A NEW EMIGRATION.
“Oh, Mr. Arthur Knight, I do b’lieve you listened, because you were so
close to the door when it came open!”
“Yes, Miss Sissie Hancourt, I did. The singing was so beautiful; who
could have helped it?”
Arthur Knight had tapped at the door of a room in which an old blind
servant, whom he had pensioned, was living; but the tap had made so
little noise that it was not heard, and he waited a few moments to
listen. A sweet, tender voice, which he recognised with a throb of
pleasure, was preaching that wonderful sermon in song from the text,
“Oh, rest in the Lord, wait patiently for Him,” which few can hear
without being hushed into quietness. He wanted to make the acquaintance
of the singer, and to know who she was and all about her, so he stood
outside the door until the sweet solo was ended; but from some cause the
door opened almost before the last word had died away, and his entrance
was precipitate. He apologised for it, and was sorry to disturb the
little party of three, who looked the picture of contentment. The old
servant was listening with a smile upon her white face, and the singer,
who was evidently getting as much pleasure as she gave, held on her
knees the little talkative child, who looked for once entirely happy to
be silent.
The young lady rose to leave, after courteously responding to Arthur’s
greeting, and could not be persuaded to remain, although Sissie pleaded
earnestly enough. “It’s only Mr. Knight; he doesn’t matter, you know. Do
sing again. He will be sure to go directly.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Arthur; “please do not let me interfere in the
least. How came you here, Sissie?”
“I am only here till mother calls for me. Geoff was coming, too, but he
could not make haste to get ready. He was sweeping his teeth such a long
while.”
“What was he doing, Sissie?”
“Sweeping his teeth, don’t you know, with a brush. Everybody does it.
Mother says we must take care of our teeth, so Geoff is nearly always
sweeping his to make them quite clean. What are you all laughing at?”
“Oh, Sissie Hancourt, you are a rich treat,” said the young lady,
kissing her. “Now, be good, and wait with Mrs. Smith until your mother
comes for you.”
“Don’t go, I like you. Mr. Knight, please go away yourself, and then my
nice young lady will stay.”
“Do not be unkind to Mr. Knight, Sissie. My cab is waiting, I heard it
stop at the door. Good-bye, Mrs. Smith, I shall come again soon.”
“Do, dearie, it is such a comfort to see you.” The poor woman often
spoke as if she saw, though she was quite blind. Her young visitor shook
hands with her, and touched her shoulder caressingly, and then Knight
conducted her to the cab, looking rather wistfully into the pleasant
face, and wondering if he dare ask her name.
“May I tell you something?” he asked. “You spoke to me some time ago
about the dwellings of my people—do you remember?”
“It was impertinent of me to do so; but I was feeling very strongly for
that poor woman, and, of course, I did not know that you meant to do
anything for your _employés_.”
“How could you know? It is good of you to take so much interest in the
people; and because you do I should like to tell you that I am preparing
to take my works and workers away together. I have bought some land in
Wales, and am building such dwellings as I think you would approve. Next
spring I hope the place will be ready, for there is a colony of builders
hard at work there. I could not do what I would here, and it seemed to
me that this would be the better way.”
“What a good idea! Do you say that the place is already in course of
preparation? I see your name often in the papers, but I have never read
of this project.”
“No; we have managed to keep it out of the papers, for a wonder; but the
place is being rapidly completed.”
“Have you told the people?”
“Not yet. I have been wondering whether it would be wiser to do so. Do
you advise me to tell them soon?”
“I do, partly that it may comfort them, and partly that they may
familiarise themselves with the idea. You have not the _élite_ of the
working-classes in your employment, and the change which is needed is
more in themselves than in their circumstances, though when one thinks
of the environment of the people it is little wonder that some of them
are bad. I am glad they are to have a chance.”
She drove away with a pleasant smile, and Arthur Knight wished he could
have talked with her for hours instead of minutes. He was determined to
find out who she was, if possible, so he returned to Mrs. Smith and
Sissie.
“I am sorry I frightened your friend away,” he said. “What is the lady’s
name?”
“She is Miss Grace. She lives in the country, and sometimes she brings
me fruit and flowers and vegetables, and she reads and sings to me. She
has a beautiful voice,” said Mrs. Smith.
“She is a pretty lady,” added Sissie, “and I shall go and see her when I
know where she lives.”
“Miss Grace? Is that her only name?” asked Knight.
“That was what she said we were to call her, and her home is in Kent,
but I don’t know where.”
And that was all the information which Arthur Knight could gain.
In the evening of that day, after he had visited the classes, where,
under the best tuition that he could provide for them, the boys and
girls in his factories were being trained for their future lives, his
thoughts recurred to the remark which Miss Grace had made respecting his
people. It was quite true; he had _not_ the _élite_ of the working
classes in his employment. The low wages, and the general system on
which the works had been carried on, had not secured many of those men
and women, who, because of their nobility of soul, their spotless
character and high ability, belong truly to the upper classes of this
country, although they are but artisans and labourers. There were a few
of these, and Knight knew and honoured them; but most of his men and
women were of the lower sort. He was not sorry for that, for he and his
helpers, including Miss Wentworth, who superintended all sorts of
pleasant endeavours for the girls, believed that these same people
could, by kindness and firmness, be so brought under good influences
that a change for the better would be effected. And much had already
been accomplished. The language of the people had been purified (though
not until several had been dismissed for swearing), and their behaviour
and appearance had been greatly improved. Every Sunday afternoon Mr.
Knight held a service for his own people in a tent which he had erected
in his own grounds, and he was greatly encouraged because this effort
helped considerably to bring master and men into more intimate
relationship with each other. His pleasant, hearty addresses were
appreciated, and as soon as the men understood that his life in all its
bearings was in full accord with his words, many of them were prepared
to give him a respectful hearing. He had not convinced all that he was
their friend, but he was certainly going the right way to do so.
And he decided that now he would take the people into his confidence,
and tell them about the places that were being made ready for them, and
of which he often thought with pride. Accordingly, he invited them, one
Saturday afternoon, to assemble in his grounds; and they came—men,
women, and children—and filled the space before the old house.
“My friends,” he said, “I want to explain to you my plans for the
future, and make a proposition. In the first place, let me tell you that
I have determined to close all my works in London, and I have to place
before you a scheme of emigration.”
This announcement filled some of the people with dismay, though others
saw the twinkle in the master’s eyes, and more than a few had an inkling
of what was coming, and waited with interest the development of their
employer’s idea.
“I know what sort of places many of you live in, and they are not the
houses I should like you to have,” he said. “I know the rents you pay,
and that without a great addition to your wages it is impossible for you
to find better ones; and, therefore, I say you must emigrate. But,
knowing how dear to most of you this old England is, I do not propose to
ship you off to other and foreign lands.”
Loud cheers greeted this assurance.
“You know that my father left me a large sum of money, and much of it is
already spent; so that it is quite possible, unless you will help me,
that I shall become a poor man. I have spent the money in the purchase
of an estate, on which I am having built a model town, in a beautiful
district in Wales. You will find there friends to welcome you, who are
going to spend their lives in helping you, having already taken up their
abodes in these places. There is in course of erection a church, a
technical school, an elementary school, a building which in time is to
be a free library and reading-room, and there is also a people’s park
and recreation ground. In neither of them is there a public-house, and I
do not intend that there ever shall be; but in connection with the
library and reading-room there are a refreshment and dining-room. There
are numbers of working men’s homes, comfortable, and as pretty as one
could make them, each with a piece of garden attached to it, and each so
built that it will be possible for a man and his family to live in it in
decency and comfort at the lowest rent that will pay. The workshops and
factories and the whole place will be lighted by electricity, for plenty
of light is a necessity; and in each of them there will be an abundance
of those other necessities which God intended should be free to all His
children—plenty of beautiful, health-giving, fresh air, and pure, good
water. Now it rests with you to make my plan a grand success, or a
miserable failure; for what I propose to do is to remove my business
bodily, and you with it.”
The excitement, which had been growing here became intense, and a
deafening cheer rang through the crowd.
“My great wish is that you should be able to live under very different
conditions from the old ones—that you should get fair wages for your
work, and your money’s worth for your money. If you are willing to agree
to my stipulations, then I will advance you the money which you require
for your travelling and other necessary expenses. You know that this is
an age of great competition. You know, too already, that I have resolved
not to have bad materials used or manufactured in any business of mine.
‘Knight’s goods’ shall be good, and worth the price that is charged for
them, whatever comes; on that I am quite determined, even if the
determination should mean ruin. But if you will help me it shall mean
honour, and the highest kind of prosperity to us all. I propose,
therefore, to pay you the wages which your trades unions have decided
are fair, but I want you, by extra industry and skill, to earn more than
your wages. I propose that you should one and all become partners in the
concern, and share the profits according to the labour and skill which
you invest, so that if it be made a paying concern we shall all get some
benefit from it, and if a losing business we shall all lose together.
You know how to render it a success. Care, ability, industry, and
enthusiasm will make the thing go, and the lack of these will bring
everything to a standstill. If you are men enough and women enough to
carry this idea forward, then I hope you will come with me. And bring
your children too. After receiving a good education, such as will make
them able to compete as artisans with Germans, or Frenchmen, or any
other nation under the sun, they shall be taught also the trades of
their fathers. But if any of you love your bad habits better than this
new idea, then do not come with me, for I do not want you. If you mean
to do as little as you possibly can for your money, if you mean to be
loafers, and spend your wages in drink, we will not waste any money in
travelling expenses for you, because I shall not employ you, nor allow
you to live in any of my houses. If there are any wives here in love
with thriftlessness and idleness, who will let the new houses get as
untidy and uncomfortable as the old ones, they may stay in London, for
there are no pawnshops in my new places, nor any room for wasteful, idle
people of any kind. But if you are willing to leave the bad habits with
the old life, and turn your faces to the new, then you shall be assisted
by all possible means. I want you to be my friends, as I am yours; but
it is only right to tell you that you are not going to serve an easy,
good-natured sort of master if you serve me. Whoever breaks my rules
will leave my employment, so let none say that I have not given due
notice of my intention. To let a man or woman off who is found lazy or
drunken, or even incompetent, since I am willing to provide instruction,
is not to be really merciful to him or her, and is to be unjust to the
others. No gambling, drinking, or dishonesty; but plenty of pleasure of
the best sort; plenty of music, entertainment, lovely scenery, good
wages, and as much real happiness as one can provide for another—these
are to be the accompaniments of your new life. But happiness and
well-being are not for others to secure for us; we have to decide each
for himself in regard to these things. I appeal especially to the young,
whose lives are before them, if they will not resolve to make the most
of this opportunity. I now leave you all to make your choice. A month
from to-day you must hand in your decision in writing to the foreman of
your department, each writing the word ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ and signing his or
her name; and the head of each household must also write the names and
ages of the family wishing to go. And some time in the spring we will
have our new emigration.”
More than a few went away to dream of the future, and prepare for it.
But Mr. Knight was mistaken if he thought that his action would be
universally appreciated and approved by his employés; and if he could
have overheard the remarks which some made as they filed out into the
streets, he would have been considerably enlightened.
“What do you think of that, then?”
“I call it the crackling of thorns under a pot.”
“What I want to know is, where’s a fellow’s liberty to come in?”
“That’s what I says; I ain’t agoing to be made a teetotaler willy-nilly,
and give up my beer for no young jackanapes like him. Not I! I be a bit
too old for that sort of thing. No, no, says I, you don’t catch old
birds with chaff, not a bit on it.”
“And I says ditto. None of your buttercups and daisies, and no publics
for me. I am a man, I am, and I ain’t agoing to be a child, nor yet a
slave. I shan’t go.”
“No, Jim, I guessed you wouldn’t as soon as I heard what he said. You
couldn’t be happy if you mightn’t get drunk twice a week, could you?”
“You mind your own business, and let me mind mine. I shall do as I like,
and you may do the same.”
“Thank you; as for me, I shall try the new life. There isn’t much to be
got out of the old one, I’m thinking.”
“What nonsense it is for him to talk about sharing the profits! As if he
would! A fine lot will come to your share!”
“I’m not sure about that. A good many masters are trying that on; and it
answers, too! The men put better work in, and more of it, if they think
all the reward doesn’t go to somebody else.”
“I’d sell my chance for a pot of ale.”
“Yes, I dare say. A friend of mine down at Hull was in just such a thing
as this, and a fellow sold him his chance for a shilling. But when the
end of the year came he wished he hadn’t, for his chance told up to
seven pounds ten.”
“Ah! a likely tale that.”
“It is a true one, any way.”
“I shall make my man go, because of Polly’s eyes,” said a woman.
“Polly’s eyes are dreadful bad.”
“What is the matter with them? Is it inflammation?”
“No, its ulsters. The doctor says its her health fell in ’em, and she
wants fresh air. That settles the matter for us. Fresh air she wants,
and fresh air she shall have, now there is a chance.”
“The fresh air will make a man of Polly,” said a person, who was dressed
in better clothes than most of the men.
“Does the gentleman mean,” asked a young woman, timidly, of the last
speaker, “that we are all to go and live in the country?”
“Yes, that’s his idea. How would you like it?”
“I should love it. I go every summer for one half-day. Oh, it must be
beautiful to be always there, and see the green grass and all the
daisies and primroses.”
“Oh, yes, my gal! All very pretty while the summer lasts, but when the
winter comes where would you be?” said the man who had been called Jim.
“Out of the London fog,” was the reply, and there was a general laugh at
that.
“But how about my father? I couldn’t leave him behind; he’s only got me
to work for him.”
“Very well, then; you must put on your paper ‘Yes,’ and your name, and
then say, ‘I must take my family with me—that is, my dad,’ and I bet
something will be done for you.”
“What’ll you bet, Jack? There ain’t got to be no gambling down there,
you know.”
“And a jolly good job, too,” said a young man who had heard the last
remark. “I lost a pretty penny on yesterday’s horse, and where the money
is to come from to pay up I don’t know. I expect we shall be fools if we
don’t take this offer.”
This opinion was decidedly in the majority. And, indeed, the more the
matter was talked over and commented upon the more attractive did it
become. And, as may be imagined, there was a vast amount of talk during
the rest of the day and the Sunday. Paradise Grove was a most lively
place for once, and nobody wanted to be in his or her own house, but
everybody wanted a chat with the neighbours. Some of the remarks were
doleful enough, for most of the women of Paradise Grove took a dislike
to Mr. Knight’s idea, and it is doubtful whether, but for the efforts of
“the Basket Woman,” they would have agreed to it. But she spent the
whole of that Saturday with them, and by her cheery congratulations and
hopeful words heartened everybody up. The poor things, who had known
nothing but grinding poverty all their lives, shrank from the
strangeness into which they were going, and believed beforehand that
they were certain to be, as one girl expressed it, “deadly dull.” They
did not want life to become strenuous. There was no ambition in them.
They would rather be as they were—in the old familiar places, within
reach of a gin-shop, and where they might be lazy and untidy to their
heart’s content, and be free to do as they liked—than nerve themselves
up to this new life. They did not want to be better off, they said, they
were satisfied as they were, if people would only mind their own
business and leave them alone.
Their friend laughed at them, and drew the picture of their future in
glowing colours. She was not surprised at the apathy of the poor; the
rich are apathetic, too, with less than half the reason. The dwellers in
Paradise Grove were what they were because of generations of neglect and
suffering. It was not their fault that they had no ambition, and no
hope, and she pitied and did not blame them. But she had made up her
mind that Paradise Grove should be left comfortably vacant, and that the
little company she had taken into her care, and put down safely into her
very heart, should enjoy to the full the good things that had been
offered.
“Are you going down there, Basket Woman?”
“Of course I am. I should not like to be out of that. Besides, I shall
want to know how you will be getting on. And you will want me just as
much there as here.”
“And how about the parish doctor? What are we to do without him?”
“You won’t want him. I expect you will all pay your own doctor, or have
a club doctor, or something of that sort.”
“And do you think Mr. Knight will allow any fun?”
“What nonsense! Of course he will want you to be as merry as possible.
Do you suppose he wants to make you miserable? Does he look like it
now?”
“Will he allow dancing?”
“He will allow everything that is right. Why, you haven’t begun to dream
of the good times that are in store for you.”
But the people, even those who were willing, were anxious about ways and
means.
“What are we to do for furniture, Basket Woman? Ours looks a deal better
since you’ve ’namelled it, or whatever ’tis you’ve done. But most on ’em
are poor bits of things, and can’t be made naught else. They do very
well when we’ve only got a room, or, at most, two, to put ’em in; but
they won’t look nothing at all in a house; and I should be ashamed to
turn mine out for all the neighbours to see how poor they be, and how
few there is on ’em—I’d sooner not go at all.”
“Yes, so would I,” said another. “And, besides, most of the furniture in
this Grove ain’t none too clean, and he won’t like it, I reckon, if we
takes all sorts of things down there with us.”
“No; that I am sure he will not,” replied the Basket Woman, who wondered
if Mr. Knight had the least idea of half of the details involved in his
scheme. “Shall I see Mr. Knight for you, and explain your difficulties,
and discover what he can suggest? Will you send me to him as your
deputation?”
“Yes, we will send you.”
“And I will take Fanny Burton with me. You will send her, too, won’t
you?”
“Yes, yes! hands up. There! we all agree.”
“I don’t know whether it will be better to have a man or two in the
deputation.”
“No, no! You go and settle everything for us. You don’t want no man. I
won’t say that they haven’t their rights, but they’re poor fish whenever
there’s anything got to be done. You go, Basket Woman?”
“But you must all tell me this! Will you abide by what I settle for you?
Do you trust me enough for that?”
They looked at her, and then at one another, and then back again at her;
and next a man took his pipe from his mouth, and clearing his throat,
delivered himself of the following sentences:—“I ain’t no speaker, I
ain’t, but I say for one as I’d trust that there Basket Lady any
lengths. She’s the best friend we’ve ever had in this ’ere Grove, and
she knows us, and what we like, and what we won’t stand; and she won’t
prove no sneak, I’ll lay my life on that. This Grove ain’t been the same
place since she come round a-basketing; nor our homes ain’t been the
same neither, and we’ve most of us fell in love with our old women over
again, all through her; and I say, here’s our duty to her, and what she
says is right as between Mr. Knight and us, I’ll stand by.”
“Hear! hear! So we will all. Hooray for the Basket Lady!” said another,
and a hearty cheer was raised, in which both men and women joined.
For a moment or two the recipient of all this public honour could not
speak. Her lips trembled, and her eyes filled with tears. It was a grand
time for her; how grand only those can know who stake their happiness
and very life on the good of others. Two lines of a hymn rang through
her soul—
Oh, happy if ye labour,
As Jesus did for men.
It will seem strange to many who read these words, but it is the truth,
that never before, and never after, in her whole life did she know such
a rush and ecstacy of gladness as she knew then.
“Dear friends,” she said at last, “I thank you very much. As long as I
live I will be your friend; and I hope you will not be afraid to go with
me into this new life that Mr. Knight has made possible for us. I will
see him on Monday morning, and on Monday evening, after work-time, I
will let you know what he says.”