Ester Ried Yet Speaking Part 15

It was Dirk Colson who asked the question. Ever since he could remember he was supposed to have been hunting for work, but I am not sure that he ever felt quite such a desire to find it as at that moment.

"It is at Gray's, on Ninth Street, a good chance; but the one who secures it must have a fair knowledge of figures."

"Oh, land!" said Dirk, sinking lower in his easy-chair. "No use in _me_ asking about it."

"Are figures your weak point?" Mrs. Roberts asked, smiling on him. "I can sympathize with you; I had to work harder over arithmetic than at any other study; but I learned to like it. Do you know I think it should be a favorite study with you? It is so nice to conquer an obstinate-looking row of figures, and fairly oblige the right result to appear. What did you find hardest about the study, Mr. Colson?"

The others chuckled, but Dirk glowered at them fiercely.

"There's nothin' to laugh about as I see," he said. "I didn't find nothin' hard, because I never had no chance to try. I never went to no school, nor had books, nor nothin'; now that's the truth, and I'm blamed if I ain't going to own it."

"What a good thing it is that you are young." This was her animated answer. "There is a chance to make up for lost time. Mr. Ried, I have such a nice idea. I heard you and Dr. Everett speaking of the Literary Club the other night. Why cannot we have a literary club of our own? A reading circle, or something of that sort? Suppose we should meet once a week and read aloud something interesting, and have talks about it afterwards. Do you ever read aloud?"

If Mrs. Roberts in all sincerity had not been one of the most simple-hearted, and in some respects ignorant little creatures on the face of the globe, she could never, with serious face, have addressed such a question to Nimble d.i.c.k.

Young Ried could not have done it, for he realized the folly of supposing that Nimble d.i.c.k ever read anything. By just so much was Mrs.

Roberts ahead of him. She supposed that these boys had their literature, and read it, and perhaps met somewhere on occasion and read together.

This made it possible for her to ask surprising questions with honest face.

"Bless me!" said Nimble d.i.c.k, startled into an upright posture; "oh, no, mum, never."

And even Dirk Colson laughed at the expression on his face.

"Still I think you would enjoy it, after a little practice, and I can't help fancying you would make a good reader."

The boys were all laughing now, Nimble d.i.c.k with the rest.

"You're in for an awful blunder there," he said, good-naturedly. "I'm like Black Dirk, never had no chances, and didn't do nothin' worth speakin' of with them that I had. Why, bless your body, mum! I can't even read to myself! I make the awfulest work you ever heard of spellin'

out the show-bills. I have to get Black Dirk to help me; and him and me is a team."

By this time Dirk's face had lost its smile, and his fierce eyes were flashing; but the hostess was serene.

"That doesn't prove anything against my statement. I was speaking of what _could_ be, not necessarily of what was. Let us have a club. The more I think of the plan the more it pleases me. I'll tell you! The word 'club' doesn't quite suit me. Let us be fashionable. Gracie, don't you know how fashionable it is becoming to have 'evenings' set apart for special occasions? Mr. Ried, you know Mrs. Judson's 'Tuesday evenings,'

and Mrs. Symond's 'Friday evenings?' Very well, let us have our 'Monday evenings,' in which we will do all sorts of nice things; sometimes literary, sometimes musical, and sometimes--well, anything that we please. What do you say, gentlemen; shall we organize? Mr. Ried, will you give Monday evenings to us? Gracie, you are my guest, and cannot, of course, refuse."

It was a novel idea, certainly. Even Alfred, while trying to heartily second her, was in doubt as to what she could hope to accomplish by it.

As for the boys, not one of them promised to attend; but neither did they refuse. Mrs. Roberts presently left the subject, seeming to consider her point carried, and proposed a visit to the conservatory.

I think it very doubtful whether the boy lives who does not like flowers. There are those who seem to consider it a mark of manliness to affect indifference to them; but these, as they grow older--become real men--generally lay this bit of folly aside. Then there are those, plenty of them, who really do not know that they care for flowers. The boys, ushered for the first time in their lives into the full bloom of a conservatory, were, most of them, of this latter stamp.

What a scene of beauty it was! Great white callas, bending their graceful cups; great red and yellow roses, making the air rich with their breath; vines and mosses and ferns and small flowers in almost endless variety. Alfred and Gracie moved among the glories; the latter exhausting all her superlatives in honest delight, although she had visited the spot a dozen times that day; and Alfred, who had been less favored, was hardly less eager and responsive than she. But Mrs. Roberts watched the boys.

It was all very well for those two to enjoy her flowers; of course they would. But what language would the silent, lovely things speak to her untutored boys? They said not a word; not one of them. They made no exclamations; they had no superlatives at command. But Stephen Crowley stooped before a lovely carnation, and smelled, and _smelled_, drawing in long breaths, as though he meant to take its fragrance all away with him; and Nimble d.i.c.k picked up the straying end of an ivy, and restored it to its support again, in a way that was not to be lost sight of by one who was looking for hearts; and Dirk Colson brushed back his matted hair and stood long before a great, pure lily, and looked down into its heart with an expression on his face that his teacher never forgot.

She came over to him presently, standing beside him, saying nothing.

Then at last she reached forth her hand and broke the lily from its stalk. He started, almost as if something had struck him.

"What did you do that for?" And his voice was fierce.

"I want you to take this for me to your sister--the girl with beautiful golden hair; I saw her one day, and I shall remember her hair and eyes.

She will like this flower, and she will like you to bring it to her.

"Gracie"--raising her voice--"gather some flowers will you, and make into bouquets? These young gentlemen will like to carry them to some one. There must be mothers at home who will enjoy bouquets brought by their sons."

Over this gently-spoken sentence Nimble d.i.c.k laughed a hard, derisive laugh. It made the dark blood flow into black Dirk's indignant face.

Even Alfred Ried lost self-control for a moment, and flashed a glance at him out of angry eyes. How could there be any hope of a boy who sneered at his mother? Yet you need not judge him too harshly.

He thought of his mother, indeed, when he laughed; but alas! he thought of her as drunk. And he knew her scarcely at all, save as that word described her. How _could_ "mother" mean to him what it meant to Alfred Ried? what it meant even to Dirk Colson, whose mother, weak indeed in body and spirit, full of complaining words, oftentimes weakly bitter words to him, yet patched his clothes so long as she could get patches and thread, and would have washed them if she could have got soap, and been able to bring the water, and if her only tub hadn't been in p.a.w.n.

Oh, yes, there are degrees in mothers.

Mrs. Roberts, meantime, broke off blossoms with lavish hand, and made bouquets for Nimble d.i.c.k and for Dirk. He took the bright-hued ones with a smile, but the lily he held by itself, and still looked at it.

They went away at last noisily; growing almost, if not quite, rough towards one another, at least, and directly they were out of the door, Nimble d.i.c.k gave a whoop that would have chilled the blood of nervous women. But matron and maiden looked at each other and laughed.

"We have kept them pent up all the evening, and that is the escape-valve being raised to avoid a general explosion." This was Mrs. Roberts'

explanation.

They were quite alone. Alfred, on being invited in low tones to tarry and talk things over, had shaken his head, and replied, significantly:--

"Thank you! no; I am one of them, and must stand on the same level."

"You are right," Mrs. Roberts said, smilingly; "you must have been an apt pupil, my friend. That dear sister taught you a great deal."

He held up the bouquet which she had made for him.

"I am going to put it before Ester's picture," he said; "her work is going on."

"Well," said Gracie, "it is over, and we lived through it. And they _did_ all come! I am amazed over that! And how they _did eat_! I suppose the next thing is to open all the windows and air out. Flossy Roberts, I'm afraid you are going insane. The idea of your inviting that horde here every Monday. What a parlor you would have! And they would breed a pestilence! They won't come, to be sure; but just imagine it if they should! I really think Mr. Roberts ought to send you home for Dr.

Mitch.e.l.l to look after. Well, Flossy, what next?"

"Next, dear, you must pray. Pray as you never have done before, for the souls of these boys, and for the success of my 'Monday evenings.'

Gracie, we are at work for immortal _souls_. Think of it! they _must_ live forever. Shall they, through all eternity, keep dropping lower and lower, or shall they wear crowns?"

CHAPTER XIV.

"SOMETHING'S HAPPENED!"

Sallie Calkins sat in a common little rocking-chair and rocked; and while she rocked she sewed, setting neat st.i.tches in a brown coat which was already patched and darned and was threadbare in many places. There was a look of deep content on Sallie's face. There were many reasons for it.

Dr. Everett had that morning p.r.o.nounced Mark's broken limb to be healing rapidly. He had also reported that Mark's place was to be held open for him by his employers. At this present moment, Mark, arrayed in a clean shirt, was resting on a very white sheet, his head reposing on a real feather pillow dressed in white and frilled. Over him was carefully spread another of those wonderful sheets, and to make the crowning glory, a white quilt, warm and soft, tucked him in on every side. How could Sallie but rejoice? All about the room there had been changes. A neat little table stood at the bed's side. It was covered with a white cloth, and a china bowl set thereon with a silver spoon beside it; a delicate goblet and china pitcher also, both carefully covered with a napkin. Did Mrs. Roberts know how homely Sallie gloried in the thinness of that china and the fineness of that napkin? How does it happen that some of the very poor seem born with such aesthetic tastes? Mrs. Roberts had intuitions, and was given to certain acts, concerning which she could not give to others satisfactory explanations. Therefore, she sometimes left china where others would have judged the plainest stoneware more prudent and sensible.

A bit of bright carpet was spread at the side of the bed. A fire glowed in the neatly-brushed stove. A white muslin curtain hung at the window; and the chair in which Sallie rocked and sewed was new and gayly painted.

There were other traces of Mrs. Roberts. You might not have noticed them, but it seemed to Sallie that her fingers had touched everywhere.