Noblesse Oblige
On his way home that day, the minister met Mr. Granger, and the
two stopped to look at a Vermont regiment that was marching
through the city from the Maine depot to the New York depot. As
they stopped, the regiment also was stopped by some obstruction
in the street.
The attention of the gentlemen was presently attracted to a boy
in the rank nearest them, a bright, resolute-looking lad, with a
ruddy face and smiling lips.
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But it needed not a very keen observer to see in that smile the
pathetic bravado of a boy who had just torn himself away from
home, and was struggling to hide the grief with which his heart
was swelling.
"What is a boy like you in the army for?" Mr. Granger asked.
The young soldier looked up, his bright eyes bold with
excitement. "When men won't go, the boys have got to go," he
answered. "Do you want to take my place?"
Mr. Granger said no more.
Beside this boy stood a middle aged man who had an uncommonly
good face. He was tall, somewhat awkward, and had that look of
unsophisticated manliness, honest candor, and plain common sense,
which is found only in the country. One could not fancy him a
dweller among masked city faces, breathing air pent in narrow
streets, walking daily on pavements, and knowing no shades but
those of brick and stone. His place was tramping through wild
forests, not with any romantic intent, but measuring with
practised eyes the trunk of some tree in which he saw what
woodsmen call a "good stick," and chopping steadily at it while
the chips flew about him, and above him the spreading branches
shivered at every stroke; or plodding slowly through still
country roads beside his slow oxen; or, in the sultry summer
days, swinging the scythe through thick grass and clover, mowing
them down ankle deep at his feet. He had the flavor of all that
about him. Now he had to wade through other than that fragrant
summer sacrifice, to break through other ranks than serried
clover and Mayweed, and those strong arms of his were to lay low
something greater than pine or cedar. You could see that this
thought was in his mind, that he never lost sight of it, but,
also, that he would not shrink. Such men have not much to say;
but in time of need they put into action the heroism which others
exhale in glowing language.
This man had been looking straight before him; but at the sound
of a childish voice he turned his head quickly. A little girl
leaning from the curbstone was admiring the bunch of flowers on
the soldier's bayonet, and stretching longing hands toward them.
The fixed look in the man's face broke up instantly. "Do you want
them, little dear?" he asked.
"Oh! yes."
He lowered his rifle, removed the flowers, and gave them to the
child, looking at her with a yearning, homesick smile that was
more pitiful than tears. At that moment the drums began to beat.
The soldier laid his bronzed hand on the happy little head, then,
with trembling lips and downcast eyes, marched on, and out of
sight for ever.
Mr. Granger turned abruptly away. "I feel as if I were a great
lazy coward!" he exclaimed. "I can't stand this any longer!"
The minister looked at him with a startled expression; but any
reply was prevented; for just then they met Mrs. Lewis coming out
of a flower-store, with her hands full of Mayflowers done up in
solid pink bunches, without a sign of green.
"Poor things!" she said. "The sight of them always reminds me of
the massacre of the Innocents. See! they look like so many pretty
little pink and white heads cut off. Massed so, without any
green, they are not at all like flowers. Are we going home to
dinner? My husband will be late, and we are not to wait for him.
He has gone to see who is drafted in our ward."
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The family had nearly finished dinner when Mr. Lewis came in.
"Our house is favored," he said immediately. "Granger, both you
and I are drawn."
Mr. Granger looked up, but said nothing. "I got my substitute on
the spot," Mr. Lewis continued. "He is a decent fellow whom I can
depend on. I asked him if he knew of any one for you, and he
thought he could get somebody."
Mr. Granger made no reply, seemed to be occupied in waiting on
his little girl who sat beside him.
"How sober he is!" thought Miss Hamilton; but did not feel
troubled, his gravity was so gentle.
Dora looked up in her father's face, and laughed, half with love,
half with delight. "You nice papa!" she cried, and gave his arm
an enthusiastic hug. He laid his hand on those sunny curls, as he
had seen the soldier do in the street, but did not smile.
Glancing at Mr. Southard, Margaret met a look at once anxious and
searching. His eyes were instantly averted, but his expression
did not change. What could it mean? After dinner, he went
directly to his room.
Mr. Granger sat apart in the parlor with Dora, petting her, and
telling her stories. When her bed-time came, he went out with
her, and was gone longer than usual. The evening was cool, and
they had a fire in the grate. Mr. Lewis sat before it reading the
evening paper, and the three ladies gathered in one corner, and
talked in whispers.
"How sober and strange everything seems this evening!" Margaret
said, shivering. "I feel cold. It isn't like spring, but like
fall. Hold my hand, Aura dear. What does chill me so?"
"It is because Mr. Southard looked at you in such an odd way,"
Aurelia said gravely, holding Margaret's cold hand between her
warm ones.
"I know what ails me," Mrs. Lewis said, in a tone of vexation.
"It is that substitute. My husband will preach poverty for six
months to come. Charles," raising her voice, "does your
substitute look as if he had swallowed a new black silk dress
with little ruffles all over it?"
"He has very much that expression of countenance," growled Mr.
Lewis from behind his newspaper.
"O dear! And does he look as if Niagara Falls had disappeared
down his throat, and as if he were just chewing up a little trip
to the mountains?"
"You describe him perfectly," her husband replied with grim
courtesy.
Mr. Granger came in presently, and stood awhile by one of the
windows, looking out into the twilight. Then he took a seat by
the fire.
It was getting too dark to read without a light, and Mr. Lewis
laid his paper aside. "I will see about your substitute
to-morrow," he said, "and send him up to the bank, if you wish."
"Thank you," Mr. Granger replied. "And as soon as I get a
substitute, I shall immediately volunteer."
There was an exclamation from the ladies, and a sound as if one
caught her breath.
Mr. Lewis stared at the speaker, turned very red, then started
up, and went out of the room, banging the door behind him. A
minute later, he flung open the door of Mr. Southard's study, and
marched in without the least ceremony. "What is the meaning of
this nonsense of Mr. Granger's volunteering?" he demanded,
stammering with anger.
Mr. Southard had been sitting with a Bible open before him, and
his face bowed forward and resting on it. He rose with cold
stateliness at this abrupt invasion. "Will you sit, sir?" he
said, pointing to a chair.
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"No, sir, I will not!" was the answer. "I want you to go down and
put a stop to his making a fool of himself. I won't say a word to
him; I haven't patience to."
"If Mr. Granger thinks it his duty to go, I shall not attempt to
dissuade him," said the minister calmly, reseating himself. "He
is his own master, and I am in no way responsible for his action
in the matter."
"When a man plants an acorn, we hold him responsible for the
oak," was the retort. "You have indirectly done all you could to
make him ashamed of staying at home, and to make him believe that
the more pieces a man gets cut into the more of a man he is. If
you don't prevent his going, I shall hold you responsible for
whatever may happen."
For a moment the minister's self-control deserted him, and a just
perceptible curl touched his lip with scorn. "Can you see no
nobler destiny for a man," he asked, "than to eat three meals a
day, make money, and keep a whole skin?"
Mr. Lewis's face had been red: now his very hands blushed with
anger. He opened the door to leave the room, and turned on the
threshold. "Yes, sir, I can!" he replied with emphasis. "But it
is not in staying at home and sending another man out to die,
especially when that man may be in your way!"
Banging the door behind him, Mr. Lewis ran against his niece who
was just coming up-stairs. She looked terrified. She had
overheard her uncle's parting speech.
"Oh! how could you!" she exclaimed. "Aunt was afraid that you
were going to say something to Mr. Southard, and she sent me to
beg you to come down. How could you, uncle?"
"I could a good deal easier than I couldn't," he replied. "Come
into the chamber here and talk to me. I don't want to be left
alone a minute. I shan't go down-stairs again to-night; and I
would advise you and your aunt to get out of the way, and give
Miss Hamilton a chance to talk or cry a little common sense into
Mr. Granger."
Meantime Mr. Granger had been explaining somewhat to the two
ladies left with him, and exonerating Mr. Southard from all
responsibility.
"I know that Mr. Lewis will blame him," he said; "but that is
unjust to both of us. It is paying me a very poor compliment to
say that in such a matter I would allow another person to think
for me."
"You must remember that my husband's excitement will be in
proportion to his regard for you," Mrs Lewis said, with tears in
her eyes. "He has a rough way of showing affection; but he is
fonder of you than of any other man in the world; and I'm sure we
all--" Here her voice failed.
Mr. Granger turned hastily toward her as she got up to go out. "I
don't forget that," he said. "I know he thinks a good deal of me,
and so do I of him. We shan't quarrel. Don't be afraid. I found
out long ago that he has a kind and true heart under that rough
manner."
"I'm going to bring him back," Mrs. Lewis said, and went out,
wiping her eyes.
Mr. Granger had not dared to look at Miss Hamilton, or address
her directly. After having spoken, the thought had first occurred
to him that he should have been less abrupt in announcing his
intention to her. She might be expected to feel his departure
more keenly than the others would. He waited a moment to see if
she would speak. She sat perfectly quiet in the dim light, her
cheek supported by her hand, her elbow on the arm of her chair,
and her eyes fixed on the fire.
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There is an involuntary calmness with which we sometime receive
the most terrible news, and which even an acute observer would
take for perfect indifference, but which, though not assumed, is
utterly deceptive. Perhaps it is incredulity; perhaps the sudden
blow stuns. Whatever it may be, no human self-control can equal
it. Fortunately, this phenomenon worked now for Miss Hamilton.
She would scarcely have forgiven herself or Mr. Granger if she
had lost her self-possession.
"Nothing will be changed here," he said presently, slightly
embarrassed by the continued silence. "All will go on just as it
has. In case of any uncertainty, when it would take too long to
hear from me, you can consult Mr. Barton, who is my lawyer. He
knows all my wishes and intentions. Of course you have full
authority regarding Dora. I feel quite at ease in leaving her to
you."
So Mr. Barton had known all about it, and so had Mr. Southard,
and others, perhaps. Miss Hamilton recollected herself with an
effort. She was in Mr. Granger's employment; he was, in some
sort, her patron. She had made the mistake of thinking that they
were friends. But that is not friendship where the confidence is
all on one side.
"I shall try to do my duty by Dora," she said rather coldly. "But
what does 'full authority' mean?"
"She is too young to learn theology," he replied; "but everything
else is free. I spoke lest some one might interfere during my
absence, though that isn't likely."
Margaret waited a moment, then said, "Dora tells me that you hear
her say the Our Father every night and morning. Of course, I
shall hear it when you are gone. If you are willing, I would like
to teach her to bless herself before praying, and to say a little
prayer to the Mother of Christ for your safety. I won't make her
say 'Mother of God.'"
Mr. Granger was touched. "That cannot hurt her nor me," he said.
"Do as you please."
Presently he spoke again, "I received yesterday a letter which my
cousin Sinclair wrote me the day before he was killed. It was
given to a soldier who was taken prisoner, and is only just
exchanged. That letter surprised and affected me; and if I had a
lingering doubt as to my own course, it was dispelled then. He
was driving to the steamer, it seems, when he met the Seventh
Regiment marching through Broadway to take the cars south. As
they marched, they sang 'Glory Hallelujah' with a sound like a
torrent. He was electrified. There he was on the point of going
abroad for distraction when here at home was the centre toward
which the eyes of the whole civilized world were turned. He
blushed for the slothful ease and aimlessness of his life. Here
was manly employment. He took no thought for the causes of the
war, since he was not responsible for them; and circumstances had
decided which side he was to take. To him it was a great
gymnasium in which men enervated by wealth, or cramped by petty
aims, were to wake up their nobler powers, string anew their
courage, 'ventilate their souls,' as he expressed it, and,
finding what they were themselves capable of achieving, take back
thus their faith in others. When he saw those gallant fellows
march singing off to battle, the dusty, stale old life broke open
for him, and a new golden age bloomed out. He did not feel that
they were rejoicing over the shedding of blood, or the winning of
victories; but they sang their emancipation from littleness, they
sang because they caught breath of a higher air, they sang
because they had found out that their souls were greater than
their bodies.
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Then first it seemed credible to him that the Son of God took
flesh and died for man; for then he first perceived that man at
his best is a glorious creature. 'I am happy,' he added. 'It is
like getting out of a close room into the fresh air. I am going
through a picture-gallery more magnificent than any in the old
world, and listening to strains of an epic grander than Homer's.
I feel as if I were just made new.'"
This recital was to Margaret like some reviving essence to a
fainting person. Her heart, drooping inward on itself, expanded
again.
"If I knew him now!" she said. "If he would-come to me now!"
"Here is something that will interest you," Mr. Granger added; "I
will read it from the letter."
He lighted the gas and read: "The last time I was in Washington,
I went to see Lieut. A----, who is laid up in one of the
hospitals in charge of the Sisters of Charity. Everything was
quiet and orderly. A. was enthusiastic about the sisters, calls
them doves of peace and charity, says their bonnets look like
wings of great white birds. I talked with one of them when I went
out.
"'How can you, who are the children of peace, bear to come among
us who are the sons of strife?' I asked.
"'Where can the children of peace more fitly go than among the
sons of strife?' she returned.
"'But we must seem to you cruel, and unworthy of gentle
ministrations,' I said. 'You must think that we deserve our
pains.'"
"A swift, almost childlike smile just touched her lips, 'We
cannot be everything,' she replied. 'Each has his place; and the
judgment-seat belongs to God. I am only the nurse.'
"'You must look upon war as the carnival of Satan,' I said.
"'God permits it,' she replied tranquilly. 'And the thought has
occurred to me that it may be some times a preparation for
religion. In the army men learn to suffer, and to sacrifice, and
to be patient and obedient--lessons which perhaps they would not
learn in any humbler school. And having acquired these virtues,
they may use them in nobler ways, perhaps in preventing war.
But,' she added hastily, 'it is not for me to explain the designs
of the Almighty. Here is my mission!'
"She bowed, and glided away. A minute later I saw her raising the
head of a dying soldier, and as his eyes grew dim, repeating for
him, 'Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!'
"As I went away, I said to myself, 'I have seen one wiser than
Solomon!'"
As Mr. Granger finished reading, the door opened, and Mr.
Southard came in, but stopped on seeing the two alone.
"I am glad you have, come," Miss Hamilton said quickly, "I want
you to assure Mr. Granger that, though we shall miss him, and be
anxious about him, we will not let our weakness stand in the way
of his strength."
No matter if she had been slighted! No matter if the confidence
had been all on one side!
"Will you not bid me also Godspeed?" Mr. Southard asked.
"You?"
"I have asked, and am likely to receive, a year's leave of
absence from my congregation," he said. "I do not know how it
will be; but I hope to go in the same regiment with Mr. Granger."
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"Well," Margaret sighed as she climbed wearily up-stairs, "I have
had one happy year. But could I have dreamed that Maurice
Sinclair would be the one to reprove my weakness at such a
time?".