"PART OF THE GREAT WELL-TO-DO WORLD."
"I MUST call at this house," the doctor said, suddenly drawing rein
before a quiet little house at the foot of a wide lawn. "The gatekeeper
of this American castle has a sick child whom I have promised to see.
Can you hold the horses, Miss Dennis, or shall I tie them? This is a
quiet spot, and they are gentle."
"I am not afraid of anything," Gracie said, eyes aglow as well as
cheeks.
And the doctor went into the house wondering whether Professor Ellis,
if he could see her now, would not be afraid of her.
Once inside, he gave a start of surprise, almost of dismay, for the
face which appeared at the open door of the sick-room belonged to Joy
Saunders.
"You here?" he said, trying to control the disturbed element in his
voice.
She answered quietly,—
"I came out by street-car. Did you drive?"
"Yes," he said abruptly; "but I am not alone. How is the child?" And he
went forward at once to his professional duties, leaving her to wonder
over his manner.
It was peculiar certainly. Joy Saunders was used to abruptness from
this man, but there was a quality in it to-day that she did not
recognize. She went and looked out of the window, and saw Gracie Dennis
holding the horses—saw her red, "red" cheeks and flashing eyes, and the
peculiar, haughty poise of her head, with which the stepmother at home
was well acquainted.
She did not know this Gracie Dennis save by reputation. Once Dr.
Everett had asked her to call at Mrs. Roberts's, and had made her feel
as though she were foolishly conventional in declining to do so.
"How is she ever to know you, according to the rules which trammel
society? There ought to be some way arranged for Christians to be free
from trammels."
This had been his comment; but he had not asked her again, and she had
never met Mrs. Roberts, nor yet Gracie Dennis. Yet she knew her very
well, and had watched her often as she passed. She knew instantly who
she was now, as she sat there in her haughty beauty, checking with
determined hand the impatience of those horses. Oh, she knew more than
this! It was very apparent now why Dr. Everett was peculiarly abrupt,
and—well, yes—embarrassed. She had almost thought that was the name of
the feeling, only it had seemed so absurd. And then Joy Saunders held
her meek little head high, and told herself that he need not fear her
presence; she could go as she had come, in the street-car.
The doctor came towards her now, speaking rapidly es usual:—
"Joy, the child is very sick. There ought to be an experienced person
here to-night. Not you; I am sorry you came up. Do you think your
mother would come? Will you ride down with me? I have Miss Dennis in
the carriage, but it is quite large enough for three, you know."
Then Joy had turned away her head, holding it high, and said,—
"No, thank you; I am going down in the street-car."
And that blundering doctor drew on his gloves, saying to himself, "I
don't know but that is best," and went out, only waiting to say to Joy:—
"Will you ask your mother about it? I will see her as soon as I can get
around. I wish you would go directly home from here—will you?"
Then he lifted his hat to her, and sprang into his carriage and rode
away with Gracie Dennis.
And Joy Saunders waited for the next yellow car, and climbed into it,
and told herself all the way down town that she wished she had stayed
at the little house and watched all night by the sick child.
The thoughts that Dr. Everett had given to the entire matter were few.
They ran somewhat after this fashion:—
"Joy here! And I'm afraid of the fever, from all I have heard. I shall
take her home as soon as possible. How will that poor little girl in
the carriage manage with a new acquaintance just now, I wonder?
"I am afraid it will be quite a strain. Still, I can do the talking,
and let her be quiet. The main point is that I hoped she might have a
suggestion to make about Hester. If she could rouse herself to try to
save that girl, it would be the best thing she could do. If she only
knew it, Joy is the one who could help her in that direction or any
other."
As they dashed down the avenue, he was still occupied in wishing that
he had urged Joy to ride, and thus forced an acquaintance between her
and the pretty girl at his side. He was not very patient with what he
called the "trammels" of society. When there were two people so fitted
to enjoy and help each other, as were Joy Saunders and Gracie Dennis,
he held it to be a waste in Christian economy that they should not know
each other.
Too much occupied with his thoughts and his driving to give heed to
passers-by, he lost the careful bow that young Reid had for them as
they drew near the city's whirl again.
Gracie did not; she returned it with a slightly-heightened colour in
her cheeks, and wondered if that young man knew Professor Ellis, and
what he thought of him, and what he thought of her for being acquainted
with him.
Sometimes it seems to me a real pity that on occasion there could
not be some way of looking into one another's thoughts. So many
misunderstandings might thus be saved.
For instance, there was Reid, who went on his way with a clouded
brow. Where had Dr. Everett been? And why was Gracie Dennis with
him? Was it probable that he had been riding for pleasure? The bare
suggestion astonished the young man. He found that he had never before
given room to the thought that Dr. Everett took time for pleasure.
Allowing this to be the case, why had he not taken Joy Saunders with
him? Such a proceeding would have seemed altogether natural, though
the honest-hearted young fellow admitted to himself that, had he been
taking a ride for pleasure, the companion of his choice would not have
been Joy Saunders. It was certainly a bewildering world.
So trying did young Reid find his thoughts on that evening that he
actually set himself deliberately to learn whether the ride was the
result of chance or design. The consequence was, that he learned not
only of the ride, but of the afternoon entertainment at Seltzer Hall,
with glass goblets for instruments. This increased his astonishment,
and did not lessen the gloom on his face.
But the two in the carriage, unconscious of the gloomy young man, or of
the sad-hearted young girl riding in a street-car, were almost silent
during the homeward ride, until just as they turned into the avenue
that led to Mr. Roberts's door. Then Gracie said:—
"Dr. Everett, I should like to know that girl. There are some things
that I ought to say to her, and if I had a chance I would try to say
them in a way to help her."
"I will manage it," said Dr. Everett, speaking in a quick, relieved
tone. He felt encouraged for Hester now, and greatly relieved about
Gracie. She might be wounded, but she was made of the material of which
he had hoped. She was not going to die herself, nor fold her hands and
see others ruined, merely because she had been deceived.
He bade her a cheery "Good-afternoon!" And drove away, feeling that,
although he had been obliged to give up Sewell Alley, good work had
been accomplished. He believed now that he understood the situation.
He was right about one thing: Gracie Dennis had not the slightest idea
of dying. Her mood was better expressed, half an hour later, when she
stood at the parlour window, and returned a low, lingering bow from
Professor Ellis, with a haughty stare from flashing eyes, looking out
from an erect and motionless head.
Dirk Colson's brain was in a whirl. He had an important question to
settle. In his pocket were two blue tickets, promising to admit him to
the largest and finest hall in the city to hear the great temperance
orator. Dirk knew very little about orators, but he had heard of John
B. Gough, and everything he had heard made him wish to have a glimpse
of him. You will remember that Dirk was an imitator. He had heard that
Mr. Gough was also, and down deep in his heart the boy had an ambition
to hear the man. Now was his unexpected opportunity. Of course he was
going, but the perplexing thing was, what to do with that other ticket.
There was Mart! Oh yes, to be sure, he had not forgotten her; but
what a strange thing it would be to take her to a lecture! He had
never taken her anywhere in his life. She had nothing to wear, though
he remembered at that moment that the mother had, by earnest effort,
succeeded in getting her shawl out of pawn.
There was one incentive for taking her; it would please Mrs. Roberts.
Dirk studied the thing for some time, to try to discover why she should
care, and had finally given up the problem as too great for him. Yet he
was sure she cared; there had been a wistful light in her eyes when she
said, "I thought possibly you might like to take that sister with the
golden hair," that he saw and interpreted.
It took him three days to decide what he should say, supposing he made
up his mind to ask her.
Several people were at work helping him, though he knew nothing about
that. Mrs. Roberts remarked one evening to young Reid that she wished
she knew a way to induce Dirk Colson to take his sister, without
actually asking him to do so. She fancied that, besides the advantage
which might possibly directly follow an evening spent in that way, it
would suggest new thoughts to the brother.
The young man caught at the suggestion, and wanted to help to carry it
out. It was not an easy thing to do. He had not grown intimate with
Dirk Colson; in fact, that misguided young fellow rather resented any
attempt at intimacy. He was, however, acquainted with Sallie Calkins;
the numerous trips he had made to their room during Mark's illness had
brought him into such constant and pleasant contact with Sallie and her
brother that they looked upon him as a tried friend. Sallie, he knew,
was a friend of the shy, golden-haired sister.
So one evening he went to call at the Calkins's room, with a vague hope
of helping indirectly in bringing to pass Mrs. Roberts's desires.
To Sallie, he made known the wish that Dirk would take his sister to
the lecture, and secured from her a promise to help the scheme along,
provided it developed.
After he went away, Sallie sat long at her sewing, making all alone,
by a dim light, one of the most heroic little sacrifices that was ever
offered "in His name." To fully understand it, you must know that Mark
Calkins had recovered sufficiently to take his place in the office
where Dr. Everett had secured him an opening, and an employment that
would enable him to sit most of the time, thereby giving his injured
limb a chance to rest.
Also, Mark had been admitted to the Monday evening gatherings, and was
distinguishing himself there by his skill in reading and writing. Of
course he had received two tickets, and equally of course, being the
boy he was, he had planned to take Sallie with him to the lecture.
Great was Sallie's prospective pleasure! The event of her lifetime it
was to be. To walk with Mark through the crowded streets, both neatly
dressed; to walk boldly forward with the throng, and present their
tickets of admittance to the great hall, hitherto seen only from the
outside; to move down the long aisles as those who had a right, and
select their seats unquestioned by police; in short, to be like other
people—part of the great well-to-do world—this was Sallie's joy.
She had washed and mended her best calico dress; she had sewed buttons
on the pretty cape, according to Mrs. Roberts's directions; she had
tried on the neat bonnet which had been manufactured for her by Mrs.
Roberts's own fingers, and altogether, Sallie had probably gotten,
during these two days, more enjoyment out of Gough's lecture than many
others who had heard him a dozen times ever secured. I do not think it
any wonder that, as she rocked and sewed, and thought out her great
thought, there fell tears on the work she was doing.