To the nurse of the Delancy boy and to his mother he was by no means an
old story or merely an incident of the year. He was an increasing
wonder--new every morning, and exciting every evening. He was the centre
of a world of solicitude and adoration. It would be scarcely too much to
say that his coming into the world promised a new era, and his traits,
his likes and dislikes, set a new standard in his court. If he had
apprehended his position his vanity would have outgrown his curiosity
about the world, but he displayed no more consciousness of his royalty
than a kicking Infanta of Spain. This was greatly to his credit in the
opinion of the nurse, who devoted herself to the baby with that
enthusiasm of women for infants which fortunately never fails, and won
the heart of Edith by her worship. And how much they found to say about
this marvel! To hear from the nurse, over and over again, what the baby
had done and had not done, in a given hour, was to Edith like a fresh
chapter out of an exciting romance.
And the boy's biographer is inclined to think that he had rare powers of
discrimination, for one day when Carmen had called and begged to be
permitted to go up into the nursery, and had asked to take him in her
arms just for a moment, notwithstanding her soft dress and her caressing
manner, Fletcher had made a wry face and set up a howl. "How much he
looks like his father" (he didn't look like anything), Carmen said,
handing him over to the nurse. What she thought was that in manner and
disposition he was totally unlike Jack Delancy.
When they came down-stairs, Mrs. Schuyler Blunt was in the drawing-room.
"I've had such a privilege, Mrs. Blunt, seeing the baby!" cried Carmen,
in her sweetest manner.
"It must have been," that lady rejoined, stiffly.
Carmen, who hated to be seen through, of all things, did not know whether
to resent this or not. But Edith hastened to the rescue of her guest.
"I think it's a privilege."
"And you know, Mrs. Blunt," said Carmen, recovering herself and smiling,
"that I must have some excitement this dull season."
"I see," said Mrs. Blunt, with no relaxation of her manner; "we are all
grateful to Mrs. Delancy."
"Mrs. Henderson does herself injustice," Edith again interposed. "I can
assure you she has a great talent for domesticity."
Carmen did not much fancy this apology for her, but she rejoined: "Yes,
indeed. I'm going to cultivate it."
"How is this privileged person?" Mrs. Blunt asked.
"You shall see," said Edith. "I am glad you came, for I wanted very much
to consult you. I was going to send for you."
"Well, here I am. But I didn't come about the baby. I wanted to consult
you. We miss you, dear, every day." And then Mrs. Blunt began to speak
about some social and charitable arrangements, but stopped suddenly."
I'll see the baby first. Good-morning, Mrs. Henderson." And she left
the room.
Carmen felt as much left out socially as about the baby, and she also
rose to go.
"Don't go," said Edith. "What kind of a summer have you had?"
"Oh, very good. Some shipwrecks."
"And Mr. Henderson? Is he well?"
"Perfectly. He is away now. Husbands, you know, haven't so much talent
for domesticity as we have."
"That depends," Edith replied, simply, but with that spirit and air of
breeding before which Carmen always inwardly felt defeat--"that depends
very much upon ourselves."
Naturally, with this absorption in the baby, Edith was slow to resume her
old interests. Of course she knew of the illness of Father Damon, and
the nurse, who was from the training-school in which Dr. Leigh was an
instructor, and had been selected for this important distinction by the
doctor, told her from time to time of affairs on the East Side. Over
there the season had opened quite as usual; indeed, it was always open;
work must go on every day, because every day food must be obtained and
rent-money earned, and the change from summer to winter was only a
climatic increase of hardships. Even an epidemic scare does not
essentially vary the daily monotony, which is accepted with a dogged
fatality:
There had been no vacation for Ruth Leigh, and she jokingly said, when at
length she got a half-hour for a visit to Edith, that she would hardly
know what to do with one if she had it.
"We have got through very well," she added. "We always dread the summer,
and we always dread the winter. Science has not yet decided which is the
more fatal, decayed vegetables or unventilated rooms. City residence
gives both a fair chance at the poor."
"Are not the people learning anything?" Edith asked.
"Not much, except to bear it, I am sorry to say. Even Father Damon--"
"Is he at work again? Do you see him often?"
"Yes, occasionally."
"I should so like to see him. But I interrupted you."
"Well, Father Damon has come to see that nothing can be done without
organization. The masses"--and there was an accent of bitterness in her
use of the phrase--"must organize and fight for anything they want."
"Does Father Damon join in this?"
"Oh, he has always been a member of the Labor League. Now he has been at
work with the Episcopal churches of the city, and got them to agree, when
they want workmen for any purpose, to employ only union men."
"Isn't that," Edith exclaimed, "a surrender of individual rights and a
great injustice to men not in the unions?"
"You would see it differently if you were in the struggle. If the
working-men do not stand by each other, where are they to look for help?
What have the Christians of this city done?" and the little doctor got up
and began to pace the room. "Charities? Yes, little condescending
charities. And look at the East Side! Is its condition any better?
I tell you, Mrs. Delancy, I don't believe in charities--in any
charities."
"It seems to me," said Edith, with a smile calculated to mollify this
vehemence, "that you are a standing refutation of your own theory."
"Me? No, indeed. I'm paid by the dispensary. And I make my patients
pay--when they are able."
"So I have heard," Edith retorted. "Your bills must be a terror to the
neighborhood."
"You may laugh. But I'm establishing a reputation over there as a
working-woman, and if I have any influence, or do any little good, it's
owing to that fact. Do you think they care anything about Father Damon's
gospel?"
"I should be sorry to think they did not," Edith said, gravely.
"Well, very little they care. They like the man because they think he
shares their feelings, and does not sympathize with them because they are
different from him. That is the only kind of gospel that is good for
anything over there."
"I don't think Father Damon would agree with you in that."
"Of course he would not. He's as mediaeval as any monk. But then he is
not blind. He sees that it is never anything but personal influence that
counts. Poor fellow," and the doctor's voice softened, "he'll kill
himself with his ascetic notions. He is trying to take up the burden of
this life while struggling under the terror of another."
"But he must be doing a great deal of good."
"Oh, I don't know. Nothing seems to do much good. But his presence is
a great comfort. That is something. And I'm glad he is going about now
rousing opposition to what is, rather than all the time preaching
submission to the lot of this life for the sake of a reward somewhere
else. That's a gospel for the rich."
Edith was accustomed to hear Ruth Leigh talk in this bitter strain when
this subject was introduced, and she contrived to turn the conversation
upon what she called practical work, and then to ask some particulars of
Father Damon's sudden illness.
"He did rest," the doctor said, "for a little, in his way. But he will
not spare himself, and he cannot stand it. I wish you could induce him
to come here often--to do anything for diversion. He looks so worn."
There was in the appeal to Edith a note of personal interest which her
quick heart did not fail to notice. And the thought came to her with a
painful apprehension. Poor thing! Poor Father Damon!
Does not each of them have to encounter misery enough without this?
Doesn't life spare anybody?
She told her apprehension to Jack when he came home.