Twelve months have passed since the “tea-party,” during which time, it is to be feared, Mr. Clare has had cause to think more than once how the pikes and eels preferred the old way. And yet he wears by no means a discouraged expression as he walks with his constant companion, Louis Metzerott, through the early August twilight, towards Dr. Richards’s house. Something has been accomplished during this year, however little. Pastor Schaefer sometimes holds consultation with him, though usually not as the taker of what counsel is produced thereat; the rector of St. Andrew’s, though he is “not to be expected to turn Socialist at his time of life,” is slowly learning that God is the King of earth as well as of heaven; and that, whatever blessing or needed lesson may come by means of suffering, happiness is that which is most consonant with the divine nature. The temperance lecturer has taken to denouncing the weakness of the present civil authorities in the license question rather as a misfortune than a fault; and the evangelist launches satire and invective against the greed of money, and the evils of “practical politics:” all which are steps in the right direction.
“But ye’ll never do it, Ernest, me boy,” Father McClosky had said shortly after the “tea-party;” “ye’ll never get any of the sects nor Holy Church nayther for your ‘general advance all along the line.’ Av there was nothing else to prevent it, I’ll tell ye phwat would,—vested interests. Think of the churches, schools, convents, hospitals, and all them things; would we ever let them fall into the hands of heretics?”
“The question is, whether you can help it,” said Mr. Clare. “I see the force of your remark, Bryan; but don’t you think the churches”—
“Oh! be aisy wid ye! There’s only one!”
“The religious bodies, then,” said Mr. Clare, “which is a much less convenient phrase, and strongly sepulchral in flavor. Don’t you think they would be not only inconsistent, but blind to their own interests, to be influenced by a consideration of that kind?”
“People generally is—the both of them.”
“In such cases as the present, yes. For—for whom does your Church hold in trust, all the property she possesses?”
“For the poor,” said Father McClosky.
“And, in case of the nationalization of property, to whom would she surrender it?”
“To heretics and infidels, me boy.”
“Ah! and with that razor will she cut her own throat. The present state of things, Bryan, cannot last: that, remember, is the strongest point in my argument; a revolution must come. It depends on the—religious bodies—what sort of a revolution it shall be. And, whereas, in the case of their opposing or even hanging back, they might find themselves exceedingly uncomfortable under the new régime, don’t you see that if Christianity were regarded as the friend and ally of Socialism (I don’t say the nursing mother, which is, however, true), there would be no difficulty at all in treating ecclesiastical property as belonging to the nation, but used, rent-free, for public purposes, like stores, art-galleries, museums, etc.?”
“I see; and if the Church could see, it would be all very well; but that day will never dawn, Ernest.”
“I confess that I have more hope of Protestantism,” said Mr. Clare; “and yet the Roman Church as a whole is in herself a magnificent Commune. She understands human nature better than any Protestant body; and her missionaries and religious orders have always steadily upheld the true worth of manual labor.”
“Aha! I expected that! Some one said of you the other day, ye spalpeen, that ye dignified your trade.”
“Did you say that I hoped my trade might dignify me? It is quite true, Bryan; there’s nothing like working with one’s hands to keep the body in health and the soul at peace. I wish every clergyman and brain-worker in the country had some handicraft to work at for an hour or two every day; though not in the present condition of the labor market,” he hastened to add, with a smile.
“Well, as between labor and capital, I’m afraid most of the clergy would choose capital,” said Father McClosky with a grin.
The rector of St. Andrew’s also had his private protest to make.
“I’ve read that book of Bellamy’s, my dear Clare,” he said, “and, while I admit that his Utopia would be an ideal state of affairs, I see two reasons why it can never be realized. In the first place, if earth were so delightful a place, man—the average man—would never long for heaven. Of course, religious people might; but I mean, as I say, the average man.”
“‘And so shall we ever be with the Lord!’” quoted Ernest Clare. “That is the true sweetness of heaven, rector, and no earthly happiness can lessen it. As for your average man,—well, in the first place the average of those days will be considerably higher than the present, you know; and in the second I fancy we shall all need to rise far above any average that is ever likely to prevail, before we get to heaven at all.”
“That is very true,” said the rector. “But don’t you think that a Commune would tend to reduce all alike to a uniform dead level of the commonplace?”
“Does military discipline, when it is strict and thoroughgoing, ever produce a dead level of commonplace?” asked Mr. Clare. “It is true that the soldier on duty must be a mere machine; but he is an intelligent, self-acting machine. He obeys, but it is not blind obedience; for he knows at least the general aim, though not, perhaps, the particular object sought to be gained, and has his own opinion as to the means employed. At Balaklava, you remember,—
“‘the soldier knew
Some one had blundered.’
Indeed, I do not believe military discipline is at all possible, except with highly developed individualities, which is one reason that a Communal form of government has never been possible until now. Then, too, the constant effort of the soldier is to distinguish himself by rising above the common level.”
“To distinguish himself, to surpass others! Are they good motives, Clare?”
“To surpass others in diligence and devotion to the common weal?” said Mr. Clare. “It is a motive that is never found unmixed, rector, either with love of one’s self or love of one’s fellows; in the last case I should not call it a bad motive.”
“But in the first?” said the rector.
“Well, ambition in a good cause is better than ambition in a bad one, of which we have so much nowadays. I should call it a motive which would be likely to purify itself as it went along, or else come to signal grief, as in the case of Judas.”
“Ah! you take that view of Judas’s character!” cried the rector, whereupon the discussion glided into another channel.
But on the August evening when we again meet Mr. Clare, his thoughts are busy with a state of things far from ideal. The “little game” which Mr. Dare had been “up to” two years ago, and in which Mr. Randolph had succeeded in “taking a hand,” had been partially operative in producing what is called a glut in the market, of certain articles considered by modern civilization necessaries of life. This glut did by no means signify that every one in the world had as much as he or she could use of such necessaries; but only that, an artificial scarcity of certain other actual necessities having been produced, with a consequent rise in price, much coin of the commonwealth had been diverted into the pockets of the capitalists who had produced the “corner,” while the commonalty had just so much less; and, if they purchased one article, were forced to go without another. Thus came what is known as “over-production,” a euphemism which one might suppose owed its origin to the capitalists themselves, if these polished, genial personages were capable of so veiling from themselves and the world the misery of which they are the cause. After all, those who perish from want and suffering in these days do not greatly outnumber the victims that have been offered to many a hero’s love of conquest; yet how many conquerors have been almost or actually deified by adoring soldiery! And as these heroes seldom fail with kind words, crosses of the Legion of Honor, cigars, and such like, to reward the devotion of their followers, so the modern money-king seldom refuses a subscription to aid those who have suffered in his cause. There is a superb magnificence about this new and civilized game of war, this winning and losing millions by a stroke of the pen, which renders it overwhelmingly worth the candle, at least in the opinion of the players; and while its barbaric splendor fascinates the intellect and deadens certain of the moral qualities, it also leaves others ample room to flourish and develop, thus producing a deformed but not ignoble character. But moral deformity is not only far removed from the stature of the perfect man in Christ, but inevitably tends to perpetuate itself, to the permanent and growing deterioration of the race; and those who arraign God Almighty because of the sufferings of the poor must consider that only by these very sufferings can this frustration of the very object of man’s creation be prevented, and the eyes of rich and poor alike be opened to the enormity of the crime committed.
Upon the August evening to which we return again, the unusual clearness of the air, which, from a Micklegard point of view, was decidedly a melancholy beauty, seemed at first sight to have no sort of connection whatever with Mr. Randolph’s trip to Paris and “Dare’s little game.” Yet one result of the financial crisis referred to had been that many of the factories in Micklegard, including Randolph’s Mill, had found themselves overstocked with goods, and, after intervals of “shutting down” for a month at a time, had decided themselves unable, consistently with the fall of prices caused by “over-production,” to run their mills on the old terms. But, capital having caused the crisis, it was quite right and logical—from a military point of view, and according to a certain Latin proverb—that the losses should be borne by Labor; and Randolph’s Mill set the example of offering the “hands” (which unfortunately had mouths also appertaining unto them) lower wages.
Why should we go further into detail? Are not the terrible, sickening, godless minutiæ of a “strike” known to every one? There were knots of desperate-looking men always talking, talking at the corners of the streets; or, worse, leaning against the walls, with folded arms, lowering brows, and darkly gleaming eyes. Those who were fortunate enough worked at cleaning the streets, as porters, or at any odd job that fell in their way; sometimes a whole family were dependent upon the earnings of some daughter out at service, or son employed as cash or errand boy in a store.
“Oh! they get help from the unions,” said a wealthy mill-owner one day to Ernest Clare; “some of them live better than they ever did in their lives.”
“They don’t look it,” replied Mr. Clare quietly.
“No, because they are such discontented dogs; they absolutely enjoy lounging on the street corner, and looking sulky. It helps the effect.”
“An unemployed dog,” replied Mr. Clare, “when he is also discontented, is very apt to be a dangerous dog. I hope the mill-owners may not find to their cost that it would have been cheaper in the end to run their mills on Gospel principles.”
At which view of the case the mill-owner was amused to an extreme.
“There comes Tina Kellar, Tina Schaefer that was,” said Louis, as he and Mr. Clare came to the turn which led to North Micklegard.
“How slowly and wearily she walks,” returned his companion. “I suppose her husband is still away?”
“Yes, but she had a letter from him yesterday. He says the West is the place after all. He has taken up a land claim out there, and, as soon as he gets his house built and things cleared up a little, will leave his partner in possession, and come home after his wife and family.”
“I hope they may do well,” said Mr. Clare thoughtfully, “but Tina seems scarcely strong enough for that wild life. How old is her baby?”
“About six months, I think. No, she is not strong, but the life can scarcely be harder than her present one. Since her husband left, she has been going out washing or house-cleaning whenever she can get a job. You know that they are living in our old house, and my father actually shook his fist at her last rent-day.”
“She was ready, then?”
“Ready with every cent; but he told her to keep it towards an outfit and travelling expenses. I don’t know what they live on, I’m sure; for they never get regular meals at ‘Prices’ now; only bread and sometimes a dish of potatoes. Dora, the eldest girl, who was named after my mother, keeps house and takes care of the little ones. Tina is so proud she won’t take help, except that she lets me pay for the baby’s milk. They have named her Louise, after me,” said Louis proudly.
“Yes, I heard you were to be godfather,” replied Mr. Clare, smiling cheerfully as the subject of this conversation approached. “Good-evening, Frau Christina; when am I to have the pleasure of christening that young lady of yours? or is your father to do it?”
“Ah! I haven’t heart or time to think of christenings, Mr. Clare,” replied Tina in a low, weary voice; “it’s all a mistake for poor folks to have children, and they might as well die unchristened as not.”
“But they aren’t going to die, I hope,” said the clergyman cheerfully; “Louis says you are all going West to grow up with the country. Come, I won’t keep you standing when you are tired out with your day’s work; but you’ll let me give a little treat to the children, I’m sure,” as he pressed something into her hand.
“It’s very good of you, Mr. Clare, but we ain’t beggars,” said Tina proudly, even while her hand closed involuntarily over the gift.
“We are all beggars in the sight of God,” said Mr. Clare, “and you know Who took little children into His arms and blessed them. I am quite sure He would like yours to have a treat. Good-night; God bless you.”
“Stop a bit, Mr. Clare; I want to tell Louis where I’ve been working to-day. Do you know, Louis, that Pinkie Randolph has come home?”
“I knew she was expected, but not quite so soon,” said Louis steadily, though his cheek glowed.
“Well, she’s home, and I’ve got the job of cleaning house for her. Much she knows about it! though she wouldn’t have it done till she was at home to ‘superintend,’ as she called it. I will say, though, that she’s a kind-hearted girl; told me this morning I looked tired, and gave the cook orders to make me a cup of tea for my dinner. She’s at Dr. Richards’s now, I guess.”
“I’m glad she thought of you,” said Louis gently.
“I ain’t got much cause to complain,” said Tina resignedly. She had not thanked Mr. Clare, but neither of them remembered it as she moved away with her slow, weary step, looking, with her careworn face and thin, bent form, twenty years older than her real age.
“You don’t care to turn back, do you?” asked Mr. Clare as they walked on.
“I promised to come, and I have no reason to avoid—any one,” said Louis with a gentle dignity not unbecoming. He looked much older than twenty-one, for his youth had ripened rapidly; years of thought and care for others had developed his judgment and strengthened his character, and intercourse with such a man as Ernest Clare had opened new worlds to his intellect and conscience. Now, as his companion glanced down at him, he wondered whether in her travels the fair Rosalie had met with anything truer, purer, or nobler than the young man’s fair face, with the open brow set in golden-brown waves, the steadfast blue eyes, and firm, sweet lips, under the heavy mustache. It was not a sad face, though just now it wore a certain quiet wistfulness; but there was a chiselling about the lips, a resolute gravity upon the white brow, that are not often seen upon the sunny side of thirty.
He was tall and well made, without equalling Mr. Clare’s height and magnificent proportions; yet there was nothing even apparently unsuitable about their companionship; and, spite of the difference in age, Louis knew himself to be in all Micklegard his leader’s chosen friend; more companionable than Fritz, more sympathetic than even Father McClosky.
Virginia Dare, with Frank Randolph in close attendance, was sitting at the parlor window, and recognized them as they approached.
“Grand Dieu!” she exclaimed, for she was now much given to French ejaculations,—“Grand Dieu! voilà, our friend the shoemaker and that handsome carpenter-clergyman. What a figure the man has! Just look at his shoulders and arms! mais c’est une taille de prince!”
“Don’t be silly, Virgie,” advised Pinkie rather sardonically; “it’s no good getting up an enthusiasm for that man; he’s a star decidedly out of your sphere.”
“He’s a cad,” remarked Frank, who was fond of using Anglican words, without considering their applicability to American civilization. “No fellow that wasn’t would make such a beastly fool of himself;” but further comment was cut short by the entrance of the persons criticised.
It was with a strange mingling of emotions that Pinkie saw her boy lover enter the room, and received a greeting kindly but grave, as from one immeasurably her superior. Not that Louis had any such idea; it was, indeed, in search of Pinkie that his eyes had involuntarily wandered, and the touch of her soft little hand gave him a strange thrill; but there was no shade of difference in his greeting to her and to Miss Dare; it was only Mrs. Richards, by whom he sat down, and on whose hand he gently laid his own, who detected any tremor in voice or manner; and Alice looked into his face and sighed heavily.
The conversation soon turned upon financial matters, and Mr. Randolph took occasion to ask, half maliciously, how “Prices” was weathering the present business storm.
“Oh! we shall pull through, I think,” said Mr. Clare easily. “You see, there is very little conflict of interests among us, so our ship is readily handled; and we are able to shorten sail, and even, in extremity, cast the cargo overboard. But we haven’t come to that yet,” he added.
“Ah? I rejoice to hear it. And without metaphor”—
“Without metaphor, our shareholders, rich and poor, decided to forego their regular rate of interest on their investments, to enable us to reduce our prices for food, clothes, and lodging; accepting, at the year’s end, any dividend the company may be in funds to declare.”
“Most praiseworthy,” said Henry Randolph with a sneer.
“By no means! it is only taking out of one pocket and putting into another,” replied Mr. Clare.
“I see from this morning’s paper that a large Socialistic meeting took place last night, where several speeches of a decidedly insurrectionary character were made. I suppose both of you were present?” pursued the millionnaire.
“Neither of us,” replied Mr. Clare.
“But one of the speakers was called Metzerott. Your father, perhaps?” to Louis.
“It was my father,” replied the young man, in a voice of such pain that Pinkie glanced at him involuntarily; but, at the quick, ardent look of gratitude that flashed into his eyes, she glowed vividly, bent her head for a moment over her work, then, raising it haughtily, sent him another glance of icy disdain.
“I am sorry to hear it,” said Mr. Randolph, who had seen nothing of this by-play; “but of course such principles as all of you profess can lead only in one direction. And you’ll get into trouble down there at ‘Prices,’ I warn you as a friend. We are a law-abiding people here in America”—
“And therefore aim to improve the laws,” said Mr. Clare so quietly that his remark did not seem an interruption.
“Eh! improve? you’ll never improve away the distinction between rich and poor, or the laws that protect property.”
“God forbid—the last,” said Mr. Clare. “What we aim at is to make property—outside of what we now call personalties—really stable and secure, by making the Nation, and not any private individual, its owner.”
“Tut, tut, what nonsense! I beg your pardon, Mr. Clare; but, really, to hear a man of your intellect, in this age of the world”—
“And exactly because it is this age of the world,” said the clergyman, laughing. “Why, Mr. Randolph, a man of your intellect ought to recognize the spirit of the times. Would you have us go back to mediævalism, every man his own sovereign,—barring an act or so of empty homage,—as well as his own postman, policeman, scavenger, and lamplighter?”
“We are civilized rather beyond that point, sir; besides, it has nothing to do with the subject in hand.”
“Nevertheless, the day will come when ‘every man his own bread-winner and property-holder’ will be equally a relic of barbarism,” said Mr. Clare coolly.
“Not in my time, sir, or yours.”
“Why, a certain English magazine I was reading, the other day, was disposed to assign it to the date of the Greek Kalends; but I don’t feel so sure about that,” said Ernest Clare. “Though it might be correct enough for England providing America had never been discovered. John Bull is a conservative animal; he has been beaten and pulled alternately by the horns and tail until he has learned to say ‘A;’ and is now fully persuaded that ‘A’ is the only correct thing to say; and that any one who says ‘B’ is revolutionary, immoral, and un-English. But Brother Jonathan, once he has learned to say ‘A,’ is more than half prepared to say ‘B,’ and will be positively eager about the remainder of the alphabet; so ‘the coming of the Coqcigrues’ may be nearer than we dream,” he ended, smiling.
“May I go in to see Freddy?” asked Louis, turning to Alice.
“He will be glad to see you,” she said. “His father is with him now. No, Louis, I fear he is no better. If he would like to see Mr. Clare, you had better leave him. It flusters him to have more than one or two persons in the room.”
It was evident that Freddy and the Ark of the Covenant would soon part for this world, though he lay still, propped with pillows, upon its friendly bosom, white and shadowy, only the great brown eyes full of life and gladness. Freddy had had a long attack of lung-fever, from which, though the disease had been broken, he had no strength to rally. For a time he had seemed better, then he began to fade, slowly and painlessly, like a flower; but also with conscious gladness, impossible to a flower. He welcomed his friend with a smile and feeble outstretched hand; but not till Dr. Richards had left them came the whisper, “Have you seen her, Louis? Isn’t she pretty?”
“Prettier than ever,” said Louis. “Shall I sing to you, old fellow? or will you see Mr. Clare?”
“I want you,” said Freddy. “I want to tell you that I am glad to have seen her again before I die, and doubly glad to die now that I have seen her.”
“Do you—oh, no! Freddy!—you don’t love her too?”
“I think I should if I wasn’t going to die,” said Freddy, smiling. “Sing now, old fellow. Sing the ‘Land o’ the Leal.’”
So Louis sang—though it was a difficult task—song after song, in his sweet tenor voice, until those in the outer room hushed their talk to listen, and Freddy fell fast asleep with the tender notes echoing still in his ear. For it is never “woe” to those who are vanquished by the Cross.