“The one o’clock dinner,” said Father McClosky, “is when ye’ll see the ‘home folks,’ as we call ‘em, that is, the employés of ‘Prices,’—excepting the cooks and waiters,—and some of them that lives in the house. The Prices themselves—that is, Miss Sally and Miss Polly—takes their dinner then, the rush bein’ over, and the ‘home folks’ not in such a hurry.”
As he spoke they came upon two girls who were talking eagerly in the lower corridor, one of whom proved to be Lena, the unfortunate, and the other her sister Gretchen, a tall, placid personage with a look of great determination, and what New-Englanders call “faculty.”
Upon the appearance of the two gentlemen, Lena blushed and tittered nervously; but Gretchen faced them with perfect composure, and gave Mr. Clare an opportunity of recognizing her as the person he had observed at the treasurer’s desk.
Father McClosky only favored them with a nod, as he hurried his friend along, observing that the dinner would be cold, and that they were to have the table next to the Founders.
“And who are the Founders?”
“The Prices, Metzerotts, and Rolfs. Sure ye’ve heard the story of how they began ‘Prices’ amongst ‘em? And for old sake’s sake, I suppose, and partly because it saves time and labor, they always dine together, and some way it got the name of the Founders’ table.”
“Ah! there he is now,” continued the Father in a different tone, as at that moment they encountered two others,—an elderly man and a youth,—on their way to the same quarter of the room as themselves. “There’s the Emperor. Emperor, let me introduce my friend, Mr. Clare.”
“I think I have heard of you before, Mr. Emperor,” said Ernest Clare, cordially shaking the blackened palm held out to him, “under the name of Metzerott.”
“That’s my name, Mr. Clare, and I’m not ashamed of it,” replied Karl Metzerott. He had changed but little, though his hair had become “a sable silvered,” and his countenance bore marks of his full fifty years; but the clear glance, the firm mouth and appearance of perfect health and full vigor would have made the promise of another fifty appear in his case not unlikely of fulfilment.
The three founders! what a study their faces were, thought Ernest Clare, watching them from the next table. Sally Price’s, which, now that the resting time had come, had lost its keen intentness, and gained a sweet, reposeful look that resembled the old weary, listless passiveness as a dim church window before the dawn is like the same window flashed through by the rays of the rising sun. Then Karl Metzerott, with his strong, sturdy, sensible face,—strong enough to keep in order the fierce passions that lay beneath it, but not too sensible to be fully conscious of his own share in all that he saw around him, and of the significance of his nickname the Emperor. Last of all, Frau Anna, with her thin cheeks, upon which the color seemed burnt in, her dark, eager, restless eyes, and unsatisfied mouth. Her voice, too, had a querulous sound; and perhaps it was the instinct of the physician—the healer of souls—that caused the quiet blue eyes to rest so long upon her before exploring the other faces around the table. There was nothing especially remarkable about the brisk, good-looking young man who sat next her, except his inability to keep those sparkling dark eyes of his away from the next table, where Gretchen Schaefer was, apparently placidly unconscious of him and his glances. Frau Anna, however, noted every one, and as she followed them with amused rather than resentful eyes, it may be inferred that Gretchen’s unconsciousness was not so real as it looked; for Anna Rolf adored her eldest son, though it may be that the place nearest her heart was filled by the boy whose birth had been so closely followed by her husband’s death. Fritz knew this, amusedly; had he been the favorite, it is possible that George’s peculiar disposition would have rendered necessary a different adverb. He was a loosely built, awkward-looking youth, with an overhanging brow, sullen, blue-gray eyes, and heavy jaw; much given to thinking, and a good deal to brooding, when he had nothing of importance to think about; very like his father, in short, and equally capable of becoming enslaved by an idée fixe,—a youth who should have studied the Elements of Euclid along with his catechism, and for whom the differential Calculus was a part of the scheme of salvation.
It was a very different face opposite him. “Little Annie,” as she used to be called, was now a tall girl of nineteen, not pretty, perhaps, but fair and restful to tired eyes; like George, but with a serious thoughtfulness about the eyes and mouth instead of his brooding sullenness. She and Louis always sat beside each other, perhaps rather too pointedly for the success of any parental scheme; and, indeed, though they were evidently on the best of terms, there was nothing like love-making in the quiet looks which they exchanged from time to time. The two tables were quite near enough for conversation, and Karl Metzerott was not slow to begin one.
“I wish you’d explain to me, Father McClosky,” he said, as that person crossed himself and murmured a Latin grace, “what good you get from that sort of thing. Does your dinner agree with you better after it?”
“I said I’d show ye the grandfather of all the infidels,” said the priest, turning to Mr. Clare, “and there he sits. But I’ve done arguin’ with ye, Emperor. It’s my friend here is in that line of business, and I’ll leave ye to him. Sure, he’s just argued himself out of his own pulpit and five thousand a year on account of his rabid Socialism.”
There was a perceptible emotion at the Founders’ table; then Sally Price said dryly, “Well, I must say he don’t look the character.”
“And I hope I don’t act it,” said the rabid Socialist, smiling. “But I should explain to you, Mr. Metzerott, that I never argue.”
“And ye’ll say next that ye never did.”
“I wish I could,” said Ernest Clare, laughing, yet with a half-sigh. “But, unfortunately, I began the world with my lance in rest, ready to argue with all and sundry. Only experience has taught me how worse than useless it is. No one was ever converted by argument; thousands have been hardened in error by it.”
“And who is it at ‘Prices’ you want to convert?” asked Karl Metzerott.
“I have come to ‘Prices’ to find work if I can,” replied Ernest Clare. “I was a poor boy, Mr. Metzerott, and learned the trade of a carpenter, not from choice but necessity, and supported myself by it until I went to the Theological Seminary.”
“Where ye was educated free like myself, though not in the true faith,” said Father McClosky. “Ye see, Emperor, there’s more charity among Christians than ye give ‘em credit for.”
“They’ll educate priests to keep up their own system of lies. Of course they will,” replied Metzerott; “and much good it does, when one of ‘em can’t live by the trade they taught him. Though I beg your pardon, sir, if I am rude,” he added apologetically.
“Only mistaken,” said Ernest Clare, smiling. “Don’t you remember how St. Paul worked with his hands at his trade of tent-making rather than be chargeable to any man?”
“It’s the best thing I ever heard of him,” replied the other. “He was too much of a man, I suppose, to live on charity.”
Ernest Clare laughed softly. “You call yourself a Socialist, Mr. Metzerott?”
“I do, indeed; an out-and-out one.”
“Then, are you not rather false to your own principles? The clergy are a standing witness of the right of every man who will work to a support at the hands of the nation.”
Metzerott was too confused by this new way of putting the case to be able at first to reply, and Mr. Clare went on. “Unfortunately, my individual support came only from a very small part of the nation, who had become possessed of a larger proportion of the nation’s wealth than I was quite able to approve of; so, pending the arrival of the Commune, I am compelled—mind you, compelled, Mr. Metzerott—either to hold my tongue upon what I believe to be vital truth, or to work at my trade like a man.”
“By thunder, you are a man!” cried Karl Metzerott. “And your trade is carpentering, you say? I suppose you know that our head carpenter died a week ago?”
“My friend here wrote me as much.”
“So I thought. Well, we’ve been puzzled who to put in his place; for he had only boys under him, not old enough for the head of a department, and the applications we’ve had—but, however, it’s a matter for the board of managers, not the dinner-table. I’m a member of the board, though; and if you send in your application, I’ll see that it’s looked into.”
“I am very much obliged to you,” said Ernest Clare quietly. Then, with a smile, and a glance of Irish mischief, he added, “And you won’t expect me to hold my tongue about what you may consider a system of lies, while to me they are vital truths?”
“Hold your tongue? By gracious, Mr. Clare, it’s a free country! No man need hold his tongue in America, as long as it’s a decent one.”
Mr. Clare smiled again, but made no reply, and in a few moments more Louis pushed back his chair and rose to go.
“Why, you have eaten nothing, Louis,” cried his father, with some vexation. “I do not see that if a pink and white chit like that comes to be sixteen, it should spoil your appetite.”
“Pink and brown, if you mean Miss Rose Randolph,” said Fritz. “She’s pretty, though. Why not let the child enjoy himself, Emperor? it won’t last long.”
“And, of course, he has his Sunday coat on,” said Frau Anna with a frown.
During these rather personal remarks Louis had waited with his hand on the back of his chair, and a look of amusement not unmixed with vexation, while the color rose high in his young cheek; but at this point he replied.
“I am only going to give Mr. Fred a ride in his wheeled chair,” he said, “and I won’t hurt my coat, Frau Anna, though I am better able to buy a new one than he is.”
“The boy has a right to his holiday if he pays his fine,” struck in Metzerott roughly; “and I’m glad he should do a kindness if he can. What vexes me—well, he knows what it is, but no one else has any concern with it.”
“I’ll never vex you if I can help it, father,” said Louis gently; “and all I can do is small return for the kindness I have received.”
“So!” said his father.
Louis stood for a moment longer, looking down upon him with a puzzled brow. He was slightly above the medium height, with a figure rather firmer and better filled out than is often seen at his age, and a manner of that perfect unconsciousness of himself which is the essence of good-breeding, so that, in his gray “Sunday suit,” he looked, as one of Pinkie’s school friends had once been heard to say, “quite like a gentleman.” The face was a young face, with a complexion of girlish fairness, and eyes of that pure, transparent blue seldom seen beyond childhood. Across the white brow waved hair of gold just darkened into brown, and the brows and lashes, too, gave golden reflets to the sunshine; there was scarcely a trace of masculine down on the short, curved upper lip or the smooth cheek, yet, despite all this, the face of Louis Metzerott at eighteen was neither boyish nor effeminate. The low squarely cut brow, the short, straight nose, the full but firm lips, the square chin, were thoroughly masculine in form; and the wistful gravity of the clear eyes was that of one who had looked upon the sin and sorrow of life without quite seeing how these were to be set right.
As he turned to leave the room, his eyes, with that look in them, met those of Ernest Clare, full of that still peace that seemed to hold the solution of all life’s mysteries. Then both smiled, and Louis held out his hand, a firm and shapely one, though with some traces of his daily work at his father’s trade.
“I am very glad you have come to Micklegard, Mr. Clare,” he said, “and I hope you will get—whatever you want.”
“And I am glad to make your acquaintance, Prince Louis,” said Ernest Clare, cordially pressing the young hand; “and much obliged for your good wishes. I hope we shall be good friends.”
Louis smiled with a relieved look, and, before leaving the room, bent to whisper in Annie’s ear. The girl smiled gently, but made no other reply; and Mr. Clare noticed that her eyes had a tired look as she raised them to his face.
“I think you struck it that time, sir,” observed Polly to Mr. Clare. “A prince is just what our Louis looks like, and ought to be.”
“He’d better be an honest man; princes are very poor property,” growled the Emperor, with would-be severity.
“He’s more like an angel,” said Miss Sally.
But Louis was no angel, he was only a man; for this was what he had whispered to Annie Rolf.
“I will tell her who painted the beautiful roses, liebes Aenchen.”