“_If you-would improve their lot_,
_Put a penny in the slot!_”
_English Song (adapted)_.
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ERTAINLY John Bull is a singularly sentimental animal. I have said so
before, but I should like to repeat it now with additional emphasis. I
do not believe that he ever sold his wife at Smithfield, or, if he did,
he became dreadfully penitent immediately after and forthwith purchased
a new one. He is not a socialist; that is a too horribly and coldly
logical creed for him, but he enjoys stepping forth from the seclusion
of that well-furnished castle which every Englishman is so proud of,
and dutifully endeavoring to ameliorate the condition of the
working-classes.
“England expects every man to do his duty,” he repeats, as he puts his
hand into his capacious pocket and provides half a dozen mendicants with
the means of becoming intoxicated.
Oh yes, my kind English friends, I admit that I am putting it strongly;
but again let me remind you (in case you ever see these words) that if
I begin to be quite serious I shall cease to be quite readable. The
working-man, I quite allow, is provided with the opportunity of learning
the violin and the geography of South America and the Thirty-nine
Articles of the Anglican Church, besides obtaining many other
substantial advantages from the spread of the Altruistic Idea. You are
wiser than I am (certainly more serious), and you have done these deeds.
For my part, I shall now confine myself to recording my own share in one
of them. Only I must beg you to remember that for a time I was actually
a philanthropist myself, and as a mere chronicler write with some
authority.
The mission of which I now found myself unpaid and unqualified secretary
was a recently born but vigorous infant; considering the sex for which
it catered, I think this simile is both appropriate and encouraging. The
credit of the inspiring idea belonged to Miss Clibborn, the friend with
whom my dark-eyed divinity shared a flat; the funds were supplied
by both these ladies and from the purses of such of their friends as
admired inspiring ideas or intoxicating glances; the office was in
an East London street of so dingy an aspect that I felt some small
peccadillo atoned for every time I walked along its savory pavements. By
the time I had spent a day in that office I could with confidence have
murdered a member of Parliament or abducted a clergyman's wife; so much,
I was sure, must have been placed to the credit side of my account, that
these crimes would be cancelled at once.
Yet can I call it drudgery or penance to sit in the same room with Kate
Kerry, to discuss with her whether Mrs. Smith should receive a mangle
or Mrs. Brown a roll of flannel and two overshoes, to admonish her
extravagance or elicit her smiles? Scarcely, I fear, and I must base
my claims to any credit from this adventure upon the hours when she
happened to be absent and I had to amuse myself by abortive efforts to
mesmerize a peculiarly unsusceptible office cat.
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From this you will perhaps surmise that there was no great press of
business in our mission; and, indeed, there was not, or I should not
have been permitted to conduct its affairs so long; for I spent nearly
three weeks in furthering the cause of woman. As for our work, it
was really too comprehensive to describe in detail. All women in the
district, as they were informed by a notice outside our door, were free
to come in. Advice in all cases, assistance in some, was to be given
gratuitously. In time, when the mission had thoroughly established its
position and influence, these women were to be formed into a league
having for its objects female franchise, a thorough reform of the
marriage laws, and the opening of all professions and occupations
whatsoever to the gentler but, my employers were convinced, more capable
sex. In a word, we were the thin end of the Amazonian wedge.
The strong brain which had devised this far-reaching scheme resided in
the head of Miss Clibborn. Concerning her I need only tell you that she
was a pale little woman with an intense expression, a sad lack of humor,
and an extreme distrust of myself. She did not amuse me in the least,
and I was relieved to find that her duties consisted chiefly in
propagating her ideas in the homes of the women of that and other
neighborhoods.
As for Kate, she had entered upon the undertaking with a high spirit, a
full purse, and a strong conviction that woman was a finer animal than
man and that something should be done in consequence. In the course of a
week or two, however, the spirit began to weary a little, the purse was
becoming decidedly more empty; and, though the conviction remained as
strong as ever, one can think of other things surprisingly well in
spite of a conviction, and Miss Kerry's thoughts began to get a little
distracted by her secretary, I am afraid, while his became even more
distracted by Miss Kerry.
Plato; that was the theme on which we spoke. A platonic
friendship--magnificent and original idea! We should show the astonished
world what could be done in that line of enterprise. How eloquently I
talked to her on this profound subject! On her part, she listened, she
threw me more dazzling smiles and captivating glances, she delivered
delightfully unconsidered opinions with the most dashing assurance,
she smoked my cigarettes and we opened the window afterwards. This was
philanthropy, indeed.
Do you think I was unreasonably prejudiced in this lady's favor? Picture
to yourself soft lashes fringing white lids that would hide for a while
and then suddenly reveal two dark stars glowing with possibilities of
romance; set these in the midst of the ebb and flow of sudden smiles and
passing moods; crown all this with rich coils of deep-brown hair, and
frame it in soft colors and textures chosen, I used to think, by some
sprite who wished to bring distraction among men. Then sit by the hour
beside this siren who treats you with the kind confidence of a friend,
who attracts and eludes, perplexes and delights you, suggesting by her
glance more than she says, recompensing by her smile for half an hour's
perversity. Do this before judging me.
But I am now the annalist of a mission, and I must narrate one incident
in our work that proved to have a very momentous bearing on that
generous inspiration of two women's minds.
Kate and I had been talking together for the greater part of a
profitable morning, when a woman entered our austere apartment.
She was one of our few regular applicants; a not ill-looking, plausible,
tidily dressed widow who confessed to thirty and probably was five years
older.
“Good-morning, Mrs. Martin,” said Kate, with a haughty, off-hand
graciousness that, I fear, intimidated these poor people more than it
flattered them. “What do you want?”
“Please, mum,” said Mrs. Martin, glancing from one to the other of us
and beginning an effective little dry cough, “my 'ealth is a-suffering
dreadful from this weather. The doctor 'e says nothink but a change of
hair won't do any good. I was that bad last night, miss, I scarcely
thought I'd see the morning.”
And here the good lady stopped to cough again.
“Well,” said Kate, “what can we do?”
“If I 'ad the means to get to the seaside for a week, miss, my 'ealth
would benefit extraordinary; the doctor 'e says Margate, sir, would set
me up wonderful.”
“You had better see the doctor, Miss Kerry,” I suggested.
“Oh, I can't be bothered. I've seen him before; he's a stupid little
fool. Give her a pound.”
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“A pound, mum--” began Mrs. Martin, in a tone of decorous expostulation.
“Oh, give her three, then,” said Kate, impatiently.
Just as the grateful recipient of woman's generosity to her sex was
retiring with her booty, Miss Clibborn returned from her round of
duty. She was the business partner, with the shrewd head, the judgment
comparatively unbiassed, the true soul of the missionary. I give her
full credit for all these virtues in spite of her antipathy to myself.
She overheard the last words of the effusive Mrs. Martin, demanded an
explanation from us, and frowned when she got it.
“You had much better have investigated the case, Kate,” she observed, in
a tone of rebuke.
“So I did,” replied Kate, with charming insolence. “I asked her whether
she went to church and why she wore feathers in her hat, and if she had
pawned her watch--all the usual idiotic questions.”
“Kate,” said her friend severely, “this spirit is fatal to our success.”
“Spirit be bothered!” retorted the more mundane partner.
“Ladies,” I interposed amicably, “I have in my overcoat pocket a box of
chocolate creams. Honor me by accepting them!”
Not even this overture could mollify Miss Clibborn, and presently she
departed again with a sad glance at her lukewarm ally and frivolous
secretary.
Ah, how divine Kate looked as she consumed those bonbons and our talk
turned back to Plato! So divine, indeed, that I felt suddenly impelled
to ask a question, to solve a little lingering doubt that sometimes
would persist in coming to poison my faith in my friend.
“I have been wondering,” I said, after a pause.
“Wondering what?”
“You remember that evening I met you in the Temple? I was wondering what
rendezvous you were keeping.”
“What a funny idea!” she laughed. “I took a fancy to walk in the Temple;
that was all.”
“And expected no one?”
“Of course not!”
At last I was entirely satisfied, so satisfied that I felt a strong and
sudden desire to fervently embrace this lovely, pure-hearted creature.
But no; it would be sacrilege! I said to myself. She would never forgive
me. Our friendship would be at an end. The rules of Plato do not permit
such liberties. Alas!
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