CHAPTER II.
“POLLY, PUT THE KETTLE ON.”
With the breathing of that first prayer and the attainment of Louis’ wish, the breach between the two parties at “Prices” became a self-evident fact; and though across the breach the bands of good-fellowship still held fast, even these no longer bound together the members of one household, but connected two opposing camps, the relations between which were manifestly strained.
Karl Metzerott called himself a reasonable man. He professed to have no personal feeling in the matter, no personal grudge against Mr. Clare. “No interloper,” he said, “could ever be to ‘Prices’ what he, Karl Metzerott, had been; and as for present influences, he was abundantly ready to welcome any that were good. Had he ever opposed this man Clare until he came out in his true colors? cunning, canting priest that he was! As for Louis, what he chose to believe was his own affair; it was a free country, surely, as far as a man’s conscience was concerned; and if what satisfied his father was not good enough for him, it was nobody’s business but that of their two selves.”
It was quite true that Mr. Clare was exerting all his powers, and putting forth his utmost influence; for one of those crucial questions had arisen which try men’s souls, and separate between the good and the evil.
The body of water which was known as Cannomore Lake had been increased immensely beyond its normal proportions by a dam of unusual height, and, as some undertook to prove by the laws of mechanics, of illegal proportions and construction. It was owned by a club of wealthy sportsmen, and used as a fishing-ground; and it was stated that the waste-gates, which the extra proportions and alleged unscientific construction of the dam made more than ever necessary, had been permanently stopped up, to prevent the escape of the fish; that the very building of the dam had been earnestly protested against; that the inhabitants of the valley had lived in constant terror of it; and that some months before the actual catastrophe it had been pronounced by skilled engineers in a dangerous condition. But the lake had also been used as a reservoir to supply the town which had suffered most heavily from its breaking bounds; and some were inclined to cast a part of the blame upon the authorities there; but it was a question whether in this matter they could have taken any measures, which would have been at all sufficient, without the consent of the club; since the dam could only have been thoroughly repaired after draining off the water, and at great cost.
“And of course in the height of the fishing season letting off the water was not to be dreamed of,” was the angry murmur; “for what to a club of millionnaires were the lives of a few thousand factory hands, compared with the enjoyment of their favorite sport?”
There were not wanting, either, allusions to the feeding of the carp in the Roman fish-ponds, which, it was darkly hinted, preceded by not so very many years the fall of the Roman empire.
Against this spirit Ernest Clare felt it imperative to make all the stand possible. It was in itself but a trickle, yet it threatened a more terrible inundation than that of Cannomore, and he was ready, if necessary, to stop the leak with his own body.
“These are but newspaper reports,” be said. “No one knows, or can know, where lies the blame, until a thorough investigation has been held, which will not be possible for some time yet. And, even then, human justice is not infallible, and this is a matter of which it will be difficult to take an impartial view. Leave the question of retribution in the hands of God; you have enough to do in helping those who have suffered.”
“Ah!” said Karl Metzerott, “if there were a God, and He’d do it, I’d ask nothing better.”
“See here, my friend,” said Mr. Clare, “suppose each and every member of that club to be as culpable as you believe him; would you exchange with him? his money and his guilt against your honest poverty and self-respect?”
“By ——! I’d see him in —— first!” was the reply.
“Then you are better off than he, as you deserve to be, and God is doing right by both of you,” said Mr. Clare.
“Do you suppose Henry Randolph would exchange with me?” was the scornful question.
“I have no opinion to offer about Mr. Randolph,” said Ernest Clare, “except, which indeed is not an opinion but a fact, that notwithstanding his very heavy losses by this flood, both here and at Cannomore, he has given more liberally to the Relief Fund than any other man in Micklegard.”
“And so he ought!” growled the shoemaker.
It may be imagined that such arguments did not alter the feeling in the shoemaker’s heart, though, no doubt, the clergyman’s influence worked powerfully to prevent the fire from spreading. But what was a real surprise to Mr. Clare was to find Pastor Schaefer openly in the ranks of his adversaries, and waving the banner of insurrection!
Mr. Clare now prayed and preached in the hall every Sunday night, and all the Emperor’s power was insufficient to prevent him, since the president and a majority of the board of managers were on the side of peace and order. The Herr Pastor meanwhile seemed to have picked up the other’s cast-off mantle; for he came out strongly in favor of Communism, which he found plenty of texts to justify, failing not to lay great stress on the sudden deaths of Ananias and Sapphira, the first renegades from that early Commune. And though he duly ascribed these to the hand of God, and even quoted “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord,” it was a material vengeance, which his hearers were quite able to appreciate, and, if need were, to imitate; therefore, it filled the church, and largely increased the pastor’s popularity.
Mr. Clare, however he might feel at having his own artillery thus turned against him,—or, rather, against the banner of the Prince of Peace,—gave no sign to the world; and, while he watched intently for an opportunity to conciliate his opponents, exhorted his followers to peace, with such words as “Love your enemies,” “Render unto Cæsar the things that be Cæsar’s,” and “The powers that be are ordained of God,” therefore their power can only be restricted or withdrawn by methods which are according to God’s will. And as His will is our individual sanctification, anything, any political measure,—such as bribery, conspiracy, or violence,—which tends to make individuals worse men rather than better, is not according to that will, and in the long-run is destructive of the very ends which it is supposed to promote.
There were not wanting instances from history to support this view, of which perhaps the strongest, next to the abolition of slavery in America, was the first, contrasted with the second, expulsion of the Stuarts from the throne of England. For he showed that, great as was Cromwell, and thorough as has been the victory in our times of the principles which he espoused, his mistaken method of advocating them, while it won a brief victory, secured as speedy a reverse. The beheading of Charles I. contained in itself the seed of the Restoration; but in 1688 the people had learned wisdom. The Seven Bishops unwittingly inaugurated a bloodless revolution when they preached, by word and example, the doctrine of passive resistance; and the dynasty then installed still holds possession of the English throne. “It is a great mistake in statecraft,” he ended, “to give a bad cause the advantage of a martyr.”
But it may be readily imagined that to men blinded by anger, and quivering from personal wrongs, such doctrines as these were eminently unpalatable. Even Father McClosky, though in public he stood by his friend stanchly, shook his head in private over the reference to James II., who was, he said, “a true son of the Church.”
Mr. Clare, however, admitted this point so immediately that the Father finally compromised upon the assurance—given and received by himself—that “many a big fool was in the bosom of Holy Church; but, sure, he’d be a bigger fool entirely if he wasn’t!”
One pleasant incident had broken the strain and stress of these days of trial. For more than forty-eight hours Micklegard had been cut off from the outside world. The railways were under water, the telegraph lines were down; the gas and water works were flooded; not a drop of milk was to be had, and a famine was threatened; but by prompt industry the last calamity was averted; and when a train at last rolled into the city, supplies had been gathered from “over the hills and far away,” to meet the demands, not only of home consumption, but also of the just arrived extra mouths.
The food question was naturally the all-important one at “Prices,” and in Miss Sally’s department, and was undergoing a thorough though informal discussion in that lady’s little sitting-room on the day of the arrival of the beforementioned train. The baby, whom Mr. Clare had rescued and Louis had brought home, contributed very decidedly to the informality of the proceedings, since he lay, peaceful and happy, upon the wide, calico-covered lounge, while Miss Sally, with the devoted air of a troubadour serenading his lady, ground out, from a very small, round music-box, held close at his ear, the mournful strains of “Home, sweet home!”
Nobody seemed to consider the situation at all a comical one. Karl Metzerott occupied his favorite position on the side of the table, and Polly was almost hidden by the huge account-book wherefrom she was reading the receipts and expenditures of the last week.
“The thing of it is, we’ve fed half of South Micklegard without charging a cent,” she concluded, “so, of course, we’ve lost by it considerable already, and the question is, how much longer we can keep the thing up.”
“You can’t let people starve,” said Miss Sally, looking round from her music.
“But now that the city is issuing rations”—
“Confound the city!” said Karl Metzerott. “Still, we can’t let our shareholders suffer; most of them have lost enough as it is. It might be best for me to see the mayor about that; and then, if we could call a general meeting of shareholders”—
But what this meeting was to have accomplished will never be known; for at this moment the shrill, wheezy strains of the music-box were taken up so softly and tenderly that it seemed an angel’s whisper rather than a mere mortal violin.
“Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home!”
sang the violin, with soft exultation; while those within the room looked around amused, yet scarcely surprised, for violins were as plenty as blackberries in that community. But, when the measure became brisker, and the strain vividly exhortatory of a certain “Polly” to “put the kettle on,” in order that the company might “all take tea,” there was a sudden look of surprise, and—something else—on her namesake’s countenance, while Karl Metzerott roared in such stentorian tones that it was quite a mercy he didn’t wake the baby,—
“Franz Schaefer, bei Donder! Come in, you villain!”
So Franz—but was it indeed Franz who “came fiddling into the room”? twisting and turning about the jingling air with that magical bow of his, and tangling it so inextricably with Howard Payne’s immortal melody that it was easy to see how, to him, no place would be home where Polly did not put the kettle on! If it were Franz, he had learned a language wherein his tongue was neither dull nor slow; but there was the same honest smile upon the face of the man of thirty that had once illuminated the countenance of the boy; and when he threw down his violin—or no! I misrepresent—even at that supreme moment, he laid it down as tenderly as a new-born baby—and then caught Polly in his arms and deliberately kissed her, she felt that it was still the boy’s true heart that beat against her own.
“Hurrah for the fellow who has learned to take his own part!” cried the Emperor; while Franz, without an idea of being witty, answered seriously, “In an orchestra, Mr. Metzerott, that is a very necessary thing!”
It soon transpired that he had by no means given up the position in the orchestra in B——, where he had made such an excellent reputation, though he confessed to an intention of returning to America when this same reputation should have grown to such a height as to entitle him to a good place and fat salary under the Stars and Stripes. And that it was his intention that Polly should share the present honors of first violin and the possible future fatness, was as apparent as that she considered the difference of age at thirty and thirty-three by no means as absurd as it had seemed at eighteen and twenty-one.
It was all very natural, perfectly natural, Miss Sally said, with a sigh; wondering the while whom she could ever find to fill Polly’s place; so prompt, accurate, abhorrent of waste, even to a fault, and generally business-like as she had always been. And she was very patient with the reveries into which Polly now fell, even at the crucial period of the twelve-o’clock dinner,—with her calling of wrong tables, and attendants out of their proper order, whereby wrath and confusion were introduced into the kitchen department of “Prices;” and with her occasional mild oblivion as to the staying powers of a barrel of sugar and the sudden rise in the price of coffee.
In truth, Polly’s youth had come upon her suddenly and carried her off her feet; but, with this exception and her swain’s unusual constancy, there was nothing romantic or heroic about this pair of lovers. To sacrifice her happiness to the well-being of “Prices” was an idea for which Polly’s head had simply no room; and how very wide Franz would have opened his honest eyes at the notion that there might be nobler aims in life than the gain of a good place; or that his proposed fat salary could be considered by any one as robbed from some other fellow.
“Why don’t the other fellow play better than me?” Franz would have asked; and, if it had been pointed out to him that very possibly the other fellow might, he would have answered,—providing he could have been first convinced of this,—“But then, you see, he ain’t got the backbone!”
That one man should starve in a garret while another enjoyed a fat salary because of the superiority of his vertebral column was a part of the inequality of things which Franz could never have been brought to recognize in the abstract, though in the concrete he would have given his last crust to the “other fellow” without even stopping to divide it.
The world would fare ill without Franz and Polly, who, perhaps, add quite as much to the sum of human happiness as more self-devoted and far-seeing people. Indeed, in case of a clear duty, both can be sufficiently self-sacrificing; and though Franz will never believe the Commune is imminent until it is proclaimed from the Bartholdi statue to the Bay of ‘Frisco, yet, if he returns to America in time, he will, when any important questions are to be settled by the ballot, invariably vote on the right side.
They were married—of course, by Mr. Clare—in time to permit Franz’s return to take part in a musical festival in B——, and departed together, very happy, though amid some tears from Polly, promising to return in a few years at most.