Part 30 (1/2)

”Well,” said Mrs. Ripwinkley, a.s.senting in full faith, beforehand; for Mrs. Ripwinkley, if I need now to tell you of it, was not an ordinary woman, and did not take things in an ordinary selfish way, but grasped right hold of the inward right and truth of them, and believed in it; sometimes before she could quite see it; and she never had any doubt of Luclarion Grapp. ”Well! And now tell me all about it.”

”You see,” said Luclarion, sitting down in a chair by the window, as Mrs. Ripwinkley suspended her occupation and took one by the bedside, ”there's places in this town that folks leave and give up.

As the Lord might have left and give up the world, because there was dirt and wickedness in it; only He didn't. There's places where it ain't genteel, nor yet respectable, to live; and so those places grow more disrespectable and miserable every day. They're left to themselves. What I think is, they hadn't ought to be. There's one clean spot down there now, in the very middle of the worst dirt.

And it ain't bad to live in. _That's_ started. Now, what I think is, that somebody ought to start another, even if its only a little one.

Somebody ought to just go there and _live_, and show 'em how, just as I took and showed Mrs. Scarup, and she's been living ever since, instead of scratching along. If some of them folks had a clean, decent neighbor to go to see,--to drink tea with, say,--and was to catch an idea of her fixings and doings, why, I believe there'd be more of 'em,--cleaned up, you know. They'd get some kind of an ambition and a hope. Tain't enough for ladies--though I bless 'em in my soul for what I've seen 'em do--to come down there of a Fridays, and teach and talk awhile, and then go home to Summit Street and Republic Avenue, and take up _their_ life again where they left it off, that is just as different as heaven is from 'tother place; somebody's got to come right down _out_ of heaven, and bring the life in, and live it amongst them miserable folks, as the Lord Jesus Christ came and did! And it's borne in upon me, strong and clear, that that's what's got to be before all's righted. And so--for a little piece of it, and a little individual stump--I'm going to swarm, and settle, and see what'll come.”

Mrs. Ripwinkley was looking very intently at Luclarion. Her breath went and came hurriedly, and her face turned pale with the grand surprise of such a thought, such a plan and purpose, so simply and suddenly declared. Her eyes were large and moist with feeling.

”Do you _know_, Luclarion,” she exclaimed at last, ”do you realize what this is that you are thinking of; what a step it would be to take,--what a work it would be to even hope to begin to do? Do you know how strange it is,--how almost impracticable,--that it is not even safe?”

”'Twasn't _safe_ for Him--when He came into the world,” Luclarion answered.

”Not to say I think there's any comparison,” she began again, presently, ”or that I believe there's anything to be really scared of,--except dirt; and you _can_ clean a place round you, as them Mission people have done. Why, there ain't a house in Boston nicer, or sweeter, or airier even, than that one down in Arctic Street, with beautiful parlors and bedrooms, and great clean galleries leading round, and skylighted,--_sky_ lighted! for you see the blue heaven is above all, and you _can_ let the skylight in, without any corruption coming in with it; and if twenty people can do that much, or a hundred,--one can do something. 'Taint much, either, to undertake; only to be willing to go there, and make a clean place for yourself, and a home; and live there, instead of somewheres else that's ready made; and let it spread. And you know I've always looked forrud to some kind of a house-keep of my own, finally.”

”But, Luclarion, I don't understand! All alone? And you couldn't use a whole house, you know. Your neighbors would be _inmates_. Why, it seems to me perfectly crazy!”

”Now, ma'am, did you ever know me to go off on a tangent, without some sort of a string to hold on to? I ain't goin' to swarm all alone! I never heard of such a thing. Though if I couldn't _swarm_, and the thing was to be done, I say I'd try it. But Savira Golding is going to be married to Sam Gallilee, next month; and he's a stevedore, and his work is down round the wharves; he's cla.s.s-leader in our church, and a first-rate, right-minded man, or else Savira wouldn't have him; for if Savira ain't a clear Christian, and a doing woman, there ain't one this side of Paradise. Now, you see, Sam Gallilee makes money; he runs a gang of three hundred men. He can afford a good house, and a whole one, if he wants; but he's going in for a big one, and neighbors. They mean to live nice,--he and Savira; and she has pretty, tasty ways; there'll be white curtains, and plants blooming in her windows, you may make sure; she's always had 'em in that little up-stairs dress-making room of hers; and boxes of mignonette and petunias on the ledges; and birds singing in a great summer cage swung out against the wall. She's one of the kind that reaches out, and can't be kept in; and she knows her gifts, and is willing to go and let her light s.h.i.+ne where it will help others, and so glorify; and Sam, he's willing too, and sees the beauty of it. And so,--well, that's the swarm.”

”And the 'little round G.o.damighty in the middle of it,'” said Mrs.

Ripwinkley, her face all bright and her eyes full of tears.

”_Ma'am_!”

Then Mrs. Ripwinkley told her Miss Craydocke's story.

”Well,” said Luclarion, ”there's something dear and right-to-the-spot about it; but it does sound singular; and it certainly ain't a thing to say careless.”

Desire Ledwith grew bright and excited as the summer came on, and the time drew near for going to Z----. She could not help being glad; she did not stop to ask why; summer-time was reason enough, and after the weariness of the winter, the thought of Z---- and the woods and the river, and sweet evenings and mornings, and gardens and orchards, and road-side gra.s.s, was lovely to her.

”It is so pleasant up there!” she would keep saying to Dorris; and somehow she said it to Dorris oftener than to anybody else.

There was something fitful and impetuous in her little outbursts of satisfaction; they noticed it in her; the elder ones among them noticed it with a touch of anxiety for her.

Miss Craydocke, especially, read the signs, matching them with something that she remembered far back in the life that had closed so peacefully, with white hairs and years of a serene content and patience, over all unrest and disappointment, for herself. She was sorry for this young girl, for whom she thought she saw an unfulfilled dream of living that should go by her like some bright cloud, just near enough to turn into a baptism of tears.

She asked Desire, one day, if she would not like to go with her, this summer, to the mountains.

Desire put by the suggestion hastily.

”O, no, thank you, Miss Craydocke, I must stay with mamma and Helena. And besides,” she added, with the strict, full truth she always demanded of herself, ”I _want_ to go to Z----.”

”Yes,” said Miss Craydocke.

There was something tender, like a shade of pity, in her tone.