The Story of the Gravelys

“He thought I wouldn’t help him,” burst out her companion, and, with shame and chagrin in his eyes, he sat down at the table and put his hand to his head. “It’s those confounded notes,” he said, at last. “I often told him he ought never to put his name to paper.”

“It was his generosity and kindness—his implicit faith in his fellow men,” continued Berty, warmly; “and now, Mr. Morehall, can you say that ‘blood,’ or shrewdness, or anything else, will always keep misfortune from a certain family? Who is to assure you that your great-great-grandchildren will not be living on River Street?”

No one could assure the disturbed man that this contingency might not arise, and, lifting his head, he gazed at Berty as if she were some bird of ill-omen.

“You will come to see your relatives, I suppose?” she murmured.

He made an assenting gesture with his hand.

“They are two dear old people. They give tone to the street—and you will send a watering-cart this afternoon?”

He made another assenting gesture. He did not care to talk, and Berty slipped quietly from his office.

CHAPTER XX.

SELINA’S WEDDING

Selina Everest and the Mayor were married.

On one of the loveliest of autumn mornings, the somewhat mature bride had been united in the holy bonds of matrimony to the somewhat mature bridegroom, and now, in the old family mansion of the Everests, they were receiving the congratulations of their numerous friends. Selina had had a church wedding. That she insisted on, greatly to the distress and confusion of her modest husband. He had walked up the aisle of the church as if to his hanging. One minute he went from red to purple, from purple to violent perspiration, the next he became as if wrapped in an ice-cold sheet, and not until then could he recover himself.

But now it was all over. This congratulatory business was nothing compared to the agonizing experience of being in a crowded church, the shrinking target for hundreds of criticizing, shining, awful eyes.

Yes, he was in an ecstasy to think the ordeal was over. Selina never would have made him go through it, if she had had the faintest conception of what his sufferings would be.

She had enjoyed it. All women enjoy that sort of thing. They are not awkward. How can they be, with their sweeping veils and trailing robes? He had felt like a fence-post, a rail—anything stiff, and ugly, and uncomfortable, and in his heart of hearts he wondered that all those well-dressed men and women had not burst into shouts of laughter at him.

Well, it was over—over, thank fortune. He never had been so glad to escape from anything in his life, as he had been to get out of the church and away from the crowd of people. That alone made him blissfully happy, and then, in addition, he had Selina.

He looked at her, and mechanically stretched out a hand to an advancing guest. Selina was his now. He not only was out of that church and never would have to go into it again for such a purpose as he had gone this morning, but Selina Everest was Mrs. Peter Jimson.

He smiled an alarming smile at her, a smile so extraordinarily comprehensive, that she hurriedly asked under her breath if he were ill.

“No,” he said, and, in so saying, clasped the hand of the advancing friend with such vigour, that the unhappy man retreated swiftly with his unspoken congratulations on his lips.

“I’m not ill,” he muttered. “I’m only a little flustered, Selina.”

“Here’s Mrs. Short,” she said, hastily, “be nice to her. She’s a particular friend of mine.”

“A fine day, ma’am,” murmured the Mayor; “yes, the crops seem good—ought to have rain, though.”

Over by a French window opening on the lawn, Berty and Tom were watching the people and making comments.

“Always get mixed up about a bride and groom,” volunteered Tom. “Always want to congratulate her, and hope that he’ll be happy. It’s the other way, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” murmured Berty. “Oh, isn’t it a dream to think that they’re both happy?”

“Makes one feel like getting married oneself,” said Tom.

“Yes, doesn’t it? A wedding unsettles me. All the rest of the day I wish I were a bride.”

“Do you?” exclaimed Tom, eagerly.

“Yes, and then the next day I think what a goose I am. Being married means slavery to some man. You don’t have your own way at all.”

“Men never being slaves to their wives,” remarked Tom.

“Men are by nature lordly, overbearing, proud-spirited, self-willed, tyrannical and provoking,” said Berty, sweepingly.

But Tom’s thoughts had been diverted. “Say, Berty, where do those Tomkins girls get money to dress that way? They’re visions in those shining green things.”

“They spend too much of their father’s money on dress,” replied Berty, severely. “Those satins came from Paris. They are an exquisite new shade of green. I forget what you call it.”

“I guess old Tomkins is the slave there,” said Tom; then, to avoid controversy, he went on, hastily, “You look stunning in that white gown.”

“I thought perhaps Selina would want me for a bridesmaid,” said Berty, plaintively, “but she didn’t.”

“Too young and foolish,” said Tom, promptly; “but, I say, Berty, where did you get the gown?”

“Margaretta gave it to me. I was going to wear muslin, but she said I shouldn’t.”

“What is it anyway?” said Tom, putting out a cautious finger to touch the soft folds.

“It’s silk, and if you knew how uncomfortable I am in it, you would pity me.”

“Uncomfortable! You look as cool as a cucumber.”

“I’m not. I wish I had on a serge skirt and a shirt-waist.”

“Let me get you something to eat,” he said, consolingly. “That going to church and standing about here are tiresome.”

“Yes, do,” said Berty. “I hadn’t any breakfast, I was in such a hurry to get ready.”

“Here are sandwiches and coffee to start with,” he said, presently coming back.

“Thank you—I am so glad Selina didn’t have a sit-down luncheon. This is much nicer.”

“Isn’t it! You see, she didn’t want speeches. On an occasion like this, the Mayor would be so apt to get wound up that he would keep us here till midnight.”

Berty laughed. “And they would have lost their train.”

“There isn’t going to be any train,” said Tom, mysteriously.

“Aren’t they going to New York?”

“No.”

“To Canada?”

“No.”

“To Europe?”

“No—Jimson says he isn’t going to frizzle and fry in big cities in this lovely weather, unless Selina absolutely commands, and she doesn’t command, so he’s going to row her up the river to the Cloverdale Inn.”

Berty put down her cup and saucer and began to laugh.

“Where are those sandwiches?” asked Tom, trying to peer round the cup.

“Gone,” said Berty, meekly.

He brought her a new supply, then came cake, jellies, sweets, and fruit in rapid succession.

Berty, standing partly behind a curtain by the open window, kept her admirer so busy that at last he partly rebelled.

“Look here, Berty,” he remarked, firmly, “I don’t want to be suspicious, but it’s utterly impossible for a girl of your weight and education to dispose of so much provender at a single standing. You’re up to some tricks with it. Have you got some River Street rats with you?”

“Yes,” she said, smilingly. “Hush, don’t tell,” and, slightly pulling aside the curtain, she showed him four little heads in a clump of syringa bushes outside.

“Newsboy Jim, and Johnny-Boy, and the two girls, Biddy Malone and Glorymaroo, as we call her, from her favourite exclamation,” continued Berty; “they wanted to see something of the Mayor’s marriage, and I let them come. I’ve been handing out ‘ruffreshments’ to them. Don’t scold them, Tom.”

“Come right in, youngsters,” said the young man, heartily. “I’m sure Mr. Jimson is your Mayor as well as ours.”

Without the slightest hesitation, the four grinning children stepped in, and, marshalled by Tom, trotted across the long room to the alcove where Selina and the Mayor stood.

“A River Street delegation,” said Tom, presenting them, “come to offer congratulations to the chief executive officer of the city.”

Selina shook hands with them. The Mayor smiled broadly, patted their heads, and the other guests, who had been bidden, without an exception kindly surveyed the unbidden, yet welcome ones.

The introduction over, Tom examined them from head to foot. The little rats were in their Sunday clothes. Their heads were sleek and wet from recent washing. There was a strong smell of cheap soap about them.

“This way, gentlemen and ladies,” he said, and he led them back to a sofa near Berty. “Sit down there in a row. Here are some foot-stools for you.

“Waiter,” and he hailed a passing black-coated man, “bring the best you have to these children, and, children, you eat as you never ate before.”

Berty stood silently watching him. “Tom Everest,” she remarked, slowly, “I have two words to say to you.”

“I’d rather have one,” he muttered.

“Hush,” she said, severely, “and listen. The two words are, ‘Thank you.’”

“You’re welcome,” returned Tom, “or, as the French say, ‘There is nothing of what—’ Hello, Bonny, what’s the joke?”

Bonny, in a gentlemanly convulsion of laughter, was turning his face toward the wall in their direction.

The lad stopped, and while Berty and Tom stood silently admiring his almost beautiful face, which was just now as rosy as a girl’s, he grew composed.

“I call you to witness, friends,” he said, slightly upraising one hand, “that I never in my life before have laughed at dear Grandma.”

“You’ve been cross with her,” said Berty.

“Cross, yes, once or twice, but Grandma isn’t a person to laugh at, is she?”

“Well, not exactly,” said Berty. “I never saw anything funny about Grandma.”

“Well, she nearly finished me just now,” said Bonny. “I was standing near Selina, when gradually there came a break in the hand-shaking. The guests’ thoughts began to run luncheon-ward. Grandma was close to the bridal pair, and suddenly Selina turned and said, impulsively, ‘Mrs. Travers, you have had a great deal of experience. I want you to give me a motto to start out with on my wedding-day. Something that will be valuable to me, and will make me think of you whenever I repeat it.’ The joke of it was that Grandma didn’t want to give her a motto. She didn’t seem to have anything handy, but Selina insisted. At last Grandma said, in a shot-gun way, ‘Don’t nag!’ then she moved off.”

“Selina stared at the Mayor, and the Mayor stared over her shoulder at me. She didn’t see anything funny in it. We did. At last she said, meekly, ‘Peter, do you think I am inclined to nag?’

“He just rushed out a sentence at her—‘Upon my life I don’t!’

“‘Do you, Bonny?’ she asked, turning suddenly round on me.

“‘No, Selina, I don’t,’ I told her, but I couldn’t help laughing.

“Jimson grinned from ear to ear, and I started off, leaving Selina asking him what he was so amused about.”

Tom began to chuckle, but Berty said, “Well—I don’t see anything to laugh at.”

“She doesn’t see anything to laugh at,” repeated Bonny, idiotically, then he drew Tom out on the lawn where she could hear their bursts of laughter.

Presently the Mayor came strolling over to the low chair where Berty sat watching her little River Street friends.

“Is it all right for me to leave Selina for a few minutes?” he asked, in an anxious voice. “I can’t ask her, for she is talking to some one. I never was married before, and don’t know how to act.”

“Oh, yes,” said Berty, carelessly. “It’s an exploded fancy that a man must always stay close to his wife in general society. At home you should be tied to your wife’s apron-strings, but in society she takes it off.”

“You don’t wear aprons in your set,” said the Mayor, quickly. “I’ve found that out. You leave them to the maids.”

“I don’t like aprons,” said Berty. “If I want to protect my dress, I tuck a towel under my belt.”

“You’ve odd ways, and I feel queer in your set,” pursued the Mayor, in a meditative voice. “Maybe I’ll get used to you, but I don’t know. Now I used to think that the upper crust of this city would be mighty formal, but you don’t even say, ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and ‘No, ma’am,’ to each other. You’re as off-hand as street urchins, and downright saucy sometimes I’d say.”

“We’re not as formal as our grandparents were,” said Berty, musingly—“there’s everything in environment. We’re nothing but a lot of monkeys, anyway—see those children how nicely they are eating. If they were on River Street, they would drop those knives and forks, and have those chicken bones in their fingers in a jiffy.”

“Do you ever feel inclined to eat with your fingers?” asked Mr. Jimson, in a low voice, and looking fearfully about him.

“Often, and I do,” said Berty, promptly. “Always at picnics.”

“My father hated fuss and feathers,” remarked Mr. Jimson. “He always went round the house with his hat on, and in his shirt-sleeves.”

“The men on River Street do that,” replied Berty. “I can see some reason for the shirt-sleeves, but not for the hat.”

“Mr. Jimson,” said Walter Everest, suddenly coming up to him. “It’s time to go. Selina’s up-stairs changing her gown, the two suit-cases are in the hall.”

Ten minutes later, Mr. and Mrs. Everest, with their children and their friends, stood on the front steps calling parting good wishes after Selina and the Mayor.

There were many speculations as to their destination, the greater part of the guests imagining a far-away trip, as Berty had done.

“You’re all wrong,” observed Tom. “My boat is at Mrs. Travers’s wharf for them to go to Cloverdale, and it’s cram jam full of flowers with bows of white ribbon on each oar.”

Roger Stanisfield burst out laughing. “You’re sold, Tom, my boy, do you suppose the Mayor would trust a joker like you? He has my boat.”

Bonny was in an ecstasy. “Get out, you two old fellows,” he exclaimed, slapping his brother-in-law on the shoulder. “Mr. Jimson is going to row his beloved up the river in my boat.”

“No, he isn’t,” said Walter Everest. “He’s got mine.”

“I believe he’s fooled us all,” said Tom, ruefully. “Did you have any flowers in your boat, Stanisfield?”

“Margaretta put a little bit of rice in,” said Roger, “just a handful, where no one would see it but themselves.”

“Did you trim your boat, Bonny?” asked Roger.

“Yes,” said the boy, “with old shoes. I had a dandy pair chained to the seat, so they couldn’t be detached, unless Jimson had a hatchet along.”

“Whose boat has he got, for the land’s sake?” inquired Walter Everest. “He’s asked us all, and we’ve all pledged secrecy and good conduct, and we’ve all broken our word and decorated.”

“He’s got nobody’s boat, my friends,” said old Mr. Everest, who was shaking with silent laughter. “Don’t you know Peter Jimson better than to imagine that he would exert himself by rowing up the river this warm day?”

“Well, what are his means of locomotion?” asked Tom.

“My one-hoss shay, my son. It was waiting round the corner of the road for him.”

“I say,” ejaculated Tom, “let’s make up a party to call on them to-morrow. We can take the flowers and other trifles.”

“Hurrah,” said Bonny. “I’ll go ask Margaretta to get up a lunch.”

“Will you go to-morrow, Berty?” asked Tom, seeking her out, and speaking in a low voice.

“Where?”

He explained to her.

“Yes, if you will tell me why you laughed so much at what Grandma said to Selina.”

Tom looked puzzled. “It’s mighty hard to explain, for there isn’t anything hidden in it. It just sounded kind of apt.”

“You men think women talk too much.”

“Some women,” replied Tom, guardedly.

“You want them to do as the old philosopher said, ‘Speak honey and look sunny,’ and, ‘The woman that maketh a good pudding in silence is better than one that maketh a tart reply.’”

“That’s it exactly,” said Tom, with a beaming face. “Now will you go to-morrow?”

“Probably,” said Berty, with an oracular frown. “If I am not teased too much.”

“May I come in this evening and see how you feel about it?”

“How long do you plan to stay?”

“Five minutes.”

“Then you may come,” she said, graciously.

CHAPTER XXI.

TO STRIKE OR NOT TO STRIKE

When the picnic party reached Cloverdale the day after the wedding, the Jimsons were not there.

Where Mr. Jimson concealed his bride and himself during his brief honeymoon no one ever knew, for he would not tell, and she could not, being bound to secrecy.

No one, that is, no one except Mr. and Mrs. Everest, and old Mrs. Jimson. To them Selina and the Mayor confided the news that they had been in a quiet New Hampshire village, where they could enjoy delightful drives among hills resplendent in autumn dress, and have no society forced on them but that of their hostess—a farmer’s widow.

As a result of this reposeful life, Mr. Jimson came home looking ten years younger, and Roger Stanisfield, meeting him in the street, told him so.

“I’ve had a quiet time for once in my life,” said Mr. Jimson. “I ought to have got married long ago. I have some one to look after me, and me only now. How is your wife?”

“Well, thank you.”

“And Tom and Berty and Bonny—gracious! I feel as if I had been away a year instead of three weeks.”

A shade passed over Roger’s face. “All well but Grandma and Berty.”

“What’s the matter with Grandma?”

“I don’t know. I am afraid she is breaking up.”

The Mayor looked serious, then he asked, abruptly, “And Berty?”

“Oh, River Street—it’s on her brain and conscience, and it is wearing her body down.”

“She’s doing what the rest of us ought to do,” said Mr. Jimson, shortly, “but, bless me—you can’t make over a city in a day; and we’re no worse than others.”

“I suppose the city council is pretty bad.”

Mr. Jimson shrugged his shoulders.

“Lots of boodle—I say, some of those aldermen ought to be dumped in the river.”

“You ought to get Berty out of city politics,” said Mr. Jimson, energetically. “That is no girl’s work.”

“She’s going to get out, Margaretta thinks,” said Roger, turning round and slowly walking down the main street of the city beside him. “But we’ve got to let her work out the problem for herself. You see, she’s no missionary. She is not actuated by the passion of a life-work. She has come to live in a new neighbourhood, and is mad with the people that they don’t try to better themselves, and that the city doesn’t enable them to do it.”

“She’ll probably marry Tom Everest, and settle down to housekeeping.”

“That will be the upshot of it. I’d be doubtful about it, though, if the River Street people had given her a hand in her schemes of reform.”

“She’s just an ordinary girl,” said the Mayor, briskly. “She’s no angel to let the River Streeters walk all over her.”

“No, she’s no angel,” returned Roger, with a smile, “but she’s a pretty good sort of a girl.”

“That she is,” replied Mr. Jimson, heartily. “Now tell me to a dot just what she has been doing since I went away. She seemed all right then.”

Roger looked amused, then became grave. “Just after you left, she got worked up on the subject of child labour. It seems the law is broken here in Riverport.”

“How does our State law read?” inquired Mr. Jimson. “Upon my word, I don’t know.”

“The statutes of Maine provide that no female under eighteen years of age, no male under sixteen, and no woman shall be employed in any manufactory or mechanical establishment more than ten hours each day. We also have a compulsory education law which prohibits children under fifteen years of either sex working, unless they can produce certificates that during the year they have attended school during its sessions.”

“Well?” said Mr. Jimson.

“Berty found that some old-clothes man here had a night-class of children who came and sewed for him, and did not attend school. She burst into our house one evening when Margaretta was having a party, and before we knew where we were she had swept us all down to River Street. It was a pitiful enough spectacle. A dozen sleepy youngsters sitting on backless benches toiling at shirt-making, round a table lighted by candles. If a child nodded, the old man tapped her with a long stick. Some of us broke up that den, but Berty was furious at the attitude of the parents.”

“I’ll bet they were mad to have their children’s earnings cut off,” observed Mr. Jimson. “Poor people are so avaricious.”

“They were, and Berty was in a dancing rage. She got up a paper called The Cry of the Children. You can imagine what her editorials would be. Then she had the children of River Street walk in a procession through the city. Nobody laughed at her, everybody was sympathetic but apathetic. Now she is in a smouldering temper. Her paper is discontinued, and I don’t know what she is going to do.”

“This is mighty interesting,” said Mr. Jimson, “but there’s Jones, the lumber merchant from Greenport. I’ve got to speak to him—excuse me,” and he crossed the street.

Roger continued on his way to the iron works, and two minutes later encountered Berty herself coming out of a fancy-work store.

“Good morning,” he said, planting himself directly before her.

“Good morning,” she returned, composedly.

“What have you been buying?” he asked, looking curiously at the parcel in her hand.

“Embroidery.”

“For some other person, I suppose.”

“No, for myself.”

“Why, I never saw you with a needle in your hand in my life.”

“You will now,” she said, calmly.

“How’s the park getting on, Berty?”

“Famously; we have electric lights, and the children can stay till all hours.”

“Is your helper satisfactory?”

“She is magnificent—a host in herself. She can shake a bad boy on one side of the park, and slap another at the other side, at the same time. I think I’ll resign my curatorship in favour of her. She only gets half my pay now.”

“Why resign, Berty?”

“Well, I may have other things to do,” she said, evasively.

“You’re going to get married.”

“Not that I know of,” she said, calmly.

“Good-bye,” replied Roger; “come oftener to see us, and be sure to bring your embroidery.”

Berty gazed after him with a peculiar smile, as he swung quickly away, then she made her way to River Street.

At one of the many corners where lanes led down to wharves, a group of men stood talking with their hands in their pockets.

Berty stopped abruptly. Through the women in the street she knew what the chief topic of conversation among the wharf labourers just now happened to be.

“Are you talking of your projected strike?” she asked, shortly.

Not one of them spoke, but she knew by their assenting looks that they were.

“It’s a lovely time for a strike,” she said, dryly; “winter just coming on, and your wives and children needing extra supplies.”

The men surveyed her indulgently. Not one of them would discuss their proposed course of action with her, but not one resented her knowledge of it, or interference with them.

“You men don’t suffer,” she said, and as she spoke she pulled up the collar of her jacket, and took a few steps down the lane to avoid the chilly wind. “See, here you stand without overcoats, and some of you with nothing but woollen shirts on. It’s the women and children that feel the cold.”

One of the men thoughtfully turned a piece of tobacco in his mouth, and said, “That’s true.”

“What do you strike for, anyway?” she asked.

One of the stevedores who trundled the drums of codfish along the wharves for West Indian shipment, said, amiably, “A strike is usually for higher wages and shorter hours, miss.”

“Oh, I have no patience with you,” exclaimed Berty, bursting into sudden wrath. “You are so unreasonable. You bear all things, suffer like martyrs, then all at once you flare up and do some idiotic thing that turns the sympathy of the public against you. Now in this case, you ought to have the public with you. I know your wages are small, your hours too long, but you are not taking the right way to improve your condition. Because the Greenport wharf labourers have struck, you think you must do the same. A strike among you will mean lawlessness and violence, and you strikers will blink at this same lawlessness and violence because you say it is in a good cause. Then we, the long-suffering public, hate you for your illegality. There’s the strong arm of the law held equally over employers and employed. Why don’t you appeal to that? If you are right, that arm will strike your oppressors. You can keep in the background.”