Invitations were sent to all likely to be interested. Dr. Maverick used his strong influence wisely. The idea amused some, others wondered how ladies like Miss Barry knew about cooking and economy.

"Let her undertake to live on the money we common folk have, and she'll see!" exclaimed Mrs. Stixon. "Our kind don't want to learn fussin' and fixin' of puddens and pies and such like! Good for us if we can get a mess of biled potatoes and bacon. My gals'll get along athout any such larnin'."

They opened one Friday morning with seven pupils; a discouraging number, Sylvie thought, when she saw the spacious room and the nice preparations. The bashful girls sat in a little huddle, looking very much as if they were afraid of being laughed at.

Miss Morgan was equal to the occasion. She made a short, sensible address, and hoped the girls who were present would interest not only their companions, but their mothers and friends. Then she questioned them a little. Had they ever boiled potatoes?

At this they all laughed a little foolishly, and looked as if the art of boiling potatoes was held in rather low esteem.

"The dinner for the day," announced Miss Morgan, "will be boiled potatoes, broiled steak, and corn-muffins. Which of you girls would like to try the muffins?"

"I never heerd of such a thing," said one girl timidly.

Sylvie pleasantly corrected the speaker.

"Well, you may try," said Miss Morgan. "First, read this recipe aloud."

Mary Moran stumbled through it, partly owing to ignorance, and the rest to feeling very much abashed.

"Please go through it again, Mary," said Sylvie, in an encouraging tone.

This time she did much better.

"Now you may prepare the table and the dishes, and one of the girls may measure the meal and the flour. Put the ingredients in this dish—so. Keep your mind on the recipe. What comes next?"

Mary was quite awkward. Miss Morgan corrected the slightest mistake. The other girls stood around in wondering amusement, and now and then a little titter broke out. But Mary went on, gaining courage. The tins had been set on the stove, now a bit of butter was put in each one, and stirred around, then the dough dropped in. This was quite entertaining.

"What did I say about the oven?" queried Miss Morgan.

The class looked aghast a moment, then one girl said quickly, "That the oven-door must be hot enough to hiss."

"Right. Try it and see."

It was in the proper condition. Mary slipped in the two trays of pans, shutting up the door. "To look at them, and turn them around in twelve minutes, and in twelve more to try them with a whisk," were the final directions.

The potatoes were brought out next. Miss Morgan asked each girl to pare one, which they did in various uncouth ways. One girl cut off the skin in square bits, leaving a figure that would have distracted a geometrician; another ran round it rapidly, leaving in all the eyes; and out of the six potatoes there was but one neat and shapely. Miss Morgan held it up.

"There is an art in so slight a thing as peeling a potato," said she. "It is very wasteful to cut it away in this manner, or this, and careless to leave in the eyes. Now each of you may pare another."

The second attempt was a great improvement. They were put on to boil; one girl was detailed to watch them, another to prepare the steak, while a third arranged the dinner-table in the kitchen, as the family was to be so small. Mary looked after her corn-muffins. They had risen up like little pound-cakes, and a glad smile illumined her rather stolid face.

Sylvie had brought a bit of tatting along, and now took it out.

"Oh, how beautiful, Miss Barry!" exclaimed Kitty Miles. "I can do just the plain little scallop; but I never could get these other jiggers!"

Sylvie laughed, "I believe they have a name beside 'jiggers,'" in an odd, half-inquiring tone.

"O Miss Barry, we girls can't talk nice like you!" and Kitty blushed.

"I don't see why you cannot with taking a little pains. All words that are not names, and 'what-you-may-call-it,' and 'Mrs. Thingumby,' and such expressions, are the result of carelessness. If any thing has a name, that is the proper word to be used; and by being watchful one comes presently to talk in a lady-like manner. Now I will show you about these."

"Oh, my muffins!" cried Mary, rushing to the stove. They were quite brown. She tried them with the whisk.

"Some stick a little bit, Miss Morgan."

"Push the pan back to the other side. Indian requires very thorough cooking or baking, or it will be soggy, and have a moist and not agreeable taste. Try your potatoes now."

In a few moments they were done, and Kitty Miles undertook the steak. Mary let her muffins stand a moment or two, then turned them out. Two or three stuck fast, and broke: the rest were a perfect success. She was delighted beyond measure. They had no tea or coffee, but they gathered around the table, and enjoyed the meal very heartily. Sylvie desired them to ask any questions they liked; and by the time they were through, their awe of Miss Morgan had quite vanished.

Afterward followed dish-washing. This was made quite a science, as well. They had hardly finished when Mrs. Miles and a neighbor came in, and through the course of the afternoon the numbers doubled. Mary begged that they might make some muffins to take home: Miss Morgan assented, and the girls had quite a gay time. But the oven was not precisely right.

"Open the draughts a little. Although not so hot, the oven is very steady now. Close the draughts in five minutes."

Mary forgot, and the result was that some at one end were a little burned.

"Why, they're elegant!" exclaimed Mrs. Miles. "And what a cheap, hearty supper they'd make, when one has three hungry boys to feed! Mrs. Stixon, now, was thinking you'd go into all the fancy branches. I didn't know ladies ever"—and Mrs. Miles paused suddenly, her face scarlet.

"Ever had occasion to practise economy!" cried Sylvie with her piquant smile. "They do a great deal of it, Mrs. Miles. My aunt would no sooner think of being wasteful in her kitchen than she would of wearing her velvet dress out on a rainy day. There is a neat, pretty, tasteful method about these things, that is as much of an art in its way as painting a picture, and in some respects a more important one, for the health of the body depends upon well-cooked food."

"Since Kitty's nothing much to do, I mean to have her come every time. I'm sure you ladies are very good to take so much pains."

The other officers dropped in. The cost of the materials used was ascertained, minutes of the session made, and a recipe for corn-muffins given to each girl. It was decided to attempt biscuit on the following Tuesday, and on the next meeting, bread. Then the fire was pretty well poked out, the stove-lids raised, and the class went home in an extremely interested spirit.

Just as Sylvie and Miss Morgan had turned the corner, they caught sight of Dr. Maverick, who crossed the street to speak. Sylvie described their day with a few graphic touches, interspersed with much genuine mirth.

"Some people were afraid to come," said he. "Before a month you will have your hands full."

Sure enough, on Tuesday there were fifteen scholars. Miss Morgan and Sylvie had hardly a moment to spare until the dinner was through. Then the latter proposed that every scholar should bring some sewing, garments they wished cut out, any thing that perplexed them, or whatever they would like most to learn.

All days were not so fortunate. Occasionally some dish would be spoiled by haste, carelessness, or want of attention. There were burned fingers and divers cuts; but Miss Morgan patiently explained her deft, neat, labor-saving methods. There began to be a great interest; some of the mothers coming in for an hour, or bringing a special dish to cook. Sylvie discussed the relative value and nourishment of different articles, the many changes that could be made at slight expense, the saving that a little carefulness brought about. She gave brief lectures on cleanliness, order, taste, and neatness; the right way and the wrong way of doing many things, the giving out and the taking in; the art of making the best, not only in such times as these, but in all times; of being brave and true in the lowest and smallest of life's duties; of throwing out false pride and shams, and the desire to appear richer or grander than one's means would allow.

Then the last half-hour they had what Miss Morgan called an inquiry-meeting. Everybody was at liberty to ask one question, and those who knew answered it to the best of their ability. New teachers were pressed into the service. Dr. Maverick gave them a talk on health, and another on preparing food for the sick, and the special care some diseases required. And Jack Darcy proposed that Christmas Eve the cooking-school should give a supper, the tickets being at the low price of twenty-five cents. Every dish was to be cooked by the scholars.

It created a deal of excitement. Hard as times were, the tickets sold rapidly. The large room had two long tables, with benches for seats. The first table was to be served at eight o'clock, the second at nine. Sylvie made a dozen of the girls pretty Suisse aprons and dainty caps, and they waited on the guests. Dr. Maverick offered three prizes,—one for the best loaf of bread, one for the best plain cake, and a third for the nicest and cheapest invalid broth.

The room was full, and they had a very gay time. Indeed, it seemed as if half Yerbury turned out, either from honor or curiosity. At nine o'clock they ran short of provision, when they honorably decided to refund the money for all tickets offered after that, and explain to new-comers the state of affairs. But some of the young men proposed a dance; and they went on for the next two hours in hearty, healthy jollity.

Out of ten loaves of bread offered, Mary Moran took the prize. That for the cake was awarded to quite a new scholar; while Kitty Miles carried off that for broth, three doctors concurring in the decision. And the treasurer found they had cleared fifty dollars above expenses, so that it proved a success in more ways than one. There had been a great dearth of amusement for the poorer classes in Yerbury this winter.

"Sure, it was just splendid!" said Bridget McKim. "My boy Mike had a week's wages in his pocket that night, and he was goin' off to the Ivy Leaf to raffle for a turkey; an' ses I, 'Mike, ye niver took me out of a Christmas, so do it now along o' the cookin' school party, an' ye'll get the best bit o' turkey yes ever put in yer mouth.' An' so he did; an' he said it was the best show he iver was to, and he wouldn't 'a' missed seein' Mary Moran get the prize fur twice the money. An' so he went home with me, ye see, as sober as an owl, and we bought our own turkey; but if he'd gone to the tavern, not a cint would he had of his week's wages, and been drunk beside! An' he used to be swate on Mary too, so there's no knowin' what may happen!"

The school took a fortnight's vacation. Sylvie and Miss Morgan felt that it was no longer an experiment. It would be put to wider uses, and perhaps was the corner-stone of a great work, sorely needed in this world; the same kind of work Jack Darcy had begun over in the mill yonder,—planting beacon-lights on the path where so many had stumbled and gone down for want of true and honest guidance.

"It will have to be remodelled somewhat," said Miss Morgan. "I can't have you working like a slave, even if it is in a good cause. There is something still higher for you."



CHAPTER XVIII.

AFTER the first of January it came off bitterly cold. Coal went up half a dollar on a ton; and flour rose, more by the greed of speculators than any scarcity, or any demand for it abroad. There was considerable suffering, though not as much as the winter before. The men and women and boys and girls at Hope Mills were thankful enough for their seventy-five per cent, and did their very best. A spirit of economy and emulation ran through the whole brotherhood. Every month Cameron announced whatever saving had been made in different departments, and the hands were proud enough of it. Those who had taken their whole winter's coal out of the share were quite jubilant. Once a week the workmen had a meeting, and discussed matters a little. Three men had been reprimanded, but on the whole the morale was excellent. Winston was on the alert continually, east, west, anywhere, buying here, selling there, seeing in every thing the promise of better times.

"We've reached the last ditch as surely as they did in the war," he said to Darcy, rubbing his hands in great glee. "I tell you, old chap, it was a lucky thought of starting just as we did. You see, we shall come up with the good times; for I do honestly believe the worst is over."

Jack smiled, but was not so sanguine. They had only gone such a little way on the five-years' journey. But there were some very encouraging rays right around them. Kit Connelly's coffee-house was working to a charm. Jack began to think that drinking liquors was not so much a besetting sin, as a natural sequence of having nothing else to drink when you were cold or hot, or tired or hungry. The men fell into the habit of going to Kit's for their midday lunch, and presently some of the women went over. The room was so bright and pleasant; and, with Miss Rose there, they were on their best behavior. In the evening Mrs. Connelly brought her work, and sat by the desk. Some of the younger men, who had no homes; as one may say, dropped in, and looked over the books. Once two young chaps had come up from Keppler's to have a little fun, as they said, and were rather noisy. Mrs. Connelly rose.

"Gentlemen," she said, "you forget yourselves. This is an orderly, quiet house, not a tavern. If you cannot submit to the rules, you must leave it."

"Leave it! Come, who'll put us out!" laughed the bully. "Let's see you try," with an insolent leer at the lady.

Two men were sitting at a table just a little back of them. Their eyes met. Both rose; and, each seizing a shoulder of the bully, he was marched out before he could make the slightest resistance, his companion looking on in amazement.

"Next time you insult a lady in her own house, you will not get off so easily! Just bear that in mind."

The fellow uttered an oath, but the door was shut in his face.

"Thank you, John Kelly, and you, Ben Hay," said Mrs. Connelly, in a brave voice, though her heart fluttered a little.

The other young ruffian rose, and walked out quietly.

"If you didn't mind, Ben Hay," she said, an hour or so after, as they were shutting up for the night, "I'd like to have you drop in quite often of an evening. The boys are hardly big enough if we should ever be beset by such scamps as that, and you've always been so friendly-like."

"Yes," answered Ben, flushing, and casting a sheepish look at the desk, where Rose's curly head was bent over her accounts. "Yes, I'm at your service. It's enough sight cheerfuller here than in Mother Mitchell's boarding-house. I'll be glad to come."

"Thank you."

Miss Barry heard of this, and told it over to Jack.

"Ben Hay is a good, plucky fellow. He used to go down at noon for beer, but I do not think he has been since the coffee-house was opened. Sylvie, do you know, I believe reformers in general would be more successful if they put a good and pleasant thing in the place of the evil they assail. Too often they leave their convert to pick his way alone. Hay is very much interested in the plans of the mill. The meetings have done this much already,—a spirit of inquiry has been awakened in some of the men, and they are reading up what other people have achieved in this line. I want them to get well grounded before there comes any strain. We can't go on prospering forever. That would be too much like fairy-land."

"But every one thinks the panic nearly at an end," and Sylvie studied the grave face before her.

"I do not want to croak," and Jack gave a little laugh that sounded forced, "but we have just begun to pay off our debts. Every city and town, and nearly every individual, is in debt. If we could pay with promises to pay, we might tide over a while longer; but when interest reaches a certain point, it swallows capital. If we can meet our indebtedness everywhere, as fast as it matures, well and good: if not, then we have only nibbled at the crust of our bitter pie."

"Anyhow," cried Sylvie, with the woman's sanguine nature, "Yerbury is a great deal better off than it was last winter. Every one admits there is much less suffering."

"There is more employment, and no broken bank," with a cheerful smile.

"Do you know," said the young girl presently, while a faint color went wandering over her fair face, "that they are doing a marvellous stroke of business at Garafield's, even if the times are bad? Mrs. Garafield was down to tea a few evenings since, and she was greatly encouraged. There is such a rage about the new style of papering. Everybody has run mad on dados and friezes, and fresco patterns, bordering, and harmonies of color," laughingly. "And they have some wonderful new designs."

"Fred is in just the right place. If he has courage to fight through," and there came a curious, almost foreboding expression in the sympathetic eyes.

"You care a good deal for him, Jack! And yet he did not use you nobly," with a peculiar regret in the tone. "It is the one thing"—

"Sylvie, if I forgave it, surely you can." Then he turned his eyes upon her, and read or rather dreamed of something in a dim, dazed way, the story of a bygone summer. Had it been more to her than any one thought? Miss Barry had hinted to his mother that Sylvie's decision in the matter was a great disappointment to her. There had been a decision, then, and one adverse to Fred Lawrence.

"I hate a false and cowardly man!" her cheeks were flaming now. "And when you were schoolboys together,—when Agatha and Gertrude were so afraid he would lower himself if he looked at any boy below his own social position,—he used to stand up for you,—yes, he did,—and fight; of course not in a brutal way with fists," and she laughed at her own conceit, "but in that higher, finer manner, with no shield or weapon save his love for you. I used to like to see you together,—you so sturdy and manful and true, and he delicate and handsome and adoring. And then"—

"Sylvie, I wonder if a woman can understand a man's friendship. We never had any quarrel. We just drifted apart. I don't believe we forgot each other. Circumstances took him out of my sphere, into a new one. If I had been there in college, going along with him step by step, don't you suppose he would have stood up for me in the face of his fine friends, just as he used to with his sisters?"

"I hope so: I would like to believe it."

"I am more just to him than you, Sylvie," said Jack, a little wounded. "I know it. I don't doubt it any more than I doubt—well, myself. He might have come—I was always sorry to see him avoid me, and I think he was weak, but he never forgot."

"He was weak, he was worse, Jack." There was a curious cry of anguish in her voice, and her shoulders swayed unconsciously, while her eyes looked out on the summer night he could not see.

"Don't get so excited over it, Sylvie," and the pleasant, cheery laugh seemed to bring healing on its wings. "Whatever it was, and we will let all that go, he made the amende honorable the night we had tea together up there in the great house. We took up our friendship just where it had dropped. Men never go over those crooked and thorny steps of the past, they have so much work to do in the present and the future. I wanted then to make a position for him in the mill; but it was not possible, and would not have been the part of wisdom under any circumstances. Yet it seemed as if I had stepped in his place. I was glad to hear of this other, though Fred would have been happier elsewhere. Sylvie, I do not believe you realize what it cost him to come back to Yerbury, to walk about, a working-man, where he had driven in his carriage. So down at the bottom there is the temper of the real blue steel, which can bend."

"How generous you are, Jack!" There was something more than admiration in her tone, and yet she was wondering if she could ever forgive her fallen hero.

"See here, Sylvie, I don't mean to question any one's religion, but I've often thought about the rejoicing up above, over the one who went astray. I do not believe we rejoice with a very full heart: maybe we are not heavenly enough. We can never be sure of our own strength until some far-reaching test is applied, and yet it may not be an entirely true test. It may quiver about the weak spot in our souls; but, while there is any feeling, one cannot be entirely lost. That is why I say he never forgot. And you and I ought to rejoice that he did come back instead of going off in that gloomy, diseased, Manfred style, and upbraiding the world. 'Whatever his hand found to do'—that was one of grandmother's texts, and he went bravely at it."

"I do believe you are a better Christian than I," she answered softly, her eyes limpid with emotion.

"No. Perhaps not even a better friend;" and a smile played about his mouth.

"A truer friend, a more generous one"—

"What were we talking of?" in a sudden change of tone. "Oh, the business at Garafield's! Fred is a good deal of an artist, an intellectual artist I should say; and, though he may not attain to fame by painting pictures, there are many other points coming to be appreciated. He is in the way for usefulness; and, if he wins the bays for beauty as well, I am sure we shall all rejoice. I heard he had been designing."

"You hear every thing." Sylvie made a capricious little moue. Her nods and gestures were so much a part of her, so piquant, decisive, and full of expression, when she did not intrench herself behind a studied dignity.

"I am glad you have heard it. I was wondering how best to tell you. I thought Garafield's might be a stepping-stone, these hard times, but it may prove the veritable ladder itself. Only"—

"Well!" with a trifle of impatience, as if she could not endure the suggestiveness of the tone.

"I wonder if you understand the courage it took for Fred Lawrence to make a home here in Yerbury, to bring his mother and sister; for you see he must endure for them as well as himself. Mrs. Lawrence will always be an invalid, I suppose. He thinks her quite changed and softened: evidently she clings to him. They see none of their old friends. Miss Lawrence never goes anywhere."

"As if one could help that!" almost passionately. "Auntie wrote a note to Mrs. Lawrence, and it was merely answered. They do not desire to receive any one. We can only let them alone, Jack."

"Even then we can hardly fail to appreciate what he is doing, possibly suffering. I think he will come in time to win back all the regard his friends ever gave him," Jack Darcy said in a steady tone.

Was he pleading for him? Sylvie was somewhat puzzled, the most so, perhaps, about herself. How much had she cared for Fred in that old time? If not at all, why did this feeling of shame over a fallen idol continually haunt her? She compared the two men in every thing, and sometimes was vexed to admit that Jack was the nobler.

Their walk had come to an end. They paused at the gate; and a third person striding up Larch Avenue took in the drooping, attentive, and pliant figure, the strong, protecting, powerful personality of the other,—and wondered, as he had more than once before. Were they friends merely? It was not possible for a woman to see so much of Jack Darcy's noble, manly life, and not admire, not love, Dr. Maverick admitted. She showed in many ways that she did care for him. Oddly enough she sheltered herself under his friendly care when other admirers came too near. Could not Darcy see! What a blind, stupid mole he must be in this respect! and the doctor kicked a stone in his path with such force that the two turned in the midst of their good-bys, and waited with smiling faces for him to reach them. Not a shade of annoyance in look or tone at the interruption.

"The queerest lovers," he thought to himself. "If I stood in that man's place"—

Jack went homeward in a curiously speculative mood. He has always fancied for Sylvie some handsome, spirited knight, whose mental intuitions would be as delicate and refined as hers, whose enjoyment as intense. Little as he knew of love, he understood their friendship too thoroughly to be betrayed into any mistake. And he wondered now if he held the key to Sylvie's spiritual enfranchisement of all other men? If she had not loved Fred Lawrence, she had come too dangerously near it ever to free herself entirely from whatever thrall his soul had thrown over hers. She had been disappointed in him, he read that from her tone; but surely, if he brought himself up to a finer and truer standard than any known in that enervating atmosphere of luxury, would she still be implacable? How could he best serve these two people, whom he loved so entirety?

He had many other things to busy himself about beside love and friendship. March came on apace, and the balance-sheet for the six months had to be put in shape. The accounts had been systematically kept: that he had insisted upon in the beginning. Cameron knew every gallon of oil, every pound of wool, every penny spent for repairs and stock; Hurd and Yardley had kept account of every yard of cloth, and what quality, that had passed through their hands; Winston, of travelling, advertising, commissions, &c.; and Jack went over every thing. They had done wonderfully. There was actually a balance of profit to every man, woman, and child. The forms were printed, and distributed to every employee, and there was a great rejoicing time. They engaged the Cooking Club to provide them a supper, and the young people had a merry dance afterward.

"It's hardly safe to halloo until you are out of the woods," said some of the solid old men of Yerbury, who were living snugly on the interest of government-bonds. "Six months is no test at all. Wait until there is a hard pull, and you will not be so jubilant."

"No," answered Jack with a humorous twinkle in his eye: "it's right to have the rejoicing now, when we have fairly earned it. The man who croaks when Providence has smiled upon him, deserves the frown; and he who is unthankful for small successes hardly has a right to great ones. I do not expect all fair sailing, but we will weather the storms together."

"It is rather unfortunate," commented another wise-acre. "I have observed these wonderful beginnings seldom end well. If you should have a run of bad luck now, your men will be dissatisfied, and likely blame you for not keeping up to that mark. I shouldn't have made such a great effort, and then there would have been a chance for improvement."

"A new broom sweeps clean, but it will get worn out," with sundry mysterious nods.

"I declare," said Jack to his friend and comforter, Maverick, "half the town looks at me as if I must have robbed a bank, or falsified accounts, told a lie, or cheated, or maybe murdered some rich old don, and made merry on his money. Why can't people rejoice with you when there is any thing to rejoice about,—an event which does not happen so often in these evil days? I do believe Boyd, and a lot of the others, would be glad to see the scheme fail; but I'll work night and day to make a success of it. It shall not go down," and Jack set his lips together in a way that spoke volumes for his resolve.

"I have observed before that some people are fond of disparaging plans that they have no hand in," returned the doctor coolly.

"And philanthropy is a much-derided virtue. If the old Athenian had been a stock-broker or a bank-director, he might not have been sent into exile, eh?" and Darcy laughed good-humoredly. "If I have kept a few people from starvation this winter, I ought surely to have as much credit as to have dealt around alms. As for the success, we had the reputation of Hope Mills in our favor, and every man had his own fortune at stake, and brought out the best that was in him."

He sent Miss McLeod her half-yearly rent, a copy of the statement, and a very temperate letter. He was quite proud to think he had no need of accepting her proffered favor, but he thanked her again for it.

She answered promptly. She had shown the statement to Mr. Hildreth, and he thought it remarkable. Wasn't it a trifle too rose-colored to last? Count on her as a friend, if evil days came; and we none of us could tell exactly what was in store. The financial horizon was by no means clear.

A few others gave him words of heartfelt encouragement. The Rev. Mr. Marlow spoke of him in very high terms, much to Sylvie's delight, and said already there had been a great change in the mill-hands. The coffee-house he considered an especially commendable thought.

There was a quiet change going on that was destined to bear more abundant fruit in the future. Some of the men and women had begun to think a little for themselves. The pupils of the cooking-school were beginning the A B C of beauty and neatness. Their rooms were swept cleaner; their clothes took on a more tidy aspect. With the opening spring, gardens and court-yards were cleared of their rubbish, and flower-beds flourished again. Sylvie gave her girls one very instructive lecture on slips and flower-seeds, and one Saturday they went out to the woods for ferns and wild flowers. It was only one little corner, to be sure, but it was the leaven that was presently to do a wide-spread work.

Hope Mills took up its steady march again. Half a dozen new hands were added, though Jack wished that he could find employment for some of the poor souls that besieged him daily. If times really were coming better, if orders only would increase, and he could with safety enlarge his borders! But "slow and steady" was his motto. He was not one to disparage the present by exaggerating the advantages of the future.

There was one home that these cordial little excitements never entered. The three souls in it, although they should have been very near and dear, wrapped themselves in their own thoughts and sorrows, and took no note of their fellows.

Mrs. Lawrence heeded the outward change least of the three. She had her pretty room, her glowing fire in winter, her fur slippers, and zephyr shawls; her late breakfast in bed, then her luxurious dressing-gown, and her books. She had settled herself into the role of an invalid for the remainder of her days. The loss and suffering had not taken her out of herself, or raised her narrow, vapid nature. She was at once patient and complaining,—even her affection for her son was combined with great mental and moral weakness. She was profoundly grieved that he should have been compelled to accept so unsuitable a position; but to her it was only a temporary event. Something must happen. In some mysterious way they would come back to their former grandeur,—not that she cared especially, but for the sake of Fred and Irene. Then for days she would lose herself in the joys and sorrows of her heroines. To such people novel-reading is certainly a godsend. A readable book was as exhilarating to her as a splendid morning drive or a good deed is to many others. She had society without being bored. She had wit, poetry, art, music, travels, dinners, and balls, with no worry, no late hours, or fatigue.

Irene could not so yield up her personality. She brooded over her lot in a haughty, bitter spirit. She uttered no complaint,—she was far too proud for that,—but she took no interest in any thing. Like a melancholy ghost she wandered up and down, or sat by the window for hours in a listless attitude. There were moments when she wished herself Lady Frodsham, times when the change and bustle of such a life as that of Mr. Barringer would have been heaven itself.

Fred could never persuade her to go anywhere. She took no walks, except to pace up and down the garden path when the quiet of the house drove her well-nigh crazy. Once in a great while she opened the piano, and played as if a demon had taken possession of her soul and her fingers.

Fred breakfasted early and alone. After a while he fell into the habit of taking his lunch in his office, and coming home to a late dinner. Martha was certainly the perfection of maids. The housekeeping went on with the regularity of clockwork: there were no complaints even. Fred used to sit in his mother's room until her bedtime, when he would go down to the library, and work for an hour or two.

The utter dearth of interest would have been terrible to him but for his business. At first he preserved a wide and punctilious distance between himself and Mr. Garafield. He was the employer, to be sure; but then Fred Lawrence had a dignity of his own to maintain. One day, however, the dignity suffered a collapse. Mr. Garafield brought in some new designs, and they lapsed into an exceedingly entertaining art discussion. The employer had excellent taste, trained and shaped by practical experience: Fred possessed the wider mental reach and exquisite perception of harmony and color, the sentiment of genius.

"Why do you not take up the idea, Mr. Lawrence?" asked his employer. "House finishing and furnishing is fast coming to be a fine art. An intelligent, harmonious beauty is demanded. We are leaving behind the complacency of mere money in our adornments, and asking for something that evinces thought and refinement. I am sure you could succeed if you once set about the work."

The compliment touched Fred profoundly, roused him to a new venture. He practised his almost lost art of designing to some purpose: he wrote two or three art essays that happened to find much more favor than his abstruse philosophies. After all, he was young, and the whole world lay before him. Surely he could carve out some kind of fortune. The light of earnest endeavor shone in his eyes, the languid step quickened into one of courageous elasticity. He had dawdled away years enough: he would put a purpose into his manhood, that some distant eyes, seeing, might not relegate him entirely to the regions of contempt.

"There's quite a good deal in that young Lawrence," declared Phil Maverick decisively. "I was in at Garafield's the other evening, and, I must confess, listened to a fine art lecture. All about wall-papering, too!" with a genial laugh. "What an education that fellow has! Couldn't he find any thing to do, that he must drop down upon a paper-factory? I am sure I should have made a big fight out somewhere in the great world."

"'Beyond the Alps lies Italy,'" quoted Jack. "Not on the top, you observe, but perhaps in the valley. I wish you would be a little friendly with him, Maverick: you couldn't help but like him."

"There is more in him than I gave him credit for. I thought at the time of his father's death I had never seen so useless a fine gentleman, with all the stamina educated out of him. I had half a mind to turn him over to Aunt Jean and Miss Lothrop."

Darcy laughed absently, and Maverick saw that his mind had wandered elsewhere. How odd that these two should be friends! Maverick could not discern the fine bond uniting them.



CHAPTER XIX.

SUMMER came on apace. The Cooking Club took a vacation, or rather turned into a gardening club, and studied the sensible part of botany and floriculture. People began to look at the waste land lying about, with envious eyes. Here and there some one started a garden, or indulged in a flock of chickens. The Webbers traded their snug cottage for a place on the outskirts of the town, with two acres of ground, which they improved rapidly. Men who had sold farms, and spent the money in vain business speculations, looked back regretfully, and in some instances hired where they had been proprietors. There was no money to be realized in farming, but if one could even make a living! No one was making money but those lucky fellows at Hope Mills. Of course that was a bubble, and would burst presently; but doubtless it was good while it lasted.

Miss Barry, Sylvie, and Mrs. Darcy went away to a pleasant, quiet seaside resort. Miss Barry appeared to be ailing a little. Mrs. Minor so far relented as to invite her mother and Irene to spend two months with her at Long Branch. Mrs. Lawrence consented, Irene refused flatly. "She had no money to spend for dress, and she would accept no one's charity," she declared in her haughty way. But she could not stay in the house forever: so she took long walks over wild country ways, angry with the world, herself, and every thing. A fierce-eyed, beautiful girl, clinging desperately to her isolation, and yet eating out her very heart in loneliness.

The time ran on rapidly. September came around. Hope Mills did not make as good a report this time. Business had been very dull. Sales were next to nothing. People did not need much in warm weather, and orders were very light. However, several other branches of industry in Yerbury improved a trifle. Railroads, stocks, and real estate were fast becoming dead speculations: so men ventured to put their money warily into business again.

But the bottom had not been reached. Early in October there was a tremendous failure of an old and well-known firm of woollen-manufacturers. The bankrupt stock was sold at auction. Then another, and various smaller houses. The market was suddenly flooded. No one could sell. No one seemed to need new garments of any kind. Men wore their old clothes, and shrugged their shoulders in a sort of contemptuous content, as if they had suddenly found a great charm in a half-worn, shabby overcoat. Robert Winston went hither and yon. Not a piece or a yard would any one take.

There was a great deal of discussion in various daily journals. The business had been overdone again. Foreign markets must be found. We could not compete with foreign manufacturers. Our wool was inferior, our looms were inferior, our men knew so little, and demanded such high wages. Then we never could do any thing under the present wretched tariff and the skinning system of taxation. It took all a man could make. Another sapient statesman declared nothing could be done without more money. The contraction had been so great that not a man could do business. Then came a long list of figures to prove what a very little money was left in the country. Newspaper war raged, first on this side, then on that. If we did this, we would surely be ruined: if we did not, then ruin was inevitable.

Jack used to try for some light, no matter how faint. It seemed to him, if the great men at the helm of the national ship would set to work vigorously to widen and strengthen the commerce of the nation, instead of discussing such frivolous issues, prosperity might dawn once more. He went over his political economists again, and realized sadly that men had always disputed these points, and that each writer or prophet was sure his was the only creed that would ever save the world, while by following any other they would surely go to ruin.

Winston and he took counsel together: then they called in Cameron, who looked blue enough.

"Any ordinary factory would shut down for the winter," said Winston ruefully; "but that would be to confess our scheme a failure. We are piling up goods—but for what—a grand auction-sale by and by? And the men have worked so cheerfully—no, we can't give up."

"Giving up is out of the question at present," Jack answered solemnly, as if he was passing his word at the bar. "Our balance at the bank has been expended, and we have some notes out that must be cared for in a month's time. Wages are falling, and it seems to look now as if we were coming back to the era of cheap living. The bargain was the ruling rate of wages, you know. I think they will have to come down."

"I will not give up beaten," declared Winston. "I'll have one more try. Keep up heart, shipmate."

With that Winston started West again. He talked, he plead, he offered for the mere cost of production,—just to get the money back would be something. The coal-venture of this winter had been much larger, though coal was declining, and the profit somewhat less. Everybody pared the margin to the mere skin. Winston had a little luck, however. Two sales of some note were effected, and a barter, that only a man with a shrewd eye for bargains, and a glib tongue, could have managed. Flour, apples, and potatoes were the stock this time. The workmen took them gladly, at a little less than store prices. They knew how full the wareroom kept all the time.

The first of January, wages were lowered. There was a little grumbling among some of the men, but the women took it in wiser part. The half-loaf was much better than no bread at all. They remembered the dismal year when there had been no employment, and stinted food purchased on credit. One wouldn't starve with flour and potatoes, nor freeze with a full coal-bin.

Hope Mills had exhausted every source,—had even paid a horrible discount, being hard run,—when Darcy wrote to Miss McLeod a true statement of affairs. If they could hold out until spring, times might be better. They were economizing as they never had before: yet the time had come when disaster really stared them in the face, unless they could find a true friend.

Miss Barry had generously offered him her store and her credit. Though there had been a time when she withheld Sylvie, and fancied Jack Darcy not quite the equal of her pretty niece, that time had long gone by. She knew now his genuine worth,—she had tested his integrity. Of course Sylvie would drift that way; and so, by many delicate turns, she showed Jack that she could trust him with any of her treasures.

"You are so good," said the honest fellow, with tears in his eyes,—for he was touched beyond measure. "If I can't get through I will gladly accept, unless the prospect is so bad that it would be sure to jeopardize any one's money. But I hope it will not come to that."

How breathlessly he waited for Miss McLeod's answer! The morning's mail did not bring it; night closed in without it. A chill drizzle had set in, freezing as it fell, and the keen air fairly flayed one's skin. Yet he dreaded to go in-doors, to hear his mother's pleasant voice. Cousin Jane had been called away by the illness and possible death of a relative, so they two were alone.

When Mrs. Darcy saw her son so grave and pre-occupied, his eyes sadly pathetic with trouble, mother-like, she tried to comfort with the small talk that women often offer, and that answers the purpose like bathing one's brow with Florida-water in a severe headache. She never mentioned business to him when in such moods. Now it was a bit of newspaper-gossip, concerning some discoveries in Greece, that he and Maverick had been quite eager about.

The poor fellow was distraught, and could not listen. He ate his supper, choking down the food, for her dear sake, missing strangely Cousin Jane's pungency and seasoning. Then he tried to interest himself in the paper, but could not; he paced the floor softly; he whistled a tune, for his mother's benefit also, but broke down in the middle.

"I must go out a little while," he declared in desperation.

"Not in this storm," said his mother pleadingly.

"Yes. I'll be back by—ten," looking at the clock. "It is too bad to leave you alone," with sudden regret, kissing her tenderly.

"I shall not mind for a while. But this wretched storm"—

He laughed, a little strained and forced; then he put on his great-coat, almost wishing that every man in the country was without, and had to buy one to-morrow. He tramped up the street, drawing long respirations, every one of which was nearly a sigh. Was this the way Mr. Lawrence felt when times went bad? Was some such trouble the cause of that fatal disaster? He bowed his head in a sort of touching and profound respect to the dead man. He experienced an earnest sympathy for all struggling capitalists. What did unreasoning labor know of such nights as these when every thing, even good name, was at stake! He wondered if his mop of curly hair would turn gray, and then, in a ridiculously trivial mood, remembered he must go and have it cropped. As well now as any time; but when he reached the barber's, the place looked so uninviting, with the smoky kerosene-lamps turned low. He did not stop: he used to wonder afterward how it would have been if he had, until he came to have a sincere and reverent belief in God as the disposer of human events, the Hand back of the curtain, that guided every step, and kept sacred watch even over two sparrows.

He walked down past Maverick's; but half a dozen people were in there, so he went on and on to the very end of the street, when by the dim light he saw a figure in advance of him, a woman, tall and stately, muffled in a waterproof and hood. There was something in the bearing different from most of the Yerbury women who ran out of an evening for a neighborly gossip, or some provender for their next morning's breakfast. There were no stores in this direction; it was quite lonely; perhaps she was going home. It would annoy her to be followed, doubtless; and on such a night as this no roughs would be abroad in this vicinity.

Jack Darcy was in that nervous state when the brain seems rarefied and empowered to wrest secrets from the very elements in his path. He pursued several chains of thought at once, with lightning rapidity, and, with curious mental inconsistency, dropped them, and lapsed into others. Now a sudden interest sprang up in this wandering traveller. He listened with the wariness of an Indian to her step. It had in it the essential principle of flight, but a baffled, fruitless longing for escape, rather than a nearing to some distant haven or goal. He had not used to be so keen in this subtile discrimination, until Maverick crossed his path, and helped him out of his psychological bondage. And ordinarily his senses had not the electric keenness of to-night.

The figure paused. The face seemed to turn to the drear, blank sky—was it in appealing, or a desperate daring? an impotent resistance, or a wild, agonizing prayer? The hands were thrown up: he had come gradually nearer, and could see them, ghostly white in the long feeble ray of the distant lamp. What was she deciding or asking? A shiver ran over him as the thought of suicide entered his brain. At all events, he must not let her go to destruction.

Her hands dropped. She took a few slow, irresolute steps, then turned and came so quickly, that before he could stir or think, she confronted him. A wild face with staring eyes, a wilder shriek ringing out on the night air, making muffled echoes around, a desperate plunge, and a fall. He sprang and essayed to raise her from the half-frozen hail-bed of the sidewalk; the hood fell back, and he was more than astonished at beholding the face of Irene Lawrence.

He appeared suddenly to comprehend the whole fact, though he came to know afterward that he misjudged her. Only a desire to put an end to life and suffering, real or fancied, could have brought her out this night, in the lonely neighborhood, still, not so far from her own home. He must take her back, and then go for Maverick, who had become quite a favorite with Mrs. Lawrence, and prescribed harmless remedies for her, since she insisted she must have them.

Jack Darcy never experienced a more exultant pride in his strength than now. He lifted the helpless form, settled the swaying head on his broad shoulder, and, clasping the body tightly, picked his way through the slippery streets, in a manner that would have done credit to an Alp climber. Round this corner and that, to the quiet, deserted street, where every window was closed, and perhaps half the inmates in bed. Only in one house was there a sound of life. Some one was playing an accompaniment for an evening hymn, and youthful voices were singing. Two lines floated out as he passed, making a kind of glow on the sullen night:—

"Though long a wanderer, The sun gone down"—

Unconsciously he tightened his arms around this wanderer. Of course all their brief acquaintance had gone through his mind, especially the day when in her haughty pride and beauty she had given him that cold, insolent stare; but he forgave her freely, just as he had forgiven Fred's sin, unasked. How strangely he was destined to be mixed up with these Lawrences!

He paused on the low porch, where a honeysuckle rioted in summer, and was still full of withered leaves. His burthen had not stirred, and was a dead weight. Resting it against his knee, he pulled the door-bell gently, and waited.

"Is that you, Mr. Lawrence?" asked a voice from within.

"No. Jack Darcy," for he guessed rightly that it was Martha.

She opened the door.

"Don't be frightened, Martha," in a re-assuring tone. "It is Miss Lawrence."

"Oh, good heaven!" in tones of terror.

"Hush! do not disturb any one. Is Mr. Lawrence home? Where shall I carry her? she is in a dead faint."

"Bring her in the parlor. Oh, Mr. Darcy! where was she?" with a look of wild affright. "I did not know she had gone out. I always felt something would happen to her; and a long while ago I offered to go out with her, but she is so hard and disdainful that one soon comes to letting her alone. She made me promise not to tell her brother, or rather she defied me to: she wouldn't put any thing as a favor if she was dying. Talk about the pride of Lucifer! And I knew it would worry Mr. Lawrence dreadfully."

"Was she in the habit of going out—alone—at night?" asked Jack, in amaze.

"I think it was from pride," answered Martha simply. "You see, she needed some exercise, and she seldom went out in the daytime. And I don't think she is afraid of any thing. I never saw such a cold, bitter, strong girl—for she is only a girl yet. I've sometimes felt afraid she would do something desperate. Oh, if she would only let the Lord help her bear her trouble! And Mr. Lawrence is so kind and generous! He would do any thing for her. Oh, he ought to be home! There's the clock striking ten."

"And I must run for the doctor. Heaven grant she may not be dead! Take off her cloak, and try something"—glancing about in alarm.

Then he seemed to take one devouring look at the sculptured face, with closed lids, and jetty lashes sweeping the marble cheeks. Hurrying away, as if by some great effort, he ran down the street again, despatched Maverick, and hastened to Fred's office. The building loomed up dark and silent. He might possibly be at Garafield's house: he often went there of an evening, he and Mr. Garafield were so engrossed with their plans.

It was a long walk; but Jack strode on, getting rapidly over the ground. The hall-door was open, and Mr. and Mrs. Garafield were saying good-night to Fred. Jack waited until he came down the steps, and then called to him cheerfully. They linked arm-in-arm. The hail and rain had turned now to fine, hard snow, and the wind seemed to scurry through the deserted streets like a forlorn, wailing spirit.

Jack told his story briefly, also repeating what Martha had said about Irene's habit of lonely walking. He felt the sensitive nerves in the arm he held, quiver with a shuddering pain.

"Thank God it was you!" Fred said, with a great, tremulous gasp. "She is so strange, so cold and self-contained,—so bitter against fate! Believe me, Jack, I have tried my utmost"—and the voice broke with something like a sob.

"I know it, dear old fellow," drawing him nearer as the blast whistled around them.

"We never learned to make each other happy, you know. We never supposed we had any special duties to one another, so it was a new task to me. I tried to interest her in something, to make her more cheerful; but she would wrap herself in that haughty, unconquerable coldness. Yet if I had known or guessed"—

"After all, there is very little danger down your end of the town," said Jack, in that light, comforting tone. "There's nothing to call tramps or roughs; and, I dare say, to-night all would have gone straight if she had not run against me, as one may say, and the fright made her faint."

"But if it had been some one else! Oh, my God!"

"It was not; so never give that a second thought. There is no use in bringing up an army of 'might-have-beens' to worry you to death when you have escaped danger. And—here we are."

"You will come in, of course?"

Jack followed his friend. Maverick had succeeded in restoring Miss Lawrence to consciousness; but she was now in a burning fever and raging delirium. Outraged nature had at last asserted its sway.

"It is better so, I think," remarked Maverick, in a quiet, decisive tone. "She will have a severe run of fever, for this has been some time coming on; but she has youth and a naturally fine constitution in her favor. I believe she will pull through. But some arrangement must be settled upon. It will not do to take her up-stairs; for the effect upon your mother will be too great a risk. If you could bring a bed down here—to-morrow I will see about getting a nurse."

"I think it would be better to bring her bed down stairs," rejoined Martha. "The parlor is used so little. And she would be so much more comfortable"—

Martha's eyes went over the heavy, clinging dress, the disordered hair, the bracelets that were like manacles as she threw her arms about, moaning, muttering, and laughing shrilly. The eyes rolled wildly in their senseless stare, until one's blood almost curdled.

"We must get about it immediately," began Dr. Maverick. "She will be quieter presently, and I shall remain all night. Darcy, you watch her: do not let her injure herself, while we bring down the necessary articles."

Just at this juncture Mrs. Lawrence's bell rang. The noise had startled her from her first sound sleep. Dr. Maverick explained simply, and gave her a composing draught.

"A fever! Is it any thing contagious? Yes, it is better to keep her down there: my nerves are so weak, and I think I have a very sensitive, susceptible nature. I might take any disease so easily,—do you not think so, doctor?" and Mrs. Lawrence looked up from her frills and laces and snowy pillow with the helpless air of a child.

"Much better. She may be delirious, too, and that would distress you. Now be as quiet as possible, and try to go to sleep again. I shall remain to keep you both in order," with a laugh.

"That is very kind," she answered, with a pretty wave of her delicate hand. Her daughter might be dying below, but her nerves must be settled and cared for. Still, to do her justice, even in her intense selfishness, she never considered other people's ailments dangerous, while she held that her own precious life was constantly in peril. She talked of dying with the calmness of a saint, and admitted that there was no further charm to life, but still she must have the choicest care.

Under Martha's supervision they soon dismembered the bedstead, and brought down all necessary belongings. Jack had watched his charge, strangely exercised by her curious, changeful moods. Once she had looked meaningly at him.

"I might marry you," she said, in soft, mocking tones, her scarlet lips taking on a bitter, scornful smile; "but I should come to hate you so that some night when you lay asleep I should rise and murder you! I might endure you in London, where I could be in a continual round of gayety; but at Frodsham Park, with an old man like you,—May and December! May and December!" and she laughed shrilly.

She did not mean him, then! Honest Jack Darcy blushed to the roots of his hair, to his very finger-ends. Some old man had wanted her: well, she was braver and truer, then, than most people would admit.

The three came in, and transformed the parlor to a hospital-ward, without the simplicity. Jack suddenly thought of his mother, and hurried away. What an eventful walk it had been! and Hope Mills was quite driven out of his mind.

He found his mother frightened and hysterical; and drawing her down beside him he told her the story of his wanderings, expressing with some tender kisses his sorrow for her alarm, and advised her to go to bed at once, as he meant to do. And, though it might not be romantic after such an adventure, I must admit that in ten minutes my hero was soundly asleep, oblivious of both storm and business.

At the house he had left, there was but little refreshing rest. Mrs. Lawrence drowsed away when the confusion of re-arrangement had subsided. The gentlemen retired to the library while Martha disrobed her young mistress with inward fear and trembling, hardly being able to judge what was due to delirium, and what to natural imperiousness. Then Dr. Maverick kindly dismissed her.

"You will need your strength in the morning," said he. "Try to get at least one good nap."

He took his station at the bedside, and motioned Fred to an armchair just out of his sister's range. The opiate was not working successfully, but at present he did not consider it wise to increase it. He questioned him a little as to Miss Irene's habits and resources, and imagined the part withheld, from that rather reluctantly admitted. He understood that here kindred blood had not produced harmony, but a horrible discord, the more wearing in that every note had been muffled. The self-commiseration of the mother, and her weak love for her son that could only pity, but never encourage or brace to any vigorous effort; her total inability to comprehend any such character as her youngest daughter possessed; the wearisome platitudes enunciated in the belief that they were golden grains of worldly wisdom, the only kind she supposed existed; the weak, vapid repining that she had not married when she might have done so well, the discouraging certainty that no marriage was possible in this second-rate town, and that to remain single was a stigma and a misfortune. In her weak but querulous complaints, which she meant in part for sympathy, she had worn and exasperated Irene as much as Mrs. Minor: only here there were no lovers, and there Mrs. Minor looked upon every single man of means as a fish to be skilfully angled for.

If Irene had been thrown completely upon her own resources, if she had been compelled to step entirely out of her olden sphere, and earn her daily bread, there would have been a sharp, bitter fight, but the bracing mental atmosphere might have dispelled the thick darkness, the chilling vacuity, and evolved from the discordant elements a questioning and not easily satisfied soul, but one destined to develop into strength and nobler uses. But here, she said to herself, there was nothing. Friendship could not come to her aid—she would have none of it. No one should study her with curious eyes, to see how she bore her trials, her losses, the downfall of her pride. Strangers who had glanced at her with envy in her pretty pony-phaeton, or the magnificent family barouche, should not smile in triumph as they saw her walking by. As she had scorned others in her grandeur, so others would rejoice that she had been brought low. She had seen so much of the narrowness, the petty spite, the sharp stings of the world, that her sensitive flesh shrank at every pulse.

She could understand now how high-bred women, when friends and fortune had flown, had shut themselves in convents. That she would have been glad to do. Any entire renunciation would have met with her approval. But to gather up the threads of a commonplace existence, to find joy and solace in daily duties, to work for others, to even show others how trials and misfortunes could be borne to the perfect working-out of nobler aims and uses, was not for her. She had never been trained to any such purpose. A heathen of the heathens in a Christian country, the product of fashion, wealth, and so-called refinement.

In the solitude to which she condemned herself, she came to brooding over a desperate, worldly philosophy. Should she go back, and retrace her steps, and marry? There were days when she absolutely contested the ground inch by inch, and almost decided.

Her long rapid walks, generally at night when her brain was wild with the bitter warfare, had served a useful purpose, and kept her in better health. But the strain could not last forever. For days she had alternated between a chilly, stupid languor, and hours when her brain seemed on fire, when, indeed, she hated the whole world with a bitter, awful intensity. In this mood she had stolen out for her walk.

And now the outraged soul had burst its bonds, and revelled in a fearful revenge. All the ache and repression put upon it; all this silent endurance; all the solitary hours of maddening thought, the wasted riches, the spurned sympathy, the youth poisoned by false doctrines,—every secret sin committed against it, cried aloud, and would not be throttled, nor thrust back into the dreary dungeon.

Fred listened to her ravings in stunned, helpless astonishment. His trial had been so much less intense, after all. Could it be possible she had suffered this as she sat so like a statue in the little circle, disdaining every aid? His startled eyes questioned the doctor.

"Yes," was the reply: "she has been too much alone. She has brooded over these things until she has become morbid and imbittered. The curse of fashionable life is, that it provides a woman with no resources against a dark day, no wisdom, no faith in any thing outside of herself. And then we wonder at insanity! A thousand times better that the body should be racked with pain, if so be that the soul is purified in passing through these fires. It may be her salvation."



CHAPTER XX.

THE morning's mail brought to Darcy the letter he had hardly dared expect. It was brief but cordial. Would he come to New York, and the matter could be arranged to his satisfaction? "He had not been very eager to ask favors."

"We'll weather through, Winston!" he cried joyfully. "I must go to New York. Miss McLeod has sent."

Then he ran off home, and arrayed himself in spotless linen and immaculate cuffs, complained a little that Jane Morgan should be away, and begged his mother to ask in some of the pretty, friendly girls living in the next house, if he should not be home to supper. There was a late train that he would be quite sure of, if the business detained him until night. Then he kissed her tenderly: she was still a little shaken from her last night's vigil.

He went around by Maverick's office, though it took him out of his way; but he must hear some word of Miss Lawrence.

"She is very ill, and will be for some time to come; but I am wonderfully interested in the case. It's a brain-fever. The girl is a study in herself. She has the force and power, and capability of both suffering and endurance, that would answer for half a dozen souls; but it has come pretty nearly to a wreck. Did you ever know much about her?"

"No. I once spent an evening with Miss Barry when she was there," and Jack flushed. "It was before Mr. Lawrence died. They used to be great friends, you know."

"And it ended like most women's friendships, eh?" with a peculiar light in his eyes as he spoke.

"No: it broke off in the middle; regards have a trick of doing that when they're not ended, you know. Sylvie is very generous: she would go there to-day if she were needed."

"Would she? She may be before it is all over."

"Go down and tell her, Maverick, when you are in that direction."

Maverick nodded.

Darcy was just in time to catch his train. There had been quite a fall of snow from midnight to dawn, and the trees were glittering with thousands of diamond-sparks and patches of fleecy ermine. The winding roads were white; the cottages and the fence-posts were hooded; and the snow caught all the tints of sun and shadowy lights, reflecting them back like a mirror. His heart was so light as they whirled along, he smiled, and could hardly forbear shouting at a group of boys who were snow-balling by the roadside.

He met Miss McLeod at Mr. Hildreth's. They had the private office to themselves; and he related the mishaps of the past three months, showed her the actual figures, and admitted that times seemed really harder than last year. There was such a horrible shrinkage everywhere! Still there must be some trade presently,—it always had been so in the history of the world.

"I think you deserve a great deal of credit for having pulled through so far on your limited capital," said she. "Some of the business-men I meet, think this will prove the hardest year in our history. It will winnow the chaff from the wheat pretty well."

"If it does not winnow us all into chaff," returned the young fellow, with a touch of grim humor.

"We shall come back to smaller profits and greater industry. The world will not be able to play at being ladies and gentlemen, and perhaps a little wholesome work will not be a bad discipline."

Then she wanted to know what amount would be likely to tide him over for the next six months. He said he did not desire to exceed ten thousand dollars. She would make it twelve, however. After the notes were duly signed, she took him to her bank, and introduced him. As he had some other parties to see, she drove him about in her carriage, and insisted upon taking him home with her presently.

What an elegant old lady she was in her sables and velvets, and her royal air! her eyes bright with spirit and energy, her cheeks a little pink with the crisp air, glad sunshine, and perhaps her own hearty, wholesome mood. Occasionally she leaned out and nodded to some friend; and once her carriage drew up to the sidewalk as she summoned a fine, portly-looking gentleman to her.

"Mr. Throckmorton," she said, with gracious dignity, "I want to introduce my young friend Mr. Darcy, of Hope Mills, Yerbury, to you. If you can serve him in any business-way, I shall be glad to have you."

The gentleman bowed, and held out his hand, with cordial fine breeding.

"Hope Mills! It belonged to my friend Lawrence, did it not,—David Lawrence?"

"Until his death, yes."

"Sad misfortune, that. He ought to have retired years before. There was some villany in his manager, was there not? It is difficult to find a purely honest man nowadays; but I do believe Lawrence was one. We dealt with him a great many years, but toward the last there was some dissatisfaction,—goods not coming quite up to samples."

"We try to do our business on the square, Mr. Throckmorton," returned Jack, with a proud curve of the lips that was almost a smile, and illumined his face. "If any thing is not exactly as represented, we shall make it good; but we try never to have occasion to do that. We should be glad to have you test our honesty and skill."

"Thank you,—I will, I will;" and, touching his hat to Miss McLeod, they parted.

"If men were as generous as you!" cried Jack, with enthusiastic candor, "how splendid a place this world would be for business! Did you ever have a jealous thought in all your life?"

She laughed brightly. "I have had nearly all the things I wanted," she answered, with tender solemnity. "There would have been little excuse. Mr. Darcy, we do not always realize how hard life is to some; and, where everybody's man's hand is against one, it is natural for him to be against every man."

Their four-o'clock meal was an elegant little dinner. They were quite alone, which pleased Jack. She questioned him about Maverick, his practice, his friends, and wondered if he ever meant to marry. Jack said laughingly no one in Yerbury dared to make fascinating eyes at him.

Did she care so much for Maverick? Surely these two ought to be together, yet what would he do without his trusty comrade?

They veered round to the mills presently, and discussed honesty. Jack admitted that Mr. Throckmorton and other customers had a right to complain. There had been a deal of cheap wool used, and many poor workmen employed, during Eastman's last year or two.

"Mr. Darcy," she began energetically, "why do you not think up something new? We import pretty material for ladies' wear, that could as well be made here, for we women are growing sensible enough to believe something beside silk admissible. And though men may cling to superannuated coats, with an affection most commendable in hard times, I never heard of a woman being attached to an old gown."

"I never thought of it," he admitted frankly.

"That is what you were put in the world for,—to think," and she smiled with quaint humor. "Invent something. I'll take a sample to every store to match, and lift my brows in surprise when clerks confess they have not seen it. Give it a pretty name, of course."

"That is worth considering, surely;" and his eyes sparkled. "Hope Mills ought presently to be the grandest place in the country, you take so much interest in it," and his whole face expressed his admiration.

"I do hope to see you a successful manufacturer, Mr. Darcy; and, woman-like, I want the scheme to succeed. I should like to see even a small party of men trained to honesty and fair play. And, if I lose my money, it is no worse than a downfall in stocks."

"I shall do my best now and ever," he answered heartily.

They parted with much warm gratitude on the honest fellow's side. He took the evening train for home; and his mother had a good cup of tea awaiting him, along with her smile. He related his grand good luck, and there were not two happier people in all Yerbury. When the bank found he had an account at New York, and a good backer, they were extremely affable again.

Jack broached the new idea to Winston and Cameron.

"To be sure," admitted Winston. "Some one will do it presently, and we might get the lead. Darcy, your old lady is a trump, and always carries the honors. There will have to be some new processes: see here, talk to Ben Hay about it; he's made two or three improvements, and has some brains. Gad! It'll be quite jolly to have a new line of goods. Get the ladies on your side, and you're all right!"

He had not a spare moment until after his late supper, when he told his mother he must run over to the Lawrences, and stop a moment at the doctor's, though he had despatched the good news to him in the morning.

He found matters worse than he had feared. There had been an alarming change in Miss Lawrence. Martha ushered him through the hall to the library, where Fred was sitting. The two clasped hands, and then sat down together. A hard, dry sob seemed to tear its way up from Fred's very soul.

"Jack," he cried in a strained, despairing tone, "could I have done any thing to save her? I have been engrossed with my own affairs, my own dreams of advancement. I wanted to have money again, but it was for her sake and my mother's," with a lingering tremulous intonation. "She has been too solitary, she has brooded over every thing. But she would not go out, or see any company; and somehow it was our misfortune to grow up without any warm, vital interest in each other. When I was a boy I used to like it at your house, because your father and mother took such a real delight in you. It is the pith of life. Poor father—he was very proud of me, he gave his life for our pleasure and grandeur and reckless extravagance, yet all the later years we were well-nigh strangers. Why can't people get nearer to each other, Jack, or is it only given to the very few? Does the greedy world swallow up every sentiment, every bit of tenderness, and make a mock of it?"

"No, no! Nothing can quite kill it, thank God! You and I have proved that. It may be smothered under dust and rubbish, and frozen with neglect, but the germ will revive,—just as the brown woolly ball evolves the fine delicate fern-leaf that it has held in its heart through winter storms, you know. Don't blame yourself. Every soul has to fight its own battle somewhere, with no day's-man between but God. We get back to the old truth in spite of the new philosophies, and own in our vanquished moments that we cannot make strength, that ours is only a broken reed, and the true upholding force must come from some knowledge higher than our own."

Jack paused, strangely stirred in every fibre. He seldom essayed sentiment: with him the deeds of life had to answer, rather than any eloquence of words. He laid his strong, warm arm over Fred's shoulder, the old boyish caress with which he had often comforted unknowingly.

"I think you have been doing nobly," he went on presently. "I did not look to find you so brave and persevering, so earnest in thinking of others; for, after all, a man's training does throw a great many shackles about him."

Dr. Maverick entered at that moment. He had hurried off his office-patients to come and spend an hour watching this case, which held a fascinating interest for him. Some most unfavorable symptoms had supervened, but he did not despair. The nurse had been regularly trained, he had kept her busy in Yerbury the last year. He could trust her to note the slightest variations.

Just now Miss Lawrence lay in a heavy stupor, so like death that one could not detect it from any motion. Her eyes were half open, her face had a dull purplish tint. The abundant hair had been confined in a thick plait, and brushed straight across her forehead. How distinct and finely clear the brows were pencilled, how haughtily sweet the curve of the pallid, fever-burned lips, how exquisitely round and perfect the chin, the slope of the throat and neck! Jack stole one glance,—they had both gone in with the doctor,—but it seemed almost sacrilegious, now when she was powerless to frown the intruder out of her presence. And he had carried her in his arms!

"O Darcy," Maverick exclaimed presently, "I did not go to Miss Barry's, after all. I have been so desperately busy to-day."

Fred glanced up, and his eye met that of his friend. Both flushed, and both mistook the cause.

It was a curiously auspicious moment. Jack went over to him. "I wonder," he began, with a marked persuasiveness in his tone, "if you would like to have Sylvie Barry come over? She and your sister used to be such friends. And, in times like these, animosities and foolish prejudices ought to die out."

Fred gave him a startled look, and half turned, his lids drooping to veil the secret in his eyes. Jack waited with breath that half strangled him. He had marvelled how these two souls were to be brought into friendly contact again; how Sylvie was to have an opportunity of knowing that Fred was redeeming the manliness of manhood, instead of grounding among its trivial shoals, and, if she ever had cared for him, to understand that he was not utterly unworthy. He had spoken—what if the chance should fail!

Fred very naturally misinterpreted the emotion. Jack offered this out of the boundless tenderness of his heart, so confident was he of Sylvie's regard.

"You think—she would come?"

His own voice, under the great stress, sounded miles away to him, quite as if some other person had spoken.

How often the tense strain of feeling is relieved by a tone or an incident quite out of the magnetic current!

"Some one ought to drop in occasionally, for your mother's sake," said Dr. Maverick. "We shall have her in a fever from sympathy," putting the fact more delicately in words than it was in his thought.

"She would be glad to come, I know. She would feel hurt if— You empower me to ask her?" with an abrupt transition of tone.

Fred Lawrence bowed his head. He could not trust his voice.

The sick girl started, opened wide her eyes, threw up her arms, and began in weird, passionate tones, as if it were a stage declamation. Oh the lurid thought that seemed to travel from regions of bliss to the nethermost hell; to display a boundless capacity for enjoyment, for pleasure or pain, for tenderness and bitter, brilliant satire, a keen knowledge of the world to the very dregs,—the dust and ashes! She implored her lost idols to come near, and in the next breath she tossed them from her with a mocking laugh. She had no faith in God or man, and before her was a blank wall of despair.

Jack led him away. He took him out in the keen air of the starry winter night, and began to talk of Hope Mills and the new projects. It was too late afterward to call on Sylvie, so he waited until the next morning.

She was inexpressibly shocked. "Of course she would go," she made answer; and she went that very afternoon, with her aunt for companion.

They found Mrs. Lawrence in a dreadfully disturbed and apprehensive state. She was so weary of solitude that she welcomed them gladly, quite forgetting this girl had insulted her by rejecting her son. In a weak, shuffling manner she excused herself for not having accepted their overtures before. She had been so utterly overwhelmed by the death of Mr. Lawrence, that, in her state of nervous prostration, it had been impossible to see any one. And now she was positive she should take the fever. Her health was so delicate, her nerves so susceptible, and to hear the raving of delirium,—the laughs that were quite like a maniac,—would be sure to shatter her beyond any help. If it were not in the dead of winter, she should go to New York at once, and stay with Mrs. Minor until all danger of infection was over. She did not seem to comprehend the gravity of Irene's case, though she wept over her suffering in a soft self-pity.

"If you could be removed to our house," suggested Miss Barry, in her gentle way, "we would take the best of care of you; and it must be extremely wearing for you here."

"Ah, you have no idea! I never slept last night. I have heard of people in these dreadful fevers who have left their beds when the nurse was absent, and committed some horrible crime. I locked my door last night; then I was afraid I might faint away alone, and Fred had to come and stay with me. It was terrible!" and the washed-out eyes dilated with real fear.

Martha was despatched for the doctor, who not only came himself, but brought a close coach, thankful to dispose of one patient so comfortably. Before dusk Mrs. Lawrence was snugly settled in Miss Barry's best room, where a cheerful open-front stove made amends for a grate, and the new surroundings served to take her mind from her late apprehensions. Indeed, she felt so much better for the change, that she insisted upon coming down to tea.

It was beneficial in many ways. They removed Irene again to her own room, and used her mother's for various convenient purposes. Sylvie went back and forth, and shared the day-watching, beside entertaining Mrs. Lawrence. The two dropped insensibly into their olden positions. Sylvie listened patiently to the death, the loss of fortune, the changes, which Mrs. Lawrence dwelt upon with the exaggerating vividness of a nature completely engrossed with its own sorrows.

Dr. Maverick had to come every day. Mrs. Lawrence had arrived at that stage when a woman depends upon the doctor as a sort of bulletin for her own health. Fred, too, must visit his mother frequently; but at first he chose the hours he knew Sylvie would be with Irene.

Dr. Maverick used to watch Sylvie Barry with an interest and admiration that grew upon him. Her tact was something marvellous, born of a certain exquisite harmony and almost divine unselfishness. But of this last she appeared serenely unconscious. I think, indeed, that she was. A higher love and faith had interpenetrated her soul, her very being. Instead of agonizing introspections and lightning flashes to the inward depths of her nature, she seemed to live continually on the outside of herself, radiating warmth and light as the sun. Her patience was of a rare, fine quality, born of health, and spirits not easily wearied.

It would have been quite impossible for any two people to go through such a strain of feeling, and not be drawn together in love and sympathy, or friendship. With Fred and Sylvie it was unconsciously a little of all. If he had gone back with the old love, even exalted and refined, he would surely have blundered again. But now she was another's, sacred in his eyes. And though in his blind pride he had once thought the greatest favor he could do her would be to save her from any such mesalliance, he recognized now that Jack Darcy was immeasurably above him in all the qualities that went to make up pure manhood. Even in his work: Jack's ambition was not for himself, but a cause; and his—ah, how poor and paltry it seemed! So he accepted his place with outward bravery, and a great wrench of all a man holds most dear. For now he loved her.

The days passed slowly on. It seemed at the last as if the fever would prove the victor. A consultation was held, and new remedies employed. Irene's beautiful hair was cut off and laid away, the clear skin seemed to grow brown and shrivelled, the hands lost their plump whiteness, and the rosy nails were dull and gray. There came a time when human skill had done all, and they could only wait for that Higher power to whose eternal force death and love alike submit.

There followed upon that awful night of suspense, days when she was but just alive, when a turn of her head on the pillow caused a lapse into unconsciousness. But the spring came on; and she did rally, at first, it appeared, at the entire sacrifice of her regal beauty. Would she care to take life on such terms?

They brought Mrs. Lawrence home. Mrs. Minor came up, and insisted that both mother and sister should be removed to the city at once. She had her horses and carriage, her servants, her luxuries, and she could make them so much more comfortable.

Dr. Maverick interposed a decided negative. The body had not yet resumed its normal state; but the brain was to be ministered to, as only those of experience and study could minister. It was to be brought out of the hell of its own despairing self-torture, and enfranchised, set free from the demons that, standing in the present abeyance of weakness, had lost neither strength nor desire, and were only waiting the auspicious moment to seize their prey again. And he was too much fascinated to relinquish the study.

Sylvie persuaded her aunt to indulge in a pony-carriage. Miss Barry was breaking a little; but she still kept her interest in good works, and found she was much more useful with this aid. Winsome little Sylvie looked more piquant than ever with the reins in her hands, flashing hither and thither through the streets of Yerbury, gathering a harvest of smiles and nods. She fairly compelled Mrs. Lawrence to trust her precious self to what she laughingly declared was superior horsewomanship.

Dr. Maverick used to stop her often, just to catch a delicious ripple of laughter, or a bit of trenchant talk. If it were not for Jack Darcy—did Jack love her? At all events, she loved him: any one could see that by her frank, fearless manner. Oh, sapient Dr. Maverick, with all your knowledge of brains and nerves, of occult causes and mysterious effects! So it happens that sometimes a simple, direct truth is the greatest puzzle of all.

The schools and clubs had not been neglected with all this excitement. But this winter Mary Moran had been teacher at a small salary; and a bakery and refreshment or dining room had been opened down stairs, which really made quite a little money. Wholesomely cooked food was offered for sale, with bread, rolls, and biscuit. The club had also given two successful suppers. When Jane Morgan was home, Sylvie was relieved of the actual care: she would have it. She had come back to Yerbury a thousand dollars richer for her relative's death, and she and Jack were drawing plans for a co-operative store.



CHAPTER XXI.

"I'D rather lose five thousand dollars than do it."

Jack Darcy leaned back in his office-chair. He had just made up the third half-yearly account. It was bad enough. They had known this all along, and had not concealed it from the men. Now it was to be confronted in black and white, with searching eyes.

It was not that they had not made any thing: that would have been endurable, considering the kind of winter. But they had gone back, and eaten up the profits of last year.

"You see, there co-operation comes in," said Bob Winston. "It isn't your loss alone. It's mine and every man's. That's what we agreed to when we went in. Labor and capital should share in the ups and downs. See here, Jack, I've learned a good deal myself. I have more sympathy with employers. Gad! what a pull we've had this winter! If it hadn't been for your fairy godmother"—

"Well, it must be done!" and Jack pulled a long face. "There, it is all ready to print. Now old fellow, we must brace ourselves up for the shot and shell. We'll have to do the fighting all over again. If every man had as easy, philosophical a mind as you, or as sensible, reasonable a one as Cameron, I should not have so many misgivings."

The statement was printed and distributed. The men looked blue and cross. Had they really lost nearly all of last year's balance?

Winston asked them to stop one evening while he went into a slight explanation. He was well armed. Without having a logical mind or parliamentary training, he had a woman's quick intuitions, and often jumped at very decent conclusions with hardly a glance at the premises. He had a way of massing his forces, too, that was very telling.

Now, after what he called a little skirmishing, he read that the Barnable Mills had been running on three-quarter time all winter. Wages had been a trifle lower than with them. Middleham Mills had been closed for two months. He gave the figures of loss to the workmen. Crowley and Dawson had gone into bankruptcy, owing their men in the aggregate more than all Hope Mills had used of last year's profits. Then he read a statement from an eminent manufacturer, that he had used fifty-four thousand dollars of accrued capital rather than turn off his workmen to starve. There had been strikes in several other places, in which the workmen had lost much more than at Yerbury.

"So that our showing, bad as it is, is not the worst," said he. "In the very dullest of times we cast in our lots together, and we must take the good and bad. If you had been living this winter on the private capital of any one man or corporation, you would never have given the matter a thought. You know now, by experience, that capital does not always float on a serene and indolent sea, and gather in treasures for which it has cast out no net. You can appreciate the struggle we have gone through; though, while you have been going along placidly, with the larger weight of care lifted off your shoulders, a man with less energy and pluck than our intrepid pilot, John Darcy, might have let us founder. We help him now with the readiness and good-humor with which we relinquish the profits which were dear to us, and the product of our industry; but he has taken us through a very narrow channel, on a dark night, without striking rock or snag. He and I thank you heartily for your fidelity to our keystone,—co-operation."

"Three cheers for Darcy!" sang out some one in the crowd, "and three cheers for Bob Winston!"

It was given heartily.

"And three cheers for the men of Hope Mills," responded Winston.

They shook hands, and dispersed with a little better feeling. Several of the men seemed to breathe a clearer mental atmosphere immediately.

"You may be sure it's right, whichever way it is," said one man sturdily. "I've known Jack Darcy, boy and man, and his father afore him. He comes of good, clean stock, and, if he says a thing can't be bettered, it can't; and, if it can, he's just the man to do it. Give him a long tether, say I."