Why need she trouble herself about a few collars for a young lady in her own circle to wear with her morning dresses? That was just it, he told himself. It was because she "was" in her circle, and because the collars were to be honoured by being worn by such as she, that they became important, and the boys and their desperate needs sunk into insignificance. Well, he wished they would both go and leave him to himself—give him a chance to rally from his momentary excitement, of which he was now ashamed.
At last the collars were bought, but not until the counter was strown with different sorts; and the lady, with many bright little nothings for last words, moved off to another part of the store, and Mrs. Roberts whirled on her seat until her eyes were in full view again, and said:—
"What were some of her plans, Mr. Reid?"
CHAPTER V.
"A CHRISTIAN HOME."
"I DON'T suppose you can go into details just now," she added, noting young Reid's hesitation and embarrassment; "but I was wondering if you could give me some general idea of what she wanted to do, or thought could be done."
"There were a great many things that she wanted to do, and I believe she thought they could be done; but I don't think she knew the world very well," said this aged cynic. "She judged everybody from the standpoint of her own unselfishness. I remember she was not in sympathy with soup-houses and dinner-tickets, and great public charities of that sort. Or, I don't know that I should say she was not in sympathy with them. I mean, rather, that those would not have been her ways of working.
"She was thinking of young people, and to give them a dinner now and then she would not have considered a very great step toward elevating them morally and spiritually. Mrs. Roberts, it was just that which she wanted to do—lift them up. She thought there could be invented ways of reaching them, so that they would want helping, want teaching—'crave' it, I mean; and she thought that Christian homes of wealth and culture could be opened to them, and they gradually drawn in—made to feel on a level with others in the social scale.
"In short, she believed that instead of people going down to them in a condescending spirit, they could be drawn up to the level of others, so that they would realize their manhood, and be led to make earnest efforts to take their rightful places in the world. I know I am bungling dreadfully; I don't know how to tell you her plans, only that they were splendid. But I am afraid the world will have to be made over before they can be carried out."
"Perhaps so. Christ is at work making the world over, you know." The lady before him, whose eyes never for an instant moved from his face, spoke with exceeding sweetness and gravity. Neither by word nor glance did she give him to understand that she thought his schemes wild. "But I find that, after all, I want details. I catch a glimpse of the grandness of your sister's meaning. What were some of the steps—the little steps, such as you and I could take, toward accomplishing it? Yet even while I ask the question, I see something of what the answer must be.—
"'Christian homes opening to receive them!'
"That is a new thought to me, and in the plural number I do not see how just now it could be done; but 'one' Christian home—I ought to be able to manage that. Mr. Reid, that is the way to begin it, you may depend. Indeed, I suppose you have tried it. The city is full of boys, and many of them are away down. Since we cannot reach all of them this week, we must try to reach seven; and, failing in that, suppose we say one. For which one have you been working? Just who, at this moment, specially interests you? I hope it is one of my boys, because, you see, they appeal to me just now as no others can. Which is it, Mr. Reid? And what have you tried to do for him? And to what extent have you succeeded?"
There were never any hotter cheeks than young Reid's just at that moment. This was the most extraordinary person with whom he had ever talked. It was impossible to generalize with her. Not that he wanted to generalize; on the contrary, he at once saw the possibilities growing out of individual effort, and caught at the idea of undertaking something.
But the question was, Why had he not thought of it before? One person to reach after and try for! Surely he might have attempted that, instead of trying to carry the hundreds that he stumbled against, and so accomplish nothing for any of them. It was humiliating the confession that he had to make:—
"Indeed, Mrs. Roberts, I have not one in mind. If you asked me what one hundred I was most anxious about, I might possibly be able to answer; but I see that there has been no individuality about it—unless, perhaps, the half-dozen or more boys who compose that class are taking a little stronger hold on me than any of the others. But even for them I have tried to do nothing—unless two or three attempts to secure a permanent teacher for them, which have ended in failure, may count for effort. I don't blame myself as much as I might, because, now that you suggest personal work to me, I realize that there is nothing for one situated as I am to do. I have no Christian home at my command."
"Ah, but we are to come down to very small numbers, you know—to fractions, if need be. You have a piece of Christian home at command, I trust?"
But he looked at her inquiringly, and she explained:—
"Why, you have the privacy of your own room, which is, of course, your corner of home just now, and it is a Christian corner. Is there not room in it sometimes for two?"
He smiled faintly over that.
"Mrs. Roberts, there is one thing with which you evidently are not familiar, and that is, the corner which a poor clerk in the city has to call home. Mine is the fourth story back of a fourth-rate boarding-house, where the thermometer drops often below the freezing-point; and this place I share with as uncongenial a fellow as ever breathed. What would you think of labelling such accommodations 'home'? And what can I do in it for others?"
"Not much, perhaps," smiling, "unless for the uncongenial fellow. I should think there might be a chance in this direction."
"Ah, but," he said eagerly, "he is a Christian. My sympathies do not need to be drawn out in that direction."
The smile was a peculiar one now, but the tone was very quiet in which the little lady said that some time, when they had leisure to talk, she should like to ask him whether his experience with Christians had been so exceptionally bright that he thought there was no work to do in that direction.
"But just now," she added earnestly, "I want to know, since you are shut away from home effort, for which of these boys you are praying especially, and which of them do you carry about on your heart, with the hope of a chance meeting, an unexpected opportunity to speak a word, or do a kindness, or look a kindness, that shall give you possible future influence? Don't you have to work in those ways?
"Two people never equally interest me at the same moment. I find I must be intensely individual, not to the exclusion of others, but in praying. For instance, yesterday I prayed and this morning I prayed for my entire class; but there was one all the time who was uppermost. I find myself questioning, What can I do for them all, but especially for him? Do you know, I fancy that most Christians feel the same; individual effort is so necessary that I have thought perhaps the Holy Spirit turns our thoughts most directly toward one person at a time, so that we may concentrate our efforts. Do you think this is so?"
Young Reid did not answer so promptly; he had no answer ready that suited him. His strongest feeling just then was one of self-reproach, mingled with humiliation. How had he looked down on this fair and beautiful little woman—her very beauty being, he had fancied, an element against her when it came to actual effort! How had he allowed himself to sneer over her attempt at teaching that class of boys! How actually irritable he had been over it! How almost angrily he had questioned why it was that a teacher was not found for them fitted to their needs, when he had prayed about it so much, determined not to believe that the prayer had been answered and the teacher found! Yet here she was, the one whose efforts he had despised, talking already about individual prayer for them; while he, who had done a great amount of fretting for them, had not once presented them as individuals to Christ, and asked a definite blessing for each!
His answer, when it came, was low and full of feeling:—
"I have concentrated my desires in praying for the coming of such a teacher as might get hold of them, and I begin to think that I have an answer to my prayers."
But she was absolutely proof against compliments. She wasted not a moment's thought on that, but said,—
"Mr. Reid, who are they? I tried to get their names yesterday, but soon saw that they were not in the mood to help me. I don't think I have one correct name. Can you give me a list?"
No, he could not—which admission did not lessen the glow on his cheeks. Possibly he could mention the names of two, and guess at a third, but of the others he knew nothing.
"To whom, then, can I go? Mr. Durant would know, of course. Where shall I find him?"
So much Alfred knew. Mr. Durant was to be found at the Fourth National Bank; but as for giving information in regard to that class, he was sure it was beyond him. He (Alfred) had asked only last Sabbath who the boy was who behaved so wretchedly, and also who was the fellow next him, but Mr. Durant had not known.
"Well, then," Mrs. Roberts said, nothing daunted, not even a shadow appearing on her quiet face, she must just study it out with his help.
"There is immediate work for you," she said, "for of course I want to know their names. Who are the two? This Dirk Colson whom you mentioned, which was he?"
Alfred described him as well as his bewilderment would allow, and was interrupted,—
"Oh, the small dark one. I know; he interested me. Where does he live?"
But to this question no clear answer could be given. Down in one of the alleys towards the South End; but just which alley, or how far down it, Alfred did not know. He knew it was a disreputable alley, and that there wasn't a decent home anywhere about it, and that was all.
"What does Dirk do for a living?"
This question was quite as difficult to answer as the other. Nothing, young Reid believed—at least nothing regular. Odd jobs he doubtless picked up occasionally, but as for regular employment, Alfred was sure he had none.
"Is that his fault—I mean, doesn't he desire work, and make an effort to secure it?"
But this young Reid could not even pretend to answer. Work, for such as he, was scarce; boys with better habits, brought up to be industrious, were at this present time out of work. Possibly the fellow was not to blame for being an idler.
Many other questions were asked, and many attempts were made at answers. But when the shoppers began to press in to such a degree that their conversation was broken, and the energetic seeker after information felt herself obliged to retire, one thing had been accomplished—Alfred Reid had been made to realize that he knew much less than he had supposed he did about the seven boys who had seemed to be filling his thoughts for several weeks. And also, in his eager, passionate desire that everything should be done for all of them, he had overlooked the chances for doing here and there some little thing for one of them.
"Good-morning," Mrs. Roberts had said, turning cordially to a fashionably dressed lady. "Collars? Oh yes, this is the counter for them to be found in endless variety. They have a new pattern that I have been admiring.—Mr. Reid, please show Mrs. Emory the curtain collars with embroidered points."
Which thing Mr. Reid proceeded to do with alacrity and respect, no trace of the earlier contemptuous feeling shadowing his face. Here was a woman who knew stylish collars when she saw them, and who also knew several other things, and had taught him a lesson this very morning that he would not be likely to forget.
But Mrs. Roberts, as she made her way out from the fast-filling store, felt that she had not made great progress toward getting acquainted with her class.
Still, it must be admitted that if young Reid had gotten some new ideas, so also had she.
"A Christian home!"
She found herself repeating the phrase, lingering over it, wondering if her new home, in every sense of the word, merited that title.
"It cannot simply mean a home where Christ is honoured," she said to herself. "I surely have that. It rather means a home where everything pertaining to it serves his cause. The very furniture and the light and the brightness are made to do duty for him, else they have no place there; and I, labelled Christian, have no right to them. Can I bear the test, I wonder?
"What is there that I can do with all the beauties of my parlours? There are things that I have not done. I can see some to do; but how can my Christian home serve these boys? When I get them into it, of course it will be work for me; but how to get them in! Who are they? I wonder what spring I can touch to give me even this meagre bit of information."
As if in answer to her mental query, she came just then full upon Policeman Duffer. She recognized him instantly; a man who, though by no means small, was so far from having the majestic presence of most policemen that, in the estimation of the boys, he merited the name "Little Duffer."
Mrs. Roberts carried to her new work one talent not always to be found among even efficient workers—the ability to remember both names and faces. Especially did a name seem, without any effort on her part, to fasten itself upon her memory; and not only that, but it brought with it a train of memories enabling her to locate when and where, and under what circumstances, she heard the name, and therefore generally whom the name fitted.
Recognizing the features of the policeman whom she had seen at the door of the South End Mission, she connected him at once with the term "Little Duffer" heard in her class, and addressed him.
"Mr. Duffer, I believe."
It is safe to say that Policeman Duffer, entirely accustomed as he was to hearing himself addressed officially a hundred or a thousand times in a day, was yet utterly unaccustomed to the prefix of "Mr.," and started in surprise.
"Are you not the gentleman whom I saw at the South End last Sabbath?"
The policeman admitted that he probably was. He was detailed for duty there. Then she plunged at once into business. Did he know the boys who attended that school? Some of them he did, better than he wanted to; and a precious set they were, in Policeman Duffer's opinion.
"Might as well go out to the Zoo," he declared, "and get a set of animals and try to tame 'em."
Mrs. Roberts was not in the mood to argue; she was bent on information. Did he know, she wondered, the boys who composed her class? She had just taken the class, and was so unfortunate as not to be acquainted with their names. One was Dirk Colson; and another, she had heard, was Haskell—Timothy Haskell, perhaps, though of that she was not certain. Did that give Mr. Duffer any clue?
"Plenty of clue," he said, shaking his head. "So you've taken that class, ma'am," a curious mixture of amazement and credulity in his voice. "What possessed you, if I may be so bold? They're a hard lot, ma'am. I know them, as I said, altogether too well. I've had enough to do with some of them, and I expect more work from them. They gain in wickedness in a most surprising way. Their names? Yes; there's Scrawley, and Sneaking Billy, and Black Dirk—him you know."
Mrs. Roberts interrupted him. She begged his pardon, but could those really be the boys' names? Were they not rather some unfortunate street names that had been fastened upon them?
Thus brought back to his senses, Policeman Duffer laughed, and admitted that he supposed Sneaking Billy was properly named Sneyder. But he was once caught in a mean trick, from which he tried in so many ways to squirm out, that the boys had themselves named him Sneaking Billy, and the name had stuck.
As for "Scrawley," his real name was Stephen Crowley. How it became contracted into "Scrawley," the boys could tell better than anybody else. They always called him that, and so did other people; and Policeman Duffer was inclined to doubt whether the fellow remembered that he had any other name.
"You can see yourself, ma'am," he added, "how Black Dirk came by his name. He is the blackest white fellow as ever I saw, and I've seen crowds of 'em."
The streets were full, and Policeman Duffer was being interviewed by a great many people in regard to all the questions that policemen are expected to answer. But by dint of patient waiting, one foot poised on a curbstone to keep it out of the mud, making hurried little memoranda while Policeman Duffer was engaged, and earnestly plying her questions when he was at leisure, Mrs. Roberts learned the names of her seven boys, and where several of them lived.
CHAPTER VI.
"SATAN, HE HAS 'EM ALL THE WEEK."
"THAT Black Dirk is a case," said Policeman Duffer, turning hastily away from an unusually stupid man who could not be made to understand where a certain street was. "He is the worst of the lot, I believe. Jerry Tompkins is slyer, and Dick Bolton is quicker than lightning at mischief—Nimble Dick they call him—he's a sort of ringleader—what he does the rest are apt to do; but to my thinking Dirk is ahead of them all for evil. The rest are kind of jolly; fun seems to be about half that they are after: but Dirk, he's sullen; you never know how to take him, nor when he may burst out on you. He's dangerous. I am always looking out for something awful that he will do."
Poor Dirk! Yet he was the boy to whom Mrs. Roberts's desires had gone out the most anxiously. It was over his image that she had lingered that morning in her closet. Policeman Duller would have been greatly astonished had he known there was that in his words which gave her courage.
"Perhaps," she said to herself with quickening breath, "oh, perhaps the poor boy is the most in danger of them all, and the Saviour, knowing it, sees ways in which I may reach him, and so presses his poor, sullen face on my memory."
"What does he do for a living?" she hastened to ask.
"Well, to the best of my knowledge, he loafs for a living. That's all I've ever known him guilty of doing. He's got a drunken father—one of the meanest kind of drunkards. If he would go and stay drunk all the time, and leave them alone, they might manage; but he has spells of getting half over it, and coming home and tearing around like all possessed. Then they have times! I've been in there when it took all my strength to manage him. If he would get killed in one of his rows, I'd have some hope of the rest of 'em; but he won't. That kind of folks never do get killed; it's the decent ones.
"A fellow was carried by here just now with a broken leg—a nice, decent boy, works hard to help his sister. He's the sort now that gets his leg broken, and gets laid up for the rest of the winter. How do you account for that? He lives pretty near Black Dirk's. Of course, he's got a drunken father—they all have in that row; but if I was going in for benevolence, I'd twice as soon do something for young Calkins as for any of your set; they're a bad lot. They aren't worth lifting a finger for. Now, that's a fact."
"And yet," said Mrs. Roberts, her voice tremulous with a feeling that just then surged over her, "how can I help remembering that if the Lord Jesus had said that of us, and stayed up there in his glory, we should have been utterly without help or hope to-day?"
Very much astonished was Policeman Duffer. Ladies on all sorts of errands had consulted him; he had been presented with many tracts in his day; but rarely had a clear-voiced, earnest-eyed woman quietly confronted him with that name, as if it contained an unanswerable argument. However, he was not embarrassed; it took a great deal to embarrass him.
"I don't take much stock in him," he said, with a lofty toss of his head, and a careless tone, as though the question were one easy to dispose of. "I don't believe in him myself."
"Do you know him?"
Earnest eyes were raised to his face, fixed steadily on his face, while the questioner waited quietly for an answer.
Policeman Duffer was embarrassed now; he was not used to being confronted with such matter of fact questions.
"Do I know him?" with a confused little laugh. "Why, I reckon not, ma'am; according to the popular notion, he is too faraway for folks to be well acquainted."
"Then popular notion is mistaken; for I know him very well indeed, and he is by no means faraway. But what I meant was, Have you studied his life and character, and do you fully understand the arguments for believing in him?"
"I study the folks who profess to belong to him, ma'am, and I find that about as much as I can stand."
This was said with a saucy little laugh, and with the air of a man who believed he had produced an unanswerable argument. The steady eyes did not move from his face, and the voice which answered him had lost none of its quietness.
"But do you think it is wise to spend your time in studying the imperfect copies, without looking at the perfect pattern? You would not take the child's careless imitation as a proof that his teacher could not write. I thank you for helping me to-day. I wish you would help my boys when you can; and I wish you would study my Master instead of me. Good-morning."
"That's a queer party!" did Policeman Duffer exclaim, as he watched her far down the street. "I would like to know who she is; she ain't like the rest somehow. 'Her' boys! Much she knows about 'em. Her bears, she might as well call 'em. What does she think she can do with that set in her little hour—Sunday afternoon? Satan, he has 'em all the week, and looks after 'em sharp; and then these Christians come in of a Sunday, and mince a little, and think they can upset his doings by it. Shows their sense! But she's a curious little party—sharp, without knowing it. I'll keep an eye on her, and save her from scrapes if I can."
Meantime, all unconscious of his good intentions, Mrs. Roberts pursued her way down the thronged avenue, and presently turned from it entirely, and moved down one of the side streets with resolute steps. A daring thought had come into her mind; she would try to find the alley where one at least of her boys lived. It couldn't be worse than some of the alleys at home which she had penetrated. She felt certain that by following the policeman's directions she could find the place, and possibly be able to minister to the boy with a broken limb.
At all events, it was necessary for her to know how her boys lived, and where they lived, if she were to reach them. But there are alleys and alleys, as the venturesome lady found to her cost. This one into which she was plunging excelled anything in that line which she had ever imagined—swarming with life in its most repulsive forms, and growing every moment more terrifying to a well-dressed woman braving its horrors alone.
She stopped in dismay at last, admitting, reluctantly, that the wisest thing she could do was to turn round and go home. Possibly the wisest, but not, it appeared, practicable. Where was home? Down which of the cross-streets had she come? Did this one where she stood lead to it? Or did it lead, as it appeared to her, in an entirely opposite direction? She looked up and down and across for some familiar landmark, and looked in vain, growing momentarily more frightened at the attention she was attracting by standing irresolutely there.
Flossy Shipley, in her girlhood days, had been almost a hopeless coward; and Flossy Roberts felt, by the throbbing of her heart, that she had not yet outgrown her girlish character. Suddenly she gave a little exclamation of delight, and with a spring forward, laid her hand on the arm of one whom she recognized—none other than "Nimble Dick" himself.
"I am so glad," she said to the amazed young scamp, a little quiver of satisfaction in her voice, "so glad to have met you. Do you know you are a friend in need? I have lost my way. I cannot decide which way to turn to reach Fifth Avenue again. Will you help me please?"
When had Nimble Dick lost an opportunity for fun at the expense of another? Here was a chance for a jolly lark! A woman scared to death because she was in Green Alley. What would she think of Burk Street? Suppose he should send her there—only three blocks away, through a lovelier part of the city than she had seen yet? He would venture. If the crowds here showed her too much attention, it would be worth something to see how she got through Burk Street.
"Oh yes," he said briskly. "I can show you the way in a twinkling. You just go down this alley till you come to the big house at the corner that has the windows all knocked out of it; then you turn and go down that street till you get to the third crossing; then turn again to the right, and you'll be on Fifth Avenue before you know it."
Had Mrs. Roberts been looking at his face, she would have seen the wicked light dancing in his eyes, over the thought that he had thus mapped out for her a walk through the very worst portion of the city—every step, of course, lending her further and further away from Fifth Avenue.
The sights that she might see, and the mishaps which might occur to her—a handsomely-dressed woman, alone—before she made her way through the horrors of these streets, were too much even for Nimble Dick's imagination, who knew the locality well. He did not try to calculate them, but gave himself up to the enjoyment of imagining how long it would be before she would reach home if she followed his directions.
"She won't see no swallowing serpents that I knows of," he reflected gleefully; "but I'll miss my reckoning if she don't see what will scare her worse than they would."
But Mrs. Roberts was already "scared." She felt her heart beating hard, and knew that her cheeks were aglow with excitement and vague terror. She was not used to walking such streets alone. She looked ahead at the way pointed out, and could see that the swarming life grew more turbid as far as her eye could reach. She felt that she could not brave its terrors unprotected. Suddenly, she turned from looking down the alley, and her hand—a small, delicately-gloved hand—was again laid on Nimble Dick's arm. He could feel it trembling.
"I suppose I shall seem very foolish to you," she said gently, "but I am afraid to walk down there alone. Would you mind going along with me to protect me? I am only a woman, you know, and we are apt to be cowards."
A very curious sensation came over Nimble Dick. He looked up the alley, and down the alley, and was glad that not one of the "fellows" was in sight. What was to become of his lark? But there was that hand still resting on his arm, with a persuasive touch in it; and he had never been appealed to for protection before—never in his life! Was it possible that with him she would not be afraid? He turned and looked at her searchingly, a scowl on his face: no, she was not "shamming;" her eyes were full of anxious fear, and also of petition.
Nimble Dick was amazed at himself, and ashamed of himself. He did not know how to account for his sudden change of intention, but he suddenly turned in an opposite direction from the one which he had pointed out, and said, "Come on, then; I'll show you a shorter way," and strode forward.
"Oh, thank you!" she said, relief and gratitude in her voice. "I shall be so much obliged to you for coming with me; I am quite bewildered—cannot decide which way I came, or any about it. I was trying to find the house of a young man who has been hurt. A policeman told me that he lived in this street, and that his name is Calkins. I was think about him, and walked on without noticing, until I did not know where I was. Do you know anything of the man?"
"You are too far down for him," said Nimble Dick. "He's quality, and lives at the upper end of the alley. That's his house away up there. He's hurt bad, they say; but I s'pose he'll get well. He's got a quality doctor, a regular swell, who never come into these alleys before. He was going along when they brought Mark home, and he followed them in, and he come there again last night and this morning. I dunno what for, I'm sure. Mark Calkins can't pay no doctor's bills, if he does work regular, and pay more rent than the rest of folks."
There was a curious mixture of complaint and satisfaction in Dick's tone. Mrs. Roberts gathered from it that the young man, Mark Calkins, in whom the policeman had tried to interest her, was superior to the rest of the miserable people in the alley, and that they resented it as an insult to themselves; but that, at the same time, the reflected honour of having a "swell" doctor come into their midst, attendant upon one who really belonged to their class, was very great.
Could she possibly get a little influence over them by following up the injured young man, and giving what help was needful? She had hardly meant to call, though trying to find the house. Her method of reasoning had been something like this:
"The policeman said he lived about two blocks from my poor Dirk's home. Since there has so recently been an accident, there may be something to mark the house—a doctor passing in, possibly, or something that shall give me a landmark, and I can have a glimpse of the outside of one of the homes."
In her ignorance of life at that end of the social scale, she did not know that a doctor passing in and out, even after an accident, was a sufficiently rare occurrence to make much more of a mark than she was looking for. So absorbed had she been over the boys belonging to her class, that she had rather ignored the policeman's manliest hint to add this one to her list. Yet, was it possibly an answer to her prayer, an entering wedge of some sort, that might open the way to influence?
"Who is the doctor?" she asked her guide, as the possibility of making an entrance through him occurred to her. "Do you know his name?"
Oh yes, Dick knew his name, and where he lived, and even the names of some of his "swell" patients;—trust him for gaining information about anything that came into the alley.
"It's Dr. Everett," he said promptly, that curious touch of pride appearing again in his voice. "He lives away up among the Twenty-thirders, and he goes to Cady's house to doctor, and lots of them places where the big ones lives. I dunno how he happens to come here."
Mrs. Roberts had never heard the name, but she reflected that she was a new-comer, and wisely desisted from taking from the glory of Dr. Everett by admitting that he was not known to all the world. He might be a good doctor and a philanthropic one; his visits to this region looked like it.
"Do you know where any of the boys in our class live?"
This was her next carefully-worded question. She did not know whether to hint that she had heard of one who lived in that alley, or whether this would be considered an insult.
"Well," said Nimble Dick, the sly twinkle coming back to his eyes that the strangeness of the situation had driven away for a moment, "I calculate that I know where I live myself; sometimes I do, anyhow."
"To be sure!" she said, laughing at his humour. "I should have said where any of the others live. Of course you will give me your address, after being so kind as to see me to—some point with which I am acquainted."
She had nearly said a place of safety, but checked herself in time. I am not sure, though, that Dick would have noticed it; he was lost in astonishment over the idea of giving anybody his address.
"This is Dirk Colson's house," he said suddenly; "and he is one of our fellows."
Mrs. Roberts uttered an exclamation. The house was one of the most forlorn in the row, seeming, if the miserable state of the buildings would admit of comparison, to be more out of repair than the others. It came home to her just then, with a sudden, desolating force, that human beings, such as she was trying to reach, and such as she hoped would live in heaven for ever, called such earthly habitations as these homes. What possible idea could they ever get of heaven by calling it "home"?
"Do they have the whole of that house?"
She asked the question timidly, for the building looked very large, but she was utterly unused to city tenement life.
"The 'whole' of that house?" Dick fairly shouted the sentence, and bent himself double with laughter. "Well, I should say not, mum! As near as I can calculate, about thirty-five different families have that pleasure. The whole of the house! Oh, my! What a greeny!" And he laughed again.
Mrs. Roberts exerted herself to laugh with him, albeit she was horror-stricken. Thirty-five families in one house! How could they be other than awful in their ways of living?
"I know almost nothing about great cities," she said; "my home was in a much smaller one."
This was the truth, but not the whole truth. Instinct kept this veritable lady, in the truest sense of the word, from explaining that she knew nothing about the abject poor when she was speaking to one of their number. Just at this moment occurred a diversion: they had been making swift progress through the alley, Dick's long strides requiring effort on his companion's part to keep by his side; but just ahead the way was obstructed.
CHAPTER VII.
"WHAT A LITTLE SCHEMER IT IS!"
A RIOT! Not among men, which is sufficiently terrifying, nor yet among women, which is worse, but that most awful of all sights and sounds of sin—a riot among the children. Swearing, spitting at one another, tearing one another's hair, scratching like tigers, growling like wild beasts, throwing garbage at one another! This was the sort of crowd upon which Mrs. Roberts, in her black silk walking-dress, with her velvet hat and seal furs, presently came. She grasped at Dick's arm in horror, but a feeling that was more than terror was taking her strength away.
"Oh!" she said, and the agony in her voice really suggested more than terror to the young fellow beside her. "And they are little children! They cannot be more than seven or eight! Oh, what can I do?"
"You needn't be scared, mum!" There was a little hint of something like pity in Dick's voice. She clung to him so that he could not help feeling himself her protector. "It ain't an uncommon row at all. They mostly act like this: most likely one of 'em's found a bone and t'other one wants it, and then they're gone in for a row, and all the young ones crowd around and fight, on one side or t'other."
Did this fearful explanation make the situation less terrible?
There was a lull, however, in the quarrel. The elegantly-dressed lady was seen approaching—an unusual sight in that alley—and both parties paused to get a view,—paused in their attentions to each other, that is; but at Mrs. Roberts they hooted and jeered, and one threw a handful of mud.
Then did Nimble Dick rise to his position as protector.
"Shut up, there!—Stand aside, Pluck, and let us pass!—Look out there, you Smirchy!—Don't you throw that over here unless you want your head broke for you when I get back!"
This threat was thrown at a wretched little girl, who had dived her hand deeply into a box or cask of garbage, and brought it forth reeking with rotten apples, pork fat, and any liquid horror which the name suggests to you. She had her hand uplifted ready to throw, and was evidently intending to give the strange lady the benefit of what she had prepared for one of the rioters.
The assured tone in which Nimble Dick spoke had its effect; the combatants were all small, and he was large, and was evidently recognized as a power. There were some defiant glances thrown at him, but the motley crowd gave way, and allowed him to pass uninjured. Still he kept an alert watch of them until quite out of reach, and was not sparing of his admonitions:—
"Hold on there, Bill; I see that!—Look out, Sally! You'll be sorry if you throw anything, mind you that!"
And at last they were through the crowd—not out of danger, it seemed; for there, directly in their narrow path, was a drunken man, swaying from side to side in the way which is so terrible to one unused to such sights.
Dick felt the hold on his arm tighten, and was astonished at the sound of his own voice as he said soothingly,—
"You needn't be scared at him, mum; that's only old Jock. He's as ugly as Old Nick himself, but he knows better than to be very ugly to me. I can throw him in the gutter as easy as I could them young ones and he knows it. That's Dirk's father, that is! Ain't he a beauty?"
And again Mrs. Roberts uttered an exclamation of dismay, and part of her terror went out in sorry over the wrongs of a boy who had such a home and such a father. What ought to be expected of him?
That interminable alley was conquered at last, and they emerged into respectability on the broad avenue. Mrs. Roberts released her hold of her protector's arm, and his new character vanished on the instant.
"You're here, mum," he said, with a saucy twinkle in his eye and a saucy leer on his face. "Can you get yourself home from this spot? Or shall I borrow a wheel-barrow and take you there?"
Much shaken with various emotions though she was, Mrs. Roberts forced herself to laugh. She would not frown on his fun when it was not positively sinful. He might not be aware that it was disrespectful; he might never have heard the word.
"I know the way now, thank you; at least I think I do. Can you tell me whether I take a green car or a yellow one to get to East Fifty-fifth Street?"
"You take a green one," he said quietly, his character of protector having returned to him with the question, which still showed her dependence on him.
"Thank you," she said again, with great heartiness. "I shall never forget your care of me."
Her hand was in her pocket, and a bright coin was between her fingers. She longed to give it to Nimble Dick: he had saved her from so much this morning; and he was so miserably clad, surely he needed help. A moment's reflection, and she resolutely withdrew her hand. He should be paid by a simple, hearty "Thank you!" this morning for kindness rendered. He might not consider it a current coin, but possibly it would be his first lesson in the courtesies of life.
Later in the day, when Mrs. Roberts was somewhat rested from her morning's campaign, young Reid received a little note:—
"DEAR MR. REID,—I know the names of all the boys, and enclose you a
list. It is possible that you may fall in with some one during the day
who can impart knowledge concerning them. Anyway, I thought you would
like to know their names. Keep me posted, please, as to your success
in making their acquaintance. We are allies, remember.—Yours for the
Master,—
"MRS. E. L. ROBERTS."
Alfred Reid twisted the delicate note-paper thoughtfully in his hand, a look of perplexity on his face. He felt committed for labour; glad was he, very, yet perplexed. He did not in the least know where to commence.
Well, neither had this little lady; yet she had accomplished more in her one day's acquaintance than he after a lapse of weeks. Either she had found opportunities, or had made them. There must be chances; he would be sure to keep his eyes open after this.
In the handsome house on East Fifty-fifth Street where Mr. Roberts had settled his bride, after a somewhat extended business tour, involving months of absence, matters were in train for a cosy evening in the library. That was the name of the beautiful room where the husband and wife sat down together; but it was quite unlike the conventional library. Books there were in lavish abundance; but there were also pictures and flowers, and a singing bird or two, and an utter absence of that severe attention to business details which characterizes most rooms so named. Little prettinesses, which Mr. Roberts smilingly admitted did not belong to a library, were yet established there, with an air of having come to stay.
"We will call it the library for convenience," the master of the house said, "and then we will put into it whatever we please. It shall be a conservatory, and a sewing-room, and a lounging-room, and anything else that you and I choose to make it."
And Mrs. Roberts gleefully assented, and gave free rein to her pretty tastes. Flossy Shipley had been wont to be much trammelled with the ways in which "they" did everything; but Mrs. Evan Roberts was learning that, in unimportant matters at least, they had a right to be a law unto themselves. Perhaps it helped her, to be aware that a large class of people were all ready to quote "Mrs. Even Roberts" as an authority on almost any point of taste.
On the evening in question, Mr. Roberts, in dressing and slippers, had drawn his lounging-chair to the drop-light, preparatory to a half-hour of reading aloud. But it transpired that there was something preparatory to that, or at least that must take the precedence. Certain business telegrams followed him home, which required the writing of two or three business letters.
"It will not take me long," he explained to his wife; "and they are not complicated affairs, so I give you leave to talk right on while I despatch them."
She laughed at this hint about her fondness for talk, but presently made use of the privilege.
"Evan, what sort of a young man do you consider Mr. Reid?"
"Reid? Who? Oh, my clerk! The very best sort; a most estimable fellow—one of a thousand. By the way, did you tell him how you became interested in that sister of his?"
"Not yet. I want to get better acquainted; but, Evan, do you know where he boards?"
"Hardly; on Third Avenue somewhere, I believe, or possibly Second. The store register would show. Do you want his address?"
"Oh, I know where it is; but I mean, what sort of a place is it?"
Mr. Roberts slightly elevated his shapely shoulders.
"It is a boarding-house where many clerks board: that tells a doleful story to the initiated, I suspect. Poor fare and dismal surroundings; still, it is eminently respectable."
"Where does he spend his Sabbaths?"
The rapidly-moving pen executed nearly two lines of handsome writing before Mr. Roberts was ready to respond to this question.
"Why, at church, principally, I fancy. He is very regular in his attendance at morning service, and the South End Mission absorbs his afternoons. I suppose he goes to church in the evening; but since we have been giving our attention to that evening mission I have not seen him."
"Ah, but, Evan, I mean the rest of the time—those little bits of Sabbath time that are sacred to home. The twilight, for instance, or for an hour in the morning. Do you know what sort of a place he has for those times?"
Nearly three more lines were added to the paper, then Mr. Roberts raised his head.
"No, my dear, I don't. Now that you bring me face to face with the question, it seems a surprising thing to say that I should not know where a young man who has been for more than a year in our employment spends his choice bits of time, but I don't."
"Then I want to tell you something about it. He has a dingy, fourth story back room—small, I fancy, from the way in which he spoke of it, and not a speck of fire ever! In such weather as this, how can a young man read his Bible, or even pray, under such circumstances?"
Mr. Roberts laid down his pen and sat erect, regarding his wife with a thoughtful, faraway air.
"Flossy," he said at last, "it is an immense question! You open a perfect mine of anxiety and doubt. I have hovered around the edges for some time, but have generally contrived to shut my eyes and refuse to look into it, because I was afraid of what I might see, and because I did not know what to do with my knowledge. I have not been the working member of the firm very long, you know, and my special field, until lately, has been the other side of the ocean.
"But I have been at home long enough to know that there are several hundred young men in our employment who are away from their homes, and knowing, as I do, the price of board in respectable houses, and knowing the salaries which the younger ones receive, it does not require a great deal of penetration to discover that they must have rather dreary homes here, to put it mildly.
"The fact is, Flossy, I haven't wanted to look into this thing very closely, because I do not see the remedy. Look at our house, for instance, with its three hundred clerks, we'll say, who are away from their friends. Suppose one-half, or even one-third of them are miserably situated, what can I do?"
"Are they not sufficiently well paid to have the ordinary comforts of life?"
"Doubtful. The truth is, what you and I call the ordinary comforts of life takes a good deal of money. And in the city, rents are high, and the boarding-house keepers have hard struggles to make their expenditure meet their income, and they carry economy to the very verge of meanness—some of them fairly over the verge, I presume. And the result is cheap food badly cooked—because well-cooked food means high-priced help—and cold rooms and dreariness and discomfort everywhere.
"Now what can be done about it? Then our house is only one of hundreds, and in many of these hundreds they employ more help and give less wages than we; in fact, I know that some of our clerks are looked upon with envy by a great many young men. We never have any trouble in supplying vacancies. People swarm around us, because we have the reputation of being liberal. We are not liberal, however; sometimes I am inclined to think we are hardly fair; yet there is nothing I can do. I am a junior partner, with a great deal of the responsibility, and a third of the voting power, and I can't get salaries raised. I've been working at that problem at intervals for a year, and have accomplished very little. Do you wonder that I keep my eyes as closely shut as I can?"
His wife's face wore a thoughtful, not to say perplexed look. She seemed to have no answer ready; and, after waiting a moment for it, Mr. Roberts bent himself again to the task of getting his business letters answered. Before he had written one more line, her face had cleared. She interrupted him:—
"Evan, when you talk about three hundred clerks, and multiply that by hundreds of houses and more hundreds of clerks, I cannot follow you at all. It is not that I am not impressed with the number—I am—it appalls me; but I don't want to be appalled, I want to be helpful.
"Perhaps just now there is nothing that I can do for the hundreds, so I want to narrow my thoughts down to what, possibly, I can do. What, for instance, can be done towards getting a good young man like Alfred Reid into a place that will be just a little bit like a home, that will give him a spot where he can study his Bible in comfort, and invite a friend with whom he wants to pray, or whom he wants to reach and help in any way? That isn't a large problem. Can't it be solved?"
Her husband smiled.
"He is only one of thousands," he said.
"Yes, I know; but he is one of thousands. Since we cannot reach thousands, shall we fail to reach one? Evan, I am only one of thousands, but how would you argue about me?"
Mr. Roberts laughed again.
"You are one out of thousands and thousands!" he said emphatically.
A line more, and he signed the firm's name with an unusually fine flourish.
"There! I've accomplished one letter. What do you want to do, Flossy?"
"I want Mr. Reid to have a room where he can invite one of my boys occasionally, and make him comfortable, and do for him what we cannot with our rooms—do for him what only a young man can do for a young man. I don't clearly know what I want further than that, but I see that one thing as a stepping-stone. Remember, I want all your thousands to have just as pleasant rooms, and I would like to help to bring it about, but I don't just now see the way."
"Do you see the way to this?"
"No; but doesn't it seem as though we ought to be able to accomplish so much?"
"It does, certainly. What is your desire, Flossy? Do you want him to have a room in our house?"
She shook her head.
"No, that would not further my plan for those boys. I would like to have him here, and it would be a good thing for him—at least I think it would; but I can see things which he could accomplish for those young men, set by himself in a different part of the city. Besides, Evan, I have other plans for our rooms, entirely different ones, some of them I am afraid you will think are very strange."
He answered the doubt with a smile that said he had no fears of her or her plans.
"What a little schemer it is!" he said, looking down on her with fond, proud eyes. "Who would have imagined that she could plot, and plot so mysteriously? I used to think she was a very open-hearted woman."
CHAPTER VIII.
"WHAT WOULD YOU DO, DEAR?"
SHE joined in his laugh, albeit there was a tender look in her eyes. After a moment, she said gently:—
"It is not scheming, Evan; I am only trying to set about the work for which I have been chosen. I'll tell you how it all came to me. I was reading—my morning reading, you know—after you had gone, taking little dips here and there, in the fashion that you think is so unsystematic; and I came upon this verse:
"'He is a chosen vessel unto me'—
"You know, about Paul? Well, it came to me with a sudden sense of awe and beauty—the being chosen of God to do a great work. I stopped reading, to think it out. What a grand moment it must have been to Paul when he realized it! And I began to feel almost sorry that we lived in such different times, with no such opportunities.
"I stopped right in the midst of my folly to remember that I was as certainly chosen of God as ever Paul was; for assuredly I did not come to him of myself, nor begin to love him of myself, and therefore he must indeed have chosen me. And I wondered whether probably each Christian had not a work to do as definite as Paul's; a work that would be given to no other—unless, indeed, the chosen one failed. I did not want to fail, and I asked God not to let me.
"Then, of course, I set to wondering what my work, or my part of some other person's work, could be. It was the morning after you had told me that about Esther Reid. You cannot think how that impressed me. I could not get away from the wonderment as to how her work was prospering, and whether there were chosen ones enough, or if there might possibly be a little place for me. I couldn't settle anything, and finally I decided to look at Paul's work a little while.
"Of course, it was not reasonable to suppose that the duties of the great apostle had anything in common with my bits of effort; still, I said, the directions given him may help me a little. And, Evan, what do you think was the first thing I found! Why, this:
"'The God of our fathers hath chosen thee, that thou shouldst know his
will.'
"Surely, so far, the things for which both he and I were chosen were parallel. I looked further:
"'And see that Just One.'
"That was the very next. Was not I, too, chosen for that?
"'Thine eyes shall see the King in his beauty.'
"I said over the beautiful promise, to assure myself that it was true, and went on:
"'And shouldest hear the voice of his mouth.'
"Was it not strange, Evan? Certainly I shall hear my King speak, often and often, when I get home. Only think of it! So far, Paul was not ahead of me. I hurried to find another reference to Paul' work, and I found this; let me read it to you."
Her bit of dainty sewing was suddenly pushed to one side, and up from the depths of the rose-lined work-basket came a small, plainly-bound Bible, much marked. A rapid turning of the leaves, and the eager disciple read:
"'I have appeared unto thee for this purpose, to make thee a minister
and a witness, both of these things which thou hast seen, and of those
things in the which I will appear unto thee.'
"Now, Evan, you know the veriest child can be a witness if he knows anything about the facts; and I do certainly know some wonderful things about Jesus to which I could witness. And, besides, isn't it reasonable to suppose that he will appear to me every day with things for me to witness to? And then I read this—Paul sent to the Gentiles, you know; but for what?
"'To open their eyes, and to turn them from darkness to light, and from
the power of Satan unto God, that they may receive forgiveness of sins,
and inheritance among them which are sanctified by faith that is in
me.'
"Evan, was there ever a more wonderful work to do in the world than that? And yet I cannot tell you how it made feel to discover, or at least to realize, that a great deal of it was my work. Of course I naturally began to ask myself, What Gentile was there for me to reach? Whose eyes must I try to open?
"Do you know, that very afternoon I met Mr. Reid, and heard of those boys. They interested me from the first, and what he told me about his sister increased the interest. Then when I saw them!—Evan, if ever boys were in the power of Satan, they are; and to think that they may have an inheritance among them which are sanctified!
"This morning, when I saw where some of them lived, and imagined how they lived, I felt stunned for a moment. It seemed to me impossible. What means could possibly be found of sufficient power to fit them for such an inheritance? And then directly came the closing words of the commission:
"Through 'faith that is in me.'
"Evan, God will save them, and I think he will let me help."
"Amen!" said Mr. Roberts, and his voice was husky.
When his wife was in one of her exalted moods, he always admired her with a sort of reverence. He had been for years an earnest worker. He carried business plans and business principles into the work; he studied cause and effect, and calculated and expected certain results to follow certain causes, like a mathematical problem. Not that he by any means forgot the power of faith, or in any sense attempted to do his work alone. He was a Christian who spent much time on his knees. But little Flossy brought so much of the childlike, unquestioning spirit into her work, that sometimes he stood in awe, not knowing whether he could follow her. It was not so much a mathematical problem to be worked out, as it was the faith that can remove mountains.
"As a little child relies
On a strength beyond his own;
Knows he's neither strong nor wise,
Fears to stir a step alone."
Mr. Roberts often found himself quoting these lines when his wife gave him glimpses of her heart; and at such times he had no hesitancy in deciding that the steps she took were not alone, but the Lord was with her.
The postman's ring broke in on their quiet.
"I hope there are letters from home to-night," Mrs. Roberts said—"real long ones. It is a week since we have heard."
"And I ought to hope that they would require a first reading in private," her husband answered, as he seized his neglected pen. "It is the only way in which these business letters will get answered. I find the temptation to talk to you irresistible."
One letter! But that was of comfortable dimensions and weight.
"It is from Marion," Mrs. Roberts said, delight in her voice, after the first glance at the familiar writing. She was presently lost in its many pages, and the business of letter-writing went on uninterruptedly for some time.
Mrs. Marion Dennis had not forgotten her fondness for her pretty little Flossy, nor forgotten that—softly innocent little creature though she was—she possessed a wisdom far above those who are credited with having keen insight; even a wisdom so subtle, and withal so tender, that its source could only be Infinite Wisdom. So she, in company with many others, was learning to turn to the friend so much younger than herself, as one in whom she could safely confide.
"DEAR LITTLE FLOSSY—" so the letter ran—
"I suppose, though you should live to be a white-haired old lady,
sitting with placid face and fluted cap and spectacles, in your
high-backed arm-chair, in the most treasured corner, mayhap, of some
grand-daughter's choicest room, I, writing to you, would still commence
'Dear little Flossy.' That I have to cover it from prying eyes by the
dignified and respectable 'Mrs. Evan Roberts,' is almost a matter of
amusement to me.
"I fancy I can see you making a journey through some of the Chautauqua
avenues, picking your way daintily towards Palestine, bending lovingly
over the small white stones that mark the village of Bethany—a pink
on your cheek, born, as I thought, of the excitement of being among
those tiny photographs of the wonderful past, but born in part, I now
believe, of the fact that Mr. Evan Roberts joined us in our walk. Oh,
little mousie, how quiet you were!
"Well, many things have since transpired. We are old married women,
you and Ruth, and Eurie and I. I suppose the contrast in our lives—the
outward portion of them, I mean—is still as strongly marked, perhaps
more so, than it was when we were in Chautauqua together. We were girls
then; we are matrons now, and with the taking on of that title, Ruth
and I took special and great responsibilities.
"To-night it rains. Dr. Dennis has been called to the upper part of the
city—away out to Springdale, in fact—to see a sick and dying man, and I
am alone and almost lonely. If I could summon any one of the three to
my aid and comfort, I would. I am almost as lonely as I was on some of
those evenings in the old boarding-house. Still there are differences:
the smoky old stove is not—a summer warmth floats through the house,
born of steam; no ill-smelling kerosene lamp offends your aesthetic
friend to-night, but the softest of shaded drop-lights sheds a halo
around me. Isn't that almost poetic?
"Moreover, oh, blessed thought! I have no examination-papers to
prepare, no reports to make up; nothing to do but visit with you.
Also, I will admit just to you that this is another and most blessed
difference between this and my lonely past—at almost any moment now
I may hope for Dr. Dennis's ring; and when he comes, all sense of
loneliness will instantly depart. Ah! Flossy, dear Flossy, this is
such a difference as even you cannot appreciate! You had your mother
and father, and all your dear home friends, and I had no one; and,
besides—here I hesitate, lest you may be too obtuse to understand the
reasoning—you have only added Mr. Roberts to your circle of treasures.
He is grand and good, I know, and I like him, without even a mental
reservation; but, my dear, I have added Dr. Dennis! Can human language
say more?
"Nonsense aside, sweet little woman, God has been very good to you
and me. Yet, Flossy, do you remember how, during those last months in
which we were together, I fell into the habit of telling you a great
deal about the thorns, and admitted to you once that they pricked less
when they had felt your soothing touch? I want to tell you something.
Our Gracie—I am so sorry for her, yet I don't know what to do. She is
living a most unhappy life, and of course she shadows our lives also.
"I told you, dear, about Professor Ellis. He is still trying to
convince poor Gracie that I, being her stepmother, must be her natural
enemy; reminding her that before I came into the family, her father was
entirely willing to receive his calls, and allowed her to accept his
attentions. Don't you see, it isn't strange at all that the poor little
girl should believe him and turn from me. She has many injudicious
helpers in her father's congregation. There are those who sigh over her
almost in my hearing.
"'Poor Gracie!' they say. 'How changed she is! She used to be so
bright and happy. There is something unnatural in these second-mother
relations. All high-spirited children rebel.'
"Imagine such talk helping Gracie! Meantime, what do you suppose can
be Professor Ellis's motive? I cannot think that he cares for her; I
almost do not believe that there is enough purity left in him even
to admire a pure-hearted young girl—certainly not one with such high
ideals and earnest ambitions as Gracie had.
"'Why does she admire him?' I fancy I hear you asking.
"My dear, she doesn't: she thinks she does, and at seventeen such
thoughts sometimes work irreparable mischief; but left alone, one of
these days she would make the discovery that she was flattered by his
attentions, because he is nearly fifteen years older than she, and
is brilliant in conversation, and quoted as the finest musician in
the city. I wish I knew more things about him. What I do know shows
me plainly enough the sort of man he is; but with these guileless
young things it seems as though one had to unmask wickedness very
thoroughly before they will believe that it is anything but gossip or
misrepresentation.
"He has gone away for a six weeks' vacation; I don't know where, nor
does Dr. Dennis. Gracie knows, but does not enlighten me.
"Flossy, dear, could you give me a little wholesome advice, do you
think? I wonder, sometimes, whether I was not too complacent over
my proposed duties. Such schemes as I had! I was going to be the
blessedest stepmother that girl ever had. That would not be saying
much, possibly. Don't we all incline to think that the second mothers
must be wrong, and the sons and daughters poor abused darlings? But I
loved Gracie, you know, and she seemed to love me, and to be so happy
over the thought of our near relationship.
"There is very little happiness from any such source during these days.
Gracie has retired into dignity. She can be the most dignified young
woman on occasion that I ever beheld. She is not rude to me; on the
contrary, she is ceremoniously polite—calls me Mrs. Dennis, and all
that sort of thing, when necessity compels her to call me anything. But
she speaks as little as possible; sits at table with us three times a
day, when she cannot secure an excuse for absence that her father will
accept; says, 'Yes, sir,' and, 'No, sir,' obediently to him, and, 'No,
ma'am, thank you,' to me; and that is the extent of our conversation.
Generally her face is pale and her eyes red, and at the first possible
moment she begs to be excused, and retires to the privacy of her own
room and locks her door.
"Her father has stopped her music lessons; at least she preferred to
have them stopped rather than take lessons of any other person, so she
practises no more. She continues her German and French, and secures
good reports from the professors; but there is an air of weariness and
dreariness about everything she does, that makes one alternate between
a feeling of deep pity for her and a desire to box her ears or shut her
up in a corner until she can behave herself. As a rule, however, I am
sorry for her. I was young once myself; I was undisciplined; I had no
mother, and I had a thousand wild fancies, any one of which might have
ruined me.
"What do you think you would do, dear, if Mr. Roberts had a daughter
and you were her mother? You are all in a flush now, and have laid down
this sheet and said aloud, 'What an idea! Marion does say the most
absurd things!'
"Well, then, if you were Marion Dennis, and stood before God in the
place of mother to Grace Dennis, what do you imagine you would do? I'll
tell you my policy. I am uniformly cheerful in her presence—gay, if I
can make gaiety out of anything—not toward her father, you understand,
because I can fancy that might irritate her. I really try to be gay
toward Gracie herself; but can you imagine an attempt to be cheery
with a tombstone? I study as much as I can her tastes, in the ordering
of dinner and desserts, and arrange the flowers that I know she likes
best; and, in short, try to do all those little bits of nice things
that I feel certain you would do in my place. And just here I may as
well own that I learned these small prettinesses studying you—never
should have thought them out for myself.
"Flossy, Dr. Dennis is one of the most patient and long-suffering of
men, but it is very hard for him to be patient with poor Gracie, harder
than it is for me: first, because I know by personal experience just
what a turbulent young creature a miss of seventeen or eighteen can be;
and secondly, because it is upon me her displeasure falls most heavily,
and that naturally he resents.
"Why am I writing all this to you? I don't know, childie, really, save
that I remember what a curious way you have of telling Jesus all about
your friends and their trials, and I remember with great comfort that
you are my friend. Don't imagine me as miserable; I can never be that
so long as Christ is the present helper that he is to me now; and you
do not need to be told that I daily thank him for giving me my husband.
But I think you will understand better than many would how earnestly
I desire to fill the place of mother to my bright young motherless
Gracie, with her dangerous beauty and her dangerous talents, and her
capacity for being miserable. Oh, I want to do more than my duty! I
want to love her with all my heart, and to have her love me. If it were
not for that man, who always hated me, and who, I believe in my heart,
has sought her out and is pressing his attentions upon her because he
sees a possibility of stinging me through her, I might hope to fill the
place in her heart that I thought I could."
The letter closed abruptly at this point, and was finished a few days afterwards in a different strain, giving plenty of home news, and being full of the brightness which always sparkled in Marion's letters; but it was the first two or three pages to which Mrs. Roberts turned back, and which she thoughtfully re-read. Then she interrupted the busy pen:—
"Evan, are not the business letters nearly done? I want to read this to you, and then I want to talk with you."
"Delightful prospects both of them," he said with energy, as he added the last hurried line, signed, and delivered to his wife to enclose in its envelope, then pushed aside writing materials, and sat back to enjoy.
"It isn't all delightful," his wife said, shaking her head. "I did hope that poor Marion was going to have a few years of rest; her life has been such a hard one."