To Margaret alone Elsie opened the flood-gates of her heart, and it was
only after days of overwhelming grief that she could again take up the
burden of life. Margaret’s tears of sisterly sympathy and words of
counsel could not at first still the torrent of heart-broken tears with
which she mourned her lost love. Not even Herbert had known how precious
it had been to her—how everything high and holy had seemed to be the
offspring of that vitalizing force in her heart. Now, because having
lived up to its highest revelations and endeavored to be true to its
holiest purposes, she had crossed a counter-current of thought and will,
this love had been taken from her. Had she been wrong, opinionated,
obstinate, as Herbert called her? Had she forgotten the sweet submission
of the weaker unto the stronger in that natural order of divine and
human love which popular clamor voices as the proper sphere of woman?
Often as she asked herself these questions—and with the not unnatural
hope of finding herself in the wrong, since her heart prompted the
slave-like humility of a perfect love—just so often conscience answered,
“No!” Stronger still, as she reasoned, grew the feeling that her soul
had a right to its own individuality, and that whatever it cost her, she
had no right to bind its wings, even though the fetters were silken and
lightly held by the hand of love. Neither Margaret, Lizzette, Antoine,
nor Gilbert dared offer a verbal sympathy to the sore heart behind the
white, set face that confronted them when Elsie had fought her battle
alone. The sparkle was irretrievably gone from the dark eyes, and the
curved lips drooped pitifully at times; but in all the earnestness of
purpose, the kindliness of spirit, she was still the same Elsie.
The work of the Children’s Home Meetings grew almost hourly under her
efforts; for now that she had sacrificed her heart on the altar of this
work, she meant to make the sacrifice acceptable in its good results.
Every hour that she and Margaret could snatch from the demands of their
daily work, they spent in forming what they called “Conscience Classes.”
The system of ethics taught was as simple as the minds with which they
came in contact, and bore the stamp of the ever-living truth. The
magnetic presence of the four chief workers grew to be a living delight
to all who came from motives of curiosity or interest within its circle.
Beginning at first only with what Herbert had been pleased to term “the
riff-raff of society,” the circumference of the circle had gradually
widened until a better-educated and more self-respecting class had found
its way among them. Yet even with intelligence gaining upon them, the
one great need of basing all reform, all happiness, all prosperity upon
the code of ethics which, while it demands the highest development of
the individual, yet takes its inspiration from the thought of a common
welfare, was never lost sight of. Earnestness is the great lever of the
world, and while there were many to oppose the idea as of
disproportionate value to the need and development of the times, the
effort still found many adherents. To be called cranks, laughed at by
unbelievers, and derided by the class for which nothing is holy but
success, came to be, as Elsie said, “normal as the air they breathed;”
but after the first sharp sting these shafts remained unnoticed, and the
one or two perishing ones uplifted, helped into the light and warmed by
the sunshine of human kindliness into a knowledge of the great inspirer
of their work, was balm enough to heal all the wounds of a scoffing
world.
Margaret had also formed a Mother’s Class, in which everything
pertaining to motherhood and its duties, was thoughtfully discussed.
This class came in time to be presided over by Mrs. Carson, who,
partially recovered, found no greater delight than in seconding the good
work which had saved her in her hour of need. The Daughters of the
Carpenter was a class headed by Elsie and especially devoted to
helpfulness wherever it was needed. A list of the regular attendants of
the meeting was kept, and if a mother was found to be sick or
overworked, some one of the Daughters was appointed to render the needed
assistance. Among the men and elder boys Gilbert formed a reading class,
in which history and the science of government were brought down to the
comprehension of the illiterate, and men were shown that if they were
dissatisfied with existing social conditions, the remedy lay in their
own hands in a rightful use of the ballot, and that if they sold that
ballot to a ring or combination they only forged new links in the chains
that bound them to a slavery against which they were constantly
rebelling. Nor were the children forgotten in this work. Every original
“Busy Fingers” boy and girl had a new class, in which were resown the
good seeds implanted by Margaret and Gilbert. Thought and action were
growing slowly but surely in the little community; but already a serious
question was confronting them. The rental of the hall had easily been
effected by the subscription of a few cents from every regular
attendant; but the work, especially among the mothers’ and children’s
classes, required money to prosecute it. They were all poor, living from
hand to mouth, and while the work was growing there was no money to help
the growth.
“O Margaret,” moaned Elsie, “if the money Herbert left me had only been
left to our beloved work, how gladly I would use it! Now, knowing how he
feels about it, I can never touch it.”
It was nearing midsummer, and the work among their members was
increasing fast, by reason of sickness brought on by living in noisome
atmospheres and without proper food and care. Gilbert had come home from
his daily rounds one evening, the most of his cases unsold, and with an
unusual dejection of face and manner.
“I am comfortless,” he said, “for lack of the dross of earth. I have
seen such realization of human suffering to-day without the power to
alleviate that I am in despair. I gained admittance to one room, where a
mother and her new-born babe lay dead for lack of care, while a couple
of little ones were begging her to give them something to eat. I had but
ten cents in my pocket that I had saved for street car-fare; but I
rushed out, got the children some buns, and aroused the other inmates of
the house, who were themselves too poor to do more than care for the
children temporarily, while I called in the authorities and had the body
disposed of in the potter’s field. How are we going to make this work of
ours reach such cases without money? I shall have to go begging
to-morrow. I had hoped that our work would so speak for itself that we
would not need to beg; but to-morrow I must endeavor to start a fund of
some kind.”
As Gilbert ceased speaking, the open door was darkened by the form of a
tall, handsome woman dressed in deep mourning, whom Elsie at once
recognized as Alice Houghton. She turned with outstretched hand to
Elsie. “There is no need of introducing myself to you,” she said,
smiling, “but as I came to see your sister, will you make me known to
her, and your brother also?”
The introductions over, Miss Houghton at once entered upon the object of
her visit. “I have come to you, Miss Murchison, for help. I have
recently been sadly bereaved in the loss of one I loved, and life has
very nearly lost its charms for me. I have been hearing a good deal of
your work lately, and I want you to teach me to find forgetfulness in
what is evidently very great happiness to you.”
“Do you mean that you wish to become one of us?”
“That is my meaning. I shall gladly be your servant in any work you may
have for me.”
“To have a servant would be something new in my experience,” said
Margaret, smiling; “but we shall all be glad of help. Have you any
knowledge of our work? It is not agreeable only from one standpoint.
There isn’t the least æstheticism, superficially speaking, about it.”
“I do not believe I shall be afraid to try it. I know you three alone,
unaided, without money or friends, have been doing a work that is
already forcing its way into notice by reason of its unselfishness. I
have money, much beyond my needs, and as I learn of the help you have
given to many sufferers, I feel sure that I can abet your efforts, with
money if not judgment.”
Elsie sprang from her chair and impulsively held out her hand to Miss
Houghton. “We have such need of money,” she cried, “and you seem like a
providence of God.”
“You are more willing to accept money from me now than you were once
before,” laughed Miss Houghton.
“That was unearned; this is for the bettering of God’s poor.”
“Your pride struck me as strange then. I understand it better now.”
“And appreciate its motive, I hope,” said Elsie wistfully.
“Indeed I do, my dear child; and if the pride of the world had a similar
foundation there would not be such a war of caste as afflicts society
to-day.”
Fearful from Elsie’s flushed face and her knowledge of Helen Mason’s
opposition to Herbert’s marriage that in her last words she had
unwittingly trenched upon delicate ground, she slipped an arm around
Elsie’s waist, saying: “Tell me, my dear, why did you send Herbert
away?”
It was a difficult matter for Elsie to summon self-command enough to
reply; but with a face from which the color quickly receded she
faltered: “We differed so much in our views that there was no
reconciling them.”
“Then Helen was not wholly responsible?”
“No, she was not responsible at all. Mr. Lynn’s education and mine had
been from such widely-different standpoints that the wonder is our ideas
ever came into conflict. It has always been a mystery to me why Mr. Lynn
ever chose to think——”
“It is a wonder,” interrupted Alice Houghton dryly as she bent down and
kissed Elsie’s cheek. “I wouldn’t mourn, my dear, for a man who couldn’t
pocket a few whims to make me happy.”
“But you don’t know,” said Elsie seriously; “it was no whim on my part,
for I seemed to belong here to this work. I could not give it up and be
happy.”
“Ah, well, Herbert Lynn has lost the best of his life, and yet it is
only a few months ago that I looked through his spectacles. It is
strange how contact with sorrow opens our eyes to the true value of
qualities we did not notice before. Elsie, you must let me work beside
you, under the guidance of this wise sister of yours, and try to find
the same peace you are seeking. We seem to have met here from
widely-different paths. I gave up all for love—you, dear child, gave up
love for all humanity, and now we join hands in the same search for the
peace that passeth understanding. Will you show me the way, my little
girl?”
It needed no words from Elsie, Margaret, or Gilbert to prove how
heartily and gladly they welcomed the proffered aid, even as they strove
to recompense in some measure the faltering and hungering spirit of
their benefactress. With intuitive quickness she became one of them in
the earnestness of her efforts, and the line of distinction so often
made apparent in the manner of those who seek the welfare of the
oppressed was entirely absent. Side by side with Margaret and Elsie she
walked among that class of women whose hands Herbert had said it was
pollution to touch; but when she saw the glow of appreciation lighting
up the dulled, imbruted faces, and heard the wails of penitence from
sore hearts, and the promises to gather up the remnants of shattered
lives and dedicate them henceforth to righteous living, she felt
something of the joy of the Master who thought it no disgrace to eat
with publicans and sinners. She was not long in following Gilbert from
door to door and inspecting the homes where, Gilbert said, a
self-respecting man would be ashamed to house his cattle. The absolute
disregard of sanitation in many of these herding places—for they were
little else—shamed with a burning blush the boasted nineteenth-century
civilization. The names of the owners of these tenement hovels were
listed by Alice Houghton and found in the majority of cases to be those
of men of wealth and prominence in the community, who never gave any
thought to their property except as regarded its monthly income.
Ordering her carriage and horses and dressing herself in her finest
raiment, Alice presented herself at the doors of these men. Without any
preliminaries she told them of her discoveries, the deplorable condition
of their tenants, and begged that something be done to improve their
condition. Her handsome presence, her dress, equipage, all bespeaking
her a person of consequence, she met with the usual courtesy which such
externals command; but in the majority of cases she was listened to with
that air of constraint betokened by elevated eyebrows and idly drumming
fingers. More than once she was given to understand, sometimes broadly
and sometimes indirectly, that she might better be minding her own
business. For all such she had a parting shot in saying: “I am preparing
for publication in the city press a series of articles on the condition
of our poor. I really hope, sir, I shall not be compelled to include
your name in the list of inhuman landlords.”
The stroke told, and invariably elicited a promise of looking into the
matter, supplemented with at least some slight attempt at repairs. With
Alice Houghton conspicuous in such work, society became at once
interested. It might be a delightful fad to investigate this labor
question and exploit one’s charity in behalf of these poor dear
creatures. But whenever this desire was submitted, it met ignominious
and instant death. Only those who felt the earnestness of the work were
permitted any share in it. It soon became apparent, however, that the
latent impulses of human nature, veneered as they may be by false ideas
as to wealth and social position, are in the main generous and humane
ones. Under the influence of Alice Houghton wealth came to the succor of
the newly-formed and still chaotic society. Gilbert’s reading class
became possessed of a room for its exclusive use, where all the current
periodicals and papers and some of the best books could be found and
read by any one. It became a sort of poor man’s club-room where living
topics were discussed, and where twice a year a banquet was given at
which the speeches and toasts emanated from the growing minds of those
who had risen from the ranks.
The parlors of several well-known society ladies were also thrown open
once a week to the orchestra formed by Antoine, but now placed under the
tutelage of a more proficient master. The Mother’s Class, the Daughters
of the Carpenter, and the Busy Fingers Club had each a fund from which
to draw in emergencies, and better than all else, it seemed to Gilbert,
the five great principles lying back of all these efforts had been
submitted to a council and a code of rules drawn up under the general
plan, which bade fair to make the society cohesive and enduring. Yet it
was by no means free from turbulent elements, nor had it come to its
present prosperity without encountering many well-nigh overwhelming
obstacles. As long as human nature is content to remain on the low plane
of self-indulgence, just so long will every good and unselfish impulse
find a bitter warfare waged against it, and not every one of those who
were to be most benefited by the movement was in favor of it. There
seems to exist in some natures a wolfish opposition to everything high
and holy, and Gilbert had long been aware, without in the least
understanding the reason, that he had incurred the enmity of one of
their number known as “Red Handed Mike.” If the fellow possessed any
patronymic it had long since passed into oblivion, and he was known only
by his sobriquet, and feared accordingly. Gilbert had been warned that
Mike was only waiting an opportunity to “make it hot for him”; but
thinking the threat, for lack of cause, merely the idle boast of a
bully, he passed it unnoticed.
It was the morning of a day in early autumn. Margaret was made glad by
the sight of Aunt Liza and Eph, who, climbing to her sky-parlor with
many “oh’s” and “ah’s” and rheumatic squeaks of the joints, had greeted
her with the old-time effusion and affection which absence had not
dulled.
“I was jes longin’ so fer de sight ob your face, Miss Margaret, I
couldn’t stay away no longer, and Eph heah has been a heap wuss’n me,”
exclaimed Aunt Liza.
“Sho!” said Eph, fumbling with his hat and trying to hide his feet under
the rounds of his chair. “I only jes wanted to tell yer we’uns has done
a heap ob savin’ this heah summer. Mammy heah’s got a new red gown, an’
I’s got a whole suit of store clothes, and besides, Ma’am Minaud’s
banked money fo’ us, too.”
“Well done!” cried Margaret. “I couldn’t hear better news.”
“I knowed you’d be tickled!” exclaimed Eph, delightedly displaying a
couple of rows of ivory teeth. “I done tol’ mammy dar wa’n’t no use
backslidin’ in this yere business when all you’uns had got to be jes
perfeck angels.”
“Angels?” queried Margaret.
“Why, don’t yer know we’uns has hearn tell all ’bout de society out to
Idlewild? And eberybody done says you’uns is saints and no mistake,”
exclaimed Aunt Liza.
“Everybody is very kind,” said Margaret soberly, “but we are far from
saints. We are only trying to find the best side of human nature.”
“Yo’ done it—yo’ done it fo’ shuah, Miss Margaret!” exclaimed Eph
excitedly. “Yo’ jest took us po’ trash and made us ’sponsible bein’s,
and showed us how to be ’spectable if we is brack.”
“Deed yo’ did, Miss Margaret,” chimed in Aunt Liza. “And de bestest part
ob it is, as Eph’s a-sayin’, dar wa’n’t no ornery mission ’bout it.”
“I’s jes been wonderin’, Miss Margaret,” interrupted Eph, “eber since I
hearn ’bout Antoine’s singin’ and de way de home meetin’s is callin’ de
po’ sinners, ef dar’s any reason why mammy an’ me couldn’t come jes
once, anyway. It’s white folkses’ meetin’, I know, but I jes like mighty
well ter heah some ob Antoine’s singin’. Day do say he jes ’lectrify de
aujience.”
“Come and welcome,” said Margaret, who could not forbear a smile at
Eph’s rendering of popular phraseology. “We have room always for those
who are trying to find the way up.”
“Deed’n I’s so glad, Miss Margaret,” said Aunt Liza effusively. “’Pears
like sometimes dey’s a dreffle prejice ’gainst folks jes cause de Lawd
made deir skin brack.”
That evening, as Aunt Liza and Eph mounted the stairs of the Home Hall,
as it had come to be called, Red Handed Mike stood in the doorway and
blurted out as they passed: “We don’t want none o’ them d——d niggers
here. If Brother Gib ’lows ’em to stay I’ll break up the meetin’!”
Just then Gilbert, accompanied by his sisters and Alice Houghton,
entered the hall.
“Say,” called Mike, “do you see them niggers? Goin’ to let ’em stay?”
“Certainly,” answered Gilbert. “They are friends of ours.”
“No, they hain’t,” growled Mike. “I hain’t got no such devilish taste as
that.”
Gilbert paused for a second, and said quietly as he faced the offender
with a steady glance: “I hope your good taste will prevent your making
any disturbance.”
“Hush, Mike!” “Keep still, for God’s sake!” whispered several of his
companions as he turned to Gilbert threateningly.
“Never fear, men,” said Gilbert reassuringly. “Mike knows this isn’t any
place for a mill,” and without saying anything further he passed on to
the platform.
Under the entreaties of his companions the bully sank into a corner and
sulkily watched the proceedings. A little later Antoine stepped to the
front of the platform and began one of his inimitable improvisations.
Catching sight of Eph’s interested face in the audience, the impulse to
give a song in negro dialect came over him with irresistible force. With
scarcely a moment’s waiting the clear young voice rang out in a lively
carol.
“What if some troubles yo’ do know?
Jes doan min’ ’em, let ’em go!
It only makes de bigger hill,
A-pilin’ up ob ebery ill,
So jes let trouble go!
Chorus.
“Git a lil’ sunshine in yo’ heart,
Whateber grief yo’s knowin’,
Git a lil’ sunshine in yo’ heart,
An’ set de smiles a-growin’.
“De stranges’ thing is when yo’ smile,
Yo’ done forgit yo’sef a while!
Yo’ doan’ no mo’ remember pain,
Till yo’ forgits to smile again,
So jes let trouble go!
Eph’s feet had been strangely uneasy during the rendering of the
preceding stanzas, and Aunt Liza had pulled at his coat and whispered
warningly: “Doan yo’ forgit, Eph, dis yere’s white folkses’ meetin’. Dey
doan ’low no shuffle heah.”
“Cain’t help it, mammy,” returned Eph. “It do jes go clar through my
toes.”
“Dar’s mighty lil’ dat we fin’
Dat’s like a nice contented min’;
It makes de worl’ de fines’ place
To lib dis side ob heabenly grace;
So jes let trouble go!”
“‘Git a lil’ sunshine in yo’ heart
“Yes do!” responded Eph fervently.
“‘Whateber grief yo’s knowin’!’
“Neber min’ it! Neber min’ it!” interposed Eph, growing more and more
excited.
“‘Git a lil’ sunshine in yo’ heart!’
“Send it, Lawd! Send it, Lawd!” cried Eph, rocking to and fro, heedless
of the wondering glances bestowed upon him and Aunt Liza’s frantic
clutches at his coat.
“An’ set de smiles a-growin’,”
sang Antoine’s clear voice.
“Yes, Lawd, we needs ’em! ’Deed we does,” groaned Eph half-aloud. A wave
of applause greeted the singer as he turned to leave the platform. It
swelled louder and louder and would not be stilled. In the midst of the
excitement Eph half-rose to his feet and called out: “Come back,
Antoine, honey! It’s jes like hearin’ ob de angels sing!”
Only Antoine’s instant compliance quelled the rising flood of laughter
and hisses. Clasping his hands before him and half drooping on his
crutch in the pathetic attitude of old age and decrepitude, Antoine
began in a broken voice:
“What ef my face is old an’ brack,
An’ hard my han’s, an’ bent my back,
An’ mos’ly shadows on de way
Hab followed dis yere form ob clay?
What ef, despised by brudder man,
I jes works on de bes’ I can,
An’ toilin’ airly, toilin’ late,
For arthly joys I’s long to wait?
I knows some time dis face ob min’
As white as Jesus’ robe will shine,
For He, oh, He’s my Mahstah!
“O Jesus, my Mahstah!
De frien’ ob de poah,
Deah Jesus, my Mahstah,
Yo’ sorrows will cuah;
O Jesus, my Mahstah,
He’s callin’, I come!
O brudder, my brudder,
Why stan’ yo’ dar dumb?”
There was an unsurpassed tenderness and sweetness in Antoine’s rendition
of the words, and an unusual hush fell upon the audience, which was
broken now and then by the audible sighs and incoherent ejaculations of
Eph, and when, as it seemed to Eph’s agitated bosom, Antoine’s voice
soared, in its freshness and simplicity, to the very verge of the
eternal, he could no longer restrain himself, but threw up his arms in
an ecstasy of self-abandonment and shouted: “I’s comin’! Lawd! I’s
comin’! I’s heah! Take me, po’ mis’able sinnah, take me home to glory!”
Instantly all was confusion. Men, women, and children craned their necks
for a view of the excited African whom Aunt Liza’s frantic efforts could
not calm. Eph had become possessed of the “power,” and was deaf to his
mother’s intercessions. “I’s knowed it long, Lawd,” he moaned. “I’s been
a dreffle sinnah. Jesus, my Mahstah, de fr’en’ ob de poah! O Jesus, my
Mahstah, yo’ sorrows will cuah——”
“Come, Eph,” said Gilbert, who had quickly left the platform. Eph rose
at once, whispering as he did so: “I neber mean no harm, Mars Gilbert.
I’s jes a feel-in’ de force ob conviction.”
“I know,” answered Gilbert soothingly. “Antoine’s singing was evidently
too much for you. You’ll feel better in the open air.”
“’Deed I’ll neber feel any bettah till I knows de Lawd’s forgiben de
mis’ble sinnah Eph Blackburn! I’s jes got to be convarted, Mars
Gilbert.”
Eph was growing excited again as they neared the door where Red Handed
Mike stood among a knot of his fellows. As Gilbert and Eph passed them,
Mike exclaimed in a tone loud enough to be heard throughout the hall: “I
told Brother Gib he’d better not let them d——d niggers in here.”
Gilbert turned and faced him. “That is not fit language for this place,
and I don’t want any more of it.”
“You don’t, eh?” cried Mike with a sneer. “I rather guess I’ve as good a
right to say what I please as any d——d nigger.”
“Leave the room at once, or I shall be compelled to have you put out.”
“You will? Take a little of that first, won’t you?” and drawing back the
bully, flaming with passion, sent a heavy blow of his fist into
Gilbert’s face. With a panther-like leap Gilbert evaded the blow, and
instantly closed his fingers in a vise-like grip around his opponent’s
throat. Struggling and clutching with the fierceness of a tiger at the
long, lithe fingers closing in upon his throat like bands of steel, with
his tongue lolling on his chin, his face growing black, and his eyes
starting from their sockets, Mike was forced by Gilbert against the
wall, who held him there as he cried, “Call the cops, boys!”
“Hold him fast!” “Bully for you, Brother Gib!” “Make him ax yer
parding!” yelled the crowd.
“I shall some other day,” answered Gilbert. “Just now I’ll keep my
fingers on him till the cops get him.”
A moment later “Red Handed Mike,” crestfallen and sulky, was passed over
to the care of a couple of policemen, and Gilbert turned to the men who
had gathered around him and said, with a grim appreciation of its
underlying humor:
“Boys, I am going to talk to you to-night on the beauty of peace.”
He walked quietly and quickly up the aisle, but had not yet mounted the
platform when a tremendous cheer broke from the audience. Men threw
their hats in the air, and women waved their handkerchiefs as the story
of “the fighting parson,” as they then and there dubbed him, passed from
lip to lip.