WHAT OF THE NIGHT?
Since that day in Cheemaun when Elizabeth had met Mrs. Jarvis, and
unconsciously stumbled upon what Miss Gordon deemed her fortune, the
girl had enjoyed her aunt's highest approval. She had made several
holiday visits to the old home, and each time Miss Gordon had noted new
signs of improvement. And now that Elizabeth had further distinguished
herself by writing a poem, Miss Gordon's approbation broke out in an
affectionate letter, that warmed the girl's love-craving heart.
The Gay Gordons, each after his own fashion, expressed his views of
this new development of the wild streak, producing all sorts of
opinions from Mr. Gordon, who memorized the pretty verses and hummed
them over at his work and to Jean, who, while confessing that the
little rhyme had no literary value, declared herself exceedingly glad
that Lizzie was about to do something.
Mrs. Jarvis was the most highly pleased, and to add further to her joy,
sent a copy of the _Dominion_ containing the poem to her niece in
Cheemaun. The Olivers had not been on the best of terms with their
aunt since Madeline had been superseded by an interloper, and Mrs.
Jarvis was not above enjoying her niece's chagrin.
Elizabeth heard of the effect of the poem from Estella. She wrote a
rapturous letter, two pages of which were filled with congratulations,
the other ten with a description of the perfectly horrid, mean way the
Olivers were acting--except Horace--and the perfectly frightful time
she was having with all her clamoring suitors. Horace was not excepted
this time. She ended up by declaring she almost felt like marrying
Horry just to spite Madeline--who still refused to notice her
socially,--only he had been Beth's beau so long, she felt it would be
cruel and wicked.
Elizabeth wrote renouncing all claim upon the youth, and signing over
whatever rights she may have had to Estella. She sighed a little over
Madeline's case, for they had been old school-mates, and Elizabeth felt
keenly her position as usurper. Nevertheless, she was happier now than
she had been since she left The Dale as Mrs. Jarvis's companion. She
believed that her pen had found for her a purpose in life. Under all
Elizabeth's gay exterior, unquenched by the idle life of fashion, there
lay a strong desire to be of use in a large, grand way--the old Joan of
Arc dream. When she had first entered the new world with Mrs. Jarvis,
her dream had centered about Eppie, her forlorn little school-mate.
The pathos of Eppie's old-fashioned figure and pale face had never
ceased to touch Elizabeth's heart.
At first her conscience, trained by Mother MacAllister, had rebelled at
the thought of accepting a luxurious home from the woman who had,
through callous indifference, allowed Eppie to be turned away from her
poor little log-cabin home in the forest. But Elizabeth could never
have explained to her aunt her reluctance to accept the brilliant
prospects before her, so she had gone into the new life determined to
use whatever influence she could gain with her new companion towards
bringing back Eppie and her grandfather to Forest Glen. But the years
had passed, and, so far, she had accomplished nothing. Old Sandy and
Eppie had disappeared, and even should she find them Elizabeth had
little hope of help from Mrs. Jarvis. She could be indolently and
weakly generous in the face of a pressing need, presented directly to
her, but her young companion had always found her callously indifferent
to any tale of distress that called for an effort of any sort.
And so Elizabeth's ambition had gradually waned, until she was in
danger of developing into a mere woman of fashion. But now she had
found a new avenue for her activities. She would produce a great song
one day, something that would make the world better and that would
command Charles Stuart's approbation, no matter how unwilling he was to
give it. Accordingly she made a bolder flight into the realm of poesy,
and sent this second venture to the _Dominion_. To her dismay it was
promptly sent back without a remark. A third and fourth effort to gain
an entrance to lesser publications, ending in failure, convinced her
that once more she had made a mistake. The Pretender was right, she
had not the divine fire. She tried prose next, but she could not weave
a story had her life depended upon it, and as for those clever articles
other women wrote, she did not even understand what they were about.
No, she was a failure surely, she told herself. This little song was
like her acting on the school stage in the old days at home. She had
promised to be a star and had suddenly set in oblivion.
She gave up literature entirely, and once more that old imperative
question, of what use was she to be in the world, faced her. She might
have found opportunities in plenty in St. Stephen's Church, but the
only young ladies she knew in the congregation belonged to the select
Guild of which Miss Kendall was a member, and since her encounter with
that lady Elizabeth had wisely avoided her. Besides, she felt that
John and Charles Stuart would surely disown her if she were caught
connecting herself with that society.
But the opportunities for self-examination and consequent
self-dissatisfaction grew fewer as the winter advanced. Luncheons,
receptions, bridge tournaments, and theater parties followed each other
with such bewildering swiftness that Elizabeth seldom had time for
serious thought. So busy was she that often a week flew past without
an opportunity even to run over to No. 15, much to the satisfaction of
Mrs. Jarvis, who was often jealous of its attractions.
There was a new reason, too, for Elizabeth's many engagements, other
than her popularity. Ever since the evening early in the autumn when
Mr. Huntley had recognized his little Queen Elizabeth of the Forest
Glen woods, he had been paying her marked attentions. He was a wealthy
man now, one of the city's most prominent lawyers, a large shareholder
in one of the new and most promising railroads, and--as Mrs. Jarvis
joyfully pointed out to Elizabeth at every opportunity--the best match
to be met in their social circle.
At first his notice had flattered Elizabeth and pleased her. It was
just what she had thought she wanted. There had been very little of
such pleasant experiences in her life. She had been a spectator of
many pretty romances, but had always stood on the outer edge of the
enchanted land, longing, yet fearing to enter. Looking back she had to
confess that Horace Oliver had produced her only romance, and now
Horace was gone. Some of the young men she met in the fashionable
world attracted her at first, and finally bored her. Often some one of
them, captivated by her star-like eyes and her vivacity, would single
her out for special favors, and be met with great cordiality. Then
suddenly, to Mrs. Jarvis's disgust, Elizabeth would grow weary of him
and take no pains to hide her feelings. The young men soon ceased to
run the risk of being so treated. "Miss Gordon was eccentric," they
said, "and besides had a sharp tongue." Elizabeth noticed wistfully
that all possible suitors drifted away and wondered what was the matter
with her.
But Mr. Huntley promised to be entirely constant, and his intentions
grew more obvious every day.
He was almost a middle-aged man now, and not likely to have passing
fancies. But here as elsewhere Elizabeth found herself behaving in an
unexpected fashion. She told herself that Mrs. Jarvis was right, and
that if Mr. Huntley asked her to marry him she would indeed be a
fortunate young woman, and yet when he came to their apartments in
Crescent Court she was always seized with a wild desire to run away to
Jean and the boys.
Nevertheless she reveled in the idea of being loved, and as long ago
she had striven to put her pretty teacher upon a pedestal for
worshipping, just because a teacher was always a glorified being, so
she sought to surround Mr. Huntley's rather pompous middle-aged figure
with the rose mist of her girlish dreams. For Elizabeth wanted to be
loved more than anything else in the wide world.
And so the winter sped away in days crammed with pleasure-seeking, and
the light of Mother MacAllister's teaching had almost faded from
Elizabeth's life. But just as it had grown too dim to be seen by
mortal eye, there came softly stealing into her heart the first hint of
that dawn which was soon to break over her spirit and melt the
gathering clouds of uselessness and selfishness. Slowly and almost
imperceptibly the day was advancing, just as it had risen that summer
morning so long ago when her wondering child-eyes had seen it steal
over The Dale. There was no light as yet. Forms of right and wrong
remained dim and not yet to be distinguished from each other;
nevertheless the first note of the approaching dawn-music was soon to
be sounded. It was to be a very feeble note,--the cry of a bird with a
broken pinion--but it was to usher in the day of Elizabeth's new life.
Spring had begun to send forth her heralds in the form of high March
winds. It was a chilly afternoon, and Mrs. Jarvis, her attempts at
youthfulness all laid aside, was sitting huddled between the grate fire
and the steam radiator drinking her tea.
"Beth," she called sharply, "don't forget your engagement for this
afternoon."
Mrs. Jarvis's tone told Elizabeth that the usual dispute regarding her
goings and comings was at hand. Generally she managed to cajole her
querulous companion into permitting her her own way, but prospects did
not look very bright at present. She emerged slowly from the pretty
blue bedroom looking very handsome in her rich furs and a gray-blue
toque that matched her eyes.
"You mean that committee of Miss Kendall's? I'm afraid if I go I'll
get tangled up in that awful Guild."
Since the day she had met Miss Kendall doing charitable work in Seaton
Crescent, Elizabeth had managed by much scheming to avoid that young
lady. But a few days previous a little note had come from her asking
Miss Gordon to come to the committee rooms at the church to help
arrange some private theatricals which the Young Woman's Guild purposed
giving for an Easter entertainment. The proceeds were to go to the
poor, and Miss Kendall felt sure Miss Gordon would be interested;
besides, she had heard Miss Gordon had especial talent for the stage.
As Miss Kendall knew nothing whatever about Miss Gordon, the latter had
wondered where she got her information, until Mr. Huntley had
enlightened her. He had dropped in the same evening with a dozen
roses, and had intimated that he had helped Miss Kendall make out her
list. Mrs. Jarvis had been overjoyed, and now the day had come and
Elizabeth was in some dismay as to how she was to get out of the
predicament.
"Miss Withrow, the president, sent me an invitation to come to a
meeting in the church. Some missionary man is to give an address.
Now, wouldn't you rather I'd go there than to those giddy theatricals?
The Withrows are quite as important as the Kendalls."
"Don't be sarcastic. It's very unladylike. I'm not so anxious for you
to join the Guild, but I want you to go to Blanche's meeting. Mr.
Huntley was telling me those girls are getting their heads full of
romantic notions about slumming and all that nonsense. I know he
doesn't like that type of woman, so you are as well out of it."
Elizabeth's long lashes drooped rebelliously.
"What has he to do with my affairs?"
"Oh indeed! What has he to do with them?" Mrs. Jarvis imitated her
voice and manner. "He acts just now as though he had everything to do
with you." She suddenly grew serious. "Mr. Huntley is a very
fastidious gentleman, Miss Elizabeth, and you'd better not let him know
anything about your eccentric tricks. It might spoil your chances."
Elizabeth's face flushed. "My chances of what, for instance?" she
inquired.
Mrs. Jarvis laughed good-naturedly.
"Don't be absurd. Whatever you are you're not dull. Why do you
persist in ignoring what is patent to everybody? Do you mean to stand
there, Elizabeth Gordon, and tell me you never imagined yourself Mrs.
Huntley?"
"Oh, as to that: there's no limit to what one can imagine. I've
imagined myself Joan of Arc, often--and Mrs. Horace Oliver, and Jake
Martin's third--supposing he dared outlive Auntie Jinit--and a circus
rider, and a pelican of the wilderness, and any other absurd thing,
without seriously considering taking up any of the afore-mentioned
professions."
"Oh, you absurd young hypocrite. Run away now, and don't bother me.
Go right over to the church at once and help Blanche. You always seem
to miss every chance for getting better acquainted with her."
Elizabeth went slowly down the stairs, telling herself whimsically that
the way of the transgressor was hard. She had not gone many steps
before her spirit caught the mood of the radiant March day. There had
been a light fall of snow in the morning, and the streets were
beautiful for the moment under their fresh covering. The keen air and
the dazzling sunlight brought a glow to her checks and a light to her
eyes. She could not be troubled on such a radiant day by all the Miss
Kendalls in Canada.
As she crossed the park, now a sparkling fairy garden, she was suddenly
made conscious that a familiar figure was hastening along a crosspath
in her direction; a comfortable-looking, middle-aged figure that moved
with a stately stride. For an instant Elizabeth was possessed with a
perverse feeling of irritation, as though he were guilty of the
restrictions laid upon her. That he was the innocent cause of some of
them could not be denied, for he was a very particular gentleman as to
his own and everyone else's deportment, and the sight of him always
raised in her a desire to do something shocking.
He smiled with genuine pleasure as he greeted her; though his manner
was formal and a trifle pompous.
"And how is Queen Elizabeth this afternoon?" he asked. "As radiant as
usual, I perceive."
She returned his greeting a trifle constrainedly, gave the requested
permission to accompany her, and walked demurely at his side, her eyes
cast down. She was wondering mischievously what he would say if she
should tell him her reasons for wishing to escape her afternoon's
engagement.
Their way led for a short distance along a splendid broad avenue that,
starting at the park, stretched away down into the heart of the city.
Its four rows of trees, drooping under their soft mantle of snow,
extended far into the dim white distance.
"Toronto is a fine city," said Mr. Huntley proudly, "and just at this
point one sees its best. Here are our legislative buildings, yonder a
glimpse of our University, here a hospital, there a church and----"
"And here," said Elizabeth, unexpectedly turning a corner--"another
aspect of the same city."
She had turned aside into a narrow alley, which, in but a few steps led
into a scene of painful contrast to the avenue. It was the slum
district--right in the center of the beautiful city--the worm at the
heart of the flower. Here the streets were narrow and dirty. Noisy
ragged children, Italian vendors, Jewish ragpickers, slatternly women,
and drunken men brushed against them as they passed.
"You should not have come this way, Miss Gordon," said Mr. Huntley
solicitously, as he guided her across the black muck of the crossing,
to which the snow had already been converted. "I hope you do not come
here alone."
"I was never here before," said Elizabeth. "How terrible to live in
comfort with this at one's back door, as it were." She shuddered.
Mr. Huntley looked slightly disturbed. "I am glad you are not one of
those sentimental young ladies of St. Stephen's, who have been seized
with the romantic idea that they can overturn conditions here. These
people are better left alone."
Elizabeth was silent. They had just passed a wee ragged girl, whose
blue, pinched face and hungry eyes made her sick with pity. The child
was calling shrilly to an equally ragged boy who had paused on the
sidewalk a little ahead of them. The youngster was absorbed in
tormenting a feeble old man, whose little wagon with its load of soiled
clothing he had just overturned into the mud of the street. The man
was making pitiful attempts to gather up his bundle, but his poor old
frame, stiffened and twisted with rheumatism, refused to bend. The
urchin shouted with laughter, and his victim leaned against a wall
whimpering helplessly. The sight of him hurt Elizabeth even more than
the little girl's hungry face. She thought of her own father, and felt
a hint of the anguish it would mean if ho should one day be
ill-treated. The tears came, blinding her eyes so that she stumbled
along the rotten sidewalk.
A young woman suddenly appeared from the door of a hovel that stood
half-way down an alley just across the way. She had a ragged shawl
over her head, her thin cotton shirt flapped about her meager limbs,
and her feet were incased in men's boots. She ran swiftly to the old
man, routed the urchin, and with many pitying, comforting words began
gathering up the contents of the wagon. Elizabeth longed to stay and
help and comfort them both; she listened eagerly, after they had
passed, to catch what the girl was saying. "Poor grandaddy," she heard
again and again. "Poor grandaddy, I shouldn't have let ye go alone."
There was something about her that drew Elizabeth to her. She wanted
to stop and thank her for the assurance that love could blossom so
beautifully even in this barren spot. Her voice, too, haunted her.
Where had she heard that soft Highland accent before? It seemed to
bring some vague memory of childhood. She glanced up at her companion,
wondering if she dared step back and speak to the pair.
But Mr. Huntley did not seem to have noticed them. He was looking
across the street with an air of half-amused interest.
"I'm rather glad you brought me around this way, Miss Gordon," he said,
the amusement in his face deepening. "I own some property here that I
haven't seen for years." He waved his cane in the direction of the row
of houses across the street. Elizabeth looked back, the old man and
the girl were disappearing down the alley into one of them.
"They are a hard lot, my tenants. If some of the young ladies of St.
Stephen's experienced a little of the difficulty my agent has
collecting rent, or came across one fraction of the fraud and trickery
these people can practice, their philanthropy would cool slightly."
Elizabeth was too much moved to speak. It hurt her so to find him
unsympathetic. To her unaccustomed eyes the signs of want on all sides
were unspeakably pitiful, and in the face of it his indifference was
callous and cruel. She struggled to keep back the tears, tears of both
sorrow and indignation.
They had emerged into the region of broad, clean streets now, and her
companion, glancing down at her, saw she was disturbed. He strove to
raise her spirits by cheerful talk, but Elizabeth refused to respond.
She looked so depressed he suddenly thought of a little surprise he had
in store for her, which would be likely to make her happy.
"By the way, what is your brother going to do when he graduates next
spring?" he inquired.
"I don't know," said Elizabeth, reviving somewhat at the mention of
John. This was a subject upon which the brother and sister had had
much anxious discussion. It was imperative that he should earn some
money immediately, to pay his college debts, for this last year was to
be partially on borrowed money.
"John's just worrying about that," she added frankly. "He'd like to
get some experience in a hospital, but he really ought to be earning
money."
"They want a young medical this spring up on this new North American
line I'm interested in. There are hundreds of men on the construction.
Ask him if he'd like that. It is a good thing, lots of practice, and
more pay."
Elizabeth looked up at him, her eyes aglow with gratitude. To help
John was to do her the greatest favor. She had heard him again and
again expressing a desire for some such appointment.
"Oh, how can I thank you?" she cried, the light returning to her face.
"It would mean everything to John. You are so kind." She gave him
another glance, that set his middle-aged heart beating just a trifle
faster.
They had reached the steps of St. Stephen's by this time, and
Elizabeth's leave-taking was warmly grateful. Yes, she would be home
in the evening when he called, she promised.
As she ascended the steps of the church she was reminded by the booming
of the bell in the city tower that she was half an hour early. Why not
run back to No. 15 and tell John the good news? His afternoon lectures
had stopped and he would probably be studying. She turned quickly and
ran down the steps. As she did so she was surprised to meet several
young men and women ascending them. Surely they could not all belong
to Miss Kendall's dramatic troupe, she reflected, as she hurried away.
John was in his room and alone, and when he heard Elizabeth's news he
caught her round the waist and danced about until Mrs. Dalley sent up
by one of her maids to inquire if them young men didn't care if the
plaster in the ceiling below all fell down? The dancers collapsed
joyously upon the sofa, and Elizabeth, looking at John's glowing face,
felt what happiness might be hers one day if she had wealth enough to
help her family to their desires.
"This is the bulliest thing that ever happened," cried John boyishly.
"Say, he thinks all manner of things about you, Lizzie, I can see."
Elizabeth blushed. "Nonsense. It's your profound learning and great
medical skill that attracted him."
"When did he tell you?"
"Just this afternoon. I was going to the church to a committee meeting
of Miss Kendall's--the church caller, John, just think, haven't I the
courage of a V. C.?--and he walked there with me--and oh, John, we came
through Newton Street, and it's an awful place. I never dreamed there
was such poverty right near us. Isn't it wicked to eat three meals a
day and be well dressed, when people are starving right at one's door?"
"I suppose some of those poor beggars do have a kind of slim diet, but
it's half their own fault. Don't you go and get batty over them, now.
Mac has it so bad I can't stand another."
"Stuart? What about him?"
"He's got into some kind of mission business down in that hole; but
don't tell him I let it out. He's the kind that would cut his right
hand off if it hinted its doings to his left hand."
"Why, what does he do there?" Elizabeth's voice had a wistful note.
This was just what she should have been doing, but Charles Stuart had
never appealed to her for help. He knew better, she told herself, with
some bitterness.
"Oh, all sorts of stunts--boys' club and Sunday school; everything from
nursing babies to hammering drunks that abuse their wives. He keeps me
and old Bagsley humping, too. It's good practice, but the pay's all
glory. Bags has about a dozen patients down there now."
Elizabeth was silent; that old, old feeling of despair that used to
come over her when John and Charles Stuart disappeared down the lane,
leaving her far behind, was stealing over her. They had gone away
ahead again, and she--she was no use in the world, and so was left to
drift.
"I suppose he's going to be a minister after all, then," she said at
last, rising and wrapping her fur around her slim throat. "Mother
MacAllister will be happy."
"I don't know if he is. He's got all muddled up in some theological
tangle. Knox fellows come over here and they argue all night
sometimes, and Mac doesn't seem to know where he's at in regard to the
Bible." John laughed easily. "Never mind, Betsey, I'm acting
physician to the new British North American Railroad, and you're a
brick, so you are!"
But the light did not return to Elizabeth's face. John followed her
down to the door, bidding her an affectionate and grateful farewell.
"This is better than putting up my shingle in Forest Glen and living in
old Sandy's house, eh?" he asked laughingly, as they parted.
Elizabeth smiled and nodded good-by. John had always prophesied
dolefully that he would set up a practice in Forest Glen with her as
his housekeeper. They would live in old Sandy McLachlan's log house,
for he was sure he could not afford anything better, and it would suit
Lizzie's style of housekeeping.
The reference to the old place cleared some misty memory that had been
struggling for recognition in Elizabeth's brain. She stopped short on
the street--"Eppie!" she said, almost aloud. Could it be Eppie she had
seen on Newton Street, and could that old man be her grandfather?