It did not take long to settle the little four-roomed house, for Dr. Ely proved himself an every-day worker. The week that had passed since he had left his school had been full of business. The purpose which he saw in Margaret and Elsie had awakened a new interest in his life, and to see that their feet were firmly fixed in the way they had marked out for themselves seemed to him the task, as well as the pleasure, of an elder brother. Looking upon life as the vast field from which should spring all that is highest of development and achievement in humanity, he was touched with the hope of being a factor in the ambitious purposes of these inexperienced and well-nigh friendless girls. He believed fully in allowing to each individual soul the opportunities for measuring its own power, and while a certain sense of loss came upon him when he realized that the expectation of taking Margaret into his own life could not be fulfilled, he felt ennobled and strengthened by the desire to be one with her in her efforts of self-advancement. “Not now, not now; but some time, perhaps,” he said to his heart, and during his week of early and late work not one word or look of his had disturbed the serenity of Margaret’s mind. He had been solely and simply the elder brother on whose experience and friendly aid she could rely. Now, however, the little home was in order; the tiny sitting-room with its painted and polished floor, its bright rugs, its gayly-cushioned Boston rockers, its hassocks that served the double duty of seats and boot-boxes, and last, but not least, its revolving book-case with the few of the well-known volumes which Margaret had selected from her father’s library and which Dr. Ely had supplemented with some contributions of his own. These were principally works on art and the intellect, by Ruskin, Hammerton, and others, and a few books of poetry by Dante Rossetti, Keats, Tennyson, and a superb édition de luxe of “Aurora Leigh.” They were all seated in this room surveying its finishing touches the evening previous to Dr. Ely’s departure for A—.
“Well, it is pleasant,” he exclaimed. “I shall carry its memory with me when I go, and in imagination behold you seated every evening around the open stove, feasting on the contents of this handy little book-case. I shall remember how white the curtains are, how dainty the table scarfs and the head-rests of the chairs, and how really fine those oleographs and photogravures on the wall appear in the glow of the fire-light, and I shall fancy you are all taking on flesh and good spirits under the inspiration of Elsie’s cooking.”
“You are very kind not to insinuate one word about dyspepsia,” answered Elsie demurely. “But I am really enthusiastic over my promised lessons in that grand art, as madam so grandiloquently calls it. You know some people are born great, and I really feel that I am destined to achieve my highest expression in an apostleship to the pots and pans of the kitchen. Like the starveling poet of the story-books, I shall doubtless astonish the world when the flame of my soul has burst into a dish fit to set before a king.”
“You are somewhat mixed as to metaphor,” exclaimed Margaret with a laugh.
“Well, I hope to mix more than metaphors by-and-by. But tell me, Dr. Ely, are you conscious of either an aching void or an aching fulness, whichever dyspepsia happens to be, since you sat under my dispensation?”
“I haven’t had such an appetite in years. I don’t in the least question your genius for cookery, and when you have learned to make something out of nothing with a ravishing French name and taste, you can count on achieving a world-wide fame.”
“Fame? a bauble! I look only to the expression of my art,” and Elsie rolled up her eyes and shrugged her shapely shoulders with an abandon of French mannerism that was as startling as it was amusing. Something in Margaret’s apprehensive glance caught the doctor’s quick eye. What wonderful fire and keenness lay in the little girl’s mobile face. Ah, well, Margaret was right; there was work for her here. With an abruptness that seemed almost harsh he spoke:
“He ‘jests at scars that never felt a wound.’ Art, Miss Elsie, in its entirety is deep, and high, and long, and men have sought it, and with palsied finger on the pulse of time have died unanswered.”
The laughing eyes of Elsie grew suddenly grave. “Dear me, one can’t be enthusiastic nowadays without finding a wet blanket thrown over her at the first step. Nevertheless I don’t intend to wear cap and spectacles until long after my humble divinity has crowned me mistress. My ambition is such a simple one—just to tickle the palates of my little world. Now, doctor, don’t discourage me.”
“Not for the world. Epicurus, if he were here, would doubtless pronounce a benediction on your ambition, and I am not sure that your purpose does not already deserve a laurel leaf, for it has been more than once reiterated that the crying need of the day is good cookery.”
“Thanks. I am glad that my mission has the support of the public mind, or palate. Either will do, I suppose. But how is it with you, Meg? I haven’t heard you declare as yet for any reform.”
“I am not so sure of my mission as you are of yours, nor so confident of being born to greatness.”
“That’s bad. One surely ought to believe in herself if she expects to get on. Perhaps the doctor can help your indecision.”
There was a mischievous twinkle in Elsie’s eyes that was not lost on the doctor, but with the utmost gravity he replied: “Well, yes, I think I can. It will be a mission worth while to learn the problem of self-support and self-education under adverse circumstances. It will need something more than enthusiasm.”
“A patience and a finesse of which I am not sure I am master. I am only mutely feeling my way now. Indeed, the doctor has lifted so much responsibility from my shoulders in this new venture that I hardly know what I can do.”
“You will know when the opportunity comes to act. Just now you needed the little friendly direction I am very glad I was able to offer. There are times when even the strongest are not wholly self-reliant.”
Tears stood in Margaret’s eyes as she answered: “How unblessed is he who can make no claim on loyal friendship. May I always prove myself worthy of it.”
“We’ll not question that now, nor in the future,” said the doctor, a glow of light in his eyes that watching Elsie did not fail to note. “Now, tell me your plan for making use of this mine,” he added, touching the book-case at his right hand.
“I’ve been thinking we must get at the nuggets with as little delay as possible, for we haven’t time to bore through worthless drifts of scoria, even though at the bottom may be a mine of wealth. We must make practical and immediate use of what we learn.”
“True,” interposed the doctor as Margaret looked up interrogatively. “I am deeply interested.”
“This, then, is what I’ve been thinking: every thought of other minds from which we can draw sustenance must be drained of its nutriment before we seek another, and that thought must be made to bear relatively upon our own. In other words, it must father a new growth in our own minds, for in that way only can education have any practical bearing upon life and action.”
“Excellent!” exclaimed the doctor warmly. “Go on, please.”
Margaret’s cheek flushed as she complied. “It is my purpose, then, in this home symposium to bring no thought that we cannot healthfully digest. Occult research is only for the man of leisure. This is the first principle that shall govern our intellectual feast. The second shall be the democracy of our purpose, or, in other words, the hand-to-hand start we shall make in our race for knowledge. No one shall be debarred because he has not learned the alphabet of reason; we will give him the chance to learn it. The third requirement will be only good moral character,” and Margaret finished with a laugh.
“Regardless of social position, remember, doctor,” exclaimed Elsie. “In short, Margaret has sketched the outlines of a new aristocracy, wherein moral worth and purpose count first, with brain and healthy digestion a good second, and where wealth doesn’t stand any show at all.”
“You forget that is the goal toward which the first two tend,” said Margaret eagerly. “An aristocracy founded on those principles could not be an insecure one—could it, doctor?”
“It is admirable as a dream, and as a dream impracticable, I fear.”
“By no means,” said Elsie as she noticed the shadow that crossed Margaret’s face at the doctor’s words. “You forget that it concerns only three people. We shall reform the world chiefly by beginning to reform ourselves. Nothing could so suit our Eutopian ideas as to call it ‘A New Aristocracy.’”
“An aristocracy of potato diggers!” exclaimed Gilbert, looking up from his book.
“Exactly. We have a right to a kingdom of our own within these walls. Our fame and our pride need not go beyond them.”
“Safe enough on that score,” said Gilbert ironically.
“Well,” said the doctor merrily, “I shall count myself one of the aristocrats even when miles away.”
“But I haven’t told you all my plan yet,” said Margaret. “It concerns this very potato-digging that to Gilbert seems so incongruous with our high purposes. On the principle that everything we have is the product of the earth, there is nothing out of proportion in even potato diggers striving for the highest development, and as our impressions all come to us from our contact with every-day things, we shall find an astonishing philosophy grow out of potato-digging if we look for it. In my endeavors to carry out the behests underlying the propagation of plants, I expect to find questions that will lead me into as yet unexplored paths, and I shall endeavor to treasure up these questions and their answers if they can be found. I shall exact the same process of reasoning from all the members of our circle, and shall expect every evening to be regaled by Elsie with a philosophical monologue on the amount of nutriment there is in an egg or the exhilaration to be derived from the dish-pan.”
“Then you will be disappointed. My ideas are not perennial; but if I chance to evolve some flavor that a Frenchman would doubtless call ‘heavenly,’ you may look for a harangue.”
“A practical school of philosophy it seems to shadow forth; but the proof of the pudding is in the eating, you know,” said the doctor with a smile.
“I don’t underrate the difficulties in the way; but I think we three ought to be able to do something with ourselves on that basis,” said Margaret.
“Certainly,” replied the doctor. “And I shall endeavor to remodel my own work from the same standpoint. I have been a dreamer and an enthusiast, and it has remained for an untried girl to show the practical application of my dreams. I shall go home a wiser man.”
“You frighten me, doctor, with the seriousness of that statement. It is all untried as yet,” exclaimed Margaret in evident distress.
“True; but I can see its first steps. After these the way may open wider and clearer. It is certainly worth trying.”
With this indorsement Margaret felt satisfied, and there was color in her cheeks and brilliancy in her eyes as she and the doctor talked long and animatedly until late in the evening. Gilbert had stolen away to bed and Elsie was deep in a novel of Antoine’s.
“I shall have to shake myself well together when I get home,” said the doctor, when they discovered the lateness of the hour. “I’ve been living a new life and the old one will seem strange.”
It was hard for Margaret to acknowledge even to herself after the doctor’s departure that she felt lonely and uneasy; but somehow she missed the careful forethought that had been as new as it had been unexpected. It was a strange experience in her barren life, and scold herself as she might, she could not find it unpleasant. But for the present she would not, she might not indulge in dreams. A work that might stretch into years lay before her. That done—well, how strong is faith? A new beauty, however, stole into her face; its somewhat stern lines relaxed, and tender, almost pathetic, little curves grew about the corners of the firmly-set lips. It was quite apparent to those who knew her that the calm reliance of her nature had been disturbed by something strange and sweet, yet not even Elsie guessed its full meaning.