“FOR CHRIST AND THE PEOPLE!”
“And you are really happy, Mary?”
“As happy as it is possible to be in this world.”
“And you do not require any one but these people to fill your heart and
life? You are sure that you have never regretted Alfred Greenholme?”
Mary laughed merrily at the suggestion. “I do regret acting as I did,
Tom; but I thank God every day that instead of being Alfred Greenholme’s
wife I am at work among my dear people in this most beautiful place.”
“And no doubt Mr. Knight fully appreciates your services?”
“Mr. Knight appreciates everything that is done to help to make
Craighelbyl what he has set his heart upon its becoming—a model town
occupied by model people. It is not all easy, you know, Tom. We have
some obstreperous ones among us; but there is every inducement to the
people to behave well, because everything is done that can be thought of
to make them comfortable and happy.”
“And they are certainly a merry set, if one may judge from last night.”
“Yes; they have developed a capacity for enjoying themselves which is
remarkable when one remembers how they looked when they lived in
Paradise Grove.”
“I really must congratulate you, Mary, on being able to assist in so
good and great a thing as this. I should have liked the chance myself.”
“I am sure you would have, Tom. But now tell me of Margaret, and this
new idea of a training home for young housewives.”
The two friends were together on the shore, with a long afternoon before
them, and much to talk about. Mary wanted to know all that Tom could
tell of Scourby and Darentdale, of old and mutual friends, and of the
success of the new plans for helping the poor to help themselves, which
had been tried for a longer time in the places adjacent to Tom’s home
than anywhere else. When she heard the particulars of the suggestions
contained in the letter which Margaret had received she was delighted,
and almost wished herself back again that she might help.
“Margaret must undertake the management, and she will do it splendidly,”
she said. “Nothing must stand in the way. It is, of all other missions,
the one that is most needed in England.”
“I am not at all sure that my Cousin John ought not to stand in the way.
There are always private interests to be considered, and it is not right
that they should be ignored. But if Margaret abides by her resolution
not to marry him until my aunt consents, I quite think she may count
upon several years for this work. But whoever shall attempt it will find
the task bristling with difficulties. Those girls who most need to be
made to think do not wish to; and they will not voluntarily go into
exile during the time of courtship—it is not likely.”
“But the bribe of five pounds’ worth of furniture will secure many. And
I am sure there must be hosts of girls whose hearts and consciences are
made tender by love, and who would most thankfully embrace such an
opportunity of making themselves more worthy to be wives.”
“Oh, yes! And it will be a great thing to help these; but I am afraid
the lowest of the low will not be reached.”
“Even if it be so, it will be much to prevent the class just above the
lowest of the low from sinking down into it. What are you going to do
yourself, Tom? Will you help Margaret?”
“Yes; I think so,” said Tom. “We have pulled together well, Margaret and
I; but I have not as much of the missionary spirit as she.”
Mary laughed. “The real truth is, I think, that you will have to be
married. I am sure that in your secret soul you have a great love for
‘quiet household joys,’ shared by somebody.”
“Shared by whom?”
“Ah! we shall all know some day.”
“When?”
“How can I tell when? Perhaps soon. Certainly at the right time.”
The days of Tom’s holiday passed very pleasantly in gambols and rambles
with the children, in walks over the hills with Mary and Dr. Stapleton,
and at the different classes which were vigorously carried on in the
delightful “Town of Progress.” Everything which they saw charmed the
visitors, and compelled the Doctor to remark that if Craighelbyls could
be multiplied England would at once deserve the name of Christian, which
years ago she claimed.
Tom felt all the time that if only Mr. Knight were at home the thing
would be perfect. Since the place owed everything to him, he ought
really to have been there. She wondered many times whether he knew of
her visit, and whether it would make any difference to him if he did;
and, after much thought, she concluded that it would not. He was the one
man in England in whom the hopes of the people were centred; he had been
most kind and pleasant during those days when she had met him in London
and the short visit which he had paid at her father’s house, but it was
not likely that he, of all men, should give a second thought to her.
And yet she rather resented one little circumstance. She had not felt
the slightest possible interest in the man until he had made her! Why
had he put that something into his manner, and then made no further
sign?
Still, it was, of course, an indisputable fact that no one could see
Craighelbyl without feeling the keenest interest in Arthur Knight, so
that was, no doubt, the reason why Tom thought of him, not only every
day, but many times during the day.
In the meantime Mr. Stapleton had been making the most of his time, and
had been assisted by the officials to the information which he desired.
That which he saw he most heartily approved. The buildings were not for
a year’s wear only, but were meant to last, and Mr. Knight had not put
the work into the hands of a contractor that it might be done cheaply,
but he had only cared to have it well done; and, consequently, all that
modern science had established in regard to public buildings, factories,
and the homes of the people had been used in the erection of
Craighelbyl. Mr. Felix Stapleton had his dreams. If he should ever be
able he would himself be the founder of a similar place.
Neither he nor his brother could spare many days, even for the study of
so interesting a place as Craighelbyl, though the Doctor was
particularly charmed with some matters, and especially with the
experiences of Dr. Armitt, with whom he had many conversations. Mr.
Knight had placed Dr. Armitt at Craighelbyl, not so much that he might
cure the people when they were ill, as keep them well; and,
understanding this, the latter was trying various plans. Once a week he
gave a medical lecture; but his audience was a different one on each of
the four Thursdays of the month. One lecture was to men only, another
was to mothers, one was to children, and the fourth was an ambulance
lecture open to all. The Doctor knew how to make his talks chatty and
humorous; he had always some story to tell which raised a laugh, and he
was listened to the more regularly for that. Then, besides, there were
examinations, and competitions for prizes; and by these means he got
together the majority of the residents. He was also the Sanitary
Inspector of the place, and a merciless examiner he made; so that all
careless occupants of houses had a bad half-hour whenever he visited
them, for he was, as one woman said, “awfully masterful and
tyrant-like.” He was; and, what was more, he could keep it up, so that
it was really less trouble for the men and women to be regularly
particular and attentive to their duties than to clean and turn out
places while the Doctor stood fuming and storming by. And the Doctor did
this part of the work all the more thoroughly because the community was
at present in an entirely healthy condition.
Dr. Stapleton would have liked to change places with him; and the two
men parted with the understanding that if a second doctor were required
Stapleton should be told of the circumstance.
He was loth to leave Craighelbyl without that which he had really come
for—a talk with Miss Wythburn; and the time for his departure came
before he had the opportunity. But on the last night of his stay he
spoke to Mary’s father of that which was in his heart.
“She is so much occupied with Miss Whitwell and with her work that I
have tried in vain to see her alone even for five minutes,” he said.
“Perhaps Mary has intentionally contrived that it should be so,” said
Mr. Wythburn. “Women are curious creatures, Doctor, and they read men
like a book—or think they do. I don’t think Mary cares to get married to
any one. But you shall have a chance to ask her.”
Tom Whitwell was not nearly ready to return, and neither could her
friend spare her so soon. It was, therefore, easily managed for the
Doctor to have his opportunity.
“There need be no beating about the bush,” he said. “I think you must
know what brought me here, Miss Wythburn.”
“Everybody knows that,” said Mary. “You came to see Craighelbyl.”
“Yes; but, most of all, I came to see you. I am not vain enough or
stupid enough to suppose that you have ever thought of me since you left
Scourby.”
“Oh, yes; I have thought of you often, Dr. Stapleton,” said Mary,
gently.
“But I have thought of you every day, and in spite of myself. I have
tried to forget you, because I have feared that you could not return my
love; but I cannot help myself—there is no other woman in the world for
me.”
Mary’s eyes filled with tears, for she was so sorry for him. She had
feared this all along, and yet had hoped she might be mistaken. She
liked the Doctor so much too—but that was all.
“It is very good of you to care for me,” she said, “after all that has
happened; but I am sorry you do, because I can never be married. It
would not be right.”
The Doctor misunderstood her, and answered angrily, “Why is it not
right, when Greenholme has been married all this time?”
“I was not thinking of him, but of myself. I have my work here, and am
quite content. It is not every woman who desires to be married, or who
ought to take upon herself the responsibilities of a home. I have chosen
a different lot from many, but it is my own deliberate choice, and I
cannot go back from it.”
“Pardon me,” said the Doctor, “it is a very unnatural choice. I think
the real truth must be, not that you cannot love, but that you do not
care for me. Your occupation is a noble one, but you would not be
prevented from doing the same kind of work if you were happily married.
Is not much of the philanthropic work of the time done by women whose
hearts are large enough to take in the whole world, and yet are true to
one?”
But Mary did not wish to pursue that inquiry.
“It is of no use, Doctor,” she said, “you must accept my decision as
final.”
Dr. Stapleton did not feel that he could do so, but he judged it better
to say no more. He had still his work, and since the burden of his
brother’s affairs had been lifted from his shoulders, he was much more
happy than before. Moreover, he was trying to live down the unreasonable
prejudice of the people, who quite believed that there was something
wrong about him. Considering all the circumstances of his life, he was
not in a despairing mood when the train that carried him moved out of
the station, and he smiled back pleasantly into the merry face of Miss
Tom Whitwell, and waved her a farewell, which was also a congratulation
upon her extended holiday.
“I am sorry they have not seen Mr. Knight,” said Tom; “it would have
made their visit much more pleasant.”
“And yours too,” agreed Mary, glancing at the brown face of her friend;
“perhaps he will return before you leave, Tom. I wish he may, but he is
very busy just now. Father had a letter from him this morning; but it
was only a short one, and full of his hopes about the new General
Election, which is coming. He did not say when he would be back, but we
may hope it will be soon.”
It was scarcely likely to be; for although Arthur Knight’s personal
interest in his people and their well-being was great, he was even more
solicitous in regard to his country. He rejoiced to know that from a
thousand pulpits and platforms the imperative duty of the Church was
being announced, and the need of Christian union insisted upon. To a
great extent, he knew, and deplored the knowledge, that the Church had
lost her hold upon the masses; and he thought that the coming contest
would be a life and death struggle in more respects than one. Would she
awake and put on her strength, and do the work to which God had
appointed her in the emergency that was at hand? He did not know; but he
hoped.
If England would send to Westminster a body of picked men, pledged not
to party or to politics, but to Christ and His kingdom, determined to
make short work of even high positions and vested interests if they
stood in the way of righteousness and the people’s good, a body of men
of high character and sound sense and iron resolution, who were afraid
of nothing but the sin that disgraced the nation, a body of men chosen
by the united churches, and well-tested in the places they were to
represent, who would fight together under one banner, “_For Christ and
for the People_,” then, indeed, there was hope for the world and for the
Church.
But if not?
During that time of stress it was noticed that Arthur Knight’s voice
rang like a clarion. He spoke as he never had spoken before, and his
urgent thought and impassioned speech roused many thousands of men.
There was coming to be a look of stern determination on the faces of the
people that had seldom been seen during many years; and they were making
a promise—which they meant to keep—to themselves and one another, and
even to God. This is what it was: That they would not rest until
dishonesty and cruelty, drunkenness and impurity, were put away from the
high places and the low places in England.
Many sneeringly asked, “Do you hope to convert the world by Acts of
Parliament?” and the reply was “No; we do not! Conversion is another
matter; but we will so punish the perpetrators of these wrongs, and so
restrict their power and influence, that they shall not insult the
better sense of the English people as they have so long done in past
years.”
Committees were formed everywhere, and meetings were held in vestries
and in chapels, for the Church at last realised what her business was,
and meant to do it.
In the very midst of the rush of meetings Arthur Knight stood aside for
two days and let them go on without him. He disappointed many people;
but he believed that he was doing something of the utmost importance
while absenting himself from the meetings.
He spent those two days in listening to and talking with the Rev. Peter
Macdonald.
Mr. Macdonald was the son of a Canadian farmer; and he was himself, to
use his own words, “a priest of the Church of England.” His ancestors
were Scotch, but they had settled in Canada before he was born. They
were nearly all members of the English Episcopal Church, and young Peter
early evinced a marvellous love of Church history. The result of his
study was that he dreamed day and night of what the Church might become
in England if only she were as great and as faithful as she might be. He
grew into a young man of fervid imagination and impassioned speech; and
conducted a mission in Canada which was productive of great good. Then
he longed to visit England, and at length his bishop sent him over with
many letters of introduction, which secured him a welcome in high
places. He was “of the Church Churchy,” as some one told Knight; but he
spoke as few of her sons have been gifted to speak. And the burden of
his speech was this:—
“You have lost too many of the people! Get the people back. Our Church
is theirs, and they must come home. They threaten us with
disestablishment; _let us disestablish ourselves_. Let the endowments
and the positions go. They are as nothing in value compared with the
people.”
Knight resolved that he would know this man. He found him at first
rather suspicious of the Dissenter, for such Arthur declared himself to
be, and Knight found some distasteful things in Macdonald; but neither
man was hard to win, and, when they had spent two days together, they
were fast friends, and had resolved to drop all differences, and fight
side by side for Christian unity.
Instead, therefore, of ignoring each other, or laying plans to thwart
one another, these two young men of many gifts, who had also much
sanctified common-sense between them, resolved to work into each other’s
hands. Each, therefore, revealed his designs for the future in perfect
assurance that his confidence would not be abused.
At last Macdonald said, “Knight, I am going to introduce you to one who
is a silent spectator of our work—a young man, but the greatest man in
England.”
Knight rose from his seat in excitement. “The Prince?” he cried; and the
answer was, “Yes, the Prince.”
Arthur Knight and Peter Macdonald both believed more in peoples than in
princes; but there was at this time in England a young man who had won
great respect and affection for his nobility of character and goodness
of life. He was not a Prince by title, though one of his parents was of
the Royal family; but the people called him “the Prince,” because he was
princely. It was known that he loved the people, as they loved him. His
tastes led him away from the pursuits and pleasures commonly adopted by
his peers, and he was foremost in every enterprise that had for its end
the amelioration of the conditions of the poor. He lived as quietly as
was possible, for rumour declared that some of his relatives were a
little jealous of his growing popularity; but it was impossible for him
to remain in obscurity, for he could not but have a share in the best
things of his time.
“Do you know the Prince? How have you managed to make his acquaintance?”
inquired Knight.
“In a very simple fashion. He came to a church in which I was preaching,
and after the service he invited me to his house. If only he had no
Royal blood in him, what a sublime work that man might do in England!”
“The little Royal blood that he has in him will not hurt him, but do him
good,” said Knight. “You are honoured in having an acquaintance with
him; and do you really mean that he is coming here?”
“No, I am to take you to him. He wants you to speak freely to him of all
your work, and you will find that his suggestions are worth their weight
in gold, for Solomon’s wisdom has been given to him.”
A little later the three young men were seated together in a large room,
substantially, but not luxuriously, furnished. There was hope for the
country in such a trio—a descendant of the Royal Family, a son of a
Canadian farmer and a clergyman, and a layman, the son of a rich
manufacturer. That the three should have anything in common was one of
the wonderful signs of those wonderful times; but that they had in
common everything which each held dearest was more remarkable still.
They conversed together, as young patriots must needs do, of their
country and the services which they desired to render her; and when they
parted, with a strong clasp of the hands and a “God speed you,” each
felt that he had received strength which would nerve him for his future
life whatever duties it might bring.