It was June before the little Frenchwoman would hear to Margaret’s
making any effort to dispose of her produce in her own way. Regularly
every morning Lizzette boarded the four-o’clock train for the city with
her boxes of produce, which she pushed to the train in the hand-cart and
wheeled from the train to her stall in the market. Until now the amount
yielded by Margaret’s garden had been small in bulk, but so well had it
thrived under Lizzette’s management and the comparatively good season,
that the more bulky vegetables, such as spinach, peas, beans, etc., were
coming on, and Lizzette found the yield of the two gardens more than she
could well manage in her small way. Margaret, appalled somewhat, for all
her courage, at having to face the multitude in a stall at the market,
was for disposing of her produce to the commission merchants on South
M—— Street.
“Non,” said Lizzette emphatically. “Zere ees no money in zat. You make
consignment and more likely zan not get back ze whole stuff wilted and
good for nosing. I tried zat to my sorrow. In ze stall you sell all at
some price. You no carry home ze stuff again.”
“I know,” said Margaret doubtfully, “but truly I dread my ignorance and
the contact with things wholly unfamiliar.”
“Ah, ze little brown Frenchwoman haf no such fear, and she forget ze
girlhood so long temps! Zare ees Gilbert—ees he not old enough? I take
him under my wing, and he sall learn ze tricks of trade. N’est-ce pas?”
“I will go with you to-morrow,” said Margaret, “for I must conquer my
dread. Perhaps some time Gilbert shall take my place.”
Nothing in the line of work had ever seemed so distasteful to Margaret
as wheeling the little hand-cart through the streets of the city, and
taking her place within the stall next to Lizzette’s. It was early when
they reached the market, and the buyers were not out in full force;
nevertheless Margaret fancied she saw in every eye that lingered on her
an impertinent curiosity. Self-consciousness was the least of her
failings; but there was an almost unacknowledged protest at being
compelled to stand up before the gaze of hundreds and volubly offer her
small wares for sale. Duty certainly wore her most uninviting aspect
that morning, and came nearer finding Margaret a coward than ever
before. She had never as yet shrunk from any work, however menial; but
there was a vast difference between performing that work within the
seclusion of home, cheered and upheld by an atmosphere of love and
appreciation that made “the dignity of labor” something more than the
radiant utterance of some visionary pedant, and standing in the full
gaze of the public, subjected to the whims, avarice, snobbishness, and
impertinence of the pushing, merciless multitude. Oh, how she shrank
from it all! How had she ever thought it possible to have strength for
such work? Lizzette’s quick eyes noticed the constraint of Margaret’s
manner, and she undertook, by a display of more than ordinary volubility
and gayety, to dispel the gloom that wrapped her. She bustled about,
changing the position of that bunch of onions or radishes, this head of
lettuce, or endeavoring to display more temptingly the measures of
spinach, peas, beans, etc. More than one would-be buyer halted, gazed at
the silent figure and white face, and passed on.
“Zis will nevair do,” interposed Lizzette in a whisper. “You look truly
seek; sit down here behind ze cart, and I sell for bof of us. Vous avez
ze paleness I no like to see. Ze work ees too hard.”
Margaret shook herself together with an effort. No, she would not be
beaten back at the first step; it would be degrading. The mutiny in her
breast, whatever it was, whether a hitherto unknown undercurrent of
false pride or a new and abnormal sensitiveness, _must_ be conquered.
With a smile that was almost pitiful in its attempted bravery she said:
“No, Lizzette; it is now or never. You will soon see what a brave
market-woman I will make. I shall make a sale to the next comer.
Good-morning, madam! How can I serve you?” she asked, as a woman who
wore diamonds and silk approached and sniffed contemptuously above the
little display of greenery.
“Dear me! You don’t seem to have anything fit for a pig to eat,” said
the woman as with ungloved hand flashing with diamonds she deliberately
reached for a measure of spinach, and turned it bottom side up on the
little counter.
“I presume not,” said Margaret, quietly picking up the spinach and
restoring it to its place. “We don’t sell to pigs here.”
“H’m! impertinent!” and with a haughty stare into Margaret’s face, the
diamonds and silk passed on. Lizzette was convulsed with laughter.
Margaret stole a quick glance at her, and the white scorn of her face
lit up with a smile.
“That was a tonic, Lizzette,” she said. “I shall do better next time.”
A second later a sweet-faced little matron stopped at the counter, asked
for prices, made her selection, and looking earnestly at Margaret, said:
“You are a newcomer here. I know all the old faces.”
“It is my first effort.”
“And you find it hard?”
“A little. I shall get used to it.”
“Ah, yes, we get used to almost everything in this world. I shall
remember you and look for you to-morrow. Good morning.” And with a
slight bow the little matron took up her purchases and went on her way.
Margaret’s face softened as she glanced at Lizzette. “Eet ees not all
bad,” Lizzette found time to whisper.
“No,” said Margaret, “a little smile lightens the whole world.”
When the market hours were over, Margaret, to her surprise, found that
she had sold out her little stock, and Lizzette was voluble in praise of
her ability as a saleswoman. The generous hearted little Frenchwoman had
nothing to say of the numberless ways in which she had contrived to
bring Margaret’s supplies within the notice of purchasers. Margaret went
home with a lighter heart. After all, nothing was ever quite so hard
when once the shoulder had been put to the wheel. Yet it was a white,
tired face that greeted the three who at Idlewild were anxiously
awaiting the result of the experiment.
“O Meg!” cried Elsie apprehensively. “You have gone beyond your
strength, and I am to blame for coaxing you into this move. I am going
to take your place.”
“No, indeed,” said Margaret decisively; “I’ll not hear one word to it.
This is my work until I have mastered it and am ready to give it up to
Gilbert.”
They knew persuasions were useless, and so she was left to work out the
problem upon which she was just entering. It did not grow any easier as
the weeks and months progressed. She never could quite put down the mute
protest that arose within her against a conscious unsuitability for such
work. It was always distasteful to her to mingle with the jostling crowd
and urge upon fault-finding buyers the excellence of her wares; but she
resolutely choked back revolt, and finding that she was gaining
customers who grew to like the simple earnestness of her manner and to
rely upon the exactness of her word and measure, and that there was at
least a living profit in her calling, she learned to endure all its
unpleasantness with no word of complaint. How bravely she bore it all no
one guessed except Lizzette, who witnessed daily the struggle going on
in the girl’s breast.
“Ze instinct of ze lady rebelled, but ze heart of ze woman bear,” she
said sententiously.
The summer passed away quickly and uneventfully; the daily round of
duties, of self-improvement, of little moments of relaxation over
Elsie’s organ or Antoine’s violin, making the days bright with widening
hope and prospects.
One late October evening, while Elsie and Antoine were filling the
little house with music and Gilbert was buried in a book, Margaret
seated herself before her father’s desk and began a letter to Dr. Ely.
“In fulfilment of my promise, I inclose a summary of our summer’s work.
You will see that financially we are a trifle ahead. This is due to the
wise forethought of our good friend Dr. Ely and the management of our
wonderful little Frenchwoman. When I look at my own work, I realize that
I have been but the obedient machine of wiser calculation than I could
possibly have evinced, and I take no credit to myself for this happy
state of our affairs. Much as I believe in and preach the independence
of the individual, I realize more and more the absolute need of
interdependent friendship. It is impossible to find healthy life in the
isolation of self; and yet it is in the development of self that we
reach the highest capability for perfect friendship. The wisdom of
others has benefited me largely this summer. Through others’ eyes I have
seen with clearer vision many things which my own inexperience would
have shown me but dimly. I feel that I have grown stronger and more
steadfast by reason of this friendship that came like a waft of summer
wind across my barren pathway; and that I may properly render unto
Cæsar, I hereby make my acknowledgments for numberless good offices at
your hands.
“As regards the garden, the hot-beds are made ready for the winter’s
sowing, and we have built a substantial hen-house and a miniature
duck-pond at the foot of the raspberry patch. The yield of berries this
summer was inconsiderable, owing to the vigorous pruning given to the
bushes, but the growth has been fine. The trellises are all in good
shape and we hope for a substantial return next summer.
“My experiment with Aunt Liza and Eph, about which I wrote you, has not
been highly successful. Between the two they have managed to save about
five dollars, and I’ve no doubt the community will be called upon as
usual to keep the breath of life in their poor bodies until spring. For
my part, since they are both able-bodied I shall _give_ nothing.
Whatever help I offer they must be made to pay for in some shape, since
in that way only can they be taught independence and responsibility, and
something like a solution be made of this problem of the poor whom we
have always with us.
“As regards my market business, I do not think I am calculated for
trade. The peculiar isolation of my life has unfitted me for contact
with many-sided humanity, and for that reason I tie myself to it with a
self-immolation of an Indian devotee. With not only my own way to make
in the world, but that of Elsie and Gilbert, I can afford no mawkish
shrinking from unpleasant things. It will never be a pleasant business
for me, but as I find the newness wearing off, it grows more bearable. I
have established a regular line of good customers who seem always well
suited; have quite a trade in butter, which I buy from the farmers’
wives hereabout, and a slight output of eggs and chickens from our own
hennery. Eph has promised to keep me supplied for the winter with game,
and Lizzette and I will make our trips at six o’clock instead of four as
the weather grows colder. So much for material matters.
“In our Home Club we have done fairly well. We have finished United
States history, taken up the first principles of political economy, made
some studies in Shakespeare and ‘Ivanhoe’ and ‘Adventures of Philip,’
_tried_ Browning and discarded him—our practical life is too short to
spend in solving enigmas that, however charming they may be as poetical
conceptions, have nothing perceptible to teach us—and by way of dessert,
with Ruskin to fall back on, have taken up some slight studies in
æstheticism, the material result of which has been innumerable ‘love
bags,’ impossible ‘head-rests,’ and indescribable nothings on Elsie’s
part. The best part of our efforts, however, has been the practical
value of our discussions following the presentation of a ‘blossom’ or
thought by each member. You will recall my previous letter regarding
this. Out of this discussion has come wisdom, even beyond our hopes, and
strength greater than our own. We scorn nothing here, not the simplest
wayside weed, and we have learned much from each other and research.
Antoine is making marvellous progress in his music. Already he is
interpreting Bach and Handel, and even venturing into snatches of
original composition. The lad’s soul seems to have been lit at the altar
of music; for on no ordinary presumption can one compute his wonderful
development. Strength and a greater degree of comeliness seems to have
come into his long thin arms and bent shoulders, while there is a
constant glow in his dark eyes and an unusual gayety in his laugh.
Lizzette is in a fervor of happiness and pride, and seems not to be able
to do enough for us. Elsie has caught Antoine’s faculty for whistling,
and often makes a good second to the bird-like notes with which he
accompanies his violin. It is a rare treat to listen to them as I am
listening now—Elsie at the organ, Antoine with his violin nestled
lovingly under his chin, and his deft bow bringing out with marvellous
power its almost human tones, and both whistling! Elsie grows daily more
charming and more expansive, and music seems to be with her, as with
Antoine, the expression of much that is restless, wayward, and beautiful
in her soul. Gilbert is docile and patient; but I notice a growing
uneasiness and distaste for his work that must be met and overcome in
some way. I have been thinking of putting him in the manual-training
school in the city, but have not yet solved the problem of ways and
means. I think you may perhaps be pained to find that we do not attend
church. In the first place, the purchase of the organ rendered necessary
the most rigid economy in dress—in fact, Elsie and I wear nothing but
calico, and Gilbert’s clothes are growing decidedly seedy. In the second
place, we went once to St. Paul’s, in the city, and have had no heart to
go since. My poor father long before his death used to declaim against
the growing tendency to exclusiveness in the churches. In the simplicity
of my country living, I thought him unnecessarily apprehensive. The
house of God was indeed to me so much a sanctuary I thought worldliness
was left at the outer door; but I found my mistake upon entering the
door of St. Paul’s. The free seats, high-backed and uncushioned, were
portioned off from the others with a wide aisle. In them were gathered a
little handful of people like ourselves, evidently the world’s toilers
and God’s poor. The cushioned seats were filled with a richly-dressed
congregation. The altar was superbly decorated in white and gold, and
the clergyman, as white and high-bred-looking as his æsthetic
surroundings, preached a sermon on the ‘Beauty of the ideal.’ He found
his text in the Bible, but he found nothing else there. The Bread of
Life was not in it. I glanced around the congregation; those in the free
seats sat with blankly staring countenances, evidently victims to a
sense of duty. The occupants of the cushioned seats leaned luxuriously
back and listened with a well-bred air of interest; but as far as I
could see not one face glowed with an intensity of feeling or asked for
anything more than the rhetorical flourish. We remained through the
communion service, but did not partake of it. I think the divine symbols
would have choked me, my heart was so hot and bitter within me. Clearly
my father was right. The church of to-day is not for the masses, nor of
the masses, and yet I feel sure that there is a great heart of humanity
underlying all this worldliness, and perhaps waiting patiently for the
time to ripen when the crust of wealth-worship, caste, and place-hunting
shall be burned through with the white heat of its fires. God loves his
chosen, and they are of all the earth; some day he shall call them
together! We spend our Sundays at home. Elsie and Antoine render
beautifully those old arks of safety, ‘Come! Ye Disconsolate’ and
‘Jesus, Lover of My Soul.’ We read, talk, study, and open our hearts to
the sweet graces of love and charity, and so we forget that outside
there is a world which scorns our poverty and our calloused hands. Once
in a while, drawn by the music, old Aunt Liza and Eph—who by the way
begrudges the Sunday that takes him away from his hunting—make an
addition to our number. I don’t try to do any so-called missionary work
with them, although Eph says suspiciously he ‘specs dat’s what it all
means, anyhow!’ On the whole, life is very pleasant with us. I am
growing so accustomed to its methodical rounds that I have no time for
anything like regret or vain aspirations.
“With the best wishes for the prosperity of the school and the welfare
of our good friend Dr. Ely, I am
Sincerely your friend,
“MARGARET MURCHISON.”