“HIS OWN WAY.”
The reason why Mr. Samuel Smart spent that short holiday in Darentdale
became apparent a few weeks afterward when Margaret Miller received a
letter. The letter was as follows:—
“DEAR MISS MILLER,—Pardon the presumption of an old man, who is a
stranger to you. I knew Captain Dallington, and I once saw you when you
were a little child of three, and since then I have heard of you, and of
the great host of Young Crusaders who, in all parts of the country, are
learning to be good citizens because they are trying to be good
Christians.
“I am sorry that I have come to the end of my life, because life was
never so well worth living as now, when it is quite the fashion for a
man to give what he has got for the good of his fellows. I have
something which I also wish to give; but every man gives in his own way,
and I know—for I have dreamed of it by day and night—exactly how I wish
my gift to be administered. And I write to you because I have a great
hope that you will help me.
“Let me tell you a little of myself. I was born in a narrow street in
Bristol, and my childhood’s home was a house of four small rooms. My
father was a bricklayer’s labourer, who earned eighteen shillings a
week. He married early, and there were seven children. My father was a
decent man, who did the best he could, and gave all his earnings to his
wife; but my mother was a poor, incapable creature, who had been a
factory girl from the time when she was ten years old until she was
married, and who had not the least idea how to make the best of the
small means she had. I can remember her as a young woman, with dirty
face and ragged dress and untidy hair, sitting for the most part of the
day on the doorstep or by the fire, gossiping with the neighbours or
reading cheap papers while the breakfast-things were still on the table,
and no dinner was ready for my father when he came home. We lived on
bread bought at the baker’s; we were all dirty and ragged; there was
always a baby, and my mother never seemed anything but miserable and
cross. She used to beat us savagely at times, and though I have often
tried, I do not remember any time when she took me into her arms, or
taught me a useful lesson. And yet she was not what is generally called
a bad woman; she was ignorant and incapable; she had been vain and
uncontrolled, she had married without serious thoughts, and had not the
energy to meet the circumstances of her life, or fulfil its tasks.
“Our father was kind to us, and I do not think that he quarrelled with
my mother oftener than he could help; he never spent much money in the
public-house; he made his small wages go as far as they could without
his wife’s help, but she never seconded his endeavours, and our home was
as miserable as thousands of other working men’s homes are, and which
are made a thousand times more so by the hopelessness and idleness and
incapacity of the conscienceless women who are in them.
“We children went very irregularly to school, but began to earn a few
coppers, or to pick up odds and ends of food for ourselves in any way
that offered. I liked the quay better than any place, and used to spend
whole days there, and at last a captain who was going to sea offered to
take me. I ran home to ask my father and mother if I might go. ‘I don’t
care where you go,’ said my mother; ‘go where you like, only don’t
bother me.’ My father went back with me to the captain, and talked with
him, telling him I had no clothes excepting those I wore, and that my
mother was not very strong and could not see to me, and asking the man
to treat me well; then he patted my head and told me to be a good boy,
and gave me a penny.
“That was the last I saw of them for several years. Then I came back
with the ship, and went to see my people. Two of my brothers and a
sister had died, and my mother looked more miserable and dirty than
ever. I gave her some money but was sorry afterward, for the money was
worse than wasted, and my father was angry, and bade me, when I came
home again, give the money to him and not to my mother. I stayed a few
days at home, but there was no room for me, and after the first day I
felt that no one wanted me; and when the ship sailed again my heart was
hard and bitter, and I had resolved never to trouble my people with my
presence again.
“That is more than fifty years ago. I am not going to inflict upon you a
detailed biography, nor to tell you how it has come about that the son
of a Bristol bricklayer’s labourer has become a rich man, and is alone
in the world without a single living relative. But so it is. I have been
in England five years; but though I have spared no pains or endeavours,
I can find no trace of my brothers or sisters other than the registers
of their deaths. They seem to have left no children behind them.
“I am, therefore, free to do as I will with my money; and, naturally, I
should like it to benefit my native land. I have looked at the different
methods of doing good which others have adopted; but I do not quite like
any of them. I could leave a large legacy to a hospital; but it seems to
me better to nurse the poor in their own homes than in big places where
all are strangers. I could buy a people’s park, and present it to some
town which has none: but I have a hope that the future will bring the
people back to the villages. I could give my money to some grand scheme
for providing employment for the unemployed; but the worst of the
unemployed do not want work, and would not do it if they might. So many
benevolences commence at the wrong end of life. It is with the children
that Hope dwells. Your own Young Crusaders are the great makers of the
future, such as we wish it to be. But they are—most of them—working
lads. In a few years they will be falling in love with pretty faces, and
marrying them. And what then? Many girls are still in factories, as vain
and frivolous as girls ever were. What sort of wives will they make for
your Tri-colour Crusaders? How many years will it take for thriftless,
soulless women to undo what you are trying to do?
“I think if you had wanted money for your Crusade I would have given you
some of mine. I am, however, greatly rejoiced that you do not flood the
country with appeals and begging letters, but that this vast and most
important organisation is, like the great Sunday-school system, carried
on at small cost, which is met by local voluntary contributions.
“But that which I desire to see accomplished cannot well be done by
existing institutions, or without extra money.
“My wish is to provide a Training Home for young women who are about to
be married, where they may stay, free of cost, for six months, and be
under the influence of Christian women at the same time that they are
practising such household duties and economies as pertain to the wives
of the poor; and for such only as have no mothers to teach them, or
those flighty young girls who are not willing to be taught. Plenty of
such cases must be known to city missionaries, district visitors, and
all the other kindly souls who look after the poor and take an interest
in girls.
“Personally, I rejoice in the better wages now paid to the working man.
Whoever helps to make the prosperity of a nation should share in it. But
wages have less to do with the well-being of a family than most people
imagine. Two men are neighbours, they earn the same wages, pay the same
rent, have the same number of children; but in one case the people are
respectable and respected, in the other they are dejected, suspected,
and miserable. What makes the difference? A little bill announcing a
Band of Hope meeting is in the window of one, and a broken pane of glass
in the other. In the one case the man is steady and the woman is
industrious and thrifty, in the other, both man and woman are failures
in life and character. I know that human nature is exceedingly stubborn
and intractable, and that only the Spirit of God can change the heart;
but is not the Spirit always working? Have we not the right to hope that
many giddy young things, who would otherwise rush into married life
quite unprepared for its duties, may, under the influences of love and
happiness, be brought to take more serious views of their
responsibilities? I cannot imagine any better way of serving our country
than by helping to raise the character of the young mothers among the
people. I am casting no slur on the women of England as a whole; no one
has anything but praise for the hosts of loyal, loving, enlightened,
working mothers who are training their sons and daughters for high and
noble futures; but our great weakness and danger are in the multitudes
of other women, and it is the lowest class that is laid upon my thought.
“But nothing can be done in this matter except by women of courage,
tact, and strong character and goodness. I can find the house and the
money; can you find the organisers and the workers? Will you, dear Miss
Miller, for the love of Christ and your poor miserable young sisters who
do not know Him, undertake the management of the home? and will you love
them and care for them, and teach them what goodness is? I ask you,
partly because you are yourself young, and can therefore understand and
sympathise with girls, and partly because, from all I know of you, I am
assured that you can carry this idea forward to success, and mostly for
another reason, which is my own alone. My friend Smart has told me all
about your private life and character. And I have no hesitation in
saying that if you will do your part I will do mine, and with all
possible speed. A large, substantial homestead near the coast, in the
north-east of Yorkshire, has lately come into my possession. It could be
ready for you in a month. It will accommodate forty persons; and I will
not only pay all the bills, but will give a present of five pounds’
worth of household utensils to every girl who stays with you six months,
and satisfies you. I have an idea that this bribe may win some who would
not otherwise submit to any process of improvement, however kindly
performed.
“I am only like many other men of my day in my wish to remain unknown,
and to do this thing anonymously. You may call me ‘Friend Philip’ if you
will; and all our communications had better pass through the hands of my
solicitors—Messrs. Smart, Watkin, and Smart. I cannot but hope that your
reply may be in the affirmative. Think of the lives you may influence,
the homes you may bless; and I pray you help me in this important work.
We shall be the pioneers of the movement. Before many years are passed
all the big cities—London, Liverpool, Manchester, Leeds, and my own
Bristol—will consider a Training Home for Mothers as great a necessity
as a workhouse or a gaol, and will support one out of the rates. This is
surely a crusade for women; and it is worthy of your best powers. But if
you will not undertake it I must find some other means of disposing of
my money.—Believe me, with great respect, yours faithfully, FRIEND
PHILIP.”
Margaret might have been disposed to question the validity of this
letter but for one from Mr. Smart which accompanied it, and which stated
that the necessary funds for commencing the enterprise had already been
lodged with his firm, subject to her consent to act. She was, naturally,
greatly disturbed by the incident. How could she take up this work when
her hands were full already? And it was not of such a life that she
dreamed. No woman does. She may accept it, when God sends it, and find
it full of wonderful content and exquisite joy; but her early dreams are
of something very different from this.
Margaret’s thoughts were of John. She hoped to prove that one young
woman was capable of making one young man a good wife—when the time
came. Her pleasantest occupations had to do with economical
housekeeping, and her imaginings were of a bright little home where
hands that love made clever were instead of gold. But in that home, in
her dreams, there was always a seat for John’s mother, who had at last
taken to her arms the Margaret whom she once despised and hated, and a
pang shot through the girl’s heart as she acknowledged that this dream
was as far from realisation as ever. She had declared that she would not
marry John without his mother’s consent, and his mother had shown no
sign of relenting.
“Perhaps I am not to be happy, and God has sent me this work instead,”
she thought.
John was to call upon her that evening, but she scarcely knew how to
wait until then. She must show him this letter even before Mr. Harris
saw it, for John had the greater right. And what would he say but what
she had said already, that this strange man who had written to her must
find some one else to use his money and do his work?
And yet, as Margaret thought the words she corrected herself. “It is
God’s work, I am sure of that,” she said; “but I cannot think He wishes
me to do it.”
Margaret did with her letter as, many years before, King Hezekiah did
with his. And then she tried to wait patiently.
In the afternoon it occurred to her that it would be a good plan to
compel Mrs. Hunter to see her and talk to her openly. Naturally Margaret
shrank from the ordeal, but she thought it quite possible that good
might come of it. She would try to tell Mrs. Hunter that she need have
no fear that she would marry her son if that would be to separate him
from his mother, but she would point out to her that she had come to the
parting of the ways, and needed to decide on some action, and then she
would appeal to the mother’s love and see if the proud woman would not
yield a little.
Poor Margaret! After nerving herself to the effort she entered the
garden of John’s house, and saw Mrs. Hunter at the window. But the
servant informed her that Mrs. Hunter bade her say that she was not at
home.
So Margaret swallowed her disappointment and returned home. Happily for
her peace of mind, John came early enough to take tea with her.
“Margaret, my darling,” he said, “I am hungry for your love. I must see
you oftener than once a week, or I shall become a very disagreeable
fellow. What is the matter?” His eyes were searching her face, and love
made them keen. He saw that she was labouring under some excitement.
She thought she would not tell him quite at first about her visit to his
mother, if at all, for it would only give him pain.
“I want my tea,” she said; “let us have it cosily together. Even Graf is
out, and I do not expect any one to call. I want to ask you something?”
“What is it, my Madge?”
“The name of this wild flower. It is new to me.”
“Nonsense! It is not at all an uncommon flower. You must be blinded by
love, or you would have seen it before.”
“Perhaps I am,” said Margaret, demurely. “Another cup?”
But when the tea was drunk she could wait no longer.
“I have a letter to show you. It is from a gentleman,” she said,
lightly.
His brow clouded. “Who is he?”
“Ah! that is what I do not know. But you need not be angry. He has made
me a proposal; but he is a very old man.”
They read the letter together. At first John was pleased.
“It is a capital idea,” he said. “It is just what is wanted. Does not
everybody say that the great design of the Zenana work in India is to
train mothers? And there is not a town of any size in England but has
hundreds of mothers such as this man had.”
But as he read further he was not so satisfied.
“What does the fellow mean?” he said. “How perfectly absurd! He asks you
to do it. A pretty thing, indeed! You have something else to do with
your life, Margaret. I want you.” But he was very pale, and a fear had
taken possession of him.
“The letter has disturbed me a little,” she said; “but the writer surely
cannot mean that the scheme hangs upon my accepting or rejecting the
management of it. I am too young and inexperienced.”
“Of course you are,” John rejoined, hastily. “But oh, my darling, we
must not wait longer. Why should we? I am of age. I can please myself. I
am not under my mother’s control, and she is wrong to try to thwart me.
We should have to be economical, for I am getting poorer every day, and
the lack of money tries and troubles me greatly; but you would not mind
that. Say you will marry me, and will not let my mother come between
us.”
“John, dear, I dare not come between you and your mother. You are all
she has. There is no change for the better, is there? I tried to see her
to-day.”
“You did?”
“Yes, for I think if she would talk things over with me, she would feel
differently; but the servant told me that she was not at home.”
“We will see her together, Margaret, and she shall talk with you.”
“And, perhaps, it will be right for me to let her decide whether or not
I shall undertake this work?”
“Nay, my darling, why should she decide? It is for you and me to decide,
and we have done it already.”
But though he spoke confidently there was a great doubt at his heart all
the time, and Margaret had a curious feeling that she would have to go
to that old homestead in Yorkshire—if not willingly, then against her
will.
“Talk to my cousin Tom about it,” said John, “and also to Arthur
Knight’s friend, Miss Wentworth. It is she who ought to undertake this
thing. She is just the person for it.”
“Yes, I will see Tom to-morrow, and if she can spare the time we will go
to Miss Wentworth and lay the matter before her.”
The next day Margaret and Tom had a long talk about it, and Tom was most
enthusiastic.
“Margaret, I scarcely like to say it, because of John, for I do not know
what he could do without you; but you were made for this work. There is
nothing that so badly needs to be done just now, and God has given you a
very motherly nature on purpose for it. Do not hastily refuse this call.
I think it is from God.”
“I have not told my grandfather yet, and I must. And we shall hear what
Miss Wentworth says about it. But, Tom, most of all I want to know
whether there is any hope of John’s mother receiving me kindly.”
“Margaret, I am afraid there is not the very least chance of it. Aunt is
really dreadful about John’s love for you; and it is only right that I
should tell you.”
“Then, Tom,” said Margaret, slowly, “I think I must do this thing that I
am asked; not that I am able or worthy, but because it is given me to
do. I dare not separate John’s mother from him, and the state of things
that exists at present is really injuring him; so, for his sake—yes, and
for another reason—I feel as if I must say Yes. It is such a splendid
mission to be engaged in.”
“It is. And if I may help you, Margaret, I will. But we must not be
hasty. We have others to think of.”
“Yes,” said Margaret; “and I think John’s mother shall decide it for
me.”