THE DUTY THAT IS NEAREST.
Arthur Knight scarcely knew whether pleasure or pain predominated in his
mind during the first days which he spent at home. London interested him
intensely. The vivid life, the untiring resolution, the concentrated
energy of the people amazed and delighted him. And when he saw all that
was being done to further the cause of righteousness, he was as proud of
his country as an Englishman ought to be. But that which had presented
itself to his mind as the blot upon the picture, when he contemplated it
from a distance, filled him with as much wonder and sadness when he was
on the spot. Since his people could do so much, why did they not do
more? They had conquered so many worlds; why did they not conquer their
own? Were they as great as they used to be? Were they not rather afraid
of being great? What was it that dominated most of the individuals that
made up a London crowd? It needed very little discernment to discover
that the one great desire of the people was _to get on_—not to get _up_,
or to rise higher in intelligence or character, but to be able to pay a
pound or two more of rent, and a longer bill at the tailor’s, or
grocer’s, or milliner’s. Certainly there was nothing great, but
everything that was infinitesimally little, in such an ambition as that!
But he knew—a traveller in all lands must always know—that simple living
brings as much happiness as luxurious fare, and he believed that if the
spell could be broken, and the people who were so eager to get on that
they had not time to think of other things could once get the fashion
changed, they would rise to their own capabilities, and, completely
changing their standpoint, would become really great in character and
achievement. And he believed that the time for this was coming.
The first ten days of Arthur’s return were very memorable ones.
One of the incidents that ever afterward remained in his memory was that
of his first attempt to speak to English people of that which was in his
heart. He was passing down the City-road when he noticed that men were
rapidly entering the historical Wesley Chapel. He went into the
building, and found that a Conference of Christian men had been called
to consider whether means could not be taken beforehand to prevent the
misery which every recurring winter brought to the East-end of London.
It was felt by the conveners of the meeting that it would be a wise step
to prepare for the inevitable, and that the appalling distress might be
to a great extent prevented if good arrangements were made in time.
Arthur Knight knew that the Wesleyans had been moving forward for a
considerable period. He knew, too, that the last few years had seen the
Salvation Army and other organisations making extraordinary endeavours
to stem the tide of misery and sin, and that, indeed, every department
of the Christian Church was working for this end, with much personal
effort, and by means of enormous sums of money both specially and
annually contributed. But the disappointing thing was that so little
difference seemed to have been made by it all. The world of London was
scarcely better. Still men cursed God and died. Still there were cases
of death from starvation and cold; even in the last winter thousands of
men were unemployed, while drunkenness, cruelty and sin seemed as strong
as ever.
The speakers at the meeting referred to this in tones of disappointment
and sorrow. They could not but thank God for what had been done; but
they felt that the work was piecemeal and inefficient. A paper was read
suggesting some new methods of raising money, and indicating some fresh
methods of service, and then the meeting was thrown open, and any one
who had anything to say which could be said in five minutes was invited
to say it.
This was Arthur Knight’s opportunity. He waited until several persons
had spoken, and then he sent up his name, and made his five minutes’
speech.
“Much that we wish for could be accomplished in a single year, in one
way,” he said. “Christian brothers, let us be heroic for Christ’s sake!
Let us join our forces and work together. We have our differences and
divisions, and these are the things that weaken us. How long shall we
ourselves hinder the fulfilment of our Lord’s prayer, ‘That they all may
be one, that the world may believe that Thou hast sent Me.’ If we were
to lift up the white flag of truce and fight under it, every Christian
man, shoulder to shoulder, the battle of peace and righteousness could
be won. These things that you deplore need not exist another year.
England is so small, and, therefore, so manageable. It is mapped out
into parishes and into Parliamentary divisions. You have no difficulty
in getting into contact with every man when you want his vote. Your
School Board officers know the number and age of every child in the
kingdom. It will be easy, therefore, for a committee of church members
to ascertain the circumstances of every individual around the centre of
a church or chapel. Gentlemen, nearly two-thirds of the entire
population of England are members of some Christian church; the money,
the intelligence, the influence, the character, the ability of the
nation are mostly among these two-thirds. What of the other third? Do
you believe that we are powerless to deal with it—two to one, and more?
Why, we are strong enough to see that every man has work to do, and
every man does it, that the idle shall be forced to labour, that the
inefficient shall be taught, that the sick shall be nursed and the
children fed, that our ships shall be laden with good things only, that
our people shall not be drunken, that another language than that of
swearing and blasphemy shall be heard in our streets, that cruelty and
vice shall hide their heads. Sirs, we are the masters in England; why,
then, do we allow the things which shame us to exist? Only because we
are craven and selfish, and small when we ought to be great; only
because we care more for our denominations, and our party, and our own
personal ease than for Christ and righteousness. Shall we change all
this? You are able. Are you willing and ready? Will you, sons of Wesley,
who occupy the middle position between the Church of England and
Nonconformity, lead the way?”
Cries of “Yes, yes!” greeted this appeal, and when Knight sat down many
rose to their feet to echo his words. Later they called for him to speak
again; but it was found that he had left, and he did not know till
afterwards what was the result of his first speech.
His heart was beating rapidly as he went forth into the London streets.
He had only uttered a part of his convictions, but he was thankful to
have had the opportunity to do that. He crossed over, and stood for a
few minutes among the graves of Bunhill Fields, and saw the names of the
brave men who had done the work which God gave them to do; and he vowed
that he would lose no chance of using his voice, whenever and wherever
he could, for he longed to see the Church united in the work which was
so evidently waiting to be done.
But he had much to engross him in his own and his father’s affairs. He
spent some hours of every day in the office, endeavouring to grasp the
real state of things there, and finding much to make him sad. His father
was very disinclined to give way to the men; and one of those
much-to-be-regretted labour disputes seemed inevitable. The men appeared
to have very little power, really, to secure that which they wanted.
Crowds of unemployed were always ready to step into vacant places. For
one situation there would be fifty applicants, and this made it possible
for masters to be to some extent independent of the men, notwithstanding
the trades unions. And there had arisen an antiunionist association
composed of men who helped each other and fought for each other, and who
were now numerically strong enough to resist the trades union men who in
a strike tried to keep them out of wharves, docks, and factories. Mr.
Knight, finding that women and boys could do his work as well as men,
and for less wages, had in his employ many thousands of these, and this
was a grievance of which the men bitterly complained. It happened in an
enormous number of cases that men were idling about, and drinking, while
their wives were employed at factories, in consequence of which the
homes were wretched, and the children sorely neglected. There were,
indeed, a hundred wrongs that called for reform, and a crying need of
some one with a clear head and a kindly Christian heart to put matters
straight.
Arthur Knight knew from the first day that he spent in his father’s
office that under existing conditions it was no place for him. He would
not, he simply could not, for the sake of all the wealth of the world,
so do violence to his conscience, and slay all that was best in him, as
to continue to sell goods that were next to worthless, and keep
thousands of families on the verge of starvation, while he was getting
richer every year. So much he settled with himself once for all,
although he equally resolved to have no rupture with his father.
He was troubled at the signs of seething discontent and unrest which
were visible; and he succeeded in winning a promise from his father that
he would consider one or two suggestions that he made. He had mentioned
Hancourt, and although Mr. Knight would not promise to reinstate him, he
commissioned his son to visit him for the purpose of discovering whether
he would return if an offer were made him, and, accordingly, on Saturday
afternoon, Arthur made his way to Hancourt’s residence. He was not at
home, but as his wife expected him shortly, he waited.
Mrs. Hancourt was a good-looking woman, with a pleasant face, and with
lady-like manners. The home was the picture of neatness and comfort, and
it was evident that its mistress was a person of refined tastes and
habits. The arrangements of the house were artistic even, and there was
a warmth and homeliness about them which were to Arthur very attractive.
And Mrs. Hancourt could talk well. She had read books, and thought about
them. She had ideas of her own, and a happy way of expressing them. She
was a good listener, too, and anxious to learn; and a very delightful
half-hour was passed by Arthur, who felt as if he had found a little
haven of refuge after a sea of trouble. Mrs. Hancourt had two beautiful
children—the one, a boy between seven and eight; the other, a girl
between five and six. A lovely picture they made, standing together and
looking through their blue eyes into Arthur’s face with the frank
fearlessness which characterises English children. They came very
demurely to shake hands with Arthur, and the little girl, whom they
called Sissie, lifted her pretty face to be kissed, and was perfectly
willing to sit upon his knee, and to be told about little girls whose
faces were black. But after a time, when the conversation became
uninteresting, she said, “I like you, Mr. Arthur—you are a nice man; but
I like my brother best. Please set me down.” And the children were soon
happily at play together by the window. After a time Mrs. Hancourt was
called away, and Arthur took a book, and appeared to be engrossed by it.
In reality, he was being greatly entertained by the little ones.
“Now, Sissie, you are a prisoner, you know; the giant has locked you up,
but I am a knight coming to deliver you. Look at me through the back of
the chair—that is a strong iron gate, a fortress. I shall climb over the
bars of the gate, and mount the tower, and pick you up, and carry you
off, and make you my wife.”
“And then shall I crown you with flowers?”
“Oh, yes, of course! Knights are always crowned with flowers.”
“Are they the crowns they wear in heaven, Geoff? Jane told me we should
all be crowned in heaven.”
“I don’t think they are flowers—they are gold crowns they have there.”
“Are the gold crowns heavy?”
“I suppose so; gold is the heaviest metal, I know, for I learnt that in
my lesson book.”
“Oh, then, how their heads must ache! But perhaps they haven’t any heads
in heaven.”
“Sissie, how foolish! Of course they have heads, or how could they be
crowned?”
The girl was silent a little after that, but presently she said,
musingly, “I’m so afraid I shall forget—and I don’t want to forget—but I
can’t quite remember what heaven was like.”
“Sissie, what do you mean? Why, you never were in heaven!”
“Oh, yes, Geoff! I was in heaven before I came here.”
“What nonsense! I’m sure you have never been in heaven, at all.”
“Haven’t I? Then where was I?”
Geoff was thoughtful for a few minutes, and then he said, “I think it
was like this: God thought He would like to have a little Sissie, so He
said, ‘Let there be Sissie!’ and there was Sissie.”
“Yes; I suppose that was it. Geoffrey, say a little bit of the ‘Fairy
Queen.’”
Geoff repeated a few lines which he had been taught, but his sister
interrupted him.
“Geoff, where is the Fairy Queen now?”
“In heaven, I expect,” was the answer.
“How long has she been there?”
“Most all the time, I should think. You know, Sissie, our Lord was in
the grave three days; but common people like the Fairy Queen have to
stay longer—I should think about a fortnight or three weeks.”
Here the conversation abruptly terminated, for Arthur Knight burst into
a laugh so loud and startling that the children were quite disconcerted.
“I am so sorry, but I really could not help it,” he said. And then the
door opened, and Mr. Hancourt entered, looking very pale and anxious.
“Oh, Mr. Arthur,” he said, “I am sorry to see you here. I hoped you were
at home. I am afraid there will be a riot this evening. The men who are
disappointed are swearing that they will seek your father and compel him
to listen to them. Indeed, they are talking very foolishly and wildly
about revenge, and all that sort of thing.”
“Your money or your life, I suppose?”
“Exactly. It is a great pity that Mr. Knight lives so near the works.
Most people reside a long way from their places of business, somewhere
in the country, where their men cannot find them; but Mr. Knight has not
chosen to do this, and as the men know where to find him they are going
to march to his house. And they talk about having a band, and I am
afraid they have a great many sympathisers and friends.”
“I came to ask you if you could give me any advice, or say what can be
done.”
“I am afraid it is too late to do anything.”
“In any case I must hasten home and stand by my father. Will you come
with me?”
As soon as a cab could be procured they drove away, telling the driver
to make all possible speed.
But the crowd reached Brent House before them, and it was a more ugly
crowd than that of the week before. As Hancourt and Arthur entered the
gate, Mr. Knight showed himself at the window, and this was a signal for
all sorts of cries and execrations.
“Give us our rights!” “Hypocrite!” “Robber!” “Tyrant!” “Live and let
live, can’t you?” “Do as you’d be done by, or it will be the worse for
you!” “What did you turn Hancourt away for?” “And Hamilton?” “And
Allen?” “Better men than you are!” These and worse things were shouted
by the crowd, which presented a very threatening aspect.
“Come into the house,” said Arthur to Hancourt. “We can get in by the
side door.”
“No; I will not come in. I will be among the men, and see if they will
hear reason, while you go to your father.”
Arthur found Mr. Knight greatly excited.
“I wanted you to go for the police,” he said. “But I have sent for them,
and they will be here soon. The wretches! I did not expect them to-day.
I meant to have had the place guarded to-morrow, but they have stolen a
march upon me. And yet I cannot think how they got in. Those stupid
servants must have undone the gate for them. What a horrible noise they
are making! But they are only bringing worse things upon themselves.”
“Father,” said Arthur, “it is a pity to have all this fuss if we can
help it. You are going to let me have a voice in the business, are you
not? And I will tell them so, and that there will be two of us to
consider their claims and grievances.”
Before Mr. Knight could answer he threw open the window, and his clear
voice rang through the crowd. “Men,” he said, “I want you to give us a
little time——” A stone was thrown at him, which struck his head and
knocked him down.
It was not the first time that a messenger of peace had been
misunderstood and ill-treated. Arthur thought at the moment of other
peacemakers, and he kept his temper.
He rose to his feet, and, with the blood streaming from his head, he
again faced the people. “The man who threw that stone does not know me,”
he said, “or he would not have thrown it. I am Arthur Knight——”
“Oh, yes! the man who threw the stone knew that,” shouted a voice.
“I am going to help my father in his business, and I promise you that I
will try to see that justice is done, both to him and to you. If your
grievances are real they shall be removed, as far as I am able to
arrange things; and if your claims are reasonable and just they shall be
met—if possible. I cannot tell how far you are right. I know you are not
at all right in coming here to make a commotion, and calling names and
throwing stones—all this is unmanly and unworthy of you—but you may
think that you have some excuse, and I will hear all you have to say
about it if you choose three men, and let them meet me on Monday evening
at eight o’clock in the office. Will you?”
“Yes, sir!” The words came in a great shout. The effect of Arthur’s
little speech had been marvellous. Where was its power? In the words or
in the man? These questions were to be often asked in the future.
“And what are we to do on Monday morning?” some one asked.
“What are you to do? Why, go to work, to be sure, if you want your
wages. Don’t strike, don’t lose time. You cannot afford that as well as
we can, you know. Be in your places on Monday morning, and do your best
for us, and I promise you that I will do my best for you.”
How was it that they all believed him? They certainly did. There was not
a man who doubted.
“Three cheers for the young governor!” said one, and a hearty hurrah was
raised.
“Thank you,” said Arthur, when the noise ceased, “I shall be glad now to
see how much or how little I am hurt.”
“Sorry you are hurt at all, sir,” said one. “Now then, mates, clear out!
The youngster looks faintish like.”
They vanished speedily, and then as Arthur turned from the window he
wondered where his father was, and what he would say to him. He was not
in the room, but Hancourt was there, holding by the collar a pale,
unkempt youth, who looked considerably crestfallen and frightened.
“This is the fellow who threw a stone at you, Mr. Arthur. His name is
Jones. As there was no policeman near I arrested him myself. I suppose
now that there is little need of their services the police will soon be
coming, and I will keep this fellow until I can give him into custody.”
“Bring him into my room, and turn the key upon us both.”
Tea had been set on the table, some cold chicken, pie, cake, and toast.
“Come and have some,” said Arthur to his prisoner. “You look hungry, and
it is tea-time.”
The lad could not keep his eyes from wandering to that well-spread
table. He was hungry, certainly, for he had scarcely tasted food that
day; but he did not think he was so far gone as to eat the food of the
man whom he had struck with a stone.
“Now then,” said Arthur, “why don’t you begin? You know it will be some
time before they give you anything to eat at the police-station. You had
better get a meal while you have the chance.” As he spoke he was tying a
handkerchief around his head.
“I wish that stone hadn’t hit you,” said the youth.
“Oh, yes! I am sure you do, because it was a cowardly thing to throw it,
and no man likes to be a coward. I will cut you some chicken.”
A well-filled plate was put before the young man, who really could not
resist it; and if he could have got rid of the lump in his throat he
would have greatly enjoyed it, for such bread, such ham, and such
chicken he had never tasted before.
“Will you have a glass of milk?” said Arthur, pouring it out. “I am not
going to give you into custody, though a whole army of police should
come to take you, because, as you say, you did not mean to hurt me.”
“Thank you, kindly, sir, I’m sure.”
Arthur Knight let the young man go on with his meal in comfort, and then
he began to question him.
“Now, which workshop are you in?”
“I ain’t in no workshop at all, sir.”
“What do you do then?”
“Oh! I do odd jobs, and earn a sixpence here and there.”
“I suppose you work for my father?”
“What say, sir?”
“You work for Mr. Knight, don’t you?”
“No, sir.”
“Then what in the world are you here for if the quarrel is none of
yours?”
“I seed the men coming, and as there was a row on I thought I’d come
too.”
“Ah! there are plenty of lads about like you, I suppose? I have heard of
you. Such as you do most of the mischief that is done, don’t you?”
“That’s about it, sir,” said the lad, grinning as if he thought it was a
very fine thing, though that expression changed to one of shame when
Arthur looked at him steadily.
“There is not much gain to be got out of such a life as that, you know,”
said Arthur, gravely. “It is not anything to be proud of really, is it?
I think it is a pity for a strong, likely lad such as you are to take up
with that sort of thing. I wouldn’t if I were you. I call it a waste of
good power, because you are sharp enough to make your way in the world
if you will only set about it in the right fashion.”
“I ain’t got nobody to show me the way, nor I ain’t got nobody to help
me.”
“Oh, yes, you have! You’ve got me, and I shall be very glad to help you.
I will find some work for you, and if you don’t know how to do it, you
shall be taught, and put in the way of earning an honest living. Will
you do your best?”
The lad hesitated. He really felt that he was giving up a great deal.
The prospect which Arthur held out was not very alluring. He and his
companions considered that “earning an honest living” was far too slow a
thing for them. But somewhere under his ragged waistcoat the lad had a
heart, and Arthur had found his way to it, as to so many more of the
same kind.
“Yes, I will, sir!”—the words were spoken quite solemnly—“I will,
indeed, sir, to make up for hurting of ye.”
“Very good! Shake hands upon it.”
The steady tramp of the policemen’s feet was heard in the grounds, and
Arthur opened the door. Hancourt came forward.
“Where is the boy?” he asked.
“Oh, the boy is all right! I am not going to give him into custody; and,
Hancourt, will you tell those fellows that things are quiet, and send
them about their business? If they see me with my head bandaged, I
suppose they will think they ought to do something, and there is nothing
for them to do.”
Arthur was getting anxious. He had no doubt that his father would be
angry with him; but he had done what he felt sure was the only right
thing to do, and he was not without hope that he would bring his father
to his way of thinking. But he was desirous of getting it over as soon
as possible, and he rang the bell and inquired of the servant if she
knew where Mr. Knight was. She replied that she had heard him go into
the library and shut the door some time ago.
Arthur went at once to the room and knocked. There was no response. He
opened the door, and found the room empty. Then he went to his father’s
bedroom, and found it locked. “Father!” he called, but there was no
answer. He listened a moment, and then, with all the force of his strong
young frame, he burst open the door, and saw what he feared to see—his
father lying on the floor in a state of unconsciousness!
No time was lost, and two doctors were speedily on the spot; but they
were able to do very little for the stricken man. They did not pronounce
the case hopeless; they said it was possible that there might be partial
recovery, but even that was improbable. They feared it was the beginning
of the end, and the end might be not far off.
Arthur Knight was profoundly grieved. The love for his father—which had
always been in his heart, though for years it had been restrained—was
warm and strong now, as he sat by the bedside of the unconscious man,
and he forgot everything but that he was his father, and had always been
generous and kind to him. How he wished he had come home before! A flood
of compassion filled his heart as he pictured the lonely man in the
solitary house, melancholy and bitter. How joyless his life must have
been! He seemed to have had little to comfort him but the one fact of
his commercial success; and there must have been many times when that
failed, and he was altogether comfortless. So far as the world judged
him he was an honourable man. His life had been pure from many of the
vices of the age, and as Arthur thought over these things he wished with
all his heart that he might recover, if only to find comfort in his son.
But there seemed little hope of that. The doctors looked more grave at
each visit, and made no secret of their conviction that the days of Mr.
Knight were numbered.
So Arthur had a son’s sacred duty to perform in nursing and watching his
father, his heart full of sorrow that he could not do more for him. He
was very tender and affectionate; and half hoping that some of his words
might pierce through the cloud over him, he told him of his love, and
uttered slowly and impressively those good words of the wonderful Book
which tell of a Father’s love and a Saviour’s power. Arthur could not
feel afraid to trust the dying man to the compassionate Christ. He did
not doubt that the Great Father, who had loved and cared for this
neglectful child of His for so many years, would pity him because he had
lived out his life to such unworthy issues, and found it so
disappointing, and had made so many mistakes, and suffered for them, as
was inevitable, and that He would have mercy upon him, whether at the
last he was able to ask for it or not. Arthur’s hope was not in his
father, but in his God; and there was no fear, but much faith in his
prayers.
Illness and death are great softeners of human hearts. It was wonderful
how tender the people who knew Mr. Knight became towards him when they
heard that he was dying. All thought the best and none the worst of him
then. And when they looked through the eyes of love and pity, instead of
those of censure, they were not long in finding his good traits. Even
his workpeople altered their tones. “After all,” they said, “he had been
no worse a master than other men. Of course, he had tried to get all he
could out of them; it was only natural—other people did the same. And it
was not altogether his fault, perhaps, that he had not used better
materials; people would have nasty cheap things nowadays, and they could
not expect them to be cheap and good too.” So they talked, the people
whose hearts are mostly kind at the bottom, not because they quite
believed what they said, nor because they did not understand the meaning
of justice, truth, and honesty, but because in the presence of death
even the hardest becomes pitiful.
It was a great comfort to Arthur Knight to know that many kind inquiries
were being made and much sympathy shown for his father, and these things
helped him through the time of waiting.
It was not a very long time either.
“He has not the strength to rally,” said the doctors. “He may have a
gleam of consciousness towards the last, but it is scarcely likely, and
the end may come at any time.”
The end came suddenly. Mr. Knight opened his eyes and fixed them upon
his son. “Arthur,” he said.
“Yes, father; I am here. I love you. What can I do for you?”
The eyes closed wearily again for some minutes. Then they were once more
lifted to the sorrowful and sympathetic face bending over him, and the
dying man made an effort to speak. “Arthur—undo it all—if you can—and
pray for me. God be merciful—to me—a sinner.”
Then, after a few minutes of struggle, his eyes closed, and his face
grew calm.