JACK and Maverick glanced at each other, a long, searching, questioning
glance.
"Given twenty or forty moderate fortunes, instead of the one great one,"
said Jack slowly.
"And you have a greater amount of general prosperity and happiness."
"Co-operation," continued Jack.
"And now, if you don't mind, you may take a walk with me," said
Maverick. "Office-hours are over, and I have some rather serious cases
on hand. Jerry's gone lame, stuck a nail in his foot, so I console
myself with pedestrian theories."
"All right. I may need a pilot."
It was a mid-April day; but spring was late, and every thing looked
bleak to Jack after his Southern sojourn. Certainly it was quite
different from the trim little town of Jack's boyhood. The blight of
poverty and thriftlessness had fallen upon it. There were piles of
refuse in the streets, still half frozen; there were muddy stoops and
shabby hall-doors, and broken area-palings, and now and then a window
patched up with paper or rags. For though there may be much high
theorizing and preaching on the two or three exceptional men who have
lifted themselves out of dens of poverty, and come through great
tribulation, there are thousands who work out nothing but blind
destruction and utter shipwreck, and who in frantic efforts for
salvation drag down those nearest and dearest, as a drowning man may
clutch at his own brother.
"Not very inviting," apologized Maverick; "but I have two calls to make
here in Boyd's Row,--old rookeries that ought to have been pulled down
long ago, but I suppose they still bring in Boyd considerable. I have
made a complaint about the drains: they are enough to breed a
pestilence. Tom Byrne has three children down with scarlet-fever. Two of
them will be carried out presently, but I hope to save the little girl.
No--I won't take you in."
"Tom Byrne--he was a mill-hand. And I know his wife well. Yes,
Maverick." And Jack followed him.
It was a two-story cottage with three rooms on a floor, and two families
occupying it. The Byrnes were up-stairs.
The two beds were in the front room, for the middle one was dark. There
was a well-worn carpet on the floor, and the furniture very poor. Jenny
Byrne had sold her best to pay the quarter's rent in the last place
which they had left the first of January, the landlord preferring it
should stand empty. Her little savings had been swept away by the bank
disaster: there was no work, and three children to feed, except that
Deacon Boyd found Tom sufficient employment to pay his rent.
On one bed close by the window lay the little girl, heavy-eyed and
crimson. The elder boy had come to the stupor that precedes death, the
other was restless with a half delirium. Jenny Byrne's round rosy cheeks
had vanished, and her eyes had a distraught look, the lurking fear of
coming woe. She stared at Jack a moment, then stretched out her hand,
but as quickly withdrew it.
"Did you tell him, doctor? O Mr. Darcy!"
"Yes. He _would_ come."
She wiped away some tears with the corner of her faded apron, then
answered a question of Jack's. What could he say to the poor thing?
Surely she had done her duty with truest endeavor; and Tom Byrne was a
very fair average man, liking his daily glass of beer, but rarely going
farther.
"Can you fix a bed in the other room, and put Kitty in it?" the doctor
asked. "She is better, but I would rather have her out of here."
"And Jamie is better too?" she questioned, with tremulous eagerness.
"His fever is nearly gone, and he's having such a nice sleep"--
"Sleep is the best thing for him," returned the doctor briefly. "About
Kitty"--
The mother's wan face flushed. She came close to Dr. Maverick, her eyes
downcast.
"The coal gave out this morning, and I've no fire there," she said just
above a whisper. "The relief-store is closed"--
"Yes, yes; I'll see to it;" with a nod. "I will be in again"--looking at
the sleeping child--"say about four." Then he changed the medicine for
Kitty, and gave one or two orders.
Jack thrust a bank-note in Jenny's hand, with his good-by. "Tom will be
so glad to see you, Mr. Darcy," she said, with an effort at calmness.
"Can nothing be done for them?" asked Jack, as they regained the street.
"No. Jamie had gone too far when I was called in. Larger rooms, fresher
air, nourishing food: that's the secret of a physician's success in many
cases. Poor little ones! He will not go through the night. Now, Jack,
you are not to come in here, positively. Stand in this breeze, and blow
the scarlet-fever out of your clothes."
He did as he was bid, and, getting tired, tramped up and down. How much
of man's selfishness and dishonesty there was in this! If the time could
ever come when the mists and fogs of complacency would be swept off,
and we could see that it was the innocent suffering for the guilty, not
that these poor souls were sinners above all men, as the self-righteous
Pharisee preaches!
Maverick rejoined him with a grave face, then the two went down Main
Street. Houses to let, stores and shops closed, and those open but
half-stocked, and wearing a listless air. If three hard years so told on
the place, and there was no prospect of better things, what would it be
in five or ten? Was it some such misfortune that had overtaken those
grand and luxurious cities of Oriental lands?
"Where are the Lawrences?" Jack asked presently.
"Well, I really do not know. I think I did hear that Mrs. Lawrence had
gone to New York. The young man"--
Jack held his breath, and there was a strange flutter at his heart.
After all these years he saw again the pale, handsome child who had
given him a boy's ardent love.
"I have a fancy that he will not amount to much. Queer idea that of
Cameron's, wasn't it, Darcy? Who was it that first preached or wrote of
the 'duty nearest one'? Of course things cannot stay this way forever,
they must mend; and maybe if some one took hold to help mend
them--Cameron's idea is not a bad one. Maybe the same amount of money
and energy expended here would be productive of good results: still I
hold on to Florida for my poor and wretched suffering ones. But it is
worth thinking of. Here, let us turn round by Hope Mills."
Jack was silent. "Hope Mills!" It rang through his brain like a chime of
bells. Of course he knew that Mr. Hope had given them his name; but had
he builded better than he knew? Was it indicative of something greater
than the power of one man,--of many men? of strong, earnest endeavor;
of truth, honor, and honesty; of thrift, and happy, jocund industry,
once more?
But now it was very silent. The great yard had an untidy look, with some
piles of weather-beaten lumber, and old _débris_. The windows were
covered with dust; the broad stone steps showed where the winter snows
had fallen and melted, leaving streaks of dirt, and more had blown in
the corners. No cheerful creak of the great engine; no vapory puffs of
smoke circling skyward from the chimney; no whir of looms. It saddened
one inexpressibly.
"It is a big subject," said Jack slowly. "I've been puzzling my brains
half the winter with what wiser heads than mine have said about capital
and labor,--Mill and Brassey and Howell, and our own men, with soft,
sweet bits of Ruskin, and savage bits of Carlyle. I don't know but
Carlyle was right when he said, 'The beginning and the end of what is
the matter with us, in these days, is, that we have forgotten God.'
Cameron said it another way,--honor and honesty. Because, certainly,
honor appeals to all that is noblest in human nature,--to chivalry, and
tenderness and thought for others; and nothing ever prospered, in the
long-run, that did not have a substratum of truth."
"Well, according to Bristow, we came back to him this winter--not I,
Darcy, I don't make any pretence,"--and he shook his head with slow
gravity. "But I was interested in the revival on psychological grounds.
I had never been so inside of one before. Bristow is a good man, no
doubt; but it is just the one chosen way with him,--strong crying and
praying, and believing yourself a sinner above all men, and then a
sudden peace and happiness, and a courage to endure,--a blind,
unreasoning courage to take the present as it is, because God sent it,
and it must be for the best. Boyd and Whitlow and Kenny were the great
lights. They went about from house to house; they exhorted and prayed.
Whitlow was one of the old bank-directors. Strange to say, he did not
lose a penny. His money was in government-bonds; and now he has
persuaded Yerbury that if his advice had been taken there would have
been no trouble. Whitlow discharged his man this winter, and took in his
place a half-grown boy. Mrs. Whitlow sets a good example to her class by
discharging one handmaid and making the other do double duty. Yet, so
far as I can find, Whitlow is a richer man than he was three years ago.
Kenny keeps his factory open, and gives the men three days' work in the
week, and pays them in poor shoes, as much as possible; and takes out a
good deal in high rent. Boyd, who has the name of being the greatest
saint of all,--does what? Opens that miserable row of houses, that he
couldn't let on any terms, and takes in tenants who are willing to work
out the rent. He gets good prices, too. Is he losing on them? Faugh! the
very term of charity makes me sick. And this winter he purchased a good
deal of the stock of the relief-store. Wretched flour; miserable,
adulterated stuff of tea; pork, some of it that wasn't fit to eat; and
cheap butter, that every one would have been ten times better without. I
went to him one day, red-hot, in a sanitary view of the business; and he
preached religion to me,--his kind. 'Boyd,' said I, 'there's Keppler's
saloon, your own property, paying you a good income, no doubt, in these
hard times, adding to the want and misery of Yerbury faster than your
whole church can save. If you are in earnest, go break up that den of
iniquity!'"
Jack laughed. "What did he say to that?"
"Meekly, that Keppler had a lease for five years, and was going on the
second. The man is so honorable, he cannot break faith with his
fellow-man, forsooth; but he breaks faith with God, in a serene,
untroubled manner." And Maverick's lip curled scornfully under the
fringe of moustache.
"But there must be some gold, or the counterfeit would not be so
successfully received. We have had so much false money everywhere, that,
since we can make that pass, we do not trouble ourselves. And yet,
Maverick, there _is_ something in it that you and I don't see clearly
yet; but we cannot teach it acceptably until we can show better fruit.
And, when leaders of all kinds, in high places, show that self only is
at the bottom of every thing they do, it seems hopeless to demand that
the class below, watching them, and suffering from their wrongdoing,
shall attain a higher moral status. How can they help following coarsely
in the footsteps of their betters?"
"Darcy, suppose you turn parson!" and Maverick laughed half quizzically.
"See here: the world wants a very old sermon preached again to it,
hammered into every fibre, put up over every doorway,--the essence of
all knowledge, all religion, briefly comprehended in this, 'Love thy
neighbor _as_ thyself.' You won't need gown or bands for that work. Not
to have one code of morals for the rich, and one for the poor; one creed
for Sunday, and quite another belief for Monday; to have no lofty,
impossible theories and exalted moods, but truthful, honest living; not
to push away the miserable, ignorant souls, but take them by the hand in
hearty co-operation. Maybe Cameron has the right clew. Why should we let
human love be shamed by such things as an Oneida community or a Mormon
city?"
The strong, earnest voice stirred Jack like martial music. All these
years he had been struggling with a great, blind, confused
something,--perhaps it was not a silver-mine or a railroad, but a work
just here in the town of his boyhood, where he was known, where he had
played and worked.
"Seventeenthly, and lastly," and Maverick looked at his watch, "I cannot
idle any more time upon you, and must cut short with a 'To be
continued.' We will talk it over again and again; and, if we cannot get
it into shape, there is still Florida left. So, while you are dreaming
it out by this great silent mill, whose prisoned spirits should prate of
prosperity instead of desolation, I'll run my course around Yerbury, and
we'll compare notes over our cigars. _Addio_," waving his hand.
Jack watched the compact figure as it moved briskly away; then he
sauntered round the mill, down one street and up another, strolled out
to Lovers' Lane, and returned by Larch Avenue. The Barry house began to
show signs of life, for old Mat was clearing up the grounds. This was
the one oasis that had not been bitten by speculation. He thought of
winsome little Sylvie, and one summer evening when Irene Lawrence
stepped into that pretty, cosey room with the grace and beauty of a
Juno. Where was she now? And what was Fred doing? Making a great leap
into name and fame, doubtless, now that he was put upon his mettle. The
old boyish freaks came back to his mind, the enthusiastic unreasoning
adoration, the last tender parting. An intense and subtile sympathy
filled his soul; and, though he smiled a little, the memory was very
sacred.
The texture of Jack's mind was not of the quick, brilliant, or sanguine
order. He went over his books again; he ruminated as he cleaned the
garden-paths, spaded the beds, trimmed the trees and shrubbery, and
attended to the odds and ends known only to a careful householder.
Cousin Jane was in her element out here; and they two discoursed of
farming and gardening, and industry, she in a sharp, trenchant way.
She had remarked incidentally that her visit was near its end. Now that
Jack was home, cousin Ellen would not need her.
"I don't see why you should not make your home here, cousin Jane,"
replied Mrs. Darcy. "Grandmother grows feebler all the time, and you
have quite spoiled me by your strength and cheeriness. You have no
nearer tie; and if you _could_ content yourself with us--Jack was
speaking about it a few evenings since. We should like so to keep you,
cousin Jane."
Jane Morgan studied the beseeching eyes a while, then dropped her own,
and thought.
"Very well," she answered, "if you like to have it so. While I am well
and strong I think I ought to do enough somewhere to earn my living, and
not use up the little laid by for a rainy day. If you and Jack are
agreed, we'll consider it a bargain for a year. I like to be settled
about what I'm going to do: there's nothing so uncomfortable as hanging
on tenterhooks. When my visit's through I like to go, if I'm going; not
stand an hour or two with the door-knob in my hand."
Jack was delighted. They could spare him now and then of an evening to
stroll down to Maverick's office, where they discussed pretty nearly
every thing under the sun. It was so in the beginning,--"the earth was
without form, and void." Then the Barrys returned; Sylvie changed in
some indescribable way as to a kind of delicate outside manner, but the
same fresh, earnest girl in heart and soul, taking up her friendship
with Jack just where she had laid it down. Yet they had both grown
broader and richer in nature and experience, and there was something of
the subtile flavor of new acquaintanceship.
Yerbury cleaned house, even to the tidying-up of streets and
carting-away of rubbish. It was pitiful to see the attempts of some of
the poor women, who washed their worn white curtains, scrubbed the
shutters and hall-door, and set out a few ragged geraniums in the front
yard, or made a little bed of lettuce and onions.
Yerbury Savings Bank was in the hands of a receiver. Some sold out their
small accounts for a trifle: it was agreed there could not be much in
the way of dividends. Here was a great mortgage on the Downer farm,
that the Eastmans had partly cut into city lots. And, though Downer had
received a large price, he was a poor man to-day, with no business, and
several sons tramping the highways for work. Farms had not been
profitable, but had the wealth and extravagance produced any better
result? These places around would be sold presently for any sum they
would bring.
"Speculation did look so tempting, though," said Jack with a humorous
smile. "But for grandmother I might have been in the midst of it."
"There's just one thing that makes a man or a country rich," said Jane
Morgan incisively; "and that's industry, good, honest labor. Marking up
one's goods before breakfast, as the Frenchman did, realizes no absolute
money. The speculators jingle their dollars from hand to hand, until
some poor fool, attracted by the noise, gives them a hundred for their
twenty. When a man makes money simply by another person's loss, he has
not created any thing, or made any more of it; and the world's no
better, that I can see."
"Cousin Jane, you are dipping into political economy;" and Jack nodded
gayly. "I shall have to ask Maverick and some of the others up here; and
maybe you can put in a straw, or a head of wheat, toward the
regeneration of Yerbury."
"I dip into a little common sense now and then, and it seems to me
that's what the world needs. There is no lack of the uncommon kind, and
it's not to be altogether despised, since at times uncommon things are
given to people to do. But, if all the bees in the hive thought they had
a call to be queens, it runs in my mind there'd be a lack of honey
presently."
"You are on the right foundation, cousin Jane. We must not only make the
honey an honorable thing, but honor the bees, put labor on a better,
truer foundation."
"I should just say, 'See here, my friends, it is not possible for us all
to be rich, whether it is some fixed immutable law of fate, or the lack
of necessary elements in one's character, or the meeting of the right
person with the right circumstances; but the fact is there, true as
judgment. You can be comfortable and clean if you have the energy; and
it is better to scrub your own kitchen-floor, or raise a bushel of
potatoes, than to sit and whine about luck or respectability. Now and
then a ready-made fortune drops down upon one, and I don't know but it
often brings a curse: anyhow, what you work for, you are pretty sure to
enjoy.' It makes me mad when I see healthy, hearty young women sighing
for servants and pianos and what not; when their grandmothers, who had
as good blood, and as good sense, didn't despise honest work."
Sylvie Barry came in while Miss Morgan was in the midst of her "speech,"
as Jack declared it to be; and now she clapped her small white hands,
with a "Bravo!"
"A new disciple, Jack," and she smiled. "Miss Morgan, we shall set you
to reading our favorite authors, and solving the tremendous question.
Where can we get work for these to do? For a great many stand idle in
the market-place, because they have not been hired. What can we set them
at?"
"Well, Miss Barry, I don't know much about the big, outside questions;
but, going around Yerbury a little this winter, I shouldn't say the work
was all done up; or, done in such a poor, thrown-together way, that it
tumbles right to pieces again. There's skewy, ill-made beds with ragged
counterpanes; there's shreds of old ingrain-carpets, that you fall over;
there's broken chairs, and shabby clothes, and dirty corners,--work
enough, I should say, to last some woman an hour or two. She might get
out her pieces of calico, and, with the children's help, make a new
spread, maybe a tidy apron, and she might braid a rag mat out of bits,
and a hundred things that go toward comfort. No: all the work isn't
done up yet, Miss Sylvie," and Jane Morgan stopped just then, to knit
the seam-stitch in a stocking for a poor body.
Sylvie threw herself on the footstool, and leaned her arms on Miss
Morgan's knee.
"I wasn't thinking so much of that when I spoke," she began earnestly;
"but I do wonder if some of us couldn't take it up. There are
art-schools, and music-schools, and cooking-schools, in the great
cities; and why couldn't we start something of the kind here? Poor
people--the real poor, I mean--are often wasteful and idle because they
do not just know how to be any thing else. They buy cheap garments in
stores, and they soon come apart. I had a sewing-school last summer, and
I found some mothers didn't seem to care whether their children learned
or not,--since there was so much sewing done by machines. But if the
mothers could be taught a little"--
"That's about the upshot of what I said. You see, Miss Barry, people
have been earning so much money of late years, that sewing has gone out
of fashion. It didn't pay to do this or that, so they earned and spent.
Now they sit listless in their dirt and rags, bemoaning hard times. It
is good to know how to do more than one thing," and Miss Morgan nodded
her head confidently, her strong face full of earnestness.
"Why can't you and Sylvie start a school--what shall we call it?--of
useful and homely arts? You see, the girls do work in the mills and
shops until they get married, and then they do not know how to make the
best of their husbands' money. But don't crowd out all the beauty and
the pleasure; there must be something to enlist the heart. Give a man an
interest in a thing, and you awake a new feeling, an enthusiasm that
makes every thing go as smoothly as oiling up machinery."
"I have often thought," said Mrs. Darcy in her soft, gentle voice,
"that the poor did not get as much good of their money as the better
classes, because they never have enough to buy advantageously, and
store-keepers so often take the advantage of them. Now, yesterday I was
over to Mrs. Hall's, and the poor thing was trying to make some bread,
and she was not fit to stand up and knead it; so I thought I'd try. The
flour was heavy and sticky and lumpy, and what I should call very
unprofitable. No one could make good bread out of it. She said they
traded at Kilburn's, because he would wait if they did not have the
money. The flour was seven and a half a barrel; the eighth, ninety-five
cents; and I do not believe the bread was fit to eat. So you must
remember, when you blame people for poor cooking, that they may not
always have decent materials to work with."
"Maverick was growling about Kilburn the other evening. It is a shame
that he should sell such poor goods, when prices have come down a good
deal."
"Can you not reform him a little?" and Mrs. Darcy smiled.
"Cousin Jane and Sylvie might go into business, as did the poor weavers
of Toad Lane, with their sack of oatmeal, firkin of butter, a little
sugar and flour," said Jack laughingly. "A fair division of labor. The
men of Yerbury shall provide work, and the women shall train the
inefficient how and where to spend money."
Sylvie glanced up with bright, inquiring eyes.
"Was it some more co-operation?" she asked.
Jack brought out his book, and read the story of the "Equitable Pioneers
of Rochdale" and their wonderful success from a small beginning. The
girl listened with wide-open eyes, and even Jane Morgan laid down her
knitting.
"The queen-bee and the workers again," said she, as Jack closed the
book. "It is not every man for himself, but every man for each other.
And it comes back, always."