It did not take long to settle the little four-roomed house, for Dr. Ely
proved himself an every-day worker. The week that had passed since he
had left his school had been full of business. The purpose which he saw
in Margaret and Elsie had awakened a new interest in his life, and to
see that their feet were firmly fixed in the way they had marked out for
themselves seemed to him the task, as well as the pleasure, of an elder
brother. Looking upon life as the vast field from which should spring
all that is highest of development and achievement in humanity, he was
touched with the hope of being a factor in the ambitious purposes of
these inexperienced and well-nigh friendless girls. He believed fully in
allowing to each individual soul the opportunities for measuring its own
power, and while a certain sense of loss came upon him when he realized
that the expectation of taking Margaret into his own life could not be
fulfilled, he felt ennobled and strengthened by the desire to be one
with her in her efforts of self-advancement. “Not now, not now; but some
time, perhaps,” he said to his heart, and during his week of early and
late work not one word or look of his had disturbed the serenity of
Margaret’s mind. He had been solely and simply the elder brother on
whose experience and friendly aid she could rely. Now, however, the
little home was in order; the tiny sitting-room with its painted and
polished floor, its bright rugs, its gayly-cushioned Boston rockers, its
hassocks that served the double duty of seats and boot-boxes, and last,
but not least, its revolving book-case with the few of the well-known
volumes which Margaret had selected from her father’s library and which
Dr. Ely had supplemented with some contributions of his own. These were
principally works on art and the intellect, by Ruskin, Hammerton, and
others, and a few books of poetry by Dante Rossetti, Keats, Tennyson,
and a superb _édition de luxe_ of “Aurora Leigh.” They were all seated
in this room surveying its finishing touches the evening previous to Dr.
Ely’s departure for A—.
“Well, it is pleasant,” he exclaimed. “I shall carry its memory with me
when I go, and in imagination behold you seated every evening around the
open stove, feasting on the contents of this handy little book-case. I
shall remember how white the curtains are, how dainty the table scarfs
and the head-rests of the chairs, and how really fine those oleographs
and photogravures on the wall appear in the glow of the fire-light, and
I shall fancy you are all taking on flesh and good spirits under the
inspiration of Elsie’s cooking.”
“You are very kind not to insinuate one word about dyspepsia,” answered
Elsie demurely. “But I am really enthusiastic over my promised lessons
in that grand art, as madam so grandiloquently calls it. You know some
people are born great, and I really feel that I am destined to achieve
my highest expression in an apostleship to the pots and pans of the
kitchen. Like the starveling poet of the story-books, I shall doubtless
astonish the world when the flame of my soul has burst into a dish fit
to set before a king.”
“You are somewhat mixed as to metaphor,” exclaimed Margaret with a
laugh.
“Well, I hope to mix more than metaphors by-and-by. But tell me, Dr.
Ely, are you conscious of either an aching void or an aching fulness,
whichever dyspepsia happens to be, since you sat under my dispensation?”
“I haven’t had such an appetite in years. I don’t in the least question
your genius for cookery, and when you have learned to make something out
of nothing with a ravishing French name and taste, you can count on
achieving a world-wide fame.”
“Fame? a bauble! I look only to the expression of my art,” and Elsie
rolled up her eyes and shrugged her shapely shoulders with an abandon of
French mannerism that was as startling as it was amusing. Something in
Margaret’s apprehensive glance caught the doctor’s quick eye. What
wonderful fire and keenness lay in the little girl’s mobile face. Ah,
well, Margaret was right; there was work for her here. With an
abruptness that seemed almost harsh he spoke:
“He ‘jests at scars that never felt a wound.’ Art, Miss Elsie, in its
entirety is deep, and high, and long, and men have sought it, and with
palsied finger on the pulse of time have died unanswered.”
The laughing eyes of Elsie grew suddenly grave. “Dear me, one can’t be
enthusiastic nowadays without finding a wet blanket thrown over her at
the first step. Nevertheless I don’t intend to wear cap and spectacles
until long after my humble divinity has crowned me mistress. My ambition
is such a simple one—just to tickle the palates of my little world. Now,
doctor, don’t discourage me.”
“Not for the world. Epicurus, if he were here, would doubtless pronounce
a benediction on your ambition, and I am not sure that your purpose does
not already deserve a laurel leaf, for it has been more than once
reiterated that the crying need of the day is good cookery.”
“Thanks. I am glad that my mission has the support of the public mind,
or palate. Either will do, I suppose. But how is it with you, Meg? I
haven’t heard you declare as yet for any reform.”
“I am not so sure of my mission as you are of yours, nor so confident of
being born to greatness.”
“That’s bad. One surely ought to believe in herself if she expects to
get on. Perhaps the doctor can help your indecision.”
There was a mischievous twinkle in Elsie’s eyes that was not lost on the
doctor, but with the utmost gravity he replied: “Well, yes, I think I
can. It will be a mission worth while to learn the problem of
self-support and self-education under adverse circumstances. It will
need something more than enthusiasm.”
“A patience and a finesse of which I am not sure I am master. I am only
mutely feeling my way now. Indeed, the doctor has lifted so much
responsibility from my shoulders in this new venture that I hardly know
what I can do.”
“You will know when the opportunity comes to act. Just now you needed
the little friendly direction I am very glad I was able to offer. There
are times when even the strongest are not wholly self-reliant.”
Tears stood in Margaret’s eyes as she answered: “How unblessed is he who
can make no claim on loyal friendship. May I always prove myself worthy
of it.”
“We’ll not question that now, nor in the future,” said the doctor, a
glow of light in his eyes that watching Elsie did not fail to note.
“Now, tell me your plan for making use of this mine,” he added, touching
the book-case at his right hand.
“I’ve been thinking we must get at the nuggets with as little delay as
possible, for we haven’t time to bore through worthless drifts of
scoria, even though at the bottom may be a mine of wealth. We must make
practical and immediate use of what we learn.”
“True,” interposed the doctor as Margaret looked up interrogatively. “I
am deeply interested.”
“This, then, is what I’ve been thinking: every thought of other minds
from which we can draw sustenance must be drained of its nutriment
before we seek another, and that thought must be made to bear relatively
upon our own. In other words, it must father a new growth in our own
minds, for in that way only can education have any practical bearing
upon life and action.”
“Excellent!” exclaimed the doctor warmly. “Go on, please.”
Margaret’s cheek flushed as she complied. “It is my purpose, then, in
this home symposium to bring no thought that we cannot healthfully
digest. Occult research is only for the man of leisure. This is the
first principle that shall govern our intellectual feast. The second
shall be the democracy of our purpose, or, in other words, the
hand-to-hand start we shall make in our race for knowledge. No one shall
be debarred because he has not learned the alphabet of reason; we will
give him the chance to learn it. The third requirement will be only good
moral character,” and Margaret finished with a laugh.
“Regardless of social position, remember, doctor,” exclaimed Elsie. “In
short, Margaret has sketched the outlines of a new aristocracy, wherein
moral worth and purpose count first, with brain and healthy digestion a
good second, and where wealth doesn’t stand any show at all.”
“You forget that is the goal toward which the first two tend,” said
Margaret eagerly. “An aristocracy founded on those principles could not
be an insecure one—could it, doctor?”
“It is admirable as a dream, and as a dream impracticable, I fear.”
“By no means,” said Elsie as she noticed the shadow that crossed
Margaret’s face at the doctor’s words. “You forget that it concerns only
three people. We shall reform the world chiefly by beginning to reform
ourselves. Nothing could so suit our Eutopian ideas as to call it ‘A New
Aristocracy.’”
“An aristocracy of potato diggers!” exclaimed Gilbert, looking up from
his book.
“Exactly. We have a right to a kingdom of our own within these walls.
Our fame and our pride need not go beyond them.”
“Safe enough on that score,” said Gilbert ironically.
“Well,” said the doctor merrily, “I shall count myself one of the
aristocrats even when miles away.”
“But I haven’t told you all my plan yet,” said Margaret. “It concerns
this very potato-digging that to Gilbert seems so incongruous with our
high purposes. On the principle that everything we have is the product
of the earth, there is nothing out of proportion in even potato diggers
striving for the highest development, and as our impressions all come to
us from our contact with every-day things, we shall find an astonishing
philosophy grow out of potato-digging if we look for it. In my endeavors
to carry out the behests underlying the propagation of plants, I expect
to find questions that will lead me into as yet unexplored paths, and I
shall endeavor to treasure up these questions and their answers if they
can be found. I shall exact the same process of reasoning from all the
members of our circle, and shall expect every evening to be regaled by
Elsie with a philosophical monologue on the amount of nutriment there is
in an egg or the exhilaration to be derived from the dish-pan.”
“Then you will be disappointed. My ideas are not perennial; but if I
chance to evolve some flavor that a Frenchman would doubtless call
‘heavenly,’ you may look for a harangue.”
“A practical school of philosophy it seems to shadow forth; but the
proof of the pudding is in the eating, you know,” said the doctor with a
smile.
“I don’t underrate the difficulties in the way; but I think we three
ought to be able to do something with ourselves on that basis,” said
Margaret.
“Certainly,” replied the doctor. “And I shall endeavor to remodel my own
work from the same standpoint. I have been a dreamer and an enthusiast,
and it has remained for an untried girl to show the practical
application of my dreams. I shall go home a wiser man.”
“You frighten me, doctor, with the seriousness of that statement. It is
all untried as yet,” exclaimed Margaret in evident distress.
“True; but I can see its first steps. After these the way may open wider
and clearer. It is certainly worth trying.”
With this indorsement Margaret felt satisfied, and there was color in
her cheeks and brilliancy in her eyes as she and the doctor talked long
and animatedly until late in the evening. Gilbert had stolen away to bed
and Elsie was deep in a novel of Antoine’s.
“I shall have to shake myself well together when I get home,” said the
doctor, when they discovered the lateness of the hour. “I’ve been living
a new life and the old one will seem strange.”
It was hard for Margaret to acknowledge even to herself after the
doctor’s departure that she felt lonely and uneasy; but somehow she
missed the careful forethought that had been as new as it had been
unexpected. It was a strange experience in her barren life, and scold
herself as she might, she could not find it unpleasant. But for the
present she would not, she might not indulge in dreams. A work that
might stretch into years lay before her. That done—well, how strong is
faith? A new beauty, however, stole into her face; its somewhat stern
lines relaxed, and tender, almost pathetic, little curves grew about the
corners of the firmly-set lips. It was quite apparent to those who knew
her that the calm reliance of her nature had been disturbed by something
strange and sweet, yet not even Elsie guessed its full meaning.