University of Virginia Library

Lightly across the fields tripped Isabel,
With Eleanor close beside her. To the rocks
They bent their footsteps, where Pawtucket Falls
Broke in upon the river's quietness
A mile or so, brawling between wide banks
Crimson with columbines far on through May,
And blue with nodding harebells until frost.
There grew the painted cup, a living coal
Upon the velvet sward; and there were mats
Of trailing twin-flower, sweet with memories
Of Swedish Linnæus; and a nameless wealth
Of wild bloom tangled in with forest-green.
Free rushed the rapid waters then, as free
As in the days when Passaconaway
Came hither with his warrior Pennacooks,
Encamping in the bending birch-tree's shade;
Free as when gentle Wannalancet came,
Trusting the Christians who betrayed him, till,
His hunting-grounds all gone, his tribe despoiled
And scattered, he turned northward his sad face,
Sped up the river with his remnant chiefs,
And hid himself behind the great White Hills.

Trim promenades and even rows of trees
Then were not, but around were broken crags,
With hemlocks leaning over, and green shelves
And mossy nooks where children came to play.
And here they found a group of little girls
Watching the course of the mad stream.
Said one,
“I walked across to Dracut Side last year,
Just where it runs the swiftest now.”
And one,—
“I wish the freshet would keep on a week,
And then we need not work, but every day
Could play here by the river.”
“Do you work,
You little girls?”
“O yes, indeed we do!
We change the bobbins in the spinning-room.
Our mothers need the money that we earn.
Three months we go to school; the rest we work.”
“How old are you?” asked Eleanor.
“Thirteen.
Ann is eleven. She is taller, though,
Than I am; stronger, mother says. Those girls—
I do not know their ages. Ann and I,—
Alice—are sisters. Those are neighbors' girls.”

“It is a pity!” Eleanor thought aloud.
“Are you not very tired sometimes?”
“O yes!
But so is everybody. We must learn,
While we are children, how to do hard things,
And that will toughen us, so mother says;
And she has worked hard always. When I first
Learned to doff bobbins, I just thought it play.
But when you do the same thing twenty times,—
A hundred times a day,—it is so dull!”

“But then,” spoke up the bashful Ann, “you know
It is so nice between whiles, playing games,
And guessing riddles in the window-seats.
Sometimes the spinners are such pleasant girls,—
They come and play with us. But some are cross,
And some say dreadful words; if mother knew,
She would not let us work there. But we must,
And so we do not tell her.”
While they talked,
Eleanor's mind went wandering opposite ways;
Through the strange story of a little child
Earning its living, and to Esther's side,
Soothing a troubled soul.
“Dear Isabel,
If Esther could but see and smell the woods!
Handling these flowers, I touch the robes of May
Now close upon us. Stay here, while I run
Home with them to her.”
Later, a half-hour,
Returning by the winding river-road,
A curve abrupt surprised her face to face
With two men, one her minister and friend,
A Christian gentleman, who cared for all
His brethren of God's family, nor asked
What creed they held, though strict his own.
The grace
To hold a firm opinion, yet unite
With men of differences as fixed, he had.
He knew that souls more truly meet in love
Than doctrine; that to work in fellowship
Only with those whose thoughts link in with ours,
Is to put chain-gangs before angel-bands.
Like Chaucer's Parson, well he loved his books,
But better still Christ's lore, and Christ's dear flock.
And he had chosen to watch these scattered lambs
Gathered from all New England's pasturage
Rather than tend an easier fold, and live
With his compeers in taste and learning. Him
Eleanor greeted, with a happy light
Of recognition in her grateful eyes.

They went their separate ways. The pastor's friend
Asked, musingly, “Where have I seen that face?”

“In vision, possibly; well worthy she
To inspire a young man's dream, to haunt him with
Life's noblest possibilities.”
“But no!
Somewhere on earth those eyes and mine have met;
She is too pale for health, though.”
“Now you speak
Professionally, Doctor, as you should,
A thoroughbred physician. Eleanor Gray—”

“Gray? Gray? If she were from Connecticut
She might be—my third cousin.”
“May be,—is.
That is her native State.”
“Permit me, sir,
To call upon her with you; each must know
The other's kindred, if we are not kin.”

“You understand my guardianship, good friend,
Of such young women?—for at present she
Is of my parish.”
“Such young women, sir?
A face like that stands guardian for itself.
Moreover, the reserve of thoughtfulness
And culture stamp it visibly. The best
Home-influences must be hers.”
“Have been, no doubt,
But she is orphaned, and a factory-girl.”

The young man started.
“How? it cannot be!”
Not strange was his surprise, first visiting
To-day the youthful City of Work; for rare
In any town are countenances pure
And fair as Eleanor's; and all he knew
Of factory working-girls had reached him through
Traditions of Old England.
“Are there, sir,
Many like her here? Such a menial life
Poorly befits her bearing. I should blush
To see my sister drudging in these mills
As in a prison-shop. More delicate
This young girl looks than any sister of mine.”

Good Pastor Alwyn smiled.
“Not many such
As Eleanor Gray, perhaps, this side of heaven,
Where she will be called early. You ascribe
Strange magic to our spindles, let me say,
Fancying their touch an injury to her
Who tends them. Character is not the stuff
That circumstance can spoil,—my gospel reads.
And, if it were, inside those factory walls
The daughters of our honest yeomanry,
Children of tradesmen, teachers, clergymen,
Their own condition make in mingling. True,
The scum and dross are here, as everywhere,
When human elements mix; but like seeks like
In all societies, and therefore here:
New England women are what these girls are.
—Yes, you shall call with me on Eleanor Gray
And Esther Hale, and own yourself unjust.”
Eleanor, meanwhile, again had reached the Falls,
Between whose rifts of sound a merry swell
Of children's voices floated on the wind:—

After the song a pretty picture! High
Upon a swarded crag, a mimic throne
Under a canopy of evergreen;
And, shrinking back into a heap of flowers,
The timid Ann! the goldenest of crowns
The meadows could afford, upon her head.
Her playmates all as waiting-maids adorned
With coronals of sapphire, opal, pearl,
As each had chosen her blossom's tint; with lengths
Of trailing ground-pine passed from hand to hand
In a green network, weaving in and out
Fantastic dance and chant: their downcast queen
Flushed and abashed, her dimples curved with shame,
And restive under dignities unsought.
They called to Eleanor: “See, it is Queen Ann!
We chained her up and put her on a throne.
She wants to wander off and gather flowers;
But we are stronger: she must be our queen!”

And then they played around her the old games
Of Queen Anne sitting in the sun, to read
Her royal lover's letters; of King George
And the two armies, marshalling to the tune
Of “Oranges!” or “Lemons!” and quaint sports
Brought in the May-Flower out of Mother-Land.
Amid the frolic Isabel threw herself
Into the children's ring.
“Look! look! a dog!”
Cried Alice, pointing to mid-stream. “O dear!
He 's drowning! no! now, see! he swims this way!
Good dog! come here!”
The child unheedfully
Reached forward, slipped. Black eddies swirled beneath.
But Isabel caught her as she slid, and both
Seemed for an instant doomed. A moment more,
And both were safe. Then the dog leaped ashore,
Whining towards Isabel.
The games broke up;
The children led scared Alice home, and Ann
Went sobbing, under her forgotten crown.
Eleanor drew Isabel among the trees,
Nerveless, herself, and trembling. Her gay friend
Had wrenched her wrist, but that was all, she said,
Smiling at her mishap.
“You risked your life!”
Cried Eleanor.
“Which was not a serious risk!
Not much of a life: I think I 'd sell it cheap.
What 's in your basket, Eleanor? I'm faint
With hunger, and you look as pale as death.”

They ate their simple lunch. The shaggy dog
Lingered, and shared it with them. Slowly then
They sauntered onward, over the long bridge,
Where first the river makes its downward plunge,
And spent some hours among the Dracut pines.

Crossing again, near dusk, they passed a group;
Ladies, and a young man, with cloak and cane
Carried right gracefully. As Isabel turned
He colored, so did she. The dog rushed up
From some erratic search beneath the bridge,
Following his master with a joyful bark.

Eleanor's eyes asked plainly, “Who?” No word
Spoke Isabel, till they came in sight again
Of the red boarding-houses; then she said,
“Don't mention this to Esther!” nothing more;
And Eleanor, in her shocked surprise, was dumb.

A stir was in the street. Not many doors
From theirs, a group of men set down a bier
Whereon a drowned girl lay, whom they had found
Above the locks, within a lonesome bend
Of the canal.
“What? did she drown herself?”
“Was no one with her?” “Had she any friends?”
Questioned the standers-by. A whisper, then,
Started by some one, ran from mouth to mouth:
“She was alone here. In her early days
One slip she made,—you see she is not young;
For that she never could forgive herself,
And she has toiled in silence ever since,
Upright and honest, but too sad to care
For friends or life. If death were accident
Or purpose, none can tell.”
“O, pitiful!”
Cried Eleanor's heart, as on, with covered eyes,
She drew the fascinated Isabel,
Whose gaze was fixed upon the dripping hair
And half-closed eyelids.
“O, too pitiful!
Why did not Esther know her? Was there none
To tell her she might put her weight of sin
Behind her, and walk on with other girls
In peaceful pathways, happy and forgiven?
Would we had helped her!”
Slowly Isabel moved,
Still looking backward at those glassy eyes,
Speaking no word until the house-door shut
Behind them, then upon the stairway sank,
And sobbed, as if she saw in that girl's fate
Some dreadful possibility of her own.