Nineteen hundred? A forecast and a story

Geoff and Sissie Hancourt were staying at Hornby Hall, and Miss Tom Whitwell was having a splendid time with them. She had been introduced to the parents of the children, and when she heard of the projected emigration into Wales, she begged that during the time of the removal the children might be her guests.

“I will take as much care of them as their own mother could,” she said, “and bring them to you when you are settled. We have already an invitation to visit the place with the horrible name—what is it? Craighelbyl. For Mrs. Wythburn has invited Margaret Miller and me to see for ourselves the working of the millennium which the new Don Quixote is bringing about; so if you will lend me the children, Mrs. Hancourt, I promise not to keep them or run away with them, but to return them to you, whole, and in good condition.”

The little which Mrs. Hancourt knew of Tom was enough to assure her that her darlings would be quite safe in her care, and she felt that it would really be a relief to be free from the worry of them during that busy time; though she found it difficult to part from them even for a week or two. Tom, however, carried her point, and took the children with her.

“It is a trying thing to be a mother, Margaret,” she said to her friend, “and very bad for the emotional part of a woman’s nature. Poor Mrs. Hancourt embraced those children and wept over them until her hands trembled, and her eyes were swollen, and she looked ready to faint with grief. She kissed their hands and their faces, and I think she would have kissed their feet if she could conveniently have got at them. It is a mysterious sort of love which a mother has, Margaret, but these children are darlings. They are asleep now; come and look at them.”

The friends were walking in the Hornby grounds, and as Tom uttered the last words she lifted her eyes to the window of the room where she had left Sissie comfortably tucked into the dainty little bed which she and her sisters had prepared for her reception.

The next moment a low cry of anguish broke from her, and Margaret, looking in the same direction, felt as if her heart froze with horror. The window had been pushed up, and standing outside on the sill was the little figure in white which Tom had promised to restore to her mother.

The child’s nightdress floated in the breeze, and she was looking up to a swallow’s nest built in the roof, while clapping her tiny hands to see if she could make a bird fly from it.

“Oh, God, have mercy!” groaned Margaret, with white lips. “Don’t let the child see us, Tom. Run upstairs; but do not startle her. Go into the room quietly, and hold out your arms.”

Tom flew up the stairs, and Margaret stood below under the window, holding out the skirt of her dress to catch the child if she should fall.

There were three flights of stairs, and it appeared to Tom that it took her an age to ascend them. She thought she could not pray; but body, soul, and spirit seemed to go up to God in one voiceless but impassioned cry of entreaty.

She could scarcely breathe when she reached the door; but she opened it gently, and said softly, “Sissie! Sissie!”

The child was too much interested in the nest to hear her, and Tom felt suddenly as if she had lost her voice.

A chair stood by the window; the little one had evidently stood on it to gain access to the sill. Would she step back to the chair now?

“Sissie! Sissie, darling!” said Tom. But she was afraid to go too near the window, for fear of frightening the little one. What should she do? Had she better ring the bell and rouse the house? Or fetch Geoff to call his sister?

Presently it occurred to her that if she went softly round by the wall she could manage to suddenly clutch the little form. And she tried; but Sissie saw her, and Tom’s heart sank with dismay.

“You can’t catch me, Miss Tom!” she said.

And Tom opened her arms, and said, “Come to me, darling; I have something for you.”

The next moment Tom sank to the floor with the little one in her arms; Sissie murmuring, in tones of contrition, “Poor auntie! Naughty, naughty Sissie!”

Almost directly there were steps on the stairs, and sobs in the voices of those who tried to ask questions.

But when Tom sat up, looking dazed, and Mr. and Mrs. Whitwell came into the room with white faces, Sissie Hancourt was lying quietly in the little bed, with her eyes closed as peacefully as if nothing had happened.

Margaret lifted her out and wrapped her in a shawl. “I am afraid you are a very, very naughty little girl,” she said; “and I am sure you must be scolded; indeed, I think you must be punished as well.”

“I only wanted to look at the nest,” she said, “and I holded tight nearly all the while. Geoff says there are some young ones in the nest.”

“But you might have fallen down and killed yourself.”

“Well, I don’t want you to scold me. I love my Auntie Tom the best.”

Tom tried to take her, but she was feeling so weak and giddy that she could not hold her.

“I think,” said Mrs. Whitwell, “that we shall have to whip you, Sissie. See how white Auntie Tom looks because you frightened her so much.”

“Don’t be frightened, Auntie Tom; I won’t hurt you.”

“You had better take her in hand,” said Mrs. Whitwell to her husband. It was not the first time that she had passed a refractory and difficult child over to the same management.

“Go downstairs, all of you,” he said, “and leave Tom and me to deal with her.” When they had left he sat with the child on his knee, and in grave tones began to talk to her. “You do not want to be naughty, dear child, but you will make us all very unhappy if you do such things as that. You are only a little girl, but I am sure you know what is right and wrong, and that getting out of a bedroom window is very wrong indeed. If you want to see a nest, I will try to find one for you in a hedge to-morrow; but you must not go and do what you like in this way without saying a word to anybody. What would your father say if his little girl were to fall from a window and be killed, and he should never see you any more? And what would your mother do if there were no longer any little Sissie? I shall be afraid to keep you in my house unless you promise me to be good. When you are put to bed you must lie still, and go to sleep, as other little girls do, because, you know, you say your prayers, and ask God to bless you; but how can you expect Him to do it if you are so naughty? He looks at you all the time, and takes notice of what you do; so you must always try to be good and obedient. And you will in future, won’t you, Sissie? Say you will; now promise me, there’s a dear little girl.”

There was a beautiful expression of thoughtfulness on the sweet little face that was upturned to his, and the child passed her soft, cool hands to and fro over the bald part of his head while he waited for the promise. She did not speak for a moment or two, and then she said: “What a big forehead you have got! It goes all over behind.”

Tom took the child from her father with a hysterical laugh, which soon changed to weeping. Then the little one began to cry, too, softly and pitifully. “I will be good,” she said, “dear Auntie Tom. Put me to bed, and I will be a little mousie, so still, and never, never do it again.”

Tom’s nerves had been dreadfully shaken, and for some hours that night sleep was out of the question; so she and Margaret had a long talk together of that which was really uppermost in the minds of each. Margaret had been earnestly desiring to confide in her friend, but had not ventured to do so because she could not be certain of Tom’s feelings. On this night, however, Tom herself introduced the subject.

“Margaret,” she said, “you have not told me, as you ought to have done, considering what good friends we have always been, that you are engaged to my Cousin John; but I know you are, because he has told me so, and I want you to accept my congratulations. Nobody in the world will be more pleased than I to see you two happy together.”

“It is most good of you, Tom. Thank you very much. I have told no one; indeed, I am not sure that we are really engaged; but it is true that he cares for me, and I—he wishes us to be engaged, and perhaps there is no reason why we should not be. Do you know of any, Tom?”

“Not any, Madge,” said Tom, demurely, “because I know you care for him too. Poor fellow!”

“Why is he a poor fellow, Tom? Because two young women care for him?”

“Oh, no! He is to be congratulated on that account. I love him very much in a cousinly way; but if he wanted me to marry him, which he never has done, I would not, for I think it would not be right, since we are cousins. But I call him a poor fellow because I know how worried and troubled he is.”

“Is he, Tom? I expect he confides in you more than in me.”

“I am sure he does; but you need not therefore be jealous, Margaret. Some things he could not tell you.”

“But you can, Tom, and I shall be most thankful if you will. Does his mother hate me as much as she did? That is a great trouble to me also. What would I not give if I could win Mrs. Hunter’s good opinion! But I have no chance. She avoids me as much as possible, and when we happen to meet she will not look at me or speak to me if she can help it. Sometimes I think I will break through all reserve, and tell her that I will not marry her son until she wishes it, for I do not mean to do so.”

“You had better not say that, Margaret. Aunt is very one-sided and narrow in many of her notions, and as stubborn as only a woman can be. John’s happiness ought to be of far more consequence to you than his mother’s good opinion. The one you can insure; the other you may deserve, but it is doubtful if you will get it.”

“You are not very encouraging, Tom; but I do not despair, notwithstanding all that you say, and I know, of Mrs. Hunter. She will, perhaps, receive me yet as a daughter some day, if I am patient. My grandfather often says that all things come to those who wait, and I am only in a hurry for John’s sake.”

Margaret spoke the last three words with such tender emphasis that the colour came into Tom’s face. She would never tell any one of the battle which she had fought with herself over her cousin; but she thought the victory was completely won, and had spoken quite sincerely when she congratulated her friend. The two talked together of John, and when one was not sounding his praises the other was. They both knew, though Tom more than Margaret, of the many troubles that made him look grave, and caused him—and them too, for the matter of that—many an anxious hour. He was doing the right thing by his men; he was cultivating his land to its fullest extent and farming on the most scientific principles; but at present he had been able to do nothing toward paying off the mortgage, which pressed heavily upon his mind.

Margaret’s dreams were often of what she would do if she had a legacy—how she would help John without his knowing who did it, and change his losses into successes. But her love was able to do so little to express itself; and her faith was so sorely tried when she saw that he was not happy, that frequently she was not the bright Margaret which she knew she ought to be.

When she returned from her visit to Hornby Hall she found her grandfather had been thinking of John Dallington also.

“You will not be a penniless wife, Margaret,” he said; “and that reminds me that I have never shown you our treasure-trove, or, to put it as I ought, your treasure-trove, for really it all belongs to you. You will not be surprised to hear that our bank is in the house, for I have told you so already. That was one of the promises which I had to make to Captain Dallington—namely, that I would keep in the house a certain iron box which he gave into my charge. I often wonder why he did this; he was a sensible man in many respects, but he had some of the most peculiar and eccentric ideas. And the money which I was to use for your wants, and in order to keep a comfortable home for you, is in the house. Would you like to look at it?”

“I should very much, indeed, Graf. Is it a heap of shining sovereigns, such as you read of in books?”

“Come with me, and you shall see. I wish we could give some of it to Mr. Dallington; but he would not take it, of course, unless he had to take you with it; and even then, though there is enough for you and your children, there is not enough to buy back a farm or an estate, and I am afraid there is nothing we can do.”

As he was speaking, Mr. Harris led the way to his own room, and with a key which he took from his pocket he opened a drawer, from which he took another key. Then he removed a table and inserted this second key—a very small one—into a hole in the wall. A door flew open, and all that Margaret saw was another key, and a plaster wall in front. Mr. Harris touched a spring, and the wall slid back, and then a box was discovered. The opening of this box was watched with considerable interest by Margaret, for she, who wanted nothing for herself, wanted much for the man whom she loved. It was a deep iron box, and when it had in its turn been unlocked she saw the gold she had dreamed of—a great pile of it, and of notes, at the sight of which she burst into a low laugh.

“Here is enough for John’s needs,” she said. “Oh, Graf, dear, we must contrive for him to have some of it, because, you know, it belongs by right to him; for if Captain Dallington had not made that will, John, who is heir, must have had it all.”

Margaret took some of the shining pieces almost caressingly, for she thought of the beneficent power there might be in them, and was resolved that she would get Mr. Harris to set his mind to the problem which often troubled her—how to help John without offending him.

“How much of this do we use every year, Graf?” she asked.

“Very little, indeed,” was the reply, “for I have a source of income which prevents me from using a penny of this money on myself. All this you will know of some day, for my will is made, and all that I have, as well as all that Mr. Dallington had, is left to you. You will never be a rich woman, though, Margaret; and I hope you will be content to let Mr. Dallington fight this battle of limited means himself. I am an old man now, and I have learnt a few things in my life, and one is that if a battle be fought nobly, even though one’s antagonist be ignoble, the result is beneficial to a real, true man. John Dallington’s great trouble is that he wants more money than he has. He must learn either to do without it or to get it. That is the daily worry which is spoiling many men’s lives; but John is made of stuff too good surely to let it spoil his. Why does he not sell some of the land, and live on what is left?”

“Sell the land, Graf? Sell it, when it belonged to his father, and his father before him?”

“Yes, sell it; why not?”

“Well, of course, if you cannot see why not, I can scarcely hope to make you,” said Margaret, in tones which showed that she was offended.

Mr. Harris smiled as he went into the shop to serve a customer; but he believed that Margaret felt, as he did, that lack of money, so long as the absolute necessaries of life could be secured, ought not to be considered the great affliction which many people seemed to consider it.

The customer proved to be Dr. Stapleton. It was a strange thing that the only person taken into the doctor’s confidence was this man, whom he often heard spoken of as an irreligious man who had “never been converted.” He had been thus spoken of on this very day, and the doctor had irritably replied that he hoped he never would be, for it would be a great pity for Harris to be changed into the sort of thing that many were who believed themselves undoubtedly converted.

The shopkeeper threw open the door of his little sanctum, and the doctor passed through.

“I have not much time to spare,” he said, “but I wanted to tell you that my brother will do the thing which you advised—not because you advised it, though, but because he has a son. Do you know anything of the Young Crusaders?”

“Of course I do. My Margaret and Miss Tom Whitwell had the honour of originating that movement.”

“Well, my brother’s eldest boy, Ernest, is one of them. He is the finest boy, handsome to look at, and grand to trust in. There was a scene to be remembered the other day. Felix told the lad of his trouble, and he at once seemed to comprehend it all. He told his mother and his sisters more than they had guessed before, and then—it was the strangest thing—he knelt down and prayed to God to give them all courage to do the right. I would have called him a prig, but he isn’t one; he is a real, frank, manly Christian, such as we all ought to be. It seems a pity that the young are so much better than the old. But Ernest Stapleton is splendid. He said that he had seen a pretty little cottage, large enough to hold them all and one young servant, in a village two miles from Granchester, which was to be had for £20 a year. He asked them where would be the hardship, really, if they went there to live, and he and his father did the best they could with the business, and made it firm by the simple means of reducing the family expenditure and taking nothing out of it. He said that if they could fearlessly state the reason for the change, all whose opinion was worth having would think well of them; and that if they did not, their consciences would be at rest, for they would defraud no man; and that, with God’s smile on them, they would not only get on, but they would get honour, and get honest, too. And that boy is actually to have his way. The beautiful home and estate, with all the pictures and carriages and the rest, are to be sold; and my brother hopes that he can not only save himself from bankruptcy, but pay everybody fifteen shillings in the pound now, and the other five shillings in a year. Ernest says, and no doubt he is right, that the threatened strike will collapse, since the men will work for the wages which he is able to offer them, for a master who is honest enough to act in such a way as that. What do you think of that for a Twentieth Century boy, Harris?”

“I should like to shake hands with him, doctor.”

“And so you shall.”