Part 13 (1/2)

”I see,” he answered. ”It is a terrible quandary.”

”I wish,” said Mrs. Makely, ”that you would tell us just how you manage with the poor in Altruria.”

”We have none,” he replied.

”But the comparatively poor--you have some people who are richer than others?”

”No. We should regard that as the worst incivism.”

”What is incivism?”

I interpreted, ”Bad citizens.h.i.+p.”

”Well, then, if you will excuse me, Mr. h.o.m.os,” she said, ”I think that is simply impossible. There _must_ be rich and there _must_ be poor. There always have been, and there always will be. That woman said it as well as anybody. Didn't Christ Himself say, 'The poor ye have always with you'?”

VII

The Altrurian looked at Mrs. Makely with an amazement visibly heightened by the air of complacency she put on after delivering this poser: ”Do you really think Christ meant that you _ought_ always to have the poor with you?” he asked.

”Why, of course!” she answered, triumphantly. ”How else are the sympathies of the rich to be cultivated? The poverty of some and the wealth of others, isn't that what forms the great tie of human brotherhood? If we were all comfortable, or all shared alike, there could not be anything like charity, and Paul said, 'The greatest of these is charity.' I believe it's 'love' in the new version, but it comes to the same thing.”

The Altrurian gave a kind of gasp, and then lapsed into a silence that lasted until we came in sight of the Camp farm-house. It stood on the crest of a road-side upland, and looked down the beautiful valley, bathed in Sabbath sunlight, and away to the ranges of hills, so far that it was hard to say whether it was sun or shadow that dimmed their distance.

Decidedly, the place was what the country people call sightly. The old house, once painted a Brandon red, crouched low to the ground, with its lean-to in the rear, and its flat-arched wood-sheds and wagon-houses stretching away at the side of the barn, and covering the approach to it with an unbroken roof. There were flowers in the beds along the underpinning of the house, which stood close to the street, and on one side of the door was a clump of Spanish willow; an old-fas.h.i.+oned June rose climbed over it from the other. An aged dog got stiffly to his feet from the threshold stone and whimpered as our buckboard drew up; the poultry picking about the path and among the chips lazily made way for us, and as our wheels ceased to crunch upon the gravel we heard hasty steps, and Reuben Camp came round the corner of the house in time to give Mrs. Makely his hand and help her spring to the ground, which she did very lightly; her remarkable mind had kept her body in a sort of sympathetic activity, and at thirty-five she had the gracile ease and self-command of a girl.

”Ah, Reuben,” she sighed, permitting herself to call him by his first name, with the emotion which expressed itself more definitely in the words that followed, ”how I envy you all this dear, old, homelike place! I never come here without thinking of my grandfather's farm in Ma.s.sachusetts, where I used to go every summer when I was a little girl. If I had a place like this, I should never leave it.”

”Well, Mrs. Makely,” said young Camp, ”you can have this place cheap, if you really want it. Or almost any other place in the neighborhood.”

”Don't say such a thing!” she returned. ”It makes one feel as if the foundations of the great deep were giving way. I don't know what that means exactly, but I suppose it's equivalent to mislaying George's hatchet and going back on the Declaration generally; and I don't like to hear you talk so.”

Camp seemed to have lost his bitter mood, and he answered, pleasantly: ”The Declaration is all right, as far as it goes, but it don't help us to compete with the Western farm operations.”

”Why, you believe every one was born free and equal, don't you?” Mrs.

Makely asked.

”Oh yes, I believe that; but--”

”Then why do you object to free and equal compet.i.tion?”

The young fellow laughed, and said, as he opened the door for us: ”Walk right into the parlor, please. Mother will be ready for you in a minute.”

He added: ”I guess she's putting on her best cap for you, Mr. h.o.m.os. It's a great event for her, your coming here. It is for all of us. We're glad to have you.”

”And I'm glad to be here,” said the Altrurian, as simply as the other. He looked about the best room of a farm-house that had never adapted itself to the tastes or needs of the city boarder, and was as stiffly repellent in its upholstery and as severe in its decoration as hair-cloth chairs and dark-brown wall-paper of a trellis pattern, with drab roses, could make it. The windows were shut tight, and our host did not offer to open them.

A fly or two crossed the doorway into the hall, but made no attempt to penetrate the interior, where we sat in an obscurity that left the high-hung family photographs on the walls vague and uncertain. I made a mental note of it as a place where it would be very characteristic to have a rustic funeral take place; and I was pleased to have Mrs. Makely drop into a sort of mortuary murmur, as she said: ”I hope your mother is as well as usual this morning?” I perceived that this murmur was produced by the sepulchral influence of the room.

”Oh yes,” said Camp, and at that moment a door opened from the room across the hall, and his sister seemed to bring in some of the light from it to us where we sat. She shook hands with Mrs. Makely, who introduced me to her, and then presented the Altrurian. She bowed very civilly to me, but with a touch of severity, such as country people find necessary for the a.s.sertion of their self-respect with strangers. I thought it very pretty, and instantly saw that I could work it into some picture of character; and I was not at all sorry that she made a difference in favor of the Altrurian.

”Mother will be so glad to see you,” she said to him, and, ”Won't you come right in?” she added to us all.