“I never would have been brave enough,” Mrs. Eaton said meekly
to Mr. West, when the dreadful step was actually taken, “I never
could have done it, but I knew Mr. Eaton would have wished it; and,
besides, I felt I was taking the food of those poor people.”
“Well, no,” he began, “that is really not reasonable”--But he
stopped; this timid creature could not reason--she could only feel.
“Fools,” he said to himself, as he left her, “rush in where the
political economist fears to tread. She is a fool, poor little
soul, but”--
The winter had passed heavily away. Mrs. Eaton had succeeded in
getting a place in Mr. Davis’s shop--“where,” the proprietor used
to say, “having Robert Blair’s sister for a saleslady is money in
my pocket! She’s better than a ‘fire-and-water bargain sale.’”
So she stood behind a counter and sold ribbon, and was stared at
and whispered about. But she had very keen anxieties about food
and clothes, and the children’s discontent lay like a weight upon
the mother’s heart--which ached, too, with the pain of the second
wrench from the affection and kindness of her family. Fortunately
her peculiar logic did not lead her to reject the Baptist deacon’s
money, which was certainly much more doubtful than her brother’s.
By some mental process of her own, the fact that she worked for it
seemed to make its acceptance moral. She had no leisure now to work
for Mr. West; but the remembrance of his patience and gentleness
always made a little pause of peace in her heavy thoughts. It was
a hard, bleak life for this silent little creature; and the rector
of St. James, himself a silent soul, watched her live it, and
pondered many things.
The strike had broken in February. The men went back to their
work--defeat, like some bitter wind, blowing the flames of
resentment into fiercer heat, which “next time” would mean
destroying victory.
“Will it be like Samson pulling down the temple upon himself?”
William West wondered, depressed and hopeless.
It was night--a summer night; sweet and still over in the
old-fashioned part of Mercer, where the fragrance of roses
overflowed the high brick walls of the gardens. Here in the mill
district it was not sweet, and all night long the mills roared and
crashed, and the flames bursting out of vast chimneys flared and
faded, and flared again.
William West was alone in his library. His sermon for the next
morning had been finished early in the week; he had looked it over
the last thing, and now the manuscript was slipped into its black
velvet cover. He sat, his head on his hand, tapping with strong,
restless fingers the arm of his chair. The old question, always
more or less present in the mind of this man, was clamoring for an
answer: How far are we responsible? Through how many hands must
dishonest money, cruel money, mean money, pass to be cleansed?
Is it clean when it comes to me--this dividend or that? Shall a
man, or a railroad, or a trust deal iniquitously with one of these
little ones, and I profit by it? Shall I trace my dollar to its
source, and find it wet with tears and blood, and reject it? Or
shall I decline to trace it, and buy my bread in innocence? Even
the chief priests refused the thirty pieces of silver! Am I an
accomplice? For that matter, is the Christian Church an accomplice?
What does it say to the philanthropy of thieves? Priests used to
take toll from the plunder of robbers, and say mass for their souls
in return. Nowadays--“I cover my eyes, but I hold out my hand,” he
said to himself.
Well--well! The Reverend William West, in his way, was doubtless
as great a fool in asking unprofitable questions as was Lydia
Eaton. That the existing order would be turned upside down by the
introduction of the sense of personal responsibility there can be
no doubt. Such an introduction would be the application to the
complex egotism of the nineteenth century of the doctrines of a
Galilean peasant, who was a communist and the Saviour of the world.
It would be the setting forth in individual lives of the spirit of
Jesus Christ, the most revolutionary element that could possibly be
introduced into society. We are none of us ready for that.
At least William West was not ready; he had no intention of making
himself ridiculous, no matter if he did ask himself unanswerable
questions; he was not ready to throw away present opportunities and
destroy his influence. Yet, as for Mrs. Eaton--
“Talk about martyrs!” he said to himself, as he sat there at
midnight thinking of her, of her hard life, of her splendid
foolishness.
“Well, there is one thing I could do for her. Why not? Good God,
how selfish I am! I suppose she would think my money was clean?
Yes, I could at least do _that_.”
This was no new thought. It had been in his mind more or less for
months. He only faced it that night more strenuously.
So it came about that by and by he rose, his face set, his mouth
hard. He took a key from his watch chain, and opened a little
closet in the side of the chimney, and took out a box. He laid it
on the table, and again sat down in his revolving chair, and stared
blankly ahead of him. Then he opened it. There were some letters
in it, and a picture, and a crumbling bunch of flowers that looked
as though they had once been pansies; he held them in his hand, a
bitter sort of amusement in his eyes. The letters he put aside,
as though their touch stung him. At the photograph he looked long
and intently. Then he bent the card over in his hand, and it broke
across the middle. Hastily he gathered these things together and
went over to his fireplace. A fire had been laid during the cold
spring rains, and the logs were dry and dusty. At the touch of
a match, they sputtered and broke into a little roaring flame.
William West put his handful of letters and the flowers and the
picture gently down in the midst of it, and then stood and watched
them burn. When there was only a white film left, on which the
sparks ran back, widening and dying, he went over to his desk,
and with a certain strong and satisfied cheerfulness he began to
write:--
MY DEAR MRS. EATON,--You and I have spoken more than once of
your action in leaving your brother’s house, and you know, I am
sure, how profoundly I honor and respect your courage in acting
upon your convictions. It is this respect which I am venturing
to offer you in asking you to honor me by becoming my wife.
My sincere regard and appreciation have been yours ever since
I first knew you, and if you will consent to make a home for
yourself and the children in my house, it will be a home for
me, and you know what that will be for a lonely man. If you
will consent, I shall be always,
Faithfully yours,
WILLIAM WEST.
As he folded the sheet of paper and thrust it into the envelope
there was a whimsical look in his eyes.
“A _love_-letter!” he said to himself; but his face was very gentle
and tender.
* * * * *
However, the answer to the letter was all that the most ardent
lover could desire.