Where Mr. Jimson concealed1 his bride and himself during his brief honeymoon2 no one ever knew, for he would not tell, and she could not, being bound to secrecy3.
No one, that is, no one except Mr. and Mrs. Everest, and old Mrs. Jimson. To them Selina and the Mayor confided4 the news that they had been in a quiet New Hampshire village, where they could enjoy delightful5 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 reposeful7 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[245] 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, abruptly8, “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 shrugged9 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,”[246] 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 missionary10. 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, heartily11. “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.”
[247]
“How does our State law read?” inquired Mr. Jimson. “Upon my word, I don’t know.”
“The statutes12 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 compulsory13 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 toiling14 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 den6, but Berty was furious at the attitude of the parents.”
“I’ll bet they were mad to have their children’s[248] earnings15 cut off,” observed Mr. Jimson. “Poor people are so avaricious16.”
“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 apathetic17. Now she is in a smouldering temper. Her paper is discontinued, and I don’t know what she is going to do.”
“This is mighty18 interesting,” said Mr. Jimson, “but there’s Jones, the lumber19 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 curiously20 at the parcel in her hand.
“Embroidery21.”
“For some other person, I suppose.”
“No, for myself.”
[249]
“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 peculiar22 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 wharves23, a group of men stood talking with their hands in their pockets.
Berty stopped abruptly. Through the women in[250] the street she knew what the chief topic of conversation among the wharf24 labourers just now happened to be.
“Are you talking of your projected strike?” she asked, shortly.
Not one of them spoke25, but she knew by their assenting26 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 chilly27 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 stevedores28 who trundled the drums of codfish along the wharves for West Indian shipment,[251] said, amiably29, “A strike is usually for higher wages and shorter hours, miss.”
“Oh, I have no patience with you,” exclaimed Berty, bursting into sudden wrath30. “You are so unreasonable31. You bear all things, suffer like martyrs32, then all at once you flare33 up and do some idiotic34 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.”
“There’s a machine back of that arm,” said a red-haired man, gloomily, “and, anyway, there ain’t a law standing35 to cover our case.”
“Then make one,” said Berty, irritably36. “You men all have votes, haven’t you?”
[252]
“Yes, miss,” said a man in a blue shirt, “all except this lad. He’s just out from Ireland. He’s only been ashore37 two weeks.”
“That’s the way to settle things,” said Berty, warmly. “I’ve found out that votes are the only things that make anybody afraid of you—you all know how I came to this street. I found living conditions unbearable38. In my feeble way I have tried to rectify39 them. Nobody cares anything for me. The only good I have accomplished40 is to get a park for the children.”
“And that was a great thing,” said the man in the blue shirt, “and I guess we all think of it when we look at you.”
“I just wanted common necessities,” said Berty, eloquently41, “air, light, water, and space—wanted them for myself and my neighbours on the street. I have badgered the city council till I have got to be a joke and a reproach. Nobody cares anything about you down here, because you haven’t any influence. I’ve found out that if I could say to the city council, ‘Gentlemen, I have five hundred votes to control,’ they would listen to me fast enough.”
The men smiled, and one said, kindly42, “I’m sure,[253] miss, you’d get our votes in a bunch, if we could give them.”
“I don’t want them,” said Berty, quickly. “It isn’t a woman’s business to go into reforming city politics. It’s the men’s place. You men fight for your homes if a foreign enemy menaces us. Why don’t you organize, and fight against the city council? Drive it out, and put in a good one. Those few men aren’t there to make the laws. They are to administer them. You are the people. Make what laws you please. If they are not workable, make new ones. I’m disgusted with those aldermen. The very idea of their arrogating43 to themselves so much authority. You would think they were emperors.”
The men smiled again. From him in the blue shirt came the emphatic44 remark, “We couldn’t turn out the present lot, miss. They’re too strong for us.”
“Oh, you could,” replied Berty, impatiently. “I’ve been going over our voting-list, and I find that the city of Riverport consists of ‘poor people,’ as we call them, to the extent of two-thirds of the population. You poor men have the votes. Now don’t tell me you can’t get what you want.”
[254]
“But there’s party politics, miss,” suggested a quiet man in the background.
“Shame on you, Malone,” and Berty pointed45 a finger at him, “shame on you, to put party politics before family politics. Vote for the man who will do the best for your wife and children. If you haven’t got such a man, organize and put one in. Let him give you equal privileges with the rich—or, rather, not equal privileges—I am no socialist46. I believe that some men have more brains than others, and are entitled by virtue47 of their brains to more enjoyments48 and more power, but I mean that the city owes to every citizen, however poor, a comfortable house and a decently kept street.”
“That’s sound, miss,” said Malone, slipping still further forward, “but we’d never get it from the city.”
“Put in some of your number as aldermen. Why shouldn’t you in democratic America, when even in conservative England there can exist a city council made up of men who work by the day—masons, painters, bricklayers, and so on. Do that, and you will have a chance to carry out all sorts of municipal reforms. I think it is disgraceful that this ward49 is represented by that oiled and perfumed old gentleman[255] Demarley, who never comes to this street unless he wants a vote.”
Malone stared intently at Berty, while a man beside him murmured something about the board of aldermen having promised certain reforms.
“Don’t speak to me of reforms from those men that we have now,” returned Berty, with flashing eyes. “When I came to River Street, I used to blame the policemen that they didn’t enforce the law. Now I see that each policeman is a chained dog for some alderman. He can only go the length of his chain. A strapping50 great creature in uniform comes along to your house, Mr. Malone, and says, in a lordly way, ‘Mrs. Malone, you are obstructing51 the sidewalk with those boxes; you must remove them.’
“‘And you are obstructing my peace of mind,’ she says, ‘with that old drug-store over there open all hours, and with our young lads slipping in and out the back door, when they ought to be in bed. Haven’t you eyes or a nose for anything but boxes?’
“And the policeman says, meekly52, ‘I see nothing, I hear nothing; there must be something wrong with your own eyes and hearing, Mrs. Malone. It’s getting old you are.’ Then he moves on to look[256] for more boxes and small boys. That’s the length of his chain.”
They were silent, and Berty, with increasing heat and irritation53, went on. “This city is entirely54 corrupt55. I say it again and again, and you know it better than I do—but I am going to stop talking about it. I had a lovely scheme for setting up a shop to sell pure milk to try to keep the breath of life in your babies a little longer, and I was going to get out plans for model dwellings56, but I am going to stop short right here, and mind my own business.”
The men stood looking sheepishly at her, and at themselves, and, while they stood, Tom Everest, in a short walking-coat, and with his hat on the back of his head, came hurrying down the street.
He put his hat on straight when he saw Berty, and stopped to glance at her. He had got into the way of dodging57 down to River Street if he had any business that brought him in the neighbourhood, or if he could spare an hour from his office.
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1
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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reposeful
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| adj.平稳的，沉着的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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statutes
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| 成文法( statute的名词复数 )； 法令； 法规； 章程 | |
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compulsory
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| n.强制的，必修的；规定的，义务的 | |
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14
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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16
avaricious
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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20
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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25
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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assenting
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| 同意，赞成( assent的现在分词 ) | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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stevedores
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| n.码头装卸工人，搬运工( stevedore的名词复数 ) | |
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amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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32
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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rectify
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| v.订正，矫正，改正 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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arrogating
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| v.冒称，妄取( arrogate的现在分词 )；没来由地把…归属（于） | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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48
enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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49
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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50
strapping
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| adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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51
obstructing
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| 阻塞( obstruct的现在分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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52
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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53
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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54
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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56
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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57
dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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