“I? No, indeed!” he exclaimed. “I wish to God I did!”
“If you know anything at all you ought to tell her father.”
“What can I know?” stammered Stapleton.
But the vicar lifted his hat and walked away without another word.
CHAPTER VIII.
SOME SIGNS OF THE TIMES.
Mary Wythburn’s disappearance was one of the signs of the times. And, excepting to the parties most nearly concerned, it was scarcely a nine days’ wonder. To a great extent even their minds were speedily set at rest, for a few days after the wedding was to have taken place a letter reached her friend, Margaret Miller, which explained in part the occurrence, though unquestionably the real reason was that Mary’s heart was playing truant.
“Dear Margaret,” it said, “I am so frightened at what I have done that I do not know how to bear it; but you know I am such a coward that I could not bravely face it all out as I ought to have done. I simply dare not marry Alfred Greenholme, and I dare not say so. Do go to my mother and comfort her, and tell her that I am safe and well; but I cannot let any one know where I am, for, of course, if I did I should be fetched home; and I would rather die than go. Margaret, I am doing what I have always known I ought to do. I am at work on my own plans in this terrible London, and, God helping me, I will make a few of my own sex better and happier before I die. It makes me sick to see how wretched and wicked they are. Please be my friend, and do not let my dear father and mother, whom I love with all my heart, be more miserable than they need be. Of course, I know they are angry with me, and I deserve that they should be; it is very hard for them that they could not have a daughter like other people’s girls. I can bear their anger, but they must not be anxious or sorrowful about me. I have my cheque-book, and I can take care of myself for a little while; but, oh, Madge! what would I not give to put my head on your shoulder and have a good cry, and hear you scold me (as I know you would). I am very thankful to sign myself, still ever yours,
Mary Wythburn.”
In point of fact Mary Wythburn had not done an unheard-of thing in preferring to work among the poor rather than be married. Many girls had made the same choice; and many men too. The world of the great East of London was the scene of more heroic labours for the wretched than had ever been known before. Methodism had its centre there, from which radiated all sorts of beneficent lights that flashed across the darkness. The Congregationalists had a home where good women who had given up their wealth for Christ’s sake, and that of humanity, lived together in a little community, and laboured in every conceivable way among the poor. The Baptists had long led the Forward Movement, which was another name for the “applied Christianity” in which the Church had now come to believe. The Episcopal Church had brought wealth, culture, and influence to bear upon the problem of the outcasts. University men had chosen this work instead of Parliamentary honours, or the accumulation of money. And many a young lady had quietly disappeared from society, and, receiving a pound or two a week from her father for her personal needs, had gone to dwell among the poor, as poor, in order to live a consecrated life of Christian helpfulness. Mary Wythburn had but added one to the already swelling multitude who had yielded to the fascination of the modern ministry of love and service. The old things repeated themselves—with a difference. The piety which had moved men and women to withdraw from the world and give themselves entirely to a religious life was equally strong and impassioned in many of the young men and women who were sworn disciples of Jesus now; but they served Him by withdrawing from luxuries only, and not from men. They took no vows upon them excepting the usual ones which characterise the entrance into the Church, but they put a different meaning into them. They heard a call summoning them into the thick of the crowd, there to do the works of their Master—to feed the five thousand, to heal the sick, to open the eyes of the blind, to deliver the captives; aye, to take the little children into their arms and bless them.
For thoughtful people were most of all concerned about the young. The State had given them enough schooling to render them precocious, for it was compulsory and free; but it had not educated them, for the conscience and the character were very much untouched by the schools, since the children left far too early to have had a chance to gain anything more than the mere rudiments of elementary training. The years at which they might begin to labour were put back a little, but now there were thousands, where fifty years before there had been dozens, earning their own livelihood in factories and works of various kinds. This massing of young people together, with little control over their tongues or conduct, was having a terrible effect upon the men and women of the next generation. Their conversation was frequently of the most filthy kind, and juvenile immorality was frightfully on the increase.