Mr. Lyon's invitation was for a week. Before the end of the week I
was called to New York to consult Mr. Henderson in regard to a railway
investment in the West, which was turning out more permanent than
profitable. Rodney Henderson--the name later became very familiar to the
public in connection with a certain Congressional investigation--was a
graduate of my own college, a New Hampshire boy, a lawyer by profession,
who practiced, as so many American lawyers do, in Wall Street, in
political combinations, in Washington, in railways. He was already known
as a rising man.
When I returned Mr. Lyon was still at our house. I understood that my
wife had persuaded him to extend his visit--a proposal he was little
reluctant to fall in with, so interested had he become in studying
social life in America. I could well comprehend this, for we are all
making a “study” of something in this age, simple enjoyment being
considered an unworthy motive. I was glad to see that the young
Englishman was improving himself, broadening his knowledge of life, and
not wasting the golden hours of youth. Experience is what we all need,
and though love or love-making cannot be called a novelty, there is
something quite fresh about the study of it in the modern spirit.
Mr. Lyon had made himself very agreeable to the little circle, not less
by his inquiring spirit than by his unaffected manners, by a kind
of simplicity which women recognize as unconscious, the result of an
inherited habit of not thinking about one's position. In excess it may
be very disagreeable, but when it is combined with genuine good-nature
and no self-assertion, it is attractive. And although American women
like a man who is aggressive towards the world and combative, there is
the delight of novelty in one who has leisure to be agreeable, leisure
for them, and who seems to their imagination to have a larger range in
life than those who are driven by business--one able to offer the peace
and security of something attained.
There had been several little neighborhood entertainments, dinners at
the Morgans' and at Mrs. Fletcher's, and an evening cup of tea at Miss
Forsythe's. In fact Margaret and Mr. Lyon had been thrown much together.
He had accompanied her to vespers, and they had taken a wintry walk
or two together before the snow came. My wife had not managed it--she
assured me of that; but she had not felt authorized to interfere; and
she had visited the public library and looked into the British Peerage.
Men were so suspicious. Margaret was quite able to take care of herself.
I admitted that, but I suggested that the Englishman was a stranger in
a strange land, that he was far from home, and had perhaps a weakened
sense of those powerful social influences which must, after all, control
him in the end. The only response to this was, “I think, dear, you'd
better wrap him up in cotton and send him back to his family.”
Among her other activities Margaret was interested in a mission school
in the city, to which she devoted an occasional evening and Sunday
afternoons. This was a new surprise for Mr. Lyon. Was this also a part
of the restlessness of American life? At Mrs. Howe's german the other
evening the girl had seemed wholly absorbed in dress, and the gayety of
the serious formality of the occasion, feeling the responsibility of
it scarcely less than the “leader.” Yet her mind was evidently much
occupied with the “condition of women,” and she taught in a public
school. He could not at all make it out. Was she any more serious about
the german than about the mission school? It seemed odd at her age
to take life so seriously. And was she serious in all her various
occupations, or only experimenting? There was a certain mocking humor in
the girl that puzzled the Englishman still more.
“I have not seen much of your life,” he said one night to Mr.
Morgan; “but aren't most American women a little restless, seeking an
occupation?”
“Perhaps they have that appearance; but about the same number find it,
as formerly, in marriage.”
“But I mean, you know, do they look to marriage as an end so much?”
“I don't know that they ever did look to marriage as anything but a
means.”
“I can tell you, Mr. Lyon,” my wife interrupted, “you will get no
information out of Mr. Morgan; he is a scoffer.”
“Not at all, I do assure you,” Morgan replied. “I am just a humble
observer. I see that there is a change going on, but I cannot comprehend
it. When I was young, girls used to go in for society; they danced their
feet off from seventeen to twenty-one. I never heard anything about any
occupation; they had their swing and their fling, and their flirtations;
they appeared to be skimming off of those impressionable, joyous years
the cream of life.”
“And you think that fitted them for the seriousness of life?” asked his
wife.
“Well, I am under the impression that very good women came out of that
society. I got one out of that dancing crowd who has been serious enough
for me.”
“And little enough you have profited by it,” said Mrs. Morgan.
“I'm content. But probably I'm old-fashioned. There is quite another
spirit now. Girls out of pinafores must begin seriously to consider some
calling. All their flirtation from seventeen to twenty-one is with some
occupation. All their dancing days they must go to college, or in some
way lay the foundation for a useful life. I suppose it's all right. No
doubt we shall have a much higher style of women in the future than we
ever had in the past.”
“You allow nothing,” said Mrs. Fletcher, “for the necessity of earning
a living in these days of competition. Women never will come to their
proper position in the world, even as companions of men, which you
regard as their highest office, until they have the ability to be
self-supporting.”
“Oh, I admitted the fact of the independence of women a long time ago.
Every one does that before he comes to middle life. About the shifting
all round of this burden of earning a living, I am not so sure. It does
not appear yet to make competition any less; perhaps competition would
disappear if everybody did earn his own living and no more. I wonder,
by-the-way, if the girls, the young women, of the class we seem to be
discussing ever do earn as much as would pay the wages of the servants
who are hired to do the housework in their places?”
“That is a most ignoble suggestion,” I could not help saying, “when you
know that the object in modern life is the cultivation of the mind, the
elevation of women, and men also, in intellectual life.”
“I suppose so. I should like to have asked Abigail Adams's opinion on
the way to do it.”
“One would think,” I said, “that you didn't know that the spinning-jenny
and the stocking-knitter had been invented. Given these, the women's
college was a matter of course.”
“Oh, I'm a believer in all kinds of machinery anything to save labor.
Only, I have faith that neither the jenny nor the college will change
human nature, nor take the romance out of life.”
“So have I,” said my wife. “I've heard two things affirmed: that women
who receive a scientific or professional education lose their faith,
become usually agnostics, having lost sensitiveness to the mysteries of
life.”
“And you think, therefore, that they should not have a scientific
education?”
“No, unless all scientific prying into things is a mistake. Women may be
more likely at first to be upset than men, but they will recover their
balance when the novelty is worn off. No amount of science will entirely
change their emotional nature; and besides, with all our science, I
don't see that the supernatural has any less hold on this generation
than on the former.”
“Yes, and you might say the world was never before so credulous as it is
now. But what was the other thing?”
“Why, that co-education is likely to diminish marriages among
the co-educated. Daily familiarity in the classroom at the most
impressionable age, revelation of all the intellectual weaknesses and
petulances, absorption of mental routine on an equality, tend to destroy
the sense of romance and mystery that are the most powerful attractions
between the sexes. It is a sort of disenchanting familiarity that rubs
off the bloom.”
“Have you any statistics on the subject?”
“No. I fancy it is only a notion of some old fogy who thinks education
in any form is dangerous for women.”
“Yes, and I fancy that co-education will have about as much effect on
life generally as that solemn meeting of a society of intelligent
and fashionable women recently in one of our great cities, who met to
discuss the advisability of limiting population.”
“Great Scott!” I exclaimed, “this is an interesting age.”
I was less anxious about the vagaries of it when I saw the very
old-fashioned way in which the international drama was going on in our
neighborhood. Mr. Lyon was increasingly interested in Margaret's mission
work. Nor was there much affectation in this. Philanthropy, anxiety
about the working-classes, is nowhere more serious or in the fashion
than it is in London. Mr. Lyon, wherever he had been, had made a special
study of the various aid and relief societies, especially of the work
for young waifs and strays.
One Sunday afternoon they were returning from the Bloom Street
Mission. Snow covered the ground, the sky was leaden, and the air had a
penetrating chill in it far more disagreeable than extreme cold.
“We also,” Mr. Lyon was saying, in continuation of a conversation, “are
making a great effort for the common people.”
“But we haven't any common people here,” replied Margaret, quickly.
“That bright boy you noticed in my class, who was a terror six months
ago, will no doubt be in the City Council in a few years, and likely
enough mayor.”
“Oh, I know your theory. It practically comes to the same thing,
whatever you call it. I couldn't see that the work in New York differed
much from that in London. We who have leisure ought to do something for
the working-classes.”
“I sometimes doubt if it is not all a mistake most of our charitable
work. The thing is to get people to do something for themselves.”
“But you cannot do away with distinctions?”
“I suppose not, so long as so many people are born vicious, or
incompetent, or lazy. But, Mr. Lyon, how much good do you suppose
condescending charity does?” asked Margaret, firing up in a way the girl
had at times. “I mean the sort that makes the distinctions more evident.
The very fact that you have leisure to meddle in their affairs may be
an annoyance to the folks you try to help by the little palliatives of
charity. What effect upon a wretched city neighborhood do you suppose is
produced by the advent in it of a stylish carriage and a lady in silk,
or even the coming of a well-dressed, prosperous woman in a horse-car,
however gentle and unassuming she may be in this distribution of
sympathy and bounty? Isn't the feeling of inequality intensified? And
the degrading part of it may be that so many are willing to accept this
sort of bounty. And your men of leisure, your club men, sitting in the
windows and seeing the world go by as a spectacle-men who never did an
hour's necessary work in their lives--what effect do you suppose the
sight of them has upon men out of work, perhaps by their own fault,
owing to the same disposition to be idle that the men in the club
windows have?”
“And do you think it would be any better if all were poor alike?”
“I think it would be better if there were no idle people. I'm half
ashamed that I have leisure to go every time I go to that mission. And
I'm almost sorry, Mr. Lyon, that I took you there. The boys knew you
were English. One of them asked me if you were a 'lord' or a 'juke'
or something. I cannot tell how they will take it. They may resent the
spying into their world of an 'English juke,' and they may take it in
the light of a show.”
Mr. Lyon laughed. And then, perhaps after a little reflection upon the
possibility that the nobility was becoming a show in this world, he
said:
“I begin to think I'm very unfortunate, Miss Debree. You seem to remind
me that I am in a position in which I can do very little to help the
world along.”
“Not at all. You can do very much.”
“But how, when whatever I attempt is considered a condescension? What
can I do?”
“Pardon me,” and Margaret turned her eyes frankly upon him. “You can be
a good earl when your time comes.”
Their way lay through the little city park. It is a pretty place in
summer--a varied surface, well planted with forest and ornamental trees,
intersected by a winding stream. The little river was full now, and ice
had formed on it, with small openings here and there, where the dark
water, hurrying along as if in fear of arrest, had a more chilling
aspect than the icy cover. The ground was white with snow, and all the
trees were bare except for a few frozen oak-leaves here and there, which
shivered in the wind and somehow added to the desolation. Leaden clouds
covered the sky, and only in the west was there a gleam of the departing
winter day.
Upon the elevated bank of the stream, opposite to the road by which they
approached, they saw a group of people--perhaps twenty-drawn closely
together, either in the sympathy of segregation from an unfeeling world,
or for protection from the keen wind. On the hither bank, and leaning on
the rails of the drive, had collected a motley crowd of spectators,
men, women, and boys, who exhibited some impatience and much curiosity,
decorous for the most part, but emphasized by occasional jocose remarks
in an undertone. A serious ceremony was evidently in progress. The
separate group had not a prosperous air. The women were thinly clad for
such a day. Conspicuous in the little assembly was a tall, elderly man
in a shabby long coat and a broad felt hat, from under which his white
hair fell upon his shoulders. He might be a prophet in Israel come out
to testify to an unbelieving world, and the little group around him,
shaken like reeds in the wind, had the appearance of martyrs to a cause.
The light of another world shone in their thin, patient faces. Come,
they seemed to say to the worldlings on the opposite bank--come and see
what happiness it is to serve the Lord. As they waited, a faint tune
was started, a quavering hymn, whose feeble notes the wind blew away of
first, but which grew stronger.
Before the first stanza was finished a carriage appeared in the rear of
the group. From it descended a middle-aged man and a stout woman, and
they together helped a young girl to alight. She was clad all in white.
For a moment her thin, delicate figure shrank from the cutting wind.
Timid, nervous, she glanced an instant at the crowd and the dark icy
stream; but it was only a protest of the poor body; the face had the
rapt, exultant look of joyous sacrifice.
The tall man advanced to meet her, and led her into the midst of the
group.
For a few moments there was prayer, inaudible at a distance. Then the
tall man, taking the girl by the hand, advanced down the slope to the
stream. His hat was laid aside, his venerable locks streamed in the
breeze, his eyes were turned to heaven; the girl walked as in a vision,
without a tremor, her wide-opened eyes fixed upon invisible things.
As they moved on, the group behind set up a joyful hymn in a kind of
mournful chant, in which the tall man joined with a strident voice.
Fitfully the words came on the wind, in an almost heart-breaking wail:
“Beyond the smiling and the weeping I shall be soon;
Beyond the waking and the sleeping,
Beyond the sowing and the reaping, I shall be soon.”
They were near the water now, and the tall man's voice sounded out loud
and clear:
“Lord, tarry not, but come!”
They were entering the stream where there was an opening clear of ice;
the footing was not very secure, and the tall man ceased singing, but
the little band sang on:
“Beyond the blooming and the fading I shall be soon.”
The girl grew paler and shuddered. The tall man sustained her with
an attitude of infinite sympathy, and seemed to speak words of
encouragement. They were in the mid-stream; the cold flood surged about
their waists. The group sang on:
“Beyond the shining and the shading,
Beyond the hoping and the dreading, I shall be soon.”
The strong, tender arms of the tall man gently lowered the white form
under the cruel water; he staggered a moment in the swift stream,
recovered himself, raised her, white as death, and the voices of the
wailing tune came:
“Love, rest, and home
Sweet hope! Lord, tarry not, but come!”
And the tall man, as he struggled to the shore with his almost
insensible burden, could be heard above the other voices and the wind
and the rush of the waters:
“Lord, tarry not, but come!”
The girl was hurried into the carriage, and the group quickly dispersed.
“Well, I'll be--” The tender-hearted little wife of the rough man in the
crowd who began that sentence did not permit him to finish it. “That'll
be a case for a doctor right away,” remarked a well-known practitioner
who had been looking on.
Margaret and Mr. Lyon walked home in silence. “I can't talk about it,”
she said. “It's such a pitiful world.”