“Meg, I’ve an idea!” exclaimed Elsie several mornings later, as Margaret returned from an unsuccessful search for a house, as well as work at the hands of Mrs. Dempster and several other ladies of the parish.
“I’m glad to hear it. Ideas are good things to have,” said Margaret, wearily dropping into a chair.
“Of course you haven’t found work, or anything else but advice, have you? Well, this is my idea: let us go away from Barnley.”
“O Elsie!”
“I know it’s hard; but we’ll starve on advice. It’s cheaper than beefsteak, of course; but it is somewhat weakening after one has breakfasted, dined, and supped on it. Let’s go away and dig for a living. See what I found this morning,” and Elsie drew from her pocket a newspaper clipping of late date, and read aloud an advertisement:
“For Rent: A small house at Idlewild, with three acres of ground well supplied with small fruits. Only thirty minutes’ ride on dummy to city market. Rent cheap, or will sell at reasonable price. Call at Harris & Smith’s, cor. Vine and Tenth Sts., C——.”
“Meg, let’s go and see it.”
“Why, Elsie, child, how is it possible?”
“This way. Maybe I’m visionary, but I’ve an idea that we can make enough money out of the place to pay the rent and keep us. See here: ‘only thirty minutes’ ride on dummy to city market.’ Now, three acres of ground, if good for anything, ought to raise potatoes.”
“Admitted. Go on with your proposition.”
“Potatoes with salt constitute a very fair living for a hungry man; without salt they keep starve to death away—ergo, let’s plant potatoes! To be serious—I’ve thought of this. It is now February, and we’ll need to make haste. We’ve raised our own potatoes in the parsonage garden for years, and good ones, too. Why not raise double the quantity somewhere else and sell the surplus? The small fruits advertised may be worth cultivating, too. You are a splendid amateur gardener—everybody says so; and there’s Gilbert—to be sure, only a boy; but a boy is good for some things sometimes—and I consider myself capable of being taught. Now, I’ve sketched the outlines of Eutopia, and you must fill in the shading.”
“Outlines are easily drawn; the skill lies in the filling in.”
“Therefore I left it for you. I feel as if we might dig our living out of the soil easier than out of the oftentimes ungracious favor of humanity. Suppose we look this place up to-morrow?”
“I cannot see my way clear yet. Where is all the money to come from to start us in this venture? It takes money for spades, you know.”
“I realize it. Can’t we sell something?”
“To the rag-man perhaps. Seriously, have we nothing of value we can spare?”
“I can think of nothing.”
“I can. O Meg, the hardest part of my suggestion is yet to come. Dr. Ely said when I named some of the books in poor father’s library that they were of undoubted value, as many were out of print. He spoke especially of the two Caxton copies, Plantin’s ‘Biblia Polyglotta,’ and Sparks’ ‘Life of Washington.’ Dear Meg, the question is: Shall we keep our treasures and starve, or in letting them go find a chance of outgrowing our poverty? I am tired of this grinding life that takes the color out of your cheeks and puts wrinkles where dimples ought to be. Much as I love the dear old books, I love hope for you and for all of us better. O Meg! it is no sacrilege to say that if our father could speak to us he would tell us to sell them. The heritage is precious; how precious to us few can guess. But, my sweet sister, your hopes and happiness are dearer to him, I know. Don’t sob so, Meg; you will break my heart. Forgive me for suggesting it. It really seems best.”
“I know it, Rosebud,” said Margaret after a long silence. “I must think about it. I cannot decide yet.”
As Margaret spoke she raised Elsie’s tearful face and kissed it tenderly. It was more difficult for Margaret to give up the books than Elsie had dreamed. They were not to her, as to Margaret, the great mine of wealth from which she had drawn the intellectual riches that were already hers, and from which she had hoped to glean a far greater abundance. Dear as they were for the associations’ sake, many of them having been successively her grandfather’s and father’s, and hallowed as they were by the thought of the dear eyes which had once delighted in their pages, this relinquishment of her ambitions seemed the most cruel hurt of all. She knew that Elsie’s suggestion was practicable; that it opened a way out of their present difficulties; but it was the slipping of the cable that bound her to the old life which, despite its hardships, had seemed so idyllic in its visions and mental attainments. If she gave up her books, what could she hope for beyond the barren drudgery of mere existence? With her books she could revel in an ideal world where the hard facts of her daily struggles could not intrude. They were indeed a heaven of remembrance and a heaven of hope to her. Where, oh, where else could she find the oasis of rest, the one little gleam of personal happiness which she had hoped might be allowed her? And yet duty, even from the mouth of Elsie, whom she had hitherto regarded as a mere child, said all too plainly that the cherished books must go. There seemed to be no other solution of the vexed question of subsistence. It was a very pale face that Margaret raised to Elsie’s anxious glance several moments later; but it was determined and calm.
“You are right, Elsie; you excel me in practicability even now. I will write at once to Dr. Ely.”
“Meg, I was cruel to you.”
“As facts are sometimes cruel. Now let us catalogue the books, that Dr. Ely may judge of them. Not another tear, Rosebud, but forward.”
A reassuring smile and a fond kiss calmed the rising storm of regret in Elsie’s heart. With protean quickness the smile so natural to her face came back, and hastily mounting the small step-ladder, she took down the books and gave title, name of author, and date of issue to Margaret to jot down. There were perhaps some eight hundred books, of which only a small portion would in these days of reprints possess an unusual interest for the bibliophilist. Among the latter were: Smellie’s “Philosophy;” Plantin’s “Biblia Polyglotta” in eight folio volumes, published in the sixteenth century; Dunton’s “Life and Errors,” 1659–1733; Caxton’s books, mostly translations from the French; Nicholl’s “Literary Anecdotes;” Sotheby’s “Handwriting of Melancthon and Luther;” Davy’s “System of Divinity,” twenty-six volumes; Dolby’s “Shakespearean Dictionary;” Ainsworth’s “Historical Novels;” Hone’s “Early Life and Conversion;” Timperly’s “Encyclopedia of Literary Anecdote;” “The Bay Psalm Book;” Adelung’s “Historical Sketch of Sanscrit Literature,” translated by Talboys; Krummacher’s “Elisha.” Aside from these somewhat rare books, the library took a wide range in history, poetry, fiction, and travels. Margaret could scarcely repress the desire to cry out once more against the sacrilege. Here was information for a life-time; here forgetfulness of the past, elysium for the future! Why must this grief be superadded to all she had borne? But with heroic effort she choked back the tears and went calmly on with her work. By the time she had finished the list and written a letter to Dr. Ely, of the Episcopal school at A——, she had put aside regret and was once more ready to look facts squarely in the face. “The first step that costs” had been taken, and never afterward to Margaret did any sorrow seem like the wrench of this one. It was with alacrity, amounting almost to cheerfulness, that she went about her task of packing the household goods, and though sometimes tears would for a moment dim her eyes and tender memories paralyze her hands, yet the serene conviction that her decision had been wisely taken seemed to hover like a nimbus of light above the sadness of the slowly-moving hours.
One morning as Margaret, with her brown locks shrouded in a wide-frilled sweeping cap, her dress hidden by a high-necked calico apron of nondescript make, stood upon a step-ladder, engaged in removing the dimity curtains from the sitting-room windows, a peremptory knock at the open door behind her caused her to turn so suddenly that the ladder tipped and threw her, with unexpected suddenness, into the arms of a dignified gentleman who stood upon the threshold. Quickly disengaging herself, she exclaimed with a laugh:
“My greeting is unusually fervent, Dr. Ely; but you perceive that circumstances——”
“Were too many for you,” he interrupted; as Margaret paused for breath. “I hope you were not hurt?”
“Not in the least; but a trifle confused. Will you walk in and be seated? I did not look for a personal answer to my letter, otherwise I should have deferred my packing.”
“I decided to come only at the last moment, and so could not write you. I am not at all sorry that I surprised you; in fact, I found it rather pleasant.”
Margaret glanced up apprehensively, a new wonder growing in her eyes, which the doctor was quick to note and interpret. “I felt that it would be much easier to adjust the prices of the books and come to a satisfactory arrangement of matters through a personal interview. Therefore I am here.”
“And quite welcome; but you must pardon the incoherent state of things.”
“With all my heart, so long as you remain rational. And now I wish you would tell me what you propose doing.”
“I? Working for a living.”
“At what?”
“Anything I can find. Just now Elsie has me under control. She is bent on making a market gardener of me. Please look at this advertisement. We have already made appointment to visit the place, and if satisfactory and the books are disposed of, to take immediate possession. What do you think of the plan?”
“H-m. It might be good, but how about the children’s education?”
“That was what worried me greatly at first; but both of them say so long as I work for a living they shall help too. We have decided to give an hour each evening, after it is too dark to work, to a little home culture. After all, it is the practical application of knowledge that makes one educated.”
“Quite true, Miss Margaret,” answered the doctor as he gravely regarded her. “Give me a few more details of your plan, and let me see how practicable it is.”
As Margaret proceeded with an animated recital of the schemes which she and Elsie had lain awake nights to concoct, Dr. Ely sat so intently watching her that she flushed and grew uneasy under his scrutiny. He, however, was not aware of it; for his mind was borne in upon itself, and he was tracing step by step the years of his life that had brought him to this present moment. He was a dignified man nearing the forties, with a grave manner that was often thought austere, but which was only the outward covering of a nature too keenly sympathetic and appreciative to risk the disapproval of an obtuse world. Like all delicate and sensitive things in nature, he wrapped himself in a husk, and only those who penetrated the outward covering knew how beautiful was the inner temple of his soul, how genial its warmth, and how playful the fancy that tended the altar of his imaginings. His sudden encounter with Margaret this morning had brought to the surface a slight hint of its existence, but the quick wonder of her eyes had sent it again into hiding. He had been for some ten years the president of the school at A——, and stood entirely alone in the world. For twenty years he had cherished the memory of a fair girl wife who had been companion and helpmeet but three short months, when death claimed her. In her grave he had thought to bury love, and live henceforth a solitary worker, with no dreams to entice again beyond the prosaic outlines of his daily duties. But Margaret Murchison’s year at the school had affected him strangely. He had watched the girl’s development with uncommon interest; had been touched more than once by the clearness and unusual candor of her nature, and grew to have a profound admiration for the strength and purpose which upheld her. When she had been so suddenly called home by her mother’s death, he had missed her more than he liked to own even to himself. Despite the disparity in their years, he felt that hers was a nature to draw from its obscurity all that was highest of attainment in his own. He was but too conscious that, struggle as he might, he somehow fell short of his desires. His most earnest efforts seemed to fall half-heartedly upon those around him. The fault must be his; the long loneliness of his life—with neither father, mother, sister, brother, wife, to share a single aspiration or make vivid a single heart-glow—had unwittingly isolated him from mankind. When the light of this love fully dawned upon him, his soul felt the glow of a new purpose, and it became to him the symbol of a wider sympathy and charity, because of which Divinity long ago found need to send a sign to all mankind. His school was not slow to feel the change, and when the time became ripe for him to speak, he felt that he was no longer offering Margaret, in all her freshness, the remnant of a heart and life, but the first fruits of a living soul. He hastened to Barnley, strong in his purpose to lift her at once from the toil and privation of poverty. He had watched her career as best he could, in the occasional letters received from her father, who never failed to comment upon her strength and growth of character, and his love had grown with the subtileness of fancy until he had never stopped to consider the effect it might have upon Margaret. Surely to be sheltered and loved—ah! how he would prove his love to her—ought to be reason enough for any woman so bereft and friendless. So he had reasoned until he caught the apprehensive glance of Margaret’s eyes, and then he knew that his dream had not been hers, and that love with her would not be made at once answerable even to the most passionate appeals. All these musings ran swiftly through his mind, the while his intent glance remained upon Margaret’s face, unconsciously drinking in its variable play of expression. At last she ceased her recital, and said in a slightly constrained voice: “I think I have told you all our plans for the present, Dr. Ely.”
But the intent eyes never left her face as the doctor asked wistfully: “Are you sure you’ve strength for so much?”
“I have faith that it will be given me.”
“Yes, yes, it will,” he replied fervently, as he roused himself with an effort. “And now let us take a look at the books.”
He followed Margaret into the study and stood long in silent contemplation before the shelves. He was evidently making a careful computation of the value of the books. “How much money will you need for this undertaking?” he asked, suddenly turning to Margaret.
“I have very little idea. I can scarcely tell until we have seen the place.”
“Ah, yes, I had forgotten. Of course you are not sure of anything as yet. When did you say you had appointed an interview with the agent?”
“We had expected to go this afternoon, if we had a satisfactory letter from you in time. If not, the interview was to be postponed until to-morrow.”
“And you have not had that satisfactory letter yet. Well, you shall have it now. The books are even more valuable than I thought. They number, I think you said, some eight hundred volumes. Now, I wish to propose a plan of my own. Suppose I advance you the sum of four hundred dollars on the books to begin with, allowing you to select such as in your home culture club you will doubtless need, and reserve the balance—I will not place an exact price on them now—to be drawn upon in case of further demand for money. Then, when you have made your fortune, you are to have the books back at the price I paid for them.”
The doctor waited some time for Margaret’s answer; but she stood with head slightly averted and was silent. At last he could wait no longer, but bending forward, glanced down at her face. Tears stood on the long lashes and trembled on her cheeks. “Margaret,” he cried sharply, “what have I said that is wrong?”
“Nothing!” she exclaimed, suddenly extending both hands to him. “Your goodness is so unexpected that I am not strong enough for it.”
He caught her hands in his own as he said impulsively: “Listen, Margaret. It is not goodness—it is rather pure selfishness. I came here this morning intent on offering you not the worth of the books, but something I was foolish enough to fancy of more value—myself. No, don’t start; but hear me out. Manlike, I fancied that I had but to speak and you would let me take you away from all the toil and privation; but now I know you——”
Margaret gently drew her hands away, and interrupted him: “I never dreamed of such a thing. It is impossible.”
“If I loved you, Margaret, had loved you for years—don’t look so incredulous—ever since you were a school-girl, and had waited patiently until the time was right, hoping that my love might win its response even as the flowers respond to the warmth and light of the sun—if I offered all this and a life-long devotion, would it then be impossible?”
Margaret glanced up wonderingly, appealingly, into the eager face above her.
“It is all so strange, so confusing; but I cannot—it would indeed be impossible; for—forgive me, I do not want to hurt you—I do not love you, Dr. Ely, and I——”
“Say no more,” he said gently, “I knew it even before I spoke; but I am glad you understand me. I have been a lonely man all my life, and you can perhaps imagine how, even old as I am, I find delight in the companionship of one who is quick to understand and appreciate all that interests me. I love you, dear child, with the one love of my life; but I shall never again obtrude it upon you. I must, however, claim one favor. I am willing to sink all that I had hoped to the calm basis of friendship; do not deny me that. Let me help you, even as I had meant to before I spoke, and I promise faithfully never to claim anything more at your hands than the just consideration of one friend for another. You stand alone and inexperienced—put aside what has passed and let my age and experience help you.”
Margaret, watching him as he spoke, could not fail to be touched by the sincerity and unselfishness of his words. For reply she placed her hand in his and said softly, “I will.”
“One word more. If the time ever comes—mind, I do not expect it, I do not even beg it—but if the time does come when your heart can respond fully to the love that shall be yours as long as life lasts, you have only to say ‘come,’ and I will obey you though it be to the uttermost parts of the earth. May I ask this too?”
“It is not much to promise,” said Margaret gently, “but it may be too much to hope for. I have never had time for anything but immediate duties, and I am afraid I shall never find time for anything else. I have always felt that I belonged to these children. If, however—and I can discern but the faintest hope—if such a time should come, you may be sure that the word will not be uttered half-heartedly.”
A blush stole up to Margaret’s cheek as she spoke, making her whole face glow and soften with an unwonted beauty that the doctor’s observant eyes did not fail to note. They were suspiciously misty as he raised her hand to his lips and said fervently:
“Amen. Now let’s to business.”