The music came in fitful gusts through the open windows, and passers-by paused to listen, seemingly loth to lose a note of the gladness trembling on the air. Across the street in the shadow of a portico a man had stood for some time in a listening attitude, and as the music seemed to grow madder and merrier, a certain restlessness became apparent in shifting feet, and an uneasy tapping of fingers on the wooden column against which he leaned.
“Antoine is gay to-night,” he thought. “Hope has been awakened in his breast, and if it were not that I might seem to be seeking his thanks I should climb the stairs and make myself known to them. I wonder if my Lady Scornful would be as unbending to-night as she is within my sister’s walls! I’m strongly tempted to try her—yet I’m afraid it would be an unwise thing to do; for as Lizzette counsels, it is best to await developments. What an extraordinary position this is for me, anyway! I’ve tried my best to reason it out on one of Helen’s hypotheses, but it all comes point-blank against the fact that life isn’t worth living without that little bunch of spitefulness. And, after all, she moves in an orbit that is distinctly outside of mine and with which, to tell the truth, I have very little sympathy. She and her sister are charming types of self-cultured women, and worthy of any man’s or society’s recognition; but their quixotic notions regarding a regenerated humanity seem the veriest nonsense to me. Every man for himself—et sauve qui peut is, as the world makes it, a fairly good doctrine. What is the use of being burdened with the sins and sorrows of the world? I don’t consider myself responsible for them or that they would be materially lessened if I threw away my money in clothing the sans culottes. Such people are as ragged as ever the next day after your philanthropy, and you are certainly none the better for it. Indeed, the leaven of generosity, like that of love, ought to have a narrow circle; it grows too pale if you widen it. And yet those two slender girls would build up a social paradise in which the ignoble qualities of humanity have no part. Greed, avarice, jealousy, insincerity, are entirely eliminated from their scheme of life. Surely in their position they must have encountered all these evils, and still they ignore them! They look upon others as themselves in replica, at least in motive. A natural conclusion, no doubt, but one the facts do not bear out. One may safely prophesy regarding the outcome of these Eutopian ideas. There never can be, never will be, anything but the survival of the fittest. I suppose if Elsie heard me she would say that the fittest ought to include the majority at least, and that it is in the hands of the fittest to help the unfit to become fit. But that is what Christianity has been trying to do all these years, and still the cry is, ‘save us or we perish.’ These slender girls, hearing this cry, have offered their empty hands to the multitude. And the result? Well, from what Lizzette tells me of that little club of Margaret’s, the outlook is by no means disheartening; but how will it be as the circle widens? How much of heart and hope—for it is all they have—will they be able to bring into the work? I rather imagine that unknown quantity is beyond my arithmetic at present. How long am I going to be content to let this pathetic little drama go on? Elsie seems to have locked the door against me in that pitiful plea of hers not to jeopardize her standing with my sister, and I am more completely shut out of her sympathies than if I were the beggar at her door. Even Lizzette shakes that sage head of hers and says it is not right. Right! what’s wrong about it? If I had a perverted taste and Elsie was coarse and ignorant, and the chances were all against the ultimate happiness of such a union, perhaps I might be induced to see my error. But when did reason ever lend her balances to a man in love? I always supposed I was sane enough until a certain Miss Elsie Murchison took to snubbing me; yet here I am, a love-sick boy, mooning outside of her window, and like Benedick, ‘a college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humor.’ Dear Lady Disdain, good-night! I’m going home to read my Shakespeare once more and learn of my prototype how to rail at and forget you—if I can!”
It was late in the afternoon of the next day, and Margaret sat alone in her room thinking wistfully of Antoine and the long six months of his stay at the hospital. The lad had gone cheerfully to the loneliness and pain before him, never doubting that the glad promise of walking like other men and awaking to the joy of vigorous life would be fulfilled. Indeed, his faith was so absolute that it took away much of the pang of separation, and Margaret and Elsie had choked back unbidden tears and promised him a weekly visit of long talks and merry times. Books, violin, and a mandolin, the gift of Herbert, had been sent with his other belongings, and a daily order for flowers had been left by Herbert at the florist’s. All that loving hands could do to smooth the painful path had been done, and now there was nothing left but to hope and wait. But how they all missed him! The pale quiet face, the great dark eyes, the loving smile, and the sweet strains of his violin had so entwined themselves around their hearts that not to find them daily ministers to their need seemed a sore deprivation. “Elsie’s smile will be more infrequent now that Antoine is no longer with us,” sighed Margaret. “I am afraid our loved evenings will be doleful enough without our laddie. Still there must be the same adherence to duty wherever the lines fall, and perhaps our progress will be all the more substantial when we realize that hard work is our only master.”
There was a sudden scurrying of feet up the stairs and several children burst breathlessly into the room. “O Miss Margaret!” they cried, “just come and see what some men have done to the new tenant—the one that only moved in a week ago! They’ve just come and took every bit of furniture, and the woman is sick, and they took the bed from under her and left her only a straw tick and a quilt, and she’s crying awful, and the two little babies are squalling, and—oh! it’s dreadful!”
Margaret quickly followed the children down two flights of stairs, to find the scene even more pitiable than the children had described. Upon a thin straw mattress in the corner lay a woman with her face hidden in her arms, while heart-rending sobs shook her frame from head to feet, and two little children, as yet only prattling babes, crouched beside her crying: “Mamma, mamma, look up. Talk to baby. Don’t cry! Mamma! Mamma!”
Margaret knelt beside the agonized form and softly stroked back the hair from the face that remained persistently hidden, and then, taking both of the wondering babies in her lap, said softly to the group of children at the door: “Now run away, dears, and shut the door.”
The children obeyed instantly, and Margaret remained softly stroking the woman’s hair and hugging the now quiet babies to her bosom. Under the soothing influence of Margaret’s touch and presence the violent sobbing soon ceased, and a tear-stained face, lit up by a pair of hollow eyes, glanced up at Margaret. One glance caused a sudden transformation in the convulsed and agonized face, and a thin hand crept out toward Margaret as the woman said brokenly, but in the unmistakable voice and language of refinement: “You are good not to pass by on the other side. What made you come here?”
“Love,” said Margaret simply.
“Love?” repeated the woman interrogatively. “Love died long ago, and the devils of greed and pride danced at his funeral.”
“Not in all hearts, I trust. Love lives to help and strengthen sufferers like you. Can you tell me any way to help you?”