A New Aristocracy

by Alice E. Bartlett

“H-m. It might be good, but how about the children’s education?”

“That was what worried me greatly at first; but both of them say so long as I work for a living they shall help too. We have decided to give an hour each evening, after it is too dark to work, to a little home culture. After all, it is the practical application of knowledge that makes one educated.”

“Quite true, Miss Margaret,” answered the doctor as he gravely regarded her. “Give me a few more details of your plan, and let me see how practicable it is.”

As Margaret proceeded with an animated recital of the schemes which she and Elsie had lain awake nights to concoct, Dr. Ely sat so intently watching her that she flushed and grew uneasy under his scrutiny. He, however, was not aware of it; for his mind was borne in upon itself, and he was tracing step by step the years of his life that had brought him to this present moment. He was a dignified man nearing the forties, with a grave manner that was often thought austere, but which was only the outward covering of a nature too keenly sympathetic and appreciative to risk the disapproval of an obtuse world. Like all delicate and sensitive things in nature, he wrapped himself in a husk, and only those who penetrated the outward covering knew how beautiful was the inner temple of his soul, how genial its warmth, and how playful the fancy that tended the altar of his imaginings. His sudden encounter with Margaret this morning had brought to the surface a slight hint of its existence, but the quick wonder of her eyes had sent it again into hiding. He had been for some ten years the president of the school at A——, and stood entirely alone in the world. For twenty years he had cherished the memory of a fair girl wife who had been companion and helpmeet but three short months, when death claimed her. In her grave he had thought to bury love, and live henceforth a solitary worker, with no dreams to entice again beyond the prosaic outlines of his daily duties. But Margaret Murchison’s year at the school had affected him strangely. He had watched the girl’s development with uncommon interest; had been touched more than once by the clearness and unusual candor of her nature, and grew to have a profound admiration for the strength and purpose which upheld her. When she had been so suddenly called home by her mother’s death, he had missed her more than he liked to own even to himself. Despite the disparity in their years, he felt that hers was a nature to draw from its obscurity all that was highest of attainment in his own. He was but too conscious that, struggle as he might, he somehow fell short of his desires. His most earnest efforts seemed to fall half-heartedly upon those around him. The fault must be his; the long loneliness of his life—with neither father, mother, sister, brother, wife, to share a single aspiration or make vivid a single heart-glow—had unwittingly isolated him from mankind. When the light of this love fully dawned upon him, his soul felt the glow of a new purpose, and it became to him the symbol of a wider sympathy and charity, because of which Divinity long ago found need to send a sign to all mankind. His school was not slow to feel the change, and when the time became ripe for him to speak, he felt that he was no longer offering Margaret, in all her freshness, the remnant of a heart and life, but the first fruits of a living soul. He hastened to Barnley, strong in his purpose to lift her at once from the toil and privation of poverty. He had watched her career as best he could, in the occasional letters received from her father, who never failed to comment upon her strength and growth of character, and his love had grown with the subtileness of fancy until he had never stopped to consider the effect it might have upon Margaret. Surely to be sheltered and loved—ah! how he would prove his love to her—ought to be reason enough for any woman so bereft and friendless. So he had reasoned until he caught the apprehensive glance of Margaret’s eyes, and then he knew that his dream had not been hers, and that love with her would not be made at once answerable even to the most passionate appeals. All these musings ran swiftly through his mind, the while his intent glance remained upon Margaret’s face, unconsciously drinking in its variable play of expression. At last she ceased her recital, and said in a slightly constrained voice: “I think I have told you all our plans for the present, Dr. Ely.”

But the intent eyes never left her face as the doctor asked wistfully: “Are you sure you’ve strength for so much?”

“I have faith that it will be given me.”

“Yes, yes, it will,” he replied fervently, as he roused himself with an effort. “And now let us take a look at the books.”

He followed Margaret into the study and stood long in silent contemplation before the shelves. He was evidently making a careful computation of the value of the books. “How much money will you need for this undertaking?” he asked, suddenly turning to Margaret.

“I have very little idea. I can scarcely tell until we have seen the place.”

“Ah, yes, I had forgotten. Of course you are not sure of anything as yet. When did you say you had appointed an interview with the agent?”