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[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, 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,”[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 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.”
[247]
“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[248] 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.”
[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 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[250] 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.
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