He seemed contented to seek nothing for himself; but I had had occasion to notice in my own experience that he was not boasting idly when he said, on our first acquaintance, that he had some influence in literary quarters. He had already procured for me, from an influential magazine, propositions for articles which were both flattering to my pride and lucrative in the remuneration. In this way, the prospect of my yearly income, which on the part of the “Great Democracy” was so very inadequate, was enlarged to a very respectable figure.
I resolved, therefore, to go up to Bolton’s room and put this letter into his hands. I knocked at the door, but no one answering I opened it and went in. He was not there, but an odd enough scene presented itself to me. The little tow-headed, freckled boy, that I had formerly remarked as an inmate of the apartment, was seated by the fire with a girl, somewhat younger than himself, nursing between them a large fat bundle of a baby.
“Hallo,” said I, “what have we here? What are you doing here?” At this moment — before the children could answer — I heard Bolton coming up the stairs. He entered the room; a bright color mounted to his cheeks as he saw the group by the fire, and me.
“Hallo, Hal,” he said, with a sort of conscious laugh. “Hallo, Bolton!” said I. “Have you got a foundling hospital here?”
“Oh, well, well,” said he; “never mind; let ’em stay there. Do you want anything? There,” said he, pulling a package of buns out of his pocket, “eat those; and when the baby gets asleep you can lay her on the bed in the other room. And there,” — to the boy,—”you read this story aloud to your sister when the baby is asleep. And now, Hal, what can I do for you? Suppose I come down into your room for a while and talk?”
He took my arm, and we went down the stairs together; and when we got into my room he shut the door, and said, “The fact is, Hal, I have to take care of that family — my washerwoman, you know. Poor Mrs. Molloy, she has a husband that about once a month makes a perfect devil of himself, so that the children are obliged to run and hide for fear of their lives. And then she has got the way of sending them to me, and I have to go down and attend to him.”
“Bless me!” said I, “why will women live with such brutes? Why don’t you make her separate from him?” Bolton seated himself at my table, and leaned back in his chair, with a curious expression of countenance, very sad, yet not without a touch of humor in it.
“Well, you see,” he said, “the fact is, Hal; she loves him.”
“Well, she oughtn’t to love him,” said I.
“Maybe not; but she does,” said he. “She loves that poor Pat Molloy so much that to be angry with him is just like your right hand being angry with your left hand. Suppose there ‘s a great boil on the left hand, what’s the right to do about it but simply bear the suffering and wait for it to get well? That, you see, is love; and because of it, you can’t get women away from their husbands. What are you going to do about it?”
“But,” said I, “it is perfectly absurd for a woman to cling to such a man.”
“Well,” said Bolton, “three weeks of the month Pat Molloy is just as kind and tender a father and husband as you will find, and then by the fourth week comes around his drunken spell, and he’s a devil. Now she says, ‘Sure sir, it’s the drink. It’s not Pat at all, sir; he’s not himself, sir.’ And she waits till it’s over — taking care that he doesn’t kill the children. Now, shall I persuade her to let him go to the devil? Does not Jesus Christ say, ‘Gather up the fragments that nothing be lost’? He said it about a basket of bread; wouldn’t he say it still more about the fragments of the human soul? If she leaves Pat, where will he go to? First, to some harlot, then to murder, and the gallows — and that gets him out of the way.”
“Well,” said I, “isn’t he better out than in?”
“Who knows?” said Bolton. “All I have to say is, that poor Molly Molloy, with her broad Irish brogue, and her love that can’t be tired, and can’t give him up, and that bears, and believes, and hopes, and endures, seems to me a revelation of the Christ-like spirit a thousand times more than if she was tramping to a Woman’s Rights Convention, and exposing her wrongs, and calling down justice on his head.”
“But,” said I, “look at the children! Oughtn’t she to part with him on their account?”
“Yes, look at the children,” said he. “The little things have learned already, from their mother, to care for each other, and to care for their father. In their little childish way, they love and bear with him just as she does. The boy came to me this afternoon and said, ‘Father ‘s got another crazy spell.’ Already he has a delicacy in his very mode of speaking; and he doesn’t say his father is drunk, but that he is crazy, as he is. And then he and the little girl are so fatherly and motherly with the baby. Now, I say, all this growth of virtue around sin and sorrow is something to be revered. The fact is,” he added, “the day for separating the tares from the wheat hasn’t come yet. And it seems to me that the moral discipline of bearing with evil, patiently, is a great deal better and more ennobling than the most vigorous assertion of one’s personal rights. I can see a great deal of suffering in that family from poor Pat’s weakness and wickedness, but I also see most noble virtues growing up, even in these children, from the straits to which they are put. And as to poor Pat himself, he comes out of his demon-baptism penitent and humble, and more anxious to please than ever. It is really affecting to see with what zeal he serves me, when I have brought him through a ‘drunk.’ And yet I know that it will have to be gone over, and over, and over again. Sometimes it seems to me he is like the earth after a thunder-shower — fresher and clearer than he was before. And I am quite of Mrs. Molloy’s mind — there is too much good in Pat to have him swept off into the gutter for the bad; and so, as God gives her grace to suffer, let her suffer. And if I can bear one little end of her cross, I will. If she does not save him in this life, she’ll save him from sinking lower in demonism. She may only keep his head above water till he gets past the gates’ of death, and then, perhaps, in the next life, he will appear to be saved by just that much which she has done in keeping him up.”
Bolton spoke with an intense earnestness, and a sad and solemn tone, as if he were shaken and almost convulsed by some deep, internal feeling. For some moments there was a silence between us, — the silence of a great unuttered emotion. At last he drew a long breath, and said, “Well, Hal, what was it you wanted to talk about?”
“Oh,” said I, “I have a letter from a friend of mine that I wanted to show you, to see whether you could do anything,” and I gave him Caroline’s letter.
He sat down under the gaslight to read it. The sight of the handwriting seemed to affect him at once. His large dark eyes flashed over the letter, and he turned it quickly, and looked at the signature; a most unutterable expression passed, over his face, like that of a man who is in danger of giving way to some violent emotion; and then, apparently by a great effort of self-constraint, he set himself carefully to reading the letter. He read it over two or three times, folded it up, and handed it back to me without any remark, and then sat leaning forward on the table with his face shaded with his hand.
“My cousin is a most uncommon character,” I said; “and, as you will observe by this letter, has a good deal of ability as a writer.”
“I am acquainted with her,” he said briefly, making a sudden movement with his hand.
“Indeed? Where did you know her?”
“Years ago,” he said briefly. “I taught the Academy in her village, and she was one of my scholars. I know the character of her mind.”
There was a dry brevity in all this, of a man who is afraid that he shall express more than he means to.
Said I, “I showed this letter to you because I thought you had more influence in the press than I have; and if you are acquainted with her, so much the better, as you can judge whether she can gain any employment here which would make it worth her while to come and try. I have always had an impression that she had v
ery fine mental powers.”
“There is no doubt about that,” he said hurriedly. “She is an exceptional woman.”
He rose up, and took the letter from me. “If you will allow me to retain this awhile,” he said, “I will see what I can do; but just now I have some writing to finish. I will speak to you about it to-morrow.”
That evening I introduced the subject to my friend, Ida Van Arsdel, and gave her a sketch of Caroline’s life history. She entered into it with the warmest interest, and was enthusiastic in her desire that the plan might succeed.
“I hope that she will come to New York,” she said, “so that we can make her acquaintance. Don’t, pray, fail to let me know, Mr. Henderson, if she should be here, that I may call on her.”
CHAPTER XXVI. EASTER LILIES
THE next afternoon Jim and I kept our appointment with the Van Arsdels. We found one of the parlors transformed to a perfect bower of floral decorations. Stars and wreaths and crosses and crowns were either just finished or in process of rapid construction under fairy fingers. When I came in, Eva and Alice were busy on a gigantic cross, to be made entirely of lilies of the valley, of which some bushels were lying around on the carpet. Ida had joined the service, and was kneeling on the floor tying up the flowers in bunches to offer them to Eva.
“You see, Mr. Henderson, the difference between modem religion and the primitive Christians,” she said. “Their cross was rough wood and hard nails; ours is lilies and roses made up in fashionable drawing-rooms.”
“I’m afraid,” said Eva, “our crown may prove much of the same material!”
“I sometimes wonder,” said Ida, “whether all the money spent for flowers at Easter could not better be spent in some mode of relieving the poor.”
“Well,” said Eva, “I am sorry to bring up such a parallel, but isn’t that just the same kind of remark that Judas made about the alabaster vase of ointment?”
“Yes,” said I; “what could be more apparently useless than a mere perfume, losing itself in the air, and vanishing entirely? And yet the Saviour justified that lavish expenditure when it was the expression of a heart-feeling.”
“But,” said Ida, “don’t you think it very difficult to mark the line where these services and offerings to religious worship become excessive?”
“Of course it is,” said I; “but no more difficult on this subject than any other.”
“That’s the great trouble in this life,” said Eva. “The line between right and wrong seems always so indefinite, like the line between any two colors of the prism — it is hard to say just where one ends and another begins.”
“It is the office of common sense,” I said, “to get the exact right in all such matters — there is a sort of instinct in it.”
“Well, all I have to say about it is,” said Eva, “since we do spend lavishly and without stint in our houses and in our dress for adornment, we ought to do at least as much for our religion. I like to see the adornment of a church generous, overflowing, as if we gave our very best. As to these lilies, I ordered them of an honest gardener, and it goes to help support a family that would be poor if it were not for these flowers. It is better to support one or two families honestly, by buying their flowers for churches, than it is to give the money away. So I look on it.”
“Oh, well,” said Alice, “there is no end to anything. Everything you do tends to something else; and everything leads to something; and there is never any knowing about anything; and so I think it is best just to have as good a time as you can, and do everything that is agreeable, and make everything just as pretty as it can be. And I think it is fun to trim up the church for Easter. There now! And it don’t do any harm. And I just like to go to the sunrise service, if it does make one sleepy all day. What do you say, Mr. Fellows? Do you think you could go through with the whole of it?”
“Miss Alice, if you only go you will find me inspired with the spirit of a primitive Christian in this respect,” said Jim. “I shall follow wherever you lead the way, if it’s ever so late at night, or ever so early in the morning.”
“And, Mr. Henderson,” said she, “may we depend on yon, too?”
“By all means,” said I, as I sat industriously gathering up the lilies into bunches and tying them.
“Mr. Henderson is in a hopeful way,” said Eva. “I think we may have him in the true Church some of these times.”
“I am afraid,” said Ida, “that Mr. Henderson, having seen you only in Lent, won’t be able to keep track of you when the Easter rejoicings begin and the parties recommence.”
“Oh, dear me!” said Eva, with a sort of shudder. “To think of that horrid wedding!”
“That’s just like Eva,” said Alice. “She’s been, and been, and been to these things till she ‘s tired out with them; whereas, I am just come out, and I like them, and want more of them. I don’t think they are horrid at all. I am perfectly delighted about that Elmore wedding. One will see there all the new things, and all the stunning things, and all the latest devices from Paris. I was in at Tullegig’s the other day, and you never saw such a sight as her rooms are! Somebody said it looked as if rainbows had been broken to pieces and thrown all round. She showed me all the different costumes that she was making up for the various parties. You know there are to be seven bridesmaids, and each of them is to wear a different color. Madame thinks ‘C’est si gentil.’ Then, you know, they are making such grand preparations up at that chateau of theirs.” The whole garden is to be roofed in and made a ballroom of. I think it will be gorgeous. I say, Mr. Fellows, if you and Mr. Henderson would like it, I know I could manage cards for you.”
Jim assented heartily for both of us; and I added that I should like to see the affair; for I had never seen enough of that sort of thing to take away the novelty.
After tea we all sallied out to the church with our trophies. We went in two carriages, for the better accommodation of these, and had a busy time disembarking at the church and carrying them in. Here we met a large committee of co-workers, and the scene of real business commenced. Jim and I worked heroically under the direction of our fair superintendents. By midnight the church was a bower of fragrance and beauty. The chancel seemed a perfect bed of lilies, out of which rose the great white cross, shedding perfume upon the air. The baptismal font was covered with a closely woven mosaic of fragrant violets, and in each panel appeared an alternate red or white cross formed of flowers. The font was filled with a tall bouquet of white saint’s-lilies, such as gardeners force for Easter.
Eva and I worked side by side this evening, and never had I seemed to know her more intimately. The fact is, among other dangerous situations to a young man’s heart, none may be mentioned more seductive than to be in a church twining flowers and sorting crosses and emblems in the still holy hours of the night. One’s head gets, somehow, bewildered; all worldly boundaries of cold prudence fade away; and one seems to be lifted up to some other kind of land where those that are congenial never part from each other. So I felt when, our work being all done, I retired with Eva to the shadow of a distant pew to survey the whole result. We had turned on the gaslight to show our work, and its beams, falling on thousands of these white lily-bells and on all the sacred emblems, shed a sort of chastened light. Again, somehow, as if it had been a rose-leaf floating down from heaven, I found that little hand in mine; and we spoke low to each other, in whispers, of how good and how pleasant it was to be there, and to unite in such service and work — words that meant far more than they seemed to say. Once, in the course of the evening, I saw her little glove where it had fallen into a nest of cast-off flowers, and, as no one was looking, I seized upon it as a relic, and appropriated it to my own sacred memories. Nor would I surrender it, though afterward I heard her making pathetic inquiries for it. Late at night I went home to think and dream, and woke with the first dim gray of morning, thinking of my appointment to meet her at the church.
It is a charming thing to go out in the fresh calm morning before
any one is stirring. The bells for early service were dropping their notes here and there, down through the air, as if angels were calling men to awake and remember that great event which happened so silently and so unregarded, many, many years ago. I thought as I walked through the dim streets and saw here and there an early worshiper, Prayer-Book in hand, stealing along, of the lonely women who, years ago, in Jerusalem, sought the sepulchre to see where they had laid Him.
Little twittering sparrows filled the ivy on the outside of the church and made it vibrate with their chirpings. There was the promise in the brightening skies of a glorious sunrise. I stood waiting awhile, quite alone, till one by one the bands of youths and maidens came from different directions.
I had called Jim as I went out, but he, preferring to take the utmost latitude for sleep, looked at his watch and told me he would take another half hour before he joined us. Eva was there, however, among the very first. The girls, she said, were coming. We went into the dim church together and sat ourselves down in the shady solitude of one of the slips, waiting for the morning light to pour through the painted windows. We said nothing to each other; but the silence was sociable and not blank.
There are times in life when silence between two friends is better than speech; for they know each other by intuition.
Gradually the church filled with worshipers; and as the. rising sun streamed through the painted windows and touched all the lilies with brightness, a choir of children in the organ-loft broke forth into carols like so many invisible birds. And then, the old chant: —
“Christ, being raised from the dead, dieth no more,”
seemed to thrill every heart.
After the service came a general shaking of hands and greetings from neighbors and friends, as everybody walked round examining the decorations.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 330