It was June before the little Frenchwoman would hear to Margaret’s making any effort to dispose of her produce in her own way. Regularly every morning Lizzette boarded the four-o’clock train for the city with her boxes of produce, which she pushed to the train in the hand-cart and wheeled from the train to her stall in the market. Until now the amount yielded by Margaret’s garden had been small in bulk, but so well had it thrived under Lizzette’s management and the comparatively good season, that the more bulky vegetables, such as spinach, peas, beans, etc., were coming on, and Lizzette found the yield of the two gardens more than she could well manage in her small way. Margaret, appalled somewhat, for all her courage, at having to face the multitude in a stall at the market, was for disposing of her produce to the commission merchants on South M—— Street.
“Non,” said Lizzette emphatically. “Zere ees no money in zat. You make consignment and more likely zan not get back ze whole stuff wilted and good for nosing. I tried zat to my sorrow. In ze stall you sell all at some price. You no carry home ze stuff again.”
“I know,” said Margaret doubtfully, “but truly I dread my ignorance and the contact with things wholly unfamiliar.”
“Ah, ze little brown Frenchwoman haf no such fear, and she forget ze girlhood so long temps! Zare ees Gilbert—ees he not old enough? I take him under my wing, and he sall learn ze tricks of trade. N’est-ce pas?”
“I will go with you to-morrow,” said Margaret, “for I must conquer my dread. Perhaps some time Gilbert shall take my place.”
Nothing in the line of work had ever seemed so distasteful to Margaret as wheeling the little hand-cart through the streets of the city, and taking her place within the stall next to Lizzette’s. It was early when they reached the market, and the buyers were not out in full force; nevertheless Margaret fancied she saw in every eye that lingered on her an impertinent curiosity. Self-consciousness was the least of her failings; but there was an almost unacknowledged protest at being compelled to stand up before the gaze of hundreds and volubly offer her small wares for sale. Duty certainly wore her most uninviting aspect that morning, and came nearer finding Margaret a coward than ever before. She had never as yet shrunk from any work, however menial; but there was a vast difference between performing that work within the seclusion of home, cheered and upheld by an atmosphere of love and appreciation that made “the dignity of labor” something more than the radiant utterance of some visionary pedant, and standing in the full gaze of the public, subjected to the whims, avarice, snobbishness, and impertinence of the pushing, merciless multitude. Oh, how she shrank from it all! How had she ever thought it possible to have strength for such work? Lizzette’s quick eyes noticed the constraint of Margaret’s manner, and she undertook, by a display of more than ordinary volubility and gayety, to dispel the gloom that wrapped her. She bustled about, changing the position of that bunch of onions or radishes, this head of lettuce, or endeavoring to display more temptingly the measures of spinach, peas, beans, etc. More than one would-be buyer halted, gazed at the silent figure and white face, and passed on.
“Zis will nevair do,” interposed Lizzette in a whisper. “You look truly seek; sit down here behind ze cart, and I sell for bof of us. Vous avez ze paleness I no like to see. Ze work ees too hard.”
Margaret shook herself together with an effort. No, she would not be beaten back at the first step; it would be degrading. The mutiny in her breast, whatever it was, whether a hitherto unknown undercurrent of false pride or a new and abnormal sensitiveness, must be conquered. With a smile that was almost pitiful in its attempted bravery she said: “No, Lizzette; it is now or never. You will soon see what a brave market-woman I will make. I shall make a sale to the next comer. Good-morning, madam! How can I serve you?” she asked, as a woman who wore diamonds and silk approached and sniffed contemptuously above the little display of greenery.
“Dear me! You don’t seem to have anything fit for a pig to eat,” said the woman as with ungloved hand flashing with diamonds she deliberately reached for a measure of spinach, and turned it bottom side up on the little counter.
“I presume not,” said Margaret, quietly picking up the spinach and restoring it to its place. “We don’t sell to pigs here.”
“H’m! impertinent!” and with a haughty stare into Margaret’s face, the diamonds and silk passed on. Lizzette was convulsed with laughter. Margaret stole a quick glance at her, and the white scorn of her face lit up with a smile.
“That was a tonic, Lizzette,” she said. “I shall do better next time.”
A second later a sweet-faced little matron stopped at the counter, asked for prices, made her selection, and looking earnestly at Margaret, said: “You are a newcomer here. I know all the old faces.”
“It is my first effort.”
“And you find it hard?”
“A little. I shall get used to it.”
“Ah, yes, we get used to almost everything in this world. I shall remember you and look for you to-morrow. Good morning.” And with a slight bow the little matron took up her purchases and went on her way.
Margaret’s face softened as she glanced at Lizzette. “Eet ees not all bad,” Lizzette found time to whisper.
“No,” said Margaret, “a little smile lightens the whole world.”
When the market hours were over, Margaret, to her surprise, found that she had sold out her little stock, and Lizzette was voluble in praise of her ability as a saleswoman. The generous hearted little Frenchwoman had nothing to say of the numberless ways in which she had contrived to bring Margaret’s supplies within the notice of purchasers. Margaret went home with a lighter heart. After all, nothing was ever quite so hard when once the shoulder had been put to the wheel. Yet it was a white, tired face that greeted the three who at Idlewild were anxiously awaiting the result of the experiment.
“O Meg!” cried Elsie apprehensively. “You have gone beyond your strength, and I am to blame for coaxing you into this move. I am going to take your place.”
“No, indeed,” said Margaret decisively; “I’ll not hear one word to it. This is my work until I have mastered it and am ready to give it up to Gilbert.”
They knew persuasions were useless, and so she was left to work out the problem upon which she was just entering. It did not grow any easier as the weeks and months progressed. She never could quite put down the mute protest that arose within her against a conscious unsuitability for such work. It was always distasteful to her to mingle with the jostling crowd and urge upon fault-finding buyers the excellence of her wares; but she resolutely choked back revolt, and finding that she was gaining customers who grew to like the simple earnestness of her manner and to rely upon the exactness of her word and measure, and that there was at least a living profit in her calling, she learned to endure all its unpleasantness with no word of complaint. How bravely she bore it all no one guessed except Lizzette, who witnessed daily the struggle going on in the girl’s breast.
“Ze instinct of ze lady rebelled, but ze heart of ze woman bear,” she said sententiously.
The summer passed away quickly and uneventfully; the daily round of duties, of self-improvement, of little moments of relaxation over Elsie’s organ or Antoine’s violin, making the days bright with widening hope and prospects.
One late October evening, while Elsie and Antoine were filling the little house with music and Gilbert was buried in a book, Margaret seated herself before her father’s desk and began a letter to Dr. Ely.
“In fulfilment of my promise, I inclose a summary of our summer’s work. You will see that financially we are a trifle ahead. This is due to the wise forethought of our good friend Dr. Ely and the management of our wonderful little Frenchwoman. When I look at my own work, I realize that I have been but the obedient machine of wiser calculation than I could possibly have evinced, and I take no credit to myself for this happy state of our affairs. Much as I believe in and preach the independence of the individual, I realize more and more the absolute need of interdependent friendship. It is impossible to find healthy life in the isolation of self; and yet it is in the development of self that we reach the highest capability for perfect friendship. The wisdom of others has benefited me largely this summer. Through others’ eyes I have seen with clearer vision many things which my own inexperience would have shown me but dimly. I feel that I have grown stronger and more steadfast by reason of this friendship that came like a waft of summer wind across my barren pathway; and that I may properly render unto Cæsar, I hereby make my acknowledgments for numberless good offices at your hands.
“As regards the garden, the hot-beds are made ready for the winter’s sowing, and we have built a substantial hen-house and a miniature duck-pond at the foot of the raspberry patch. The yield of berries this summer was inconsiderable, owing to the vigorous pruning given to the bushes, but the growth has been fine. The trellises are all in good shape and we hope for a substantial return next summer.
“My experiment with Aunt Liza and Eph, about which I wrote you, has not been highly successful. Between the two they have managed to save about five dollars, and I’ve no doubt the community will be called upon as usual to keep the breath of life in their poor bodies until spring. For my part, since they are both able-bodied I shall give nothing. Whatever help I offer they must be made to pay for in some shape, since in that way only can they be taught independence and responsibility, and something like a solution be made of this problem of the poor whom we have always with us.
“As regards my market business, I do not think I am calculated for trade. The peculiar isolation of my life has unfitted me for contact with many-sided humanity, and for that reason I tie myself to it with a self-immolation of an Indian devotee. With not only my own way to make in the world, but that of Elsie and Gilbert, I can afford no mawkish shrinking from unpleasant things. It will never be a pleasant business for me, but as I find the newness wearing off, it grows more bearable. I have established a regular line of good customers who seem always well suited; have quite a trade in butter, which I buy from the farmers’ wives hereabout, and a slight output of eggs and chickens from our own hennery. Eph has promised to keep me supplied for the winter with game, and Lizzette and I will make our trips at six o’clock instead of four as the weather grows colder. So much for material matters.
“In our Home Club we have done fairly well. We have finished United States history, taken up the first principles of political economy, made some studies in Shakespeare and ‘Ivanhoe’ and ‘Adventures of Philip,’ tried Browning and discarded him—our practical life is too short to spend in solving enigmas that, however charming they may be as poetical conceptions, have nothing perceptible to teach us—and by way of dessert, with Ruskin to fall back on, have taken up some slight studies in æstheticism, the material result of which has been innumerable ‘love bags,’ impossible ‘head-rests,’ and indescribable nothings on Elsie’s part. The best part of our efforts, however, has been the practical value of our discussions following the presentation of a ‘blossom’ or thought by each member. You will recall my previous letter regarding this. Out of this discussion has come wisdom, even beyond our hopes, and strength greater than our own. We scorn nothing here, not the simplest wayside weed, and we have learned much from each other and research. Antoine is making marvellous progress in his music. Already he is interpreting Bach and Handel, and even venturing into snatches of original composition. The lad’s soul seems to have been lit at the altar of music; for on no ordinary presumption can one compute his wonderful development. Strength and a greater degree of comeliness seems to have come into his long thin arms and bent shoulders, while there is a constant glow in his dark eyes and an unusual gayety in his laugh. Lizzette is in a fervor of happiness and pride, and seems not to be able to do enough for us. Elsie has caught Antoine’s faculty for whistling, and often makes a good second to the bird-like notes with which he accompanies his violin. It is a rare treat to listen to them as I am listening now—Elsie at the organ, Antoine with his violin nestled lovingly under his chin, and his deft bow bringing out with marvellous power its almost human tones, and both whistling! Elsie grows daily more charming and more expansive, and music seems to be with her, as with Antoine, the expression of much that is restless, wayward, and beautiful in her soul. Gilbert is docile and patient; but I notice a growing uneasiness and distaste for his work that must be met and overcome in some way. I have been thinking of putting him in the manual-training school in the city, but have not yet solved the problem of ways and means. I think you may perhaps be pained to find that we do not attend church. In the first place, the purchase of the organ rendered necessary the most rigid economy in dress—in fact, Elsie and I wear nothing but calico, and Gilbert’s clothes are growing decidedly seedy. In the second place, we went once to St. Paul’s, in the city, and have had no heart to go since. My poor father long before his death used to declaim against the growing tendency to exclusiveness in the churches. In the simplicity of my country living, I thought him unnecessarily apprehensive. The house of God was indeed to me so much a sanctuary I thought worldliness was left at the outer door; but I found my mistake upon entering the door of St. Paul’s. The free seats, high-backed and uncushioned, were portioned off from the others with a wide aisle. In them were gathered a little handful of people like ourselves, evidently the world’s toilers and God’s poor. The cushioned seats were filled with a richly-dressed congregation. The altar was superbly decorated in white and gold, and the clergyman, as white and high-bred-looking as his æsthetic surroundings, preached a sermon on the ‘Beauty of the ideal.’ He found his text in the Bible, but he found nothing else there. The Bread of Life was not in it. I glanced around the congregation; those in the free seats sat with blankly staring countenances, evidently victims to a sense of duty. The occupants of the cushioned seats leaned luxuriously back and listened with a well-bred air of interest; but as far as I could see not one face glowed with an intensity of feeling or asked for anything more than the rhetorical flourish. We remained through the communion service, but did not partake of it. I think the divine symbols would have choked me, my heart was so hot and bitter within me. Clearly my father was right. The church of to-day is not for the masses, nor of the masses, and yet I feel sure that there is a great heart of humanity underlying all this worldliness, and perhaps waiting patiently for the time to ripen when the crust of wealth-worship, caste, and place-hunting shall be burned through with the white heat of its fires. God loves his chosen, and they are of all the earth; some day he shall call them together! We spend our Sundays at home. Elsie and Antoine render beautifully those old arks of safety, ‘Come! Ye Disconsolate’ and ‘Jesus, Lover of My Soul.’ We read, talk, study, and open our hearts to the sweet graces of love and charity, and so we forget that outside there is a world which scorns our poverty and our calloused hands. Once in a while, drawn by the music, old Aunt Liza and Eph—who by the way begrudges the Sunday that takes him away from his hunting—make an addition to our number. I don’t try to do any so-called missionary work with them, although Eph says suspiciously he ‘specs dat’s what it all means, anyhow!’ On the whole, life is very pleasant with us. I am growing so accustomed to its methodical rounds that I have no time for anything like regret or vain aspirations.
“With the best wishes for the prosperity of the school and the welfare of our good friend Dr. Ely, I am
Sincerely your friend,
“MARGARET MURCHISON.”