Two years passed by; years that brought increasing strength and prosperity to the Society of Universal Brotherhood, and gave it a recognized standing as an important factor in the structure of social reform. Dealing primarily with the fundamental truth of human relationship, and resolutely adhering to the application of those principles to all the conduct of life, it soon established a method of reason which, if primitive, still satisfied the highest aspirations of the heart. In Red Handed Mike Gilbert had won, after long proof of the value of brotherly kindness and forbearance, one of his most earnest co-workers, and it was no uncommon sight to behold the two side by side at political, social, and semi-religious gatherings, endeavoring to promulgate in quiet ways the truths which had become inherent parts of their daily thought and work. To Antoine alone, of all the members of the little circle, the years had brought apparent change. Increasing stature and added health had given him greater comeliness of form, while the once pale, thoughtful face was now enlivened by the glow of color and sparkle of happiness. The parting of Herbert and Elsie had been a great grief to the lad, for love and gratitude to both had built in fancy a glowing future for them. In numberless little ways he had endeavored to show his sympathy and appreciation, and to Herbert he had taken to writing long letters descriptive of the lives and pursuits of the old circle; but avoiding with intuitive delicacy any direct reference to Elsie. The progress of the society was therefore an open book to Herbert, who, wandering restlessly over the continent of Europe, hungrily awaited the coming of Antoine’s letters in the fond hope of gleaning even in imagination some news of Elsie. The two years of his wanderings had been but a record of growing discontent. His prosperous life had never before known a serious rebuff, and his love for Elsie had been the one and only love of his life. Try as he might in his anger and disapproval, he could never shut out the memory of the dark eyes and the piquant face, now sparkling with gayety or quivering with the pathos of grief. All her little crudities of speech, her high-tragedy airs, her inimitable mimicry, and her tender flower-like caresses, dwelt so deep within his heart that they were constant companions of his waking and sleeping hours. He grew old and irritable under the pressure of grief and disappointment, and Helen Mason declared that “a mummy from the Catacombs couldn’t be more unsociable.” They wandered together up the Nile, Herbert declaring his intention of tracing it to its source and joining Stanley in the heart of the Dark Continent.
“I’m tired,” he said, “of civilization, and think of returning to savagery, where ‘labor strikes’ and ‘bloated capitalists’ are unknown quantities.”
“I think you’ve already reached that state,” Helen retorted, “for I live in almost constant fear of having my head snapped off.”
“Well, since I’m so nearly on the confines of cannibalism, I think, to insure your safety, we will go back to Paris.”
To Paris they accordingly directed their steps, but the gay capital had no attractions for Herbert. Indeed, he was more at peace lazily dreaming in the land of the Pharaohs, for in the new republic he could not altogether shut his ears to the cry of the people. Thought seemed to be teeming, even in the effete monarchies of the Old World, and when he and Helen, in despair of enjoyment fled to the Russian capital, even there nihilism and nationalism, dogged by the visions of Siberian prisons and infuriated with the cry of slaves in mine and factory, were in the very air they breathed. It was in Russia that Herbert first set himself to studying the conditions so productive of upheaval as well as the worst forms of human cruelty. To Helen’s intense fear he took to mingling with the common people, and learning the reason for the scarcely breathed, but only too apparent discontent and rebellion.
“The people! The people! Away with the divine right of kings!” This was the whispered shibboleth of nihilists and nationalists alike in the courts and wilds of Russia, and it swelled into a modulated but well-defined chorus along the banks of the Rhine, until it rang resonant and clear in the heart of the new republic. At home, abroad, wherever he journeyed, the echo of the world’s suffering and despair was sure to reach him. But after all what was it to him more than an episode of history, interesting as a study of the conflict of ideas, the upheavals by revolution and evolution? What part had he in forming history, only as one of the many on whom the mantle of existing orders must inevitably fall? With a good deal of impatience he shook off the obtrusive question. Every man must be his own savior and avenger in the battle of existence. Elsie herself had preached the independence of the individual. “True,” said Conscience, “but did she preach that alone? Did she not also believe in the fullest co-operation as a prop and encouragement to individual effort? Was not her life an epitome of the highest personal development, morally at least, combined with the most unselfish desire for the prosperity of others?”
It was a long battle between a selfishness born of his environment, as well as what he considered the inherent rights of individuals and classes, and conscience and conviction. But the latter finally won the day, and with an eagerness out of all proportion to his former weariness and disgust with life, he set out for Paris and London with the determination to investigate this industrial question to its farthest limit. He was in London on that great first of May, when over two millions of men throughout the world laid down their tools and quietly awaited the declaration of advancing reason. He began to see that the principle of co-operation, based, as it must ever be, on the simple lines of equal opportunity and equal footing before the law, held within its embracing bosom the solution of many of the vexed and complex problems of sociology. It was while in Paris, however, that he made the vital discovery which gave direction and concentration to his study of the industrial question. While rambling with Helen in the purlieus of the great city, he chanced upon a small community of neat flower-enveloped cottages contiguous to an immense factory, and of which they were evidently a part. Inquiry developed the fact that the little village belonged to a manufacturer, who had organized a colony of workingmen on an entirely original plan, in which their comfort was coordinate with the profits to be gained. The cottages were rented to men with families at from one dollar and a half to three dollars per month, with the result that after long service they finally fell into the hands of the occupants. The workingmen were insured against accident, and their savings invested in the works at a guaranteed six per cent per annum. Work was paid for by the piece at remunerative wages, thus giving the skilled workman the opportunity to realize on his ability, and stimulating the unskilled to greater activity. Imperfect work was rigidly rejected at the expense of the employee, thereby insuring the greatest carefulness and exactness. The streets of the little village were handsomely paved, an ornate concert hall and good school-houses adding to the attractiveness of the picture. The unmarried workmen were able to secure comfortable lodgings at three cents per day, and a restaurant provided meals at prices just paying expenses. Discontent was an unknown quantity, while rosy-cheeked children and plump matrons were living proof of the beneficence of the system. In fact, situations were eagerly sought after and rarely vacated save by death or disaster. The profits of the establishment were not, of course, enormous, like so many similar institutions where human lives are sacrificed on the altar of greed; but being moderate yet afforded a safe permanent investment, which was never affected by strikes or lockouts, and which in the zeal and affection of the community for its employer relieved the burden of care and anxiety under which capital so often groans in less favored circles. After weeks of investigation, Herbert concluded that here was the middle ground on which capital and labor must meet before either can achieve an unbroken line of progress. Making himself and Helen acquainted with the owner and promulgator of all this thrift and contentment, and beholding him in his charming home, surrounded by luxuries, and with his daily comings and goings lighted by the smiles and affection of his people, Herbert found his own ambition fired to be the originator and center of a similar community. He realized that the outlay at first would be enormous, involving his whole fortune, and that the most arduous and exacting labor would be demanded of him in its execution. But here under the balmy skies of France was the living prosperous proof that business and sentiment, so universally divorced by popular clamor, may be united in a harmonious and prolific marriage. For the first time within the last two years, Herbert dropped his taciturnity and discussed the project with Helen, who strangely enough had become as infatuated with the little community as had Herbert himself.
“After all, Herbert,” she said plaintively one day, “I believe having your own way all the time is like living on honey—it palls on the appetite very soon.”
Herbert glanced up quickly. “Are you turning philanthropist too?” he asked with a touch of satire in his tone.
“Well, it is in the air,” she answered resignedly, “and I don’t see how one can help being infected.”
“Bravo! Helen, you take the disease charmingly! Shall we go back to America to establish a new Eden?”
“On one condition, and that is—to take me in as equal partner.”
“My sweet sister!” cried Herbert ecstatically as he sprang from his chair and caught her around the waist. “Do you really mean it?”
“Truly; and, Herbert,” and with tears in the eyes upraised, to his she added brokenly, “if—if that little saint, Elsie, Alice Houghton writes me about, can be induced——”
“There!” Herbert’s face hardened as he placed his hand on his sister’s lips. “Say no more on that subject. I appreciate your generosity, but hope died long ago.”
Two days later they were on the ocean homeward bound, and with the zeal of new-born ambition were deep in their project almost before they returned the greeting of their friends. Some two weeks after their arrival the C—— Sunday Herald contained a notice of the purchase of a large tract of land in the northwestern part of the city, including the subdivision known as “Idlewild,” by Herbert Lynn, Esq., who proposed the erection of a mammoth shoe factory to be managed after a method which he had investigated abroad, and believed to be not only the safest investment for capital, but one yielding the largest returns from the standpoint of the philanthropist.
“Mr. Lynn,” the article went on to say, “is the pioneer in this form of enterprise, and feeling that there is no reason other than inexcusable greed for the occurrence of so much idleness, suffering, destitution, vice, ignorance, and penury in so many departments of American labor, he proposes a plan of co-operation, now working harmoniously and profitably in France, which will no doubt do much toward solving some vexed industrial conflicts.”
Following this was a short history of the colony on the edge of Paris and its plan of operations. Elsie read the article with swimming eyes, and impulsively kissed the insensate bearer of such good news. She had not seen Herbert since his return, and this was the first intimation of his project which she had received from any one. How beautiful the world grew all at once! How much there was in life to hope for, work for, enjoy! Suffering humanity under Herbert’s fostering care—ah, how could it be other than happy? To live in the light of those sunny blue eyes—how she envied the prospective inhabitants of that social paradise. But the weeks grew into months, and Herbert made no effort to renew his old standing in the little circle. His name was rarely mentioned to Elsie, although she learned from Lizzette that he had appropriated one of the handsomest residences included in his purchase of Idlewild, and had taken Lizzette from her market gardening to preside over his bachelor establishment. Voluble as Lizzette had always been, she was now suspiciously silent, unless she had a bit of gossip to offer regarding the interest taken in the proposed work by Alice Houghton. Antoine, happy as a bird in the new home and the exceptional progress he was making in music, took especial care to avoid the mention of Herbert’s name, although Elsie often intercepted a wistful glance of commiseration in his dark eyes. Why were they all so silent? she often asked her longing heart. Did they think she had no courage? Did they fancy her a Lily Maid of Astolat who needs must die for love? Well, they should see she could be brave and work on through a long life, and make no sign of heart-break! So with renewed earnestness, never sparing a moment for much-needed rest, she toiled on, earning her daily bread and giving the helping hand to all who needed it. Margaret’s watchful eyes noted with pain how thin and transparent the once rounded face was growing, what an intent light burned within the old laughter-loving eyes, and how feverish was her application to her work.
It was a year before the great co-operative shoe factory was in running order, and on the evening of the first day of regular work, Herbert, flushed and elated over the promised success of his plan, was driving hurriedly along the street, on his way to visit Helen and report progress. Glancing up suddenly he encountered the gaze of Elsie’s eyes as she paused for a second on the crossing. Heavens! How white and frail she looked! What caverns those great dark eyes had grown to be! Was she dying and nobody to tell him?
So preoccupied was he with these hurried thoughts that he passed on, failing to return the slight salutation she had made. A moment later he drew rein, but Elsie had disappeared from view. He turned and followed in the direction she had taken, but she was nowhere to be seen. He had been working of late like the traditional galley-slave, curbing his impatience in the thought of the offering he could one day lay at her feet, and now, like a phantom of her old blithe, rosy-cheeked self, she had crossed his path, and the dark eyes had seemed to speak the despairing words, “Too late! Too late!”
Lashing his horse into a white foam, in absolute defiance of the ordinance against fast driving, he rushed a few moments later in upon Margaret with the frightened question:
“Where is Elsie? Why has nobody told me she was dying?”
The question seemed almost brutal in its abruptness, and Margaret staggered as if struck by a blow.
“Forgive me, Margaret,” cried Herbert piteously. “I passed her just now, but lost her again, looking so frail and wan—did you not know? Have you not seen?”
“Ah, yes,” moaned Margaret. “But I had no medicine for a breaking heart. A spirit like hers soon burns out the fires of a frail body.”
It was some time later that the door opened suddenly and Elsie, pale, trembling with the exertion of climbing the stairs, and with eyes veiled in the shadow of utter despair, stood on the threshold.
Herbert was at her side in an instant. “Elsie! Elsie!” he cried. “Love is master. I’ve come back to you, strengthened, purified, ennobled at your hands. Do not scorn the gift now. It is richer than all else I ever offered you.”
But Elsie had no answer to make. For the first time in her life she fainted, and lay a veritable picture of death in Herbert’s arms. “Dear God,” he cried, “not this! Not now with our work all before us! Let me keep her lest I grow slothful in the service of her dear Master!”
Down on his knees beside the frail form, chafing the thin hands and with the tears chasing each other in torrents over his face, Herbert knelt, too frightened, too heart-broken to be of any service in Margaret’s hasty efforts at resuscitation.
Joy seldom kills, and Elsie slowly came back to life and love with the shadow of the old smile on her lips.
“Herbert,” she whispered as, still faint, but supremely happy, she rested her head on his shoulder, “the old wilful, independent Elsie is dead, and I want to prove to you hereafter how patient and submissive I can be.”
“Well, then,” said Herbert, after one of those eloquent silences which “the world that dearly loves a lover” can readily interpret—“well, then, I’m going to take you at your word; for to-morrow at high noon, in society vernacular, I shall be here with license, priest, Helen, and all the rest of us, prepared to hear a very meek ‘I will’ from those white lips.”
“But I have no wedding-gown!”
“Put on your best calico,” said Herbert composedly. “So long as I can see you wear that glad light in your eyes and the old happy smile on your lips, I shall always feel that you are clothed in radiant attire.”
One evening several days after the wedding, Gilbert came home to Margaret with an inscrutable smile on his face. “Margaret,” he said composedly, “I have come to the conclusion that your occupation as home-maker is about gone.”
“What do you mean?” she cried aghast.
“Well, Herbert has given me a place in the factory, and he and Elsie insist that I make my future home with them. It rather strikes me that you are left out in the cold in consequence.”
Tears sprang to Margaret’s eyes, and with a heartbreaking sob she buried her head in her arms as she leaned against the table.
“My dear sister,” cried Gilbert quickly. “My joke is rather rough I’ll admit; but I’ve a little excuse for it.” And stepping to the hall door, he beckoned mysteriously to some one standing there. Margaret raised her head apprehensively, and saw Dr. Ely with smiling face standing upon the threshold.
“Here is a gentleman,” said Gilbert soberly, “who thinks he would like to have a home made for him.” And with an ostentatious bang to the door he slipped away.