HOME
We take up the thread of our story after the lapse of several months.
Mildred left the Arnold family softened and full of regret. Even
proud Mrs. Arnold asked her forgiveness with many bitter tears, but
beyond a few little significant gifts they found it impossible to
make the one toward whom their hearts were now so tender take more
than the regular compensation that went toward the support of the
institution to which she belonged. Mr. Arnold and Mrs. Sheppard would
not give her up, and often came to see her, and the old gentleman
always made her promise that when he became ill she would take care
of him; and once he whispered to her, "You won' take anything from
me now, but in my will I can remember my debt. All my wealth cannot
pay what I owe to you."
"Money has nothing to do with my relations to you," she replied
gently.
"Vinton's portion belongs to you," was his quiet reply. "The poor
boy so understood it, and I shall not break faith with the dead."
"Then his portion shall go toward relieving suffering in this city,"
was her answer.
"You can do what you please with it, for it shall be yours."
While Mildred quietly performed her duties as head-nurse in one
of the wards during the last six months of the two years of her
sojourn at the Training School, some important changes had occurred
in Roger's circumstances. He had, more than a year before, graduated
second in his class at college, and had given the impression that
he would have been first had he taken the full four years' course.
His crotchety uncle, with whom since the reconciliation he had
resided, had died, and after a few months his wife followed him,
and Roger found himself a wealthy man, but not a happy one. Beyond
giving his parents every comfort which they craved, and making his
sister Susan quite an heiress, he scarcely knew what to do with the
money. His uncle's home was not at all to his taste, and he soon
left it, purchasing a moderate-sized but substantial and elegant
house in a part of the city that best suited his convenience. Here
he installed Mrs. Wheaton as housekeeper, and, with the exception
of his own suite of rooms and the sleeping apartments, left all
the rest unfurnished. After placing himself in a position to offer
hospitalities to his country relatives, he determined that the
parlors should remain empty, as a mute reproach to Mildred.
One evening, a week before she graduated, he induced her to go with
him to see his house. "It's not a home," he whispered; "I merely
stay here." Then, without giving time for reply, he ushered her into
the hall, which was simply but very elegantly furnished. Mildred
had time only to note two or three fine old engravings and a
bronze figure, when Mrs. Wheaton, bustling up from the basement,
overwhelmed her with hospitality. They first inspected her domains,
and in neatness and comfort found them all that could be desired.
"You see," said the good woman, as she and Mildred were hidden from
view in a china closet, "I could get hup quite a grand dinner, but
I hain't much use fur these 'ere things, for he heats less and less
hevery day. I'm troubled habout Mr. Roger, fur he seems kinder low
hin 'is spirits and discouraged like. Most young men vould feel like
lords hin 'is shoes, but he's a-gettin' veary and listless-like.
Vun day he vas so down that I vanted 'im to see a doctor, but he
smiled kinder strange and said nothin'. He's a-gettin' thin and
pale. Vat vould I do hif he should get sick?"
Mildred turned in quick alarm and glanced at the young man, who
stood looking at the glowing kitchen-range, as if his thoughts
were little interested in the homely appliances for his material
comfort. His appearance confirmed Mrs. Wheaton's words, for his
features were thinner than they had been since he recovered from
his illness, and there was a suggestion of lassitude and dejection
in his manner. She went directly to him and said:
"Mrs. Wheaton tells me you are not well."
He started, then threw off all depression, remarking lightly, "Mrs.
Wheaton is fidgety. She prepares enough food for four men. I'm
well--have been working rather late at night, that's all."
"Why do you, Roger?" she asked, in a voice full of solicitude.
"If I don't feel sleepy there is no use in wasting time. But
come, you have seen enough of the culinary department. Since Mrs.
Wheaton has charge of it you can know beforehand that everything
will be the best of its kind. I think I can show you something in
my sitting-room that will interest you more."
Mrs. Wheaton preceded them, and Mildred took his arm in a way
that showed that he had not been able to banish her anxiety on his
behalf. "Let me see your parlors, Roger," she said when they again
reached the hall. "I expect to find them models of elegance."
He threw open the door and revealed two bare rooms, the brilliantly
burning gas showing frescoes of unusual beauty, but beyond these
there was nothing to relieve their bleak emptiness. "I have no
use for these rooms," he remarked briefly, closing the door. "Come
with me," and he led her to the apartment facing the street on the
second floor. The gas was burning dimly, but when he had placed her
where he wished her to stand, he suddenly turned it up, and before
her, smiling into her eyes from the wall, were three exquisitely
finished oil portraits--her father and mother and Belle, looking
as she remembered them in their best and happiest days.
The effect upon her at first was almost overpowering. She sank into
a chair with heart far too full for words, and looked until tears
so blinded her eyes that she could see them no longer.
"Roger," she murmured, "it's almost the same as if you had brought
them back to life. Oh, Roger, God bless you--you have not banished
papa; you have made him look as he asked us to remember him," and
her tender grief became uncontrollable for a few moments.
"Don't cry so, Millie," he said gently. "Don't you see they are
smiling at you? Are the likenesses good?"
"They are lifelike," she answered after a little. "How could you
get them so perfect?"
"Belle and your mother gave me their pictures long ago, and you
remember that I once asked you for your father's likeness when I
was looking for him. There were some who could aid me if they knew
how he looked. Then you know my eye is rather correct, and I spent
a good deal of time with the artist. Between us we reached these
results, and it's a great happiness to me that they please you."
Her eyes were eloquent indeed as she said, in a low tone: "What a
loyal friend you are!"
He shook his head so significantly that a sudden crimson came
into her face, and she was glad that Mrs. Wheaton was busy in an
adjoining room. "Come," he said lightly, "you are neglecting other
friends;" and turning she saw fine photographs of Mr. Wentworth,
of Clara Wilson, Mrs. Wheaton, and her little brother and sister;
also oil portraits of Roger's relatives.
She went and stood before each one, and at last returned to her
own kindred, and her eyes began to fill again.
"How rich you are in these!" she at last said. "I have nothing but
little pictures."
"These are yours, Millie. When you are ready for them I shall place
them on your walls myself."
"Roger," she said a little brusquely, dashing the tears out of
her eyes, "don't do or say any more kind things to-night, or my
self-control will be all gone."
"On the contrary, I shall ask you to do me a kindness. Please sit
down on this low chair by the fire. Then I can add the last and
best picture to this family gallery."
She did so hesitatingly, and was provoked to find that her color
would rise as he leaned his elbow on the mantel and looked at her
intently. She could not meet his eyes, for there was a heart-hunger
in them that seemed to touch her very soul. "Oh," she thought, "why
doesn't he--why can't he get over it?" and her tears began to flow
so fast that he said lightly:
"That will do, Millie. I won't have that chair moved. Perhaps you
think an incipient lawyer has no imagination, but I shall see you
there to-morrow night. Come away now from this room of shadows.
Your first visit to me has cost you so many tears that you will
not come again."
"They are not bitter tears. It almost seems as if I had found the
treasures I had lost. So far from being saddened, I'm happier than
I've been since I lost them--at least I should be if I saw you
looking better. Roger, you are growing thin; you don't act like
your old self."
"Well, I won't work late at night any longer if you don't wish me
to," he replied evasively.
"Make me that promise," she pleaded eagerly.
"Any promise, Millie."
She wondered at the slight thrill with which her heart responded
to his low, deep tones.
In the library she became a different girl. A strange buoyancy
gave animation to her eyes and a delicate color to her face. She
did not analyze her feelings. Her determination that Roger should
have a pleasant evening seemed to her sufficient to account for
the shining eyes she saw reflected in a mirror, and her sparkling
words. She praised his selection of authors, though adding, with
a comical look, "You are right in thinking I don't know much about
them. The binding is just to my taste, whatever may be the contents
of some of these ponderous tomes. There are a good many empty
shelves, Roger."
"I don't intend to buy books by the cartload," he replied. "A
library should grow like the man who gathers it."
"Roger," she said suddenly, "I think I see some fancy work that
I recognize. Yes, here is more." Then she darted back into the
sitting-room. In a moment she returned exclaiming, "I believe the
house is full of my work."
"There is none of your work in the parlors, Millie."
She ignored the implied reproach in words, but could not wholly in
manner. "So you and Mrs. Wentworth conspired against me, and you
got the better of me after all. You were my magnificent patron.
How could you look me in the face all those months? How could you
watch my busy fingers, looking meanwhile so innocent and indifferent
to my tasks? I used to steal some hours from sleep to make you
little gifts for your bachelor room. They were not fine enough for
your lordship, I suppose. Have you given them away?"
"They are in my room upstairs. They are too sacred for use."
"Who ever heard of such a sentimental brother!" she said, turning
abruptly away.
Mrs. Wheaton was their companion now, and she soon gave the final
touches to a delicate little supper, which, with some choice flowers,
she had placed on the table. It was her purpose to wait upon them
with the utmost respect and deference, but Mildred drew her into
a chair, with a look that repaid the good soul a hundred times for
all the past.
"Roger," she said gayly, "Mrs. Wheaton says you don't eat much.
You must make up for all the past this evening. I'm going to help
you, and don't you dare to leave anything."
"Very well, I've made my will," he said, with a smiling nod.
"Oh, don't talk that way. How much shall I give the delicate creature,
Mrs. Wheaton? Look here, Roger, you should not take your meals in
a library. You are living on books, and are beginning to look like
their half-starved authors."
"You are right, Miss Millie. 'Alf the time ven I come to take havay
the thinks I finds 'im readin', and the wittles 'ardly touched."
"Men are such foolish, helpless things!" the young girl protested,
shaking her head reprovingly at the offender.
"I must have some company," he replied.
"Nonsense," she cried, veiling her solicitude under a charming
petulance. "Roger, if you don't behave better, you'll be a fit
subject for a hospital."
"If I can be sent to your ward I would ask nothing better," was
his quick response.
Again she was provoked at her rising color, for his dark eyes glowed
with an unmistakable meaning. She changed the subject by saying,
"How many pretty, beautiful, and costly things you have gathered
in this room already! How comes it that you have been so fortunate
in your selections?"
"The reason is simple. I have tried to follow your taste. We've
been around a great deal together, and I've always made a note of
what you admired."
"Flatterer," she tried to say severely.
"I wasn't flattering--only explaining."
"Oh dear!" she thought, "this won't do at all. This homelike house
and his loneliness in it will make me ready for any folly. Dear
old fellow! I wish he wasn't so set, or rather I wish I were old
and wrinkled enough to keep house for him now."
Conscious of a strange compassion and relenting, she hastened her
departure, first giving a wistful glance at the serene faces of
those so dear to her, who seemed to say, "Millie, we have found
the home of which you dreamed. Why are not you with us?"
Although she had grown morbid in the conviction that she could not,
and indeed ought not to marry Roger, she walked home with him that
night with an odd little unrest in her heart, and an unexpected
discontent with the profession that heretofore had so fully satisfied
her with its promise of independence and usefulness. Having spent
an hour or two in her duties at the hospital, however, she laughed
at herself as one does when the world regains its ordinary and
prosaic hues after an absorbing day-dream. Then the hurry and bustle
of the few days preceding her graduation almost wholly occupied
her mind.
A large and brilliant company was present in the evening on which
she received her diploma, for the Training School deservedly
excited the interest of the best and most philanthropic people in
the city. It was already recognized as the means of giving to women
one of the noblest and most useful careers in which they can engage.
Mildred's fine appearance and excellent record drew to her much
attention, and many sought an introduction. Mr. Wentworth beamed
on her, and was eloquent on the credit she had brought to him. Old
Mr. Arnold and Mrs. Sheppard spoke to her so kindly and gratefully
that her eyes grew tearful. Mrs. Wheaton looked on exultantly as
the proudest and richest sought the acquaintance of the girl who
had so long been like her own child.
But the first to reach and greet her when the formalities of the
evening were over was her old friend who had been Miss Wetheridge.
"We have just arrived from a long absence abroad," she exclaimed,
"and I'm glad and thankful to say that my husband's health is at
last restored. For the first year or two he was in such a critical
condition that I grew selfish in my absorption in his case, and
I neglected you--I neglected everybody and everything. Forgive
me, Mildred. I have not yet had time to ask your story from Mr.
Wentworth, but can see from the way he looks at you that you've
inflated him with exultation, and now I shall wait to hear all
from your own lips," and she made the girl promise to give her the
first hour she could spare.
In spite of all the claims upon her time and attention, Mildred's
eyes often sought Roger's face, and as often were greeted with a
bright, smiling glance, for he had determined that nothing should
mar her pleasure on this evening. Once, however, when he thought
himself unobserved, she saw a look of weariness and dejection that
smote her heart.
When the evening was quite well advanced she came to him and said,
"Won't you walk with me a little in this hallway, where we can be
somewhat by ourselves? It so happens that I must go on duty in a
few moments, and exchange this bright scene for a dim hospital ward;
but I love my calling, Roger, and never has it seemed so noble as
on this evening while listening to the physician who addressed us.
There is such a deep satisfaction in relieving pain and rescuing
life, or at least in trying to do so; and then one often has a
chance to say words that may bring lasting comfort. Although I am
without a home myself, you do not blame me that I am glad it is my
mission to aid in driving away shadows and fear from other homes?"
"I am homeless, too, Millie."
"You! in that beautiful house, with so many that you love looking
down upon you?"
"Walls and furniture cannot make a home; neither can painted
shadows of those far away. I say, Millie, how sick must a fellow
be in order to have a trained nurse?"
She turned a swift, anxious glance upon him. "Roger, tell me
honestly," she said, "are you well?"
"I don't know," he replied, in a low tone; "I fear I'll make you
ashamed of me. I didn't mean to be so weak, but I'm all unstrung
to-night. I'm losing courage--losing zest in life. I seem to have
everything, and my friends consider me one of the luckiest of men.
But all I have oppresses me and makes me more lonely. When I was
sharing your sorrows and poverty, I was tenfold happier than I am
now. I live in a place haunted by ghosts, and everything in life
appears illusive. I feel to-night as if I were losing you. Your
professional duties will take you here and there, where I cannot
see you very often."
"Roger, you trouble me greatly. You are not well at all, and your
extreme morbidness proves it."
"I know it's very unmanly to cloud your bright evening, but my
depression has been growing so long and steadily that I can't seem
to control it any more. There, Millie, the lady superintendent is
looking for you. Don't worry. You medical and scientific people
know that it is nothing but a torpid liver. Perhaps I may be ill
enough to have a trained nurse. You see I am playing a deep game,"
and with an attempt at a hearty laugh he said good-night, and she
was compelled to hasten away, but it was with a burdened, anxious
mind.
A few moments later she entered on her duties in one of the surgical
wards, performing them accurately from habit, but mechanically,
for her thoughts were far absent. It seemed to her that she was
failing one who had never failed her, and her self-reproach and
disquietude grew stronger every moment. "After all he has been to
me, can I leave him to an unhappy life?" was the definite question
that now presented itself. At last, in a respite from her tasks,
she sat down and thought deeply.
Roger, having placed Mrs. Wheaton in a carriage, was about to follow
on foot, when Mr. Wentworth claimed his attention for a time. At
last, after the majority of the guests had departed, he sallied
forth and walked listlessly in the frosty air that once had made
his step so quick and elastic. He had not gone very far before he
heard the sound of galloping horses, then the voices of women crying
for help. Turning back he saw a carriage coining toward him at
furious speed. A sudden recklessness was mingled with his impulse
to save those in extreme peril, and he rushed from the sidewalk,
sprang and caught with his whole weight the headgear of the horse
nearest to him. His impetuous onset combined with his weight checked
the animal somewhat, and before the other horse could drag him very
far, a policeman came to his aid, dealing a staggering blow behind
the beast's ear with his club, then catching the rein.
Roger's right arm was so badly strained that it seemed to fail
him, and before he could get out of the way, the rearing horse he
was trying to hold struck him down and trampled upon him. He was
snatched out from under the iron-shod hoofs by the fast gathering
crowd, but found himself unable to rise.
"Take me to Bellevue," he said decisively.
The hospital was not far away, and yet before an ambulance could
reach him he felt very faint.
Mildred sat in her little room that was partitioned off from the
ward. Her eyes were wide and earnest, but that which she saw was
not present to their vision.
Suddenly there were four sharp strokes of the bell from the hospital
gate, and she started slightly out of her revery, for the imperative
summons indicated a surgical case which might come under her care.
There was something so absorbing in the character of her thoughts,
however, that she scarcely heeded the fact that an ambulance dashed
in, and that the form of a man was lifted out and carried into the
central office. She saw all this obscurely from her window, but such
scenes had become too familiar to check a deep current of thought.
When, a few moments later, the male orderly connected with the
ward entered and said, "Miss Jocelyn, I've been down and seen the
books, and accordin' to my reckonin' we'll have that case," she
sprang up with alacrity, and began assuring herself that every
appliance that might be needed was in readiness. "I'm glad I must
be busy," she murmured, "for I'm so bewildered by my thoughts and
impulses in Roger's behalf, that it's well I must banish them until
I can grow calm and learn what is right."
The orderly was right, and the "case" just brought in was speedily
carried up on the elevator and borne toward the ward under her
charge. With the celerity of well-trained hands she had prepared
everything and directed that her new charge should be placed on a
cot near her room. She then advanced to learn the condition of the
injured man. After a single glance she sprang forward, crying,
"Oh, merciful Heaven! it's Roger!"
"You are acquainted with him then?" asked the surgeon who had
accompanied the ambulance, with much interest.
"He's my brother--he's the best friend I have in the world. Oh,
be quick--here. Gently now. O God, grant his life! Oh, oh, he's
unconscious; his coat is soaked with blood--but his heart is beating.
He will, oh, he will live; will he not?"
"Oh, yes, I think so, but the case was so serious that I followed.
You had better summon the surgeon in charge of this division, while
I and the orderly restore him to consciousness and prepare him for
treatment."
Before he ceased speaking Mildred was far on her way to seek the
additional aid.
When she returned Roger's sleeve had been removed, revealing
an ugly wound in the lower part of his left arm, cut by the cork
of a horseshoe, made long and sharp because of the iciness of the
streets. A tourniquet had been applied to the upper part of the
arm to prevent further hemorrhage, and under the administration of
stimulants he was giving signs of returning consciousness.
The surgeon in charge of the division soon arrived, and every effort
of modern skill was made in the patient's behalf. Bottles of hot
water were placed around his chilled and blood-drained form, and
spirits were injected hypodermically into his system. The fair
young nurse stood a little in the background, trembling in her
intense anxiety, and yet so trained and disciplined that with the
precision of a veteran she could obey the slightest sign from the
attendant surgeons. "He never failed me," she thought; "and if
loving care can save his life he shall have it night and day."
At last Roger knew her, and smiled contentedly; then closed his eyes
in almost mortal weariness and weakness. As far as he was able to
think at all, he scarcely cared whether he lived or died, since
Mildred was near him.
The physicians, after as thorough examination as was possible,
and doing everything in their power, left him with hopeful words.
The most serious features in the case were his loss of blood and
consequent great exhaustion. The division surgeon said that the
chief danger lay in renewed hemorrhage, and should it occur he
must be sent for at once, and then he left the patient to Mildred's
care, with directions as to stimulants and nourishment.
Mildred would not let Roger speak, and he lay in a dreamy, half-waking
condition of entire content. As she sat beside him holding his
hand, she was no longer in doubt. "My 'stupid old heart,' as Belle
called it, is awake at last," she thought. "Oh, how awful would
be my desolation if he should die! Now I know what he is to me.
I loved Vinton as a girl; I love Roger as a woman. Oh, how gladly
I'd take his place! What could I not sacrifice for him! Now I know
what he has suffered in his loneliness. I understand him at last.
I was hoping he would get over it--as if I could ever get over this!
He said he was losing his zest in life. Oh, what an intolerable
burden would his loss make of life for me! O God, spare him; surely
such love as this cannot be given to two human souls to be poured
out like water on the rock of a pitiless fate."
"Millie," said Roger faintly, "your hand seems alive, and its
pulsations send little thrills direct to my heart. Were it not for
your hand I would think my body already dead."
"Oh, Roger," she murmured, pressing her lips on his hand, "would
to God I could put my blood into your veins. Roger, dear beyond all
words, don't fail me, now that I need you as never before. Don't
speak, don't move. Just rest and gain. Hush, hush. Oh, be quiet! I
won't leave you until you are stronger, and I'll always be within
call."
"I'll mind, Millie. I was never more contented in my life."
Toward morning he seemed better and stronger, and she left him a
few moments to attend to some other duties. When she returned she
saw to her horror that hemorrhage had taken place, and that his
arm was bleeding rapidly. She sprang to his side, and with trained
skill pressed her fingers on the brachial artery, thus stopping
further loss of blood instantly. Then calling to the orderly, she
told him to lose not a second in summoning the surgeon.
Roger looked up into her terror-stricken face, and said quietly,
"Millie, I'm not afraid to die. Indeed I half think it's best. I
couldn't go on in the old way much longer--"
"Hush, hush," she whispered.
"No," he said decisively, "my mission to you is finished. You will
be an angel of mercy all your days, but I find that after all my
ambitious dreams I'm but an ordinary man. You are stronger, nobler
than I am. You are a soldier that will never be defeated. You
think to save my life by holding an artery, but the wound that was
killing me is in my heart. I don't blame you, Millie--I'm weak--I'm
talking at random--"
"Roger, Roger, I'm not a soldier. I am a weak, loving woman. I love
you with my whole heart and soul, and if you should not recover you
will blot the sun out of my sky. I now know what you are to me. I
knew it the moment I saw your unconscious face. Roger, I love you
now with a love like your own--only it must be greater, stronger,
deeper; I love you as a woman only can love. In mercy to me, rally
and live--LIVE!"
He looked at her earnestly a moment, and then a glad smile lighted
up his face.
"I'll live now," he said quietly. "I should be dead indeed did I
not respond to that appeal."
The surgeon appeared speedily, and again took up and tied the
artery, giving stimulants liberally. Roger was soon sleeping with
a quietude and rest in his face that assured Mildred that her words
had brought balm and healing to a wound beyond the physician's
skill, and that he would recover. And he did gain hourly from the
time she gave him the hope for which he had so long and so patiently
waited. It must be admitted that he played the invalid somewhat, for
he was extremely reluctant to leave the hospital until the period
of Mildred's duties expired.
A few months later, with Mrs. Heartwold--the Miss Wetheridge of
former days--by her side, she was driven to Roger's house--her home
now. The parlors were no longer empty, and she had furnished them
with her own refined and delicate taste. But not in the midst of
their beauty and spaciousness was she married. Mr. Wentworth stood
beneath the portraits of her kindred, and with their dear faces
smiling upon her she gave herself to Roger. Those she loved best
stood around her, and there was a peace and rest in her heart that
was beyond joy.
When all were gone, Roger wheeled the low chair to its old place
beside the glowing fire, and said:
"Millie, at last we both have a home. See how Belle is smiling at
us."
"Dear sister Belle," Mildred murmured, "her words have come true.
She said, Roger, when I was fool enough to detest you, that you
'would win me yet,' and you have--all there is of me."
Roger went and stood before the young girl's smiling face, saying
earnestly:
"Dear little Belle, 'we SHALL have good times together yet,' or
else the human heart with its purest love and deepest yearning is
a lie."
Then turning, he took his wife in his arms and said, "Millie darling,
we shall never be without a home again. Please God it shall be here
until we find the better home of Heaven."
APPENDIX
Christian men and women of New York, you--not the shopkeepers--are
chiefly to blame for the barbarous practice of compelling women,
often but growing girls, to stand from morning until evening, and
often till late in the night. The supreme motive of the majority
of the men who enforce this inhuman regulation is to make money.
Some are kind-hearted enough to be very willing that their saleswomen
should sit down if their customers would tolerate the practice, and
others are so humane that they grant the privilege without saying,
By your leave, to their patrons.
There is no doubt where the main responsibility should be placed
in this case.
Were even the intoxicated drayman in charge of a shop, when sober
he would have sufficient sense not to take a course that would
drive from him the patronage of the "best and wealthiest people
in town." Upon no class could public opinion make itself felt more
completely and quickly than upon retail merchants. If the people had
the humanity to say, We will not buy a dime's worth at establishments
that insist upon a course at once so unnatural and cruel, the evil
would be remedied speedily. Employers declare that they maintain
the regulation because so many of their patrons require that the
saleswoman shall always be standing and ready to receive them.
It is difficult to accept this statement, but the truth that the
shops wherein the rule of standing is most rigorously enforced are
as well patronized as others is scarcely a less serious indictment,
and it is also a depressing proof of the strange apathy on the
question.
No labored logic is needed to prove the inherent barbarity of the
practice. Let any man or woman--even the strongest--try to stand as
long as these frail, underfed girls are required to be upon their
feet, and he or she will have a demonstration that can never be
forgotten. In addition, consider the almost continual strain on
the mind in explaining about the goods and in recommending them,
in making out tickets of purchase correctly while knowing that
any errors will be charged against their slender earnings, or more
than made good by fines. What is worse, the organs of speech are
in almost constant exercise, and all this in the midst of more or
less confusion. The clergyman, the lecturer, is exhausted after an
hour of speech. Why are not their thunders directed against the
inhumanity of compelling women to spend ten or twelve hours of
speech upon their feet? The brutal drayman was arrested because he
was inflicting pain on a sentient being. Is not a woman a sentient
being? and is any one so ignorant of physiology as not to have some
comprehension of the evils which must result in most cases from
compelling women--often too young to be mature--to stand, under
the trying circumstances that have been described?
An eminent physician in New York told me that ten out of twelve
must eventually lose their health; and a proprietor of one of the
shops admitted to me that the girls did suffer this irreparable loss,
and that it would be better for them if they went out to service.
The fact that cashiers who sit all day suffer more than those who
stand proves nothing against the wrong of the latter practice.
It only shows that the imperative law of nature, especially for
the young, is change, variety. Why not accept the fact, and be as
considerate of the rights of women as of horses, dogs, and cats?
While making my investigations on this subject, I asked a gentleman
who was in charge of one of the largest retail shops in the city,
on what principle he dealt with this question. "On the principle of
humanity," he replied. "I have studied hygienic science, and know
that a woman can't stand continuously except at the cost of serious
ill-health."
Later I asked the proprietor if he did not think that his humanity
was also the best business policy, for the reason that his employes
were in a better condition to attend to their duties.
"No," he said; "on strict business principles I would require
constant standing; but this has no weight with me, in view of the
inhumanity of such a rule. If I had the room for it in the store,
I'd give all my employes a good slice of roast beef at noon; but
I have not, and therefore I give them plenty of time for a good
lunch."
The manager of another establishment, which was furnished with
ample means of rest for the girls, said to me, "A man that compels
a girl to stand all day ought to be flogged."
He also showed me a clean, comfortable place in the basement in
which the girls ate their lunches. It was supplied with a large
cooking-stove, with a woman in constant attendance. Each girl had
her own tea or coffee-pot, and time was given for a substantial and
wholesome meal. I would rather pay ten per cent more for goods at
such shops than to buy them at others where women are treated as
the cheapest kind of machines, that are easily replaced when broken
down.
Granting, for the sake of argument, that customers may not be waited
on quite so promptly, and that the impression of a brisk business
may not be given if many of the girls are seated, these are not
sufficient reasons for inflicting torment on those who earn their
bread in shops. I do not and cannot believe, however, that the rule
is to the advantage of either employer or customer in the long run.
It is not common-sense that a girl, wearied almost beyond endurance,
and distracted by pain, can give that pleasant, thoughtful attention
to the purchaser which she could bestow were she in a normal
condition. At very slight expense the proprietors of large shops
could give all their employes a generous plate of soup and a cup
of good tea or coffee. Many bring meagre and unwholesome lunches;
more dine on cake, pastry, and confectionery. These ill-taught girls
are just as prone to sin against their bodies as the better-taught
children of the rich. If employers would give them something
substantial at midday, and furnish small bracket seats which could
be pulled out and pushed back within a second of time, they would
find their business sustained by a corps of comfortable, cheerful,
healthful employes; and such a humane, sensible policy certainly
ought to be sustained by all who have any sympathy with Mr. Bergh.
The belief of many, that the majority of the girls are broken down
by dissipation, is as superficial as it is unjust. Undoubtedly,
many do carry their evening recreation to an injurious excess, and
some place themselves in the way of temptations which they have
not the strength to resist; but every physician knows that some
recreation, some relief from the monotony of their hard life,
is essential. Otherwise, they would grow morbid in mind as well
as enfeebled in body. The crying shame is that there are so few
places where these girls can go from their crowded tenement homes
and find innocent entertainment. Their dissipations are scarcely
more questionable, though not so elegantly veneered, as those of
the fashionable, nor are the moral and physical effects much worse.
But comparatively few would go to places of ill-repute could they
find harmless amusements suited to their intelligence and taste.
After much investigation, I am satisfied that in point of morals
the working-women of New York compare favorably with any class in
the world. To those who do not stand aloof and surmise evil, but
who acquaint themselves with the facts, it is a source of constant
wonder that in their hard and often desperate struggle for bread
they still maintain so high a standard.
Tenement life with scanty income involves many shadows at best,
but in the name of manhood I protest against taking advantage of
the need of bread to inflict years of pain and premature death.
We all are involved in this wrong to the degree that we sustain
establishments from which a girl is discharged if she does not or
cannot obey a rule which it would be torture for us to keep.
I shall be glad, indeed, if these words hasten by one hour the time
when from the temple of human industry all traders shall be driven
out who thrive on the agonies of girls as frail and impoverished
as Mildred Jocelyn.
THE END