Roland Graeme: Knight. A Novel of Our Time

by Agnes Maule Machar

But, for all that, "public opinion," that is, the opinion of the upper stratum of Minton intelligence, was decidedly "down" on Roland Graeme and his troublesome organ. He was generally considered as the arch-conspirator against the peace and profits of the wealthy manufacturer, against the "good old ways," in which things had run so long without any of this tiresome fuss and friction, that over-zealous champions, false friends of the laborer, were so busy in creating.

The Minton Eagle, the most formidable rival of the Minerva, began to see a chance of making capital out of the evident sympathy of the latter paper with many of the views ascribed to Roland Graeme; and Dick Burnet soon received strong hints from the other joint-proprietors of the Minerva, that he had better take in sail in that direction, and steer a safer course, for, naturally, to the proprietors, it was a sine quâ non that the paper should pay.

Dick Burnet had much more of the professional journalist than of the pure philanthropist in his composition, and though interested in labor-reform, he was by no means prepared to become a martyr in its cause. He told Roland, therefore, with regret, that he must not only discontinue the noticing and reprinting of articles from The Brotherhood, but that he feared it would be necessary to make arrangements for having it printed elsewhere, as the reputed connection was considered damaging to the Minerva's interests. This was, of course, a cause of no little worry and anxiety to Roland, as he had enough on his hands, without the charge of the mechanical arrangements; but it was a still greater pain to him to see his friend Burnet, as it seemed to him, deserting the cause of principle for that of expediency. However, his genial spirit of charity made allowances for his friend that he would not have made for himself, could such a descent on his own part have been conceivable. He talked the matter over with Mr. Dunlop, and the old Scotchman's practical shrewdness as well as his purse came to Roland's aid, in devising new arrangements.

This was not, however, the only matter pressing on Roland's mind, as February passed into March, and the first mild spring-like days came with their physically relaxing influence. He was sharing the fate of every idealist in reform, meeting with unlooked for discouragements and perplexities, pained by frequently encountering precisely the same spirit of selfishness in the employed that had so disgusted him in the employers; and when, occasionally, his friends, the "Knights," had a social entertainment of their own, his taste was jarred by the tone of the comic songs and recitations which seemed most to tickle the audience. The material enjoyed by audiences of greater pretension to "culture" might not, in general, be much more elevated, but at least the humor was not quite so broad, the wit not quite so coarse; and yet, while Roland felt jarred and dissatisfied, he admitted that he was unreasonable, that it was useless to expect fine fruit from ungrafted trees, and that the low tone of taste which he regretted was a natural result of lack of opportunity for true cultivation. It only intensified his desire for a better state of things; but, at the same time, these experiences often tended to depress and dishearten him. And the long strain of high pressure was telling on him, also.

He was uneasy, too, about Waldberg, who had of late developed a feverish anxiety to "make a fortune," quite alien to his former happy, easy-going, romantic disposition. Roland rightly guessed that a growing attachment to Miss Farrell was at the root of it, combined with the too evident fact that she greatly preferred him to her much less interesting fiancé; and that, if he only had money enough, he might easily carry the day, yet. Mr. Farrell was a broker, who had made his large fortune mainly by speculation; and young Waldberg had heard from him stories of "lucky ventures," till he had been inspired with a strong desire to try the experiment himself. This desire was encouraged and promoted by one of Mr. Farrell's clerks, and with him for counselor, Waldberg had begun to gamble in stocks and "margins" to such small extent as he was able, notwithstanding Roland's strong disapproval and remonstrances.

Roland would, however, seek some respite from these various subjects of disquietude by a visit to Mr. Alden's house, or by a long walk, in the bright, lengthening afternoons. One charming and unusually mild afternoon, the day before the public performance of the oratorio which had been in preparation so long, he had prolonged his walk by the river, past even the suburbs of the city, and was returning about sunset. He had reached the gateway leading to Mr. Pomeroy's handsome residence, which stood at a little distance from the street, when he noticed, just inside it, a sight that always made him sick at heart, and seemed like a dark blot on the brightness of the day. It was the sight of a woman, apparently young, who had been seated on the ground in the shelter of a cluster of trees, and whom two policemen were endeavoring to raise to her feet. Mr. Pomeroy, returning home a few minutes before, had discovered her sitting there, evidently in a state of intoxication, and, in his usual bland manner, had handed her over to the first policeman he espied. As she came out, assisted by the policemen, Roland got a glimpse of her face, and heard a word or two, in a soft English voice. He was horrified, as the conviction flashed on him that it was the woman he had gone to succor, on the December evening when we first made his acquaintance,—Miss Blanchard's protégée, Mrs. Travers.

He hastened up to the policemen, and begged them to let him call a cab and take her to the hospital. But the men only looked at him sneeringly, as they remarked:

"Oh, yes, no doubt you'd like to get her off! Expect she's an old friend. But she's got to go with us, now."

Roland drew back, disgusted and shocked, seeing the futility of further interference. But how could he tell Miss Blanchard of such a catastrophe!

As he stood watching their departure, something bright on the ground, glittering in the yellow, slanting sunlight, caught his eye. He picked it up. It was a small locket, apparently gold, though worn and dim, with a monogram on one side. It must, he thought, have been dropped by the poor woman as she came out. He put it into his pocket, to keep it safe for her, and went home to dinner, considering, as he walked on slowly, for once, which it would be better to do, to tell Miss Blanchard or to send word to the hospital. At any rate he would go to the police-station next day, and endeavor to procure her release.