Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

NINETEEN HUNDRED?
A FORECAST AND A STORY.

BY

MARIANNE FARNINGHAM,

Author of “The Cathedral Shadow,” “The Clarence Family,” “Songs of Sunshine,” &c., &c.

London:

JAMES CLARKE & CO., 13 & 14, FLEET STREET.

1892.

This little dream, of what, I hope, may be in the near future, was dreamed several years ago, and much of it written on paper, the rest having to wait for strength and opportunity. But, meanwhile, the spirit of progressive love has not had to wait, and already part of my dream has come true, for the genius of “applied Christianity” is at work, doing what I only saw in a vision. I take this fact as an earnest that the other good things will follow. But they will not unless it is realised that the hope of England is in her young. And I affectionately dedicate this forecast-story to all father-hearted men and mother-hearted women who see in every child a treasure of priceless value, a force of mightiest possibilities, to be redeemed for Christ at any cost.

CONTENTS.

Nineteen Hundred?

A FORECAST AND A STORY.

CHAPTER I.
OLD ENGLAND FOR EVER.

The good ship Kenwick Castle lay off Madeira. Few of her passengers cared to land, for they were homeward bound, and desired nothing so much as to get away speedily. Neither were they as much impressed as on the outward journey, by the soft brilliancy of the atmosphere and the picturesque loveliness of the crimped coast of the island. The towering peaks, the rainbow-spanned gorges and ravines, the dense foliage of the forests, the vineyards and the plantations—made up a picture worthy of admiration; but the eyes that looked across the waters to the white houses of Funchal were wearying for the quiet beauty of English meadows.

The scene between the ship and the shore was a lively one. Boats flashed in the sun, and a clamorous company of Portuguese, Moorish, and negro salesmen offered fruits, baskets, chairs, and ornaments of all sorts, so that those who had forgotten to bring presents for their friends might easily purchase them now. Swimming boys—black-skinned and coffee-coloured—were shouting for money to be thrown into the sea to test their diving powers, and boatmen were eager for customers. But the captain and the crew looked only for fresh passengers, and did but wait with dogged patience until they should arrive.

Two young men were leaning over the side of the vessel, and watching the boats and the shore.

“There are passengers coming,” said one. “It would indeed be strange if Miss Wentworth were among them.”

“Too strange to be true, I imagine. She is probably in England.”

“Yes. But she usually leaves Madeira about this time. I wish she might happen to be going with us.”

“So do I, heartily. And, look—look at the lady in the second boat. She is very like her.”

“How curious. It is really she. Let us see if we can help her.”

They hurried to the gangway and welcomed with great cordiality a lady whom everybody seemed glad to see, not a young lady, however, but a placid, kindly-looking woman, tall and matronly, who was between fifty and sixty years of age. She thanked the young men who had eagerly offered their services, but she evidently did not recognise them nor quite understand their manifest pleasure.

“How are you, Miss Wentworth? It is good to meet you again. You have forgotten us, I see. We came out with you six years ago in the Drummond Castle. My friend is John Dallington, and I am Arthur Knight.”

“Oh, yes, I remember! You were both sent from England to be out of the way; because your presence at home was embarrassing.”

“Exactly; and we have been together ever since. We have travelled nearly all over the world; but they cannot do without us any longer in England, so we are homeward bound, as you are. Don’t you want to know how we have been getting along since we parted from you at the hotel yonder?”

“I shall like to hear anything you have to tell me. You are both so altered that I should not have known you. You have grown, I think, and passed from youth into manhood. Six years make a great difference when you are young. What has become of the gentleman who went to take care of you? Is he with you still?”

“No, he is not. We must tell you of him presently.”

They made a pleasant-looking trio, frequently, during the three days that sufficed to carry them to England, as, with chairs drawn together on the deck, they talked of the past and the future. Miss Wentworth was an interested listener. Her fifty years had made her very kindly and sympathetic, and the motherliness of her nature rendered her the friend of every one who came within her reach, and especially of the young. She had been kind to the two youths, when, a little sore-hearted and rebellious, they were outward bound, and among the things which she had said to “hearten them up” had been one which they had not forgotten. They were therefore the more glad to see her now that their banishment was ended, and they were about to begin life in earnest.

Of the two young men, though Dallington was the more handsome, Knight was by far the more attractive. Rather taller than the average Englishman, strong and graceful in figure, with a broad forehead, masculine nose, firm lips, and wide chin, he was the personification of strength and manliness; but there was something about him which told also of great tenderness, refinement, and self-mastery. There was not a particle of self-assertion in him, and yet he was one who would never be overlooked, even in a crowd. When he entered a room people naturally observed him, when he spoke everybody listened; for he had the rare gift of magnetic influence, which seems to be possessed by only a few in a century.

Miss Wentworth had recognised this on her first meeting with him. She felt sure that if he lived the world would hear of Arthur Knight, and she was full of desire that the life so vigorous and forceful might be altogether on the side of righteousness and truth. So wistful was she that she could not let him go without one or two earnest words. She believed that “the Christian is the highest type of man,” and her faith in the power of the living Christ to draw and train disciples was great. She had doubts of the presumption which talks to people about “their souls,” yet she did summon courage to say to those young men, who glibly informed her that they did not believe in the Founder of the Christian religion, “No, for you do not need Him now; but when you do, you will find that He is both able and willing to help you.”

These words neither of the three had forgotten; and Knight referred to them in one of their conversations.

“I proved the truth of what you said, Miss Wentworth, in a very extraordinary manner. I had not the slightest sympathy with religion in any form. My mother died when I was about three, I can scarcely remember her; but my father, who was a Dissenter, took me to chapel with him always; though I never really entered into the service. I did not join in the prayer, for I did not want the things for which the minister asked, and the sermons never concerned me. They were for the most part disquisitions on texts, for which I did not care, and they seemed to me to have nothing whatever to do with the ordinary lives of the people. I cannot remember ever hearing anything to make a false or selfish man uncomfortable, and I could not see that those who were church members were at all better than those who were not. And I really believed that the whole thing was a farce.”

“I never went as far as that,” said Dallington. “But I did not have as much of it as my friend. We were Church people; and we had no prayer-meetings in the vestry, nor psalm-singing at home.”

“I had enough of it, and it was really irksome; and when I began to read books that were opposed to Christianity I agreed with every word that was said, and decided that as for religion there was absolutely nothing in it.”

“Yes?”

“But I know now that there is. You were asking me about my old tutor. He is dead; and it was at his death that I put your words to the test. It was very painful. We were alone, with none but Arabs near us. He was awfully ill; and when the thought came to him that he would probably die, he was altogether unnerved. The fact is that he was really afraid of what might be after death. He said to me, ‘Arthur, if there is a hereafter I am not prepared for it.’ Then I told him what you had said.”

At this point of the conversation John Dallington arose and walked to the side of the vessel.

“Mr. Knight, if you would rather not talk about it, do not tell me,” said Miss Wentworth, in a low voice.

“But I want you to know,” said Knight. “One cannot talk much about it; but I ought to tell you, and I will. I had never prayed before, but then with all my heart I called upon Jesus Christ. I asked Him, if it were true, as so many people believed, that He was really the living Saviour, to reveal Himself now. And He did.”

“But your friend did not live.”

“No; we did not ask for that. That was not what we most wanted. What we needed was the assurance that there is Some One who sees us in our weakness and cares for our pain, and hears us when we cry. The assurance came so certainly that I have never doubted since. Hutton grew first calm, and then radiantly happy—as I had never seen him before. He looked up with a wonderful light upon his face, as if he could really see what is beyond, and he died with the name of Jesus upon his lips.”

“I am very glad. And what of yourself?”

“Of course, I cannot explain things. Dallington and I have received pretty regularly from England all the books and journals which we could get; and I know that this is a time of great doubt. I cannot answer the questions that are asked. But”—and the young man bowed his head reverently—“I believe in the Son of God, and I rest in His salvation.”

Such a conversation could not be a protracted one. Miss Wentworth could only look the sympathy and joy which she felt; and Arthur Knight walked the length of the deck twice, and then joined his friend. When the three met again on the following day the talk was of a less serious character.

“I wonder,” said Miss Wentworth, “if you are going to rave against everything English, as so many of our countrymen do?”

“No, indeed,” replied Dallington; “I think we shall be more likely to err in the opposite direction. I, for one, am proud of my country. I suppose we might learn a few things from other nations, but I am very well satisfied to be an Englishman.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I have an estate to look after,” said Dallington. “I am going to take care of my mother, and find out the best way of growing fruit and corn.”

“And I am going to help my father,” said Knight. “He is a manufacturer.”

“But his son does not wish to be a manufacturer,” said Dallington, significantly. “He hopes to talk the people of England round to his ideas.”

Knight’s face flushed almost painfully. “We cannot always alter circumstances,” he said; “but I confess that there is to me a marvellous fascination in a listening crowd. There is, however, no lack of orators in England.”

“A new man who has something to say, and knows how to say it, has always his chance, though,” said Miss Wentworth.

What his dreams had been by night and day the young man did not tell. He said, “My father’s business is a large one. I have some ideas on the subject of heads and hands, or masters and men; and hope I may have the opportunity of putting them into practice.”

“Oh! surely you have not been abroad to learn Socialism. We English people are afraid of that,” said Miss Wentworth.

“And yet many are dissatisfied with things as they are.”

“Certainly, and they have need to be. Side by side with all the good there are evils of which every decent person is utterly ashamed.”

“Then why do the decent people allow them to exist?”

“I suppose they cannot help it.”

“But they could if they would. They have the power and the influence, if they only had the will. Very much of the wealth, too, is in the hands of religious people, and if only they cared, as I think they ought, the great evils which are a disgrace to England might be stamped out in a year.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I feel sure of it. Englishmen do but need to know God’s greatness and their own, and then they could lift our country up to its name as a Christian land.”

Miss Wentworth laughed a little. “That would bring the Millennium much sooner than it is expected,” she said.

“Another Wesley is wanted, or even a non-political Gladstone, that is all. The people are ready for the man who has an understanding of the times.”

It was early in the morning, just after daybreak, that the long-looked-for homeland appeared in sight. Nobody had slept much that night, for the thoughts of the passengers had gone on before their eyes to the green heights of Plymouth Hoe. Yet it was not so much because of its historical associations that it so haunted them, but because it would give them the first glimpse of the old country. A cheer arose from the throats of the watchers as soon as it first came in sight, and preparations for disembarking were so rapidly completed that every one was ready long before the land was reached.

Arthur Knight stood with folded arms and glowing eyes looking at the land. How he had dreamed of that moment, and prayed, “Here am I, send me.” It was strange for a modern young man to be thinking of St. Paul and of Peter the Hermit, but he was. He believed, as they did, that he had received a God-inspired impulse, and that he had a message to deliver for which there were hundreds of thousands of people waiting in this dear native land of his. He was in a state of exaltation, tempered, however, with deep humility. “I am not worthy, yet send me,” he said. “Let me go to the crowded towns and the lonely villages, and tell the people what Thou hast told me.”

He uttered the words aloud, for no one was quite close, and the next moment he stepped ashore, and a man came forward to greet him. “Welcome home, Mr. Arthur. I am very glad to see you.”

“How do you do, Hancourt? How is my father?”

“Mr. Knight is well, sir; so am I, only I am much worried. As you said you wished to talk to me I have taken the liberty to engage a private compartment for the journey to London,” said the man.

“Very good. When does the train start?”

“Almost immediately. Can I look after your luggage?”

Knight at once took leave of his travelling companions. “My father’s chief business manager has come to meet me at my request,” he said, “and we travel together. Good-bye, Dallington, and thank you for everything, old fellow. Hope you will find your Margaret unchanged. I should be sorry to think we had come to the end of the story. Remember, we are but beginning it.”

“I will not forget,” answered Dallington.

“Good-bye, Miss Wentworth. I am glad to have your address. You will be sure to hear from me.”

When they were in the carriage, Knight and Hancourt looked steadfastly at each other before either spoke, and each noted the changes which the years had made.

“How is Mrs. Hancourt? And how are your children?” asked Knight.

“They are very well, thank you. Mr. Arthur, I am not sure that I ought to have met you, for there have been many changes in the last few months, and I am no longer in your father’s employment.”

“How is that? I thought my father could not do without you.”

“You are wanted at home, sir. Mr. Knight has become a universal manufacturer, and has an enormous business, or a dozen businesses, and employs thousands of hands. He has been for the last few years making money fast; but as fast as he has got rich his workpeople have got poor, and that is not right, Mr. Arthur.”

“You must take care what you say of my father, Hancourt.”

“Very good, sir. I am out of the concern, so it is nothing to me; but I hope you will let me tell you what is in my heart.”

“Go on, then.”

“Lately, indeed almost ever since you went away, the master has been cutting things very close and underselling everybody, and to do that he has used the commonest material, and has frequently lowered the wages of his hands. Many things which go across the sea are not worth the cost of carriage; they are just put together to look well and that is all. I think it is a great pity, and I ventured to say so to Mr. Knight, because he will lose his customers, and the business will go down as quickly as it went up if he does not change his method. But Mr. Knight told me he did not care for that. He thinks it is no business of his that other English manufacturers will be suspected because he has got England a bad name, but I think it ought to be, and that such conduct is unpatriotic. But excuse me, Mr. Arthur, I can’t help getting warm over it. I want to ask you, however, if you will not try and bring about a better state of things?”

Arthur felt as if a stone had been given him when he asked for bread. Could it be that this and not that was his duty? How should he give up his cherished ideas, and the work to which he honestly believed himself called, and come down to business?

Hancourt broke in upon his musings. “You see, sir, I am one of the people, and know what it is to work for starvation wages, and so I thought I would try and enlist your sympathy.”

“What are you doing yourself?”

“Nothing, sir, and I have a wife and two children. But I am afraid I have spoiled your home-coming.”

Indeed, he had.

CHAPTER II.
A SUNDAY IN THE COUNTRY.

The door of the manor house was open, and the owner stood on the step looking across green fields and sloping hills. Both the man and the house were worthy of attention. The man was a strong, straight young Englishman of twenty-three years, a little above the average height, with a face full of health and intelligence, a mouth and chin that showed strength and firmness, grey eyes full of kindliness, and a well-shaped head covered with crisp, brown hair. The house was an old-fashioned English homestead, unpretentious, but substantial, and with an air about it of comfort and plenty. It was the sort of house always associated in our minds with the pictures of rural life which emigrants keep in their hearts, and painters put on the canvas.

The young man standing in the doorway was thinking not of the house, but of the view that was visible from it; and, in truth, it was a very pleasant one. The garden at his feet was ample and well kept, and already the spring flowers were making it beautiful. Around the outside there were shrubs of many kinds, and beyond them the home close looked green and sunny, while further still a little stream rippled and sang, and woods and fields made the landscape fair. John Dallington was by no means an emotional man, but his heart beat quickly as he looked across the fertile English lands that had been his father’s, and were now his own. He had never experienced the land-hunger that some people know; but if he had he could scarcely have felt a greater sense of satisfaction than that which filled him now.

“To think that so fair a piece of this wonderful little England is really mine, to have and hold, and do as I please with!” he thought. “I have seen nothing so peaceful and picturesque in all my wanderings. It is indeed good to be at home.”

And he felt this all the more because his absence had been a long one. More than six years had passed since on a cold, wet morning he had parted from his mother, and turned his back upon his home. It was better so he thought then, and it was his conviction still. But the memory was rather a painful one, though it came to him on a Sunday morning, when everything seemed glad, and the contrast between the present and the past was most striking.

John Dallington lost his father when he was between sixteen and seventeen years old. He had only just left school, and was beginning to learn the best way to farm land when his father died unexpectedly and suddenly. In his will he left everything to his wife, constituting her sole executrix, with power to make any arrangements or alterations she pleased until their child was of an age to assume the control of the estate. The lad loved his mother, and proudly endeavoured to take his place as her natural companion and protector. But when, less than a year after his father’s death, she married Mr. Daniel Hunter, everything became changed. John and his step-father disliked each other from the first, and the youth felt as an interloper in his home. There were a few stormy scenes between the two, the mother always taking sides with her husband; and then John made his mother so angry, by some hot words, which he uttered respecting a young lady in Darentdale whom she disliked, that she decided to send him away from home forthwith, and from that time until the previous evening the heir had not seen his home. But he never forgot what his future position was to be, and had spent considerable time in study, and in examination of agricultural plans as followed in the different countries which he visited. He was, therefore, not altogether unready for his new duties. But he had been in no hurry to return and take them upon himself. Even when his lawyer’s letter reminded him that he had attained his majority, and requested him to come home and claim his rights, he did not do so; and it was not until his mother wrote informing him that she was a second time a widow, and needed him, that he started on his journey.

While waiting for his mother on this, his first Sunday in England, his thoughts were full of kindliness toward her—“Poor little mother, it must be hard for her to be twice a widow. I wonder if Hunter really made her happy, and if she cared very much for him. I shall never be able to understand how it was that she married him—a man not fit to hold a candle to my father, and with scarcely a particle of his high principle and goodness! How could she do it? But it is strange to me if she has not had to suffer for it, and she certainly looks ill and miserable. It cannot be because she loved him. I hope he was good to her. In any case I will be. No woman can help liking to have her son with her, and I will try to make up to her for the trouble she has had.”

At that moment the sound of the bells came across the field, and John remembered that there was a mile to walk to church.

“Mother, it is time to start. Are you ready?” he cried, and she came immediately—a small figure, short and slight, but very dignified, and covered from head to foot in crape.

“What a shrouded up little mother it is!” he said tenderly, “and how uncomfortable you must be. Can you breathe at all under that thick thing?”

“Oh, yes. It is not so thick as it looks.”

“I am glad to hear it. I don’t like the crape fashion in the very least. It is a shame to cover up your face when it looks so pretty with the grey hair above it.”

“Ah, you must see a great change in me, John. My hair has got very grey during the last two years, and my sight is failing me too. I am quite the old woman already.”

“Not at all! Besides, you will be getting young again presently. You must wear glasses; they are an improvement to most people. And as for grey hair, what does that matter? Everybody knows that it means many things besides old age.”

“I am old, though, older than my years.”

“Poor little mother; you have had plenty to make you so; but you will soon feel better. Is not this a beautiful morning! And you cannot guess how glad I am to be at home with you. I used to read some poetry when I was away about ‘England’s primrose meadow paths,’ and try to remember what they looked like. It is a very agreeable change to see them. This is a cosy little wood.”

They were wending their way through the spinney, and the scent of the spring flowers was very sweet. The air, too, was full of music, for the birds were singing, and the chiming of the bells came nearer with every step they took. Now and then a thrush or blackbird sang to them as they passed, a squirrel sprang among the trees, and the rabbits scuttled across the path. The whole scene was so peaceful and lovely that John Dallington felt like taking his hat off in instinctive reverence for the beauty by which he was surrounded. He did not want to talk, and his mother seemed equally willing to be silent. Indeed, the finest sermon that could have been preached to the young man was finding its way into his heart as he walked toward the church that morning.

But when they emerged from the wood, and after crossing a meadow reached the high road, his thoughts were at once interrupted. The village of Darentdale was only a small one, and every individual in it knew that the young squire had come home to claim his own. There had been much talking of neighbours about him, and the liveliest interest was excited by his appearance. As he and his mother passed the scattered houses, faces peeped from the windows, and doors were softly opened to enable the occupants of the cottages to have a longer look at Mrs. Hunter and her son. Every one who passed glanced at the young man’s face, with an expression first of curiosity, and then of confidence and pleasure. In these days the villagers are not too much given to the “old-fashioned practice of saluting their betters”: they do not think that they have any; but on this Sunday morning all the women seemed inclined to remember their manners of the old style, and there was not a man who did not touch or raise his hat as they passed. It was all very agreeable to John Dallington, and the genial, hearty way in which he returned each salutation had the effect of at once favourably impressing his neighbours.

“He’ll do, won’t he? Eh!” said a man who was leaning over his garden gate.

“Oh, ah! he’ll do fine,” replied another, taking his pipe from his mouth for a moment. “He’s growed into a very likely lad, has he, and we shall do better with him nor we did with t’other.”

“That’s my ’pinion also. He looks like a fine young Englishman, though he have been a-living in foreign parts.”

“He’ll do, and that’s my verdict.”

John Dallington was looking at the villagers with an interest scarcely less keen than that with which they regarded him. He knew more about them than might be imagined. Newspapers, magazines, reviews, and other floating literature dealing with the questions of the day had been regularly transmitted to him during his absence, and he was, therefore, well acquainted with things as they were. He had read of bad harvests in England while lingering among the cornfields of America; and “the bitter cry” of London had reached him in New Zealand. Perhaps, as he looked at these subjects from a distance, and studied them very impartially by the aid of both Liberal and Conservative journals, he was as able to decide concerning them as those who had remained upon the scene. In any case, with the usual sanguine confidence of youth, he quite believed he was; and had already fully made up his mind in regard to his course of action. One of the first things he meant to do next morning was to go over the estate and “see to things,” especially keeping his eyes open to the needs of the cottage tenants on the farm.

“John, this is rather a trying ordeal,” said Mrs. Hunter, as they entered the churchyard. “Everybody seems to be looking at us.”

“Never mind, mother; they are looking very kindly. And here is Emerson, appearing not a day older than when I went away. I suppose he is as good as ever. He used to work as hard and live on as little as if he were the curate instead of the vicar. How strange it will feel to be in the old pew once more.”

The next minute they had taken their places; and as the last strokes of the bells died away the sounds of the organ were heard; and John knelt as he used to kneel when a little boy at his mother’s side, to join in the General Confession, and listen to the Absolution.

John Dallington had frequently availed himself of the opportunities afforded him in distant lands of attending religious services, but he never joined more heartily in the prayers than he did on this occasion. They expressed exactly what he felt, and the grand old Psalms and the Te Deum filled the little old Darentdale church with strains that were sweeter to his ears than any that he had heard in the grand cathedrals of the Continent. But now his heart was full of peace and goodwill, and he was in the mood to enjoy anything. How could he help wishing to be good when he had so much for which to be thankful? We hear plenty of talk about the salutary effects of sorrow, but is not joy salutary too? It is the miserable who are the most tempted to wickedness. If there were only more happiness in the world, it is almost certain that there would be more goodness also.

The services at Darentdale church were never unnecessarily lengthened, and before long the congregation was filing out. Most people waited to give some sort of respectful greeting to Mrs. Hunter and her son. Considerable sympathy was felt for the widow, though very little affection had been manifested toward her late husband, and the villagers managed to let the lady feel this.

“Things are looking very much the same, mother. I miss one or two of the older people, and some of the boys and girls have grown up like myself; but, on the whole, there is little change. How are the Dissenters getting on? Are there any more chapels built?”

“Oh, yes; one or two Methodists, besides the old Baptist and the Salvation Army.”

“I must turn into one of them this evening, and see how things look there!”

“I hope you will not take to chapel going!”

“Why not, mother?” laughed John. “It is a rule of mine to go everywhere, and see everything that I can. And it has answered very well, too. I assure you that one sometimes gets splendidly entertained in most unlikely places.”

“I hope you will not seek entertainment there, at all events; though, of course, you must do as you like now.” Mrs. Hunter accompanied the last clause with a significant sigh of resignation.

“That is a privilege you have always given me,” he answered, gently, “and I hope it has done me no harm. But here we are in the wood again. Mother, haven’t you heard people say that they love the very ground they tread on? That is how I feel to-day. I wonder how it is that we all have such a regard for land.”

“Because of what it brings forth, I suppose.”

“I scarcely think that accounts for it altogether. Of course, as the land is such a marvellous producer of wealth, it is only right and natural that it should be respected and well-treated. But it is no thought of crops that makes me like to look at it to-day.”

“That is as well, perhaps,” said Mrs. Hunter, grimly, “for he who sets his heart upon crops in these days is likely to become heart-broken.”

“I know they have been very poor for several seasons.”

“They have been utterly and wholly disappointing failures. I can tell you, John, that you have been spared an immense amount of worry by your residence abroad. Rain has come when we wanted it dry, and drought when we needed rain. Summers have had no sunshine, and winters no snow. This last winter, indeed, has been more like the old-fashioned kind; so, perhaps, the tide of misfortune is turning, and we may hope for better things. I should like one change which I suppose I shall not live to see, and that is the reduction of the present high rate of wages paid to agricultural labourers.”

“High wages do you call them? What do you think you could do with an income of sixteen shillings a week, mother?”

“Now, John, you need not speak so indignantly. I trust you have not imbibed any of those socialistic notions that seem to be prevalent. It will be so much the worse for you if you have, for you will find that the wages are higher than you can afford to pay; and besides, the men are neither better nor happier for receiving them.”

“I am not a Socialist,” said John, and then a diversion occurred.

“Why, who is this? Old Benham, isn’t it? Then he is still at work about the place. How are you, George?”

“I’m hearty, thank you, Master John, sir, and how’s yourself? How you have altered to be sure; but I knowed it was you when I seed you going down the lane this morning. And how did you like them furrin parts, sir?”

“Oh, I liked them very much; but there’s no place like home.”

“Werry true, sir, and I’m glad you think so, and it’s a beautiful morning to welcome you back. We’re a going to have a better season this year, Mr. John, you take my word for it. When that ’ere tree in the holler is covered in leaves by the fifteenth of April we allus gets a good summer. I’ve noticed it, bless yer heart, hundreds of times.”

“Have you though?” said John, laughingly. “I should not have thought it. You really look young for your years.”

Benham did not understand where the joke was, but he saw that he must have said a good thing, and laughed too. “And I hope it will be a good season,” he added, “since it’s the first in your home, and we be all glad, every man and boy on the estate, as you’ve come into your own, and long may you enjoy it.”

It was all very pleasant to John Dallington, who would not soon forget the first Sunday spent in his own place. In the afternoon he walked across the fields where the young corn was springing, and into the woods where bursting buds and merry songs were eloquent of spring. The delight of possession was very keen within him, and it, perhaps, more than anything else, made this sunny Sunday in the country to be for ever a delightful memory with him.

In the evening he did as he had said he would, and attended the service at one of the Darentdale chapels. There, as at the church, he was recognised, and cordially welcomed. There was something in the young man’s appearance that bespoke for him the universal favour of his kind. His eyes were so frank and clear, the smile upon his lips was so cheery and real, the tones of his voice were so hearty, that people trusted him and liked him at once. His presence at the chapel doors excited the liveliest approbation. Was the young squire a Dissenter? If so, then good times were coming for the little “cause” at Darentdale.

“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.

“We may as well have a talk about things, Arthur,” he said. “I suppose you don’t care about going out? I have given up my sittings in Queen-street. I used to do a great deal for the place, as you know; but latterly they had a man whom I could not get on with. He insulted me, and I don’t take an insult twice from the same person. He told me that I did not subscribe enough money, and I was not going to stand such impertinence from anybody. I always thought the Nonconformist places of worship were maintained on the voluntary principle, but I don’t call it voluntary when a man tries to bully you out of your money.”

“No, indeed. I wish the question of money had not to come so much to the front.”

“I have saved the money that religion used to cost me, that is all.”

“Could you not have gone to some other church?” asked Arthur, gravely. He could not answer his father’s chuckle with a laugh.

“Of course I could! There were enough to choose from; but I know they are all alike in one respect—they are all greedy and grasping for money.”

“It seems that nothing can be carried on without it.”

“Then let those who like such things pay for them.”

Arthur was amazed. His father was indeed changed since those old Sundays which he remembered so well, when he had been taken to prayer-meeting, Sunday-school, and service from early morning until late at night. He wondered curiously how many orthodox sermons his father must have heard, and what had been the good of them all to him.

“Trade is bad,” said the old man, after a pause.

“Is it? I am sorry to hear that.”

“I hope it will not give out just yet, because I have not done all upon which I have set my heart. I have had some heavy losses, too, and these are the things that eat into a man’s life. But, still, I have not done badly after all, and I may as well tell you at once.”

Here he stopped, as if he would arouse his son’s curiosity; but Arthur only waited in courteous deference until his father chose to say the next thing. And it was rather long in coming.

“Arthur!”

“Yes, father?”

“I am almost a millionaire!”

“Father!”

“Really and truly, if I am spared a few years longer, and a kind Providence smiles on me still, I should not wonder if you prove to be the heir to a million of money.”

Arthur stared at his father, who had spoken the last words, as indeed they deserved to be spoken, in tones that were as solemn as they were triumphant.

“A million?” he echoed.

“That is between ourselves, of course. Nobody else knows exactly, and most people would scarcely believe me if I were to tell them.” And Mr. Knight leaned back in his chair, and laughed softly.

Arthur did not laugh; and presently his father glanced keenly at him.

“Well, my son, what do you think of that?”

“I think it is an enormous fortune, and that great responsibility attaches to it.”

In fact, his thoughts were so busy that he scarcely knew what to say. It seemed to him that many of his dreams might almost at once become accomplished facts. More than enough money would be his to set in action the beneficent schemes which, night and day, had haunted him during the last two years. And what was there to prevent him from spending his life in his own chosen way? The business indeed? Surely the right thing would be to retire from it altogether. And yet,—would that be right or best? Arthur Knight hungered for people; and here in his father’s employ were several thousands of them. Nay, he would not send all these adrift, since, in a sense, he would inherit them as well as his father’s fortune.

He arose from his seat in excitement, and paced the room, his father, in the meantime, scrutinising him closely.

“Arthur, I wonder if you have much business capacity?” he said, presently. “It is harder than ever now to make money. Competition is so keen and the price of labour is so great that one must be clever to make headway now.”

“But you have made your headway, father.”

“Oh! I have not done nearly all that I want to do. Arthur,” said the old man, suddenly, “if you had your own way, and were perfectly free to choose, what would you like to do?”

“I am going to try to help you.”

“Please to answer my question, sir.”

“A young man has his dreams generally, I suppose. I should like to talk to the people.”

A very impatient grunt met this assertion.

“Do you mean that you would like to be a parson?”

“Not exactly; but don’t you think it would be a good plan if men of means gave themselves to the work of the Church, so that all the money raised could go to beneficent purposes, instead of the people having to consider the minister’s salary? However, I do not feel that I ought to be a minister.”

“A Member of Parliament, Arthur? That you might very well be. There’s a wretched set of muffs in Parliament now. They ought to interfere in some matters more than they do.”

“It is a good thing that the markets of the world are open to us,” said Arthur. “I wish, though, that some of our merchants were a little more patriotic. They are sending out such worthless goods that they are getting a bad name for England.”

“That is not their fault, but the fault of the foreign dealers who are crying out for cheap things, and will always buy at the least price. A man must in self-defence put inferior articles in circulation if people will not give the good price for the good thing.”

“But he might meet the difficulty by taking less profit for himself.”

“Why in the world should he? He has himself to look after. He offers the articles that are asked for at a price which the people are willing to give. What more can be expected of him?”

Arthur resolved to use caution in the disclosure of his thoughts on the subject. For the next hour he kept his father amused with tales of his adventures.

Later, Mr. Knight again brought business forward; and the day of rest was to Arthur a very different one from that for which he longed.

They were still talking together when an unexpected diversion arose.

The gate which formed the only entrance to the grounds of Brent House was always kept locked, and could only be opened from the inside. There was a ring at the bell, and when the boy unlocked it three men immediately stepped inside. While the porter was asking their business, one of them again opened the gate, and a dozen other men pressed in. Mr. Knight and Arthur were endeavouring to discover what it all meant, and they saw that a great crowd was in the street. The frightened porter came breathlessly into the room.

“If you please, sir, here are men who say they are a deputation, and they come on very particular business.”

“Tell them to take their particular business away, then, as fast as they can.”

The boy went out with the message, and soon came again.

“They say they are your workmen, sir, and what they have to say concerns you very much. And they say they are not going until they have had their talk with you.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it? Set the dog on them.”

Arthur rose hastily.

“May I see them, father? They seem respectful and quiet enough. Let me hear what they have to say.”

“No, Arthur; I would rather you keep out of it. Would you let them tell you what they want if you were me?”

“Yes, I certainly would.”

Mr. Knight threw up the window.

“Now, then, you fellows, what is the meaning of this?”

A man who was in the front touched his cap and cleared his throat, and began a short speech.

“Beg pardon sir, but we are come to lay our case before you, man to man. We have been given to understand that the factory in Chislehurst-street belongs to you, though it is carried on in the name of Woolton and Company. We are all employed at that factory; and we are not satisfied with the wages. We want a rise, sir, begging your pardon.”

“And so do we,” said another man, in tones that were far less respectful. “We find that a good many of them works at the back of Stepton belong to you; and it is impossible for a man to keep his family respectable on the wages you give. We’re going to strike and demand better pay, and we have come here to-day to give you notice to that effect.”

“Yes, we have,” began another, but Mr. Knight angrily stopped him.

“If you don’t clear out of this directly I will have you all arrested for trespass,” he said. “And you are very much mistaken if you think this is the way to get what you want. If you have a case, lay it before the man from whose hands you take your money, and approach me through him.”

A scornful laugh broke in here, and several voices said, “A lot of good that would do!”

“But I may as well tell you now you are here,” continued Mr. Knight, “that this is no time to ask for higher wages. Trade is bad, and the manufacturers are not getting the money they ought. If you don’t like to take the wages you can leave them. I could get your places filled to-morrow, and with better men than you. So go about your business. And remember, you are marked men. I shall know your faces again, and you needn’t be surprised if you get notice to quit.”

“Please to understand, sir,” said the first speaker, “that we come as a deputation. Pretty well all your men are at the back of us. And we was to tell you that we would give you a week to consider it. We shall be glad to state our grievances to you, and also to mention the terms we think fair, if you will appoint an interview. Our Union will back us, and we don’t mean to go on in the old way, and so we give you notice.”

Mr. Knight closed his window, and again ordered his servant to set the dog loose; but the men quietly withdrew, pulling the gate to behind them, not, however, before the owner of the house and his son had another glimpse of the waiting crowd outside.

Mr. Knight was in a rage. “What do you think of that for a piece of impertinence?” he asked.

“How much can the men earn, father?”

“Oh, different sums. Nobody has less than fifteen shillings a week.”

“I should hope not. That is very little for a man who has a family.”

“Well, the family is no business of mine. I don’t employ more men than I can help. I like women and boys better. A woman is well off if she gets ten shillings a week, and she does as much work as a man will do for a pound.”

“Have you ever thought what a fair and right thing it would be to give your workpeople a share in your profits? You know that both individuals and companies have tried the plan, and found it answer. A man who has a stake in the concern will be more likely to do his best, and to work economically and diligently, than one who has no share in it.”

“What nonsense, Arthur! They do have a share in the profits when they get their wages, don’t they?”

It was inevitable that Arthur, being a young man, should look at things differently from the old one—young men always do. But he was sensible enough to be held in check by the reflection that his father had—what he certainly had not—experience. This made him resolve to be careful of his words, and only to speak when an opportunity had been given him to prove things. He knew, however, that sooner or later he would have to tell his father what his own views were, which he would certainly put into force if he had the opportunity, because he thought it quite possible that when his father was informed he would take care that his business should be put in other hands. Arthur believed that wealth, whether inherited or won, was a trust to be used for others.

“It seems to me,” he said, “that their share is often not a fair one. For instance, if I have invented an article which meets the needs or tastes of my customers, I have the right to what of financial good it brings if I can make the article with my own hands; but if I have to employ other hands they ought to have a much larger share than usually they do. And if I am getting rich, I ought not to lay more and more by, unless I give those who help me to get rich more and more. The fact is, father, that a Christian man may not do what others may. He cannot be selfish, and keep all the good things that come in his way; he must help others, and try to find his joy in that. You know money is no real good to a man. He can only eat as much, and drink as much, and wear as many clothes as others. But if he scatter his wealth, and make a hundred or a thousand families better off because he is rich, that seems to me splendid, and the lot of that man must be the best in the world.”

Arthur glanced at his father as he finished. His words had a curious effect upon the old man. He was bitterly disappointed, and yet, as he listened to his son, he was conscious of a feeling that was more like pride and gratification than anger.

“So those are your views, are they?” he said. “I am very glad you have told me what I have to expect. But I am not going to quarrel with you to-day. I will think what is the next best thing to do. Would you not like a walk? I am going to be busy for an hour or two.”

Arthur gladly went forth to mingle for a little in the life of the metropolis. It was not much like Sunday down in the East-end of the great city, where the stalls were in the streets, and the shops were open, and there was a great tumult among the people who were buying and selling, arguing and quarrelling, and, above all, drinking and smoking. Places of worship enough there were to contain them all, but few appeared to recognise the Father’s house, or to care to enter it. The noise of London seemed to surge round the churches and chapels, which are like harbours of refuge in the stormy sea—only, most of the people preferred to be out on the waters rather than within the calm. Centres of influence and helpful service were these, every one of them. If the ministers and the members did not work together with those of other churches, they had each their own set of workers, all honestly endeavouring to meet, in the way they thought best, the needs of the neighbourhood. Many stories of heroism and self-denial could be told of those who were consecrating their life to this East-end work, and labouring on, through good report and evil report, often with scant success to encourage them. A few of the people were lifted up and out of the mass of wickedness; but so few that they seemed to make little difference, for the streets were as terrible as ever. Still bad language shocked the ears of those who did not live amongst it; still drunkenness and cruelty appeared to flourish more than anything beside. And on this day the men and women who talked together in angry voices in some of the most densely-populated places were more fierce than usual because one of their favourite public-houses had lately been closed. Arthur Knight was shocked and pained with what he saw and heard, but he was not rendered hopeless and despairing. “They ought never to have been suffered to get into this state,” he thought. “Nearly all these men and women were once in the Sunday-school. How is it that they were let to slip away from those who were their best friends? But the hope of the future is with the young. The present generation of the young must be secured somehow.” And as he half-uttered aloud these words he passed a large hall filled with boys and girls listening delightedly to a man whom he half-envied, such power had his eloquence over them. Then he thought of the latest developments of Christian endeavour, and his heart leaped with joy as he remembered that he could now become associated in these and other services to humanity, so well and wisely rendered in modern times; and it was with a happy assurance that he went home, for the words that were upon his lips was a prophecy in process of fulfilment: “The kingdoms of this world shall become the kingdoms of our Lord and of His Christ.”

CHAPTER IV.
COUSIN TOM.

“Mother, how is Cousin Tom?”

John Dallington had been enjoying a ride over his farm before breakfast, and had returned, as he said, with an enormous appetite. The morning was delightful, and the sweet scent of the early spring flowers came in at the open window as he spoke. Mrs. Hunter assumed a listening attitude, and then replied, “If I am not mistaken, Tom is coming to answer for herself.”

The next moment John was at the door, and in time to assist his cousin to alight from her horse; but she was by his side before he could quite reach her. This lady with the incongruous name, “Tom Whitwell,” was the youngest daughter of Henry Whitwell, Esq., of Hornby Hall, the father of eleven daughters and no son. Mr. Whitwell had waited very anxiously for the son who did not come; and when the eleventh daughter was announced, he declared that he did not wish to look at her. But meeting the disappointed gaze of his wife he relented.

“Never mind, wife,” he said, “we will make the best of the bad bargain. This last comer shall have a boy’s name, and a boy’s education, and, as far as possible, a boy’s portion. She shall be called Tom, after my father.”

Mrs. Whitwell suggested a compromise, and the baby was eventually named Thomasine Grace Whitwell. But she had always been called Tom, and to please her father she had endeavoured to live up to her name. She early learned to ride and row and play cricket. Her brown hair was cut short and parted on one side, and she wore the most gentlemanly hats, jackets, collars, boots, and gloves that could be bought. She cultivated the lower notes of her voice, and when asked to sing professed herself “only able to do bass.” She was fond of mathematics and science, and considered herself a very logical reasoner. She was a doughty defender of women, but a merciless critic of their weaknesses. She tried to look at things from a man’s standpoint, and laughed at the pleasures and pursuits of her own sex. But she did not do this when one of her friends, Margaret Miller, was near, for Margaret had a way of smiling quietly, and saying, “There is no more womanly woman living, really, at heart, you know, than little Tom Whitwell.”

John Dallington thought that she looked as fresh as the morning; her clear grey eyes were bright with pleasure; and as she glanced into her cousin’s face her cheeks glowed, and she was a vision of health and happiness that quite delighted him. Tom had always been a favourite with John, and he was unfeignedly glad to see her now.

“You have really got back, John! And how well you look!”

“So do you, Tom; and not a day older than when I went away.”

“Oh, thank you! You have grown polite, I find. I cannot return the compliment, for you look about ten years older.”

“Do I indeed? I am glad of that. I want to be old, to inspire you all with respect. Will you have some breakfast, Tom?”

“If I do, it will be the third this morning. The air makes one hungry. How do you like England, John?”

“I like it very much. I have been long enough away to make me think the old country charming.”

“‘No place like home,’ and all that sort of thing, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes! And ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder,’ and all that sort of thing. You look splendid, Tom; and I do believe you have grown. Would not you like to see the places I have seen?”

“I would, indeed. You have been everywhere, haven’t you? And I have been staying in England all the time. It is well to be you, John.”

“That is precisely my opinion. But I have seen nothing more beautiful than the view from this window.”

“Really?”

“And truly. Of course I have seen many places a thousand times more magnificent, but none more lovely and picturesque. The world altogether is very beautiful, Tom. You come upon proofs of it in unexpected places. There are countries that everybody visits for the sake of their mountains or their rivers, or some special features of interest; but those less known are not the least lovely, and I have frequently enjoyed most when I have expected nothing.”

“It is not a very happy world, though, John.”

“I think it is! What has given you that idea?”

“Oh, everything! I have seen two persons this morning, one a woman and one a child, both poor and both suffering. And the doctors are of no use. John, do you know I mean to be a doctor myself?”

“Indeed?” laughed John. “Well, it may be desirable. The human race is increasing at too rapid a rate. Some parts of England are inconveniently crowded, and even the colonies are getting overstocked; so that anything which helps to thin the population will not be an unmixed evil. Taking all things into consideration, I do not know a less objectionable method of augmenting the death-rate than appointing a considerable number of lady-doctors. And there is no reason in the world why you should not be one of them.”

“You know nothing about the matter, or you would not talk so flippantly. When are you coming to Hornby? Father would like to see you soon, and so would my sisters.”

“Perhaps I can ride back with you. You will not return yet, I suppose?”

Before Tom could answer a dog-cart drove up to the door, and the faces of both ladies flushed and looked confused.

“Whom have we here?” asked John with interest.

“That is my stepson,” replied his mother shortly.

The visitor entered, and was introduced as Mr. William Hunter. John Dallington was kindly disposed, but he did not like his mother’s stepson, who came in with a very free-and-easy air, only removing a big cigar from his mouth to enable him to speak.

“How do, Dallington? Congratulate you, I’m sure. Good morning, mother. How are you, Miss Whitwell? Feel myself fortunate in meeting you.”

The new-comer threw himself into a chair and continued to smoke his cigar. This irritated Dallington, who was not a smoker, and disliked the habit in others. The coolness of the man who could behave so rudely in the presence of ladies annoyed him. “Do you dislike the smoke?” he asked of his cousin.

Mr. Hunter laughed. “Miss Whitwell is probably herself a smoker,” he said. “She is too sensible a lady to set herself against smoking, for that would be to set men against her.”

Tom flushed violently. “It is scarcely worth while to contradict you,” she said.

Mrs. Hunter interposed with some remarks upon the weather; she was extremely anxious that the two young men should be friends, but she had some misgivings, for she could not but know that her son and son-in-law were of very opposite natures, and that their tastes, therefore, were not likely to be the same. John Dallington, however, was too much interested in his cousin to give a second thought to William Hunter. “Will you come into the garden, Tom?” he said. “I have forgotten the names of some of the English flowers, and you must remind me of them.”

“I do so dislike that man,” she said, as soon as they were on the outside of the house. “He is a most unpleasant person, and not good either. Do not have much to do with him, John; and you must remember that you are master, and assert yourself accordingly.”

“I hope he will behave himself.”

“I do not think he knows how.”

“We must give him a few lessons. But never mind him now, Tom. Tell me about yourself and everybody. What have you been doing all this long time? Have you got yourself engaged yet?”

“Not I, indeed. There has been far too much to do. I have been making myself a practical farmer, and I am great on lands and soils and crops; so if you are at a loss, consult your cousin.”

“Thank you; I will with pleasure, for I am sure that I have very much to learn.”

“And I am sure that farming was never so difficult as now. Father often looks worried, though he keeps wonderfully well, on the whole.”

“I am glad of that. I want to see him. I shall have plenty to do, I find. I have actually already had an invitation to a wedding.”

“Mary Wythburn’s, I suppose? You must accept it, John. I am to be one of the bridesmaids, and many of your old friends will be there.”

“Give me a few names. First, the bridegroom: who is he?”

“Alfred Greenholme is the bridegroom, Dr. Stapleton the groomsman, and the vicar, Mr. Sherborne, will also be present as a friend. The other bridesmaids are Hilda Copeland and Margaret Miller.”

Tom glanced at her cousin as she uttered the last name, and saw that his countenance brightened.

“How is Miss Miller, Tom? Are you as good friends as ever?”

“Yes, we are good friends, and Margaret is very well. Which are the flowers whose names you have forgotten?”

“I am afraid we have passed them. Let us go back and look for them. I hope Alfred Greenholme is not as a man what he was as a boy, or Miss Wythburn is little to be congratulated.”

“She does not congratulate herself. In fact, I know that she is wretched. There is nothing very tangible against Mr. Greenholme. He is a lazy, self-pleasing, good-natured man; but girls of these days—some of them, at all events—want more than that. Mary Wythburn is a very clever girl, and far-seeing, too. She denounces such people as Mr. Greenholme. Like Mrs. Booth, she gets into a furious mood when she sees hosts of poor wretches starving, because they cannot get remunerative work to do, while men and women in good circumstances—professing Christianity, too—seem to have not a thought in life excepting that which touches their own pleasure. She thinks that if we are real Christians we cannot, and ought not, to be happy while so many are miserable, and I agree with her.”

“I often think the same. But she ought not to marry Greenholme if she feels like that. And the invitations are out?”

“Yes; so I suppose the wedding will take place. But I shall not quite believe it until I see her married. John, there are hundreds, if not thousands, of the best people in England who are absolutely weary of things as they are; and they are growing determined to change them, too. You have come home in time to help. We only want one or two men of genius and grace to show us the way. I believe the way is not through the giving of alms, for the money given to the poor every winter is enormous—besides special magnificent gifts for special purposes—and yet things are little better for it all.”

“Tom, have you been surreptitiously in correspondence with my old comrade, Arthur Knight?”

“Who and what is Arthur Knight? He has a good name.”

“Has he not? And he is a true knight, too—a splendid fellow, and great on this subject. He says things need not be another year as they are; and declares that it only requires a long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull altogether to accomplish such a revolution as shall crown England with truer glory than she has ever known before.”

“I expect it is a revolution that we want. There has been a great deal of pottering, but the right thing has yet to be done. John, I must be going. Will you order my horse?”

“Yes, and ride with you. It will be like old times.”

They had a delightful ride, and almost forgot that they were not boy and girl together. They went the longest way round, and yet reached their destination sooner than they wished.

Hornby Hall was an old-fashioned manor house—large, substantial, and comfortable—standing in its own grounds, and itself covering considerable space. It was built in the Gothic style, and had any number of large, low rooms, with thick walls, and ample chimney-corners and enticing window seats.

The master, “a fine old English gentleman,” came forward to greet his nephew with much cordiality, and John Dallington felt proud of his uncle, as well he might, for he was an upright man, who could not do a mean thing, stately in form and spotless in character, a magistrate, a member of the County Council, a man whose name was respected through the whole province, whose keen grey eyes seemed to see everything, whose courteous bearing delighted everybody, who was beloved and honoured by the poor and admired and trusted by the rich; a man without reproach, whose glory was not in what he had, but in what he was. It was a privilege to be related to him, as Dallington felt.

“Welcome home, my boy,” he said, kindly. “I am glad you have come into your own, and that we shall see something of you again. I wish you health and happiness for your new life. Come in, and be made much of by your aunt and cousins; they are not all such forward things as Tom, but they will be just as glad to see you.”

And indeed they appeared to be, and seemed bent on spoiling the returned wanderer, who might have been a veritable prodigal son, so eager were they to lavish the best of everything upon him.

John spent some very pleasant hours that day at Hornby Hall, hearing the news and telling stories of his own experiences. His cousins were merry girls, quick at repartee, and full of good-humoured fun. Some of them were married, but there were quite enough of them at home to fill the old house with pleasant sights and sounds.

In the afternoon Mr. Whitwell took his nephew over the farm and showed him the improvements he had made during his absence. “You must see my model cottages, John,” he said. “The old places were falling into dis-repair, and were not very comfortable to live in; but you will be pleased with these, I think.”

“These are scarcely like the old style of agricultural cottages.”

“No; are they? But the old style of thing will not do in these days. You see they have large gardens. I am not a Radical, you know, John, but a steady-going Conservative; and that is how it is that I have come to see what a shame it is for a man to work on a farm, and have spacious fields and meadows all around him, and yet not have a patch of ground large enough to grow a bed of cabbages or a few potatoes to call his own. Monstrous, when you come to think of it!”

“Yes, so it is,” assented Dallington; “but I should not have thought that such ideas on your part were the outcome of Conservatism.”

“Would you not? I am happy to say that most of the old Tories of my acquaintance have come to have the same opinion as I.”

“I am glad to hear it. I shall have to do something to my own cottages, I expect. Why, you have actually planted these gardens with fruit trees.”

“Oh, yes! It does not do to expect too much from my tenants. If they take care of the trees, and train them and eat the fruit, it is as much as one has a right to look for.”

“They are very pretty cottages.”

“I am glad you like them. And they are convenient. They have rooms enough, and they are not too small. At one time a man was satisfied with a four-roomed cottage, no matter how many sons and daughters he had; but all that has passed away before a better education, thank God!”

“The gardens look well kept.”

“They are; and they provide vegetables enough to last the whole year. The people are all right, you know, if they have fruit and vegetables, corn and milk.”

“Have you raised the rents?”