ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
Miss Thomasine Grace Whitwell locked herself in her room, and read twice
over the letter which she had received from the Rev. Peter Macdonald.
The letter—a very short one, but one which went directly to its
purpose—was a manly declaration of the love of its writer. “I have known
you only a short time,” it said, “but I know you well enough to feel
that the greatest joy I could have would be in the knowledge that you
cared for me—a knowledge that would fill me with inspiration for my life
and work. I am not of those who think that a clergyman can better fulfil
his mission by debarring himself from the sweet domestic ties of home
and wife and children. He can, certainly, unless his wife be a real
helpmeet; but if she be, surely he will be the better fitted to help and
sympathise with the dwellers in the multitudes of homes which
Christianity has made possible for the people. I do not pretend that it
is entirely because I have seen your ministry of mercy among your people
that I ask you to come to my help; it is because I love you, and because
it is only since I have known you that the alluring picture of a home of
affection, with a gracious woman at its head, has formed itself in my
mind. It is frequently there now, and always it is of yourself that I
think in connection with it. Will you be good to me, and make the
picture a reality, not because I am worthy, but because you are kind?”
It goes without saying that Tom was profoundly moved and impressed by
this letter, and equally surprised by it also. “What can such a man as
he see in me that he should care for me?” she asked herself, and the
answer was not forthcoming. She admired and revered Mr. Macdonald
exceedingly. It seemed to Tom that she had never been converted, or
experienced any real religion until she knew him, and listened to his
teachings; but it had never occurred to her that he could be like other
men, or that human love could be essential to his happiness. Tom was a
little disappointed as well as greatly astonished and flattered.
She knew what her answer must be; and she also knew, though it filled
her with shame to acknowledge it to herself, that the true reason was
because another knight had won her fealty. Why _he_ was silent when she
had expected him to speak she could not tell. She felt sure now, since
months passed and brought neither Arthur Knight nor a word from him,
that her lot would be that of so many other women of her time—a lot
which contained great joy, if not the bliss of which almost every woman
dreams, and the larger ministry of love which embraces many instead of
one. And Tom deliberately chose it for herself now. There was only one
possible person for her; and if he did not wish to share her life, no
one else should.
We are not going to tell any tales of Tom. She was a sensible girl—too
sensible, perhaps, to waste time and shed tears in useless regrets. And,
moreover, as she often said to herself, “No woman can have everything.”
She would not have liked to give up her share of philanthropic work
which was occupying the best energies of so many of the women of the
day; and she had only to do from compulsion what they did from choice.
Hundreds of educated women deliberately chose to be patriots instead of
parents; and they proved in their own experience that love is not
everything. They wisely saw what—happily for England and the Church—was
being increasingly realised, that fathers and mothers of children are
culpably unfaithful to their trust and duty who are busily engaged in
their endeavour to save other people’s children while their own are
unsaved; and now men and women who had families, instead of being
besieged with requests that they would leave their homes and preach in
the Sunday-school, or help in the Band of Hope, were left to meet the
responsibilities of their state, or, at the most, were asked to receive
and instruct, with the members of their own family, a few other boys and
girls who were not amenable to ordinary efforts. As for Tom, she knew
that it was a pleasure to her to be in the thick of the grand work of
the times, and this self-knowledge came to her aid.
Her letter to Mr. Macdonald left no doubt as to its sincerity. Tom
showed it to her father before she sent it.
“Are you sure that this is what you mean, Tom? There is no woman in
England who would not be proud of the honour which you are refusing to
accept,” he said.
“I know that, father, quite well. Indeed, the honour lies upon me, and
afflicts me night and morn—the burden of this honour unto which I was
not born.”
“Do not be flippant, my dear; this certainly should be considered
gravely.”
“Father, don’t you know that I am really grave enough even to satisfy
you? I am not doing this thing hastily. Nothing would induce me to marry
Mr. Macdonald—because I do not care for him, and never could. I respect
him with all my heart, so, you see, there is no room left for love. Read
this letter, please, and see if it will do.”
Mr. Whitwell drew his daughter to his side, and looked at her with the
anxiety of tenderness. Sometimes he had thought that Tom was not quite
her own merry self, and that there must be a reason for the change. He
told her so; and that little sentence spoken by her father was the most
powerful tonic she could have had. Tom became from that day as
mischievous and merry as ever.
If Mr. Macdonald received her letter with great disappointment no one
ever knew it. He read it as final; and, after replying to it in a kindly
letter, which Tom kept as one of her treasures, he dismissed the thought
of marriage from his mind, and threw himself unreservedly into his work.
As Arthur Knight was doing also.
Mary Wythburn had shared with several other persons the belief that Tom
cared for her cousin, John Dallington, with a regard that was more than
cousinly, and she had imparted this belief to Mr. Knight in all good
faith.
“But he is engaged,” he had objected.
“Yes,” said Mary; “but it is doubtful if he and Margaret Miller are ever
married, for the opposition of his mother is very strong, and Margaret’s
life is full of other and larger interests. Mr. Dallington will be
faithful to her if she will let him be; but if she should really break
off the engagement I should expect to see him and Tom married speedily.”
It was like Mary Wythburn. No one made fewer mistakes in the one great
work among the poor to which she gave her life, and few could have
blundered more in regard to other matters.
John had more and more trouble with his mother, for hatred had made her
mad. Is not all hatred a species of insanity? Certainly the hatred that
is fed by jealousy and nourished by envy is well calculated to produce
it. Mrs. Hunter made no attempt to hide the disgusting truth. “I hate
her! I hate her!” she said a dozen times every day. John had terrible
misgivings. At present she was not often violent; but her son was afraid
to trust her. And he did for her all that a good son could do; he
neglected his love for her sake; he spent all the time with her that he
could spare from his farm; he read to her, sang to her, played games
with her; and there were times when he hoped that she would at last
become clothed with kindliness, and in her right mind.
But one night an event occurred which robbed him of that hope.
He was sleeping soundly, as a tired man who had passed a long day in the
open air ought to do, when he was suddenly awaked by shouts of “Fire!”
He sprang from his bed, and threw up the window.
“Where is it?” he cried.
“It is in the village—in the street—will you lend me a horse that I may
fetch the firemen and engine from Scourby?”
“Certainly. I will be with you in a minute.”
He hurried down, and found one or two of the men already on the spot;
and in a few moments two horses were carrying men as rapidly as possible
in the direction of Scourby.
“Whose house can it be, I wonder? But, perhaps, it is no house at all,”
he thought, as he returned to his room and dressed hastily. It was a bad
fire evidently, for the flames were lighting up his place, although the
farm was some distance from the village. He felt that he must go and see
for himself. He went to the door of his mother’s room. It was locked,
and although he listened he could hear no sound, so he concluded she was
sleeping. He asked the housekeeper to be at hand in case Mrs. Hunter
should want anything; and, promising to return early, he started at a
rapid pace for Darentdale.
“What place is it?” he asked the man whom he left; and the man hesitated
before replying: “It is Mr. Harris’s old house.”
When John reached it he saw at a glance that the old place was
doomed—there was so much dry wood in it; the floors and wainscots, and
in some of the rooms even the ceilings were all of wood, and it was
blazing most fiercely. “How did it happen?” cried John.
“Is there any one inside, sir?” asked a dozen persons at once. “We can
find no one. It is too late for rescue if there is.”
Before John could reply his arm was grasped by a woman whose head and
face were wrapped in a shawl; and he was horrified to recognise his
mother.
“I hate her! I have burnt her to death in her bed! I hate her!” she
said, first in a whisper and then in a shriek. John seized her, and he
shouted to the people, “There is no one in the house; Miss Miller and
her servant are in Yorkshire. Is it too late to save anything? There are
some valuables there!”
“We must wait till the engines come,” was the answer. “The house seems
to have been set on fire in several places, and paraffin or spirit of
some kind must have been used.”
Mrs. Hunter broke into a fiendish laugh. “Yes, I did it,” she said; “and
I have burnt her to death. She was there; I heard her breathe. I have
burnt her to death in her bed. I hate her! I hate her!”
It was a terrible scene; John dragged his mother away, and one of his
men helped him to get her home, raving mad.
He heard the engines rattling to the spot. He would like to have
remained, to protect Margaret’s interests, if necessary, but he could
not. He was sick with horror and dread, but he knew that he alone would
be able to manage the mad woman without violence.
“She will never be sane again,” he said to himself that night. And his
foreboding was correct. She never was. Medical opinion pronounced her
hopelessly insane, and he was obliged, for her own self-preservation, to
allow her to be put under restraint at once, without the delay that
would have been extremely dangerous.
Margaret was telegraphed for before the fire was out, and she hurried
back to find her home in ruins.
Everything was gone but the walls. They stood firmly enough at present,
and none but Margaret knew what was concealed in one of them.
She and Ann Johnson walked about among the ruins, thinking of all the
memories that were associated with them, and their hearts were full of
sorrow.
“I am glad he died before this happened,” said Ann; “it would have
broken his dear heart, and killed him into the bargain.”
Margaret felt very desolate as she stood among the ruins. John was not
there; he did not know that she had been sent for; he had not been able
to give a thought even to his love. She could have cried out, not for
him, but for her grandfather, as she always lovingly called him in her
thoughts.
As soon as it was known in the village that she had arrived, a dozen
offers of hospitality reached her. But best of all Tom Whitwell hastened
down, thinking it possible that she might have arrived. Margaret was
unfeignedly thankful to see her friend.
“You can do nothing. Come home with me,” said Tom.
“I must see a magistrate. I have something to tell him,” answered
Margaret. “It is very important, and must be told at once.”
“There is no magistrate nearer than my father, and he is at Scourby
to-day. What is it, Margaret?”
“Do you think the walls are safe? There is something inside one of them,
something that belongs to your Cousin John; and I am afraid that if that
wall comes down, all these people would be tempted to take it.”
Tom looked at her friend as if she thought Margaret must be going mad
too.
“John also is in great distress,” she said, “for my aunt is—very ill.”
“Will you drive me to Scourby first, Tom, and let us find your father? I
must have some one to act for me now, for John’s sake,” said Margaret.
It was well for her that Mr. Whitwell happened not to be in London that
day. Margaret told him her strange story in a few words. It was like
bringing an old-time romance into modern prosaic days.
“I must not act alone; I must get a brother-magistrate to come with me
and a few policemen,” he said. “Will you go home with Tom, Margaret, and
leave it to me?”
Margaret was very willing to do that; she had much to hear from Tom, and
much to tell her too; and their confidences were more lengthened than
their drive.
“Poor John! what a terrible thing it is for him!” she said. “And poor
Mrs. Hunter, too! I think it must have been her mental deficiency which
caused her so to dislike me.”
Tom could not help smiling, but Margaret did not see the joke, until Tom
said, “I agree with you, dear, that no one in his or her sober senses
could help liking you.”
“Oh, Tom, how can you joke at such a time?”
“Indeed, I do not know, Madge, unless it is because of my inherent
wickedness. But I assure you that I do not feel very merry. It is a sad
enough time for us all. You must marry John now, Margaret. You cannot do
otherwise if you have a woman’s heart, or indeed a heart of any sort.”
“How can I? We have only just commenced our home in Yorkshire, and the
man, whoever he is, will hold me to my agreement. Not that I am
necessary there, for the real, moving spirit of the thing is Miss
Wentworth. And as for that Andromeda Jones, whom Mary sent, she is
invaluable. She will make a most clever woman; she can influence those
girls as none of us can; she knows them and their ways so thoroughly;
and she loves them, and they love her.”
“I expect she is what she is in consequence of the Craighelbyl training.
That is the place in which good characters are made.”
“It is one of the places; and our High Seathorpe is another.”
“How is your enterprise there going to answer, really?”
“It will do much good to many young women, but it cannot do all. The
girls who are sent are young, but they are not young enough. It is
already too late to do all that we wish. The time to influence girls is
before they become engaged. I should like to hand over the engaged girls
to Miss Wentworth and Drom, with the other valuable assistants whom we
have, and myself to form a home for neglected girls between the ages of
twelve and fourteen; for that is the important age.”
“Yes, it is; but, you know, Margaret, that girls as well as boys are to
be kept at the ordinary and the technical school now until they are
fourteen. And they are no longer to be trusted to anybody who likes to
take up the teaching profession for a livelihood; some of the best, and
ablest, and highest people of the land are undertaking the work of the
upper standards in the schools.”
“Yes; I do not forget that, and I am most thankful for it. In a few
years such a place as that at High Seathorpe will surely not be
required. In the meantime, it is needed very greatly, only the worst of
it is that those who need it most will not come to share its
advantages.”
“I wish they could be compelled. But I do not myself think so highly of
these big Homes, as they are called; they are very different from real
homes, you know, Margaret. If I ever have a home of my own—which I
suppose I never shall have—I should like to keep two rooms for the use
of poor little girls who have come to the turning-point in their lives,
and need a friend.”
“Yes, I should like that, too,” said Margaret.
“Very well,” rejoined Tom, “you can have the privilege at once. There
are several unused rooms in the Manor House.”
It was late at night before Mr. Whitwell reached home.
“We found your treasure-trove, Margaret,” he said, “and have placed the
contents in safe keeping at my London bank. It was a most astonishing
find. I had no idea that it would prove so valuable. You are a lady of
fortune.”
“I do not feel that the money is mine, Mr. Whitwell. It belongs to Mr.
Dallington.”
“No; that it certainly does not. It belongs to you. John’s uncle had
every right to do what he pleased with his own, and the terms of his
will could not have been more explicit than they were. You are his
heiress after Mr. Harris, the house and all that was in it being left
absolutely to you. I am glad that wall was not destroyed; but the thing
that puzzles me is where Captain Dallington got all that money, foreign
and English, and why he chose to hide it in a wall, instead of putting
it in a bank, or investing it in some way, as any other man would have
done. But he was always eccentric. I have been told that even as a boy
he was considered strange, and only a little better than an idiot; and I
think he must have remained so. But whatever may have been his reason,
he was evidently very fond of you. Do not answer me unless you please,
Margaret; but I have often wondered whether you know the secret of his
life and of yours.”
“No, I do not, and I expect that now I never shall,” said Margaret. “For
some reason—and I am sure it was a good one—my grandfather—Mr.
Harris—never told me. Only on the evening on which he died he promised
that he would; but he was so weak and ill that I begged him to wait
until the next day, and the next day he was gone.”
“It cannot be helped, my dear, and it does not matter. You are whatever
your life and character make you.”
“And they could not be better,” said Tom, affectionately.
“And it will not matter who you were when you are happily married to my
nephew,” continued Mr. Whitwell. “He is so good a fellow that it will be
too bad if you keep him waiting longer. His mother is quite out of the
question now, I am sure of that. And the best medical authority of the
land has declared it to-day, for I met Dr. Stapleton, who told me so.
That will be the way out of the difficulty. If you think this money
ought to be his, what is yours may be made his, in spite of the Married
Women’s Property Act.”
Margaret returned to Yorkshire the next day without seeing John. She
rightly judged that it was better so. It was doubtful if John would ask
her again to marry him after all his trouble, and especially when he
knew the amount of her possessions. But the long railway ride gave her
time to think; and by the time she reached the Home her mind was fully
made up.
The place had been speedily got into good working condition, and already
there were thirty girls who had been sent down from London, in order
that they might be prepared for the work that was before them. And there
were as many helpers as could possibly be needed. Miss Wentworth, who
knew London well, and who had spent her life and her money chiefly in
work among women and girls, knew exactly where to find the right women
to help, and the girls who would be the most benefited by their
ministrations. She had entered into the scheme with enthusiasm, and it
was she who was making it a success.
Her large motherly nature made her very sympathetic. If the truth must
be told, she already loved every inmate in the Home; but she loved
Margaret the most of all, and when the girl laid her head upon her
shoulder, and told her all the history of her life, and confided the
secret about John, she was most tender and kind.
“My dear child” she said, “you must marry your lover, and at once. Love
is not everything. I do not say it is; but it was meant to occupy the
first place where it has been given at all. This work is beautiful, but
it can go on without you; and no one else can take your place in that
other empty home which needs you so greatly. Now, you must write, and
tell all your story to our eccentric friend—Friend Philip, and I am very
much mistaken if he does not say as I do. I feel sure he will trust in
me, because his lawyer and I are such good friends, and he has seen for
himself how we go on with the work here. Write your letter as simply as
you like; when your story is known the rest will follow.”
And so it did. The owner of High Seathorpe was ill; and it seemed to him
as he read Margaret’s letter that it was a great thing that she should
make the man whom she loved happy. He had discovered that there were
many other women longing to do the work which he most wished to see
done, and since they were well able to carry out his wishes, he was
perfectly willing to release Margaret, only stipulating that she should
occasionally visit and supervise the institution.
But Margaret had not waited for his answer before she wrote to John.
“We are both so lonely and desolate without each other,” she said, “that
if you still wish me to come to you, I will come at any time. Let me try
to comfort you a little; and perhaps we shall both find that we can
still do something for the great world though we live in a little one of
our own.”
John was not slow in responding to that letter; and a few weeks after
its receipt the two were married quietly from Mr. Whitwell’s home, and
in the old church at Darentdale.