The Story of the Gravelys

CHAPTER VIII.

THE HEART OF THE MAYOR

“Inside was a smaller, but still prosperous-looking man sitting like a roly-poly behind a desk, and blinking amiably at me with his small eyes.”

Margaretta smiled, and asked, “Young or old?”

“Oh, dear, I don’t know—couldn’t tell his age any more than I could tell the age of a plum-pudding. His face was fat and red, and he had so little hair that it might be either gray or sandy. I’d give him any age between fifteen and fifty.”

“Well, now, I don’t suppose he would be fifteen.”

“He acts like it sometimes,” said Berty, warmly. “Years have not taught him grace and experience, as they have Grandma.”

“What is his name?”

“Jimson—Peter Jimson.”

“Let me see,” murmured Margaretta, “there is a Mrs. Jimson and there are two Misses Jimson who are dying to get into our set. I heard the Everests laughing about them.”

“Same ones, probably—well, he knew enough to stand up when I went in. I said ‘Good morning’ and he looked so amiable that I thought he would give me not only what I wanted, but the whole city besides.

“When we had both sat down, I said, ‘I will not take up your time, sir. I have merely come to ask you to give the children of the East End a park to play in.’

“He lowered his eyes, and began to play with a paper-knife. Then he looked up, and said, ‘May I ask your name?’

“‘My name is Miss Gravely,’ I told him, ‘and I am Mrs. Travers’s granddaughter.’

“‘Oh, indeed,’ he replied, ‘and why are you interested in the children of the East End?’

“‘Because I live there—on River Street. We have lost our money.’

“He looked surprised at the first part of my sentence. I think he knew about the last of it. Then he said, ‘Have the children asked for a park?’

“‘No, sir,’ I said, ‘they haven’t.’

“‘Then why give it to them?’ he inquired, mildly.

“‘Does a good father always wait to have his children demand a necessity before he offers it?’ I replied.

“He smiled, and began to play with the paper-knife again.

“‘The children have nowhere to go, sir,’ I went on. ‘The mothers drive them from the dirty houses, the sailors drive them from the wharves, the truck-men drive them from the streets.’

“‘A park might be a good thing,’ he said, cautiously, ‘but there is no money in the treasury.’

“I felt myself growing hot. ‘No money in the treasury, sir, and you can put up a magnificent building like this? Some of this money has been taken from the children.’

“He said the city had its dignity to maintain.

“‘But there is charity, sir, as well as dignity.’

“He smiled sweetly—his whole attitude was one of indulgent sympathy for a youthful crank, and I began to get more and more stirred up.

“‘Sir,’ I said, ‘I think you must be a stepfather.’

“‘Sometimes step-parents display more wisdom than real parents,’ he said, benevolently.

“I thought of the good stepmother Grandma had when a girl. He was right this time, and I was wrong, but this didn’t make me more comfortable in my mind. ‘There is no need of new pavements on Broadway, sir,’ I blurted out.

“‘We must make the business part of the city attractive,’ he said, ‘or strangers won’t come here.’

“‘Strangers must come,’ I said, bitterly, ‘the children can die.’

“‘There is no place for a park on River Street,’ he went on. ‘Property is held there at a high figure. No one would sell.’

“‘There is Milligan’s Wharf, sir,’ I replied. ‘It is said to be haunted, and no sailors will go there. You could make a lovely fenced-in park.’

“‘But there is no money,’ he said, blandly.

“Something came over me. I wasn’t angry on my own account. I have plenty of fresh air, for I am boating half the time, but dead children’s faces swam before me, and I felt like Isaiah and Jeremiah rolled in one.

“‘Who made you, unkind man?’ I said, pointing a finger at him.

“He wouldn’t tell me, so I told him, ‘God made you, and me, and the little children on River Street. Do you dare to say that you stand higher in His sight than they do?’

“He said no, he wouldn’t, but he was in office to save the city’s money, and he was going to do it.

“‘Let the city deny itself for the children. You know there are things it could do without. If you don’t, the blood of the children will be on your head.’

“He twisted his shoulders, and said, ‘See here, young lady, I’ve been all through this labour and capital business. Labour is unthrifty and brainless. You’re young and extreme, and don’t understand. I’ve done good turns to many a man, and never had a word of thanks.’

“‘Tell me what you like about grown people,’ I said, wildly, ‘I’ll believe anything, but don’t say a word against the children.’

“He twisted his shoulders again, and slyly looked at his watch.

“I got up. ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘River Street is choked with dust in summer, and buried in mud and snow in winter. The people have neither decency nor comfort in their houses. The citizens put you over the city, and you are neglecting some of them.’

“He just beamed at me, he was so glad I was going. ‘Young lady,’ he said, ‘you have too much heart. I once had, but for years I’ve been trying to educate it out of myself. I’ve nearly succeeded.’

“‘There must be a little left,’ I said, ‘just a little bit. I’ll make it my business to find it. Good morning,’ and with this threat I left him and ran, ran for River Street.”

“Good for you,” said Margaretta.

“I swept along like a whirlwind. I gathered up the children and took them down on Milligan’s Wharf.”

“‘Children,’ I said, ‘do you know who the Mayor is?’

“They said he was the big man down in the city hall.

“‘And how did he get there?’

“‘They votes him in, and they votes him out,’ a bootblack said.

“‘Who votes?’ I asked.

“‘All the men in the city.’

“‘Do your fathers vote?’”

“‘Course—ain’t they Riverporters?’

“‘Then,’ I said, ‘you belong to the city, and you own a little bit of the Mayor, and I have just been asking him to give you a park to play in, but he won’t.’

“The children didn’t seem to care, so I became demagoguish. ‘Boys and girls,’ I said, ‘the children of the North End have a park, the children of the South End have a park, the children of the West End have a park, but the children of the East End aren’t good enough to have a park! What do you think ought to be done to the Mayor?’

“A little girl giggled, and said, ‘Duck him in the river,’ and a boy said, ‘Tar and feather him.’

“‘No,’ I said, ‘that would not be right, but, come now, children, don’t you want a park—a nice wide place with trees, and benches, and swings, and a big heap of sand to play in?’

“‘Oh, glorymaroo!’ said a little girl, ‘it would be just like a Sunday-school picnic.’

“‘Yes, just like a picnic every day, and now, children, you can have this park if you will do as I tell you; will you?’

“‘Yes, yes,’ they all shouted, for they had begun to get excited. ‘Now listen,’ I went on, and I indicated two of the most ragged little creatures present, ‘go to the city hall, take each other’s hands, and when you see the Mayor coming, go up to him politely, and say, “Please, Mr. Mayor, will you give the children of the East End a park to play in?”’

“They ran off like foxes before I could say another word, then they rushed back. ‘We don’t know that gen’l’man.’

“Here was a dilemma, but a newsboy, with eyes like gimlets, got me out of it. ‘See here,’ he said, ‘I can’t wiggle in ’count of business, but I’ll give signals. You, here, Biddy Malone, when you see me hop on one leg, and kick a stone, you’ll know the Mayor’s coming, see?’

“The girls nodded and ran off, and he ran after them.

“I mustn’t forget to say I told them to go ask their mothers, but, bless you, the street is so narrow that the women all knew what I was doing, and approved, I could tell by their grins.

“‘Now I want a boy for the Mayor’s house,’ I said.

“A shock-headed urchin volunteered, and I detailed him to sit on the Mayor’s steps till that gentleman betook himself home for luncheon, and then to rise and say, ‘Please, Mr. Mayor, give the children of the East End a park to play in.’

“Well, I sent out about ten couples and six singles. They were to station themselves at intervals along the unhappy man’s route, and by this time the little monkeys had all got so much in the spirit of it, that I had hard work to keep the whole crowd from going.”

Margaretta leaned back in her chair and laughed quietly. “Well, if you’re not developing.”

“Put any creature in a tight place,” said Berty, indignantly, “and see how it will squirm.”

“How did the Mayor take this persecution?”

“Like an angel, for the first few days. Then I began to increase the number of my scouts. They met him on his own sidewalk, on the corner as he waited for the car, on the steps of his club, till at last he began to dodge them.”

“Then they got their blood up. You can’t elude the children of the streets. I told them not to beg or whine, just to say their little formula, then vanish.

“At the end of a week he began to have a hunted look. Then he began to peer around street corners, then he took to a coupé, and then he sprained his ankle.”

“What did the children do?”

“Politely waited for him to get well, but he sent me a note, saying he would do all he could to get them their park, and with his influence that meant, of course, that they should have it.”

“How lovely—weren’t you glad?”

“I danced for joy—but this puzzled me. I hadn’t expected to get at his heart so soon. Who had helped me? Grandma said it was the Lord.”

“Aided by Mrs. Jimson, I suspect,” added Margaretta, shrewdly. “This explains a mystery. Some time ago, I heard Roger and Tom Everest down in the library nearly killing themselves laughing. When I asked Roger what it was about, he said only a Jimson joke. Then he said, ‘Can’t you keep Berty out of the city hall?’”

“I said, ‘What do you mean?’ but he wouldn’t tell me any more. I believe that Mr. Jimson’s men friends teased him, and his mother and sisters brought pressure to bear upon him.”

“They called yesterday,” said Berty, demurely.

“Well, well, and did they mention your park?”

“They were full of it. I went down to the wharf with them. I am there half the time. You must come, Margaretta, and see the work going on.”

“Where did the Mayor get the money?”

“Squeezed it out of something. He said his councillors approved. He won’t see me, though—carries on all the business by correspondence.”

Margaretta looked anxious, but Berty was unheeding, and went on, eloquently. “Isn’t it queer how Grandma’s teaching is in our very bones? I didn’t know I had it in me to keep even our own family together, but I have. I’d fight like a wolf for you and Bonny, Margaretta, and now I’m getting so I’ll fight like a wolf for our bigger human family.”

Margaretta’s anxiety passed away, and she smiled indulgently. “Very well, sister. It’s noble to fight for the right, but don’t get to be that thing that men hate so. What is it they call that sort of person—oh, yes, a new woman.”

Berty raised both hands. “I’ll be a new woman, or an old woman, or a wild woman, or a tame woman, or any kind of a woman, except a lazy woman!”

CHAPTER IX.

THE MAYOR’S DILEMMA

Berty was rowing down the river in her pink boat with its bands of white.

She was all pink and white, boat, cushions, oars, dress, and complexion—except her hair and eyes, which formed a striking and almost startling blue-black contrast.

However, Berty was nothing if not original, and just now in the late afternoon, when all the other boats and canoes were speeding homeward, she was hurrying down the river.

She gave a gay greeting to her friends and acquaintances, and to many of the fishermen and river-hands with whom she had become acquainted since she came to live on River Street.

She scarcely knew why she was turning her back on her home at this, the time of her evening meal, unless it was that she was so full of life and strength that she simply could not go into the house.

Grandma would not care. Grandma was too philosophical to worry. She would take her knitting to the veranda and sit tranquilly awaiting the return of her granddaughter. If she got hungry, she would take her supper.

chanted Berty, then she stopped. “But I must not be selfish. I will just row round Bobbetty’s Island and then go home.”

Bobbetty’s Island was a haunted island about the size of an extensive building lot. Poor old man Bobbetty had lived here alone for so many years that he had become crazy at last, and had hanged himself to one of the spruce-trees.

Picnic-parties rarely landed here—the island was too small, and the young people did not like its reputation. They always went farther down to some of the larger islands.

So this little thickly wooded piece of land stood alone and solitary, dropped like a bit of driftwood in the middle of the river.

Berty was not afraid of the ghost. She was rowing gaily round the spruces singing softly to herself, when she saw something that made her mouth close abruptly.

An annoyed-looking man sat on a big flat rock close to the water’s edge. He stared at her without speaking, and Berty stared at him. This was no ghost. Poor old Bobbetty had not appeared in the flesh. This was a very living and very irritated man, judging from his countenance.

Berty smiled softly to herself, then, without a word, she drew near the islet, took her hands from the oars, and, pulling her note-book from her pocket, coolly scribbled a few lines on a slip of paper:

“Dear Sir:—If you have lost your boat, which I judge from appearances you have done, I am willing to give you a lift back to the city.

Having finished her note, she drew in an oar, put the paper flat on the blade, stuck a pin through it to make it firm, then extended it to the waiting and watching man.

Without a word on his part, he got up from his rock seat, and, stretching out a hand, took the slip of paper. Then reseating himself with a slight smile, he produced his own note-book, tore a leaf from it, and took a stylographic pen from his pocket.

“Dear Madam:—I have indeed lost my boat. I accept your offer with gratitude.

The oar was still resting on the rocks. He pinned his answer to it, saw Berty draw it in, read it, and then she brought her boat round for him.

Still without speaking he stepped in, somewhat clumsily, seated himself, and mopped his perspiring face.

They were not moving, and he looked up. Berty had dropped the oars, and had calmly seated herself on the stern cushions. She had no intention of rowing with a man in the boat.

The Mayor set to work, while Berty lounged on her seat and studied the shell-like tints of the sky. Suddenly she heard a slight sound, and brought her gaze down to the river.

The Mayor was laughing—trying not to do so, but slowly and gradually giving way and shaking all over like a bowl of jelly.

She would not ask him what amused him, and presently he said, “Excuse me.”

“Why?” asked Berty, with preternatural gravity.

“Well, well,” he stuttered, “I don’t know, but I guess it isn’t good manners for one person to laugh when the other isn’t.”

“Laugh on,” said Berty, benevolently, “the whole river is before you.”

The Mayor did laugh on, and rowed at the same time, until at last he was obliged to take his hands from the oars, and get out his handkerchief to wipe his eyes.

Berty’s face was hidden from him. She had picked up a huge illustrated paper from the bottom of the boat, and her whole head was concealed by it. But the paper was shaking, and he had an idea that she, too, was laughing.

His suspicion was correct, for presently the paper dropped, and he saw that his companion was in a convulsion of girlish laughter.

“Oh! oh! oh!” she cried, taking away the handkerchief that she had been stuffing in her mouth, “it is too funny. You hate the sight of me, and write notes to avoid me, and then go lose your boat on a desert island, and have to be rescued by me. Oh! it is too delicious!”

The Mayor thought he could laugh, but his laughter was nothing to this ecstasy of youthful enjoyment, and his harsh, thick tones gradually died away, while he listened delightedly to this rippling outflow from pretty lips.

“It is comical,” he said, after a time, when she had somewhat calmed down. “I guess I ought to apologize to you. I have treated you mean. But you got a corner on me.”

“A corner in street urchins,” said Berty, gaspingly; “well, I’m obliged to you for getting the park, but I must say I wish you would give the work some of your personal superintendence.”

“I’ve been down,” he said, unguardedly.

“When?” asked Berty, promptly.

“At night,” he said, with some confusion. “I slip down after I know you’ve gone to bed.”

“How do you think the workmen are getting on?” she asked, anxiously.

“Fairly well—what do you want that high fence for?”

“For games—wall games. I wish we could have baths at the end of the wharf—public baths. The boys can go down to the river, but the women and children have no chance. Poor souls, they suffer. You would not like to be cut off from your daily bath, would you, sir?”

“Well, no,” replied the Mayor, cautiously, “I don’t suppose I would.”

“The city ought to build baths,” said Berty, warmly.

“There’s private charity,” said the Mayor.

“Private charity, my dear sir! You don’t know those River Street people. They have as much pride as you have. What the city does for them is all right—what private citizens do for them publicly, and with all sorts of ridiculous restrictions, angers them.”

The Mayor looked longingly over his shoulder toward the city.

“Oh, pardon me,” said Berty, hurriedly. “I shouldn’t talk business to you in my own boat when you can’t escape me. Pray tell me of your adventures this afternoon. Was your boat stolen?”

“Stolen, no—it was my own carelessness. You know I’m driven to death with business, and if I take a friend out with me he’s got an axe to grind for some one, so I steal off alone whenever I can. Nobody goes to that island, and it’s a fine place to read or snooze, but to-day I neglected to secure my boat, and away it went.”

“And nobody came by?”

“Lots of people, I suppose, but I was asleep until just before you came.”

“Isn’t the river delicious?” said Berty, dreamily.

“I like it well enough,” said Mr. Jimson, letting unappreciative eyes wander over the blue water and the smiling landscape beyond. “It’s a great place to plan your business.”

“Business, business, business,” murmured the girl, “it seems sacrilege to mention that word here.”

“If it weren’t for business of various kinds, there wouldn’t be any Riverport,” said the man, with a backward nod of his head.

“Poor old Riverport!” said Berty; “poor, sordid, material old Riverport!”

The Mayor braced his feet harder and stared at her. Then he said, “If it weren’t for business, most of us would go under.”

“Yes, but we needn’t be holding it up all the time, and bowing down to it, and worshipping, and prostrating our souls before it, till we haven’t any spirit or beauty left.”

The Mayor stared at her again. Then he said, “You don’t seem as silly as most girls.”

This to Berty was a challenge. Her eyes sparkled wickedly, and from that instant till they reached the city she poured out a babble of girlish nonsense that completely bewildered the plain man before her.

“Will you let me off at the city wharf?” he asked, at last, when she had paused to take breath.

“Certainly,” said Berty, “after you row me home.”

“Oh, excuse me,” he said, confusedly. “I am so little in ladies’ society that I don’t know how to act.”

“We’ve got a tiny wharf at the end of our back yard,” said Berty. “You’ll know it because all the wharves round are black and dingy, but ours is painted pink and white. There it is—look ahead and you’ll see.”

The Mayor looked, and soon the little boat was gliding toward the gay flight of steps.

“Now will you tie her up and come in through the house?” asked Berty, politely.

The Mayor did as he was requested, and, stepping ashore, curiously followed his guide up through the tidy back yard to the big old-fashioned house that seemed to peer with its small eyes of windows far out over the river.

On the ground floor were a kitchen and pantry and several good-sized rooms that had been used for servants’ quarters in the first, palmy days of the old mansion.

“A pity this neighbourhood was given up to poor people,” said the Mayor, as he tramped up a narrow, dark stairway behind his guide.

“A blessing that they have something so lovely as this river view,” said Berty, quickly. “I can’t tell you how we appreciate it after our limited outlook from Grand Avenue. Here is our dining-room,” and she threw open the door of a large room at the back of the house.

Mr. Jimson stepped in somewhat awkwardly. The room was plainly furnished, but the small windows were open, and also a glass door leading to a veranda, where a table was prepared for the evening meal. He could see a white cloth, and numerous dishes covered and uncovered.

“Grandma,” said Berty, “here is Mr. Jimson—you remember hearing me speak of him.”

Mr. Jimson, filled with curiosity, turned to the composed little old lady who came in from the veranda and shook hands with him. This was Madam Travers. He had been familiar with her face for years, but she never before had spoken to him.

“Will you stay and have a cup of tea with my granddaughter and me?” she asked him, when he looked uncomfortably toward the door.

His gaze went again to the table. A rising breeze had just brushed aside the napkin covering a pitcher.

“Is that a jug of buttermilk I see?” he asked, wistfully.

“It is,” said the old lady, kindly.

“Then I’ll stay,” he said, and he dropped his hat on a chair.