“Isn’t Miss Dorcas a beauty!” said Jim.
“Come, now, Jim, no slants,” said Alice.
“I didn’t mean any. Honest now, I like the old girl. She’s sensible. She gets such clothes as she thinks right and proper, and marches straight ahead in them, instead of draggling and draggletailing after fashion; and it’s a pity there weren’t more like her.”
“Dress is a vile, tyrannical Moloch,” said Eva. “We are all too much enslaved to it.”
“I know we are,” said Alice. “I think it’s the question of our day, what sensible women of small means are to do about dress; it takes so much time, so much strength, so much money. Now, if these organizing, convention-holding women would only organize a dress reform, they would do something worth while.”
“The thing is,” said Eva, “that in spite of yourself you have to conform to fashion somewhat.”
“Unless you do as your Quaker friends do,” said Bolton. “By George!” said Jim Fellows, “those two were the best dressed women in the room. That little Ruth was seductive.”
“Take care; we shall be jealous,” said Eva.
“Well,” said Bolton, rising, “I must walk up to the printing-office and carry that corrected proof to Daniels.”
“I’ll walk part of the way with you,” said Harry. “I want a bit of fresh air before I sleep.” —
CHAPTER XIX
A LOST SHEEP
THE two sallied out and walked arm in arm up the street. It was a keen, bright, starlight night, with everything on earth frozen stiff and hard, and the stars above sparkling and glinting like white flames in the intense clear blue. Just at the turn of the second street a woman who had been crouching in a doorway rose, and, coming up towards the two, attempted to take Harry’s arm.
With an instinctive movement of annoyance and disgust he shook her off indignantly. Bolton, however, stopped and turned, and faced the woman. The light of a street lamp showed a face, dark, wild, despairing, in which the history of sin and punishment were too plainly written. It was a young face, and one that might once have been beautiful; but of all that nothing remained but the brightness of a pair of wonderfully expressive eyes. Bolton advanced a step towards her and laid his hand on her shoulder, and, looking down on her, said: —
“Poor child, have you no mother?”
“Mother! Oh!”
The words were almost shrieked, and then the woman threw herself at the foot of the lamp-post and sobbed convulsively.
“Harry,” said Bolton, “I will take her to the St. Barnabas; they will take her in for the night.”
Then, taking the arm of the woman, he said in a voice of calm authority, “Come with me.”
He raised her and offered her his arm. “Child, there is hope for you,” he said. “Never despair. I will take you where you will find friends.”
A walk of a short distance brought them to the door of the Refuge, where he saw her received, and then turning he retraced his steps to Harry.
“One more unfortunate,” he said briefly, and then immediately took up the discussion of a point in the proof-sheet just where he had left it. Harry was so excited by the incident that he could hardly keep up the discussion which Bolton was conducting.
“I wonder,” he said, after an interval, “who that woman is, and what is her history.”
“The old story, likely,” said Bolton.
“What is curious,” said Harry, “is that Eva described such a looking woman as hanging about our house the other evening. It was the evening when she was going over to the Vanderheyden house to persuade the old ladies to come to us this evening. She seemed then to have been hanging about our house, and Eva spoke in particular of her eyes — just such singular, wild, dark eyes as this woman has.”
“It may be a mere coincidence,” said Bolton. “She may have had some errand on your street. Whatever the case be, she is safe for the present. They will do the best they can for her. She’s only one more grain in the heap!”
Shortly after, Harry took leave of Bolton and returned to his own house. He found all still, Eva waiting for him by the dying coals and smoking ashes of the fire. Alice had retired to her apartment.
“We’ve had an adventure,” he said.
“What! to-night?”
Harry here recounted the scene and Bolton’s course, and immediately Eva broke out: “There, Harry, it must be that very woman that I saw the night I was going into the Vanderheydens’; she seems to he hanging round this neighborhood. What can she be? Tell me, Harry, had she very brilliant dark eyes, and a sort of dreadfully haggard, hopeless look?”
“Exactly. Then I was provoked at her assurance in laying her hand on my arm; but when I saw her face I was so struck by its misery that I pitied her. You ought to have seen Bolton; he seemed so calm and commanding, and his face, as he looked down on her, had a wonderful expression; and his voice, — you know that heavy, deep tone of his, — when he spoke of her mother it perfectly overcame her. She seemed almost convulsed, but he assumed a kind of authority and led her away to the St. Barnabas. Luckily he knew all about that, for he had talked with St. John about it.”
“Yes, indeed, I heard them talking about it this very evening; so it is quite a providence. I do wonder who she is or what she is. Would it do for me to go to-morrow and inquire?”
“I don’t know, my dear, as you could do anything. They will do all that is possible there, and I would not advise you to interfere merely from curiosity. You can do nothing.”
“Strange!” said Eva, still looking in the fire while she was taking the hairpins out of her hair and loosening her neck ribbon, “strange, the difference in the lot of women. That girl has been handsome! People have loved her. She might have been in a home, happy like me, with a good husband — now there she is in the cold streets. It makes me very unhappy to think such things must be. You know how Bolton spoke of God, the Good Shepherd —— how he cared more for one lost one than for all that went not astray. That is so beautiful — I do hope she will be saved.”
“Let us hope so, darling.”
“It seems selfish for me to wrap my comforts about me, and turn away my thoughts, and congratulate myself on my good luck — don’t it?”
“But, darling, if you can’t do anything, I don’t know why you should dwell on it. But I’ll promise you Bolton shall call and inquire of the Sisters, and if there is anything we can do, he will let us know. But now it’s late, and you are tired and need rest.”
CHAPTER XX
EVA TO HARRY’S MOTHER
CONGRATULATE US, dear mother; we have had a success! Our first evening was all one could hope! Everybody came that we wanted, and, what is quite as good in such cases, everybody stayed away that we didn’t want. You know how it is; when you intend to produce real acquaintance, that shall ripen into intimacy, it is necessary that there should be no non-conductors to break the circle. There are people that shed around them coldness and constraint, as if they were made of ice, and it is a mercy when such people don’t come to your parties. As it is, I have had the happiness to see our godly rector on most conversable terms with our heretic doctor, and each thinking better of the other. Oh! and, what was a greater triumph yet, I managed to introduce a Quaker preacheress to Mr. St. John, and had the satisfaction to see that he was completely charmed by her, as well he may be. The way it came about, you must know, is this: —
Little Ruth Baxter, our next-door neighbor, has received this Sibyl Selwyn at her house, and is going with her soon on one of her preaching expeditions. I find it is a custom of their sect for the preachers to associate with themselves one or more lay sisters, who travel with them, and for a certain time devote themselves to works of charity and mercy under their superintendence. They visit prisons and penitentiaries; they go to houses of vice and misery, where one would think a woman would scarcely dare to go; they reprove sin, yet carry always messages of hope and mercy. Little Ruth is now preparing to go with Sibyl on such a mission, and I am much intereste
d in the stories she tells me of the strange unworldly experiences of this woman. It is true that these missions are temporary; they seem to be only like what we could suppose the visits of angels might be — something to arouse and to stimulate, but not to exert a continuous influence. What feeling they excite, what good purposes and resolutions spring up under their influence, they refer to the organized charities of Christian churches of whatever name. If Sibyl’s penitents are Romanists, she carries them to the Romish Sisters; and so with Methodist, Baptist, or Ritualist, wherever they can find shelter and care. She seems to regard her mission as like that of the brave Sisters of Charity who go upon the field of battle amid belching cannon and bursting shells, to bring away the wounded. She leaves them in this or that hospital, and is off again for more.
This she has been doing many years, as the spirit within leads her, both in England and in this country. I wish you could see her — I know how you would love her. As for me, I look up to her with a kind of awe; yet she has such a pretty, simple-hearted innocence about her. I felt a little afraid of her at first, and thought all my pins and rings and little bows and fixtures would seem so many sins in her sight; but I found she could admire a bracelet or a gem as much as I did, and seemed to enjoy all my pretty things for me. She says so prettily, “If thee acts up to thy light, Eva, thee can do no more.” I only wish that I were as sure as she is that I do. It is quite sweet of her, and puts me at ease in her presence. They are going to be gone all this week on some mission. I don’t know yet exactly where, but I can’t help feeling as if I wished some angel woman like Sibyl would take me off with her, and let me do a little something in this great and never finished work of helping and healing. I have always had a longing to do a little at it, and perhaps, with some one to inspire and guide me, even I might do some good.
This reminds me of a strange incident. The other night, as I was crossing the street, I saw a weird-looking young woman, very haggard and miserable, who seemed to be in a kind of uncertain way hanging about our house. There was something about her face and eyes that affected me quite painfully, but I thought nothing of it at the time. But, the evening after our reception, as Harry and Bolton were walking about a square beyond our house, this creature came suddenly upon them and took Harry’s arm. He threw her off with a sudden impulse, and then Bolton, like a good man, as he always is, and with that sort of quiet self-possession he always has, spoke to her and asked where her mother was. That word was enough, and the poor thing began sobbing and crying, and then he took her and led her away to the St. Barnabas, a refuge for homeless people which is kept by some of our Church Sisters, and there he left her; and Harry says he will tell Mr. St. John about it, so that he may find out what can be done for her, if anything.
When I think of meeting any such case personally, I feel how utterly weak and inexperienced I am, and how utterly unfit to guide tor help, though I wish with my whole heart I could do something to help all poor desolate people. I feel a sort of self-reproach for being so very happy as I am while any are miserable. To take another subject, — I have been lately more and more intimate with Bolton. You know I sent you Caroline’s letter about him. Well, really it seemed to me such a pity that two who are entirely devoted to each other should be living without the least comfort of intercommunion, that I could not help just trying the least little bit to bring them together. Harry rather warned me not to do it. These men are so prudent; their counsels seem rather cold to our hearts — is it not so, mother? Harry advised me not to name the subject to Bolton, and said he would not dare do it for the world. Well, that’s just because he’s a man; he does not know how differently men receive the approaches of a woman. In fact, I soon found that there was no subject on which Bolton was so all alive and eager to hear. When I had once mentioned Caroline, he kept recurring to the subject, evidently longing to hear more from her; and so, one way and another, in firelight talks and moonlight walks, and times and places when words slip out before one thinks, the whole of what is to be known of Caroline’s feelings went into his mind, and all that might be known of his to her passed into mine. I, in short, became a medium. And do you think I was going to let her fret her heart out in ignorance of anything I could tell her? Not if I know myself; in fact, I have been writing volumes to Caroline, for I am determined that no people made for each other shall go wandering up and down this labyrinth of life, missing their way at every turn, for want of what could be told them by some friendly good fairy who has the clue.
Say now, mother, am I imprudent? If I am, I can’t help it; the thing is done. Bolton has broken the silence and written to Caroline; and once letter-writing is begun, you see, the rest follows. Does it not?
Now the thing is done, Harry is rather glad of it, as he usually is with the results of my conduct when I go against his advice and the thing turns out all right; and, what’s of Harry better than that, when I get into a scrape by going against his counsels, he never says, “I told you so,” but helps me out, and comforts me in the loveliest manner. Mother, dear, he does you credit, for you had the making of him! He never would have been the husband he is if you had not been the mother you are.
You say you are interested in my old ladies across the way.
Yes, I really flatter myself that our coming into this neighborhood is quite a godsend to them. I don’t know any that seemed to enjoy the evening more than they two. It was so long since they had been in any society, and their society power had grown cramped, stiff by disuse; but the light and brightness of our fireside, and the general friendly cheerfulness, seemed to wake them up. My sisters are admirable assistants. They are society girls in the best sense, and my dear little mamma is never so much herself as when she is devoting herself to entertaining others. Miss Dorcas told me, this morning, that she was thankful on her sister’s account to have this prospect of a weekly diversion opened to her; for that she had so many sorrows and suffered so much, it was all she could do at times to keep her from sinking in utter despondency. What her troubles could have been Miss Dorcas did not say; but I know that her marriage was unhappy, and that she has lost all her children. But, at any rate, this acknowledgment from her that we have been a comfort and help to them gratifies me. It shows me that we were right in thinking that we need not run beyond our own neighborhood to find society full of interest and do our little part in the kindly work of humanity. Oh, don’t let me forget to tell you that that lovely, ridiculous Jack of theirs, that they make such a pet of, insisted on coming to the party to look after them; waylaid the door, and got in, and presented himself in a striking attitude on an ottoman in the midst of the company, to Miss Dorcas’s profound horror and our great amusement. Jack has now become the “dog of the regiment,” and we think of issuing a season ticket in his behalf; for everybody pets him; he helps to make fun and conversation.
After all, my dear mother, I must say a grateful word in praise of my Mary. I pass for a first-rate housekeeper, and receive constant compliments for my lovely house, its charming arrangements, the ease with which I receive and entertain company, the smoothness and completeness with which everything goes on; and all the while, in my own conscience, I feel that almost all the credit is due to Mary. The taste in combination and arrangement is mine, to be sure — and I flatter myself on having some nice domestic theories; but after all, Mary’s knowledge, and Mary’s strength, and Mary’s neatness and order, are the foundation on which all the structure is built. Of what use would be taste and beauty and refinement if I had to do my own washing, or cook my own meals, or submit to the inroads of a tribe of untaught barbarians, such as come from the intelligence offices? How soon would they break my pretty teacups, and overwhelm my lovely bijouterie with a second Goth and Vandal irruption! So, with you, dear mother, you see I do justice to Mary, strong and kind, whom nobody thinks of and nobody praises, and yet who enables me to do all that I do. I believe she truly loves me with all the warmth of an Irish heart, and I love her in return; and I give her this credit with you, t
o absolve my own conscience for taking so much more than is due to myself in the world. But what a long letter I am writing! Writing to you is talking, and you know what a chatterbox I am; but you won’t be tired of hearing all this from us. —
Your loving,
EVA.
CHAPTER XXI
BOLTON AND ST. JOHN
St. JOHN was seated in his study, with a hook of meditations before him on which he was endeavoring to fix his mind. In the hot, dusty, vulgar atmosphere of modern life, it was his daily effort to bring around himself the shady coolness, the calm conventual stillness, that breathes through such writers as St. Francis de Sales and Thomas à Kempis, men with a genius for devotion, who have left to mankind records of the mile-stones and road-marks by which they traveled towards the highest things. Nor should the most stringent Protestant fail to honor that rich and grand treasury of the experience of devout spirits of which the Romish Church has been the custodian. The hymns and prayers and pious meditations which come to us through this channel are particularly worthy of a cherishing remembrance in this dusty, materialistic age. To St. John they had a double charm, by reason of their contrast with the sterility of the religious forms of his early life. While enough of the Puritan and Protestant remained in him to prevent his falling at once into the full embrace of Romanism, he still regarded the old fabric with a softened, poetic tenderness; he “took pleasure in her stones and favored the dust thereof.”
Nor is it to be denied that in the history of the Romish Church are records of heroism and self-devotion which might justly inspire with ardor the son of a line of Puritans. Who can go beyond St. Francis Xavier in the signs of an apostle? Who labored with more utter self-surrender than Father Claver for the poor negro slaves of South America? And how magnificent are those standing Orders of Charity, composed of men and women of that communion, that have formed from age to age a life-guard of humanity, devoted to healing the sick, sheltering and educating the orphans, comforting the dying! A course of eager reading in this direction might make it quite credible even that a Puritan on the rebound should wish to come as near such a church as is possible without sacrifice of conscience and reason.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 390