Nineteen hundred? A forecast and a story

The first working-week was past, and the freshness of the new conditions had gone with it. Everything that occurred in those few days would for ever stand forth with crisp distinctness in the memories of the people, to whom such experiences were so new as to have been previously even undreamed of. Such a week no one had known before; and, the best of it all was, that it was not merely one week in a life given as a great treat, and never repeated: it was the beginning of a new life for them all.

“It is a pleasure to work in such a factory, and I will put in for the master the best week’s work I have ever done in my life.” One of the girls said this at the breakfast-table on Monday morning, and her father repeated it to his fellow-workmen later in the day. It expressed what every one felt. There was a unanimous resolve that Mr. Knight should not suffer in his circumstances for all the good which he had done for his people.

“Bless him!” said a woman, who had worked for Mr. Knight, senior, nearly fifty years. “Bless him! He will die as rich as Creasote, or else I ain’t no prophet. Such a man as gives his goods to feed the poor, and throwed up his London places ’cause they was dens, and don’t mount no ladder hisself without trying to drag us all up arter him; why it stands to sense as he have a reglar gold-mine in this world, and the cattle upon a thousand hills hereafter. As for me I wish I had fifty pairs of hands, they should all rattle along at railway speed before he should lose a penny for all he has done for me.”

“I wish I was cleverer at it,” rejoined a girl, who was working near this woman. “I’ve never troubled to make myself a first-class worker, nor I ain’t cared a bit about the work except for the pay; but now I shall go to those evening classes, and learn all I can, and see whether I can’t do credit to Mr. Knight. I’ve never took pains before, but I’ll take pains now, as sure as my name is Sarann.”

Many other “Saranns” made the same resolution, and Arthur Knight was touched to see how gentle all his people seemed to become; and how they continued to manifest their gratitude in a dozen ways, though many were too shy to endeavour to express it in words.

He was himself profoundly thankful for all that had been accomplished.

But he was exceedingly solicitous as to the future. He took into his confidence some of his helpers, and consulted them as to the best means of meeting certain emergencies which he feared would arise.

“The men will work in their gardens or go down to the shore, and perhaps be quite happy for a time,” he said; “but afterward there may be a reaction, and I am afraid their thoughts may go back a little regretfully to the public-house bar where they sat and smoked and drank and swore in perfect freedom. Perhaps if we cannot let them have the beer they must have the skittles and the smoking. It is no use to try to wind them up too high. You must help me to find some ways in which they can all be amused.”

“I am going to try to get them interested in gardening,” said Mr. Wythburn. “Coming as I do from the country, I have been able to bring with me a quantity of splendid peas and beans, as well as cabbages and potatoes; and I have talked to a lot of the fellows this week about what they can do with their bits of ground. The soil isn’t bad, and in a fortnight’s time there will be some home-grown cress at the family tea-tables, which will be a sort of first-fruits, and will encourage them to get on with the planting or sowing of other things. I have undertaken to give practical advice on the subject of crops to the community, and am not without hope that digging will—for the present, at all events—quite take the place of drinking.”

“I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Wythburn,” said Mr. Knight, “and to you all, for what you are doing for me. It will, I think, be a good plan to call in the aid of those who happen to have been born in villages, and get them to lend a hand to their more inexperienced neighbours.”

“I have some creeping plants which will grow rapidly. We shall put them outside the houses, and in a little time they will cover the new walls with beauty. A word of commendation from you, Mr. Knight, will go a long way to encourage the men.”

“It shall certainly be spoken,” said Arthur Knight.

But the men were even less interested in the outside of their homes than were the women in the inside. It was the first time that they had ever had a real home in the lives of many. And every woman took a pride in making the best of what she had. The houses were plainly furnished—there was nothing answering to a drawing-room so far as Mr. Knight’s arrangements went; but there were two rooms besides the scullery, and one of them, intended to be the living room of the family, was large, light, and comfortable. There was plenty to be done still in order to beautify the places, and add to their convenience; and the women, especially the young ones, were eager to use up their Saturday half-holiday for this purpose.

The love of home is born with every Englishman, and the women in whose hearts it does not live are untrue to the traditions of their race. These women, who had been brought into Wales by Mr. Knight, had forgotten many things; but few there were who did not honestly try to remember the old lessons of their girlhood, when the word was passed round to them: “The places are clean and comfortable, and you are expected to keep them so.” And, therefore, on this Saturday there was an immense amount of scrubbing and rubbing, of making dainty curtains and pretty rosettes, of hanging up pictures and ornaments, and of showing in a dozen ways how dear the new homes were becoming to the hearts of those who dwelt in them.

“Craighelbyl must have another name,” said Mary Wythburn; “something that means a city of homes; for that is what our place will become.”

“It is that already, thanks to Mr. Knight and to you, dear Basket Woman,” said a girl, looking with loving eyes at her friend. “My father is delighted at the thought that the rent which he pays is to be really purchase-money, and that in ten years the house will be his own. Mr. Knight does not know how he has saved father. Every Saturday he used to sit and drink, and then come to our wretched home cross with himself and every one else. To-day he is gone with Mr. Wythburn to get two trees to plant in his own garden. Mr. Wythburn said he could take the men where they could find young saplings which they might transplant. Father is looking for a sycamore and an elder tree.”

“The elder tree grows rapidly,” said Mary, “and perhaps that is the reason why your father has chosen it.”

“No, the reason is that there was an elder tree in the garden of the house in which he was born, for my father was a country boy. I should prefer a birch; but perhaps that would not grow, and the elder will. Miss Wythburn, please, I am sent to you as a deputation. Some of the girls want to know whether they may come and look-through your house to see if they can imitate the pretty things which they are sure are in it.”

“Oh, no! Of course not. What impudence!” The exclamations were not Mary Wythburn’s but Fanny Burton’s, whose face flushed with anger, and whose tones were those of indignation. Mary laid a restraining hand upon Fanny’s shoulder, and answered the request very differently.

“I will ask my mother; and I am sure that she will be happy to show you the clever contrivances about which she has been busy all the week. There is nobody like my mother for the fancy-work which beautifies a home. I believe that if she had nothing but an underground kitchen to live in she would contrive to make it look pretty.”

“But, of course, she does not want everybody to copy her ideas; it isn’t very likely,” said Fanny, grudgingly.

“Yes, Fanny; it is not only likely, but certain, that she will be glad to see her plans repeated in any number of homes. My mother is a very large-hearted woman indeed; it is worth while for you to know her better than you do.”

Fanny was silenced, and Mary Wythburn went away to arrange with her mother for the object-lesson in housekeeping which some of the girls wanted. Mrs. Wythburn was exceedingly amused. She was living in most simple style, having taken very little furniture into the new home. But Mary was right. No place could be other than pretty and home-like where her mother was, and, though the house was new and the furniture plain, there was something which made it look altogether different from all the other houses in Craighelbyl. All the girls who wished passed through the rooms and admired or criticised their arrangements, and the gentle hostess not only allowed them to examine the objects which interested them, but explained how they were made. This was greatly appreciated by the young housekeepers, who were anxious to improve themselves and their homes.

Later in the season there would be introduced at Craighelbyl some Saturday occupations and amusements for the people if it should be found necessary; but at present they all—men, women, and children—were too much interested in making their homes to care for anything else.

The conveniences and beauties of the factory buildings, where most of them had worked for ten hours a day during the week, had delighted and encouraged them greatly, but it was each man’s home that made him feel independent and glad.

When the day was waning Mary Wythburn was sitting in her own little room, when there came a tap at the door, and Fanny Burton entered in response to the cheery “Come in” for which she listened. A close friendship existed between the two girls, who had been so differently educated but who were now brought together in constant intercourse.

It was a beautiful evening. The setting sun dyed the mountains and the sea, and lighted the stone houses of the new settlement. Birds sang on the branches of the trees, and the scent of some wild flowers which had been gathered in the woods filled the room.

“What a change from Paradise Grove!” said Fanny. “It is not like the same world. To be here, with all one’s own people, so near London, and yet so far away from its misery, seems wonderful.”

“Do you think the people regret any part of the old life, Fanny?”

“Not yet. Perhaps they will, though; but surely not very much, nor for long.”

“Listen! There is singing.”

“Oh, yes! There are to be all sorts of little gatherings this evening in the homes of some of the men. They are so ready for Sunday that they wish to begin it overnight. There will be no vacant places at church to-morrow. Everybody who went last Sunday wishes to go again.”

“I am glad of that, for Mr. Knight’s sake.”

“And the people’s sake also. This has been the most beautiful week! People’s hearts are full of joy and gratitude, and there have been a hundred home missionaries among them, seeking to lead them to Jesus, and so make the happiness more real and lasting. I don’t think there has been a Christian man who dared to hold his tongue. I know of many for whom the new life has become an accomplished thing this week.”

“I am very glad. And to-morrow afternoon we are to have a Bible-class under the beech-tree here. I hope it will be a class of women only, or chiefly.”

“It will be, because Mr. Knight has a meeting for men, and they will all go. The life of the master is more eloquent than his words; but it is a treat to listen to his addresses.”

“I hope the desires of his heart will be fully gratified, and that he will never be disappointed in this place.”

“Oh, he never will be, surely! for God’s blessing will be upon such an enterprise. How many changed lives there are among us! And my own is the most changed of all. I have been thinking of the Sunday when you first took me into your room, and talked with me, after I had offered up my first prayer. I sometimes can scarcely think that I am I, so wonderfully different is my whole life. And how much I owe to you, my own dear friend. You have taught me what real religion is; and I am so happy that no words can express my joy and thankfulness.”

Miss Wythburn caressed the girl, whose voice faltered with emotion, and her eyes grew dim with tears.

“God has been very gracious to us both, and all,” she said, “and we must show our gratitude by making other people as happy as we are. I wish we could have all the East-end of London here with us.”

“I am afraid I am glad we cannot,” said Fanny; “but I will not be selfish. That would be too wicked.”

Fanny thought of her own words half an hour later. She had said good-night to Mary, and had turned at her own door, to take a last look at the fading sunset, when a hand was laid upon her arm, and a voice that seemed to bring Paradise grove back upon the scene said, “Is there any room for me here?”

Fanny turned, with a flush of anger on her face, and looked into the eyes of Andromeda Jones. “No,” she said. “You have no right here. You are not one of Mr. Knight’s workpeople. Go away!”

“Don’t send me away, Fan. Think of what you used to be, and have some pity for me. I am sick of the old life. I have walked all the way from London because I want to be good, and have a home, and be saved like you are.” And poor Drom’s voice died away in a sob.

“There is no room here for you,” said Fanny, endeavouring to disregard the words which still lingered in her ears. She did not want to pass on to this interloper the good which she valued so highly.

“No room? It is a wide place, and not crowded,” said Drom. “I am very tired, for the way was long and dreary. You cannot mean that you will not take me in after all? You have not been served so yourself, Fanny.”

It was very true. The girl of the slums had become gentle, and refined, and very happy, all because some one had taken her into a loving heart, and she had been dealt with tenderly and graciously by the Divine Friend and the human ones. She looked across at the western skies, with the beautiful evening glow upon them and hesitated. One more would make very little difference here, where there was enough and to spare of all good things. That she knew, but did not wish to remember it now. It vexed her exceedingly that this girl, whom she had never liked, but who would always remind her of the worst part of the old life, should have followed her there, and should still be so persistent.

“You have not brought any clothes with you, I suppose?”

“No, I had none to bring. There was but little work all the winter for me, and I have been only able to keep myself, poorly enough, too; there have been very few luxuries for me, I can tell you. Oh, Fan, I am so sick of the old life. Can’t you help me to a chance?”

“You know, Drom, this place is a private estate. No one has any right here except by Mr. Knight’s permission.”

“Oh, yes, I quite understand that. But you might speak for me, or get the Basket Woman to do it.”

The colour flashed into Fanny’s face.

“The Basket Woman?” she said. “The lady of whom you speak is Miss Wythburn.”

“I can’t help it,” said Drom. “You know we always used to call her the Basket Woman. I suppose you are mighty fond of her; she would do anything you asked her, and Mr. Knight would do anything she asked him; so it all depends on you whether I am to be sent away from the place like a thief, or whether a home can be spared for me here. Anyway, as I have walked more than twenty miles to-day, I suppose I may take a seat on your doorstep for ten minutes.”

Fanny began to feel ashamed of her inhospitable mood. “Come in, Drom,” she said; “we must put you up somewhere for the night. If you go back to London it must be by train, and there is no train from here till Monday. We will make the best of it. But I must report the case to Mr. Knight, of course; it is for him to decide it.”

Fanny led the way into her own bedroom, which was plainly, but comfortably, furnished. The only thing in it that was not absolutely for use was a text, framed, and hung upon the wall. Mary Wythburn had given it to her, and Fanny wondered sometimes whether the words had been selected that they might preach a constant sermon. They were: “Freely ye have received, freely give,” and they seemed fairly to stare at her on this evening when she took her unwelcome guest into her room. “I cannot feel glad to see her,” her thought replied to the text; “but I will be good to her, because I have myself received so very much.”

“This is too fine for me,” said Andromeda, as she looked at the white bed and the clean aspect of the little chamber. “I can sleep anywhere, Fan, for I am so dead beat.”

“The more reason why you should be comfortable,” was the reply. “I can make you up a little bed here while you have some supper. And you would like a bath, wouldn’t you?”

The poor overwearied girl cried a little, and Fanny relented and became kind; but she was almost too tired to eat or think, and very soon she was fast asleep.

When she awoke the next morning the light was streaming into the room, the soft winds were stirring the leaves into whispers, and the larks were pouring down their music upon the happy earth. Fanny was kneeling by the side of the bed, with an open Bible before her, and a look of quiet happiness upon her face. Presently she closed the book, and her eyes and her lips moved as if in prayer. Andromeda watched her most curiously, lying very quietly the while, and wondering what it was that Fanny was saying, and whether there was really a God who cared to listen, and who could answer prayer.

The eyes of the two girls met as Fanny arose from her kneeling posture, and seeing that Drom was awake, she went swiftly toward her, and kissed her.

“Why do you do that? You know you don’t like me,” said Drom, but her face lighted with pleasure, and her heart beat more quickly.

“Yes, I do like you—a little,” said Fanny. “I am not a very affectionate girl, but I have been reading about Jesus, and talking to Him, and after that I always feel as if I love everybody.”

“Even me?”

“I was not good to you last night, Drom. I am sorry for it now. I am not naturally good and kind, like Miss Wythburn, but I try to be. I am sure what you have done, in following us down here, will please her, and I am not going to be cross any longer. Will you let me lend you some clean things? You and I are about the same height and size, so you will manage nicely. See, I have laid out a dress.”

Andromeda did not know what to say, so she said nothing in response to the surprising kindness of Fanny, who went down to make things right with her mother. This was not difficult, as Fanny was quite the ruling spirit in the home, and when their visitor presently appeared at the breakfast table she was greeted kindly, and a plate and cup and saucer were set before her. Indeed, Mrs. Burton was much more pleased to exercise her hospitality than Fanny was, and it was a real pleasure to her to take the stranger under her protection, and show her the wonders of the new place.

“Come to church,” said Fanny’s mother, “and I will introduce you to Miss Wythburn outside. She will have a kind word for you, I know. She has for everybody.”

“But I have not been to church for a long time.”

“You will enjoy it all the more for that. Come out and look at the view from our house. It is beautiful.”

Indeed it was. Drom shaded her eyes, not more to keep out the light than to hide her tears, which, for some reason that she could not understand, were very near the surface. As she stood thus, a pleasant voice spoke to her: “Good morning! How did you get here? I saw you arrive last night.”

“I walked.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted a chance and a home.”

“And you shall have both,” said Mary Wythburn, placing a kind hand upon the girl’s shoulders. “For Christ’s sake I welcome you, Andromeda, and will find you some work to do.”

“Oh! are you sure that I shall not be sent back? I have no home anywhere now.”

“You shall have one here,” said Mary, confidently. “This is a city of homes, and there is certainly room for one stranger who desires to live a better life.”

“I do desire it,” said Drom. And Mary took her to church.