Hope Mills; Or, Between Friend and Sweetheart

The last sad note died into summer-night sweetness. A current of bland, dangerous magnetism passed between them. She turned her splendid, passion-lighted eyes to him, and the subtle, measuring, conquering forces in the man and the woman met. With a mighty effort he thrust back desire, and compressed his lips to a line under the bronzed-gold moustache, while his eyes, like points of steel, never wavered.

Irene Lawrence turned blindly, and held out her hands as if to grasp some sure stay. Just as surely as she had not won, she had lost.

"I have tired you," he said,—a murmur just under his breath. "But you can hardly know the exquisite pleasure you have given me. It is perfect. We will have no more music to-night;" and he rose, shutting the piano down.

She went to the open window like one in a trance, so stunned she could not even feel angry at his defiance of her. A long, long moment of silence: then they heard Sylvie's bright voice on the porch, and she came in with a waft of dewy, outdoor fragrance.

Miss Lawrence went to her room presently, to fight out the battle with herself. She admitted then that she had come to love Jack Darcy; but she was strong and resolute, and would not be mastered by the passion. What could she do? for go away she must! Her imperious will and knowledge of men had availed her little to ward off this one's influence. Every instinct had been baffled, every movement had been met with a counterpoise. To stay here, and struggle, would be to yield eventually.

There were dark circles under her eyes the next morning, tokens of her vigil and strife. She intrenched herself again behind that dumb apathy: she stood aloof from Sylvie. For days she escaped the watchful sight of Darcy; but she heard his voice, and every rebellious pulse was a-tremble. She cast about for some expedients whereby to escape her prison honorably, and after several fruitless efforts found one.

In their early days there had been a girl-friend between Agatha and Gertrude, who had always held an attraction for the child Irene. Wealthy, beautiful, and accomplished, she had married a man who had already made for himself a name in statesmanship, a cultured and polished gentleman, and her bridal had been the theme of the day. But the fiend of intemperance had wrought destruction of her brilliant prospects, and made her life an open scandal. When it could no longer be borne, she gathered up the wreck of her fortune and her two little girls, and opened a boarding-school in a quiet, aristocratic old town. Irene had met her in New York after her own loss of fortune; and, though she had disdained sympathy, she was touched by Mrs. Trenholme's kindliness.

She wrote to her now; and, of half a dozen applications, this was the only one that elicited a favorable reply. Mrs. Trenholme needed a teacher of French and music, and she knew Miss Lawrence's accent was perfect. The salary was not large, being four hundred dollars a year; but the duties were not very arduous, being all confined to school-hours.

Much as Irene desired to go, there was some struggle with her pride before she could bring herself to accept. Only the prospect of that greater pride being laid in ruins before her eyes, could finally have induced her. Mrs. Trenholme expressed her delight warmly.

There were strenuous objections on Fred's part when it came to be talked over. "She had no need. He was as much her protector as her father had been: indeed, was he not paying back the kindly care to himself, honoring his father's memory by doing as he would have done?"

Sylvie came to the rescue presently.

"I would let her go, Fred," she counselled. "Beverly is a delightful place, with many cultured people, and Mrs. Trenholme is just the woman to have an influence over Irene. You see, she gets so tired of having no pursuit, no strong interest. I could not endure it myself."

"But she might have—I have dared to dream"—

"Put away dreams, my darling." Sylvie's voice was unconsciously sad. Then, with a smile, and tears, "If God kept watch over us, and brought us to our haven, can we not trust him for her,—for them?"

And so they acquiesced.

When Jack Darcy left Miss Lawrence on that fateful evening, his whole soul was full of unrest. He paced the quiet streets in that tense mood which makes thought and breath alike torture. Now that it was over, he said, with the inconsequence of love, that he had been a weak, cowardly fool to fear his fate too much; and yet the next instant he knew he would surely have lost it all, and that in time she must come to need him. If he could wait! Well, he would wait. He had not trained himself heretofore in these long reaches of patience for no purpose. That richly satisfying, inward sight, she could not take from him, that exultant faith which was warmed and fed from a thousand secret rills.

He understood why she shunned him, why she had resolved to leave Yerbury; and he was thankful now that he had not ruined his cause by impatience. To think of not seeing her, of not hearing her voice, was like madness! His face grew thin, there were tense lines about his mouth and a set resolve in his eyes; yet to his fine temper came no moodiness or irritability. The task he had set for himself must be accomplished. He was as absolute in his self-denial as he would be in his happiness when that came.

So she went away with the merest friendly farewell, and asked herself angrily, an hour after, what power this man had over her, and why she feared him? Surely there was not much of the lover in that calm face!

He threw himself into the business with renewed energy. As I said, the September account was inspiriting. Prospects began to look brighter, only it was admitted on all hands that the days of large profits and quick fortunes were over for a long while, if not for all time. Industry was coming to be respected, and you heard less talk about luck.

The outside world kept watch of them narrowly, jealously. If they turned out thieves and swindlers, it would not be for the lack of advice. However, they tramped on and on. Their store gained a little, and was productive of much good. Keppler went to a different part of the town. Boyd sold the ground, and a row of decent cottages were to be put up. Kit Connelly had been reimbursed by the town for her damages, and with Ben Hay's advice and counsel built an addition to her house, which he and Rose took for housekeeping purposes. The lunch and coffee room was a regular and profitable institution, and would be a business for one of the boys as he grew up to manhood.

Sylvie and Fred went to the city for a winter holiday. Fred's book was elegantly brought out, and won him much praise and a little money. Sylvie achieved her ambition, and sold two pictures at what she considered marvellous prices, but she wisely confessed it only to her husband. They were invited to clubs and soirées; and Mrs. Minor was extremely affable, though she did blame Fred for allowing Irene to take such an idiotic step.

Darcy and Maverick indulged in two or three flying trips. Miss McLeod liked nothing better than to get these young people together, and listen to the animated conversations, herself as spicy and sharp as any one. Miss Lothrop was married; and in the slim, fair, blushing girl the old lady had for companion now, he saw no danger.

So the winter wore away, and the spring came again; and the man who was counting the days wondered wearily at times what his summer harvest might be.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

The regal woman who stepped from the car to the station-platform at Yerbury, one balmy day in early June, to be greeted by Fred and Sylvie Lawrence with the warmest of welcomes, was indescribably different from the pale, cold, haughty statue that had gone away. There was an elasticity in her step, a self-reliance in her air, and the peculiar confidence discipline wisely used inevitably imparts.

Yet there had been no romantic or highly-wrought change in her. She had not taken up teaching from any heroic motive or the possible benefit to any one, but simply to protect herself from what she considered the weakness of her own soul, to get away from a danger she could not fight. Oh, how she had hated French verbs and exercises! If hers had been a susceptible musical temperament, she would have gone quite crazy with the blunders and sentimentalisms of young girls.

After a month of it, she would have welcomed any relief, even the face-to-face conflict with Darcy. But she could not well run away from here, and her physical health was perfect: so there was nothing but to go straight on, and find that circumstances had to govern, that she could not shut herself up in sullen majesty, or fling off the daily duties for some wiser and more patient hands to pick up, and restore to beauty and harmony.

She had a friend, the best and truest that a young woman could have, perhaps; a woman so admirably adapted to the training of girls, that it was no marvel she succeeded. Out of the ruins of her life she had built up another, wise, sweet, and strong. As Irene began to comprehend what Mrs. Trenholme had suffered and achieved, for the first time she paid an honest reverence to the nobility of character. And now she despised her own petty, shallow thoughts and beliefs. Her lofty despising of the world and the vain and selfish people therein had been only a kind of scornful regret for the treasures wrested from her, the glitter of fashion, the gauds of society. Fred had made a braver stand than she. He had not sought to poise himself on the easy, graceful rounds of past promises, and to dream futile weakening dreams, nor shut himself up in morbid isolation.

After all, how little the great world really cared! It was the few friends, the small circle, the near influences, that were of importance. And when she found that here in cultured, delightful Beverly, she was sought out as an entertaining guest, that she had not lost caste because the great bubble of fortune had shivered into fragments, that dressing and shopping and flirting were not the highest of human enjoyments, she came to a very rational frame of mind, and to a certain extent enjoyed her life. But nature had not made her a teacher of children, and never does such women, until, informed by that highest of all love, they teach their own.

She came back beautiful, strong, and brave, resolute to dare any thing. She dazzled them at the little tea-table by her swift, easy animation, her brilliancy, the color that went and came, the smiles that were like rippling billows over a sea. And Sylvie's heart went down like lead, though it was such a fair picture. "For now," she thought, "Jack will never dare to love her!"

Perhaps not, if he had to begin now. But the love was in him and of him, and would be hers all his life long, whether she took it or no.

He did not come for a day or two. She wondered a little: she even laughed lightly at her own past fear, the shadow she had conjured up, the warm blood ran so healthily through her veins now.

He sauntered in one morning to find her cutting roses with Sylvie, the two the fairest flowers in all the garden. He was in no wise abashed at this vision of loveliness: if she had a dower of beauty, he had his unstained manhood.

They chatted and laughed. Sylvie pinned a pale bud and geranium-leaf in his coat. He held out his hand to Irene with a curious little gesture. She had two or three great royal purple pansies clasped lightly in her fingers.

She meant to refuse courteously, but their eyes met. Was it the old spell working?

Surely, surely all these fine-spun barriers, all these cunning Alps that she had thrown up day after day, were over-leaped at a supple bound. Master herself she might; but he stood in his man's power and pride and love, a suppliant, yet king, asking with wordless lips a little favor, taking with calm yet passionate eyes a royal largess. Her heart sank; her breath came in one long, tremulous sweep. Whether she gave, or he took, she could not have told; but he went away with the pansies in his fingers, despite Sylvie's pleading for a longer stay.

When he was quite out of sight, he kissed them, sweet, tender, longing kisses. Then he dropped them between the white leaves of a little book, to be sacred forever. Sylvie's boutonnière might keep him company outwardly, but those no eye must feast upon.

He took the fine right of a lover, not declared, yet certain of his ground, not using any power that she could disdain or wound, it was so delicate, intangible, the perfume without the flower, the little thoughtfulness for her, reaching for her fan, folding her shawl about her if the evening blew up cool, seeming to know her wants the very instant they occurred to herself. And though she rebelled in secret, though she resolved heroically to put an end to it all, the golden moment never came.

It seemed as if the four were always together. Not but what Yerbury opened spacious doors to them, and proffered flattering welcomes; but they could not tone themselves to the insipidities of society. There were more complete and intense enjoyments. Sylvie and Irene took long drives through country lanes, or of a moonlight summer evening they all went. They sat on the porch, and Jack came strolling by: they went within, and there were books, music, desultory talking, and that wondrous, unseen guest in their midst.

Sylvie rarely left her alone. They were not the women to tease one another by flippant jests or allusions; and Mrs. Fred, of all others, had a dread of thrusting any vulgar face on this colorless, yet delicious, atmosphere. Love knew his own, and was sacredly known of them.

Irene Lawrence could no more help blossoming under the intense yet steady warmth of his temperament, the vivid creative life in every feature, than she could have helped being at all; and to have refused or destroyed the love would have been as sure spiritual suicide as a poison to the body. He understood that she came to see this presently; and then his suit was half won,—more than half: he had only to go on to the royal fruition of hope and patience. She no longer shunned him: she dropped that pointed, distant "Mr. Darcy," and in the soul's own language, gave him no outward name.

And, when he took her at her royal flood-tide, the words of asking and answering mattered little. A look, a tone, a clasp of hands, a last struggle of her pride, and she was his.

The wide, warm summer night closed about them: the dusk was rich with floating dewy perfumes, and golden stars dazzled in the clear, moonless sky. Out in the trees a little bird, startled from her nap, sang a brief, sweet song to her little ones. He drew the proud yet yielding figure closer: their hearts beat, their flushed cheeks touched, their lips met in one long, heavenly caress, their hands clasped until pulse throbbed with pulse in impassioned unison.

Only a death and a great love can so change the aspect of life. As in the grave lies buried the dearest promises of love, hope, existence itself, and we learn in time to cling to every faint dream, so, like a resurrection, love sweeps away the sins and follies and weaknesses of the past, and rises from the dust and ashes transformed, renewed, nay, born again to the most sacred purposes.

A strange, swift impression rushed over her as she met the eager, intense eyes. Was it in another world these arms had closed about her with their strong, restful clasp? She started abruptly: she seemed to listen, to puzzle herself with the bewildering impression.

"What is it, my darling?" in a deep, ardent voice.

"I don't know"—with a nervous laugh and shiver. "Have we met in some other country? Did you carry me over mountains, or through valleys, or hide me from a storm? Was this why I could never get away, try as I might?"

Oh the wordless, entreating beauty of those eyes!

"My queen, my own, you will never try again."

"Never!" with a long, delicious, sobbing breath. "Why are you so irresistibly, so powerfully strong, Jack? Do you know,—you must know how wicked I have been! If you cast me out, it would only be a proper punishment. I don't mean that my lips or my hands are blurred with other men's kisses. I never could endure that," shuddering. "But they laid down their hearts, and I walked over them: they were weak, and I was strong! And one night I tried"—her voice sank to a beseeching, half-shamed murmur.

"Yes," he gave a pure, genial laugh, rich in his own sustaining strength. "You would have broken my heart, your own too; for I think, even then, you loved me."

"I surely have never been indifferent. It was either love or hate. Do you remember the first evening I saw you in the parlor yonder?"

She learned ere long, that he had never forgotten any thing; but the depth and perfectness of his love she could not learn in a day.

If Jack Darcy had been patient hitherto, that grand quality seemed suddenly exhausted. He absolutely hurried her into a marriage,—hurried Sylvie too, who wanted the courtship to proceed with measured, golden steps.

"As if it were not to be a courtship all one's life!" said radiant Jack. "Now the moments break in the middle, there are tangled ends, and endless beginnings, and one can hardly remember where one left off. Were you sorry to go to Fred?"

"Why, no!" with wide-open, surprised eyes.

He carried the day at last, and September was appointed. They would be married in the old church. Mrs. Minor responded to the tidings by a visit. She had treasured up a great many things to say to Irene; but for once she was quite overwhelmed, and her sneers and patronage fell to the ground. Though she did remark to her mother,—

"Of course I am disappointed that Irene, with her face and style, has not done any better; but you cannot expect much after one passes twenty. Mr. Darcy has improved certainly, and Irene is not as exclusive as we older girls were. It is a great pity she did not go out to Gertrude."

For George Eastman, with a cat-like propensity, always came down on his feet. He was now at the flood-tide of prosperity—on other people's money. Mrs. Eastman was regal in velvets, sables, and diamonds, queening it at St. Petersburg. Some day there might be a crash again, but they would be well out of the way.

Miss Lawrence would have no diamonds, and no show; but she was dazzling in her radiant loveliness; and, if Jack was not handsome, his superb manliness redeemed him. Hope Mills took a holiday. All Yerbury went, it seemed; and those who could not get in remained outside for a glimpse.

Sylvie and Fred leaned over the registry in the vestry-room. In a bold hand the bridegroom had written, "John Beaumanoir Darcy."

"A compliment to Irene's pride," laughed Sylvie. "The most aristocratic name of them all!"

The old house was brightened up a bit before the young couple returned. Gentle Mrs. Darcy wondered how it would be between the old and the new love; but she remembered with charity, that she had taken the fresh young love of another Darcy, and was content with her day.

The young people brought a new atmosphere with them, but it did not clash with the old. Jane Morgan was planning a home for herself. One of the cut-up farms had been put together again; and she had taken a five-years' lease at a low rate, to try a prudent and sensible scheme of philanthropy. Maverick had been intensely puzzled by Jack's love-affair, and could not yet account for it satisfactorily, but watched them both with a kind of amused interest, and dreamed of the deft, dainty little fairy down at his aunt's.

I suppose I ought to say that Mrs. Jack Darcy vied with her husband in all good works,—in schools and clubs, and plans for everybody's improvement; but it was not her forte. He was too well satisfied with her love for him, her music, her enchanting ways, to wish her any different; and I think he would have been jealous, with that exclusive, tender, adoring jealousy, that cannot endure its choice treasures lavished upon others. She was kindly and generous in a stately, queenly fashion; but what between Jack, who was a more importunate lover than ever, and the baby born at Larch Avenue, she had her hands quite full.

The five years of mutual copartnership drew to a close. Their young engineer had not blown up the mills; Bob Winston did not go off at the last moment with the balance at the bank; Jack Darcy had not falsified accounts: but it came out just as everybody had predicted that it would! "If your men were honest and honorable, co-operation could not fail of success. It was the simplest of all schemes," said "The Evening Transcript."

The two offices were thrown into one by the sliding-doors, and the workmen and women assembled in their holiday gear. Jack Darcy was really struck with the change in their faces and the general demeanor. They had a brisk, cheery, self-reliant air: there was a certain neatness and respectability about which they used not to care in the old times. The boys of five years ago were grown men, and there wasn't a sturdier one among them than Barton Kane.

And now Jack Darcy proceeded to read the statement of the whole period, to which every one listened with the most profound attention.

At the close of the first year, after rent, wages, and all other expenses were taken out, the accumulation of profits had been $21,642.27. One-half of this, $10,821.13.5, had been turned directly over to capital: the other half, the profit of labor, was divided again in equal shares, one going to capital for every person, the other, amounting to $5,410.56.7, paid over to them as compensation for three-quarter wages. Of course the men had been delighted. They remembered their first joy even now.

Then had followed the disastrous second year, which had no such golden story to tell. The first six months, interest and discount had made horrible inroads into capital, and there had not only been no surplus, but an actual deficiency. The latter half showed a poor frightened balance of $137. But this year they improved greatly in economic management and several new processes that gave larger profit with less labor and outlay, so the hard strain had not been entirely without its uses. Capital had gone down in the valley of humiliation, and had a sorry time of it; but with it had come a knowledge and sympathy they could have acquired in no other way.

The third year had proved a grand success. They had all worked so heartily together, and business had been undeniably good. Profits had been $41,854.92, with very limited discounts. After this there was none, and unused capital began to draw a little interest. This year there had been $10,963.73 to pay over to the men on the quarter share. The fourth year there had been numerous bankrupt stocks thrown on the market, and every one trying to do his utmost again: still the balance had been by no means disheartening, amounting to $34,982.67; capital's share being $17,491.33, and the wages overplus $8,745.66. The last year's profits had footed up $43,101.56.

There was now in accrued capital stock $106,288.81.5; and this was to be divided in the pro rata of each man's share, the larger amounts making the most, of course. And now they saw the object of saving. They had earned full wages and something beside; and, though wages had not reached the high point of good times, on the other hand they had not fallen below a reasonable standard, even with the bad year. There had been steady work for the whole five years, and every man had been practised in thrift, economy, and self-denial.

Of those who had begun with them, seven had been discharged for drunkenness and insubordination, their share forfeited to the fund for sick and disabled workmen; three had gone out from loss of faith in the plan, accepting Winston's offer to sell; four had died, and thirteen had left from various other causes. So that there had been a much greater degree of steadiness than usually obtains among factory-workmen. This led to a decided improvement in many other respects. With a prospect of being permanent, the men were induced to buy homes, and took a greater interest in the management and welfare of their own town.

The balance was divided, each man receiving his check, and with it a detailed statement of the whole five years. They were now quite free, the industrial partnership having legally expired. Hope Mills would take a fortnight holiday for repairs and re-organization.

"What if there were to be no re-organization?" exclaimed Ben Hay suddenly.

The men stared blankly at one another. No "Hope Mills," and the foundation-stone of life would have fallen out!

Robert Winston addressed them, thanking them very heartily for their co-operation, and expressing a hope that each man would be satisfied with the result of five of the hardest years the country had ever known. There was no doubt now, judging from our exports, and the amount of money coming in from every quarter of the globe, as one might say, that we had entered upon an era of prosperity. We had been educated to the practice of prudence, of common-sense, and sound principles, we had gained fibre and stamina, and he hoped we had gained honesty and integrity. If we could not always compete with low-priced manufacturers, the solid truth was made manifest in the end. They might take for their passwords, "Honesty, industry, and fidelity."

There was a great deal of cheering, and then Darcy was called upon for a speech. He did himself infinite credit, for in these five years not a man among them had made more rapid strides than Jack Darcy. As he stood there now, noble in form, in bearing, and with his good, strong, manly face, they felt somehow that he was their hero, and the cheering was heartier than ever.

Then Cameron must say a few words, and Ben Hay and Jesse Gilman; and, as Jack declared afterward, it was a regular experience-meeting among brethren. They pressed around, and shook hands with Darcy and Winston, the captain and the pilot with whom they had weathered gales, and been brought safely into port. And they would not let them stir out of the building until they had appointed a meeting to form the company again, this time on a somewhat stronger basis. They were firmly convinced now that this was the only way in which it was possible for workmen to make any advancement.

At length the crowd began to disperse. Jack started homeward; but, before he had walked half the distance, Davy, one of the men who had gone out in the first trouble, confronted him suddenly, seizing his hand.

"O Mr. Darcy!" said he in a most eager tone, "are you going to form over again? Do you think there's a chance for me to be taken back? There hasn't been a day nor a night but what I've cursed myself for being such a fool as to let anybody talk me out of a good job. I see just how it is now. And, if I can get back again, I'll stand by the old ship through thick and thin. O Mr. Darcy! please speak a good word for me!"

"That I will, Davy, if it is needed."

"Thank you, thank you, a thousand times!" cried the poor fellow gratefully.

Yerbury had plenty of praise now. To be sure, times had improved. If every year had been like the second, it would not have been possible to make co-operation work; but then, would it have been possible to carry on any business with continual loss? The starting of Hope Mills had inspired other disheartened firms, and given an impetus to Yerbury industries that might have lain much longer in the Slough of Despond.

Fred and Sylvie came over to the Darcys to tea that evening, and Maverick dropped in of course.

"Mrs. Darcy," he exclaimed, "I do not see why you did not have a daughter for me to marry! Then we could all have been relations, you see. I think it a great mistake on your part."

Mrs. Darcy glanced at her son with a peculiar light in her eyes.

Jack laughed. "She is thinking," he explained, "that if there had been another one, I should have gone off long ago to seek my fortune. I have learned that God may have better work for one than simply following out his own will;" and his voice dropped to a reverential tone.

Maverick studied him with a peculiar interest. All these years there had been growing up in Jack Darcy a plant of nobler promise than mere worldly ambition. Not that he in any manner despised wealth: he had come to understand its true uses. The same power that had educated the workmen had been going on with silent, steady processes in him. He had come to comprehend the dignity of the soul, and that God desired his return in the deeds done for one another, in the continual progress, the greatness, nobleness, and loyalty we offered "to one of the least of these." Was this true religion,—the simple doctrine of the Cross? And Maverick bowed his head in unconscious reverence.

They started homeward presently. Sylvie and Irene had some "last words" about baby Lawrence, and the two men paced up and down the porch a few moments.

"Thank God that it all came out so well!" said Jack in his strong, reverent tone.

Fred put his arm over Jack's shoulder. The two men seemed types of all that was highest and finest in human nature.

"Jack," began the other in his full, rich tone, tremulous with emotion, "do you remember that in my romantic boyhood I used to liken you to King Arthur? You have merged into a nobler hero since that day. Who but a Sir Galahad, true, strong, unselfish, at once just yet tender, ambitious for the Holy Grail of our times, yet never swerving from the path of honor; keeping his own soul stainless amid the many temptations of the world—who save such a soul could have gone on in your path to the end? And of the other Christ-like virtue"—

"Don't, don't, Fred! You always did rate me too highly, you know. I am only a man."

"It is something to be a man in these days," returned the other.

The shady blue eyes smiled out of their twilight depth.

"Fred, where are you?" cried a sweet voice.

"You gave me her. You taught me to gain the great prize of my life as surely as you trained the men in the mill yonder. God bless you!"

LEE AND SHEPARD'S

SELECT FICTION