The new park, which had been named, in honor of the president of the
street railway company, Clemens Park, was composed of a light growth
of oak and birch trees. With the light of the full moon, like a
broadside of silvery arrows, and the frequent electric-lights
filtering through the young, delicate foliage, it was much more
effective than a grove of pine or hemlock would have been.
When the people streamed into it from the crowded electric-cars,
there were exclamations of rapture. Women and girls fairly shrieked
with delight. The ground, which had been entirely cleared of
undergrowth, was like an etching in clearest black and white, of the
tender dancing foliage of the oaks and birches. The birches stood
together in leaning, white-limbed groups like maidens, and the
rustling spread of the oaks shed broad flashes of silver from the
moon. In the midst of the grove the Hungarian orchestra played in a
pavilion, and dancing was going on there. Many of the people outside
moved with dancing steps. Children in swings flew through the airs
with squeals of delight. There was a stand for the sale of ice-cream
and soda, and pretty girls blossomed like flowers behind the
counters. There were various rustic adornments, such as seats and
grottos, and at one end of the grove was a small collection of wild
animals in cages, and a little artificial pond with swans. Now and
then, above the chatter of the people and the music of the
orchestra, sounded the growl of a bear or the shrill screech of a
paroquet, and the people all stopped and listened and laughed. This
little titillation of the unusual in the midst of their sober walk
of life affected them like champagne. Most of them were of the
poorer and middle classes, the employés of the factories of Rowe.
They moved back and forth with dancing steps of exultation.
"My, ain't it beautiful!" Fanny said, squeezing Andrew's arm. He had
his wife on one arm, his mother on the other. For him the whole
scene appeared more than it really was, since it reflected the joy
of his own soul. There was for him a light greater than that of the
moon or electricity upon it--that extreme light of the world--the
happiness of a human being who blesses in a moment of prosperity the
hour he was born. He knew for the first time in his life that
happiness is as true as misery, and no mere creation of a fairy
tale. No trees of the Garden of Eden could have outshone for him
those oaks and birches. No gold or precious stones of any mines on
earth can equal the light of the little star of happiness in one
human soul.
Fanny, as they walked along, kept looking at her husband, and her
own face was transfigured. Mrs. Zelotes, also, seemed to radiate
with a sort of harsh and prickly delight. She descanted upon the
hard-earned savings which Andrew had risked, but she held her old
head very high with reluctant joy, and her bonnet had a rakish cant.
Ellen, with Abby and Maria, walked behind them.
Presently Andrew met another man who had also purchased stock in the
mine, and stopped to exchange congratulations. The man's face was
flushed, as if he had been drinking, but he had not. On his arm hung
his wife, a young woman with a showy red waist and some pink ribbon
bows on her hat. She was teetering a little in time to the music,
while a little girl clung to her skirts and teetered also.
"Well, old man," said the new-comer, with a hoarse sound in his
throat, "they needn't talk to us any more, need they?"
"That's so," replied Andrew, but his joy in prosperity was not like
the other man's. It placed him heights above him, although from the
same cause. Prosperity means one thing to one man, and another to
his brother.
Presently they met Jim Tenny and Eva and Amabel. They were walking
three abreast, Amabel in the middle. Jim Tenny looked hesitatingly
at them, although his face was widened with irrepressible smiles.
Eva gazed at them with defiant radiance. "Well," said she, "so luck
has turned?"
Amabel laughed out, and her laugh trilled high with a note of
silver, above the chatter of the crowd and the blare and rhythmic
trill of the orchestra. "I've had an ice-cream, and I'm going to
have a new doll and a doll-carriage," said she. "Oh, Ellen!" She
left her father and mother for a second and clung to Ellen, kissing
her; then she was back.
"Well, Andrew?" said Jim. He had a shamed face, yet there was
something brave in it struggling for expression.
"Well, Jim?" said Andrew.
The two shook hands solemnly. Then they walked on together, and the
sisters behind, with Amabel clinging to her mother's hand. "Jim's
goin' to work if he _has_ had a little windfall," said Eva, proudly.
"Oh, Fanny, only think what it means!"
"I hope it will be a lesson to both of them," said Mrs. Zelotes,
stalking along after, but she smiled harshly.
"Oh, land, don't croak, if you've got a chance to laugh! There's few
enough chances in this world," cried Eva, with boisterous good
humor. "As for me, I've come out of deep waters, and I'm goin' to
take what comfort I can in the feel of the solid ground under my
feet." She began to force Amabel into a dance in time with the
music, and the child shrieked with laughter.
"S'pose she's all right?" whispered Mrs. Zelotes to Fanny.
"Land, yes," replied Fanny; "it's just like her, just the way she
used to do. It makes me surer than anything else that she's cured."
The girls behind were loitering. Abby turned to Ellen and pointed to
a rustic seat under a clump of birches.
"Let's sit down there a minute, Ellen," said she.
"All right," replied Ellen. When she and Abby seated themselves,
Maria withdrew, standing aloof under an oak, looking up at the
illumined spread of branches with the rapt, innocent expression of a
saint.
"Why don't you come and sit down with us, Maria?" Ellen called.
"In a minute," replied Maria, in her weak, sweet voice. Then John
Sargent came up and joined her.
"She'll come in a minute," Abby said to Ellen. "She--she--knows I
want to tell you something."
Abby hesitated. Ellen regarded her with wonder.
"Look here, Ellen," said Abby; "I don't know what you're going to
think of me after all I've said, but--I'm going to get married to
Willy Jones. His mother has had a little money left her, and she
owns the house clear now, and I'm going to keep right on working;
and--I never thought I would, Ellen, you know; but I've come to
think lately that all you can get out of labor in this world is the
happiness it brings you, and--the love. That's more than the money,
and--he wants me pretty bad. I suppose you think I'm awful, Ellen
Brewster." Abby spoke with triumph, yet with shame. She dug her
little toe into the shadow-mottled ground.
"Oh, Abby, I hope you'll be real happy," said Ellen. Then she choked
a little.
"I've made up my mind not to work for nothing," said Abby; "I've
made up my mind to get whatever work is worth in this world if I
can, and--to get it for him too."
"I hope you will be very happy," said Ellen again.
"There he is now," whispered Abby. She rose as Willy Jones
approached, laughing confusedly. "I've been telling Ellen Brewster,"
said Abby, with her perfunctory air.
Ellen held out her hand, and Willy Jones grasped it, then let it
drop and muttered something. He looked with helpless adoration at
Abby, who put her hand through his arm reassuringly.
"Let's go and see the animals," said she; "I haven't seen the
animals."
"I guess I'll go and see if I can find my father and mother,"
returned Ellen. "I want to see my mother about something."
"Oh, come with us." Abby grasped Ellen firmly around the waist and
kissed her. "I don't love him a mite better than I do you," she
whispered; "so there! You needn't think you're left out, Ellen
Brewster."
"I don't," replied Ellen. She tried to laugh, but she felt her lips
stiff. And unconquerable feeling of desolation was coming over her,
and in spite of herself her tone was somewhat like that of a child
who sees another with all the cake.
"I suppose you know Floretta got married last night," said Abby,
moving off with Willy Jones. John Sargent and Maria had long since
disappeared from under the oak.
Ellen, left alone, looked for a minute after Abby and Willy, and
noted the tender lean of the girl's head towards the young man's
shoulder; then she started off to find her father and mother. She
could not rid herself of the sense of desolation. She felt blindly
that if she could not get under the shelter of her own loves of life
she could not bear it any longer. She had borne up bravely under
Robert's neglect, but now all at once, with the sight of the
happiness of these others before her eyes, it seemed to crush her.
All the spirit in her seemed to flag and faint. She was only a young
girl, who would fall to the ground and be slain by the awful law of
gravitation of the spirit without love. "Anyway, I've got father and
mother," she said to herself.
She rushed on alone through the merry crowd. The orchestra was
playing a medley. The violins seemed to fairly pierce thought. A
Roman-candle burst forth on the right with a great spluttering, and
the people, shrieking with delight, rushed in that direction. Then a
rocket shot high in the air with a splendid curve, and there was a
sea of faces watching with speechless admiration the dropping stars
of violet and gold and rose.
Ellen kept on, moving as nearly as she could in the direction in
which her party had gone. Then suddenly she came face to face with
Robert Lloyd.
She would have passed him without a word, but he stood before her.
"Won't you speak to me?" he asked.
"Good-evening, Mr. Lloyd," returned Ellen.
Then she tried to move on again, but Robert still stood before her.
"I want to say something to you," he said, in a low voice. "I was
coming to your house to-night, but I saw you on the car. Please come
to that seat over there. There is nobody in that direction. They
will all go towards the fireworks now."
Ellen looked at him hesitatingly. At that moment she seemed to throw
out protecting antennæ of maidenliness; and, besides, there was
always the memory of the cut in wages, for which she still judged
him; and then there was the long neglect.
"Please come," said Robert. He looked at her at once like a
conqueror and a pleading child. Ellen placed her hand on his arm,
and they went to the seat under the clump of birches. They were
quite alone, for the whole great company was streaming towards the
fireworks. A fiery wheel was revolving in the distance, and rockets
shot up, dropping showers of stars. Ellen gazed at them without
seeing them at all.
Robert, seated beside her, looked at her earnestly. "I am going to
put back the wages on the old basis to-morrow," he said.
Ellen made no reply.
"Business has so improved that I feel justified in doing so," said
Robert. His tone was almost apologetic. Never as long as he lived
would he be able to look at such matters from quite the same
standpoint as that of the girl beside him. She knew that, and yet
she loved him. She never would get his point of view, and yet he
loved her. "I have waited until I was able to do that before
speaking to you again," said Robert. "I knew how you felt about the
wage-cutting. I thought when matters were back on the old basis that
you might feel differently towards me. God knows I have been sorry
enough for it all, and I am glad enough to be able to pay them full
wages again. And now, dear?"
"It has been a long time," said Ellen, looking at her little hands,
clasped in her lap.
"I have loved you all the time, and I have only waited for that,"
said Robert.
Later on Robert and Ellen joined Fanny and the others. It was
scarcely the place to make an announcement. After a few words of
greeting the young couple walked off together, and left the
Brewsters and Tennys and Mrs. Zelotes standing on the outskirts of
the crowd watching the fireworks. Granville Joy stood near them. He
had looked at Robert and Ellen with a white face, then he turned
again towards the fireworks with a gentle, heroic expression. He
caught up Amabel that she might see the set piece which was just
being put up. "Now you can see, Sissy," he said.
Eva looked away from the fireworks after the retreating pair, then
meaningly at Fanny and Andrew. "That's settled," said she.
Andrew's face quivered a little, and took on something of the same
look which Granville Joy's wore. All love is at the expense of love,
and calls for heroes.
"It'll be a great thing for her," said Fanny, in his ear; "it'll be
a splendid thing for her, you know that, Andrew."
Andrew gazed after the nodding roses on Ellen's hat vanishing
towards the right. Another rocket shot up, and the people cried out,
and watched the shower of stars with breathless enjoyment. Andrew
saw their upturned faces, in which for the while toil and trial were
blotted out by that delight in beauty and innocent pleasure of the
passing moment which is, for human souls, akin to the refreshing
showers for flowers of spring; and to him, since his own vision was
made clear by his happiness, came a mighty realization of it all,
which was beyond it all. Another rocket described a wonderful golden
curve of grace, then a red light lit all the watching people. Andrew
looked for Ellen and Robert, and saw the girl's beautiful face
turning backward over her lover's shoulder. All his life Andrew had
been a reader of the Bible, as had his father and mother before him.
To-day, ever since he had heard of his good fortune, his mind had
dwelt upon certain verses of Ecclesiastes. Now he quoted from them.
"Live joyfully with the wife whom thou lovest all the days of the
life of thy vanity, which He hath given thee under the sun, all the
days of thy vanity, for that is thy portion in this life and in thy
labor which thou takest under the sun."
Ellen saw her father, and smiled and nodded, then she and her lover
passed out of sight. Another rocket trailed its golden parabola
along the sky, and dropped with stars; there was an ineffably sweet
strain from the orchestra; the illuminated oaks tossed silver and
golden boughs in a gust of fragrant wind. Andrew quoted again from
the old King of Wisdom--"I withheld not my heart from any joy, for
my heart rejoiced in all my labor, and that was my portion of
labor." Then Andrew thought of the hard winter which had passed, as
all hard things must pass, of the toilsome lives of those beside
him, of all the work which they had done with their poor, knotted
hands, of the tracks which they had worn on the earth towards their
graves, with their weary feet, and suddenly he seemed to grasp a new
and further meaning for that verse of Ecclesiastes.
He seemed to see that labor is not alone for itself, not for what it
accomplishes of the tasks of the world, not for its equivalent in
silver and gold, not even for the end of human happiness and love,
but for the growth in character of the laborer.
"That is the portion of labor," he said. He spoke in a strained,
solemn voice, as he had done before. Nobody heard him except his
wife and mother. His mother gave a sidewise glance at him, then she
folded her cape tightly around her and stared at the fireworks, but
Fanny put her hand through his arm and leaned her cheek against his
shoulder.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's The Portion of Labor, by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman