“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.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
WAS IT A DREAM?
It must not be forgotten that this is a forecast, as well as a story, and the following is a dream if you prefer to think it so.
It was about this time that an event occurred which showed the immense strides upward which the conscience of some of the people had accomplished. All the British world was electrified by the news that war was imminent. An insult had been offered to the British flag, and of course it was said that the honour of the nation was at stake. Some of the newspapers hastened to magnify the occasion, and fierce articles called upon the Government to demand satisfaction, unless, indeed, as the writers declared they half-feared, all the manliness and pluck of the British nature had died out. Men looked and felt very angry, and not a few were eager for the fray—especially of those who knew that, however fiercely the battle raged, they would themselves not be called away from their own firesides.
There were many peacemakers; but against them old accusations were made, and they were scorned as the “Peace-at-any-price party.” They held their own, and pleaded for unimpassioned consultations and temporising delays; but they found that the Jingo spirit had been revivified. It was true that England had the men who, at the expense of the nation, had been kept in idleness for many years, in case—perhaps in the hope—that war would break out. She had guns, too; but grave scandals about them had been whispered, and though many thousands of pounds had lately been spent upon “the last sweet things” in cannons and torpedoes, it was not at all certain that these would not fail in the day of trouble because of bad workmanship and inferior materials. As to the money, she certainly had not got that. England was painfully paying off year by year what she could of the enormous debt which she owed on account of former wars, and the real fact was that she had not a penny which could be honestly afforded for new ones. But, as usual, many wished to withhold this truth from the nation’s ears at this moment, and much was done to make the people forget everything excepting that there was a stain on the national honour which could only be washed out in a sea of blood.
Yet there was one circumstance that made thoughtful men pause.