ARTHUR KNIGHT’S INHERITANCE.
The stateliness of death was upon the still face of his father when the
son gazed upon it for the last time. A wonderful peace and beauty, which
had never been seen before, was there; and as Arthur looked through his
tears he saw that all the wrinkles which care had made were smoothed
away, and something of the youthfulness which he remembered had
returned. Did it mean anything or nothing, he wondered, this calm which
is always so comforting to those who look upon their dead? Love made him
tender; but neither it nor sorrow could make him unmindful of facts. His
father had not really been an irreligious man. He had known his Lord’s
will; but in many things he had not done it. He had gone home to God
with the cry of mercy on his lips and in his heart; and his son believed
in nothing so entirely as in the compassion of the Father, as Christ
represented Him. Arthur was not afraid; but he wondered where the dead
man was now, and how it fared with him. His father had appeared to be
entirely engrossed with the world of money-making and business; and what
sort of preparation was that for the hereafter which was before him? Had
the habit of worldliness so hardened his heart that it had kept the
weary wanderer from going back to the Father? Arthur was thankful that
he had heard the dying lips pray, “God be merciful to me, a sinner.”
What issues might have hung upon the prayer for the man who was passing
away he could not tell, but there was infinite comfort in it for the one
who remained. Yet he mourned for what might have been. He knew enough of
his own heart, with its weaknesses and sins, to understand how a man’s
prayer has at the last to take the deprecating tones of humility and
confession. In the silent hours of his life he had dared to pray with
Moses, “Show me Thy glory,” and he to whom that is an answered prayer
must needs abhor himself in dust and ashes. He understood how natural it
was that a good and great man should have asked that the only epitaph
upon his tomb should be—
A guilty, weak, and helpless worm,
On Thy kind arms I fall;
Be Thou my strength and righteousness,
My Saviour, and my all.
Arthur Knight had uttered these words for himself many a time. But still
he knew, and never failed to realise, that there is another side to it
all. He delighted to dwell on the heroic side of Christ’s men. He
believed that what St. Paul said every disciple of Jesus might say, “I
can do all things through Christ, who strengtheneth me,” and that the
inspiring song of victory which the Apostle raised might be echoed by
every one whom faith made strong: that the Christian indeed should live
so grand a life that he also might declare at the last, “I have fought a
good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.”
As he thought of all the possibilities which his father had had, of the
life which he had lived and the life that he might have lived, he was
filled with sorrow—just such sorrow as many of us are preparing for
those who know and love us best. But Arthur had a child’s faith as well
as a man’s loyalty; and he did what we all have to do—and what, indeed,
we are all glad to do—he left his dead with God. He knew every saving
clause in the history of the life that had ended—what relentings and
repentances and upward wistful glances there had been, and how fierce
was the struggle between the better and the worse nature of the man! God
knew it all, and that was enough. “I know not where he is; but, O my
Father! he is in Thy hands, commended to Thy love, and I am not afraid
to leave him with Thee,” he said; and with these words he was comforted.
The great manufacturer of the East-end had left a fortune considerably
in excess of the amount which he had mentioned to his heir; and the
young man was too sensible to feel other than glad when he had the facts
of his inheritance placed before him in figures which told their own
story. With the exception of a few legacies to old servants, among whom
Arthur was gratified to see Hancourt’s name, everything was left to him
absolutely. Houses and lands, shares and investments were all at his
disposal, together with the business by which they had been won. But to
the new master these were chiefly valuable as means to an end. That
which thrilled his soul, and caused his eyes to flash and his heart to
glow, was the fact that nearly three thousand persons, men and women,
youths and girls, looked to him for work and wages. He needed no one to
remind him that whatever of other thoughts and plans were in his mind,
the duty that lay the nearest to him was the care of these people—their
bodies and their souls. And he never thought of this without a thrill of
joy. “They are MY PEOPLE, and, God helping me, I will do my duty by
them,” he said, and he meant much more than most men when he said it.
It was with considerable emotion that Arthur Knight went through the
factories and saw his people at work. They were all English, like
himself, and he felt drawn towards them for this reason, if for no
other—for he was a true-hearted patriot. Many of them, too, were nearer
him because they were sharers in his faith, served the same Master, and
hoped for the same heaven. He thought he could tell which these were by
the look upon their faces, by their demeanour, and even their dress: for
his religion was very simple and sincere; and he had not a doubt but
that godliness exalts a man in every respect, and is profitable
altogether, for the present as well as the future life. These men and
women, who were members of Christian churches, and, therefore, must be
living their daily life on a higher level than the rest, having nobler
motives to guide them, would, he hoped, be very much his friends and
helpers in his future efforts to benefit the others. Knight looked upon
them all, indeed, as his friends; a great change and deterioration would
have to be wrought in him before he could regard them as “_hands_”
merely; to him they were men and women, boys and girls; they were heads
and hearts, much more than hands, and were to be his companions as well
as his servants in the future. To him “the fatherhood of God” and “the
brotherhood of man” were not well-sounding phrases only, but very
significant realities; but he knew that he would have to prove this to
his people before they would believe it. So he was busy with plans,
which he confided to his friend John Dallington, who came to spend a few
days with him. He would at once provide a reading-room for the men, and
he would get Miss Wentworth and her band of helpers to look after the
women. For the boys—great, rough, uncouth fellows as some of them
were—he had a warm heart, a resourceful brain, and a patient, tolerant
temper; and the first thing he did was to turn the top floor of his
house, which had hitherto been unoccupied, into class rooms of different
kinds for their especial comfort and benefit.
One morning he told Dallington that he was going to see a former
_employé_ of his father’s, and invited him to accompany him. “I must try
to master the broad facts and general principles of the business
myself,” he said, “and I have a hard spell of work before me. But
Hancourt can help me. I should like your opinion of him. Come with me
and see him. It is a pleasant errand. My father has left him a hundred
pounds, and I will give him the cheque with the news. And Hancourt has
two children well worth knowing.”
When they reached the house the children were as usual very much in
evidence. “How do you do, Mr. Arthur?” said the girl, and when he lifted
her she put her arms around his neck and kissed him. “Mother said I was
to kiss you as soon as ever I saw you, because your father is dead.”
“Oh, Sissie!” said Geoff, reprovingly. “You should not talk about Mr.
Knight to Mr. Arthur, now, you know.”
“Yes, she should,” said Arthur. “Are you sorry for me, Sissie?”
“Yes, I am very sorry. Were you a good boy to your father, Mr. Arthur?”
“Not always, Sissie; and I am sorry for it now. You will always be good
to your father and mother, won’t you?”
“I don’t know. Mother says I’m very bad. Did you ever have a mother?”
“Yes; but that was a long, long time ago. She died when I was such a
little boy that I cannot even remember her.”
“But what will you do now, when you have not either a father or a
mother?”
“I don’t know, Sissie. I shall be very lonely. I think you must come and
see me.”
“I’m much obliged to you. Thanks very much.”
This was said in such a droll way that Dallington laughed.
“You shouldn’t laugh; it’s rude,” said the child. But her brother
rebuked her.
“It is you who are rude, Sissie; isn’t she, mother?”
“I am afraid she is, Geoff.”
“She is very entertaining,” said Dallington. “Sissie, will you not be
gracious, and give me a kiss, too?”
“Have you got any little girls at home?”
“No; I am sorry to say I have not. Will you come home with me?”
“No; I could not leave Geoff. He would be always in trouble without me.”
“Then come to me for a little time now; for if you do not I shall be
jealous.”
“What is ‘jealous’?”
“I am afraid you know the thing if you do not know the word,” said Mrs.
Hancourt.
“Is it to be naughty, mother?”
“Yes, Sissie; and that is what you have been to-day. And you must go to
bed early. Indeed, you had better say ‘Good-night,’ and go now.”
“But let me say my prayers down here, mother, because I always do, you
know.” And without more ado the child knelt down, and, folding her hands
together, she said: “Oh, God, please make Sissie a good girl!” and
demurely added, “And if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.”
Sounds that were not devotional were heard from the other parts of the
room, and Mrs. Hancourt lifted the little one in her arms. “I think,
darling,” she said, “you had better finish your prayers upstairs.”
When Mrs. Hancourt and the children had left, Arthur told his news. “I
have the pleasure to inform you, Mr. Hancourt, that my father proved the
respect which he had for you by leaving you a small legacy.”
“A legacy, sir?” exclaimed the man, in amazement. “A legacy for me? Left
me by Mr. Knight? Do let me call my wife. Kate, come here! This is news,
indeed. Mr. Knight really had not any ill-feeling toward me, after all.”
“Oh! I am very glad,” said Mrs. Hancourt. “Mr. Arthur, my husband, ever
since Mr. Knight’s illness, has been wondering if he had not been harsh
and wrong.”
“But, Kate, you would never guess the rest. Mr. Knight has left us a
legacy.”
“It is nothing to make a fuss about,” said Knight. “It is only a hundred
pounds. Here is a cheque for the amount.”
“A hundred pounds?” It was all that Hancourt could say. He changed
colour, and struggled for composure.
His wife had tears in her eyes. “You must please excuse him,” she said
to Arthur. “You do not know, you cannot guess, what this money is to us,
nor what we have gone through lately.”
Knight’s heart beat quickly. He had not felt so glad before as he did
now that he was rich. How possible it would be for him to increase the
happiness of other people if only he used his inheritance wisely!
“Mr. Hancourt,” he said, “you were for a long time my father’s
right-hand man. Will you be mine? My father’s most solemn legacy to me
was his command to undo anything which is wrong in the business. Justice
shall be done, as far as it is possible; but wisdom is a part of
righteousness, and I need to be much wiser than I am to do perfectly the
part that is allotted to me. It is my firm conviction that it is as
possible to-day as ever to carry on a business upon Christian
principles, and I am going to try. Will you help me?”
“With all my heart, sir,” said Hancourt, fervently. “And I will try to
deserve your confidence.”
“The first thing I wish you to do is to furnish me with all the
particulars of my constituency of labour. I want to know my people. Make
me out a list of their names, and write beside each the sex, age,
residence, religious denomination, what work he does, what wages he
gets, and anything and everything there is to say about him. I hope in
time to make the personal acquaintance of every individual who works for
me. First, I must know the boys; and before another week is gone I shall
get them together in some suitable place, that we may have a talk, and
understand each other. I hope you agree with me, Mr. Hancourt, that the
hope of the future is in the young. If we can secure them on the right
side everything is gained.”
Hancourt was delighted. He had found a master after his own heart. Hope
had come back to him, and there was great gladness in the little home in
which he lived.
“I wish, Dallington, you could give me a year,” said Knight, as they
drove back together. “It is not in my inheritance of money, but in my
inheritance of men that I rejoice. These claim my first attention. I
mean to make my _employés_ my friends.”
“I hope you are not attempting the impossible. Many masters before you
have tried, and failed,” replied Dallington. “Human nature is a very
difficult thing to manage. Still, I wish you success. You will do it if
it can be done, because you recognise the rights of brotherhood. But I
am sorry that before you have everywhere delivered that speech which is
in your mind you have all these new duties thrust upon you.”
“I am not sorry. I have the chance to test my theories upon my own
people; could anything be better? And, besides, it is the busy people
who will do this work that has to be done. I am not going to delay my
part, John. You and I and many others will proclaim the fact that the
Church must not be afraid to take the greatness which the Master is
thrusting upon her, and that for His sake, and her own sake, and the
world’s sake, she must be an united and not a split-up Church.”
“But people—even good people—love to fight.”
“Very well; and there is still the world, the flesh, and the devil for
them to attack. That they should waste their strength in fighting one
another after all these centuries of Christian teaching seems to me
wonderful. But I am sure the Christian world is ready for a change.
Already there are dozens, soon there will be thousands, of preachers
proclaiming a truce, while the Church puts right the wrongs of the poor
and degraded in England.”
But Knight found that his hands were full when he went to look at the
properties that had come into his possession. Among the rest was an
immense number of courts and alleys near the places of business; and the
heart of the young owner of them grew very sad as he examined them. They
were most of them miserably old and dirty, and the women and children
whom he saw lounging about the doorways looked sickly and filthy, too.
He remembered what he had once read—that men and animals were greatly
influenced by the character of the places in which they ate and slept;
and he ceased to wonder that some of the men of whom he had heard were
lazy, drunken, and blasphemous. The places were not homes—they did not
deserve the name. And to think that his brother-men had to pass their
hours of leisure there or in a public-house!
He continued his researches, however, for some hours, after which he
felt utterly miserable and ashamed that such places should form part of
his inheritance.
He was turning to go home when a lady accosted him. “Excuse me,” she
said, “people are telling me that you are the owner of these houses.
Will you be good enough to come and look at one of them?”
She spoke in a low voice, which thrilled with indignation, and her eyes
were blazing with a passion of anger.
“I have only been the owner for a few days,” said Arthur. “I am not
proud of them, I assure you, but very much ashamed of them. I will do
what I can as speedily as I can; they cannot be changed by a miracle. I
wish they could.”
The girl did not reply; and Arthur followed her into the most wretched
house that he had ever seen, and into a room where there was a hole in
the roof and another in the floor, and in the corner of which lay a
woman suffering horribly from rheumatic fever, while two wretched,
half-clothed children sat by her side, munching a piece of bread.
“This woman, a deserted wife,” said the young lady, “sews packing-bags
for the factory near. By working fourteen hours a day she can earn eight
shillings a week; and the man who pays the wages has five shillings back
for rent. It is iniquitous, all of it! It is a shame to pay so little
for so much work; and it is even worse robbery to take more than a
nominal rent for such a disgraceful place. Robbery! It is murder! And
the man who has committed it would have to take his trial for it if
there were any justice in England.”
Arthur looked into the flushed face lifted so accusingly to his own with
mixed feelings. He felt almost like a schoolboy being scolded, or like
the prisoner she had spoken of arraigned before a judge who would have
very little mercy; and he was almost amused at her vehemence, too.
“Really—yes,” he stammered. “It is, as you say, iniquitous, all of it.
Believe me, so far as I am responsible, it shall be changed. In the
meantime, let me do what I can for this woman. Cannot she be removed to
the hospital? Allow me——”
He took some money from his purse and held it towards her, but she
refused it. “I have taken this case in hand,” she said. “You will find
plenty of others quite near if you are really in earnest; but what all
these people want is not charity, but justice.”
“It is good of you to visit and help them,” began Knight; but the young
lady smiled a peculiar smile that made him feel uncomfortable.
“Good?” she said. “If any of us were good, we would surely be able to
prevent such things as these.”
Knight much wished to know something of the young lecturer who had so
taken him to task; but she dismissed him with a stately bow, and there
was nothing for him but to leave, more resolute than ever to at once
begin what really appeared a hopeless task. But early the next morning
he had an inspiration.
It was possible for him, with the money which he had and could make, to
take his business and his people out of this terrible city altogether,
and he would do it! What a chance he had! He could plan a model town;
and there set his people to work under far different conditions. He felt
that the thought was a call from God, and he had some minutes of such
joyous thankfulness as come to few men in a lifetime. Here was a bit of
work that suited him exactly; and with all the energy he had, he at once
set about making the thought an accomplished fact. He had an
inheritance, indeed, of duty and of joy.