DISCOVERED.
The alacrity with which Arthur Knight accepted Mr. Whitwell’s invitation
to spend the night after the Scourby political meeting at Hornby Hall,
and the readiness which he exhibited to prolong his visit, puzzled his
friend, John Dallington, exceedingly. It was as if Knight, one of the
busiest men in the land, had nothing whatever to occupy him, so entirely
did he yield himself to the passing pleasure of the time. John could not
guess what the circumstances were which gave to the incident an
irresistible charm, but Arthur felt as if he had found unexpectedly a
mine of treasure for which he had been willing to search the world over.
And Dallington was forced to acknowledge to himself that from some
reason or other his cousin Tom was more delightful, and his friend
Knight more happy than he had ever seen them.
Naturally the talk at the supper-table was of Scourby and its troubles,
and of the other places where bye-elections had resulted in similar
returns.
“It will be a lesson to us,” said Mr. Whitwell, “and I hope that in time
politics may assume a new aspect. After all, both parties are agreed
upon main points, for Conservatives and Liberals alike have, or are
supposed to have, the best interests of the nation at heart. Our
divisions are caused by our divergence of opinion as to the means by
which the same ends are to be secured.”
“Exactly; and this may be said of our religious differences. We all, or
nearly all, believe that salvation is through faith in Jesus Christ, and
that to be a Christian is to be a believer in and a follower of Him. We
believe, too, that the peace and well-being of peoples is to be secured
through allegiance to Him. Is it not wonderful, then, that both in
Christianity and politics we often seem as far apart as the poles?”
“Not at all wonderful,” said Tom, “seeing that man is always a combative
and disagreeable creature, and that the more civilised he is the more
stubborn is the animosity which he cherishes towards every one but
himself. Did you ever know a body of men in committee who did not waste
the time in discussion and disagreement?”
“Yes, I have frequently observed the phenomenon, Miss Grace; and are not
most things the better for being threshed out in discussion? Many men
means many minds; and in ‘the multitude of counsellors there is safety.’
There is not necessarily antagonism because there is difference of
method; but no one more regrets than I that these differences should be
accentuated until they actually create a division among those who ought
to be heart and soul together.”
“What names do you propose to give the new parties, Mr. Knight?” asked
Miss Whitwell.
“No names at all. We will try and get the things and name them
afterward. We want the party of righteousness to oppose the party of
wrong, that is all.”
“But, of course, that is exactly what we have now,” said Dallington.
“Every man believes that his own party is for the right and the other is
not. It is a question of standpoint.”
“Yes; but making allowances for that sort of thing, there is some common
ground upon which we can all meet, and men who have consciences ought to
occupy it while they make one grand united effort on behalf of those
whose existence is little more than a struggle.”
“All life is a struggle, though,” said Dallington, “and working men must
have their share.”
“I have been much interested in hearing of your plan in regard to your
own workpeople,” said Mr. Whitwell. “I hope it will succeed. You are
spending an immense sum of money on the new town which you are founding.
I know that because of the little I have tried to do on my own farm. I
hope you are not doomed to disappointment.”
“I am not afraid of that. I am spending all that I have at present; but
my London places occupy valuable sites, which I shall have no difficulty
in selling. My hopes are sanguine in regard to my people, although I
know that human nature is a very difficult thing to deal with. The
people need new natures more than anything, but I believe that we are
all greatly influenced by our environments, and my men shall have a
chance.”
“All sorts of good influences are being exerted upon young people
to-day,” remarked Mr. Whitwell, “and therein lies my hope for the
future.”
“Yes; and the wisdom and patience of those home missionaries who have
taken London in hand appear unfailing,” said Knight, glancing at Tom,
who returned the glance with a comical smile. “Several educated men are
giving all their leisure to the boys belonging to my establishment, and
there are some ladies who are bringing about very happy changes in the
homes of the people.”
“Miss Wentworth has not gone to Madeira this winter, Arthur, has she?”
asked Dallington.
“No; and she spends all her days in doing good. There is a young lady,
too, who is occasionally seen by the bedside of the sick, who is like an
angel of light”—Tom flushed violently, and shook her head
warningly—“but” proceeded Knight, “perhaps the best work of all is that
which is accomplished by an individual who seems to have no name, but is
known as ‘the Basket Woman,’ because she carries to the doors of the
people all sorts of necessary articles in a basket and sells them. She
is a lady of culture and refinement, very good and sympathetic, and most
sensible too, and she has brought about quite a change in one of the
worst courts of London. She appears to be alone; and at first I wondered
what her friends could be thinking of to let her be there in the midst
of so much that is degrading; but now the men of the neighbourhood would
not let a hair of her head be hurt, so entirely has she won their
confidence and affection. The Basket Woman is preparing nearly five
hundred people for their new home in Wales as I think no one else could.
She heartens up the women, and looks well after the children, especially
the boys. She has a large number of the young crusaders under her care.”
“What a wonderful movement that is!” commenced Mr. Whitwell; but Tom
interrupted him.
“Excuse me, father. I must ask Mr. Knight to tell us more of this Basket
Woman. What is she like? Is she young or old?”
“She is young and fairly good-looking, and quite devoted to her work.
But she gives me the impression of an individual who has had trouble,
and is even now undergoing considerable anxiety of some kind. She must
have private means, though she lives economically in cheap lodgings in
the neighbourhood of the people for whom she works, but she is able to
relieve distress when it is genuine.”
“It cannot be Mary Wythburn! I must surely have met her sometimes if it
had been she!” exclaimed Tom, forgetting herself for a moment.
“But you do not know Mr. Knight’s place or people, do you, Tom?”
inquired one of her sisters.
“I do a little—that is, one or two of them. I went to see a poor woman I
heard of who was ill near that neighbourhood. But Mary Wythburn! Is it
possible?”
“We had better tell Mr. Knight about Mary,” suggested Mr. Whitwell, and
John Dallington related the incident of the frustrated wedding. When his
friend had heard the story he was very doubtful as to Miss Wythburn and
the Basket Woman being the same individual.
“My Paradise Grove friend is far too sensible to have acted in that
manner,” he said.
“But I have a feeling that it is she,” said Tom. “I wish we had Mary’s
portrait that we might show it to Mr. Knight. Margaret Miller has one, I
will borrow it in the morning.”
“You will be able to spend to-morrow with us, Mr. Knight?” queried Mrs.
Whitwell. “I am sure you will be interested in what my husband is doing
for his tenants.”
“I shall have to leave about midday, unfortunately,” he said. “I have
made an appointment with the Basket Woman, who has been vainly trying to
waylay me for some time. She wishes to make a suggestion to me on behalf
of the people. The next day I have to be in Granchester again.”
“That is where Dr. Stapleton’s rich brother lives. I wonder if the
doctor will go to your meeting, Mr. Knight?” Then followed a little
account of the doctor’s doings as far as they were known.
The time passed all too quickly, although they talked far into the
night. Next morning John Dallington left early, and Arthur Knight had a
country ride with his host over the farm and along the roads. Tom was a
good horsewoman, and she accompanied them. Arthur enjoyed a long talk
with her; but she was determined not to give him the chance of seeing
her alone. He was intensely interested. He found her so pleasantly
piquant, so merry and entertaining, that sometimes he wondered if she
had two natures; for there was little to remind him of the sweet singer
who had comforted the blind woman only a short time before. He had no
opportunity to refer to the incident, or to say a word of their past
meetings, only as he was leaving Tom said, softly, “Give my love to
Sissie when next you see her, and also to the Basket Woman, if she
should prove to be Mary Wythburn.”
He had a pressing invitation from Mr. and Mrs. Whitwell to repeat his
visit, and this he promised to do at no distant date; but for a little
time he was full of engagements. He wished, very sincerely, that he
might become better acquainted with the youngest daughter of his host,
who puzzled as much as she pleased him.
Of course, he did not forget the commission which she had given him.
“When are you going to tell me your name?” asked Arthur Knight, when the
lady in grey presented herself before him as a deputation from Paradise
Grove.
The question disconcerted his visitor, whose cheeks flushed, while her
eyes sought the floor.
“Excuse me, Mr. Knight,” she said, “the name does not matter. Please
call me the Basket Woman, as usual.”
She stole a glance into his face, and saw that he was looking at her
intently; but she would not allow anything to interfere with the task
that she had on hand, and hastily proceeded to explain the cause of her
visit.
“I come as a deputation from Paradise Grove,” she said. “Fanny Burton
was to have come with me; but, unfortunately, one of the children in the
Grove was seized with croup in the night, so that we could not both be
spared. Your astonishingly kind proposition has been the subject of much
talk among the people, but I am afraid you will find the scheme more
costly and troublesome than you have imagined.”
“I suppose they are not enthusiastic, are they?”
“Perhaps it cannot be said that on the whole they are. Years of dull
poverty and hopelessness have taken all the spirit of enterprise out of
some of them; but many quite appreciate the offer, and are looking
forward with interest and expectation. I think the idea magnificent. And
I do not mean a single individual of my people to be out of it.”
“That is right. You will no doubt get your own way; and I am much
obliged to you.”
“But, Mr. Knight, they are in trouble about their furniture. What are
they to do with that?”
“Will they not take it with them? They will want it in the new place as
much as in the old.”
“But you do not forget what the old places are like, do you? If you
remember, there is very little furniture to speak of in Paradise Grove.
The beds and tables and chairs are all old, and most of them broken. The
houses, since we tore down the dirty paper and had all the walls freshly
whitewashed, are much cleaner than they were, and there has been a
considerable quantity of soap and water brought to bear, not only upon
the walls, but upon the furniture also. But still, I think it would be a
great pity if these old things were put into your new houses. It would
be a great expense, too—almost as much as they are worth to take them
down.”
“But what is to be done? They cannot do with absolutely empty houses,
and I am afraid very few of them have money to buy new tables and
chairs.”
“Certainly they have not. How should they have?”
“Do you propose that they should sell their old things and buy new with
part of the money?”
“I think, if it is not an impossible thing, for you to have the
houses—those for the poorest people, at all events—furnished for them,
with a few plain things which are absolutely necessary; it will go a
long way to make your idea a success.”
“Yes. And is the furniture to be mine or theirs?”
“Yours, until they have paid for it.”
“I suppose it might be possible, but it would be rather an undertaking
added to all the rest.”
“Yes, I know it would, and am not surprised that you hesitate. But you
could get so large an order completed for the whole at much less cost
than the people could individually; and if you undertake the furnishing
as well as the building of these houses, you will be doing it all very
completely, and can fairly make better terms for the people than they
could for themselves. Many of the better class of workmen have made
their homes comfortable, and will probably prefer to take their
furniture with them. It is the very poor who would be helped. If I may,
I would suggest that those who have goods to sell should prepare a list
of them, and then arrange to have them sold at public auction. There
will be plenty of buyers among the poor who are to be left behind if the
things are sold cheaply, as, of course, they must be, and then whatever
they fetch, after paying expenses, might be put down to the credit of
the persons who were owners of the goods.”
“Yes; some arrangement of the kind can no doubt be made. We will do the
best we can.”
“Thank you. I was sure you would. I often try to picture their delight
when they are really settled in their new homes, with their friends
about them, and so much of joy and comfort which they never expected
added to their lot.”
“It will be good to know that they all start comfortably in their new
homes. You have taken a great interest in them. I hope they will repay
your kindness.”
“They have done that already. They need to be carefully dealt with; they
must not be demoralised with gifts, but helped to make themselves
comfortable by their own earnings, and then they will be all right. I am
delighted with the change in the Paradise boys and girls.”
“Yes, so am I. You have dealt wisely with them, and gone far to prove
what an educated woman can do among those who, notwithstanding our
so-called system of education, are deplorably ignorant. I suppose you
had no idea, when you were graduating at the University, that you would
spend these months in slum-work.”
“No, indeed, I had not,” she said, and suddenly stopped, and looked at
Arthur Knight in amazement. “Why do you suppose that I have had a
University training?”
“I have heard so.”
“But who could have told you? No one knows anything about me.”
“Pardon me, Miss Wythburn. I was at Scourby yesterday, and I spent last
night at Mrs. Whitwell’s house near Darentdale. Your friend, Miss Tom
Whitwell, showed me your portrait. I had mentioned the Paradise grove
Basket Woman, and she cleverly jumped to the conclusion that you are
yourself.”
“It was like Tom,” she said, and hid her blushing face in her hands,
overcome with emotion. Knight considerately allowed her a few minutes in
which to recover herself, which she speedily did, and said, trying to
laugh, “So I am found out at last. How are all my people, Mr. Knight?”
“I suppose you know that your father and mother are not now in Scourby?”
he asked, gravely.
“Yes, I know,” she said, “for I have been to see. I had no answer to two
letters, although I gave my address in them, so one day I went down to
find my home shut up. Do you know where my father and mother are, Mr.
Knight?”
“You have been wrong, Miss Wythburn,” said Knight, gently, “so far as
your parents are concerned. They have been in London looking for you. I
am glad to be able to give you their present address.”
“Oh, thank you, so much.” The Basket Woman could scarcely repress her
tears.
“It is not my place to lecture you, and I apologise for doing so; but I
cannot help pointing out to you that you owe a greater duty to your
parents than you can possibly owe to strangers, even though the
strangers are the very poor, who greatly needed a friend. I quite
appreciate the real good you have been doing in Paradise Grove, but you
know as well as I that it ought not to have been done at the expense of
the happiness of your own father and mother.”
“Yes, you are right,” she said, humbly; “but I think you do not know all
the facts of the case.”
“I know some of them,” he said; “for instance, that you have the right
to wear the graduate’s cap and gown instead of the grey cloak.”
“I prefer the grey,” she said, brightly, rapidly recovering herself;
“and although my conscience has not been at rest, I have spent the
happiest months of all my life in Paradise Grove. But I am glad you have
seen Darentdale. Is it not lovely?”
“It is, indeed; it is almost as beautiful as our new place in Wales. Are
you going there with our people?”
“Oh, yes; unless my father and mother object. I will always take them
into my confidence in future. I need not tell you, Mr. Knight, that the
thought of them and what I have done to pain them has made me constantly
unhappy.”
“I can well believe that. I hope you will still be able to help the
people for whom you have made Paradise a real thing.”
“Nay, that is what you are going to do, if you do not spoil your lovely
valley with houses and factories.”
“I hope not; I think not. There are no tall, smoky chimneys, you know,
and there will be no noisy machines; all will work cleanly and silently,
thanks to the benign inventions of the age. And every house has a garden
attached to it.”
“Oh, it will be delightful,” she said, rising to leave. “And I will lose
no time in going to see my dear ones now.”
She could scarcely wait until evening, but as she had promised, she did
so. The talk with Mr. Knight had disturbed her considerably, and her
thoughts had flown back to her happy home life, and her pleasant college
days. She would not give up her work, she resolved nothing should cause
her to do that; but she was glad, indeed, to be going to live, though
only for a few days, the old calm, restful life.
“It is all right,” she said, as soon as the people gathered in the
evening. “Your cottages will be plainly furnished for you, and you will
pay for the furniture, and add to it afterwards. And, oh! it is a most
lovely place to which you are going. The sea is like silver and the
woods are like Paradise—ah, not such a Paradise as you know here! Now, I
am going to take holiday for a week; you will grant me that, will you
not?”
“Oh, yes, but mind you don’t stop longer than your time!”
“No, I will not. And now I must say good-bye, for I shall be off before
any one is up in the morning. I must make the most of my time, you know;
a week is not long.”
“She looks mighty glad about it,” said one to another, as soon as she
turned to go to her house.
“Yes, she does that. I think it’s right what they say; and she ain’t
really no Basket Woman!”
“Not she! She’s a lady, if ever there was one, and that I’ve said all
along.”
Before she could close her door a man presented himself.
“I want to send to my wife, ma’am,” he said. “I’m going to send her some
money, and tell her to get ready to go with me to this new place; but it
stands to sense as I don’t want all the neighbourhood, so to speak, to
know my affairs; and if so be as you’re too busy to help me, I don’t
rightly see what’s to be done.”
“What do you want me to do?” The manner of the speaker was patient and
sweet as ever, and the tumult in her own heart was made to subside as
she rendered the service which the man required.
“Well, I want a letter to go with the money, and I can’t write.”
“Oh, I see. Here is some paper. Now tell me what you wish to say, and I
will write it. First, take a seat, and make yourself comfortable. Now,
are you ready? Tell me how to begin, then.”
“My dear wife.”
“Yes.”
“I write these few lines to you, hoping to find you quite well, as it
leaves me at present; thank God for it.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve had the skyattiker very bad, indeed, lately——”
“The what?”
“Sky-attic-ker!”
“Oh! ah! yes; sciatica. Thank you; go on.”
“The skyattiker all down one side; but it is better now, through a
Basket Woman as give me some Holloway’s ointment. Beg pardon, ma’am.”
“Not at all! Basket Woman—ointment—yes; what next, please?”
“I hope the children are all right, bless their little hearts.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve got some news for you.”
“Yes?”
“Me and my mates are going out of town to live and to work, and I want
you to join me.”
“Yes?”
“So get things ship-shape with the post-office order what I send, and be
ready to come to me as soon as I send for you.”
“What next?”
“So no more at present from your affectionate husband, John Sturman.”
“Affectionate husband, John Sturman. There it is, then,” and the writer
proceeded to blot the page and fold the sheet. But the man looked very
dissatisfied.
“Stop a minute,” he said; “you had better put at the end of the letter:
‘P.S.—Excuse bad writing and bad spelling.’”
The letter-writer’s laugh rang out merrily, but she faithfully added the
postscript.
“Now for the address,” she said. “Have you a stamp?”
The man afterwards confided to a mate that the thought of going out of
town seemed to have been “too much for the Basket Woman,” for he had
caught her “giggling like anything.”