To Margaret alone Elsie opened the flood-gates of her heart, and it was only after days of overwhelming grief that she could again take up the burden of life. Margaret’s tears of sisterly sympathy and words of counsel could not at first still the torrent of heart-broken tears with which she mourned her lost love. Not even Herbert had known how precious it had been to her—how everything high and holy had seemed to be the offspring of that vitalizing force in her heart. Now, because having lived up to its highest revelations and endeavored to be true to its holiest purposes, she had crossed a counter-current of thought and will, this love had been taken from her. Had she been wrong, opinionated, obstinate, as Herbert called her? Had she forgotten the sweet submission of the weaker unto the stronger in that natural order of divine and human love which popular clamor voices as the proper sphere of woman? Often as she asked herself these questions—and with the not unnatural hope of finding herself in the wrong, since her heart prompted the slave-like humility of a perfect love—just so often conscience answered, “No!” Stronger still, as she reasoned, grew the feeling that her soul had a right to its own individuality, and that whatever it cost her, she had no right to bind its wings, even though the fetters were silken and lightly held by the hand of love. Neither Margaret, Lizzette, Antoine, nor Gilbert dared offer a verbal sympathy to the sore heart behind the white, set face that confronted them when Elsie had fought her battle alone. The sparkle was irretrievably gone from the dark eyes, and the curved lips drooped pitifully at times; but in all the earnestness of purpose, the kindliness of spirit, she was still the same Elsie.
The work of the Children’s Home Meetings grew almost hourly under her efforts; for now that she had sacrificed her heart on the altar of this work, she meant to make the sacrifice acceptable in its good results. Every hour that she and Margaret could snatch from the demands of their daily work, they spent in forming what they called “Conscience Classes.” The system of ethics taught was as simple as the minds with which they came in contact, and bore the stamp of the ever-living truth. The magnetic presence of the four chief workers grew to be a living delight to all who came from motives of curiosity or interest within its circle. Beginning at first only with what Herbert had been pleased to term “the riff-raff of society,” the circumference of the circle had gradually widened until a better-educated and more self-respecting class had found its way among them. Yet even with intelligence gaining upon them, the one great need of basing all reform, all happiness, all prosperity upon the code of ethics which, while it demands the highest development of the individual, yet takes its inspiration from the thought of a common welfare, was never lost sight of. Earnestness is the great lever of the world, and while there were many to oppose the idea as of disproportionate value to the need and development of the times, the effort still found many adherents. To be called cranks, laughed at by unbelievers, and derided by the class for which nothing is holy but success, came to be, as Elsie said, “normal as the air they breathed;” but after the first sharp sting these shafts remained unnoticed, and the one or two perishing ones uplifted, helped into the light and warmed by the sunshine of human kindliness into a knowledge of the great inspirer of their work, was balm enough to heal all the wounds of a scoffing world.
Margaret had also formed a Mother’s Class, in which everything pertaining to motherhood and its duties, was thoughtfully discussed. This class came in time to be presided over by Mrs. Carson, who, partially recovered, found no greater delight than in seconding the good work which had saved her in her hour of need. The Daughters of the Carpenter was a class headed by Elsie and especially devoted to helpfulness wherever it was needed. A list of the regular attendants of the meeting was kept, and if a mother was found to be sick or overworked, some one of the Daughters was appointed to render the needed assistance. Among the men and elder boys Gilbert formed a reading class, in which history and the science of government were brought down to the comprehension of the illiterate, and men were shown that if they were dissatisfied with existing social conditions, the remedy lay in their own hands in a rightful use of the ballot, and that if they sold that ballot to a ring or combination they only forged new links in the chains that bound them to a slavery against which they were constantly rebelling. Nor were the children forgotten in this work. Every original “Busy Fingers” boy and girl had a new class, in which were resown the good seeds implanted by Margaret and Gilbert. Thought and action were growing slowly but surely in the little community; but already a serious question was confronting them. The rental of the hall had easily been effected by the subscription of a few cents from every regular attendant; but the work, especially among the mothers’ and children’s classes, required money to prosecute it. They were all poor, living from hand to mouth, and while the work was growing there was no money to help the growth.
“O Margaret,” moaned Elsie, “if the money Herbert left me had only been left to our beloved work, how gladly I would use it! Now, knowing how he feels about it, I can never touch it.”
It was nearing midsummer, and the work among their members was increasing fast, by reason of sickness brought on by living in noisome atmospheres and without proper food and care. Gilbert had come home from his daily rounds one evening, the most of his cases unsold, and with an unusual dejection of face and manner.
“I am comfortless,” he said, “for lack of the dross of earth. I have seen such realization of human suffering to-day without the power to alleviate that I am in despair. I gained admittance to one room, where a mother and her new-born babe lay dead for lack of care, while a couple of little ones were begging her to give them something to eat. I had but ten cents in my pocket that I had saved for street car-fare; but I rushed out, got the children some buns, and aroused the other inmates of the house, who were themselves too poor to do more than care for the children temporarily, while I called in the authorities and had the body disposed of in the potter’s field. How are we going to make this work of ours reach such cases without money? I shall have to go begging to-morrow. I had hoped that our work would so speak for itself that we would not need to beg; but to-morrow I must endeavor to start a fund of some kind.”
As Gilbert ceased speaking, the open door was darkened by the form of a tall, handsome woman dressed in deep mourning, whom Elsie at once recognized as Alice Houghton. She turned with outstretched hand to Elsie. “There is no need of introducing myself to you,” she said, smiling, “but as I came to see your sister, will you make me known to her, and your brother also?”
The introductions over, Miss Houghton at once entered upon the object of her visit. “I have come to you, Miss Murchison, for help. I have recently been sadly bereaved in the loss of one I loved, and life has very nearly lost its charms for me. I have been hearing a good deal of your work lately, and I want you to teach me to find forgetfulness in what is evidently very great happiness to you.”
“Do you mean that you wish to become one of us?”
“That is my meaning. I shall gladly be your servant in any work you may have for me.”
“To have a servant would be something new in my experience,” said Margaret, smiling; “but we shall all be glad of help. Have you any knowledge of our work? It is not agreeable only from one standpoint. There isn’t the least æstheticism, superficially speaking, about it.”
“I do not believe I shall be afraid to try it. I know you three alone, unaided, without money or friends, have been doing a work that is already forcing its way into notice by reason of its unselfishness. I have money, much beyond my needs, and as I learn of the help you have given to many sufferers, I feel sure that I can abet your efforts, with money if not judgment.”
Elsie sprang from her chair and impulsively held out her hand to Miss Houghton. “We have such need of money,” she cried, “and you seem like a providence of God.”
“You are more willing to accept money from me now than you were once before,” laughed Miss Houghton.
“That was unearned; this is for the bettering of God’s poor.”
“Your pride struck me as strange then. I understand it better now.”
“And appreciate its motive, I hope,” said Elsie wistfully.
“Indeed I do, my dear child; and if the pride of the world had a similar foundation there would not be such a war of caste as afflicts society to-day.”
Fearful from Elsie’s flushed face and her knowledge of Helen Mason’s opposition to Herbert’s marriage that in her last words she had unwittingly trenched upon delicate ground, she slipped an arm around Elsie’s waist, saying: “Tell me, my dear, why did you send Herbert away?”
It was a difficult matter for Elsie to summon self-command enough to reply; but with a face from which the color quickly receded she faltered: “We differed so much in our views that there was no reconciling them.”
“Then Helen was not wholly responsible?”
“No, she was not responsible at all. Mr. Lynn’s education and mine had been from such widely-different standpoints that the wonder is our ideas ever came into conflict. It has always been a mystery to me why Mr. Lynn ever chose to think——”
“It is a wonder,” interrupted Alice Houghton dryly as she bent down and kissed Elsie’s cheek. “I wouldn’t mourn, my dear, for a man who couldn’t pocket a few whims to make me happy.”
“But you don’t know,” said Elsie seriously; “it was no whim on my part, for I seemed to belong here to this work. I could not give it up and be happy.”
“Ah, well, Herbert Lynn has lost the best of his life, and yet it is only a few months ago that I looked through his spectacles. It is strange how contact with sorrow opens our eyes to the true value of qualities we did not notice before. Elsie, you must let me work beside you, under the guidance of this wise sister of yours, and try to find the same peace you are seeking. We seem to have met here from widely-different paths. I gave up all for love—you, dear child, gave up love for all humanity, and now we join hands in the same search for the peace that passeth understanding. Will you show me the way, my little girl?”
It needed no words from Elsie, Margaret, or Gilbert to prove how heartily and gladly they welcomed the proffered aid, even as they strove to recompense in some measure the faltering and hungering spirit of their benefactress. With intuitive quickness she became one of them in the earnestness of her efforts, and the line of distinction so often made apparent in the manner of those who seek the welfare of the oppressed was entirely absent. Side by side with Margaret and Elsie she walked among that class of women whose hands Herbert had said it was pollution to touch; but when she saw the glow of appreciation lighting up the dulled, imbruted faces, and heard the wails of penitence from sore hearts, and the promises to gather up the remnants of shattered lives and dedicate them henceforth to righteous living, she felt something of the joy of the Master who thought it no disgrace to eat with publicans and sinners. She was not long in following Gilbert from door to door and inspecting the homes where, Gilbert said, a self-respecting man would be ashamed to house his cattle. The absolute disregard of sanitation in many of these herding places—for they were little else—shamed with a burning blush the boasted nineteenth-century civilization. The names of the owners of these tenement hovels were listed by Alice Houghton and found in the majority of cases to be those of men of wealth and prominence in the community, who never gave any thought to their property except as regarded its monthly income. Ordering her carriage and horses and dressing herself in her finest raiment, Alice presented herself at the doors of these men. Without any preliminaries she told them of her discoveries, the deplorable condition of their tenants, and begged that something be done to improve their condition. Her handsome presence, her dress, equipage, all bespeaking her a person of consequence, she met with the usual courtesy which such externals command; but in the majority of cases she was listened to with that air of constraint betokened by elevated eyebrows and idly drumming fingers. More than once she was given to understand, sometimes broadly and sometimes indirectly, that she might better be minding her own business. For all such she had a parting shot in saying: “I am preparing for publication in the city press a series of articles on the condition of our poor. I really hope, sir, I shall not be compelled to include your name in the list of inhuman landlords.”
The stroke told, and invariably elicited a promise of looking into the matter, supplemented with at least some slight attempt at repairs. With Alice Houghton conspicuous in such work, society became at once interested. It might be a delightful fad to investigate this labor question and exploit one’s charity in behalf of these poor dear creatures. But whenever this desire was submitted, it met ignominious and instant death. Only those who felt the earnestness of the work were permitted any share in it. It soon became apparent, however, that the latent impulses of human nature, veneered as they may be by false ideas as to wealth and social position, are in the main generous and humane ones. Under the influence of Alice Houghton wealth came to the succor of the newly-formed and still chaotic society. Gilbert’s reading class became possessed of a room for its exclusive use, where all the current periodicals and papers and some of the best books could be found and read by any one. It became a sort of poor man’s club-room where living topics were discussed, and where twice a year a banquet was given at which the speeches and toasts emanated from the growing minds of those who had risen from the ranks.
The parlors of several well-known society ladies were also thrown open once a week to the orchestra formed by Antoine, but now placed under the tutelage of a more proficient master. The Mother’s Class, the Daughters of the Carpenter, and the Busy Fingers Club had each a fund from which to draw in emergencies, and better than all else, it seemed to Gilbert, the five great principles lying back of all these efforts had been submitted to a council and a code of rules drawn up under the general plan, which bade fair to make the society cohesive and enduring. Yet it was by no means free from turbulent elements, nor had it come to its present prosperity without encountering many well-nigh overwhelming obstacles. As long as human nature is content to remain on the low plane of self-indulgence, just so long will every good and unselfish impulse find a bitter warfare waged against it, and not every one of those who were to be most benefited by the movement was in favor of it. There seems to exist in some natures a wolfish opposition to everything high and holy, and Gilbert had long been aware, without in the least understanding the reason, that he had incurred the enmity of one of their number known as “Red Handed Mike.” If the fellow possessed any patronymic it had long since passed into oblivion, and he was known only by his sobriquet, and feared accordingly. Gilbert had been warned that Mike was only waiting an opportunity to “make it hot for him”; but thinking the threat, for lack of cause, merely the idle boast of a bully, he passed it unnoticed.
It was the morning of a day in early autumn. Margaret was made glad by the sight of Aunt Liza and Eph, who, climbing to her sky-parlor with many “oh’s” and “ah’s” and rheumatic squeaks of the joints, had greeted her with the old-time effusion and affection which absence had not dulled.
“I was jes longin’ so fer de sight ob your face, Miss Margaret, I couldn’t stay away no longer, and Eph heah has been a heap wuss’n me,” exclaimed Aunt Liza.
“Sho!” said Eph, fumbling with his hat and trying to hide his feet under the rounds of his chair. “I only jes wanted to tell yer we’uns has done a heap ob savin’ this heah summer. Mammy heah’s got a new red gown, an’ I’s got a whole suit of store clothes, and besides, Ma’am Minaud’s banked money fo’ us, too.”
“Well done!” cried Margaret. “I couldn’t hear better news.”
“I knowed you’d be tickled!” exclaimed Eph, delightedly displaying a couple of rows of ivory teeth. “I done tol’ mammy dar wa’n’t no use backslidin’ in this yere business when all you’uns had got to be jes perfeck angels.”
“Angels?” queried Margaret.
“Why, don’t yer know we’uns has hearn tell all ’bout de society out to Idlewild? And eberybody done says you’uns is saints and no mistake,” exclaimed Aunt Liza.
“Everybody is very kind,” said Margaret soberly, “but we are far from saints. We are only trying to find the best side of human nature.”
“Yo’ done it—yo’ done it fo’ shuah, Miss Margaret!” exclaimed Eph excitedly. “Yo’ jest took us po’ trash and made us ’sponsible bein’s, and showed us how to be ’spectable if we is brack.”
“Deed yo’ did, Miss Margaret,” chimed in Aunt Liza. “And de bestest part ob it is, as Eph’s a-sayin’, dar wa’n’t no ornery mission ’bout it.”
“I’s jes been wonderin’, Miss Margaret,” interrupted Eph, “eber since I hearn ’bout Antoine’s singin’ and de way de home meetin’s is callin’ de po’ sinners, ef dar’s any reason why mammy an’ me couldn’t come jes once, anyway. It’s white folkses’ meetin’, I know, but I jes like mighty well ter heah some ob Antoine’s singin’. Day do say he jes ’lectrify de aujience.”
“Come and welcome,” said Margaret, who could not forbear a smile at Eph’s rendering of popular phraseology. “We have room always for those who are trying to find the way up.”
“Deed’n I’s so glad, Miss Margaret,” said Aunt Liza effusively. “’Pears like sometimes dey’s a dreffle prejice ’gainst folks jes cause de Lawd made deir skin brack.”
That evening, as Aunt Liza and Eph mounted the stairs of the Home Hall, as it had come to be called, Red Handed Mike stood in the doorway and blurted out as they passed: “We don’t want none o’ them d——d niggers here. If Brother Gib ’lows ’em to stay I’ll break up the meetin’!”
Just then Gilbert, accompanied by his sisters and Alice Houghton, entered the hall.
“Say,” called Mike, “do you see them niggers? Goin’ to let ’em stay?”
“Certainly,” answered Gilbert. “They are friends of ours.”
“No, they hain’t,” growled Mike. “I hain’t got no such devilish taste as that.”
Gilbert paused for a second, and said quietly as he faced the offender with a steady glance: “I hope your good taste will prevent your making any disturbance.”
“Hush, Mike!” “Keep still, for God’s sake!” whispered several of his companions as he turned to Gilbert threateningly.
“Never fear, men,” said Gilbert reassuringly. “Mike knows this isn’t any place for a mill,” and without saying anything further he passed on to the platform.
Under the entreaties of his companions the bully sank into a corner and sulkily watched the proceedings. A little later Antoine stepped to the front of the platform and began one of his inimitable improvisations. Catching sight of Eph’s interested face in the audience, the impulse to give a song in negro dialect came over him with irresistible force. With scarcely a moment’s waiting the clear young voice rang out in a lively carol.
“What if some troubles yo’ do know?
Jes doan min’ ’em, let ’em go!
It only makes de bigger hill,
A-pilin’ up ob ebery ill,
So jes let trouble go!
Chorus.
“Git a lil’ sunshine in yo’ heart,
Whateber grief yo’s knowin’,
Git a lil’ sunshine in yo’ heart,
An’ set de smiles a-growin’.
“De stranges’ thing is when yo’ smile,
Yo’ done forgit yo’sef a while!
Yo’ doan’ no mo’ remember pain,
Till yo’ forgits to smile again,
So jes let trouble go!
Eph’s feet had been strangely uneasy during the rendering of the preceding stanzas, and Aunt Liza had pulled at his coat and whispered warningly: “Doan yo’ forgit, Eph, dis yere’s white folkses’ meetin’. Dey doan ’low no shuffle heah.”
“Cain’t help it, mammy,” returned Eph. “It do jes go clar through my toes.”
“Dar’s mighty lil’ dat we fin’
Dat’s like a nice contented min’;
It makes de worl’ de fines’ place
To lib dis side ob heabenly grace;
So jes let trouble go!”
“‘Git a lil’ sunshine in yo’ heart
“Yes do!” responded Eph fervently.
“‘Whateber grief yo’s knowin’!’
“Neber min’ it! Neber min’ it!” interposed Eph, growing more and more excited.
“‘Git a lil’ sunshine in yo’ heart!’
“Send it, Lawd! Send it, Lawd!” cried Eph, rocking to and fro, heedless of the wondering glances bestowed upon him and Aunt Liza’s frantic clutches at his coat.
“An’ set de smiles a-growin’,”
sang Antoine’s clear voice.
“Yes, Lawd, we needs ’em! ’Deed we does,” groaned Eph half-aloud. A wave of applause greeted the singer as he turned to leave the platform. It swelled louder and louder and would not be stilled. In the midst of the excitement Eph half-rose to his feet and called out: “Come back, Antoine, honey! It’s jes like hearin’ ob de angels sing!”
Only Antoine’s instant compliance quelled the rising flood of laughter and hisses. Clasping his hands before him and half drooping on his crutch in the pathetic attitude of old age and decrepitude, Antoine began in a broken voice:
“What ef my face is old an’ brack,
An’ hard my han’s, an’ bent my back,
An’ mos’ly shadows on de way
Hab followed dis yere form ob clay?
What ef, despised by brudder man,
I jes works on de bes’ I can,
An’ toilin’ airly, toilin’ late,
For arthly joys I’s long to wait?
I knows some time dis face ob min’
As white as Jesus’ robe will shine,
For He, oh, He’s my Mahstah!
“O Jesus, my Mahstah!
De frien’ ob de poah,
Deah Jesus, my Mahstah,
Yo’ sorrows will cuah;
O Jesus, my Mahstah,
He’s callin’, I come!
O brudder, my brudder,
Why stan’ yo’ dar dumb?”
There was an unsurpassed tenderness and sweetness in Antoine’s rendition of the words, and an unusual hush fell upon the audience, which was broken now and then by the audible sighs and incoherent ejaculations of Eph, and when, as it seemed to Eph’s agitated bosom, Antoine’s voice soared, in its freshness and simplicity, to the very verge of the eternal, he could no longer restrain himself, but threw up his arms in an ecstasy of self-abandonment and shouted: “I’s comin’! Lawd! I’s comin’! I’s heah! Take me, po’ mis’able sinnah, take me home to glory!”
Instantly all was confusion. Men, women, and children craned their necks for a view of the excited African whom Aunt Liza’s frantic efforts could not calm. Eph had become possessed of the “power,” and was deaf to his mother’s intercessions. “I’s knowed it long, Lawd,” he moaned. “I’s been a dreffle sinnah. Jesus, my Mahstah, de fr’en’ ob de poah! O Jesus, my Mahstah, yo’ sorrows will cuah——”
“Come, Eph,” said Gilbert, who had quickly left the platform. Eph rose at once, whispering as he did so: “I neber mean no harm, Mars Gilbert. I’s jes a feel-in’ de force ob conviction.”
“I know,” answered Gilbert soothingly. “Antoine’s singing was evidently too much for you. You’ll feel better in the open air.”
“’Deed I’ll neber feel any bettah till I knows de Lawd’s forgiben de mis’ble sinnah Eph Blackburn! I’s jes got to be convarted, Mars Gilbert.”
Eph was growing excited again as they neared the door where Red Handed Mike stood among a knot of his fellows. As Gilbert and Eph passed them, Mike exclaimed in a tone loud enough to be heard throughout the hall: “I told Brother Gib he’d better not let them d——d niggers in here.”
Gilbert turned and faced him. “That is not fit language for this place, and I don’t want any more of it.”
“You don’t, eh?” cried Mike with a sneer. “I rather guess I’ve as good a right to say what I please as any d——d nigger.”
“Leave the room at once, or I shall be compelled to have you put out.”
“You will? Take a little of that first, won’t you?” and drawing back the bully, flaming with passion, sent a heavy blow of his fist into Gilbert’s face. With a panther-like leap Gilbert evaded the blow, and instantly closed his fingers in a vise-like grip around his opponent’s throat. Struggling and clutching with the fierceness of a tiger at the long, lithe fingers closing in upon his throat like bands of steel, with his tongue lolling on his chin, his face growing black, and his eyes starting from their sockets, Mike was forced by Gilbert against the wall, who held him there as he cried, “Call the cops, boys!”
“Hold him fast!” “Bully for you, Brother Gib!” “Make him ax yer parding!” yelled the crowd.
“I shall some other day,” answered Gilbert. “Just now I’ll keep my fingers on him till the cops get him.”
A moment later “Red Handed Mike,” crestfallen and sulky, was passed over to the care of a couple of policemen, and Gilbert turned to the men who had gathered around him and said, with a grim appreciation of its underlying humor:
“Boys, I am going to talk to you to-night on the beauty of peace.”
He walked quietly and quickly up the aisle, but had not yet mounted the platform when a tremendous cheer broke from the audience. Men threw their hats in the air, and women waved their handkerchiefs as the story of “the fighting parson,” as they then and there dubbed him, passed from lip to lip.