A FAMILY PARTY.
The light and warmth of Mr. Alden's hospitable home, with the rippling
laughter of children's merry voices, seemed to Roland in delightful
contrast with the raw, cold December evening without, as well as with
the depressing influence of the miserable apartment they had just left.
The father's return was greeted with joyous shouts from the little ones,
and Roland was speedily included in the warm welcome. A bounteously
spread tea-table, with its pretty pot of ferns in the centre, was
awaiting Mr. Alden's arrival, and looked inviting enough to a young man
who had been out in the chill air during most of the afternoon. The
happy children's faces, the delicate and sweet-looking little mother,
the freedom and unaffected gladness of the family life, strongly
impressed Roland, and vividly recalled the associations of his own
childhood. Grace, the helpful, eldest daughter, had, Roland thought, the
sweetest, purest, sunniest face he had ever seen. The clear, frank eyes,
with the light of a happy heart sparkling through their peaceful blue,
the smile so sweet and sincere, the sunny, golden hair, and silvery,
gleeful laugh, so childlike in its ring, fascinated him like a spell. No
wonder, he thought, that the shadows cleared from Mr. Alden's thoughtful
brow as soon as he crossed his own threshold. Yet, much of the family
sunshine there was a reflection from Mr. Alden's own spirit. And,
however the shadows of the world without might sometimes weigh on his
own heart, he never allowed them to sadden his children, if he could
help it. He was fond of exhorting his people to keep their children's
childhood as happy as they could, without letting them grow selfish and
heartless. And he would often quote Victor Hugo's expressive lines:
"Grief is a fruit God will not let grow
On boughs too feeble to sustain its weight."
"Cultivate sympathy in your children," he would say, "but not so as to
burden them prematurely"; and what he preached he practised. Meal-times
were, for the children's sake, always bright and cheerful. Mr. Alden had
the precious gift of humor, and it served him in good stead to balance a
nature acutely sensitive to the pain, the ills and the discords of human
life. He seldom failed to catch and bring home some little quaint or
amusing experience, which, told as he could tell it, would provoke the
good-natured laughter in which he believed, as one of the safety-valves
of our nature. Frank, his eldest boy, Roland's first acquaintance in the
family, inherited his father's tendency to see the humorous side of
things, without, as yet, his counterbalancing depth of feeling; and so
it often happened that the father and son together would set the little
ones in a small uproar of laughter, which Mrs. Alden's love of propriety
would often constrain her to try to keep in some sort of check. But it
was no wonder that these children enjoyed their father's presence at
meals, and missed it when he was absent.
After tea, the whole party adjourned to the parlor, which was purposely
kept not too fine for the frequent incursions of the children. The
younger ones rapidly improved their acquaintance with Roland, gathering
close about him, reciting to him some of their pet rhymes, and examining
him as to his acquaintance with their favorite stories. Fortunately he
had read Grimm and Hans Andersen, and knew most of the stories that they
had heard, over and over, from their father and Grace, who had caught up
his knack of telling a story so as to be an acceptable substitute when
"father" was too busy. Roland and they were _en rapport_ at once on the
strength of his familiar acquaintance with "The Little Match Girl," "The
Snow Maiden," "The Ugly Duckling," and "Prudent Elsie."
"Grace may be sorry they ever heard that," declared Frank, "for now she
hears nothing but 'Prudent Elsie!' whenever she calls them back to put
on their mufflers or overshoes."
"Oh, I don't mind!" said Grace, laughing. "I think "Prudent Elsie" a
very nice name, isn't it, father, dear?"
Her father drew her close to him as she sat on the arm of his chair,
with one hand resting caressingly on his shoulder.
"'Simple Susan' would suit you better, my dear; but 'what's in a name?'"
he said, looking smilingly up into her bright face. "'A rose by any
other name would smell as sweet!'"
"Come now, John," interposed Mrs. Alden, looking up from the little sock
she was busily knitting; "I can't have you passing on to your daughter
any of your old fine speeches to me."
"Infringing on your copyright, little mother?" he playfully returned,
glancing fondly at the wife, who, Roland thought, must at Grace's age
have looked a good deal like what _she_ did, now.
Half an hour passed so quickly that Roland scarcely realized it. He was
just beginning to fear that he might be inflicting his presence too long
on the family circle, when Mr. Alden said:
"Now, Gracie, go to the piano! and you, youngsters, get your hymn-books.
Mr. Graeme will excuse us, I know, if we go on with our little evening
service." Then turning to Roland, he added: "We always have it at this
hour, before the children grow sleepy."
Grace sat down at the piano, and in a clear young voice led the little
choir, who had clustered around her, each eager to take part in the
singing. Mr. Alden followed the hymn with a brief reading, and very
simple prayer; and then the younger portion of the family said
"Good-night," in due form. Roland, to whom these simple vespers had
brought back vivid recollections from his own childhood, now thought it
was time for him, also, to say "good-night" and take his departure.
"I will walk part of your way with you," said Mr. Alden. "I want to see
Blanchard about what it is best to do for that poor young woman. He will
be back by this time, I think. I hope he will advise her going to the
hospital, where she will have proper care. She seems to have no one
belonging to her but that poor child."
They walked together to Dr. Blanchard's, which was not very far from
Roland's own quarters. Before they parted, Mr. Alden took down the young
man's address. Then, holding his hand kindly, he said, "I should be glad
to have you for a member of a certain little society for social reform,
that I have lately started on a broadly Christian basis."
Roland hesitated a little. "I mustn't allow you to misconceive my
position," he said. "I am not what _you_ would call a Christian; that
is, I cannot at present see my way to accept what is called orthodox
Christianity."
"Never mind that just now," said Mr. Alden. "And don't suppose that I
can't appreciate honest difficulties of belief. But this society of mine
is purposely made wider than Church lines. It is meant to include any
one who loves the Christian ideal, and is willing to promote the
practical influence of the Christian spirit in this selfish world. From
what I have seen of you, I think you are one of that number."
The tone was kind, sympathetic, appreciative--something between that of
a father and of an elder brother. Roland's responsive heart was touched.
"If you will take me in on that understanding, you can count on my
willing service!" he said.
And with a cordial leave taking, they parted, Mr Alden taking his way to
Dr Blanchard's house, Roland walking off to his lodging at his usual
rapid pace. He had hours of work before him, and must be at it. When he
reached the house in which he boarded, he let himself in with his
latch-key, and bounded lightly up the stairs to his own apartment. It
was not a large room, and certainly not luxurious, and its confusion of
books and papers would have been the despair of any tidy housekeeper.
Books, pamphlets, newspapers, were piled on shelves, tables and chairs,
in a manner that to any eye but Roland's would have seemed hopeless
confusion. Volumes of philosophy and poetry, ancient and modern, were
scattered among piles of blue-books and reports of all kinds. On his
writing-table, amidst loose sheets of manuscript and newspaper
clippings, lay a well worn Bible, Thoreau's "Walden," Carlyle's "Sartor
Resartus," Whittier's and Browning's poems, Emerson's Essays, and Henry
George's "Progress and Poverty." Evidently the occupant of the room had
somewhat varied tastes. And, while Roland is industriously looking over
his clippings, sorting his manuscripts, and making a fair copy of his
rough draft of a leader for the first number of _The Brotherhood_, let
us take a retrospective glance over the history of the young man
himself.