Nineteen hundred? A forecast and a story

All was peace. It was impossible to look upon the stately face and form of the dead man and not feel that Christ had laid His hand upon the white brow, and said, “Peace, be still.” The doubts and impatience which had characterised him in his earlier years were set at rest once for all. The strife was over, the misgivings were quieted, and if the questions were not yet answered, the questioner was asleep in deep repose.

Margaret could not at first believe that the kind heart which had loved her, and the lips which had blessed her, were still for ever.

“Dr. Stapleton, surely you can revive him,” she said, “and bring him back again to life, if only for a few weeks.”

“I would if I could, perhaps,” he said; “but no mortal power could do it, and you should be thankful that he is spared the suffering which we feared.”

“For his sake, my darling, you must not mourn,” said John Dallington tenderly, as he took her in his arms, and tears were in his eyes for her sorrow.

“Not mourn!” Had any one else uttered the words Margaret must have felt that she was being mocked. She would mourn for him through the rest of her life, for was he not the only father whom she had ever known, the friend and protector of her infancy and girlhood? Oh, that she had loved him more, that she had expressed her gratitude more earnestly! And yet she was sure that he had understood, and was satisfied.

The inhabitants of Darentdale were greatly shocked by the news of his death. The familiar figure, the genial voice, the friendly hand had seemed to belong to the place for ever.

“Mr. Harris dead! Who will care for us now?” said the children. “There is no one to take his place,” said the men. “He had a good word for us all—he understood us,” said the women. There was no home which was not darkened by the shadow that had fallen, and very few individuals who did not sympathise with Margaret.

But there was one person who laughed cruelly at that which brought sadness to so many. John Dallington took the news to his mother. “He died suddenly,” he told her, “but the doctors had only that day pronounced him incurably diseased; so the sudden death was a blessing to him.”

“Did the doctors frighten him to death, then?” asked Mrs. Hunter.

“I do not think he was afraid to die; he was too brave a man for that; but his heart must have been very weak.”

“And so my enemy is dead!” said Mrs. Hunter. “I can scarcely believe it.”

“He was not your enemy, mother. He was everybody’s friend. If you had known him you must have known that.”

“How I hated him!” said Mrs. Hunter.

“Yes, and it was most absurd of you, mother, for he never injured you in the least thing.”

“Oh, yes, indeed, he did! He had my money. What will become of it now? If he had been a just man he would have bequeathed it to me.”

John was fast losing patience. This idea which had possessed his mother was nothing less than a craze.

“The money was not yours, and never could have been,” he said. “Do be reasonable! How can you talk of justice, when you are so unjust in your judgment of him? Oh, little mother, how much happier you would be if you would only be kind! Do cast out the evil spirit of jealousy which has poisoned so many years of your life, and see things as they are. There will come a day when you, too, will need mercy——”

“As Henry Harris does now.”

“Yes; and as we shall soon. Be yourself merciful therefore now. He has gone home to God. He is the Judge, and He only knew all about Mr. Harris.”

“Is there a God? He did not believe in one.”

“How can you say so, mother?”

“I am not the only one who says so.”

“No one says so who knew the man. He certainly had what many of us have not, the Christian spirit of love and helpfulness, which made him the friend of everybody. But, mother, even if he was as wrong as you think him, it is time to forgive him now. I wish you would do a kind thing for me. Do you care for me in the least, my mother?”

“You know that I care for no one but you, John.”

“Then do me this kindness. Everybody will be calling on Miss Miller in this her time of trouble. Will you not call too?”

“That girl! How dare you ask me!” Mrs. Hunter started up in her fury, and her eyes blazed forth on her son. Then followed a string of invectives, and even of curses, such as made John shudder. As he looked and listened, a great fear entered his heart. Surely his mother must be going mad! It was impossible in any other way to account for her rage and hate. She was in a frightful passion; her face was ghastly, her hands clutched each other, and there was such a baleful light in her eyes that John was grieved beyond expression. He tried to quiet her, but it was of no use, and presently he forced her into her own room that the servants might not hear her ravings.

Poor John! “There is more trouble coming to me,” he said, and he was right.

It is only natural that there should be sorrow when a good man dies; the world cannot afford to lose him, and the people feel in a sense orphaned. At Darentdale they had never seen such a day in the memory of the oldest inhabitant as that of the funeral of Henry Harris. Every shop was closed, every window had its blind down. No arrangement was made for a public funeral; but the people obeyed the impulses of their own hearts, and the highest and the lowest showed their sorrow in every possible way. The whole village stood around the grave, and sobbed forth its grief. Positively the only persons who held aloof were Mrs. Hunter and Mr. William Hunter.

The Vicar held a service in the church; he was visibly affected as it proceeded, for he felt that he had lost a friend. At the grave the service was most impressive; and there was a ring of certainty in the Vicar’s voice as he pronounced the words which seemed to him to carry more meaning than ever now. “Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall change our vile body, that it may be like unto His glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby He is able to subdue all things unto Himself.” The service did not close without earnest words to those who felt themselves bereaved, urging them to carry on the good work which Harris had begun, and to copy his character—a character which, the Vicar declared, must have been founded on the religion of the Lord Jesus Christ.

It was not during the funeral, nor even for a day or two afterwards, that the desolateness of her position forced itself upon Margaret, for it is never while the body of the beloved one is in the house, and the mind is forced to lend itself to the customary preparations for the signs of mourning (stupid enough in themselves, but serviceable in that they compel the thought from the acute woe of the first terrible days)—it is never then that the loss is realised in its greatness. When the last caller has spoken the condolences which he meant to be kind, and the door is shut, enclosing the empty house, it is then that the weight of the loss is most crushing. To Margaret everything seemed to have gone with that presence which had pervaded the house. The shutters had not been taken down from the windows of the little shop, but Margaret knew without looking for them where the books were which he loved, and the papers he had handled. The animals that he had fed looked at her with wistful eyes that made Margaret weep afresh. The chair in which he had sat seemed to hold a shadowy form, and Margaret could not but throw herself beside it and cry—

It was not the time for her lover to speak of his love, or to urge its claims. John felt that all that he could do was to sit sometimes by her side, that she might get what comfort she could from his presence. She was so entirely alone in the world that he thought she must consent to marry him. What else should she do? And as he said this to himself a great joy of hope filled him. He loved her so greatly—his own beautiful darling, that he would gladly live with her in this little home, and leave his own to his mother; or he would take her beyond the seas, and work for her as a common emigrant, and feel himself a crowned king when she rewarded him with her love. There was nothing—nothing that he would not do to possess her; and surely the time was nearer than ever now.

But a few days afterward a terrible thing happened, which put that for which he longed even farther away than it had seemed before, and which would have made a weaker woman than Margaret really ill.

It was evening, and Ann Johnson had gone to visit some friends, so that Margaret was left in the house alone. Her thoughts were very sad ones. She was trying to face her future and arrange her course of action, but it was very difficult. She shrank from a lonely lot, as every woman does. And what was she to do? The new work that was waiting for her seemed less attractive now. The poor girls who needed care and love and training became less interesting to her mind as she thought of her own position, and felt that she was herself a poor girl, needing everything. And, besides, how could she give up the Old House, which her grandfather had loved, and which belonged to her now? And, on the other hand, how could she live in it without him? She was not obliged to remain there, even if she did not accept the other engagement which had been offered her, for Mr. Harris had property, and had left her with a competency. But how could she go away and leave John? He had become unutterably dear to her in this time of her sorrow, for he had been most thoughtful and kind and strong for her, and she felt that she would have given much if she might have laid her head upon his shoulder and said, “John, take me anywhere you please, only do not leave me.” And might she not do this? Was it right to let Mrs. Hunter keep them apart, and spoil both their lives? She did not love John as Margaret did, or she would not have made him unhappy. Surely she must give way at last. Why not now? If only she could see her and talk to her!

The front door was opened when Margaret’s thoughts had reached this point. “Ann is back soon,” she said to herself, and then it was borne in upon her that it was not Ann who was approaching. Neither was it John. Who could it be that came so unceremoniously into the house? A nameless fear possessed her, and she arose to meet her visitor. It was nearly dark, and the lamps were not yet lighted; but she saw at a glance that Mrs. Hunter stood before her.

Mrs. Hunter in that house, unaccompanied, and at that hour! What could it mean? Margaret held out her hand, and looked her full in the face, and at that moment the swift conviction that had passed through John’s mind passed through hers also—Mrs. Hunter had become insane. Hate had made her mad.

“Will you take a seat, Mrs. Hunter?” said Margaret, trying not to be nervous. “I am afraid you must be tired after walking so far. It is a beautiful night—at least—no—it rains, and I see you are wet. May I help you to remove your cloak?”

Mrs. Hunter answered not a word. She sat down wearily in the chair, and passed her hand over her face; but the next instant she sprang up, and to Margaret’s surprise—and, it must be confessed, to her terror also—she seized her by the shoulders.

“I have you now, you Margaret Miller,” she said in dreadful tones, “and I shall make you do as I wish, for I will kill you—I will kill you if you do not! Show me now, instantly, before any one comes, where is the hidden treasure, the gold that belongs to me and mine, which you have in this house?”

Margaret was a strong young woman, with a considerable amount of physical power, for which at the moment she felt thankful; but the grip of Mrs. Hunter’s hands upon her was so violent that it was almost certain that, small as she was, compared with Margaret, she could win a victory over her opponent if it came to a struggle in deadly earnest.

“What is there in this house which belongs to you?” said Margaret. “I do not want to keep anything that is not mine.”

“But you and that bad man have kept it—ah! I am glad he is dead; and there is only you now—only you—and you are nothing! Give me my own! Where is it? I want it for my son—the gold that his uncle had gained, and which is his by right. The lack of it has ruined us! It has made a wicked woman of me, and it will make me mad! Give it to me now! Show me its hiding-place, and I will take it. Do as I tell you, or you shall die!”

Margaret said that she did not really know whether she could find it. And in truth she felt that she would only too gladly give up every coin there was. It was true, she supposed, that this gold, for which she cared so little, was the thing which brought so much hate and misery, and was the real cause of separation between John and his mother, and also was the secret of her hatred. She would give it to the woman who wanted it, and then, perhaps, the trouble would be over.

“Let me get a light,” said Margaret, “and see if I can do as you wish. It is nearly dark.”

But Mrs. Hunter held her, and laughed wildly.

“Ah! you think to escape me, but you shall not. I will go with you while you get a light. But you do not need a light. I know the chest. Where is it? Give me the keys. I will hold you till you do.”

“If you hold me how can I get you the keys?” cried Margaret; and then she felt herself turn cold with fear, for Mrs. Hunter began screaming terribly.

Margaret wondered what she could do. Her nerves had already been very much shaken, and this seemed really more than she could bear. She would like to have rushed into the street and summoned help, but she would not do that for John’s sake; she must pacify and satisfy his mother in some way, and get her home, and into John’s care before any one knew what had occurred. As for the money——

At that moment Ann Johnson came in. She stared at Mrs. Hunter, and saw what was the matter. Margaret signed to her to be quiet, but before she could speak Ann rushed out of the house again, greatly to Margaret’s vexation. But Ann had seen Mr. Dallington in the village, and had decided that the right thing was to fetch him. She had the good sense to speak quietly.

“Your mother is ill,” she said. “She is at our house. Come directly, but say nothing about it—we must keep it to ourselves.”

There is no need to describe the scene which followed—a very painful one, which the three persons who witnessed it never forgot. Ann showed herself invaluable in the emergency, and John succeeded at last in getting his mother home.

Ann could not quite make up her mind whether Mrs. Hunter was insane or intoxicated, but she had not much time to consider the question, for Margaret had borne all that she could bear, and Ann’s hands were full for the present.

The next morning Margaret wrote accepting the management of the home for training young girls for their future life.

John called in the afternoon, looking so ill that Margaret’s heart ached for him. She put her arms around him, and touched his forehead with her lips.

“Oh, my dear, I wish I could help you,” she said. “Yours is a worse trouble than mine.”

“Were you not frightened last night, Margaret?”

“Yes, I was, and terribly surprised; but I saw at once that Mrs. Hunter was ill. Is she better to-day?”

“She is quiet and exhausted. Margaret, what am I to do?”

“You must take care of her, and nurse her. Let Ann Johnson come and help you. Mrs. Hunter seemed to like her. I cannot stay here, John, and you must take this house, and all that is in it. I do not want the money. I have no use for it, and I think your mother will get better, and look at things differently, if I am no longer here to irritate her.”

“I shall want some one to help me.”

“Yes, you will, dear; but I must not come. It would make her worse if I were near. Oh, John! John! I wonder why such trouble is allowed to come to you. I would give my life to help you if I might; but you must bear it all alone. Perhaps Mrs. Hunter is not really as ill as we fear.”

“She is worse than I thought her. I am afraid of the future. Is there hope anywhere? Margaret, you will always love me whatever comes?”

“Always, always; be very sure of it; and when I may I will come to you. But for the present you must take this house and the money, and let your mother do as she likes with it.”

“You are not exactly a woman of business, my dear,” said John. “You cannot give up your house and money like this, you know. Neither must you go away.”

“Yes, John, I must—for the present, at all events. There is no other way out of the difficulty.”

John considered gravely. Love ought to be first, he thought; did not every one say it was the greatest force in the world? But Duty? John Dallington and Margaret Miller gave Duty the highest place in their lives, and both knew that neither could be happy by trying to put even love itself before it.

“I can scarcely tell, I do not really know what is right,” said John. “I could not put my mother into an asylum, unless it should become absolutely necessary; and neither could I let her be a prisoner in her own house. And just now I think that she is not in a fit state to be left without my oversight, and, therefore, it seems necessary for me to remain at home with her. As for you, my darling, I am afraid it would not be safe to bring you to my home at present. And yet, how can I let you go far from me? Cannot you remain here for awhile?”

“No, John, I will go to High Seathorpe and commence this new work which has been given me to do. I shall be the better for such an occupation. It will absorb my thoughts and fill my days with congenial labour. I wrote this morning accepting the position, and Ann posted the letter.”

“Very well,” said John, with a sigh. “I suppose we must take life as we find it. Perhaps things will right themselves, and bring us happiness by the time that we are too old to enjoy it.”

Margaret laughed gently. “We are both young,” she said, “and we shall be faithful to each other. Nor shall we have long to wait. Let us do the right and leave it. But, John, I must show you that money which your mother thinks, and I think, ought to be yours. Come and see where it is; and I hope you will agree with me as to what should be done with it. You do not want to see it? But you must, please.”

But John would not be persuaded; and his face flushed with anger. “I will not see it,” he said. “I want to know nothing whatever about it. I am sick of it. You ought to put it away in a bank; it is absurd of you to keep it in the house. If it became known that you had it on the premises you might be robbed or murdered on account of it. But I don’t care what becomes of it so long as I never hear of it again. Sometimes it seems that the only reason why you consent to marry me at all is that that detestable money may be forced upon me.”

Margaret turned away with tears in her eyes. John had never spoken to her so angrily before; and at that moment she felt also as if she did not care what became of the money.

“Since we have to part so soon you might be kind to me,” she said; and, of course, John called himself a brute, and begged her pardon.

A few days later, Margaret and Ann Johnson locked up the house, and went into Yorkshire to open the Home which was already prepared for its purpose.

Mr. Smart met them at High Seathorpe, a station between Scarborough and Whitby, and took them to the house. It stood upon the moors, in a sheltered hollow, with a few brave trees surrounding it, and from its grounds, as well as from its windows, magnificent sea-views were to be obtained.

“I am glad to welcome you, for my client’s sake, Miss Miller,” said Mr. Smart. “I am afraid he will never be able to see for himself how the work on which he has set his heart progresses, for he is ill; but it is a comfort to him that you have consented to come. I think you will like your surroundings, and High Seathorpe is exceedingly bracing.”

But Margaret was weary from her journey, and the place looked bleak and cold in the grey of the evening. Her thoughts went back regretfully to John, and also to her own cosy little home at Darentdale, so that for a time she felt sad and fearful of the future, and her powers to endure it. But when she reached the house a pleasant surprise awaited her.

Mr. Smart ushered her into a large room, well warmed and lighted, and a lady came forward, with both hands extended in greeting.

“Miss Wentworth!” cried Margaret, in surprise. “Is it possible that you are here! How can that have been brought about?”

“Ah, my dear, you did not expect to see me. I have brought thirteen of my girls to start this establishment. You will need me, I know, and I shall need you too; for girls are much more difficult to manage than boys. Come to your room, and let me make you feel at home at once.”

It was a great relief to Margaret to find that not only was Miss Wentworth at High Seathorpe, but that the work which she had come to commence was already successfully inaugurated. She looked in at the girls that night, and saw at a glance that the right ones were there. When she opened the door one of them was saying: “I don’t care! It isn’t nice to miss the courting, but my young man is a good fellow, and I mean to make the most of this chance and learn how to be a real good wife to him.”

That little sentence was like a tonic to Margaret; for her sympathy and interest were at once aroused, and she went away to dream once more of pleasant hours spent in the service of others.

The next morning she was ready for work, and before the day had passed the girls had decided that she was trustworthy, and that they would like her. One girl confided her love story to her also, and begged that she would teach her how to cut out and make some shirt collars with her own hands as a present for him. “There’s only one him in the world, you know, miss,” she said; “though I suppose it is a hymn that may be sung to the tune of the Old Hundred.”