“Very glad to see you, sir,” was the welcome given to him by one of the principal men in the place, whose duty it was to conduct strangers to their seats. He had not very much of this work to do, for few strangers came to Darentdale, and fewer still to the chapel; and so he was fain to open the pew doors for the regular attendants, and, with a bow and a smile, fasten them in their own rented domicile of the Sabbath. But now there was a chance to distinguish himself, and the air with which John Dallington was marshalled up the aisle and into the best square pew at the top was exceedingly impressive.
John looked about him for a moment with a little curiosity. He had never been into the place before, and he was surprised to see the numbers crowding the body of the chapel and pressing forward in the gallery. The fact of their presence was in itself sufficient to cause him to feel respect for the service, for John Dallington had not yet grown to think that he was right and everybody else wrong, and he entertained a profound reverence for anything that could influence numbers of people. He saw a plain-looking building, with uncomfortable pews, each securely buttoned, and each filled with persons. He saw a pulpit, rather more uncomfortable-looking than the pews, which a man with benevolent face and white hair presently entered, and was also shut in. And he saw, immediately under the pulpit, a large pool of water. He did not, as probably many young men would have done, promise himself some fun out of the entertainment. He had too much veneration in his composition for that. He had felt no inclination to laugh at the use made of water in the churches of the Continental cities which he had visited, and it must be confessed that he had seen nothing to sigh over either. It was evident that the people were sincere and attached some significance to the act, and that was enough for him. It was with precisely the same placid toleration that he looked at the baptistery in Darentdale Chapel. And, although he wondered how any one could prefer it to that which he attended in the morning, it was not with a feeling of indifference that the young man regarded the service. His whole being was susceptible to all the influences of that day, and he felt some stirring of heart when the people sang together their hymn of praise. The sermon was not a bad piece of oratory; the speaker knew his subject and handled it courageously, and as it proceeded John began to understand that the pool of water was not an ordinary adjunct to the service, but that he was about to witness the rite peculiar to the Baptist denomination.
His attention was held throughout; but when the minister had descended from the pulpit and was standing by the water, his heart gave a great bound. A girl who had been sitting in one of the pews, and whose face had been hidden from him by other people, quietly went to the side of the pool. “Margaret does look lovely to-night,” whispered some one behind him; and the next moment the girl lifted her eyes, luminous with some mysterious exultation, and they met his own. What happened after that he scarcely knew. As soon as he could he left the place and started across the fields to his home.
“It was no use sending me away,” he said. “The boy’s love is living yet. Margaret, Margaret, have you forgotten? I never shall forget, and you are all the world to me still.”
But he looked and felt much more troubled than glad as he thus uttered his thought.
CHAPTER III.
A SUNDAY IN LONDON.
To be in London at any time is an experience that is worth having; for all good things seem to tend to this wonderful city, which is the very heart of the world! What might of power and influence it possesses! What vivid life of all kinds exists in it! Some people say it is not beautiful as Paris, Brussels, and other cities are; but they are surely mistaken. It has a beauty and a homeliness that is all its own. No parks are more green; no streets are more interesting. To Arthur Knight, as he drove from West to East on his arrival, it seemed to him the fairest, as it was certainly the dearest, of all the world. The trouble that had been put into his mind by Hancourt, though a very personal one, could not absorb his thoughts as he looked upon his fellow-countrymen in the crowded thoroughfares. “If London were Christian, there would be hope of the whole world,” he said; and his was the dream of how many devout souls beside! With his strong heart full of the enthusiasm of youth, he did not for a moment consider the dream to be impossible of realisation. And with the same buoyant hopefulness he thought that something which he had to say would hasten that consummation. He passed by the dwellings of the rich, and, measuring others by himself, he peopled them with young men who were ready to live or die in the true service of their country. He believed that the time had come for the new aristocracy to assert itself—the aristocracy of character and helpfulness—the nobility of the future, whose destiny it is to rule the world with righteousness. “This little island ought to be full of friends,” he said, echoing the thought of one of England’s greatest teachers. But when he reached the East-end the awful contrasts of the metropolis impressed and saddened him.
It was in this part of London that Arthur Knight’s home was. Mr. Knight, senior, had not followed the fashion, and sought out a suburban residence. He preferred to live near his works, and could not bring himself to believe that a railway ride every morning and evening would be a saving of time, or strength, or money. He lived in an old house, surrounded by a moderately large garden, in which, however, few things flourished but shrubs. All around the garden was a high wall, which completely shut the place out of sight; so that, but for the noise, one might have fancied himself miles away from the great city. Not only was the house an ancient one, but the furniture in it was sombre and old-fashioned. It was not a home-like house, for no woman presided over it; only a couple of servants kept it in something like order, and carried out the wishes of the master. A child’s voice was never heard making music in it, and few guests ever entered it. If people wanted to see the owner, they generally sought him at his office, because there they were the most likely to find him; and no one had come to the house by invitation for several years. There were rooms enough in it to accommodate a large family, but Mr. Knight had lived in it, after his son went away, in complete solitude. He had often felt sorry that he had sent the lad from him in anger, and had not more patiently tried to bend the young will to his own; but the anger had died away now, and he had begun to acknowledge that he felt lonely.
It was on Saturday evening that Arthur passed through the well-remembered gateway. His heart beat rapidly as he entered the house, and when he took his father’s hand in his a great wave of tender feeling swept over him. His father was all that he had in the world. Mother, brothers, sister-all were gone, and he had not yet found any one on whom he could set his heart. But he owed everything to his father, and he resolved that it should go hardly with him indeed but that he would prove a loyal and helpful son now that he had at last recalled him. The old man trembled as he met him. He was as much altered as Arthur himself, and he looked as if the years had dealt far less kindly with him than they had with his son. Arthur could see that the meeting was trying his father exceedingly, and during the evening he did his best to keep the conversation on commonplace topics.
But after breakfast the next morning he could feel that something was coming. The church bells were chiming in all directions, and the young man’s heart was drawn towards the quiet and restfulness which he knew might be reached in a few minutes. But his father wanted him, and he thought his duty was with him.