“Meg, I’ve an idea!” exclaimed Elsie several mornings later, as Margaret
returned from an unsuccessful search for a house, as well as work at the
hands of Mrs. Dempster and several other ladies of the parish.
“I’m glad to hear it. Ideas are good things to have,” said Margaret,
wearily dropping into a chair.
“Of course you haven’t found work, or anything else but advice, have
you? Well, this is my idea: let us go away from Barnley.”
“O Elsie!”
“I know it’s hard; but we’ll starve on advice. It’s cheaper than
beefsteak, of course; but it is somewhat weakening after one has
breakfasted, dined, and supped on it. Let’s go away and dig for a
living. See what I found this morning,” and Elsie drew from her pocket a
newspaper clipping of late date, and read aloud an advertisement:
“For Rent: A small house at Idlewild, with three acres of ground well
supplied with small fruits. Only thirty minutes’ ride on dummy to city
market. Rent cheap, or will sell at reasonable price. Call at Harris &
Smith’s, cor. Vine and Tenth Sts., C——.”
“Meg, let’s go and see it.”
“Why, Elsie, child, how is it possible?”
“This way. Maybe I’m visionary, but I’ve an idea that we can make enough
money out of the place to pay the rent and keep us. See here: ‘only
thirty minutes’ ride on dummy to city market.’ Now, three acres of
ground, if good for anything, ought to raise potatoes.”
“Admitted. Go on with your proposition.”
“Potatoes _with_ salt constitute a very fair living for a hungry man;
_without_ salt they keep starve to death away—ergo, let’s plant
potatoes! To be serious—I’ve thought of this. It is now February, and
we’ll need to make haste. We’ve raised our own potatoes in the parsonage
garden for years, and good ones, too. Why not raise double the quantity
somewhere else and sell the surplus? The small fruits advertised may be
worth cultivating, too. You are a splendid amateur gardener—everybody
says so; and there’s Gilbert—to be sure, only a boy; but a boy is good
for some things sometimes—and I consider myself capable of being taught.
Now, I’ve sketched the outlines of Eutopia, and you must fill in the
shading.”
“Outlines are easily drawn; the skill lies in the filling in.”
“Therefore I left it for you. I feel as if we might dig our living out
of the soil easier than out of the oftentimes ungracious favor of
humanity. Suppose we look this place up to-morrow?”
“I cannot see my way clear yet. Where is all the money to come from to
start us in this venture? It takes money for spades, you know.”
“I realize it. Can’t we sell something?”
“What—our old clothes?”
“To the rag-man perhaps. Seriously, have we nothing of value we can
spare?”
“I can think of nothing.”
“I can. O Meg, the hardest part of my suggestion is yet to come. Dr. Ely
said when I named some of the books in poor father’s library that they
were of undoubted value, as many were out of print. He spoke especially
of the two Caxton copies, Plantin’s ‘Biblia Polyglotta,’ and Sparks’
‘Life of Washington.’ Dear Meg, the question is: Shall we keep our
treasures and starve, or in letting them go find a chance of outgrowing
our poverty? I am tired of this grinding life that takes the color out
of your cheeks and puts wrinkles where dimples ought to be. Much as I
love the dear old books, I love hope for you and for all of us better. O
Meg! it is no sacrilege to say that if our father could speak to us he
would tell us to sell them. The heritage is precious; how precious to us
few can guess. But, my sweet sister, your hopes and happiness are dearer
to him, I know. Don’t sob so, Meg; you will break my heart. Forgive me
for suggesting it. It really seems best.”
“I know it, Rosebud,” said Margaret after a long silence. “I must think
about it. I cannot decide yet.”
As Margaret spoke she raised Elsie’s tearful face and kissed it
tenderly. It was more difficult for Margaret to give up the books than
Elsie had dreamed. They were not to her, as to Margaret, the great mine
of wealth from which she had drawn the intellectual riches that were
already hers, and from which she had hoped to glean a far greater
abundance. Dear as they were for the associations’ sake, many of them
having been successively her grandfather’s and father’s, and hallowed as
they were by the thought of the dear eyes which had once delighted in
their pages, this relinquishment of her ambitions seemed the most cruel
hurt of all. She knew that Elsie’s suggestion was practicable; that it
opened a way out of their present difficulties; but it was the slipping
of the cable that bound her to the old life which, despite its
hardships, had seemed so idyllic in its visions and mental attainments.
If she gave up her books, what could she hope for beyond the barren
drudgery of mere existence? With her books she could revel in an ideal
world where the hard facts of her daily struggles could not intrude.
They were indeed a heaven of remembrance and a heaven of hope to her.
Where, oh, where else could she find the oasis of rest, the one little
gleam of personal happiness which she had hoped might be allowed her?
And yet duty, even from the mouth of Elsie, whom she had hitherto
regarded as a mere child, said all too plainly that the cherished books
must go. There seemed to be no other solution of the vexed question of
subsistence. It was a very pale face that Margaret raised to Elsie’s
anxious glance several moments later; but it was determined and calm.
“You are right, Elsie; you excel me in practicability even now. I will
write at once to Dr. Ely.”
“Meg, I was cruel to you.”
“As facts are sometimes cruel. Now let us catalogue the books, that Dr.
Ely may judge of them. Not another tear, Rosebud, but forward.”
A reassuring smile and a fond kiss calmed the rising storm of regret in
Elsie’s heart. With protean quickness the smile so natural to her face
came back, and hastily mounting the small step-ladder, she took down the
books and gave title, name of author, and date of issue to Margaret to
jot down. There were perhaps some eight hundred books, of which only a
small portion would in these days of reprints possess an unusual
interest for the bibliophilist. Among the latter were: Smellie’s
“Philosophy;” Plantin’s “Biblia Polyglotta” in eight folio volumes,
published in the sixteenth century; Dunton’s “Life and Errors,”
1659–1733; Caxton’s books, mostly translations from the French;
Nicholl’s “Literary Anecdotes;” Sotheby’s “Handwriting of Melancthon and
Luther;” Davy’s “System of Divinity,” twenty-six volumes; Dolby’s
“Shakespearean Dictionary;” Ainsworth’s “Historical Novels;” Hone’s
“Early Life and Conversion;” Timperly’s “Encyclopedia of Literary
Anecdote;” “The Bay Psalm Book;” Adelung’s “Historical Sketch of
Sanscrit Literature,” translated by Talboys; Krummacher’s “Elisha.”
Aside from these somewhat rare books, the library took a wide range in
history, poetry, fiction, and travels. Margaret could scarcely repress
the desire to cry out once more against the sacrilege. Here was
information for a life-time; here forgetfulness of the past, elysium for
the future! Why must this grief be superadded to all she had borne? But
with heroic effort she choked back the tears and went calmly on with her
work. By the time she had finished the list and written a letter to Dr.
Ely, of the Episcopal school at A——, she had put aside regret and was
once more ready to look facts squarely in the face. “The first step that
costs” had been taken, and never afterward to Margaret did any sorrow
seem like the wrench of this one. It was with alacrity, amounting almost
to cheerfulness, that she went about her task of packing the household
goods, and though sometimes tears would for a moment dim her eyes and
tender memories paralyze her hands, yet the serene conviction that her
decision had been wisely taken seemed to hover like a nimbus of light
above the sadness of the slowly-moving hours.
One morning as Margaret, with her brown locks shrouded in a wide-frilled
sweeping cap, her dress hidden by a high-necked calico apron of
nondescript make, stood upon a step-ladder, engaged in removing the
dimity curtains from the sitting-room windows, a peremptory knock at the
open door behind her caused her to turn so suddenly that the ladder
tipped and threw her, with unexpected suddenness, into the arms of a
dignified gentleman who stood upon the threshold. Quickly disengaging
herself, she exclaimed with a laugh:
“My greeting is unusually fervent, Dr. Ely; but you perceive that
circumstances——”
“Were too many for you,” he interrupted; as Margaret paused for breath.
“I hope you were not hurt?”
“Not in the least; but a trifle confused. Will you walk in and be
seated? I did not look for a personal answer to my letter, otherwise I
should have deferred my packing.”
“I decided to come only at the last moment, and so could not write you.
I am not at all sorry that I surprised you; in fact, I found it rather
pleasant.”
Margaret glanced up apprehensively, a new wonder growing in her eyes,
which the doctor was quick to note and interpret. “I felt that it would
be much easier to adjust the prices of the books and come to a
satisfactory arrangement of matters through a personal interview.
Therefore I am here.”
“And quite welcome; but you must pardon the incoherent state of things.”
“With all my heart, so long as you remain rational. And now I wish you
would tell me what you propose doing.”
“I? Working for a living.”
“At what?”
“Anything I can find. Just now Elsie has me under control. She is bent
on making a market gardener of me. Please look at this advertisement. We
have already made appointment to visit the place, and if satisfactory
and the books are disposed of, to take immediate possession. What do you
think of the plan?”
“H-m. It might be good, but how about the children’s education?”
“That was what worried me greatly at first; but both of them say so long
as I work for a living they shall help too. We have decided to give an
hour each evening, after it is too dark to work, to a little home
culture. After all, it is the practical application of knowledge that
makes one educated.”
“Quite true, Miss Margaret,” answered the doctor as he gravely regarded
her. “Give me a few more details of your plan, and let me see how
practicable it is.”
As Margaret proceeded with an animated recital of the schemes which she
and Elsie had lain awake nights to concoct, Dr. Ely sat so intently
watching her that she flushed and grew uneasy under his scrutiny. He,
however, was not aware of it; for his mind was borne in upon itself, and
he was tracing step by step the years of his life that had brought him
to this present moment. He was a dignified man nearing the forties, with
a grave manner that was often thought austere, but which was only the
outward covering of a nature too keenly sympathetic and appreciative to
risk the disapproval of an obtuse world. Like all delicate and sensitive
things in nature, he wrapped himself in a husk, and only those who
penetrated the outward covering knew how beautiful was the inner temple
of his soul, how genial its warmth, and how playful the fancy that
tended the altar of his imaginings. His sudden encounter with Margaret
this morning had brought to the surface a slight hint of its existence,
but the quick wonder of her eyes had sent it again into hiding. He had
been for some ten years the president of the school at A——, and stood
entirely alone in the world. For twenty years he had cherished the
memory of a fair girl wife who had been companion and helpmeet but three
short months, when death claimed her. In her grave he had thought to
bury love, and live henceforth a solitary worker, with no dreams to
entice again beyond the prosaic outlines of his daily duties. But
Margaret Murchison’s year at the school had affected him strangely. He
had watched the girl’s development with uncommon interest; had been
touched more than once by the clearness and unusual candor of her
nature, and grew to have a profound admiration for the strength and
purpose which upheld her. When she had been so suddenly called home by
her mother’s death, he had missed her more than he liked to own even to
himself. Despite the disparity in their years, he felt that hers was a
nature to draw from its obscurity all that was highest of attainment in
his own. He was but too conscious that, struggle as he might, he somehow
fell short of his desires. His most earnest efforts seemed to fall
half-heartedly upon those around him. The fault must be his; the long
loneliness of his life—with neither father, mother, sister, brother,
wife, to share a single aspiration or make vivid a single heart-glow—had
unwittingly isolated him from mankind. When the light of this love fully
dawned upon him, his soul felt the glow of a new purpose, and it became
to him the symbol of a wider sympathy and charity, because of which
Divinity long ago found need to send a sign to all mankind. His school
was not slow to feel the change, and when the time became ripe for him
to speak, he felt that he was no longer offering Margaret, in all her
freshness, the remnant of a heart and life, but the first fruits of a
living soul. He hastened to Barnley, strong in his purpose to lift her
at once from the toil and privation of poverty. He had watched her
career as best he could, in the occasional letters received from her
father, who never failed to comment upon her strength and growth of
character, and his love had grown with the subtileness of fancy until he
had never stopped to consider the effect it might have upon Margaret.
Surely to be sheltered and loved—ah! how he would prove his love to
her—ought to be reason enough for any woman so bereft and friendless. So
he had reasoned until he caught the apprehensive glance of Margaret’s
eyes, and then he knew that his dream had not been hers, and that love
with her would not be made at once answerable even to the most
passionate appeals. All these musings ran swiftly through his mind, the
while his intent glance remained upon Margaret’s face, unconsciously
drinking in its variable play of expression. At last she ceased her
recital, and said in a slightly constrained voice: “I think I have told
you all our plans for the present, Dr. Ely.”
But the intent eyes never left her face as the doctor asked wistfully:
“Are you sure you’ve strength for so much?”
“I have faith that it will be given me.”
“Yes, yes, it will,” he replied fervently, as he roused himself with an
effort. “And now let us take a look at the books.”
He followed Margaret into the study and stood long in silent
contemplation before the shelves. He was evidently making a careful
computation of the value of the books. “How much money will you need for
this undertaking?” he asked, suddenly turning to Margaret.
“I have very little idea. I can scarcely tell until we have seen the
place.”
“Ah, yes, I had forgotten. Of course you are not sure of anything as
yet. When did you say you had appointed an interview with the agent?”
“We had expected to go this afternoon, if we had a satisfactory letter
from you in time. If not, the interview was to be postponed until
to-morrow.”
“And you have not had that satisfactory letter yet. Well, you shall have
it now. The books are even more valuable than I thought. They number, I
think you said, some eight hundred volumes. Now, I wish to propose a
plan of my own. Suppose I advance you the sum of four hundred dollars on
the books to begin with, allowing you to select such as in your home
culture club you will doubtless need, and reserve the balance—I will not
place an exact price on them now—to be drawn upon in case of further
demand for money. Then, when you have made your fortune, you are to have
the books back at the price I paid for them.”
The doctor waited some time for Margaret’s answer; but she stood with
head slightly averted and was silent. At last he could wait no longer,
but bending forward, glanced down at her face. Tears stood on the long
lashes and trembled on her cheeks. “Margaret,” he cried sharply, “what
have I said that is wrong?”
“Nothing!” she exclaimed, suddenly extending both hands to him. “Your
goodness is so unexpected that I am not strong enough for it.”
He caught her hands in his own as he said impulsively: “Listen,
Margaret. It is not goodness—it is rather pure selfishness. I came here
this morning intent on offering you not the worth of the books, but
something I was foolish enough to fancy of more value—myself. No, don’t
start; but hear me out. Manlike, I fancied that I had but to speak and
you would let me take you away from all the toil and privation; but now
I know you——”
Margaret gently drew her hands away, and interrupted him: “I never
dreamed of such a thing. It is impossible.”
“If I loved you, Margaret, had loved you for years—don’t look so
incredulous—ever since you were a school-girl, and had waited patiently
until the time was right, hoping that my love might win its response
even as the flowers respond to the warmth and light of the sun—if I
offered all this and a life-long devotion, would it then be impossible?”
Margaret glanced up wonderingly, appealingly, into the eager face above
her.
“It is all so strange, so confusing; but I cannot—it would indeed be
impossible; for—forgive me, I do not want to hurt you—I do not love you,
Dr. Ely, and I——”
“Say no more,” he said gently, “I knew it even before I spoke; but I am
glad you understand me. I have been a lonely man all my life, and you
can perhaps imagine how, even old as I am, I find delight in the
companionship of one who is quick to understand and appreciate all that
interests me. I love you, dear child, with the one love of my life; but
I shall never again obtrude it upon you. I must, however, claim one
favor. I am willing to sink all that I had hoped to the calm basis of
friendship; do not deny me that. Let me help you, even as I had meant to
before I spoke, and I promise faithfully never to claim anything more at
your hands than the just consideration of one friend for another. You
stand alone and inexperienced—put aside what has passed and let my age
and experience help you.”
Margaret, watching him as he spoke, could not fail to be touched by the
sincerity and unselfishness of his words. For reply she placed her hand
in his and said softly, “I will.”
“One word more. If the time ever comes—mind, I do not expect it, I do
not even beg it—but if the time does come when your heart can respond
fully to the love that shall be yours as long as life lasts, you have
only to say ‘come,’ and I will obey you though it be to the uttermost
parts of the earth. May I ask this too?”
“It is not much to promise,” said Margaret gently, “but it may be too
much to hope for. I have never had time for anything but immediate
duties, and I am afraid I shall never find time for anything else. I
have always felt that I belonged to these children. If, however—and I
can discern but the faintest hope—if such a time _should_ come, you may
be sure that the word will not be uttered half-heartedly.”
A blush stole up to Margaret’s cheek as she spoke, making her whole face
glow and soften with an unwonted beauty that the doctor’s observant eyes
did not fail to note. They were suspiciously misty as he raised her hand
to his lips and said fervently:
“Amen. Now let’s to business.”