IN THE AUTUMN.
Little Darentdale led the way.
The summer had not yet died into winter, nor had the leisure which comes
into a country parish with the short days and long evenings left the
thoughts of the people free. Nevertheless, some time and thought were
given to an experiment which John Dallington, urged by Arthur Knight,
had proposed should be tested in the village. The village was a small
one, and it was almost wholly agricultural. There were about thirty
persons who were employers of labour, and the rest were employed by
them. Thirteen were looked up to as belonging to the moneyed classes,
and of these, Mr. Whitwell—who lived out of the village, but had
property in it—and John Dallington were the principal individuals. They
employed on their farms the largest number of labourers, but besides
these there were two smaller farmers, and several other persons who
owned or rented a few acres of land, a gentleman who had retired from
his business in London and had bought a good-sized house and garden, a
lady of limited income, who kept one servant, and the general
shopkeeper, who combined the businesses of chemist and druggist, draper,
grocer, and coal dealer, all in one. There were, besides, two bakers, a
blacksmith, a butcher, four publicans, and Henry Harris.
“We have everything in our own hands,” said John Dallington, “and it
ought to be possible for us to have each man, woman, and child in our
care, if not under our control. We may not be able to make the villagers
religious; but surely it is possible so to govern our little world that
there shall be no poverty in it, but every one have a share in the
comforts and refinements which the richest enjoy. I find that we have
some poor to be relieved, and some evilly-disposed persons—the most poor
and the most miserable of all—who must be helped out of themselves.”
There were eight persons in conference—the Vicar, the Rev. George
Emerson, the Baptist minister, the Rev. Henry Marshall, and the chief
supporter of the Methodists—Mr. Rouse, who was also the principal
tradesman in the place—Mr. Whitwell, and Dallington. There was here,
happily, no bitterness between the Clergyman and the Dissenting
ministers. The men knew each other so well that they had lost the
disposition for fighting. In theory, of course, Mr. Marshall thought the
Church should be disestablished, and when the time came he would do his
duty, and vote to that effect; in theory, too, Mr. Emerson thought the
Dissenters were schismatics, and ought to be repressed; but in practice
the men were brothers, who respected the good which they saw in each
other, and carried together the burden of the souls of the people.
Neither begrudged the other the success which came to him, both mourned
because they, though helped by the Salvationists and Methodists, failed
between them to bring to the house of God as many as two-thirds of the
people of Darentdale. But for this sympathy which existed between the
Christian workers of the denominations, Dallington would have had no
hope whatever for the success of his plan.
They had before them a list of the inhabitants, the joint work of
Margaret Miller and Tom Whitwell, which gave all necessary particulars
of the family and circumstances of each householder, together with
certain facts touching their character, religion, and occupation—a list
quite easily drawn up, since every individual was well known.
“Our parochial system has already parcelled out the country,” began Mr.
Emerson.
“And placed a gentleman in every parish,” quoted Mr. Marshall, with a
significant smile.
“Exactly; and to help him teach the people the Free Churches have been
established, so that it is certainly not an impossible thing for us
together to provide religious instruction on the Sunday, and visitation
during the week. I do not quite know how it is that we have failed to
get hold of so many of the people.”
“For part of the trouble our collections are responsible,” said Mr.
Marshall. “The working classes do not care to be asked continually for
money.”
“I do not think they mind paying for what they have,” said the
Methodist. “The penny a week from our people comes in readily enough,
and the Salvation Army procures immense sums from the working-classes.
The real difficulty is that men do not consider religion a thing worth
paying for. They judge it by its professors, and pronounce it a fraud or
a failure, because so many of us are not what we declare religion makes
people to be. There is not enough difference between those who are
naturally good and those who profess to have been made good by grace.”
“Exactly,” said the clergyman. “Among the poor and irreligious of this
village there is no man so highly respected as Mr. Harris, who never
darkens the doors of church or chapel.”
“Yes; the carnal mind is still at enmity against God,” remarked the
Baptist minister. “But is not even that, to a great extent, because the
representatives of Christ have failed to prove that they are the
bringers of good tidings? What is your gospel of help to the people, Mr.
Dallington?”
“Better wages, better homes, more leisure, better amusements, better
education,” he replied, promptly; “every Christian employer the friend
and brother of his own people; every church the centre of a religious
activity which leaves none near it untouched by brotherly love. And
charity begins at home, and everybody is to look after his own
neighbour.”
The little company knew that he was himself doing that which he urged
them to do, and this gave him the greater power and influence.
The meeting was a very practical one. The farmers declared that they
would slightly increase the wages of their men, and follow Dallington’s
plan. Each cottager should have a strip of land for a garden, and every
one who was willing to repair his own house during the winter should
have the materials given him. They knew that Dallington had set before
him the task of winning back the whole of his inheritance, but he would
not do it at the expense of the comfort and well-being of his men. Mr.
Whitwell was not so rich as he was thought to be, but a few pounds could
be spared which, paid in shillings, would make all the difference to the
families of some of his men. The only thing which had hitherto prevented
him from paying more in some cases was his desire not to appear more
generous than his neighbours.
It was agreed at the meeting that there should be an invitation sent to
all the better-class people in the village to come to the vicarage for
consultation. After that, “all who professed and called themselves
Christians” were invited to the same place, the vicarage being selected
instead of the schoolroom of the Baptist Chapel, out of deference to the
bigotry of a few Church people.
And so it was decided that when November came a wonderful thing should
happen. But in the meantime the summer lingered, and John Dallington was
in love with it. One fine morning he said, “I am amazed at the manner in
which English people libel their own climate. Never were such perfect
summer days as these; nor is there, in any part of the world, grander
harvest scenery.” As he spoke his eyes looked lovingly over the prospect
before him, which was, indeed, a pleasant one. The remark was made to
two of his cousins, Edith and Tom, who had ridden over to Darentdale
with a message from their father, and having delivered it to the young
farmer, whom they found where he ought to have been, among his fields,
were lingering by his side. John’s hand was on the neck of the horse on
which his youngest cousin sat, and she glanced at him with a smile half
merry and half sad as he spoke.
“Yes, I am glad that for once the season is behaving properly,” she
said. “It does not often, and it is well that you should not find
everything disappointing. All your hay is safely in, I see; so is ours,
and father is better tempered than ever in consequence. But don’t be too
sanguine. Remember the proverb, ‘Blessed is he that expecteth nothing,
for he shall not be disappointed.’ I should be sorry to suggest evil;
but there are such things, even in this magnificent English climate, as
storms of wind and rain, and even hail, that spoil the crops of the most
hopeful men.”
“But they will surely respect John’s crops,” said Edith, “especially
after he has so complimented the weather. I am glad you are courageous
enough to grow corn at all, for it will scarcely pay you to compete with
the foreign wheat in the market. England will soon cease to be a
corn-growing country.”
“Never mind; let England grow men,” said Dallington, “and all the other
lands grow corn for them to eat. You know the English-speaking race is
destined to dominate the world.”
“Say the worlds, while you are about it, John. You are a true Englishman
in conceit of your country. I think the dominant race might be
improved,” remarked Tom.
“So do I; but we are getting on all the same. The real aristocracy—that
of character—is realising its power a little, and before you are many
years older, Tom, you will see a change.”
“Yes? Then I promise that when it comes I will remember the words of the
prophet John.”
“You are winning golden opinions from your labourers,” said Edith. “You
have followed father’s example, I hear, and given them pieces of ground
for their own use. Now that so much of the land produces nothing but
grass it will not mean as great a loss to you as gain to them. Old
Benham said to me, ‘Lor’, miss, our young master be a brick, and no
mistake;’ and, you know, to be called a brick is the highest praise any
one can hope for.”
“I suppose that is because I have told him he shall have as many bricks
as he likes with which to build a wing to his house.”
“I am afraid your men will not take the trouble to do the work, even
though you give the time and material.”
“I think they will,” said John, quietly. “Indeed, I am sure of it; and
this is another prophecy for you to remember, Tom. Are you not coming
into the house? How tired you look!”
Tom answered hastily: “No, we cannot call; we saw Mr. Hunter as we
passed, and father will be expecting us.”
“Tom is not well,” said Edith; “she is always tired now; she has lost
her appetite, and she does not sleep. I want father to let us go away
for a change——”
“Do not be stupid, Edith,” interrupted Tom, irritably; “I am all right,
and where could we find purer air and more bracing breezes than on our
own farm? The sea? Oh, it is not half as good as this! Besides, think of
the poor wretches in London being baked and boiled in stifling streets
and rooms! Good-bye, John, and a good harvest to you.”
“Tom,” he said, “the poor people in London will not be any cooler
because you deny yourself sea-breezes.” But Tom only lifted her hat in
her most gentlemanly fashion, and rode away with a smile on her lips
that quivered with pain the next moment.
John was very fond of his cousin, and was really troubled at the change
which he saw in her appearance, and which he felt also, though he could
not define it. He would probably have ridden after her, but that his
mind was turning in another direction than that of Hornby Hall, for he
knew that Margaret Miller was at Scourby, and, guessing that she would
walk home in the evening, he was resolved at all hazards to meet her.
Margaret’s home was in the centre of the pretty Darentdale Village, and
the name of it was “The Old House”—a name which was appropriate since it
was the oldest dwelling in the place. The other inhabitants were a man
whom she called grandfather, whose name was Henry Harris, and his
housekeeper, Ann Johnson. The Old House had originally belonged to John
Dallington’s uncle, Captain Frank Dallington, and it was he who brought
Harris to Darentdale. Margaret came with them, and since she was but a
child they at once made inquiries for a suitable person to act as
foster-mother to her as well as housekeeper to Harris. Ann Johnson
presented herself, and was accepted; nor had there been reason to regret
the appointment, for she had proved herself warm-hearted, if somewhat
rough, and entirely trustworthy, though peculiar. The Old House had
previously been empty for some time, for Captain Dallington would
neither let it nor live in it; but he had it furbished up and
comfortably furnished, and then he spent some months in it with Harris.
There were plenty of rooms in the house, and one of them which faced the
front was turned into a bookseller’s shop. But Darentdale folk were not
great readers, and the trade was so small that the people became rather
suspicious about the shop, and often wondered where Harris got the money
to enable him to live comfortably. He, however, vouchsafed no
information, and when Ann Johnson was questioned, she always began
telling a tale about somebody or other, instead of giving a definite
answer, so the Darentdalers had nothing left but to exercise their
imagination. Mr. Harris was for some time no favourite in the place.
Some said he was an atheist, though he was pronounced generally to be
neither one thing nor the other. He did not go to either of the inns to
spend his evenings sociably with his neighbours; but neither when a
Temperance Mission was held did he don the Blue Ribbon. As to politics,
he acknowledged that he was neither a Tory nor a Radical, but voted for
the best man—as if the man had anything to do with it when there was the
party to support! The villagers did not know what to make of a man who
never called others names, and had no principles at all. But he had now
been at Darentdale fifteen years, and it was strange how few people
there were in the parish who, at some time or other, had not been helped
by Henry Harris. There was nobody like him for getting another out of a
difficulty, and almost every one had been glad to avail himself of the
unostentatious assistance that was always ready. But some people liked
Harris less on that account, and a few whom he had served the most were
the most sure that they owed him a grudge. It is only noble people who
know how to accept help gracefully.
Nobody disliked him more than John Dallington’s mother. But she had more
reason than others for her disaffection, because she had a settled
conviction that Harris and his granddaughter had money which she ought
to have. Captain Dallington, who was always a wanderer, did not return
to Darentdale after he had installed Harris and the child in the Old
House. He had now been dead some years, and when his will was read his
brother and his wife were astonished to find how little he had to leave.
What he had was bequeathed to his relatives, excepting “the Old House,
and all that was in it,” which was left to Henry Harris and Margaret
Miller after him. The phrase—“and all that is in it”—had given John
Dallington’s mother many an unhappy hour.
But what it was that was in it nobody outside the house knew, excepting
that for the last few years there was in that Old House the most
beautiful and interesting girl that Darentdale ever owned. It was not
her beauty alone, nor her tall, graceful figure, nor her musical voice,
nor her sweet, brown eyes that were the attraction; but there was a
charm about her that could not be named, and generally could not be
resisted. Most people loved Margaret, even those who did not want to.
Margaret, visiting Mrs. Wythburn, found her preparing for her departure.
“We have made up our minds,” she said, “to go to London. Mary is there,
and my husband believes that we shall be able to find her if we watch
there. So we have taken rooms as near as possible to the Bank; and we
quite hope to be successful in our search. We are willing that she
should remain at the work she has chosen to do; and we shall no doubt
eventually live in London altogether.”
“But it is a pity to leave the country for London now, when the weather
is so unusually hot.”
“Our child is enduring the heat somewhere, and so can we. Besides, we
cannot stay at Scourby. Do you know that Alfred Greenholme is already
engaged to Hilda Copeland?”
“No; but I am not surprised. She is far more suitable for him than our
splendid Mary, who never could have been happy as his wife. I hope you
are not letting that trouble you, Mrs. Wythburn?”
“Perhaps it is annoyance rather than trouble. Mrs. Greenholme herself
told me, and naturally, I had an unpleasant ordeal to go through. But
the worst of it is, Margaret, that the people are setting very
disagreeable stories afloat. Mrs. Greenholme said it was reported in the
town that Mary and Dr. Stapleton had gone off together.”
“Oh, the slanderous tongues! How dare they give utterance to such
abominable falsehoods! I should feel disposed to try to trace the lie to
its source, though really it would be waste of time, for no one who
knows Mary could believe it.”
“But I am sure that something is wrong with Dr. Stapleton. He is not in
the least like himself. He looks ten years older since Mary’s
disappearance. And his charges are almost double what they were. He is
making the poor pay now, which, you know, he never did before, for he
has always been most attentive and kind to those who could not pay him.
He is often away, and cannot be found; and when he is summoned he is
absent-minded and disagreeable. And people say all this looks
suspicious, especially as he and Mary were known to be great friends.”
“Oh, my dear Mrs. Wythburn, every one will know that it is only a
coincidence! Dr. Stapleton must have some trouble which he does not care
to publish; but, of course, it has nothing to do with Mary. I am very
sorry for him; he has always been so kind and good. But I hope for every
reason that Mary will soon let you know where she is, and then all this
will be made right.”
Mr. Wythburn entered the house while they were talking, and he was in
excellent spirits.
“We shall be happy to see you in London, Margaret. We have not yet
selected our town house, but when we have there will be a room for you
in it. And we are going to catch Mary and chastise her. We have spoiled
the child by sparing the rod. Now we shall alter all that!”
“It is rather late to begin, is it not?”
“Better late than never. But do you know, Margaret, I am coming to think
that Mary is right. Some of us do not deserve to be called Christians,
or to have any comfort, because we spend our lives on such a low level.
Mary shall train up her parents in the way they should go.”
“That will suit Mary very well, no doubt; for that is what all young
people feel called upon to do in these days.”
“And I think we needn’t be very unhappy about her. I am thankful that on
her birthday I made over that money to her and gave her the cheque-book.
She will not want for anything that money can buy, and that is a great
comfort.”
“Let me help you to get ready,” suggested Margaret; and before she left
the boxes were packed, the carriage was ordered, and Mr. and Mrs.
Wythburn were almost as jubilant as if they were going to London on
their honeymoon.
The hot afternoon was wearing towards evening when Margaret started on
her homeward journey. She elected to walk, for it was delightful to be
out of doors, and having nothing to cause her to hasten her steps, she
might linger in the green lanes and sunny fields as long as she pleased,
and so the burden of care was rolled away.
How blue the skies were and how fresh was the air! Margaret felt that
everything was friendly towards her. The flowers seemed to look into her
eyes as she touched them with caressing fingers. She had always a
feeling that they knew who loved them, and could be happy or sad as
other and bigger things were. She never gathered them to die in hot
rooms, or faint their lives away, plucked and then neglected. She loved
and cared for them, and thought they knew it. The birds were growing
silent, but a few even now sang to her, and she answered them.
Yes, my Father cares for you,
Little birds amid the blue;
Praise Him, and I praise Him, too.
You know little of His care;
I, who feel Him everywhere,
Voice my love in praise and prayer.
You a little while may sing:
I will love and praise my King,
Yonder, in unending spring.
There was no one in sight, and Margaret’s sweet, clear voice rose and
fell as she pleased. Presently she was too happy even to sing, for God
seemed so near to her, and all things so glad that her eyes grew dim for
very sympathy with the world. A little aside from the path, and near a
gate, was a beautiful ash-tree, whose roots provided a comfortable seat,
and she sat down to rest, and was presently lost in thought. Some one
was approaching, but she did not see or hear him until he was almost
close to her. Then she arose and turned, her face lighted with the
thought that had been last in her mind, and confronted John Dallington.
He came eagerly forward, a great gladness in his heart.
Margaret was glad, too, as the rose colour in her face might have told
him, and she lifted her eyes a moment to his with all the pleasure in
them; but they fell before his gaze, for it told her almost too much.
“Which way are you going? Home? So am I. Let us go together—_together_.”
He lingered on the word, for it was sweet to him—he would that they
should always go together! “Margaret, say you are glad to see me, if you
honestly can.”
“I am unfeignedly glad,” said Margaret in a low voice, and she asked
herself how she could possibly be other than glad? But she was almost
frightened to find how great the joy was, and how necessary it became
that she should keep her feelings under control.
Ah! what a walk that was! They were both so young and so noble—so
loving, too,—and all Nature was in sympathy with them. They had plenty
to say—at least Dallington had; but the moments when they said nothing,
and a soft silence fell upon them, were the sweetest, for they were side
by side, and could glance into each other’s eyes when they did not hear
the voice which was to the other the best-loved music of the world.
Time passes swiftly under such conditions, and the distance across the
fields appeared as nothing. Quite before they expected it the spire of
Darentdale Church became visible, and then Dallington turned from the
path.
“Let us go this way,” he said. “We do not want to get home just yet, do
we?” Margaret hesitated. He asked, “Are you too tired to go farther?”
“No; I am certainly not too tired,” she said. “But I have been away all
day, and my grandfather may have wanted me. I must return soon.”
“Very well; we will not go far. But tell me about yourself,” he said.
“Do you know that I went to the chapel on my first Sunday evening at
home, and saw you?”
“Yes, I know.”
“I wondered very much what made you do that thing? It could not have
been pleasant; was it?”
“Indeed, it was not.” Margaret was silent for a few minutes; and then
she continued, in the low tones which she always used when she was
deeply moved, “The fact is, that a change has come over me lately. I was
always helped to form habits which were of the better sort, and I
thought myself a very good Christian until a little while ago, when,
after I had read a book opposed to Christianity, I began to really study
the New Testament.”
“And what did you find?”
“I found Christ.”
“Of course!”
“No; it was not ‘of course’ at all. I had read it many times, and found
a great deal about Him that was interesting and beautiful. But I had not
found _Him_, which is quite a different thing. It is as if I had been in
the dark, and a sudden flash had lighted up everything.”
“I wish the flash would come to me! I am anxious to see that Sermon on
the Mount put into living form.”
“But it can never be while it is considered to be merely an exquisite
literary production, to be praised and patronised. It has to be
acknowledged as a code of laws absolutely binding on those who profess
to be the disciples of Him who proclaimed it. But it is impossible for
these laws to be entirely obeyed except by those who have found in
Christ the Regenerator of themselves. Don’t you think so? I used to
admire Him and venerate Him, and perhaps fear Him a little; but now it
is all so different; I know Him, a living, reliable, present Friend and
Companion. And I love Him because He first loved me.”
Dallington looked into the beautiful eyes, alive with feeling, and said,
“And He is really _real_ to you?”
“Real to me?” she cried. “I am not more real to myself. And it is all so
wonderful!”
“And that ceremony in the chapel was the outcome of all this? And, I
suppose, you mean to live up to it?”
“I am certainly going to try.”
“Margaret let us try together. I cannot let you go without telling you
that which is my heart. Do you remember what the last words were which I
said to you before I went away?”
Margaret had grown pale, and was trembling. “You must not say them
again,” she said.
“But, indeed, I have been saying them ever since, and I shall say them
as long as we both live. I chose you for my own dear love when I was a
boy, and now that I see you as you are—oh, Margaret, surely you must
love me a little, because you see how dear you have been to me all these
years!”
“But you know,” said Margaret, very gently, “that I must not let myself
care for you. The old reasons remain still.”
“I know of no reason in the world that should keep us apart. When I
spoke to you before I was not my own master; but now I am free to decide
for myself. Oh, my darling, if you love me we shall be so happy.”
Margaret turned from his pleading eyes as she answered, “You have the
duties and responsibilities of your position. You must not be unfaithful
to them. And you must not marry one who is beneath you; and——”
“Beneath me! Oh, Margaret, do not talk nonsense! I cannot bear it. The
only inequality there is between you and me is that I am not half worthy
of you, not half good enough for you. And you know already that I have
my troubles—money troubles, and others—so that life is going to be a
fight for me, as it is for most men. I am very much worried already. No
man needs a good wife to help him more than I.”
“I hope you will find one, my friend,” said Margaret, bravely. “No one
would rejoice more heartily than I to see you happy and prosperous. You
must look for some one who can help you financially as well as in every
other way.”
Dallington laughed a little bitterly. “My mother has been telling me to
marry money. I scarcely expected Margaret Miller to give me the same
advice. You are like the rest of the world after all, I suppose. Do you
mean to marry money too, Margaret?”
“Are you going to be cruel to me?”
“No, dear; but neither must you be to me. Margaret, listen to me. I will
not persecute you with unwelcome attentions; but I will not give you up
until I discover that you are promised to another. You have grown so
lovely and so sweet that, of course, you may have already learnt to care
for some one else”—Margaret smiled—“but I do not think you have; and if
you say No to-day, I shall ask you again. I have thought of you in every
land to which I have gone. I have compared, or rather, contrasted—all
women with you. Once, when I was ill, a strange feeling came over me
that you were praying for me. It was my greatest hope when I returned to
England that at last you would accept me. I have been very faithful to
you, Margaret, because I love you—I love you! Darling, give me my answer
now.”
They were standing under the shade of a tree in the lane behind
Margaret’s home, and none saw or heard but the birds. The girl hesitated
for a few seconds. It was no use to try to persuade herself that she did
not care for him, for she knew better. He was searching her face with
eager eyes, and she dared not meet his passionate gaze. She had given
him love for love all along, and it was this that made it impossible for
her to care for those who in his absence had sought her hand. Ah! yes,
she loved him, and because she did his happiness should be dearer to her
than her own. Oh! if she could believe that it would be really best for
him, so that she might give him the answer he wanted, and which was
throbbing in her heart and trembling on her lips! Might she? Dare she?
True love is always humble, and there were strong reasons why Margaret’s
should be especially so; and yet——
“Margaret, my darling, you do care for me!” he said, and he drew her
gently toward him.
“Care for you? Oh, John, John!” It was no use; love is stronger than
anything. She yielded herself for a moment to his arms, and he took his
first sweet kiss of love.