A New Aristocracy

by Alice E. Bartlett

“Mr. Lynn,” the article went on to say, “is the pioneer in this form of enterprise, and feeling that there is no reason other than inexcusable greed for the occurrence of so much idleness, suffering, destitution, vice, ignorance, and penury in so many departments of American labor, he proposes a plan of co-operation, now working harmoniously and profitably in France, which will no doubt do much toward solving some vexed industrial conflicts.”

Following this was a short history of the colony on the edge of Paris and its plan of operations. Elsie read the article with swimming eyes, and impulsively kissed the insensate bearer of such good news. She had not seen Herbert since his return, and this was the first intimation of his project which she had received from any one. How beautiful the world grew all at once! How much there was in life to hope for, work for, enjoy! Suffering humanity under Herbert’s fostering care—ah, how could it be other than happy? To live in the light of those sunny blue eyes—how she envied the prospective inhabitants of that social paradise. But the weeks grew into months, and Herbert made no effort to renew his old standing in the little circle. His name was rarely mentioned to Elsie, although she learned from Lizzette that he had appropriated one of the handsomest residences included in his purchase of Idlewild, and had taken Lizzette from her market gardening to preside over his bachelor establishment. Voluble as Lizzette had always been, she was now suspiciously silent, unless she had a bit of gossip to offer regarding the interest taken in the proposed work by Alice Houghton. Antoine, happy as a bird in the new home and the exceptional progress he was making in music, took especial care to avoid the mention of Herbert’s name, although Elsie often intercepted a wistful glance of commiseration in his dark eyes. Why were they all so silent? she often asked her longing heart. Did they think she had no courage? Did they fancy her a Lily Maid of Astolat who needs must die for love? Well, they should see she could be brave and work on through a long life, and make no sign of heart-break! So with renewed earnestness, never sparing a moment for much-needed rest, she toiled on, earning her daily bread and giving the helping hand to all who needed it. Margaret’s watchful eyes noted with pain how thin and transparent the once rounded face was growing, what an intent light burned within the old laughter-loving eyes, and how feverish was her application to her work.

It was a year before the great co-operative shoe factory was in running order, and on the evening of the first day of regular work, Herbert, flushed and elated over the promised success of his plan, was driving hurriedly along the street, on his way to visit Helen and report progress. Glancing up suddenly he encountered the gaze of Elsie’s eyes as she paused for a second on the crossing. Heavens! How white and frail she looked! What caverns those great dark eyes had grown to be! Was she dying and nobody to tell him?

So preoccupied was he with these hurried thoughts that he passed on, failing to return the slight salutation she had made. A moment later he drew rein, but Elsie had disappeared from view. He turned and followed in the direction she had taken, but she was nowhere to be seen. He had been working of late like the traditional galley-slave, curbing his impatience in the thought of the offering he could one day lay at her feet, and now, like a phantom of her old blithe, rosy-cheeked self, she had crossed his path, and the dark eyes had seemed to speak the despairing words, “Too late! Too late!”

Lashing his horse into a white foam, in absolute defiance of the ordinance against fast driving, he rushed a few moments later in upon Margaret with the frightened question:

“Where is Elsie? Why has nobody told me she was dying?”

The question seemed almost brutal in its abruptness, and Margaret staggered as if struck by a blow.

“Forgive me, Margaret,” cried Herbert piteously. “I passed her just now, but lost her again, looking so frail and wan—did you not know? Have you not seen?”

“Ah, yes,” moaned Margaret. “But I had no medicine for a breaking heart. A spirit like hers soon burns out the fires of a frail body.”

It was some time later that the door opened suddenly and Elsie, pale, trembling with the exertion of climbing the stairs, and with eyes veiled in the shadow of utter despair, stood on the threshold.