A CITY OF HOMES.
It was Saturday afternoon at Craighelbyl. The sun shone on the woods and
the mountains and lighted the beautiful blue sea, while the birds sang
in the trees, and the flowers smiled upon the banks as if they all cared
for the London settlers and were doing their best to make them happy. It
was an ideal day for a holiday, not too hot to be unpleasant, but sunny
and breezy together; and the people, as they stood in the doorways of
their homes felt themselves drawn away to the objects of beauty on which
their eyes were resting; and many who had never thought of walking long
distances in London were preparing to go down to the sea, or up to the
highest point, in order to see the view.
The first working-week was past, and the freshness of the new conditions
had gone with it. Everything that occurred in those few days would for
ever stand forth with crisp distinctness in the memories of the people,
to whom such experiences were so new as to have been previously even
undreamed of. Such a week no one had known before; and, the best of it
all was, that it was not merely one week in a life given as a great
treat, and never repeated: it was the beginning of a new life for them
all.
“It is a pleasure to work in such a factory, and I will put in for the
master the best week’s work I have ever done in my life.” One of the
girls said this at the breakfast-table on Monday morning, and her father
repeated it to his fellow-workmen later in the day. It expressed what
every one felt. There was a unanimous resolve that Mr. Knight should not
suffer in his circumstances for all the good which he had done for his
people.
“Bless him!” said a woman, who had worked for Mr. Knight, senior, nearly
fifty years. “Bless him! He will die as rich as Creasote, or else I
ain’t no prophet. Such a man as gives his goods to feed the poor, and
throwed up his London places ’cause they was dens, and don’t mount no
ladder hisself without trying to drag us all up arter him; why it stands
to sense as he have a reglar gold-mine in this world, and the cattle
upon a thousand hills hereafter. As for me I wish I had fifty pairs of
hands, they should all rattle along at railway speed before he should
lose a penny for all he has done for me.”
“I wish I was cleverer at it,” rejoined a girl, who was working near
this woman. “I’ve never troubled to make myself a first-class worker,
nor I ain’t cared a bit about the work except for the pay; but now I
shall go to those evening classes, and learn all I can, and see whether
I can’t do credit to Mr. Knight. I’ve never took pains before, but I’ll
take pains now, as sure as my name is Sarann.”
Many other “Saranns” made the same resolution, and Arthur Knight was
touched to see how gentle all his people seemed to become; and how they
continued to manifest their gratitude in a dozen ways, though many were
too shy to endeavour to express it in words.
He was himself profoundly thankful for all that had been accomplished.
But he was exceedingly solicitous as to the future. He took into his
confidence some of his helpers, and consulted them as to the best means
of meeting certain emergencies which he feared would arise.
“The men will work in their gardens or go down to the shore, and perhaps
be quite happy for a time,” he said; “but afterward there may be a
reaction, and I am afraid their thoughts may go back a little
regretfully to the public-house bar where they sat and smoked and drank
and swore in perfect freedom. Perhaps if we cannot let them have the
beer they must have the skittles and the smoking. It is no use to try to
wind them up too high. You must help me to find some ways in which they
can all be amused.”
“I am going to try to get them interested in gardening,” said Mr.
Wythburn. “Coming as I do from the country, I have been able to bring
with me a quantity of splendid peas and beans, as well as cabbages and
potatoes; and I have talked to a lot of the fellows this week about what
they can do with their bits of ground. The soil isn’t bad, and in a
fortnight’s time there will be some home-grown cress at the family
tea-tables, which will be a sort of first-fruits, and will encourage
them to get on with the planting or sowing of other things. I have
undertaken to give practical advice on the subject of crops to the
community, and am not without hope that digging will—for the present, at
all events—quite take the place of drinking.”
“I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Wythburn,” said Mr. Knight, “and to
you all, for what you are doing for me. It will, I think, be a good plan
to call in the aid of those who happen to have been born in villages,
and get them to lend a hand to their more inexperienced neighbours.”
“I have some creeping plants which will grow rapidly. We shall put them
outside the houses, and in a little time they will cover the new walls
with beauty. A word of commendation from you, Mr. Knight, will go a long
way to encourage the men.”
“It shall certainly be spoken,” said Arthur Knight.
But the men were even less interested in the outside of their homes than
were the women in the inside. It was the first time that they had ever
had a real home in the lives of many. And every woman took a pride in
making the best of what she had. The houses were plainly furnished—there
was nothing answering to a drawing-room so far as Mr. Knight’s
arrangements went; but there were two rooms besides the scullery, and
one of them, intended to be the living room of the family, was large,
light, and comfortable. There was plenty to be done still in order to
beautify the places, and add to their convenience; and the women,
especially the young ones, were eager to use up their Saturday
half-holiday for this purpose.
The love of home is born with every Englishman, and the women in whose
hearts it does not live are untrue to the traditions of their race.
These women, who had been brought into Wales by Mr. Knight, had
forgotten many things; but few there were who did not honestly try to
remember the old lessons of their girlhood, when the word was passed
round to them: “The places are clean and comfortable, and you are
expected to keep them so.” And, therefore, on this Saturday there was an
immense amount of scrubbing and rubbing, of making dainty curtains and
pretty rosettes, of hanging up pictures and ornaments, and of showing in
a dozen ways how dear the new homes were becoming to the hearts of those
who dwelt in them.
“Craighelbyl must have another name,” said Mary Wythburn; “something
that means a city of homes; for that is what our place will become.”
“It is that already, thanks to Mr. Knight and to you, dear Basket
Woman,” said a girl, looking with loving eyes at her friend. “My father
is delighted at the thought that the rent which he pays is to be really
purchase-money, and that in ten years the house will be his own. Mr.
Knight does not know how he has saved father. Every Saturday he used to
sit and drink, and then come to our wretched home cross with himself and
every one else. To-day he is gone with Mr. Wythburn to get two trees to
plant in his own garden. Mr. Wythburn said he could take the men where
they could find young saplings which they might transplant. Father is
looking for a sycamore and an elder tree.”
“The elder tree grows rapidly,” said Mary, “and perhaps that is the
reason why your father has chosen it.”
“No, the reason is that there was an elder tree in the garden of the
house in which he was born, for my father was a country boy. I should
prefer a birch; but perhaps that would not grow, and the elder will.
Miss Wythburn, please, I am sent to you as a deputation. Some of the
girls want to know whether they may come and look-through your house to
see if they can imitate the pretty things which they are sure are in
it.”
“Oh, no! Of course not. What impudence!” The exclamations were not Mary
Wythburn’s but Fanny Burton’s, whose face flushed with anger, and whose
tones were those of indignation. Mary laid a restraining hand upon
Fanny’s shoulder, and answered the request very differently.
“I will ask my mother; and I am sure that she will be happy to show you
the clever contrivances about which she has been busy all the week.
There is nobody like my mother for the fancy-work which beautifies a
home. I believe that if she had nothing but an underground kitchen to
live in she would contrive to make it look pretty.”
“But, of course, she does not want everybody to copy her ideas; it isn’t
very likely,” said Fanny, grudgingly.
“Yes, Fanny; it is not only likely, but certain, that she will be glad
to see her plans repeated in any number of homes. My mother is a very
large-hearted woman indeed; it is worth while for you to know her better
than you do.”
Fanny was silenced, and Mary Wythburn went away to arrange with her
mother for the object-lesson in housekeeping which some of the girls
wanted. Mrs. Wythburn was exceedingly amused. She was living in most
simple style, having taken very little furniture into the new home. But
Mary was right. No place could be other than pretty and home-like where
her mother was, and, though the house was new and the furniture plain,
there was something which made it look altogether different from all the
other houses in Craighelbyl. All the girls who wished passed through the
rooms and admired or criticised their arrangements, and the gentle
hostess not only allowed them to examine the objects which interested
them, but explained how they were made. This was greatly appreciated by
the young housekeepers, who were anxious to improve themselves and their
homes.
Later in the season there would be introduced at Craighelbyl some
Saturday occupations and amusements for the people if it should be found
necessary; but at present they all—men, women, and children—were too
much interested in making their homes to care for anything else.
The conveniences and beauties of the factory buildings, where most of
them had worked for ten hours a day during the week, had delighted and
encouraged them greatly, but it was each man’s home that made him feel
independent and glad.
When the day was waning Mary Wythburn was sitting in her own little
room, when there came a tap at the door, and Fanny Burton entered in
response to the cheery “Come in” for which she listened. A close
friendship existed between the two girls, who had been so differently
educated but who were now brought together in constant intercourse.
It was a beautiful evening. The setting sun dyed the mountains and the
sea, and lighted the stone houses of the new settlement. Birds sang on
the branches of the trees, and the scent of some wild flowers which had
been gathered in the woods filled the room.
“What a change from Paradise Grove!” said Fanny. “It is not like the
same world. To be here, with all one’s own people, so near London, and
yet so far away from its misery, seems wonderful.”
“Do you think the people regret any part of the old life, Fanny?”
“Not yet. Perhaps they will, though; but surely not very much, nor for
long.”
“Listen! There is singing.”
“Oh, yes! There are to be all sorts of little gatherings this evening in
the homes of some of the men. They are so ready for Sunday that they
wish to begin it overnight. There will be no vacant places at church
to-morrow. Everybody who went last Sunday wishes to go again.”
“I am glad of that, for Mr. Knight’s sake.”
“And the people’s sake also. This has been the most beautiful week!
People’s hearts are full of joy and gratitude, and there have been a
hundred home missionaries among them, seeking to lead them to Jesus, and
so make the happiness more real and lasting. I don’t think there has
been a Christian man who dared to hold his tongue. I know of many for
whom the new life has become an accomplished thing this week.”
“I am very glad. And to-morrow afternoon we are to have a Bible-class
under the beech-tree here. I hope it will be a class of women only, or
chiefly.”
“It will be, because Mr. Knight has a meeting for men, and they will all
go. The life of the master is more eloquent than his words; but it is a
treat to listen to his addresses.”
“I hope the desires of his heart will be fully gratified, and that he
will never be disappointed in this place.”
“Oh, he never will be, surely! for God’s blessing will be upon such an
enterprise. How many changed lives there are among us! And my own is the
most changed of all. I have been thinking of the Sunday when you first
took me into your room, and talked with me, after I had offered up my
first prayer. I sometimes can scarcely think that I am I, so wonderfully
different is my whole life. And how much I owe to you, my own dear
friend. You have taught me what real religion is; and I am so happy that
no words can express my joy and thankfulness.”
Miss Wythburn caressed the girl, whose voice faltered with emotion, and
her eyes grew dim with tears.
“God has been very gracious to us both, and all,” she said, “and we must
show our gratitude by making other people as happy as we are. I wish we
could have all the East-end of London here with us.”
“I am afraid I am glad we cannot,” said Fanny; “but I will not be
selfish. That would be too wicked.”
Fanny thought of her own words half an hour later. She had said
good-night to Mary, and had turned at her own door, to take a last look
at the fading sunset, when a hand was laid upon her arm, and a voice
that seemed to bring Paradise grove back upon the scene said, “Is there
any room for me here?”
Fanny turned, with a flush of anger on her face, and looked into the
eyes of Andromeda Jones. “No,” she said. “You have no right here. You
are not one of Mr. Knight’s workpeople. Go away!”
“Don’t send me away, Fan. Think of what you used to be, and have some
pity for me. I am sick of the old life. I have walked all the way from
London because I want to be good, and have a home, and be saved like you
are.” And poor Drom’s voice died away in a sob.
“There is no room here for you,” said Fanny, endeavouring to disregard
the words which still lingered in her ears. She did not want to pass on
to this interloper the good which she valued so highly.
“No room? It is a wide place, and not crowded,” said Drom. “I am very
tired, for the way was long and dreary. You cannot mean that you will
not take me in after all? You have not been served so yourself, Fanny.”
It was very true. The girl of the slums had become gentle, and refined,
and very happy, all because some one had taken her into a loving heart,
and she had been dealt with tenderly and graciously by the Divine Friend
and the human ones. She looked across at the western skies, with the
beautiful evening glow upon them and hesitated. One more would make very
little difference here, where there was enough and to spare of all good
things. That she knew, but did not wish to remember it now. It vexed her
exceedingly that this girl, whom she had never liked, but who would
always remind her of the worst part of the old life, should have
followed her there, and should still be so persistent.
“You have not brought any clothes with you, I suppose?”
“No, I had none to bring. There was but little work all the winter for
me, and I have been only able to keep myself, poorly enough, too; there
have been very few luxuries for me, I can tell you. Oh, Fan, I am so
sick of the old life. Can’t you help me to a chance?”
“You know, Drom, this place is a private estate. No one has any right
here except by Mr. Knight’s permission.”
“Oh, yes, I quite understand that. But you might speak for me, or get
the Basket Woman to do it.”
The colour flashed into Fanny’s face.
“The Basket Woman?” she said. “The lady of whom you speak is Miss
Wythburn.”
“I can’t help it,” said Drom. “You know we always used to call her the
Basket Woman. I suppose you are mighty fond of her; she would do
anything you asked her, and Mr. Knight would do anything she asked him;
so it all depends on you whether I am to be sent away from the place
like a thief, or whether a home can be spared for me here. Anyway, as I
have walked more than twenty miles to-day, I suppose I may take a seat
on your doorstep for ten minutes.”
Fanny began to feel ashamed of her inhospitable mood. “Come in, Drom,”
she said; “we must put you up somewhere for the night. If you go back to
London it must be by train, and there is no train from here till Monday.
We will make the best of it. But I must report the case to Mr. Knight,
of course; it is for him to decide it.”
Fanny led the way into her own bedroom, which was plainly, but
comfortably, furnished. The only thing in it that was not absolutely for
use was a text, framed, and hung upon the wall. Mary Wythburn had given
it to her, and Fanny wondered sometimes whether the words had been
selected that they might preach a constant sermon. They were: “Freely ye
have received, freely give,” and they seemed fairly to stare at her on
this evening when she took her unwelcome guest into her room. “I cannot
feel glad to see her,” her thought replied to the text; “but I will be
good to her, because I have myself received so very much.”
“This is too fine for me,” said Andromeda, as she looked at the white
bed and the clean aspect of the little chamber. “I can sleep anywhere,
Fan, for I am so dead beat.”
“The more reason why you should be comfortable,” was the reply. “I can
make you up a little bed here while you have some supper. And you would
like a bath, wouldn’t you?”
The poor overwearied girl cried a little, and Fanny relented and became
kind; but she was almost too tired to eat or think, and very soon she
was fast asleep.
When she awoke the next morning the light was streaming into the room,
the soft winds were stirring the leaves into whispers, and the larks
were pouring down their music upon the happy earth. Fanny was kneeling
by the side of the bed, with an open Bible before her, and a look of
quiet happiness upon her face. Presently she closed the book, and her
eyes and her lips moved as if in prayer. Andromeda watched her most
curiously, lying very quietly the while, and wondering what it was that
Fanny was saying, and whether there was really a God who cared to
listen, and who could answer prayer.
The eyes of the two girls met as Fanny arose from her kneeling posture,
and seeing that Drom was awake, she went swiftly toward her, and kissed
her.
“Why do you do that? You know you don’t like me,” said Drom, but her
face lighted with pleasure, and her heart beat more quickly.
“Yes, I do like you—a little,” said Fanny. “I am not a very affectionate
girl, but I have been reading about Jesus, and talking to Him, and after
that I always feel as if I love everybody.”
“Even me?”
“I was not good to you last night, Drom. I am sorry for it now. I am not
naturally good and kind, like Miss Wythburn, but I try to be. I am sure
what you have done, in following us down here, will please her, and I am
not going to be cross any longer. Will you let me lend you some clean
things? You and I are about the same height and size, so you will manage
nicely. See, I have laid out a dress.”
Andromeda did not know what to say, so she said nothing in response to
the surprising kindness of Fanny, who went down to make things right
with her mother. This was not difficult, as Fanny was quite the ruling
spirit in the home, and when their visitor presently appeared at the
breakfast table she was greeted kindly, and a plate and cup and saucer
were set before her. Indeed, Mrs. Burton was much more pleased to
exercise her hospitality than Fanny was, and it was a real pleasure to
her to take the stranger under her protection, and show her the wonders
of the new place.
“Come to church,” said Fanny’s mother, “and I will introduce you to Miss
Wythburn outside. She will have a kind word for you, I know. She has for
everybody.”
“But I have not been to church for a long time.”
“You will enjoy it all the more for that. Come out and look at the view
from our house. It is beautiful.”
Indeed it was. Drom shaded her eyes, not more to keep out the light than
to hide her tears, which, for some reason that she could not understand,
were very near the surface. As she stood thus, a pleasant voice spoke to
her: “Good morning! How did you get here? I saw you arrive last night.”
“I walked.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted a chance and a home.”
“And you shall have both,” said Mary Wythburn, placing a kind hand upon
the girl’s shoulders. “For Christ’s sake I welcome you, Andromeda, and
will find you some work to do.”
“Oh! are you sure that I shall not be sent back? I have no home anywhere
now.”
“You shall have one here,” said Mary, confidently. “This is a city of
homes, and there is certainly room for one stranger who desires to live
a better life.”
“I do desire it,” said Drom. And Mary took her to church.