Читать книгу A Twentieth Century Idealist - Henry Pettit - Страница 10

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AFTER the guests had departed the Doctor decided he would fill his lungs with fresh air by a short stroll in the park before retiring. Thus to saunter was a favorite experience with him after an evening spent in close quarters. He could be alone, yet not alone,—in the world, yet not of it.

“These breathing places are delicious,” he mused, “good for all, day or night; to the poor a blessed change from close and narrow homes, and to the wealthy if they only knew it, from their over-heated rooms. Fresh air in the lungs and a good quaff of pure water are the most healthy somnorifics I know. Thank Heaven, this park furnishes such luxuries to all.” This as he took a seat near a fountain which overflowed conveniently for the thirsty wayfarer.

The trees overhead were coming into new leaf, and the grass plots newly trimmed,—the resurrection of spring evidently near at hand. Arc lights from a distance shone through, giving a silvery lustre to the undersides of the new foliage, and a radiant glow which permeated the long vista.

He looked above into the azure,—it was a starlit night; also towards the horizon, down one of the wide avenues which intersected at the park. Upon a public building in the distance some statuary above the cornice stood distinct in outline against the sky, but from time to time the figures were obscured by clouds of smoke or steam enveloping as in a luminous mist. The figures came and went as if they themselves were endowed with movement. He watched the smoke-mist, tracing to its source,—a press establishment,—the newspaper workers busy while the public slept. He hoped that to-morrow’s issue might bring news of something better than the smoke of war, mists of politics, and the vile conflicts of the debased side of humanity. Why not accentuate the good in the world instead of the evil? Such would be the way of truth in life, to overcome the evil with the good. But he did not feel very sanguine that to-morrow’s issue would be of that sort,—certainly not so long as the use and abuse of head-lines purposely to mislead the public for the sake of cash obtained.

He then looked more carefully at the fountain. It was a gift to the city from a dear friend of both himself and Paul, their old friend John Burlington, whose philanthropy took many practical forms for the benefit of the public. He skirted the park on his way out, and noticed a barber shop across the street in which a few days previous he had been shaved. Why that particular shop? Because therein he had been shaved by a young woman, of whom in justice it must be said she did it remarkably well. “Woman’s sphere is rapidly increasing,” he mused, “but in such matters, at what a terrible risk and sacrifice of womanly reserve; a gain in wages and publicity, a loss of refinement and the other feminine attributes. Is not woman’s head-gear sufficiently complicated already to furnish employment to experts of her own sex without attempting to scrape a man’s chin? Certainly the latter was a risky business for a woman to attempt on short notice.”

There was a hotel on the corner. He stopped to purchase a cigar, but it was too late. Too late for that, but not too late for others passing in and out. A couple passed through an inconspicuous entrance with a peculiar dim lantern in the vestibule near by, and soon disappeared. They appeared to be sneaking in, yet perfectly familiar with the premises.

A gay crowd of young people on bicycles passed by; it seemed unusually late to see so many out. As they wheeled off, talking in high spirits, there was naught, however, to distinguish them from a party of industrious young workers who had been kept indoors during the day, and whose youth demanded outdoor exercise, even if it had to be taken after dark.

“Where are their parents? still snoozing?” queried the Doctor,—“a ride after midnight may lead to a ‘skip by the light of the moon,’ but that’s none of my business,” and the bachelor doctor wended his way back towards his own domicile.

He was just about to enter when he spied a slight, agile figure, an elderly lady dressed in black, approaching and motioning to detain him. He could not mistake that light airy step, the nervous activity, the characteristic gestures. It must surely be she whose activity in good works he had known so long and well, yet he little expected to see her alone in the public street at that hour.

He ran down to meet her, took her arm under his and begged her to come in.

“I can’t, my dear, positively I can’t,” in a voice sweet and cheerful, as if she wished it but was too busy.

“Well, let me escort you home, then,” insisted the Doctor.

“No, my dear, not necessary at all, not a bit. I never have any difficulty at night. I wouldn’t take you on any account. I’ve been to the——” and she hesitated.

“Well, what can I do for you, Aunt Mary?”

She smiled as if the name was most welcome,—patted the Doctor on the back, called him one of “her boys,” and stopped a minute to chat.

But who was Aunt Mary?

One of those excellent, self-sacrificing Christian women, loving and lovable, whose whole life was devoted to helping and encouraging those in distress. Her vocation especially among the worthy poor, where her heart was ever willing, and her activity constant in their behalf; striving to bring hope and efficient aid to those who were struggling against adversity, kindness where it was most needed, affection where it was seldom met. Among many friends she had a small coterie of gentlemen whom she called her boys. To these she appealed in emergencies, and was sure to receive without further inquiry, simply because “Aunt Mary wanted it.” As sometimes the case with Christian women of her active, sympathetic, sanguine type, she had been led to join a few others in the work of redemption conducted under the auspices of the Midnight Mission. Aunt Mary was returning from the Mission when she caught sight of the Doctor, her heart full to overflowing about some hopeful cases among the unfortunate outcasts she had met. Like an Angel of Mercy she had been spending her evening talking with purity of thought and action to some, and waiting for others who might wander in from the streets. She had been holding out her arms to welcome, to give shelter in the Home—Christ-like—“Come unto Me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

As the Doctor left Aunt Mary at the door of her own modest home, his thoughts reverted irresistibly to his evening’s experience considered as a whole.

The lights and shadows of city life, the contrasts, the changes that a day may bring forth. Then of the countless fields of work for truth as each one sees it in his own environment. Surely the Christ life was the most beautiful and helpful of all.

He recalled how Adele Cultus had once experienced an ardent desire to work in the slums and been prevented by circumstances, yet continued to progress in her own sphere. He thought he detected a spiritual similarity between her and Aunt Mary, yet to outward view there was little to suggest such comparison; yet again there was, for the elderly sympathy for others might have once in youth taken a youthful form of expression,—and the present youthful girl who began by sympathy for others might yet attain to her ideals.

Then his thoughts wandered off in quite another direction. The fresh foliage in the park had forcibly reminded him of the coming season for travel, the time had arrived to make final arrangements for a contemplated trip abroad. Paul and he had so decided during the winter, and already engaged state-rooms. They had often spent summers in England and on the Continent, and this time looked forward to a longer absence than usual,—a visit to Greece, and possibly to the Far East. The Doctor had longed to stand upon a pinnacle of the Himalayas, having then about as much idea of what a pinnacle in that region might prove to be, as many possess of the veritable north pole.

His thoughts were certainly vague, yet again quite definite after their kind. When he turned in to bed and began to enter the domain of Travellers’ Hope, he thought he saw Aunt Mary attending meeting in Exeter Hall, London, and Adele Cultus playing golf with the divinities on Olympus. He was hoping Adele would win, when—he forgot to notice whether she did or not.