He chafed under his weakness. If the day would but come when +he could go out and conquer his fate, as a man ought to do! On +Christmas eve he would put an end to these torturing taunts, be done +with them, let the sacrifice be what it might. For I fear that even now +Stephen Holmes thought of his own need and his own hunger. +</P> + +<P> +He watched Lois knitting and patching her poor little gifts, with a +vague feeling that every stitch made the time a moment shorter until he +should be free, with his life in his hand again. She left the hospital +at last, sorrowfully enough, but he made her go: he fancied the close +air was hurting her, seeing at night the strange shadow growing on her +face. I do not think he ever said to her that he knew all she had done +for him, or thanked her; but no dog or woman that Stephen Holmes loved +could look into his eyes, and doubt that love. Sad, masterful eyes, +such as are seen but once or twice in a lifetime: no woman but would +wish, like Lois, for such eyes to be near her when she came to die, for +her to remember the world's love in. She came hobbling back every day +to see him after she had gone, and would stay to make his soup, telling +him, child-like, how many days it was until Christmas. He knew that, +as well as she, waiting through the cold, slow hours, in his solitary +room. He thought sometimes she had some eager petition to offer him, +when she stood watching him wistfully, twisting her hands together; but +she always smothered it with a sigh, and, tying her little woollen cap, +went away, walking more slowly, he thought, every day. +</P> + +<P> +Do you remember how Christmas came that year? how there was a waiting +pause, when the States stood still, and from the peoples came the first +awful murmurs of the storm that was to shake the earth? how men's +hearts failed them for fear, how women turned pale, and held their +children closer to their breasts, while they heard a far cry of +lamentation for their country that had fallen? Do you remember how, +amidst the fury of men's anger, the storehouses of God were opened for +that land? how the very sunshine gathered new splendours, the rains +more fruitful moisture, until the earth poured forth an unknown fulness +of life and beauty? Was there no promise there, no prophecy? Do you +remember, while the very life of the people hung in doubt before them, +while the angel of death came again to pass over the land, and there +was no blood on any door-post to keep him from that house, how serenely +the old earth folded in her harvest, dead, till it should waken to a +stronger life? how quietly, as the time came near for the birth of +Christ, this old earth made ready for his coming, heedless of the +clamour of men? how the air grew fresher above, day by day, and the +gray deep silently opened for the snow to go down and screen and whiten +and make holy that fouled earth? I think the slow-falling snow did not +fail in its quiet warning; for I remember that men, too, in a feeble +way tried to make ready for the birth of Christ. There was a healthier +glow than terror stirred in their hearts; because of the vague, great +dread without, it may be, they drew closer together round household +fires, were kindlier in the good old-fashioned way; old friendships +were wakened, old times talked over, fathers and mothers and children +planned homely ways to show the love in their hearts and to welcome in +Christmas. Who knew but it might be the last? Let us be thankful for +that happy Christmas-day. What if it were the last? What if, when +another comes, and another, one voice, the kindest and cheerfullest +then, shall never say "Happy Christmas" to us again? Let us be +thankful for that day the more,—accept it the more as a sign of that +which will surely come. +</P> + +<P> +Holmes, even, in his dreary room and drearier thought, felt the warmth +and expectant stir creeping through the land as the day drew near. +Even in the hospital, the sisters were in a busy flutter, decking their +little chapel with flowers, and preparing a fete for their patients. +The doctor, as he bandaged his broken arm, hinted at faint rumours in +the city of masquerades and concerts. Even Knowles, who had not +visited the hospital for weeks, relented and came back, moody and grum. +He brought Kitts with him, and started him on talking of how they kept +Christmas in Ohio on his mother's farm; and the poor soul, encouraged +by the silence of two of his auditors, and the intense interest of Lois +in the background, mazed on about Santa-Claus trees and Virginia reels +until the clock struck twelve, and Knowles began to snore. +</P> + +<P> +Christmas was coming. As he stood, day after day, looking out of the +gray window, he could see the signs of its coming even in the +shop-windows glittering with miraculous toys, in the market-carts with +their red-faced drivers and heaps of ducks and turkeys, in every +stage-coach or omnibus that went by crowded with boys home for the +holidays, hallooing for Bell or Lincoln, forgetful that the election +was over, and Carolina out. +</P> + +<P> +Pike came to see him one day, his arms full of a bundle, which turned +out to be an accordion for Sophy. +</P> + +<P> +"Christmas, you know," he said, taking off the brown paper, while he +was cursing the Cotton States the hardest, and gravely kneading at the +keys, and stretching it until he made as much discord as five +Congressmen. "I think Sophy will like that," he said, looking at it +sideways, and tying it up carefully. +</P> + +<P> +"I am sure she will," said Holmes,—and did not think the man a fool +for one moment. +</P> + +<P> +Always going back, this Holmes, when he was alone, to the certainty +that home-comings or children's kisses or Christmas feasts were not for +such as he,—never could be, though he sought for the old time in +bitterness of heart; and so, dully remembering his resolve, and waiting +for Christmas eve, when he might end it all. Not one of the myriads of +happy children listened more intently to the clock clanging off hour +after hour than the silent, stern man who had no hope in that day that +was coming. +</P> + +<P> +He learned to watch even for poor Lois coming up the corridor every +day,—being the only tie that bound the solitary man to the inner world +of love and warmth. The deformed little body was quite alive with +Christmas now, and brought its glow with her, in her weak way. +Different from the others, he saw with a curious interest. The day was +more real to her than to them. Not because, only, the care she had of +everybody, and everybody had of her seemed to reach its culmination of +kindly thought for the Christmas time; not because, as she sat talking +slowly, stopping for breath, her great fear seemed to be that she would +not have gifts enough to go round; but deeper than that,—the day was +real to her. As if it were actually true that the Master in whom she +believed was freshly born into the world once a year, to waken all that +was genial and noble and pure in the turbid, worn-out hearts; as if new +honour and pride and love did flash into the realms below heaven with +the breaking of Christmas morn. It was a beautiful faith; he almost +wished it were his. A beautiful faith! it gave a meaning to the old +custom of gifts and kind words. LOVE coming into the world!—the idea +pleased his artistic taste, being simple and sublime. Lois used to +tell him, while she feebly tried to set his room in order, of all her +plans,—of how Sam Polston was to be married on New-Year's,—but most +of all of the Christmas coming out at the old school-master's: how the +old house had been scrubbed from top to bottom, was fairly glowing with +shining paint and hot fires,—how Margret and her mother worked, in +terror lest the old man should find out how poor and bare it was,—how +he and Joel had some secret enterprise on foot at the far end of the +plantation out in the swamp, and were gone nearly all day. +</P> + +<P> +She ceased coming at last. One of the sisters went out to see her, and +told him she was too weak to walk, but meant to be better soon,—quite +well by the holidays. He wished the poor thing had told him what she +wanted of him,—wished it anxiously, with a dull presentiment of evil. +</P> + +<P> +The days went by, cold and slow. He watched grimly the preparations +the hospital physician was silently making in his case, for fever, +inflammation. +</P> + +<P> +"I must be strong enough to go out cured on Christmas eve," he said to +him one day, coolly. +</P> + +<P> +The old doctor glanced up shrewdly. He was an old Alsatian, very +plain-spoken. +</P> + +<P> +"You say so?" he mumbled. "Chut! Then you will go. There are +some—bull-dog, men. They do what they please,—they never die unless +they choose, begar! We know them in our practice, Herr Holmes!" +</P> + +<P> +Holmes laughed. Some acumen there, he thought, in medicine or mind: as +for himself, it was true enough; whatever success he had gained in life +had been by no flush of enthusiasm or hope; a dogged persistence of +"holding on," rather. +</P> + +<P> +A long time; but Christmas eve came at last: bright, still, frosty. +"Whatever he had to do, let it be done quickly;" but not till the set +hour came. So he laid his watch on the table beside him, waiting until +it should mark the time he had chosen: the ruling passion of +self-control as strong in this turn of life's tide as it would be in +its ebb, at the last. The old doctor found him alone in the dreary +room, coming in with the frosty breath of the eager street about him. +A grim, chilling sight enough, as solitary and impenetrable as the +Sphinx. He did not like such faces in this genial and gracious time, +so hurried over his examination. The eye was cool, the pulse steady, +the man's body, battered though it was, strong in its steely composure. +"Ja wohl!—ja wohl!" he went on chuffily, summing up: latent +fever,—the very lips were blue, dry as husks; "he would +go,—oui?—then go!"—with a chuckle. "All right, gluck Zu!" And so +shuffled out. Latent fever? Doubtless, yet hardly from broken bones, +the doctor thought,—with no suspicion of the subtile, intolerable +passion smouldering in every drop of this man's phlegmatic blood. +</P> + +<P> +Evening came at last. He stopped until the cracked bell of the chapel +had done striking the Angelus, and then put on his overcoat, and went +out. Passing down the garden walk a miserable chicken staggered up to +him, chirping a drunken recognition. For a moment, he breathed again +the hot smoke of the mill, remembering how Lois had found him in +Margret's office, not forgetting the cage: chary of this low life, even +in the peril of his own. So, going out on the street, he tested his +own nature by this trifle in his old fashion. "The ruling passion +strong in death," eh? It had not been self-love; something deeper: an +instinct rather than reason. Was he glad to think this of himself? He +looked out more watchful of the face which the coming Christmas bore. +The air was cold and pungent. The crowded city seemed wakening to some +keen enjoyment; even his own weak, deliberate step rang on the icy +pavement as if it wished to rejoice with the rest. I said it was a +trading city: so it was, but the very trade to-day had a jolly +Christmas face on; the surly old banks and pawnbrokers' shops had grown +ashamed of their doings, and shut their doors, and covered their +windows with frosty trees, and cathedrals, and castles; the shops +opened their inmost hearts; some child's angel had touched them, and +they flushed out into a magic splendour of Christmas trees, and lights, +and toys; Santa Claus might have made his head-quarters in any one of +them. As for children, you stumbled over them at every step, quite +weighed down with the heaviness of their joy, and the money burning +their pockets; the acrid old brokers and pettifoggers, that you met +with a chill on other days, had turned into jolly fathers of families, +and lounged laughing along with half a dozen little hands pulling them +into candy-stores or toy-shops; all of the churches whose rules +permitted them to show their deep rejoicing in a simple way, had +covered their cold stone walls with evergreens, and wreaths of glowing +fire-berries: the child's angel had touched them too, perhaps,—not +unwisely. +</P> + +<P> +He passed crowds of thin-clad women looking in through open doors, with +red cheeks and hungry eyes, at red-hot stoves within, and a placard, +"Christmas dinners for the poor, gratis;" out of every window on the +streets came a ruddy light, and a spicy smell; the very sunset sky had +caught the reflection of the countless Christmas fires, and flamed up +to the zenith, blood-red as cinnabar. +</P> + +<P> +Holmes turned down one of the back streets: he was going to see Lois, +first of all. I hardly know why: the child's angel may have touched +him, too; or his heart, full of a yearning pity for the poor cripple, +who, he believed now, had given her own life for his, may have plead +for indulgence, as men remember their childish prayers, before going +into battle. He came at last, in the quiet lane where she lived, to +her little brown frame-shanty, to which you mounted by a flight of +wooden steps: there were two narrow windows at the top, hung with red +curtains; he could hear her feeble voice singing within. As he turned +to go up the steps, he caught sight of something crouched underneath +them in the dark, hiding from him: whether a man or a dog he could not +see. He touched it. +</P> + +<P> +"What d' ye want, Mas'r?" said a stifled voice. +</P> + +<P> +He touched it again with his stick. The man stood upright, back in the +shadow: it was old Yare. +</P> + +<P> +"Had ye any word wi' me, Mas'r?" +</P> + +<P> +He saw the negro's face grow gray with fear. +</P> + +<P> +"Come out, Yare," he said, quietly. "Any word? What word is arson, +eh?" +</P> + +<P> +The man did not move. Holmes touched him with the stick. +</P> + +<P> +"Come out," he said. +</P> + +<P> +He came out, looking gaunt, as with famine. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll not flurr myself," he said, crunching his ragged hat in his +hands,—"I'll not." +</P> + +<P> +He drove the hat down upon his head, and looked up with a sullen +fierceness. +</P> + +<P> +"Yoh've got me, an' I'm glad of 't. I'm tired, fearin'. I was born +for hangin', they say," with a laugh. "But I'll see my girl. I've +waited hyur, runnin' the resk,—not darin' to see her, on 'count o' +yoh. I thort I was safe on Christmas-day,—but what's Christmas to yoh +or me?" +</P> + +<P> +Holmes's quiet motion drove him up the steps before him. He stopped at +the top, his cowardly nature getting the better of him, and sat down +whining on the upper step. +</P> + +<P> +"Be marciful, Mas'r! I wanted to see my girl,—that's all. She's all I +hev." +</P> + +<P> +Holmes passed him and went in. Was Christmas nothing to him? How did +this foul wretch know that they stood alone, apart from the world? +</P> + +<P> +It was a low, cheerful little room that he came into, stooping his tall +head: a tea-kettle humming and singing on the wood-fire, that lighted +up the coarse carpet and the gray walls, but spent its warmest heat on +the low settee where Lois lay sewing, and singing to herself. She was +wrapped up in a shawl, but the hands, he saw, were worn to skin and +bone; the gray shadow was heavier on her face, and the brooding brown +eyes were like a tired child's. She tried to jump up when she saw him, +and not being able, leaned on one elbow, half-crying as she laughed. +</P> + +<P> +"It's the best Christmas gift of all! I can hardly b'lieve +it!"—touching the strong hand humbly that was held out to her. +</P> + +<P> +Holmes had a gentle touch, I told you, for dogs and children and women: +so, sitting quietly by her, he listened for a long time with untiring +patience to her long story; looked at the heap of worthless trifles she +had patched up for gifts, wondering secretly at the delicate sense of +colour and grace betrayed in the bits of flannel and leather; and took, +with a grave look of wonder, his own package, out of which a bit of +woollen thread peeped forth. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't look till to-morrow mornin'," she said, anxiously, as she lay +back trembling and exhausted. +</P> + +<P> +The breath of the mill! The fires of the world's want and crime had +finished their work on her life,—so! She caught the meaning of his +face quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"It's nothin'," she said, eagerly. "I'll be strong by New-Year's; it's +only a day or two rest I need. I've no tho't o' givin' up." +</P> + +<P> +And to show how strong she was, she got up and hobbled about to make +the tea. He had not the heart to stop her; she did not want to +die,—why should she? the world was a great, warm, beautiful nest for +the little cripple,—why need he show her the cold without? He saw her +at last go near the door where old Yare sat outside, then heard her +breathless cry, and a sob. A moment after the old man came into the +room, carrying her, and, laying her down on the settee, chafed her +hands, and misshapen head. +</P> + +<P> +"What ails her?" he said, looking up, bewildered, to Holmes. "We've +killed her among us." +</P> + +<P> +She laughed, though the great eyes were growing dim, and drew his +coarse gray hair into her hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Yoh wur long comin'," she said, weakly. "I hunted fur yoh every +day,—every day." +</P> + +<P> +The old man had pushed her hair back, and was reading the sunken face +with a wild fear. +</P> + +<P> +"What ails her?" he cried. "Ther' 's somethin' gone wi' my girl. Was +it my fault? Lo, was it my fault?" +</P> + +<P> +"Be quiet!" said Holmes, sternly. +</P> + +<P> +"Is it THAT?" he gasped, shrilly. "My God! not that! I can't bear it!" +</P> + +<P> +Lois soothed him, patting his face childishly. +</P> + +<P> +"Am I dyin' now?" she asked, with a frightened look at Holmes. +</P> + +<P> +He told her no, cheerfully. +</P> + +<P> +"I've no tho't o' dyin'. I dunnot thenk o' dyin'. Don't mind, dear! +Yoh'll stay with me, fur good?" +</P> + +<P> +The man's paroxysm of fear for her over, his spite and cowardice came +uppermost. +</P> + +<P> +"It's him," he yelped, looking fiercely at Holmes. "He's got my life +in his hands. He kin take it. What does he keer fur me or my girl? +I'll not stay wi' yoh no longer, Lo. Mornin' he'll send me t' th' +lock-up, an' after"—— +</P> + +<P> +"I care for you, child," said Holmes, stooping suddenly close to the +girl's livid face. +</P> + +<P> +"To-morrow?" she muttered. "My Christmas-day?" +</P> + +<P> +He wet her face while he looked over at the wretch whose life he held +in his hands. It was the iron rule of Holmes's nature to be just; but +to-night dim perceptions of a deeper justice than law opened before +him,—problems he had no time to solve: the sternest fortress is liable +to be taken by assault,—and the dew of the coming morn was on his +heart. +</P> + +<P> +"So as I've hunted fur him!" she whispered, weakly. "I didn't thenk it +wud come to this. So as I loved him! Oh, Mr. Holmes, he's hed a pore +chance in livin',—forgive him this! Him that'll come to-morrow 'd say +to forgive him this." +</P> + +<P> +She caught the old man's head in her arms with an agony of tears, and +held it tight. +</P> + +<P> +"I hev hed a pore chance," he said, looking up,—"that's God's truth, +Lo! I dunnot keer fur that: it's too late goin' back. But Lo—Mas'r," +he mumbled, servilely, "it's on'y a little time t' th' end: let me stay +with Lo. She loves me,—Lo does." +</P> + +<P> +A look of disgust crept over Holmes's face. +</P> + +<P> +"Stay, then," he muttered,—"I wash my hands of you, you old scoundrel!" +</P> + +<P> +He bent over Lois with his rare, pitiful smile. +</P> + +<P> +"Have I his life in my hands? I put it into yours,—so, child! Now put +it all out of your head, and look up here to wish me good-bye." +</P> + +<P> +She looked up cheerfully, hardly conscious how deep the danger had +been; but the flush had gone from her face, leaving it sad and still. +</P> + +<P> +"I must go to keep Christmas, Lois," he said, playfully. +</P> + +<P> +"Yoh're keepin' it here, Sir." She held her weak grip on his hand +still, with the vague outlook in her eyes that came there sometimes. +</P> + +<P> +"Was it fur me yoh done it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, for you." +</P> + +<P> +"And fur Him that's comin', Sir?" smiling. +</P> + +<P> +Holmes's face grew graver. +</P> + +<P> +"No, Lois." She looked into his eyes bewildered. "For the poor child +that loved me" he said, half to himself, smoothing her hair. +</P> + +<P> +Perhaps in that day when the under-currents of the soul's life will be +bared, this man will know the subtile instincts that drew him out of +his self-reliance by the hand of the child that loved him to the Love +beyond, that was man and died for him, as well as she. He did not see +it now. +</P> + +<P> +The clear evening light fell on Holmes, as he stood there looking down +at the dying little lamiter: a powerful figure, with a face supreme, +masterful, but tender: you will find no higher type of manhood. Did +God make him of the same blood as the vicious, cringing wretch +crouching to hide his black face at the other side of the bed? Some +such thought came into Lois's brain, and vexed her, bringing the tears +to her eyes: he was her father, you know. She drew their hands +together, as if she would have joined them, then stopped, closing her +eyes wearily. +</P> + +<P> +"It's all wrong," she muttered,—"oh, it's far wrong! Ther' 's One +could make them 'like. Not me." +</P> + +<P> +She stroked her father's hand once, and then let it go. There was a +long silence. Holmes glanced out, and saw the sun was down. +</P> + +<P> +"Lois," he said, "I want you to wish me a happy Christmas, as people +do." +</P> + +<P> +Holmes had a curious vein of superstition: he knew no lips so pure as +this girl's, and he wanted them to wish him good-luck that night. She +did it, looking up laughing and growing red: riddles of life did not +trouble her childish fancy long. And so he left her, with a dull +feeling, as I said before, that it was good to say a prayer before the +battle came on. For men who believed in prayers: for him, it was the +same thing to make one day for Lois happier. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap10"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER X. +</H3> + +<P> +It was later than Holmes thought: a gray, cold evening. The streets in +that suburb were lonely: he went down them, the new-fallen snow dulling +his step. It had covered the peaked roofs of the houses too, and they +stood in listening rows, white and still. Here and there a pale +flicker from the gas-lamps struggled with the ashy twilight. He met no +one: people had gone home early on Christmas eve. He had no home to go +to: pah! there were plenty of hotels, he remembered, smiling grimly. +It was bitter cold: he buttoned up his coat tightly, as he walked +slowly along as if waiting for some one,—wondering dully if the gray +air were any colder or stiller than the heart hardly beating under the +coat. Well, men had conquered Fate, conquered life and love, before +now. It grew darker: he was pacing now slowly in the shadow of a long +low wall surrounding the grounds of some building. When he came near +the gate, he would stop and listen: he could have heard a sparrow on +the snow, it was so still. After a while he did hear footsteps, +crunching the snow heavily; the gate clicked as they came out: it was +Knowles, and the clergyman whom Dr. Cox did not like; Vandyke was his +name. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't bolt the gate," said Knowles; "Miss Howth will be out presently." +</P> + +<P> +They sat down on a pile of lumber near by, waiting, apparently. Holmes +went up and joined them, standing in the shadow of the lumber, talking +to Vandyke. He did not meet him, perhaps, once in six months; but he +believed in the man, thoroughly. +</P> + +<P> +"I've just helped Knowles build a Christmas-tree in yonder,—the House +of Refuge: you know. He could not tell an oak from an arbor-vitae, I +believe." +</P> + +<P> +Knowles was in no mood for quizzing. +</P> + +<P> +"There are other things I don't know," he said, gloomily, recurring to +some subject Holmes had interrupted. "The House is going to the Devil, +Charley, headlong." +</P> + +<P> +"There's no use in saying no," said the other; "you'll call me a lying +diviner." +</P> + +<P> +Knowles did not listen. +</P> + +<P> +"Seems as if I am to go groping and stumbling through the world like +some forsaken Cyclops with his eye out, dragging down whatever I touch. +If there were anything to hold by, anything certain!" +</P> + +<P> +Vandyke looked at him gravely, but did not answer; rose and walked +indolently up and down to keep himself warm. A lithe, slow figure, a +clear face with delicate lips, and careless eyes that saw everything: +the face of a man quick to learn, and slow to teach. +</P> + +<P> +"There she comes!" said Knowles, as the lock of the gate rasped. +</P> + +<P> +Holmes had heard the slow step in the snow long before. A small woman +came out, and went down the silent street into the road beyond. Holmes +kept his back turned to her, lighting his cigar; the other men watched +her eagerly. +</P> + +<P> +"What do you think, Vandyke?" demanded Knowles. "How will she do?" +</P> + +<P> +"Do for what?"—resuming his lazy walk. "You talk as if she were a +machine. It is the way with modern reformers. Men are so many ploughs +and harrows to work on 'the classes.' Do for what?" +</P> + +<P> +Knowles flushed hotly. +</P> + +<P> +"The work the Lord has left for her. Do you mean to say there is none +to do,—you, pledged to Missionary labour?" +</P> + +<P> +The young man's face coloured. +</P> + +<P> +"I know this street needs paving terribly, Knowles; but I don't see a +boulder in your hands. Yet the great Task-master does not despise the +pavers. He did not give you the spirit and understanding for paving, +eh, is that it? How do you know He gave this Margret Howth the spirit +and understanding of a reformer? There may be higher work for her to +do." +</P> + +<P> +"Higher!" The old man stood aghast. "I know your creed, then,—that +the true work for a man or a woman is that which develops their highest +nature?" +</P> + +<P> +Vandyke laughed. +</P> + +<P> +"You have a creed-mania, Knowles. You have a confession of faith +ready-made for everybody, but yourself. I only meant for you to take +care what you do. That woman looks as the Prodigal Son might have done +when he began to be in want, and would fain have fed himself with the +husks that the swine did eat." +</P> + +<P> +Knowles got up moodily. +</P> + +<P> +"Whose work is it, then?" he muttered, following the men down the +street; for they walked on. "The world has waited six thousand years +for help. It comes slowly,—slowly, Vandyke; even through your +religion." +</P> + +<P> +The young man did not answer: looked up, with quiet, rapt eyes, through +the silent city, and the clear gray beyond. They passed a little +church lighted up for evening service: as if to give a meaning to the +old man's words, they were chanting the one anthem of the world, the +Gloria in Excelsis. Hearing the deep organ-roll, the men stopped +outside to listen: it heaved and sobbed through the night, as if +bearing up to God the wrong of countless aching hearts, then was +silent, and a single voice swept over the moors in a long, lamentable +cry:—"Thou that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us!" +</P> + +<P> +The men stood silent, until the hush was broken by a low murmur:—"For +Thou only art holy." Holmes had taken off his hat, unconscious that he +did it; he put it on slowly, and walked on. What was it that Knowles +had said to him once about mean and selfish taints on his divine soul? +"For Thou only art holy:" if there were truth in that! +</P> + +<P> +"How quiet it is!" he said, as they stopped to leave him. It was,—a +breathless quiet; the great streets of the town behind them were +shrouded in snow; the hills, the moors, the prairie swept off into the +skyless dark, a gray and motionless sea lit by a low watery moon. "The +very earth listens," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"Listens for what?" said the literal old Doctor. +</P> + +<P> +"I think it listens always," said Vandyke, his eye on fire. "For its +King—that shall be. Not as He came before. It has not long to wait +now: the New Year is not far off." +</P> + +<P> +"I've no faith in holding your hands, waiting for it; nor have you +either, Charley," growled Knowles. "There's an infernal lot of work to +be done before it comes, I fancy. Here, let me light my cigar." +</P> + +<P> +Holmes bade them good-night, laughing, and struck into the by-road +through the hills. He shook hands with Vandyke before he went,—a +thing he scarce ever did with anybody. Knowles noticed it, and, after +he was out of hearing, mumbled out some sarcasm at "a minister of the +gospel consorting with a cold, silent scoundrel like that!" Vandyke +listened to his scolding in his usual lazy way, and they went back into +town. +</P> + +<P> +The road Holmes took was rutted deep with wagon-wheels, not easily +travelled; he walked slowly therefore, being weak, stopping now and +then to gather strength. He had not counted the hours until this day, +to be balked now by a little loss of blood. The moon was nearly down +before he reached the Cloughton hills: he turned there into a narrow +path which he remembered well. Now and then he saw the mark of a +little shoe in the snow,—looking down at it with a hot panting in his +veins, and a strange flash in his eye, as he walked on steadily. +</P> + +<P> +There was a turn in the path at the top of the hill, a sunken wall, +with a broad stone from which the wind had blown the snow. This was the +place. He sat down on the stone, resting. Just there she had stood, +clutching her little fingers behind her, when he came up and threw back +her hood to look in her face: how pale and worn it was, even then! He +had not looked at her to-night: he would not, if he had been dying, +with those men standing there. He stood alone in the world with this +little Margret. How those men had carped, and criticised her, +chattered of the duties of her soul! Why, it was his, it was his own, +softer and fresher. There was not a glance with which they followed +the weak little body in its poor dress that he had not seen, and +savagely resented. They measured her strength? counted how long the +bones and blood would last in their House of Refuge? There was not a +morsel of her flesh that was not pure and holy in his eyes. His +Margret? He chafed with an intolerable fever to make her his, but for +one instant, as she had been once. Now, when it was too late. For he +went back over every word he had spoken that night, forcing himself to +go through with it,—every cold, poisoned word. It was a fitting +penance. "There is no such thing as love in real life:" he had told +her that! How he had stood, with all the power of his "divine soul" in +his will, and told her,—he,—a man,—that he put away her love from +him then, forever! He spared himself nothing,—slurred over nothing; +spurned himself, as it were, for the meanness, in which he had wallowed +that night. How firm he had been! how kind! how masterful!—pluming +himself on his man's strength, while he held her in his power as one +might hold an insect, played with her shrinking woman's nature, and +trampled it under his feet, coldly and quietly! She was in his way, +and he had put her aside. How the fine subtile spirit had risen up out +of its agony of shame, and scorned him! How it had flashed from the +puny frame standing there in the muddy road despised and jeered at, and +calmly judged him! He might go from her as he would, toss her off like +a worn-out plaything, but he could not blind her: let him put on what +face he would to the world, whether they called him a master among men, +or a miser, or, as Knowles did to-night after he turned away, a +scoundrel, this girl laid her little hand on his soul with an utter +recognition: she alone. "She knew him for a better man than he knew +himself that night:" he remembered the words. +</P> + +<P> +The night was growing murky and bitingly cold: there was no prospect on +the snow-covered hills, or the rough road at his feet with its pools +of ice-water, to bring content into his face, or the dewy light into +his eyes; but they came there, slowly, while he sat thinking. Some old +thought was stealing into his brain, perhaps, fresh and warm, like a +soft spring air,—some hope of the future, in which this child-woman +came close to him, and near. It was an idle dream, only would taunt +him when it was over, but he opened his arms to it: it was an old +friend; it had made him once a purer and better man than he could ever +be again. A warm, happy dream, whatever it may have been: the rugged, +sinister face grew calm and sad, as the faces of the dead change when +loving tears fall on them. +</P> + +<P> +He sighed wearily: the homely little hope was fanning into life +stagnant depths of desire and purpose, stirring his resolute ambition. +Too late? Was it too late? Living or dead she was his, though he +should never see her face, by some subtile power that had made them +one, he knew not when nor how. He did not reason now,—abandoned +himself, as morbid men only do, to this delirious hope of a home, and +cheerful warmth, and this woman's love fresh and eternal: a pleasant +dream at first, to be put away at pleasure. But it grew bolder, +touched under-deeps in his nature of longing and intense passion; all +that he knew or felt of power or will, of craving effort, of success in +the world, drifted into this dream, and became one with it. He stood +up, his vigorous frame starting into a nobler manhood, with the +consciousness of right,—with a willed assurance, that, the first +victory gained, the others should follow. +</P> + +<P> +It was late; he must go on; he had not meant to sit idling by the +road-side. He went through the fields, his heavy step crushing the +snow, a dry heat in his blood, his eye intent, still, until he came +within sight of the farm-house; then he went on, cool and grave, in his +ordinary port. +</P> + +<P> +The house was quite dark; only a light in one of the lower +windows,—the library, he thought. The broad field he was crossing +sloped down to the house, so that, as he came nearer, he saw the little +room quite plainly in the red glow of the fire within, the curtains +being undrawn. He had a keen eye; did not fail to see the marks of +poverty about the place, the gateless fences, even the bare room with +its worn and patched carpet: noted it all with a triumphant gleam of +satisfaction. There was a black shadow passing and repassing the +windows: he waited a moment looking at it, then came more slowly +towards them, intenser heats smouldering in his face. He would not +surprise her; she should be as ready as he was for the meeting. If she +ever put her pure hand in his again, it should be freely done, and of +her own good-will. +</P> + +<P> +She saw him as he came up on the porch, and stopped, looking out, as if +bewildered,—then resumed her walk, mechanically. What it cost her to +see him again he could not tell: her face did not alter. It was +lifeless and schooled, the eyes looking straight forward always, +indifferently. Was this his work? If he had killed her outright, it +would have been better than this. +</P> + +<P> +The windows were low: it had been his old habit to go in through them, +and he now went up to one unconsciously. As he opened it, he saw her +turn away for an instant; then she waited for him, entirely tranquil, +the clear fire shedding a still glow over the room, no cry or shiver of +pain to show how his coming broke open the old wound. She smiled even, +when he leaned against the window, with a careless welcome. +</P> + +<P> +Holmes stopped, confounded. It did not suit him,—this. If you know a +man's nature, you comprehend why. The bitterest reproach, or a proud +contempt would have been less galling than this gentle indifference. +His hold had slipped from off the woman, he believed. A moment before +he had remembered how he had held her in his arms, touched her cold +lips, and then flung her off,—he had remembered it, every nerve +shrinking with remorse and unutterable tenderness: now——! The utter +quiet of her face told more than words could do. She did not love him; +he was nothing to her. Then love was a lie. A moment before he could +have humbled himself in her eyes as low as he lay in his own, and +accepted her pardon as a necessity of her enduring, faithful nature: +now, the whole strength of the man sprang into rage, and mad desire of +conquest. +</P> + +<P> +He came gravely across the room, holding out his hand with his old +quiet control. She might be cold and grave as he, but underneath he +knew there was a thwarted, hungry spirit,—a strong, fine spirit as +dainty Ariel. He would sting it to life, and tame it: it was his. +</P> + +<P> +"I thought you would come, Stephen," she said, simply, motioning him to +a chair. +</P> + +<P> +Could this automaton be Margret? He leaned on the mantel-shelf, +looking down with a cynical sneer. +</P> + +<P> +"Is that the welcome? Why, there are a thousand greetings for this +time of love and good words you might have chosen. Besides, I have +come back ill and poor,—a beggar perhaps. How do women receive +such,—generous women? Is there no etiquette? no hand-shaking? nothing +more? remembering that I was once—not indifferent to you." +</P> + +<P> +He laughed. She stood still and grave as before. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, Margret, I have been down near death since that night." +</P> + +<P> +He thought her lips grew gray, but she looked up clear and steady. +</P> + +<P> +"I am glad you did not die. Yes, I can say that. As for hand-shaking, +my ideas may be peculiar as your own." +</P> + +<P> +"She measures her words," he said, as to himself; "her very eye-light +is ruled by decorum; she is a machine, for work. She has swept her +child's heart clean of anger and revenge, even scorn for the wretch +that sold himself for money. There was nothing else to sweep out, was +there?"—bitterly,—"no friendships, such as weak women nurse and +coddle into being,—or love, that they live in, and die for sometimes, +in a silly way?" +</P> + +<P> +"Unmanly!" +</P> + +<P> +"No, not unmanly. Margret, let us be serious and calm. It is no time +to trifle or wear masks. That has passed between us which leaves no +room for sham courtesies." +</P> + +<P> +"There needs none,"—meeting his eye unflinchingly. "I am ready to +meet you and hear your good-bye. Dr. Knowles told me your marriage was +near at hand. I knew you would come, Stephen. You did before." +</P> + +<P> +He winced,—the more that her voice was so clear of pain. +</P> + +<P> +"Why should I come? To show you what sort of a heart I have sold for +money? Why, you think you know, little Margret. You can reckon up its +deformity, its worthlessness, on your cool fingers. You could tell the +serene and gracious lady who is chaffering for it what a bargain she +has made,—that there is not in it one spark of manly honour or true +love. Don't venture too near it in your coldness and prudence. It has +tiger passions I will not answer for. Give me your hand, and feel how +it pants like a hungry fiend. It will have food, Margret." +</P> + +<P> +She drew away the hand he grasped, and stood back in the shadow. +</P> + +<P> +"What is it to me?"—in the same measured voice. +</P> + +<P> +Holmes wiped the cold drops from his forehead, a sort of shudder in his +powerful frame. He stood a moment looking into the fire, his head +dropped on his arm. +</P> + +<P> +"Let it be so," he said at last, quietly. "The worn old heart can gnaw +on itself a little longer. I have no mind to whimper over pain." +</P> + +<P> +Something that she saw on the dark sardonic face, as the red gleams +lighted it, made her start convulsively, as if she would go to him; +then controlling herself, she stood silent. He had not seen the +movement,—or, if he saw, did not heed it. He did not care to tame her +now. The firelight flashed and darkened, the crackling wood breaking +the dead silence of the room. +</P> + +<P> +"It does not matter," he said, raising his head, laying his arm over +his strong chest unconsciously, as if to shut in all complaint. "I had +an idle fancy that it would be good on this Christmas night to bare the +secrets hidden in here to you,—to suffer your pure eyes to probe the +sorest depths: I thought perhaps they would have a blessing power. It +was an idle fancy. What is my want or crime to you?" +</P> + +<P> +The answer came slowly, but it did come. +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing to me." +</P> + +<P> +She tried to meet the gaunt face looking down on her with its proud +sadness,—did meet it at last with her meek eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"No, nothing to you. There is no need that I should stay longer, is +there? You made ready to meet me, and have gone through your part +well." +</P> + +<P> +"It is no part. I speak God's truth to you as I can." +</P> + +<P> +"I know. There is nothing more for us to say to each other in this +world, then, except good-night. Words—polite words—are bitterer than +death, sometimes. If ever we happen to meet, that courteous smile on +your face will be enough to speak—God's truth for you. Shall we say +good-night now?" +</P> + +<P> +"If you will." +</P> + +<P> +She drew farther into the shadow, leaning on a chair. +</P> + +<P> +He stopped, some sudden thought striking him. +</P> + +<P> +"I have a whim," he said, dreamily, "that I would like to satisfy. It +would be a trifle to you: will you grant it?—for the sake of some old +happy day, long ago?" +</P> + +<P> +She put her hand up to her throat; then it fell again. +</P> + +<P> +"Anything you wish, Stephen," she said, gravely. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Come nearer, then, and let me see what I have lost. A heart so +cold and strong as yours need not fear inspection. I have a fancy to +look into it, for the last time." +</P> + +<P> +She stood motionless and silent. +</P> + +<P> +"Come,"—softly,—"there is no hurt in your heart that fears detection?" +</P> + +<P> +She came out into the full light, and stood before him, pushing back +the hair from her forehead, that he might see every wrinkle, and the +faded, lifeless eyes. It was a true woman's motion, remembering even +then to scorn deception. The light glowed brightly in her face, as the +slow minutes ebbed without a sound: she only saw his face in shadow, +with the fitful gleam of intolerable meaning in his eyes. Her own +quailed and fell. +</P> + +<P> +"Does it hurt you that I should even look at you?" he said, drawing +back. "Why, even the sainted dead suffer us to come near them after +they have died to us,—to touch their hands, to kiss their lips, to +find what look they left in their faces for us. Be patient, for the +sake of the old time. My whim is not satisfied yet." +</P> + +<P> +"I am patient." +</P> + +<P> +"Tell me something of yourself, to take with me when I go, for the last +time. Shall I think of you as happy in these days?" +</P> + +<P> +"I am contented,"—the words oozing from her white lips in the +bitterness of truth. "I asked God, that night, to show me my work; and +I think He has shown it to me. I do not complain. It is a great work." +</P> + +<P> +"Is that all?" he demanded, fiercely. +</P> + +<P> +"No, not all. It pleases me to feel I have a warm home, and to help +keep it cheerful. When my father kisses me at night, or my mother +says, 'God bless you, child,' I know that is enough, that I ought to be +happy." +</P> + +<P> +The old clock in the corner hummed and ticked through the deep silence, +like the humble voice of the home she toiled to keep warm, thanking +her, comforting her. +</P> + +<P> +"Once more," as the light grew stronger on her face,—"will you look +down into your heart that you have given to this great work, and tell +me what you see there? Dare you do it, Margret?" +</P> + +<P> +"I dare do it,"—but her whisper was husky. +</P> + +<P> +"Go on." +</P> + +<P> +He watched her more as a judge would a criminal, as she sat before him: +she struggled weakly under the power of his eye, not meeting it. He +waited relentless, seeing her face slowly whiten, her limbs shiver, her +bosom heave. +</P> + +<P> +"Let me speak for you," he said at last. "I know who once filled your +heart to the exclusion of all others: it is no time for mock shame. I +know it was my hand that held the very secret of your being. Whatever +I may have been, you loved me, Margret. Will you say that now?" +</P> + +<P> +"I loved you,—once." +</P> + +<P> +Whether it were truth that nerved her, or self-delusion, she was strong +now to utter it all. +</P> + +<P> +"You love me no longer, then?" +</P> + +<P> +"I love you no longer." +</P> + +<P> +She did not look at him; she was conscious only of the hot fire wearing +her eyes, and the vexing click of the clock. After a while he bent +over her silently,—a manly, tender presence. +</P> + +<P> +"When love goes once," he said, "it never returns. Did you say it was +gone, Margret?" +</P> + +<P> +One effort more, and Duty would be satisfied. +</P> + +<P> +"It is gone." +</P> + +<P> +In the slow darkness that came to her she covered her face, knowing and +hearing nothing. When she looked up, Holmes was standing by the +window, with his face toward the gray fields. It was a long time +before he turned and came to her. +</P> + +<P> +"You have spoken honestly: it is an old fashion of yours. You believed +what you said. Let me also tell you what you call God's truth, for a +moment, Margret. It will not do you harm."—He spoke gravely, +solemnly.—"When you loved me long ago, selfish, erring as I was, you +fulfilled the law of your nature; when you put that love out of your +heart, you make your duty a tawdry sham, and your life a lie. Listen +to me. I am calm." +</P> + +<P> +It was calmness that made her tremble as she had not done before, with +a strange suspicion of the truth flashing on her. That she, casing +herself in her pride, her conscious righteousness, hugging her +new-found philanthropy close, had sunk to a depth of niggardly +selfishness, of which this man knew nothing. Nobler than she; half +angry as she felt that, sitting at his feet, looking up. He knew it, +too; the grave judging voice told it; he had taken his rightful place. +Just, as only a man can be, in his judgment of himself and her: her +love that she had prided herself with, seemed weak and drifting, +brought into contact with this cool integrity of meaning. I think she +was glad to be humbled before him. Women have strange fancies, +sometimes. +</P> + +<P> +"You have deceived yourself," he said: "when you try to fill your heart +with this work, you serve neither your God nor your fellow-man. You +tell me," stooping close to her, "that I am nothing to you: you believe +it, poor child! There is not a line on your face that does not prove it +false. I have keen eyes, Margret!"— He laughed.—"You have wrung this +love out of your heart? If it were easy to do, did it need to wring +with it every sparkle of pleasure and grace out of your life! Your +very hair is gathered out of your sight: you feared to remember how my +hand had touched it? Your dress is stingy and hard; your step, your +eyes, your mouth under rule. So hard it was to force yourself into an +old worn-out woman! Oh, Margret! Margret!" +</P> + +<P> +She moaned under her breath. +</P> + +<P> +"I notice trifles, child! Yonder, in that corner, used to stand the +desk where I helped you with your Latin. How you hated it! Do you +remember?" +</P> + +<P> +"I remember." +</P> + +<P> +"It always stood there: it is gone now. Outside of the gate there was +that elm I planted, and you promised to water while I was gone. It is +cut down now by the roots." +</P> + +<P> +"I had it done, Stephen." +</P> + +<P> +"I know. Do you know why? Because you love me: because you do not +dare to think of me, you dare not trust yourself to look at the tree +that I had planted." +</P> + +<P> +She started up with a cry, and stood there in the old way, her fingers +catching at each other. +</P> + +<P> +"It is cruel,—let me go!" +</P> + +<P> +"It is not cruel."—He came up closer to her.—"You think you do not +love me, and see what I have made you! Look at the torpor of this +face,—the dead, frozen eyes! It is a 'nightmare death in life.' Good +God, to think that I have done this! To think of the countless days of +agony, the nights, the years of solitude that have brought her to +this,—little Margret!" +</P> + +<P> +He paced the floor, slowly. She sat down on a low stool, leaning her +head on her hands. The little figure, the bent head, the quivering +chin brought up her childhood to him. She used to sit so when he had +tormented her, waiting to be coaxed back to love and smiles again. The +hard man's eyes filled with tears, as he thought of it. He watched the +deep, tearless sobs that shook her breast: he had wounded her to +death,—his bonny Margret! She was like a dead thing now: what need to +torture her longer? Let him be manly and go out to his solitary life, +taking the remembrance of what he had done with him for company. He +rose uncertainly,—then came to her: was that the way to leave her? +</P> + +<P> +"I am going, Margret," he whispered, "but let me tell you a story +before I go,—a Christmas story, say. It will not touch you,—it is +too late to hope for that,—but it is right that you should hear it." +</P> + +<P> +She looked up wearily. +</P> + +<P> +"As you will, Stephen." +</P> + +<P> +Whatever impulse drove the man to speak words that he knew were +useless, made him stand back from her, as though she were something he +was unfit to touch: the words dragged from him slowly. +</P> + +<P> +"I had a curious dream to-night, Margret,—a waking dream: only a clear +vision of what had been once. Do you remember—the old time?" +</P> + +<P> +What disconnected rambling was this? Yet the girl understood it, +looked into the low fire with sad, listening eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Long ago. That was a free, strong life that opened before us then, +little one,—before you and me? Do you remember the Christmas before I +went away? I had a strong arm and a hungry brain to go out into the +world with, then. Something better, too, I had. A purer self than was +born with me came late in life, and nestled in my heart. Margret, +there was no fresh loving thought in my brain for God or man that did +not grow from my love of you; there was nothing noble or kindly in my +nature that did not flow into that love, and deepen there. I was your +master, too. I held my own soul by no diviner right than I held your +love and owed you mine. I understand it, now, when it is too +late."—He wiped the cold drops from his face.—"Now do you know +whether it is remorse I feel, when I think how I put this purer self +away,—how I went out triumphant in my inhuman, greedy brain,—how I +resolved to know, to be, to trample under foot all weak love or homely +pleasures? I have been punished. Let those years go. I think, +sometimes, I came near to the nature of the damned who dare not love: I +would not. It was then I hurt you, Margret,—to the death: your true +life lay in me, as mine in you." +</P> + +<P> +He had gone on drearily, as though holding colloquy with himself, as +though great years of meaning surged up and filled the broken words. +It may have been thus with the girl, for her face deepened as she +listened. For the first time for many long days tears welled up into +her eyes, and rolled between her fingers unheeded. +</P> + +<P> +"I came through the streets to-night baffled in life,—a mean man that +might have been noble,—all the years wasted that had gone +before,—disappointed,—with nothing to hope for but time to work +humbly and atone for the wrongs I had done. When I lay yonder, my soul +on the coast of eternity, I resolved to atone for every selfish deed. +I had no thought of happiness; God knows I had no hope of it. I had +wronged you most: I could not die with that wrong unforgiven." +</P> + +<P> +"Unforgiven, Stephen?" she sobbed; "I forgave it long ago." +</P> + +<P> +He looked at her a moment, then by some effort choked down the word he +would have spoken, and went on with his bitter confession. +</P> + +<P> +"I came through the crowded town, a homeless, solitary man, on the +Christmas eve when love comes to every man. If ever I had grown sick +for a word or touch from the one soul to whom alone mine was open, I +thirsted for it then. The better part of my nature was crushed out, +and flung away with you, Margret. I cried for it,—I wanted help to be +a better, purer man. I need it now. And so," he said, with a smile +that hurt her more than tears, "I came to my good angel, to tell her I +had sinned and repented, that I had made humble plans for the future, +and ask her—— God knows what I would have asked her then! She had +forgotten me,—she had another work to do!" +</P> + +<P> +She wrung her hands with a helpless cry. Holmes went to the window: +the dull waste of snow looked to him as hopeless and vague as his own +life. +</P> + +<P> +"I have deserved it," he muttered to himself. "It is too late to amend." +</P> + +<P> +Some light touch thrilled his arm. +</P> + +<P> +"Is it too late, Stephen?" whispered a childish voice. +</P> + +<P> +The strong man trembled, looking at the little dark figure standing +near him. +</P> + +<P> +"We were both wrong: I have been untrue, selfish. More than you. +Stephen, help me to be a better girl; let us be friends again." +</P> + +<P> +She went back unconsciously to the old words of their quarrels long +ago. He drew back. +</P> + +<P> +"Do not mock me," he gasped. "I suffer, Margret. Do not mock me with +more courtesy." +</P> + +<P> +"I do not; let us be friends again." +</P> + +<P> +She was crying like a penitent child; her face was turned away; love, +pure and deep, was in her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +The red fire-light grew stronger; the clock hushed its noisy ticking to +hear the story. Holmes's pale lip worked: what was this coming to him? +His breast heaved, a dry heat panted in his veins, his deep eyes +flashed fire. +</P> + +<P> +"If my little friend comes to me," he said, in a smothered voice, +"there is but one place for her,—her soul with my soul, her heart on +my heart."—He opened his arms.—"She must rest her head here. My +little friend must be—my wife." +</P> + +<P> +She looked into the strong, haggard face,—a smile crept out on her +own, arch and debonair like that of old time. +</P> + +<P> +"I am tired, Stephen," she whispered, and softly laid her head down on +his breast. +</P> + +<P> +The red fire-light flashed into a glory of crimson through the room, +about the two figures standing motionless there,—shimmered down into +awe-struck shadow: who heeded it? The old clock ticked away furiously, +as if rejoicing that weary days were over for the pet and darling of +the house: nothing else broke the silence. Without, the deep night +paused, gray, impenetrable. Did it hope that far angel-voices would +break its breathless hush, as once on the fields of Judea, to usher in +Christmas morn? A hush, in air, and earth, and sky, of waiting hope, +of a promised joy. Down there in the farm-window two human hearts had +given the joy a name; the hope throbbed into being; the hearts touching +each other beat in a slow, full chord of love as pure in God's eyes as +the song the angels sang, and as sure a promise of the Christ that is +to come. Forever,—not even death would part them; he knew that, +holding her closer, looking down into her face. +</P> + +<P> +What a pale little face it was! Through the intensest heat of his +passion the sting touched him. Some instinct made her glance up at +him, with a keen insight, seeing the morbid gloom that was the man's +sin, in his face. She lifted her head from his breast, and when he +stooped to touch her lips, shook herself free, laughing carelessly. +Alas, Stephen Holmes! you will have little time for morbid questionings +in those years to come: her cheerful work has begun: no more +self-devouring reveries: your very pauses of silent content and love +will be rare and well-earned. No more tranced raptures for +to-night,—let to-morrow bring what it would. +</P> + +<P> +"You do not seem to find your purer self altogether perfect?" she +demanded. "I think the pale skin hurts your artistic eye, or the +frozen eyes,—which is it?" +</P> + +<P> +"They have thawed into brilliant fire,—something looks at me +half-yielding and half-defiant,—you know that, you vain child! But, +Margret, nothing can atone"—— +</P> + +<P> +He stopped. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, stop. That is right, Stephen. Remorse grows maudlin when it +goes into words," laughing again at his astounded look. +</P> + +<P> +He took her hand,—a dewy, healthy hand,—the very touch of it meant +action and life. +</P> + +<P> +"What if I say, then," he said, earnestly, "that I do not find my angel +perfect, be the fault mine or hers? The child Margret, with her sudden +tears, and laughter, and angry heats, is gone,—I killed her, I +think,—gone long ago. I will not take in place of her this worn, pale +ghost, who wears clothes as chilly as if she came from the dead, and +stands alone, as ghosts do." +</P> + +<P> +She stood a little way off, her great brown eyes flashing with tears. +It was so strange a joy to find herself cared for, when she had +believed she was old and hard: the very idle jesting made her youth and +happiness real to her. Holmes saw that with his quick tact. He flung +playfully a crimson shawl that lay there about her white neck. +</P> + +<P> +"My wife must suffer her life to flush out in gleams of colour and +light: her cheeks must hint at a glow within, as yours do now. I will +have no hard angles, no pallor, no uncertain memory of pain in her +life: it shall be perpetual summer." +</P> + +<P> +He loosened her hair, and it rolled down about the bright, tearful +face, shining in the red fire-light like a mist of tawny gold. +</P> + +<P> +"I need warmth and freshness and light: my wife shall bring them to me. +She shall be no strong-willed reformer, standing alone: a sovereign +lady with kind words for the world, who gives her hand only to that man +whom she trusts, and keeps her heart and its secrets for me alone." +</P> + +<P> +She paid no heed to him other than by a deepening colour; the clock, +however, grew tired of the long soliloquy, and broke in with an +asthmatic warning as to the time of night. +</P> + +<P> +"There is midnight," she said. "You shall go, now, Stephen +Holmes,—quick! before your sovereign lady fades, like Cinderella, into +grayness and frozen eyes!" +</P> + +<P> +When he was gone, she knelt down by her window, remembering that night +long ago,—free to sob and weep out her joy,—very sure that her Master +had not forgotten to hear even a woman's prayer, and to give her her +true work,—very sure,—never to doubt again. There was a dark, sturdy +figure pacing up and down the road, that she did not see. It was there +when the night was over, and morning began to dawn. Christmas morning! +he remembered,—it was something to him now! Never again a homeless, +solitary man! You would think the man weak, if I were to tell yon how +this word "home" had taken possession of him,—how he had planned out +work through the long night: success to come, but with his wife nearest +his heart, and the homely farm-house, and the old school-master in the +centre of the picture. Such an humble castle in the air! Christmas +morning was surely something to him. Yet, as the night passed, he went +back to the years that had been wasted, with an unavailing bitterness. +He would not turn from the truth, that, with his strength of body and +brain to command happiness and growth, his life had been a failure. I +think it was first on that night that the story of the despised +Nazarene came to him with a new meaning,—One who came to gather up +these broken fragments of lives and save them with His own. But +vaguely, though: Christmas-day as yet was to him the day when love came +into the world. He knew the meaning of that. So he watched with an +eagerness new to him the day-breaking. He could see Margret's window, +and a dim light in it: she would be awake, praying for him, no doubt. +He pondered on that. Would you think Holmes weak, if he forsook the +faith of Fichte, sometime, led by a woman's hand? Think of the apostle +of the positive philosophers, and say no more. He could see a +flickering light at dawn crossing the hall: he remembered the old +school-master's habit well,—calling "Happy Christmas" at every door: +he meant to go down there for breakfast, as he used to do, imagining +how the old man would wring his hands, with a "Holloa! you're welcome +home, Stephen, boy!" and Mrs. Howth would bring out the jars of +pine-apple preserve which her sister sent her every year from the West +Indies. And then—— Never mind what then. Stephen Holmes was very +much in love, and this Christmas-day had much to bring him. Yet it was +with a solemn shadow on his face that he watched the dawn, showing that +he grasped the awful meaning of this day that "brought love into the +world." Through the clear, frosty night he could hear a low chime of +distant bells shiver the air, hurrying faint and far to tell the glad +tidings. He fancied that the dawn flushed warm to hear the +story,—that the very earth should rejoice in its frozen depths, if it +were true. If it were true!—if this passion in his heart were but a +part of an all-embracing power, in whose clear depths the world +struggled vainly!—if it were true that this Christ did come to make +that love clear to us! There would be some meaning then in the old +school-master's joy, in the bells wakening the city yonder, in even +poor Lois's thorough content in this day,—for it would be, he knew, a +thrice happy day to her. A strange story that of the Child coming into +the world,—simple! He thought of it, watching, through his cold, gray +eyes, how all the fresh morning told it,—it was in the very air; +thinking how its echo stole through the whole world,—how innumerable +children's voices told it in eager laughter,—how even the lowest slave +half-smiled, on waking, to think it was Christmas-day, the day that +Christ was born. He could hear from the church on the hill that they +were singing again the old song of the angels. Did this matter to him? +Did not he care, with the new throb in his heart, who was born this +day? There is no smile on his face as he listens to the words, "Glory +to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good-will toward men;" it +bends lower,—lower only. But in his soul-lit eyes there are warm +tears, and on his worn face a sad and solemn joy. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap11"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XI. +</H3> + +<P> +I am going to end my story now. There are phases more vivid in the +commonplace lives of these men and women, I do not doubt: love, as +poignant as pain in its joy; crime, weak and foul and foolish, like all +crime; silent self-sacrifices: but I leave them for you to paint; you +will find colours enough in your own house and heart. +</P> + +<P> +As for Christmas-day, neither you nor I need try to do justice to that +theme: how the old school-master went about, bustling, his thin face +quite hot with enthusiasm, and muttering, "God bless my soul!"—hardly +recovered from the sudden delight of finding his old pupil waiting for +him when he went down in the morning; how he insisted on being led by +him, and nobody else, all day, and before half an hour had confided, +under solemn pledges of secrecy, the great project of the book about +Bertrand de Born; how even easy Mrs. Howth found her hospitable +Virginian blood in a glow at the unexpected breakfast-guest,—settling +into more confident pleasure as dinner came on, for which success was +surer; how cold it was, outside; how Joel piled on great fires, and +went off on some mysterious errand, having "other chores to do than +idling and duddering;" how the day rose into a climax of perfection at +dinner-time, to Mrs. Howth's mind,—the turkey being done to a +delicious brown, the plum-pudding quivering like luscious jelly (a +Christian dinner to-day, if we starve the rest of the year!). Even Dr. +Knowles, who brought a great bouquet out for the school-master, was in +an unwonted good-humour; and Mr. Holmes, of whom she stood a little in +dread, enjoyed it all with such zest, and was so attentive to them all, +but Margret. They hardly spoke to each other all day; it quite fretted +the old lady; indeed, she gave the girl a good scolding about it out in +the pantry, until she was ready to cry. She had looked that way all +day, however. +</P> + +<P> +Knowles was hurt deep enough when he saw Holmes, and suspected the +worst, under all his good-humour. It was a bitter disappointment to +give up the girl; for, beside the great work, he loved her in an +uncouth fashion, and hated Holmes. He met her alone in the morning; +but when he saw how pale she grew, expecting his outbreak, and how she +glanced timidly in at the room where Stephen was, he relented. +Something in the wet brown eye perhaps recalled a forgotten dream of +his boyhood; for he sighed sharply, and did not swear as he meant to. +All he said was, that "women will be women, and that she had a worse +job on her hands than the House of Refuge,"—which she put down to the +account of his ill-temper, and only laughed, and made him shake hands. +</P> + +<P> +Lois and her father came out in the old cart in high state across the +bleak, snowy hills, quite aglow with all they had seen at the +farm-houses on the road. Margret had arranged a settle for the sick +girl by the kitchen-fire, but they all came out to speak to her. +</P> + +<P> +As for the dinner, it was the essence of all Christmas dinners: Dickens +himself, the priest of the genial day, would have been contented. The +old school-master and his wife had hearts big and warm enough to do the +perpetual honours of a baronial castle; so you may know how the little +room and the faces about the homely table glowed and brightened. Even +Knowles began to think that Holmes might not be so bad, after all, +recalling the chicken in the mill, and,—"Well, it was better to think +well of all men, poor devils!" +</P> + +<P> +I am sorry to say there was a short thunderstorm in the very midst of +the dinner. Knowles and Mr. Howth, in their anxiety to keep off from +ancient subjects of dispute, came, for a wonder, on modern politics, +and of course there was a terrible collision, which made Mrs. Howth +quite breathless: it was over in a minute, however, and it was hard to +tell which was the most repentant. Knowles, as you know, was a disciple +of Garrison, and the old school-master was a States'-rights man, as you +might suppose from his antecedents,—suspected, indeed, of being a +contributor to "DeBow's Review." I may as well come out with the whole +truth, and acknowledge that at the present writing the old gentleman is +the very hottest Secessionist I know. If it hurts the type, write it +down a vice of blood, O printers of New England! +</P> + +<P> +The dinner, perhaps, was fresher and heartier after that. Then Knowles +went back to town; and in the middle of the afternoon, as it grew dusk, +Lois started, knowing how many would come into her little shanty in the +evening to wish her Happy Christmas, although it was over. They piled +up comforts and blankets in the cart, and she lay on them quite snugly, +her scarred child's-face looking out from a great woollen hood Mrs. +Howth gave her. Old Yare held Barney, with his hat in his hand, +looking as if he deserved hanging, but very proud of the kindness they +all showed his girl. Holmes gave him some money for a Christmas gift, +and he took it, eagerly enough. For some unexpressed reason, they +stood a long time in the snow bidding Lois good-bye; and for the same +reason, it may be, she was loath to go, looking at each one earnestly +as she laughed and grew red and pale answering them, kissing Mrs. +Howth's hand when she gave it to her. When the cart did drive away, +she watched them standing there until she was out of sight, and waved +her scrap of a handkerchief; and when the road turned down the hill, +lay down and softly cried to herself. +</P> + +<P> +Now that they were alone they gathered close about the fire, while the +day without grew gray and colder,—Margret in her old place by her +father's knee. Some dim instinct had troubled the old man all day; it +did now: whenever Margret spoke, he listened eagerly, and forgot to +answer sometimes, he was so lost in thought. At last he put his hand +on her head, and whispered, "What ails my little girl?" And then his +little girl sobbed and cried, as she had been ready to do all day, and +kissed his trembling hand, and went and hid on her mother's neck, and +left Stephen to say everything for her. And I think you and I had +better come away. +</P> + +<P> +It was quite dark before they had done talking,—quite dark; the +wood-fire had charred down into a great bed of crimson; the tea stood +till it grew cold, and no one drank it. +</P> + +<P> +The old man got up at last, and Holmes led him to the library, where he +smoked every evening. He held Maggie, as he called her, in his arms a +long time, and wrung Holmes's hand. "God bless you, Stephen!" he +said,—"this is a very happy Christmas-day to me." And yet, sitting +alone, the tears ran over his wrinkled face as he smoked; and when his +pipe went out, he did not know it, but sat motionless. Mrs. Howth, +fairly confounded by the shock, went up-stairs, and stayed there a long +time. When she came down, the old lady's blue eyes were tenderer, if +that were possible, and her face very pale. She went into the library +and asked her husband if she didn't prophesy this two years ago, and he +said she did, and after a while asked her if she remembered the +barbecue-night at Judge Clapp's thirty years ago. She blushed at that, +and then went up and kissed him. She had heard Joel's horse clattering +up to the kitchen-door, so concluded she would go out and scold him. +Under the circumstances it would be a relief. +</P> + +<P> +If Mrs. Howth's nerves had been weak, she might have supposed that +free-born serving-man seized with sudden insanity, from the sight that +met her, going into the kitchen. His dinner, set on the dresser, was +flung contemptuously on the ashes; a horrible cloud of burning grease +rushed from a dirty pint-pot on the table, and before this Joel was +capering and snorting like some red-headed Hottentot before his fetich, +occasionally sticking his fingers into the nauseous stuff, and snuffing +it up as if it were roses. He was a church-member: he could NOT be +drunk? At the sight of her, he tried to regain the austere dignity +usual to him when women were concerned, but lapsed into an occasional +giggle, which spoiled the effect. +</P> + +<P> +"Where have you been," she inquired, severely, "scouring the country +like a heathen on this blessed day? And what is that you have burning? +You're disgracing the house, and strangers in it." +</P> + +<P> +Joel's good-humour was proof against even this. +</P> + +<P> +"I've scoured to some purpose, then. Dun't tell the mester: it'll +muddle his brains t'-night. Wait till mornin'. Squire More'll be down +his-self t' 'xplain." +</P> + +<P> +He rubbed the greasy fingers into his hair, while Mrs. Howth's eyes +were fixed in dumb perplexity. +</P> + +<P> +"Ye see,"—slowly, determined to make it clear to her now and +forever,—"it's water: no, t' a'n't water: it's troubled me an' Mester +Howth some time in Poke Run, atop o' 't. I hed my suspicions,—so'd +he; lay low, though, frum all women-folks. So 's I tuk a bottle down, +unbeknown, to Squire More, an' it's oil!"—jumping like a wild +Indian,—"thank the Lord fur his marcies, it's oil!" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Joel," she said, calmly, "very disagreeably smelling oil it is, +I must say." +</P> + +<P> +"Good save the woman!" he broke out, sotto voce, "she's a born natural! +Did ye never hear of a shaft? or millions o' gallons a day? It's better +nor a California ranch, I tell ye. Mebbe," charitably, "ye didn't know +Poke Run's the mester's?" +</P> + +<P> +"I certainly do. But I do not see what this green ditch-water is to +me. And I think, Joel,"—— +</P> + +<P> +"It's more to ye nor all yer States'-rights as I'm sick o' hearin' of. +It's carpets, an' bunnets, an' slithers of railroad-stock, an' some +colour on Margot's cheeks,—ye 'ed best think o' that! That's what it +is to ye! I'm goin' to take stock myself. I'm glad that gell 'll git +rest frum her mills an' her Houses o' Deviltry,—she's got gumption fur +a dozen women." +</P> + +<P> +He went on muttering, as he gathered up his pint-pot and bottle,— +</P> + +<P> +"I'm goin' to send my Tim to college soon's the thing's in runnin' +order. Lord! what a lawyer that boy'll make!" +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Howth's brain was still muddled. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"You are better pleased than you were at Lincoln's election," she +observed, placidly. +</P> + +<P> +"Lincoln be darned!" he broke out, forgetting the teachings of Mr. +Clinche. "Now, Mem, dun't ye muddle the mester's brain t'-night wi' +'t, I say. I'm goin' t' 'xperiment myself a bit." +</P> + +<P> +Which he did, accordingly,—shutting himself up in the smoke-house and +burning the compound in divers sconces and Wide-Awake torches, giving +up the entire night to his diabolical orgies. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Howth did not tell the master; for one reason: it took a long time +for so stupendous an idea to penetrate the good lady's brain; and for +another: her motherly heart was touched by another story than this +Aladdin's lamp of Joel's wherein burned petroleum. She watched from +her window until she saw Holmes crossing the icy road: there was a +little bitterness, I confess, in the thought that he had taken her +child from her; but the prayer that rose for them both took her whole +woman's heart with it. +</P> + +<P> +The road was rough over the hills; the wind that struck Holmes's face +bitingly keen: perhaps the life coming for him would be as cold a +struggle, having not only poverty to conquer, but himself. But he is a +strong man,—no stronger puts his foot down with cool, resolute tread; +and to-night there is a thrill on his lips that never rested there +before,—a kiss, dewy and warm. Something, some new belief, too, stirs +in his heart, like a subtile atom of pure fire, that he hugs +closely,—his for all time. No poverty or death shall ever drive it +away. Perhaps he entertains an angel unaware. +</P> + +<P> +After that night Lois never left her little shanty. The days that +followed were like one long Christmas; for her poor neighbors, black +and white, had some plot among themselves, and worked zealously to make +them seem so to her. It was easy to make these last days happy for the +simple little soul who had always gathered up every fragment of +pleasure in her featureless life, and made much of it, and rejoiced +over it. She grew bewildered, sometimes, lying on her wooden settle by +the fire; people lead always been friendly, taken care of her, but now +they were eager in their kindness, as though the time were short. She +did not understand the reason, at first; she did not want to die: yet +if it hurt her, when it grew clear at last, no one knew it; it was not +her way to speak of pain. Only, as she grew weaker, day by day, she +began to set her house in order, as one might say, in a quaint, almost +comical fashion, giving away everything she owned, down to her +treasures of colored bottles and needle-books, mending her father's +clothes, and laying them out in her drawers; lastly, she had Barney +brought in from the country, and every day would creep to the window to +see him fed and chirrup to him, whereat the poor old beast would look +up with his dim eye, and try to neigh a feeble answer. Kitts used to +come every day to see her, though he never said much when he was there: +he lugged his great copy of the Venus del Pardo along with him one day, +and left it, thinking she would like to look at it; Knowles called it +trash, when he came. The Doctor came always in the morning; he told +her he would read to her one day, and did it always afterwards, putting +on his horn spectacles, and holding her old Bible close up to his +rugged, anxious face. He used to read most from the Gospel of St. +John. She liked better to hear him than any of the others, even than +Margret, whose voice was so low and tender: something in the man's +half-savage nature was akin to the child's. +</P> + +<P> +As the day drew near when she was to go, every pleasant trifle seemed +to gather a deeper, solemn meaning. Jenny Balls came in one night, and +old Mrs. Polston. +</P> + +<P> +"We thought you'd like to see her weddin'-dress, Lois," said the old +woman, taking off Jenny's cloak, "seein' as the weddin' was to hev been +to-morrow, and was put off on 'count of you." +</P> + +<P> +Lois did like to see it; sat up, her face quite flushed to see how +nicely it fitted, and stroked back Jenny's soft hair under the veil. +And Jenny, being a warm-hearted little thing, broke into a sobbing fit, +saying that it spoiled it all to have Lois gone. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't muss your veil, child," said Mrs. Polston. +</P> + +<P> +But Jenny cried on, hiding her face in Lois's skinny hand, until Sam +Polston came in, when she grew quiet and shy. The poor deformed girl +lay watching them, as they talked. Very pretty Jenny looked, with her +blue eyes and damp pink cheeks; and it was a manly, grave love in Sam's +face, when it turned to her. A different love from any she had known: +better, she thought. It could not be helped; but it WAS better. +</P> + +<P> +After they were gone, she lay a long time quiet, with her hand over her +eyes. Forgive her! she, too, was a woman. Ah, it may be there are +more wrongs that shall be righted yonder in the To-Morrow than are set +down in your theology! +</P> + +<P> +And so it was, that, as she drew nearer to this To-Morrow, the brain of +the girl grew clearer,—struggling, one would think, to shake off +whatever weight had been put on it by blood or vice or poverty, and +become itself again. Perhaps, even in her cheerful, patient life, +there had been hours when she had known the wrongs that had been done +her, known how cruelly the world had thwarted her; her very keen +insight into whatever was beautiful or helpful may have made her see +her own mischance, the blank she had drawn in life, more bitterly. She +did not see it bitterly now. Death is honest; all things grew clear to +her, going down into the valley of the shadow; so, wakening to the +consciousness of stifled powers and ungiven happiness, she saw that the +fault was not hers, nor His who had appointed her lot; He had helped +her to bear it,—bearing worse himself. She did not say once, "I might +have been," but day by day, more surely, "I shall be." There was not a +tear on the homely faces turning from her bed, not a tint of colour in +the flowers they brought her, not a shiver of light in the ashy sky, +that did not make her more sure of that which was to come. More loving +she grew, as she went away from them, the touch of her hand more +pitiful, her voice more tender, if such a thing could be,—with a look +in her eyes never seen there before. Old Yare pointed it out to Mrs. +Polston one day. +</P> + +<P> +"My girl's far off frum us," he said, sobbing in the kitchen,—"my +girl's far off now." +</P> + +<P> +It was the last night of the year that she died. She was so much +better that they all were quite cheerful. Kitts went away as it grew +dark, and she bade him wrap up his throat with such a motherly +dogmatism that they all laughed at her; she, too, with the rest. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll make you a New-Year's call," he said, going out; and she called +out that she should be sure to expect him. +</P> + +<P> +She seemed so strong that Holmes and Mrs. Polston and Margret, who were +there, were going home; besides, old Yare said, "I'd like to take care +o' my girl alone to-night, ef yoh'd let me,"—for they had not trusted +him before. But Lois asked them not to go until the Old Year was over; +so they waited down-stairs. +</P> + +<P> +The old man fell asleep, and it was near midnight when he wakened with +a cold touch on his hand. +</P> + +<P> +"It's come, father!" +</P> + +<P> +He started up with a cry, looking at the new smile in her eyes, grown +strangely still. +</P> + +<P> +"Call them all, quick, father!" +</P> + +<P> +Whatever was the mystery of death that met her now, her heart clung to +the old love that had been true to her so long. +</P> + +<P> +He did not move. +</P> + +<P> +"Let me hev yoh to myself, Lo, 't th' last; yoh're all I hev; let me +hev yoh 't th' last." +</P> + +<P> +It was a bitter disappointment, but she roused herself even then to +smile, and tell him yes, cheerfully. You call it a trifle, nothing? It +may be; yet I think the angels looking down had tears in their eyes, +when they saw the last trial of the unselfish, solitary heart, and kept +for her a different crown from his who conquers a city. +</P> + +<P> +The fire-light grew warmer and redder; her eyes followed it, as if all +that had been bright and kindly in her life were coming back in it. +She put her hand on her father, trying vainly to smooth his gray hair. +The old man's heart smote him for something, for his sobs grew louder, +and he left her a moment; then she saw them all, faces very dear to her +even then. She laughed and nodded to them all in the old childish way; +then her lips moved. "It's come right!" she tried to say; but the weak +voice would never speak again on earth. +</P> + +<P> +"It's the turn o' the night," said Mrs. Polston, solemnly; "lift her +head; the Old Year's 'goin' out." +</P> + +<P> +Margret lifted her head, and held it on her breast. She could hear +cries and sobs; the faces, white now, and wet, pressed nearer, yet +fading slowly: it was the Old Year going out, the worn-out year of her +life. Holmes opened the window: the cold night-wind rushed in, bearing +with it snatches of broken harmony: some idle musician down in the +city, playing fragments of some old, sweet air, heavy with love and +regret. It may have been chance: yet, let us think it was not chance; +let us believe that He, who had made the world warm and happy for her, +chose that this best voice of all should bid her good-bye at the last. +</P> + +<P> +So the Old Year went out in that music. The dull eyes, loving to the +end, wandered vaguely as the sounds died away, as if losing +something,—losing all, suddenly. She sighed as the clock struck, and +then a strange calm, unknown before, stole over her face; her eyes +flashed open with a living joy. Margret stooped to close them, kissing +the cold lids; and Tiger, who had climbed upon the bed, whined and +crept down. +</P> + +<P> +"It is the New Year," said Holmes, bending his head. +</P> + +<P> +The cripple was dead; but LOIS, free, loving, and beloved, trembled +from her prison to her Master's side in the To-Morrow. +</P> + +<P> +I can show you her grave out there in the hills,—a short, stunted +grave, like a child's. No one goes there, although there are many +firesides where they speak of "Lois" softly, as of something holy and +dear: but they think of her always as not there; as gone home; even old +Yare looks up, when he talks of "my girl." Yet, knowing that nothing +in God's just universe is lost, or fails to meet the late fulfilment of +its hope, I like to think of her poor body lying there: I like to +believe that the great mother was glad to receive the form that want +and crime of men had thwarted,—took her uncouth child home again, that +had been so cruelly wronged,—folded it in her warm bosom with tender, +palpitating love. +</P> + +<P> +It pleased me in the winter months to think that the worn-out limbs, +the old scarred face of Lois rested, slept: crumbled into fresh atoms, +woke at last with a strange sentience, and, when God smiled permission +through the summer sun, flashed forth in a wild ecstasy of the true +beauty that she loved so well. In no questioning, sad pallor of sombre +leaves or gray lichens: throbbed out rather in answering crimsons, in +lilies, white, exultant in a chordant life! +</P> + +<P> +Yet, more than this: I strive to grope, with dull, earthy sense, at her +freed life in that earnest land where souls forget to hunger or to +hope, and learn to be. And so thinking, the certainty of her aim and +work and love yonder comes with a new, vital reality, beside which the +story of the yet living men and women of whom I have told you grows +vague and incomplete, like unguessed riddles. I have no key to solve +them with,—no right to solve them. +</P> + +<P> +My story is but a mere groping hint? It lacks determined truth, a +certain yea and nay? It has no conduit of God's justice running through +it, awarding apparent good and ill? I know: it is a story of To-Day. +The Old Year is on us yet. Poor old Knowles will tell you it is a dark +day; bewildered at the inexplicable failure of the cause for which his +old blood ran like water that dull morning at Ball's Bluff. He doubts +everything in the bitterness of wasted effort; doubts sometimes, even, +if the very flag he fights for, be not the symbol of a gigantic +selfishness: if the Wrong he calls his enemy, have not caught a certain +truth to give it strength. A dark day, he tells you: that the air is +filled with the cry of the slave, and of nations going down into +darkness, their message untold, their work undone: that now, as +eighteen centuries ago, the Helper stands unwelcome in the world; that +your own heart, as well as the great humanity, asks an unrendered +justice. Does he utter all the problems of To-Day? Vandyke, standing +higher, perhaps, or, at any rate, born with hopefuller brain, would +show you how, by the very instant peril of the hour, is lifted clearer +into view the eternal prophecy of coming content: could tell you that +the unquiet earth, and the unanswering heaven are instinct with it: +that the ungranted prayer of your own life should teach it to you: that +in that Book wherein God has not scorned to write the history of +America, he finds the quiet surety that the rescue of the world is near +at hand. +</P> + +<P> +Holmes, like most men who make destiny, does not pause in his cool, +slow work for their prophecy or lamentation. "Such men will mould the +age," old Knowles says, drearily, for he does not like Holmes: follows +him unwillingly, even knowing him nearer the truth than he. "Born for +mastership, as I told you long ago: they strike the blow, while——. +I'm tired of theorists, exponents of the abstract right: your Hamlets, +and your Sewards, that let occasion slip until circumstance or—mobs +drift them as they will." +</P> + +<P> +But Knowles's growls are unheeded, as usual. +</P> + +<P> +What is this To-Day to Margret? She has no prophetic insight, cares +for none, I am afraid: the common things of every-day wear their old +faces to her, dear and real. Her haste is too eager to allay the pain +about her, her husband's touch too strong and tender, the Master beside +her too actual a presence, for her to waste her life in visions. +Something of Lois's live, universal sympathy has come into her narrow, +intenser nature; through its one love, it may be. What is To-Morrow +until it comes? This moment the evening air thrills with a purple of +which no painter as yet has caught the tint, no poet the meaning; no +silent face passes her on the street on which a human voice might not +have charm to call out love and power: the Helper yet waits near her. +Here is work, life: the Old Year you despise holds beauty, pain, +content yet unmastered: let us leave Margret to master them. +</P> + +<P> +It does not satisfy you? Child-souls, you tell me, like that of Lois, +may find it enough to hold no past and no future, to accept the work of +each moment, and think it no wrong to drink every drop of its beauty +and joy: we, who are wiser, laugh at them. It may be: yet I say unto +you, their angels only do always behold the face of our Father in the +New Year. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Margret Howth, A Story of To-day, by +Rebecca Harding Davis + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARGRET HOWTH, A STORY OF TO-DAY *** + +***** This file should be named 515-h.htm or 515-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/515/ + +Produced by Charles Keller. HTML version by Al Haines. + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +https://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +https://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at https://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit https://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + +</pre> + +</BODY> + +</HTML> + + |