Eben Holden: A Tale of the North Country

by Irving Bacheller

  Chapter 38

  I worked some weeks before my regiment was sent forward. I planned tobe at home for a day, but they needed me on the staff, and I dreaded thepain of a parting, the gravity of which my return would serve only toaccentuate. So I wrote them a cheerful letter, and kept at work. It wasmy duty to interview some of the great men of that day as to the courseof the government. I remember Commodore Vanderbilt came down to see mein shirt-sleeves and slippers that afternoon, with a handkerchief tiedabout his neck in place of a collar--a blunt man, of simple manners anda big heart, one who spoke his mind in good, plain talk, and, I suppose,he got along with as little profanity as possible, considering his manycares. He called me 'boy' and spoke of a certain public man as a 'bigsucker'. I soon learned that to him a 'sucker' was the lowest andmeanest thing in the world. He sent me away with nothing but a greatadmiration of him. As a rule, the giants of that day were plain men ofthe people, with no frills upon them, and with a way of hitting fromthe shoulder. They said what they meant and meant it hard. I have heardLincoln talk when his words had the whiz of a bullet and his arm thejerk of a piston.

  John Trumbull invited McClingan, of whom I had told him much, and myselfto dine with him an evening that week. I went in my new dress suit--thatmark of sinful extravagance for which Fate had brought me down to thepounding of rocks under Boss McCormick. Trumbull's rooms were a feastfor the eye--aglow with red roses. He introduced me to Margaret Hull andher mother, who were there to dine with us. She was a slight womanof thirty then, with a face of no striking beauty, but of singularsweetness. Her dark eyes had a mild and tender light in them; her voicea plaintive, gentle tone, the like of which one may hear rarely if ever.For years she had been a night worker in the missions of the lower city,and many an unfortunate had been turned from the way of evil by her goodoffices. I sat beside her at the table, and she told me of her work andhow often she had met Trumbull in his night walks.

  'Found me a hopeless heathen,' he remarked.

  'To save him I had to consent to marry him,' she said, laughing.

  '"Who hath found love is already in Heaven,"'said McClingan. 'I have notfound it and I am in'' he hesitated, as if searching for a synonym.

  'A boarding house on William Street,' he added.

  The remarkable thing about Margaret Hull was her simple faith. It lookedto no glittering generality for its reward, such as the soul's highestgood, much talked of in the philosophy of that time. She believed that,for every soul she saved, one jewel would be added to her crown inHeaven. And yet she wore no jewel upon her person. Her black costume wasbeautifully fitted to her fine form, but was almost severely plain. Itoccurred to me that she did not quite understand her own heart, and, forthat matter, who does? But she had somewhat in her soul that passeth allunderstanding--I shall not try to say what, with so little knowledge ofthose high things, save that I know it was of God. To what patience andunwearying effort she had schooled herself I was soon to know.

  'Can you not find anyone to love you?' she said, turning to McClingan.'You know the Bible says it is not good for man to live alone.

  'It does, Madame,' said he, 'but I have a mighty fear in me, rememberingthe twenty-fourth verse of the twenty-fifth chapter of Proverbs: "Itis better to dwell in the corner of the housetops than with a brawlingwoman in a wide house." We cannot all be so fortunate as our friendTrumbull. But I have felt the great passion.

  He smiled at her faintly as he spoke in a quiet manner, his r s comingoff his tongue with a stately roll. His environment and the company hadgiven him a fair degree of stimulation. There was a fine dignity inhis deep voice, and his body bristled with it, from his stiff andheavy shock of blonde hair parted carefully on the left side, to hishigh-heeled boots. The few light hairs that stood in lonely abandonmenton his upper lip, the rest of his lean visage always well shorn, had nosmall part in the grand effect of McClingan.

  'A love story!' said Miss Hull. 'I do wish I had your confidence. I likea real, true love story.

  'A simple stawry it is,' said McClingan, 'and Jam proud of my part init. I shall be glad to tell the stawry if you are to hear it.'

  We assured him of our interest.

  'Well,' said he, 'there was one Tom Douglass at Edinburgh who was myfriend and classmate. We were together a good bit of the time, andwhen we had come to the end of our course we both went to engage injournalism at Glasgow. We had a mighty conceit of ourselves--you knowhow it is, Brower, with a green lad--but we were a mind to be modest,with all our learning, so we made an agreement: I would blaw his hornand he would blaw mine. We were not to lack appreciation. He was on onepaper and I on another, and every time he wrote an article I went up anddown the office praising him for a man o' mighty skill, and he did thesame for me. If anyone spoke of him in my hearing I said every word offlattery at my command. "What Tom Douglass?" I would say, "the man o'the Herald that's written those wonderful articles from the law court?A genius, sir! an absolute genius!" Well, we were rapidly gainingreputation. One of those days I found myself in love with as comely alass as ever a man courted. Her mother had a proper curiosity as to mycharacter. I referred them to Tom Douglass of the Herald--he was theonly man there who had known me well. The girl and her mother both wentto him.

  "Your friend was just here," said the young lady, when I called again."He is a very handsome man."

  '"And a noble man!" I said.

  '"And didn't I hear you say that he was a very skilful man, too?"

  '"A genius!" I answered, "an absolute genius!"

  McClingan stopped and laughed heartily as he took a sip of water.

  'What happened then?' said Miss I-lull.

  'She took him on my recommendation,' he answered. 'She said that, whilehe had the handsomer face, I had the more eloquent tongue. And they bothwon for him. And, upon me honour as a gentleman, it was the luckiestthing that ever happened to me, for she became a brawler and a scold. Mymother says there is "no the like o' her in Scotland".

  I shall never forget how fondly Margaret Hull patted the brown cheek ofTrumbull with her delicate white band, as we rose.

  'We all have our love stawries,' said McClingan.

  'Mine is better than yours,' she answered, 'but it shall never be told.'

  'Except one little part if it,' said Trumbull, as he put his hands uponher shoulders, and looked down into her face. 'It is the only thing thathas made my life worth living.'

  Then she made us to know many odd things about her work for the childrenof misfortune--inviting us to come and see it for ourselves. We were togo the next evening.

  I finished my work at nine that night and then we walked through noisomestreets and alleys--New York was then far from being so clean a city asnow--to the big mission house. As we came in at the door we saw a groupof women kneeling before the altar at the far end of the room, and heardthe voice of Margaret Hull praying, a voice so sweet and tender that webowed our heads at once, and listened while it quickened the life in us.She plead for the poor creatures about her, to whom Christ gave alwaysthe most abundant pity, seeing they were more sinned against thansinning. There was not a word of cant in her petition. It was full ofa simple, unconscious eloquence, a higher feeling than I dare try todefine. And when it was over she had won their love and confidence sothat they clung to her hands and kissed them and wet them with theirtears. She came and spoke to us presently, in the same sweet manner thathad charmed us the night before, there was no change in it. We offeredto walk home with her, but she said Trumbull was coming at twelve.

  'So that is "The Little Mother" of whom I have heard so often,' saidMcClingan, as we came away.

  'What do you think of her?' I enquired.

  'Wonderful woman!' he said. 'I never heard such a voice. It gives mevisions. Every other is as the crackling of thorns under a pot.'

  I came back to the office and went into Mr Greeley's room to bid himgoodbye. He stood by the gas jet, in a fine new suit of clothes, readinga paper, while a boy was blacking one of his boots. I sat down, awa
itinga more favourable moment. A very young man had come into the room andstood timidly holding his hat.

  'I wish to see Mr Greeley,' he said.

  'There he is,' I answered, 'go and speak to him.'

  'Mr Greeley,' said he, 'I have called to see if you can take me on theTribune.'

  The Printer continued reading as if he were the only man in the room.

  The young man looked at him and then at me--with an expression thatmoved me to a fellow feeling. He was a country boy, more green and timideven than I had been.

  'He did not hear you--try again,' I said.

  'Mr Greeley,' said he, louder than before, 'I have called to see if youcan take me on the Tribune.'

  The editor's eyes glanced off at the boy and returned to their reading.

  'No, boy, I can't,' he drawled, shifting his eyes to another article.And the boy, who was called to the service of the paper in time, but notuntil after his pen had made him famous, went away with a look of bitterdisappointment.

  In his attire Mr Greeley wore always the best material, that soon tookon a friendless and dejected look. The famous white overcoat had beenbought for five dollars of a man who had come by chance to the officeof the New Yorker, years before, and who considered its purchase agreat favour. That was a time when the price of a coat was a thing ofno little importance to the Printer. Tonight there was about him a greatglow, such as comes of fine tailoring and new linen.

  He was so preoccupied with his paper that I went out into the big roomand sat down, awaiting a better time.

  'The Printer's going to Washington to talk with the president,' said aneditor.

  Just then Mr Greeley went running hurriedly up the spiral stair on hisway to the typeroom. Three or four compositors had gone up ahead ofhim. He had risen out of sight when we heard a tremendous uproar abovestairs. I ran up, two steps at a time, while the high voice of MrGreeley came pouring down upon me like a flood. It had a wild, fleetingtone. He stood near the landing, swinging his arms and swearing like aboy just learning how. In the middle of the once immaculate shirt bosomwas a big, yellow splash. Something had fallen on him and spattered asit struck. We stood well out of range, looking at it, undeniably thestain of nicotine. In a voice that was no encouragement to confession hedared 'the drooling idiot' to declare himself. In a moment he opened hiswaistcoat and surveyed the damage.

  'Look at that!' he went on, complainingly. 'Ugh! The reeking, filthy,slobbering idiot! I'd rather be slain with the jaw bone of an ass.'

  'You'll have to get another shirt,' said the pressman, who stood near.'You can't go to Washington with such a breast pin.'

  'I'd breast pin him if I knew who he was,' said the editor.

  A number of us followed him downstairs and a young man went up theBowery for a new shirt. When it came the Printer took off the soiledgarment, flinging it into a corner, and I helped him to put himself inproper fettle again. This finished, he ran away, hurriedly, with hiscarpet-bag, and I missed the opportunity I wanted for a brief talk withhim.