Two years passed by; years that brought increasing strength and
prosperity to the Society of Universal Brotherhood, and gave it a
recognized standing as an important factor in the structure of social
reform. Dealing primarily with the fundamental truth of human
relationship, and resolutely adhering to the application of those
principles to all the conduct of life, it soon established a method of
reason which, if primitive, still satisfied the highest aspirations of
the heart. In Red Handed Mike Gilbert had won, after long proof of the
value of brotherly kindness and forbearance, one of his most earnest
co-workers, and it was no uncommon sight to behold the two side by side
at political, social, and semi-religious gatherings, endeavoring to
promulgate in quiet ways the truths which had become inherent parts of
their daily thought and work. To Antoine alone, of all the members of
the little circle, the years had brought apparent change. Increasing
stature and added health had given him greater comeliness of form, while
the once pale, thoughtful face was now enlivened by the glow of color
and sparkle of happiness. The parting of Herbert and Elsie had been a
great grief to the lad, for love and gratitude to both had built in
fancy a glowing future for them. In numberless little ways he had
endeavored to show his sympathy and appreciation, and to Herbert he had
taken to writing long letters descriptive of the lives and pursuits of
the old circle; but avoiding with intuitive delicacy any direct
reference to Elsie. The progress of the society was therefore an open
book to Herbert, who, wandering restlessly over the continent of Europe,
hungrily awaited the coming of Antoine’s letters in the fond hope of
gleaning even in imagination some news of Elsie. The two years of his
wanderings had been but a record of growing discontent. His prosperous
life had never before known a serious rebuff, and his love for Elsie had
been the one and only love of his life. Try as he might in his anger and
disapproval, he could never shut out the memory of the dark eyes and the
piquant face, now sparkling with gayety or quivering with the pathos of
grief. All her little crudities of speech, her high-tragedy airs, her
inimitable mimicry, and her tender flower-like caresses, dwelt so deep
within his heart that they were constant companions of his waking and
sleeping hours. He grew old and irritable under the pressure of grief
and disappointment, and Helen Mason declared that “a mummy from the
Catacombs couldn’t be more unsociable.” They wandered together up the
Nile, Herbert declaring his intention of tracing it to its source and
joining Stanley in the heart of the Dark Continent.
“I’m tired,” he said, “of civilization, and think of returning to
savagery, where ‘labor strikes’ and ‘bloated capitalists’ are unknown
quantities.”
“I think you’ve already reached that state,” Helen retorted, “for I live
in almost constant fear of having my head snapped off.”
“Well, since I’m so nearly on the confines of cannibalism, I think, to
insure your safety, we will go back to Paris.”
To Paris they accordingly directed their steps, but the gay capital had
no attractions for Herbert. Indeed, he was more at peace lazily dreaming
in the land of the Pharaohs, for in the new republic he could not
altogether shut his ears to the cry of the people. Thought seemed to be
teeming, even in the effete monarchies of the Old World, and when he and
Helen, in despair of enjoyment fled to the Russian capital, even there
nihilism and nationalism, dogged by the visions of Siberian prisons and
infuriated with the cry of slaves in mine and factory, were in the very
air they breathed. It was in Russia that Herbert first set himself to
studying the conditions so productive of upheaval as well as the worst
forms of human cruelty. To Helen’s intense fear he took to mingling with
the common people, and learning the reason for the scarcely breathed,
but only too apparent discontent and rebellion.
“The people! The people! Away with the divine right of kings!” This was
the whispered shibboleth of nihilists and nationalists alike in the
courts and wilds of Russia, and it swelled into a modulated but
well-defined chorus along the banks of the Rhine, until it rang resonant
and clear in the heart of the new republic. At home, abroad, wherever he
journeyed, the echo of the world’s suffering and despair was sure to
reach him. But after all what was it to him more than an episode of
history, interesting as a study of the conflict of ideas, the upheavals
by revolution and evolution? What part had he in forming history, only
as one of the many on whom the mantle of existing orders must inevitably
fall? With a good deal of impatience he shook off the obtrusive
question. Every man must be his own savior and avenger in the battle of
existence. Elsie herself had preached the independence of the
individual. “True,” said Conscience, “but did she preach that alone? Did
she not also believe in the fullest co-operation as a prop and
encouragement to individual effort? Was not her life an epitome of the
highest personal development, morally at least, combined with the most
unselfish desire for the prosperity of others?”
It was a long battle between a selfishness born of his environment, as
well as what he considered the inherent rights of individuals and
classes, and conscience and conviction. But the latter finally won the
day, and with an eagerness out of all proportion to his former weariness
and disgust with life, he set out for Paris and London with the
determination to investigate this industrial question to its farthest
limit. He was in London on that great first of May, when over two
millions of men throughout the world laid down their tools and quietly
awaited the declaration of advancing reason. He began to see that the
principle of co-operation, based, as it must ever be, on the simple
lines of equal opportunity and equal footing before the law, held within
its embracing bosom the solution of many of the vexed and complex
problems of sociology. It was while in Paris, however, that he made the
vital discovery which gave direction and concentration to his study of
the industrial question. While rambling with Helen in the purlieus of
the great city, he chanced upon a small community of neat
flower-enveloped cottages contiguous to an immense factory, and of which
they were evidently a part. Inquiry developed the fact that the little
village belonged to a manufacturer, who had organized a colony of
workingmen on an entirely original plan, in which their comfort was
coordinate with the profits to be gained. The cottages were rented to
men with families at from one dollar and a half to three dollars per
month, with the result that after long service they finally fell into
the hands of the occupants. The workingmen were insured against
accident, and their savings invested in the works at a guaranteed six
per cent per annum. Work was paid for by the piece at remunerative
wages, thus giving the skilled workman the opportunity to realize on his
ability, and stimulating the unskilled to greater activity. Imperfect
work was rigidly rejected at the expense of the employee, thereby
insuring the greatest carefulness and exactness. The streets of the
little village were handsomely paved, an ornate concert hall and good
school-houses adding to the attractiveness of the picture. The unmarried
workmen were able to secure comfortable lodgings at three cents per day,
and a restaurant provided meals at prices just paying expenses.
Discontent was an unknown quantity, while rosy-cheeked children and
plump matrons were living proof of the beneficence of the system. In
fact, situations were eagerly sought after and rarely vacated save by
death or disaster. The profits of the establishment were not, of course,
enormous, like so many similar institutions where human lives are
sacrificed on the altar of greed; but being moderate yet afforded a safe
permanent investment, which was never affected by strikes or lockouts,
and which in the zeal and affection of the community for its employer
relieved the burden of care and anxiety under which capital so often
groans in less favored circles. After weeks of investigation, Herbert
concluded that here was the middle ground on which capital and labor
must meet before either can achieve an unbroken line of progress. Making
himself and Helen acquainted with the owner and promulgator of all this
thrift and contentment, and beholding him in his charming home,
surrounded by luxuries, and with his daily comings and goings lighted by
the smiles and affection of his people, Herbert found his own ambition
fired to be the originator and center of a similar community. He
realized that the outlay at first would be enormous, involving his whole
fortune, and that the most arduous and exacting labor would be demanded
of him in its execution. But here under the balmy skies of France was
the living prosperous proof that business and sentiment, so universally
divorced by popular clamor, may be united in a harmonious and prolific
marriage. For the first time within the last two years, Herbert dropped
his taciturnity and discussed the project with Helen, who strangely
enough had become as infatuated with the little community as had Herbert
himself.
“After all, Herbert,” she said plaintively one day, “I believe having
your own way all the time is like living on honey—it palls on the
appetite very soon.”
Herbert glanced up quickly. “Are you turning philanthropist too?” he
asked with a touch of satire in his tone.
“Well, it is in the air,” she answered resignedly, “and I don’t see how
one can help being infected.”
“Bravo! Helen, you take the disease charmingly! Shall we go back to
America to establish a new Eden?”
“On one condition, and that is—to take me in as equal partner.”
“My sweet sister!” cried Herbert ecstatically as he sprang from his
chair and caught her around the waist. “Do you really mean it?”
“Truly; and, Herbert,” and with tears in the eyes upraised, to his she
added brokenly, “if—if that little saint, Elsie, Alice Houghton writes
me about, can be induced——”
“There!” Herbert’s face hardened as he placed his hand on his sister’s
lips. “Say no more on that subject. I appreciate your generosity, but
hope died long ago.”
Two days later they were on the ocean homeward bound, and with the zeal
of new-born ambition were deep in their project almost before they
returned the greeting of their friends. Some two weeks after their
arrival the C—— _Sunday Herald_ contained a notice of the purchase of a
large tract of land in the northwestern part of the city, including the
subdivision known as “Idlewild,” by Herbert Lynn, Esq., who proposed the
erection of a mammoth shoe factory to be managed after a method which he
had investigated abroad, and believed to be not only the safest
investment for capital, but one yielding the largest returns from the
standpoint of the philanthropist.
“Mr. Lynn,” the article went on to say, “is the pioneer in this form of
enterprise, and feeling that there is no reason other than inexcusable
greed for the occurrence of so much idleness, suffering, destitution,
vice, ignorance, and penury in so many departments of American labor, he
proposes a plan of co-operation, now working harmoniously and profitably
in France, which will no doubt do much toward solving some vexed
industrial conflicts.”
Following this was a short history of the colony on the edge of Paris
and its plan of operations. Elsie read the article with swimming eyes,
and impulsively kissed the insensate bearer of such good news. She had
not seen Herbert since his return, and this was the first intimation of
his project which she had received from any one. How beautiful the world
grew all at once! How much there was in life to hope for, work for,
enjoy! Suffering humanity under Herbert’s fostering care—ah, how could
it be other than happy? To live in the light of those sunny blue
eyes—how she envied the prospective inhabitants of that social paradise.
But the weeks grew into months, and Herbert made no effort to renew his
old standing in the little circle. His name was rarely mentioned to
Elsie, although she learned from Lizzette that he had appropriated one
of the handsomest residences included in his purchase of Idlewild, and
had taken Lizzette from her market gardening to preside over his
bachelor establishment. Voluble as Lizzette had always been, she was now
suspiciously silent, unless she had a bit of gossip to offer regarding
the interest taken in the proposed work by Alice Houghton. Antoine,
happy as a bird in the new home and the exceptional progress he was
making in music, took especial care to avoid the mention of Herbert’s
name, although Elsie often intercepted a wistful glance of commiseration
in his dark eyes. Why were they all so silent? she often asked her
longing heart. Did they think she had no courage? Did they fancy her a
Lily Maid of Astolat who needs must die for love? Well, they should see
she could be brave and work on through a long life, and make no sign of
heart-break! So with renewed earnestness, never sparing a moment for
much-needed rest, she toiled on, earning her daily bread and giving the
helping hand to all who needed it. Margaret’s watchful eyes noted with
pain how thin and transparent the once rounded face was growing, what an
intent light burned within the old laughter-loving eyes, and how
feverish was her application to her work.
It was a year before the great co-operative shoe factory was in running
order, and on the evening of the first day of regular work, Herbert,
flushed and elated over the promised success of his plan, was driving
hurriedly along the street, on his way to visit Helen and report
progress. Glancing up suddenly he encountered the gaze of Elsie’s eyes
as she paused for a second on the crossing. Heavens! How white and frail
she looked! What caverns those great dark eyes had grown to be! Was she
dying and nobody to tell him?
So preoccupied was he with these hurried thoughts that he passed on,
failing to return the slight salutation she had made. A moment later he
drew rein, but Elsie had disappeared from view. He turned and followed
in the direction she had taken, but she was nowhere to be seen. He had
been working of late like the traditional galley-slave, curbing his
impatience in the thought of the offering he could one day lay at her
feet, and now, like a phantom of her old blithe, rosy-cheeked self, she
had crossed his path, and the dark eyes had seemed to speak the
despairing words, “Too late! Too late!”
Lashing his horse into a white foam, in absolute defiance of the
ordinance against fast driving, he rushed a few moments later in upon
Margaret with the frightened question:
“Where is Elsie? Why has nobody told me she was dying?”
The question seemed almost brutal in its abruptness, and Margaret
staggered as if struck by a blow.
“Forgive me, Margaret,” cried Herbert piteously. “I passed her just now,
but lost her again, looking so frail and wan—did you not know? Have you
not seen?”
“Ah, yes,” moaned Margaret. “But I had no medicine for a breaking heart.
A spirit like hers soon burns out the fires of a frail body.”
It was some time later that the door opened suddenly and Elsie, pale,
trembling with the exertion of climbing the stairs, and with eyes veiled
in the shadow of utter despair, stood on the threshold.
Herbert was at her side in an instant. “Elsie! Elsie!” he cried. “Love
is master. I’ve come back to you, strengthened, purified, ennobled at
your hands. Do not scorn the gift now. It is richer than all else I ever
offered you.”
But Elsie had no answer to make. For the first time in her life she
fainted, and lay a veritable picture of death in Herbert’s arms. “Dear
God,” he cried, “not this! Not now with our work all before us! Let me
keep her lest I grow slothful in the service of her dear Master!”
Down on his knees beside the frail form, chafing the thin hands and with
the tears chasing each other in torrents over his face, Herbert knelt,
too frightened, too heart-broken to be of any service in Margaret’s
hasty efforts at resuscitation.
Joy seldom kills, and Elsie slowly came back to life and love with the
shadow of the old smile on her lips.
“Herbert,” she whispered as, still faint, but supremely happy, she
rested her head on his shoulder, “the old wilful, independent Elsie is
dead, and I want to prove to you hereafter how patient and submissive I
can be.”
“Well, then,” said Herbert, after one of those eloquent silences which
“the world that dearly loves a lover” can readily interpret—“well, then,
I’m going to take you at your word; for to-morrow at high noon, in
society vernacular, I shall be here with license, priest, Helen, and all
the rest of us, prepared to hear a very meek ‘I will’ from those white
lips.”
“But I have no wedding-gown!”
“Put on your best calico,” said Herbert composedly. “So long as I can
see you wear that glad light in your eyes and the old happy smile on
your lips, I shall always feel that you are clothed in radiant attire.”
One evening several days after the wedding, Gilbert came home to
Margaret with an inscrutable smile on his face. “Margaret,” he said
composedly, “I have come to the conclusion that your occupation as
home-maker is about gone.”
“What do you mean?” she cried aghast.
“Well, Herbert has given me a place in the factory, and he and Elsie
insist that I make my future home with them. It rather strikes me that
you are left out in the cold in consequence.”
Tears sprang to Margaret’s eyes, and with a heartbreaking sob she buried
her head in her arms as she leaned against the table.
“My dear sister,” cried Gilbert quickly. “My joke is rather rough I’ll
admit; but I’ve a little excuse for it.” And stepping to the hall door,
he beckoned mysteriously to some one standing there. Margaret raised her
head apprehensively, and saw Dr. Ely with smiling face standing upon the
threshold.
“Here is a gentleman,” said Gilbert soberly, “who thinks he would like
to have a home made for him.” And with an ostentatious bang to the door
he slipped away.
CONCLUSION.
Of the remaining members of the little circle there are but few words to
speak. In Alice Houghton and Helen Mason the Society of Universal
Brotherhood finds able coadjutors. Life becomes broader and fairer to
them as they realize the existence of a common bond in humanity and a
universal creed of brotherly love.
Slowly, but surely, the seed sown in doubt, darkness, and tribulation
has begun to bear fruit, and Gilbert, the powerful leader of the new
movement, often blesses the memory of the hours of sorrow and trial
which have made these helping influences spring from a soil watered by
tears and harrowed by privation. Antoine’s violin and marvellous gift of
improvisation are the delight of an enthusiastic public, and Lizzette’s
brown face, with the wrinkles growing a little deeper as the years go
by, wears a look of supreme pride and contentment as she contemplates
his progress. A cherished member of Herbert’s home, she is at once
housekeeper, friend, and companion.
The marriage of Herbert and Elsie is one of those perfect unions in
which oneness of spirit, heart, and effort keep an unbroken bond. They
have seen their endeavors paying them a tenfold increase in the growing
tide of thought and prosperity overtaking the workingmen and women and
widening out into an irresistible current of human kindness. Children
have come to them, endowed with the same warm, generous natures, who are
never so happy as when smoothing a wrinkle out of papa’s tired brow, or
making a dimple come in mamma’s pretty cheek. Elsie, the idol of her
home, and beloved alike by the prosperous circle of universal
brotherhood, and the thrifty, contented colony at Idlewild, often
delights, with children clinging to her skirts, and a crowing baby
perched on Herbert’s shoulder, half-laughingly, half-earnestly, to
proclaim him the founder and father of America’s New Aristocracy of
heart and brain.
THE END.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.