“LET US BE FASHIONABLE.”
One feature of the hour was not only entirely new to the boys, but gave
them a curious feeling, the name of which they did not understand.
When the last one sat back in his chair, thereby admitting himself
vanquished, Mrs. Roberts, looking at the young man who sat at the foot
of the table, said:--
“Will you return thanks?”
What did that mean? To be sure they had heard of thanking people, but
even _they_ were aware that it was an unusual thing for persons to
demand thanks for themselves. They watched; behold, the young man bowed
his head, and these were the words he spoke:--
“Dear Saviour, we thank thee for the joys of this evening. We pray thee
to teach us so to live that we may all meet some day in our Father's
house. Amen.”
The boys looked at one another, then looked down at their plates. Their
sole experience of prayer was connected with the South End Mission. To
meet it at a supper-table was a revelation. Did the people who lived in
grand houses, and had such wonderful things to eat, always pray at their
supper-tables? This was the problem which they were turning over in
their minds.
Returning to the parlor, Gracie went at once to the piano. She had spent
a good deal of Monday, settling the question of what to play, and had
chosen the most sparkling music she could find. I am anxious to have it
recorded, that, all uncultured as they were, these boys neither talked
nor laughed during the music, but appeared at least to listen. It was
Dirk Colton who sat nearest to the piano, and who listened in that
indescribable way which always flatters a musician.
“Do you like it?” Gracie asked, running off the final notes in a tinkle
of melody.
His dark face flushed a deep red.
“I dunno,” he said, with an awkward laugh; “it's queer sounding. I don't
see how you make so many tinkles. Do you make all your fingers go at
once on those black and white things?”
“Not quite; but sometimes they have to dance about in a very lively
fashion. I have to keep my wits at work, I assure you.”
“Is it hard to do?”
“Not very, nowadays. When I first commenced, the practising was horrid;
I hated it.”
“What made you do it, then?”
“Oh, the same reason which makes people do a great many things that
they don't like,” she said, lightly; “I wanted the results. I knew if I
worked at it steadily the time would come when I should not only enjoy
it myself, but be able to give pleasure to other people. Why? Don't you
ever do things that you don't particularly like?”
He shrugged his shoulders, and bestowed on her a very wise look.
“Often enough,” he said fiercely, and he thought of his drunken father.
“But then I wouldn't if I could help it.”
“That would depend on whether you thought the thing would pay in the
end, would it not?”
Then, without waiting for an answer, she asked “What is your business?”
“My business?” with a curiously puzzled air.
“Yes; how do you spend your time?”
“Hunting up something to eat,” he said, with a grim smile; visions of
his aimless loafing appearing before him as the only occupation he could
be said to have. It had not occurred to him to try to mislead her, but
she evidently did not understand.
“Oh, yes,” she said, seriously, “so I suppose. Isn't it queer how
busy men and women have to be day after day, and year after year, just
getting themselves and others something to eat? Do you have other
people to help get it for? Mother, for instance, and little brothers and
sisters?”
“I've got a mother,” he said, “and a sister.”
“And that makes work easier, does it not? I always thought it would be
stupid to work all the time just for one's self. But I meant, What do
you work at in order to get the something to eat,--there are so many
different ways?”
“How do you know I work at all?”
Dirk's voice was growing sullen; a consciousness that he would appear at
a disadvantage in admitting himself an idler in a busy world was dawning
upon him as an entirely new idea. At his question, Gracie turned on her
music-stool and regarded him with surprise.
“Why, of course you work,” she said; “people all do.”
She was not acting a part. Her experience among poor people was limited
to that outwardly respectable class who, however disreputable their
conduct might be on Sabbath, had, nevertheless a Monday occupation with
which they pretended to earn a living.
Dirk shrugged his shoulders again.
“Do they?” he said.
Her evident ignorance of the world made him good-natured. She was not
trying to preach to him, he decided. A thing which Dirk hated, in common
with all persons of his class.
But the lull in the music had started conversation in other parts of the
room.
Dirk heard young Ried's question:--
“Mrs. Roberts, do you know of any young man looking for work? I heard of
a good situation this afternoon. Oh, there are plenty of applicants, but
the gentleman is an old friend of my brother-in-law, and I could speak a
helpful word for somebody.”
“I have no one in mind,” Mrs. Roberts said, and she glanced eagerly at
the boys lounging in various attitudes in her easy chairs. Only three of
them she knew made any pretence of earning their living. Did Alfred
mean one of them? “Here is a chance for you, young gentlemen,” she said,
lightly, “who bids for a situation?”
“What is the place?”
It was Dirk Colson who asked the question. Ever since he could remember
he was supposed to have been hunting for work, but I am not sure that he
ever felt quite such a desire to find it as at that moment.
“It is at Gray's, on Ninth Street, a good chance; but the one who
secures it must have a fair knowledge of figures.”
“Oh, land!” said Dirk, sinking lower in his easy-chair. “No use in _me_
asking about it.”
“Are figures your weak point?” Mrs. Roberts asked, smiling on him. “I
can sympathize with you; I had to work harder over arithmetic than at
any other study; but I learned to like it. Do you know I think it
should be a favorite study with you? It is so nice to conquer an
obstinate-looking row of figures, and fairly oblige the right result to
appear. What did you find hardest about the study, Mr. Colson?”
The others chuckled, but Dirk glowered at them fiercely.
“There's nothin' to laugh about as I see,” he said. “I didn't find
nothin' hard, because I never had no chance to try. I never went to no
school, nor had books, nor nothin'; now that's the truth, and I'm blamed
if I ain't going to own it.”
“What a good thing it is that you are young.” This was her animated
answer. “There is a chance to make up for lost time. Mr. Ried, I have
such a nice idea. I heard you and Dr. Everett speaking of the Literary
Club the other night. Why cannot we have a literary club of our own? A
reading circle, or something of that sort? Suppose we should meet once
a week and read aloud something interesting, and have talks about it
afterwards. Do you ever read aloud?”
If Mrs. Roberts in all sincerity had not been one of the most
simple-hearted, and in some respects ignorant little creatures on the
face of the globe, she could never, with serious face, have addressed
such a question to Nimble Dick.
Young Ried could not have done it, for he realized the folly of
supposing that Nimble Dick ever read anything. By just so much was Mrs.
Roberts ahead of him. She supposed that these boys had their literature,
and read it, and perhaps met somewhere on occasion and read together.
This made it possible for her to ask surprising questions with honest
face.
“Bless me!” said Nimble Dick, startled into an upright posture; “oh, no,
mum, never.”
And even Dirk Colson laughed at the expression on his face.
“Still I think you would enjoy it, after a little practice, and I can't
help fancying you would make a good reader.”
The boys were all laughing now, Nimble Dick with the rest.
“You're in for an awful blunder there,” he said, good-naturedly. “I'm
like Black Dirk, never had no chances, and didn't do nothin' worth
speakin' of with them that I had. Why, bless your body, mum! I can't
even read to myself! I make the awfulest work you ever heard of spellin'
out the show-bills. I have to get Black Dirk to help me; and him and me
is a team.”
By this time Dirk's face had lost its smile, and his fierce eyes were
flashing; but the hostess was serene.
“That doesn't prove anything against my statement. I was speaking of
what _could_ be, not necessarily of what was. Let us have a club. The
more I think of the plan the more it pleases me. I'll tell you! The word
'club' doesn't quite suit me. Let us be fashionable. Gracie, don't you
know how fashionable it is becoming to have 'evenings' set apart for
special occasions? Mr. Ried, you know Mrs. Judson's 'Tuesday evenings,'
and Mrs. Symond's 'Friday evenings?' Very well, let us have our 'Monday
evenings,' in which we will do all sorts of nice things; sometimes
literary, sometimes musical, and sometimes--well, anything that we
please. What do you say, gentlemen; shall we organize? Mr. Ried, will
you give Monday evenings to us? Gracie, you are my guest, and cannot, of
course, refuse.”
It was a novel idea, certainly. Even Alfred, while trying to heartily
second her, was in doubt as to what she could hope to accomplish by it.
As for the boys, not one of them promised to attend; but neither
did they refuse. Mrs. Roberts presently left the subject, seeming to
consider her point carried, and proposed a visit to the conservatory.
I think it very doubtful whether the boy lives who does not like
flowers. There are those who seem to consider it a mark of manliness to
affect indifference to them; but these, as they grow older--become real
men--generally lay this bit of folly aside. Then there are those, plenty
of them, who really do not know that they care for flowers. The boys,
ushered for the first time in their lives into the full bloom of a
conservatory, were, most of them, of this latter stamp.
What a scene of beauty it was! Great white callas, bending their
graceful cups; great red and yellow roses, making the air rich with
their breath; vines and mosses and ferns and small flowers in almost
endless variety. Alfred and Gracie moved among the glories; the latter
exhausting all her superlatives in honest delight, although she had
visited the spot a dozen times that day; and Alfred, who had been less
favored, was hardly less eager and responsive than she. But Mrs. Roberts
watched the boys.
It was all very well for those two to enjoy her flowers; of course they
would. But what language would the silent, lovely things speak to her
untutored boys? They said not a word; not one of them. They made no
exclamations; they had no superlatives at command. But Stephen Crowley
stooped before a lovely carnation, and smelled, and _smelled_, drawing
in long breaths, as though he meant to take its fragrance all away with
him; and Nimble Dick picked up the straying end of an ivy, and restored
it to its support again, in a way that was not to be lost sight of by
one who was looking for hearts; and Dirk Colson brushed back his matted
hair and stood long before a great, pure lily, and looked down into its
heart with an expression on his face that his teacher never forgot.
She came over to him presently, standing beside him, saying nothing.
Then at last she reached forth her hand and broke the lily from its
stalk. He started, almost as if something had struck him.
“What did you do that for?” And his voice was fierce.
“I want you to take this for me to your sister--the girl with beautiful
golden hair; I saw her one day, and I shall remember her hair and eyes.
She will like this flower, and she will like you to bring it to her.
“Gracie”--raising her voice--“gather some flowers will you, and make
into bouquets? These young gentlemen will like to carry them to some
one. There must be mothers at home who will enjoy bouquets brought by
their sons.”
Over this gently-spoken sentence Nimble Dick laughed a hard, derisive
laugh. It made the dark blood flow into black Dirk's indignant face.
Even Alfred Ried lost self-control for a moment, and flashed a glance at
him out of angry eyes. How could there be any hope of a boy who sneered
at his mother? Yet you need not judge him too harshly.
He thought of his mother, indeed, when he laughed; but alas! he thought
of her as drunk. And he knew her scarcely at all, save as that word
described her. How _could_ “mother” mean to him what it meant to Alfred
Ried? what it meant even to Dirk Colson, whose mother, weak indeed in
body and spirit, full of complaining words, oftentimes weakly bitter
words to him, yet patched his clothes so long as she could get patches
and thread, and would have washed them if she could have got soap, and
been able to bring the water, and if her only tub hadn't been in pawn.
Oh, yes, there are degrees in mothers.
Mrs. Roberts, meantime, broke off blossoms with lavish hand, and made
bouquets for Nimble Dick and for Dirk. He took the bright-hued ones with
a smile, but the lily he held by itself, and still looked at it.
They went away at last noisily; growing almost, if not quite, rough
towards one another, at least, and directly they were out of the door,
Nimble Dick gave a whoop that would have chilled the blood of nervous
women. But matron and maiden looked at each other and laughed.
“We have kept them pent up all the evening, and that is the escape-valve
being raised to avoid a general explosion.” This was Mrs. Roberts'
explanation.
They were quite alone. Alfred, on being invited in low tones to tarry
and talk things over, had shaken his head, and replied, significantly:--
“Thank you! no; I am one of them, and must stand on the same level.”
“You are right,” Mrs. Roberts said, smilingly; “you must have been an
apt pupil, my friend. That dear sister taught you a great deal.”
He held up the bouquet which she had made for him.
“I am going to put it before Ester's picture,” he said; “her work is
going on.”
“Well,” said Gracie, “it is over, and we lived through it. And they
_did_ all come! I am amazed over that! And how they _did eat_! I suppose
the next thing is to open all the windows and air out. Flossy Roberts,
I'm afraid you are going insane. The idea of your inviting that horde
here every Monday. What a parlor you would have! And they would breed
a pestilence! They won't come, to be sure; but just imagine it if
they should! I really think Mr. Roberts ought to send you home for Dr.
Mitchell to look after. Well, Flossy, what next?”
“Next, dear, you must pray. Pray as you never have done before, for
the souls of these boys, and for the success of my 'Monday evenings.'
Gracie, we are at work for immortal _souls_. Think of it! they _must_
live forever. Shall they, through all eternity, keep dropping lower and
lower, or shall they wear crowns?”