BELLE JARS THE "SYSTEM"
Some orthodox divines would have given Clara a version of the story
of life quite different from that which she received from Mildred.
Many divines, not orthodox, would have made the divergence much
wider. The poor girl, so bruised in spirit and broken in heart, was
not ready for a system of theology or for the doctrine of evolution;
and if any one had begun to teach the inherent nobleness and
self-correcting power of humanity, she would have shown him the
door, feeble as she was. But when Mildred assured her that if Christ
were in the city, as He had been in Capernaum, He would climb the
steep, dark stairs to her attic room and say to her, "Daughter, be
of good comfort"--when she was told that Holy Writ declared that
He was the "same yesterday, to-day, and forever"--her heart became
tender and contrite, and therefore ready for a Presence that is
still "seeking that which was lost."
Men may create philosophies, they may turn the Gospel itself into
a cold abstraction, but the practical truth remains that the Christ
who saves, comforts, and lifts the intolerable burden of sorrow or
of sin, comes now as of old--comes as a living, loving, personal
presence, human in sympathy, divine in power. As Mildred had said,
our need and our consciousness of it form our strongest claim upon
Him and the best preparation for Him.
Clara was proving the truth of her words. Life could never be to
her again merely a bitter, sullen struggle for bread. A great hope
was dawning, and though but a few rays yet quivered through the
darkness, they were the earnest of a fuller light.
Before midnight Mr. Jocelyn joined the watchers, and seated himself
unobtrusively in a dusky corner of the room. Clara crouched on the
floor beside her mother, her head resting on the bed, and her hand
clasping the thin fingers of the dying woman. She insisted on
doing everything the poor creature required, which was but little,
for it seemed that life would waver out almost imperceptibly. Mildred
sat at the foot of the bed, where her father could see her pure
profile in the gloom. To his opium-kindled imagination it seemed
to have a radiance of its own, and to grow more and more luminous
until, in its beauty and light, it became like the countenance
of an accusing angel; then it began to recede until it appeared
infinitely far away. "Millie," he called, in deep apprehension.
"What is it, papa?" she asked, springing to his side and putting
her hand on his shoulder.
"Oh!" he said, shudderingly. "I had such a bad dream! You seemed
fading away from me, till I could no longer see your face. It was
so horribly real!"
She came and sat beside him, and held his hand in both of hers.
"That's right," he remarked; "now my dreams will be pleasant."
"You didn't seem to be asleep, papa," said the girl, in some
surprise; "indeed, you seemed looking at me fixedly."
"Then I must have been asleep with my eyes open," he answered with
a trace of embarrassment.
"Poor papa, you are tired, and it's very, very kind of you to come
and stay with me, but I wasn't afraid. Clara says it's a respectable
house, and the people, though very poor, are quiet and well behaved.
Now that you have seen that we are safe, please go home and rest,"
and she coaxed until he complied, more from fear that he would
betray himself than from any other motive.
In the deep hush that falls on even a great city before the early
life of the next day begins, Mrs. Bute opened her eyes and called,
"Clara!"
"Right here, momsy, dear, holding your hand."
"It's strange--I can't see you--I feel so much better, too--sort
of rested. It does--seem now--as if I--might get--a little rest.
Don't wake me--child--to give me--anything--and rest yourself."
She smiled faintly as she closed her eyes, and very soon Clara could
never wake her again. Mildred took the head of the orphan into her
lap, and the poor girl at last sobbed herself to sleep.
We will not attempt to follow Mildred's thoughts as she tried to
keep up through the long hours. The murmured words, "I would watch
more patiently over Vinton Arnold, did not his proud mother stand
between us," suggests the character of some of them. At last, when
she was faint from weariness, she heard steps coming up the stairs,
and her mother entered, followed by Mrs. Wheaton.
"My dear, brave child, this is too much for you. I'd rather it had
been myself a thousand times," Mrs. Jocelyn exclaimed.
"It's all right, mamma, but the sight of you and good Mrs. Wheaton
is more welcome than I can tell you, for I was getting very lonely
and tired."
"I'll stay now hand tend ter heverything," said Mrs. Wheaton, with
a stout, cheery kindness that could not be disguised even in her
whisper; but Clara awoke with a start and said, "What is it, momsy?"
Then she sprang up, and after a brief glance at her mother threw
herself with a long, low cry on the lifeless form.
"Leave hall ter me," said Mrs. Wheaton decidedly, "hand take Miss
Jocelyn 'ome, for this'll be too much for 'er."
"Ah, mamma dear," sobbed Mildred, "my heart would be broken indeed
if that were you."
"Millie, if you love me, come home at once," Mrs. Jocelyn urged.
It was quite light when they gained the street, and after reaching
home Mildred was given a warm cup of tea, and left to sleep until
late in the day. While she slept, however, there occurred some
rather stirring scenes.
Belle, too, slept rather late, but a portentous gloom came into her
eyes when told that Mrs. Bute was dead. She did not say very much,
but her young face grew older and very resolute while she hastily
ate her breakfast. Then she carried something nice to Clara, and
found that Mrs. Wheaton had left, a neighbor from the tall tenement
having taken her place.
Belle looked at the bereaved girl with half-fearful eyes as if she
expected reproaches, and when Clara kissed her in greeting she said
"Don't" so sharply as to excite surprise.
"Belle," said Clara gently, "mother's at rest."
"That's more than I am," muttered the girl. "Oh, Clara, I didn't
mean to bring all this trouble on you. That man just caught me in
a trap."
"Belle, Belle! why do you blame yourself for all this? It would
have come just the same, and probably just as soon, and if it hadn't
been for you I'd been alone, with no friends and no hope."
"Oh, don't talk to me!" Belle cried; "your mother might have been
alive if I hadn't taken your place. I want to see her."
Clara turned back the covering, and the young girl looked at the
dead face with a stern, frowning brow.
"Starved!" she muttered. "I understand why they all looked so black
at me now; but why couldn't some one have told me? He shall know
the truth for once; he's more to blame than I," and she abruptly
departed.
Very little later the foreman of the shop on Sixth Avenue was
astonished to see her passing hastily toward the private office,
regardless of the looks of surprise and interest turned toward her
on every side, for the events of the night had been very generally
whispered around.
"Mr. Schriven's engaged," he said sharply. "What do you want? Why
are you not in your place?"
"I am in my place, but you are not. Stand aside, for I will see
Mr. Schriven at once."
"I tell you some one is with him."
"I don't care if the king's with him," and darting on one side she
reached the office door, and knocked so sharply that the ireful
potentate within sprang up himself to see who the inconsiderate
intruder was.
"Oh, it's you," he said, half inclined to laugh in spite of his
anger. "I thought I said that, if I employed you, you were not to
come to my office again unless I sent for you?"
"I'm not in your employ."
"Indeed! How's that?" he asked very sharply.
"That is just what I've come to explain," was the unflinching reply.
"By-by," remarked Mr. Schriven's visitor maliciously; "I see you
are to be interviewed."
"Very briefly, I assure you. Good-morning. Now, miss, I give you
about one minute to transact your business with me, then the cashier
will pay you for two days' work."
"No, sir, he will not. Do you think I'd take money stained with
blood?"
"What do you mean? What kind of a girl are you anyway?"
"I'm an honest girl; I believe in God and the devil--I believe in
them both too well to have anything more to do with you unless you
can prove you didn't know any more than I did. You think to frighten
me with black looks, but I've just come from a greater presence
than yours--the presence of one who'll soon be your master--Death,
and death for which you are responsible."
"Good God! what do you mean?"
"What did you mean by turning off without a word a poor girl--one
who for years had done her best for you? What did you mean by making
a place for me in that way? Her mother died last night--starved--and
I'd have you know that I'd have starved before I'd have taken her
place had I known what I know now. Go look at your work at the top
of a tenement-house! There's more flesh on your arm than on that
dead woman's body, and the poor girl herself hadn't eaten anything
for two days when she came here last night. She'd have died, too,
if sister Millie hadn't stayed with her last night. I hope you
didn't know any more than I did. If you did you've got to settle
with God and the devil before you're through with this kind of
business."
The man was frightened, for he had meant no deliberate cruelty. He
was only practicing the sound political economy of obtaining the
most for the least, but in the words and stern face of the child
he saw how his act must appear to a mind unwarped by interest and
unhardened by selfish years. Moreover, he could not bluster in the
presence of death, and the thought that his greed had caused it
chilled his heart with a sudden dread. He caught at the extenuation
her words suggested, and said gravely, "You are right; I did not
know. I would send food from my own table rather than any one should
go hungry. I knew nothing about this girl, and no one has told me
of her need until this moment. A man at the head of a great business
cannot look after details. The best he can do is to manage his
business on business principles. To prove that I'm sincere, I'll
take the girl back again at her old wages, although I do not need
her."
The man lied in giving a false impression. It was true that he did
not single out individuals as objects of intentional cruelty, but
his system was hard and remorseless, and crushed like the wheels
of Juggernaut, and he purposely shut his eyes to all questions
and consequences save those of profit and loss. When compelled to
face, through Belle's eyes, an instance of the practical outcome
of his system, he shuddered and trembled, for the moment, and was
inclined to ease his conscience by a little ostentatious kindness,
especially as the facts in the case bade fair to become known. Men
who, unlike Belle, have little fear of God or the devil, do fear
public opinion. The girl interpreted him, however, after her own
warm, guileless heart, and in strong revulsion of feeling said,
tearfully, "Please forgive me, sir, for speaking as I have. I've
done you wrong, and I acknowledge it frankly, but I was almost
beside myself. We didn't either of us mean them any harm."
The man could not repress a smile at Belle's association of herself
with him in the guilt of the affair. In fact, he rather liked the
idea, for it made his own part seem quite venial after all--an error
of ignorance like that of the child's--so he said kindly, "Indeed,
we did not, and now we'll make amends. You go and see what is needed
and let me know, and to-morrow, if you wish, you can take your own
place and not any one's else. You are a smart, good-hearted girl,
and by and by I can give you better wages."
"I did you wrong, sir," repeated Belle remorsefully, "and now that
you will take Clara back, I'd work for you almost for nothing.
When and where shall I come?" she added humbly; "I don't wish to
seem rude any more."
"Come to my house this evening," and he gave her his number.
"I beg your pardon for what I said. Good-by, sir," and with tearful
eyes and downcast face she went to the street, without a glance on
either side.
The man sat for a few moments with a heavily contracting brow. At
last he stretched out his hand and sighed, "I'd give all there is
in this store if my heart was like that girl's, but here I am at
this hour engaged in a transaction which is the devil's own bargain,
and with a firm that can't help itself because it is in my power.
Hang it all! business is business; I'll lose a cool thousand unless
I carry it through as I've begun." He seized his pen and carried
it through.
Belle, attended by her father, was not in the least abashed by
the elegance of Mr. Schriven's parlor, as he had rather hoped she
would be, but he was much impressed by Mr. Jocelyn's fine appearance
and courtly bearing. "No wonder the girl's course has been peculiar,"
he thought. "She comes from no common stock. If I've ever seen a
Southern gentleman, her father's one, and her plump little body is
full of hot Southern blood. She's a thoroughbred, and that accounts
for her smartness and fearlessness. Where other girls would whine
and toady to your face, and be sly and catlike behind your back,
she'd look you in the eyes and say all she meant point-blank. I'm
glad indeed things are taking their present course, for these people
could make any man trouble," and he treated his guests very suavely.
Belle soon told her story in a straightforward manner. One of her
generous projects was to have a rather grand funeral, with all the
girls in the shop attending in a procession. "What a child she is!"
thought Mr. Schriven, with difficulty repressing a laugh, but he
proceeded very gravely to induce the girl to take his own practical
view.
"In the first place, my child," he said, "that woman died of
consumption--she didn't starve at all."
"I think she died the sooner," Belle faltered.
"Possibly. If so, she was the sooner out of her misery. At any rate
we are not to blame, since, as you have said, we didn't know. Now
a funeral, such as you suggest, would be very costly, and would do
no one any good. It would scarcely be in good taste, for, considering
the poor woman's circumstances, it would be ostentatious."
"Belle, Mr. Schriven is right," said her father, in a tone of quiet
authority.
"Let us rather consider the need of the daughter," Mr. Schriven
resumed. "You say she is worn and weak from watching and work. A
quarter of the money that a funeral would cost would give her two
or three weeks in the country. And now," he concluded impressively--his
conscience needed a little soothing, and his purse was plethoric
with the thousand dollars wrung from those who had the misfortune
to be in his power--"I will pay her board at some quiet farmhouse
for three weeks, and then she'll come back fresh and strong to her
old place."
Belle's eyes filled with tears of gladness. "You are right, sir,
and you are very kind and generous. I know just the place for her
to go--the people we've been with all summer. They are kind, and
will do everything for her, and take away her strange feeling at
once. Oh, I'm so glad it's all ending so much better than I feared!
I thought this morning I could never be happy again, but you've
made all seem so different and hopeful. I thank you, sir, over and
over, and I'll do my best now at the store, and be respectful to
every one."
The man was touched. The warm, reflected glow of the girl's heart
softened for a moment his own icy organ, and his eyes grew moist
momentarily. "You are a good child," he said. "Here are thirty-five
dollars for your friend, for you've been a friend to her indeed.
Most girls would have let them starve for all they cared. Now send
the girl off to the country, and as soon as I can I'll raise your
wages to five dollars. I'd do it now, only the others would talk and
say it wasn't customary to pay beginners so highly. Mr. Jocelyn,
I congratulate you on the possession of such a daughter, and I
sincerely hope you may soon retrieve your fortunes and regain the
position to which I see that you both naturally belong," and he
bowed them out with a politeness and respect that were not by any
means assumed.
Belle almost danced home by her father's side, so great was the
rebound of her depressed feelings. Thirty-five dollars! How much
that would do for poor Clara! Millie would help her make up her
mourning, and she would have nothing to pay for but the material.
She would write to Mrs. Atwood that very night, and to Roger,
telling him he must be kind to Clara, and take her out to drive.
Her heart fairly bubbled over with plans and projects for the girl
whose "place she had taken."
The poor child had scarcely begun her letter to Mrs. Atwood before
her head drooped, and Mildred said, "Tell me what to say, Belle,
and I'll write it all. You've done you part to-day, and done it
well."
"That's good of you, Millie. When I get sleepy it's no use to try
to do anything. I'd go to sleep if the house was on fire. But you
won't write to Roger, I'm afraid."
"No. If he must be written to, you must do that."
"Well, I will to-morrow. He'll do Clara more good than all the
rest."
Our story passes hastily over the scenes that followed. A brief
service was held over Mrs. Bute's remains by a city missionary,
known to Mrs. Wheaton, who was present with Mrs. Jocelyn, Belle,
and Mildred. Three or four neighbors from the tenement lent chairs
and came in also. The girls at the ribbon counter clubbed together
and sent an anchor of white flowers, and at the hour of the funeral
they looked grave and were quiet in manner, thus taking part
in the solemnity in the only way they could. In due time the city
department upon which the duty devolved sent the "dead wagon"; the
morsel of human clay was returned to its kindred dust in "Potter's
Field," a public cemetery on Hart's Island, in which are interred
all who die in the city and whose friends are unable to pay
for a grave or a burial plot. Clara, however, had not the pain of
seeing her mother placed in the repulsive red box furnished by the
department, for Mr. Jocelyn sent a plain but tasteful coffin, with
the woman's age and name inscribed upon it.
Mrs. Wheaton went with the girl to the grave, and then brought her
to her own little nook in the old mansion, for Clara had said she
had no relatives she knew anything about except a few on her father's
side, and she had rather go to a station-house than to them. "Don't
talk habout station 'ouses till yer can see vat I kin do for yer,"
the good woman had said in her hearty way, and she did play the
good Samaritan so well, and poured the "oil and wine" of kindness
into the poor creature's wounds so effectually, that she began to
change for the better daily.
Mildred redeemed Belle's promise, and between them all they soon
fitted Clara for her trip to the country. By the time Mrs. Atwood's
reply reached Mildred, and Roger's hearty answer came back in response
to Belle's characteristic note, she was ready to go. "There's a
man's hand for you," cried Belle exultantly as she exhibited Roger's
bold chirography. "It's a hand that can be depended upon, strong
and ready."
Mildred smiled as she replied, "You're welcome to it, Belle."
"You needn't smile so placidly," she retorted, with an ominous nod.
"We are not through with Roger Atwood yet."
Perhaps quotations from two letters written by Clara to Mildred and
Belle, and received a week later, will form a satisfactory ending
to this chapter. Clara had been taught to read and write in the
public schools of the city, and but little more. In later years
she had occasionally found opportunity to attend some of the night
schools established for those whose only leisure came after the
busy day was over, and so had learned to use her pen with tolerable
correctness. In waiting upon the educated people who frequented the
shop she had caught, with the aptness of an American girl, a very
fair power of expressing herself in speech. Writing a letter,
however, was a formidable affair, in which she had scarcely any
experience. Her missives, therefore, were very simple, and somewhat
defective in outward form, but they suggested some interesting
facts.
"DEAR MILLIE (ran the first): I'm very sad and hapy. The Countrys
like heven. All are so kind. Even the dog dosen't grole at me, and
Mr. Roger says that's queer for he groles at everybody. I feel so
much better, I don't know myself. I feel like takin depe breths
of air all the time and I never tasted such milk. Every glass puts
life in me. If I can get work up here I'll never go back to town and
stand all day again. The girls up here have a chance to live--they
haven't any chance at all in a store. The strongest will brake down
and then they are good for nothing. I wish Belle could do something
else. I wish thousands would go in the country and do work that
would make us look like Susan. Mrs. Atwood thinks she can find
me a place with kind people, where I'll be treted almost like one
of the family. Anyway I've had enough of standing and bad air and
starving and I don't see why working in a farmhouse ain't just as
ladylike as wating on folks with the floorwalker awatchin you like
a slave driver. Standing all day is deth to most girls and about
the hardest deth they can die. I feel as if I could live to be a
hundred up here.
"Millie, dear, I read the Bible you gave me and I pray for you and
Belle every night and morning and He answers. I know it. I love
you very much and I've good reason. Good by. CLARA BUTE."
Her letter to Belle was more descriptive of her daily life, of the
kindness she received on every hand. One brief extract from it will
suffice:
"I've got well acquainted with Roger," she wrote. "He's easy to
get acquainted with. Now I think of it though he says little or
nothing about himself but he leads me to talk and tell about you all
in a way that surprises me. If his interest was prying I'm sure I
wouldn't have told him anything. I know well now it isn't. Does
Millie know how he feels toward her? I saw it all last night. I
was telling him about my past life and how poor and forlorn we had
been and how I had told Millie all about it and then how Millie
had just treted me as if I were as good as she was. As I talked
he became so white I thought he'd faint. Suddenly he burst out
despairingly, 'I hoped she was proud but she isn't--I could overcome
pride. But what can I do when I'm just detested? There, I've made
a fool of myself,' he said savagelike after a moment, and he hurried
away. For the last two days he's been so quiet and looked so stern
and sad that his family don't know what to make of him, but I know
what's the matter, and I feel sorry for him, for he seems to me
more like a man than any of the young fellows I've seen in town.
Don't tell Millie for I don't want to even seem to meddle."
But Belle had no gift of reticence, and she not only showed her
sister the letter, but overwhelmed her with reproaches for her
"heartless treatment of Roger." As a natural result Mildred was
only more irritated and prejudiced against the young man than ever.
"You are all absurdly unreasonable," she cried. "What have I ever
done to make him turn white or red, or to 'burst out despairingly,'
and all that kind of sentimental nonsense? Because he is lackadaisical
and is experiencing strange, vague emotions, must I be afflicted in
like manner? Must I break faith with one I do love and do violence
to my own feelings, just because this farmer wants me to? You know
what's the matter with him--Clara saw at a glance--and the course
I'm taking is the only way to cure him. All his talk about friendship
is transparent folly. If I took your advice it would make him only
more and more infatuated; and now I haven't it on my conscience
that I gave him one bit of encouragement. I'm sorry for him, of
course. I shall be more sorry for his mother and sister if he is
guilty of the folly of leaving home. If, instead of doing his duty
by them, he comes mooning after me here, when he knows it is of
no use, I shall lose my respect for him utterly." There seemed so
much downright common-sense in this view of the affair that even
Belle found no words in reply. Her reason took Mildred's part, but
her warm little heart led her to shake her head ominously at her
sister, and then sleepily she sought the rest her long, tiresome
day required.