A New Aristocracy

by Alice E. Bartlett

A moment later “Red Handed Mike,” crestfallen and sulky, was passed over to the care of a couple of policemen, and Gilbert turned to the men who had gathered around him and said, with a grim appreciation of its underlying humor:

“Boys, I am going to talk to you to-night on the beauty of peace.”

He walked quietly and quickly up the aisle, but had not yet mounted the platform when a tremendous cheer broke from the audience. Men threw their hats in the air, and women waved their handkerchiefs as the story of “the fighting parson,” as they then and there dubbed him, passed from lip to lip.

CHAPTER XXIII.

Two years passed by; years that brought increasing strength and prosperity to the Society of Universal Brotherhood, and gave it a recognized standing as an important factor in the structure of social reform. Dealing primarily with the fundamental truth of human relationship, and resolutely adhering to the application of those principles to all the conduct of life, it soon established a method of reason which, if primitive, still satisfied the highest aspirations of the heart. In Red Handed Mike Gilbert had won, after long proof of the value of brotherly kindness and forbearance, one of his most earnest co-workers, and it was no uncommon sight to behold the two side by side at political, social, and semi-religious gatherings, endeavoring to promulgate in quiet ways the truths which had become inherent parts of their daily thought and work. To Antoine alone, of all the members of the little circle, the years had brought apparent change. Increasing stature and added health had given him greater comeliness of form, while the once pale, thoughtful face was now enlivened by the glow of color and sparkle of happiness. The parting of Herbert and Elsie had been a great grief to the lad, for love and gratitude to both had built in fancy a glowing future for them. In numberless little ways he had endeavored to show his sympathy and appreciation, and to Herbert he had taken to writing long letters descriptive of the lives and pursuits of the old circle; but avoiding with intuitive delicacy any direct reference to Elsie. The progress of the society was therefore an open book to Herbert, who, wandering restlessly over the continent of Europe, hungrily awaited the coming of Antoine’s letters in the fond hope of gleaning even in imagination some news of Elsie. The two years of his wanderings had been but a record of growing discontent. His prosperous life had never before known a serious rebuff, and his love for Elsie had been the one and only love of his life. Try as he might in his anger and disapproval, he could never shut out the memory of the dark eyes and the piquant face, now sparkling with gayety or quivering with the pathos of grief. All her little crudities of speech, her high-tragedy airs, her inimitable mimicry, and her tender flower-like caresses, dwelt so deep within his heart that they were constant companions of his waking and sleeping hours. He grew old and irritable under the pressure of grief and disappointment, and Helen Mason declared that “a mummy from the Catacombs couldn’t be more unsociable.” They wandered together up the Nile, Herbert declaring his intention of tracing it to its source and joining Stanley in the heart of the Dark Continent.

“I’m tired,” he said, “of civilization, and think of returning to savagery, where ‘labor strikes’ and ‘bloated capitalists’ are unknown quantities.”

“I think you’ve already reached that state,” Helen retorted, “for I live in almost constant fear of having my head snapped off.”

“Well, since I’m so nearly on the confines of cannibalism, I think, to insure your safety, we will go back to Paris.”

To Paris they accordingly directed their steps, but the gay capital had no attractions for Herbert. Indeed, he was more at peace lazily dreaming in the land of the Pharaohs, for in the new republic he could not altogether shut his ears to the cry of the people. Thought seemed to be teeming, even in the effete monarchies of the Old World, and when he and Helen, in despair of enjoyment fled to the Russian capital, even there nihilism and nationalism, dogged by the visions of Siberian prisons and infuriated with the cry of slaves in mine and factory, were in the very air they breathed. It was in Russia that Herbert first set himself to studying the conditions so productive of upheaval as well as the worst forms of human cruelty. To Helen’s intense fear he took to mingling with the common people, and learning the reason for the scarcely breathed, but only too apparent discontent and rebellion.

“The people! The people! Away with the divine right of kings!” This was the whispered shibboleth of nihilists and nationalists alike in the courts and wilds of Russia, and it swelled into a modulated but well-defined chorus along the banks of the Rhine, until it rang resonant and clear in the heart of the new republic. At home, abroad, wherever he journeyed, the echo of the world’s suffering and despair was sure to reach him. But after all what was it to him more than an episode of history, interesting as a study of the conflict of ideas, the upheavals by revolution and evolution? What part had he in forming history, only as one of the many on whom the mantle of existing orders must inevitably fall? With a good deal of impatience he shook off the obtrusive question. Every man must be his own savior and avenger in the battle of existence. Elsie herself had preached the independence of the individual. “True,” said Conscience, “but did she preach that alone? Did she not also believe in the fullest co-operation as a prop and encouragement to individual effort? Was not her life an epitome of the highest personal development, morally at least, combined with the most unselfish desire for the prosperity of others?”