Nineteen hundred? A forecast and a story

Arthur Knight scarcely knew whether pleasure or pain predominated in his mind during the first days which he spent at home. London interested him intensely. The vivid life, the untiring resolution, the concentrated energy of the people amazed and delighted him. And when he saw all that was being done to further the cause of righteousness, he was as proud of his country as an Englishman ought to be. But that which had presented itself to his mind as the blot upon the picture, when he contemplated it from a distance, filled him with as much wonder and sadness when he was on the spot. Since his people could do so much, why did they not do more? They had conquered so many worlds; why did they not conquer their own? Were they as great as they used to be? Were they not rather afraid of being great? What was it that dominated most of the individuals that made up a London crowd? It needed very little discernment to discover that the one great desire of the people was to get on—not to get up, or to rise higher in intelligence or character, but to be able to pay a pound or two more of rent, and a longer bill at the tailor’s, or grocer’s, or milliner’s. Certainly there was nothing great, but everything that was infinitesimally little, in such an ambition as that! But he knew—a traveller in all lands must always know—that simple living brings as much happiness as luxurious fare, and he believed that if the spell could be broken, and the people who were so eager to get on that they had not time to think of other things could once get the fashion changed, they would rise to their own capabilities, and, completely changing their standpoint, would become really great in character and achievement. And he believed that the time for this was coming.

The first ten days of Arthur’s return were very memorable ones.

One of the incidents that ever afterward remained in his memory was that of his first attempt to speak to English people of that which was in his heart. He was passing down the City-road when he noticed that men were rapidly entering the historical Wesley Chapel. He went into the building, and found that a Conference of Christian men had been called to consider whether means could not be taken beforehand to prevent the misery which every recurring winter brought to the East-end of London. It was felt by the conveners of the meeting that it would be a wise step to prepare for the inevitable, and that the appalling distress might be to a great extent prevented if good arrangements were made in time.

Arthur Knight knew that the Wesleyans had been moving forward for a considerable period. He knew, too, that the last few years had seen the Salvation Army and other organisations making extraordinary endeavours to stem the tide of misery and sin, and that, indeed, every department of the Christian Church was working for this end, with much personal effort, and by means of enormous sums of money both specially and annually contributed. But the disappointing thing was that so little difference seemed to have been made by it all. The world of London was scarcely better. Still men cursed God and died. Still there were cases of death from starvation and cold; even in the last winter thousands of men were unemployed, while drunkenness, cruelty and sin seemed as strong as ever.

The speakers at the meeting referred to this in tones of disappointment and sorrow. They could not but thank God for what had been done; but they felt that the work was piecemeal and inefficient. A paper was read suggesting some new methods of raising money, and indicating some fresh methods of service, and then the meeting was thrown open, and any one who had anything to say which could be said in five minutes was invited to say it.

This was Arthur Knight’s opportunity. He waited until several persons had spoken, and then he sent up his name, and made his five minutes’ speech.

“Much that we wish for could be accomplished in a single year, in one way,” he said. “Christian brothers, let us be heroic for Christ’s sake! Let us join our forces and work together. We have our differences and divisions, and these are the things that weaken us. How long shall we ourselves hinder the fulfilment of our Lord’s prayer, ‘That they all may be one, that the world may believe that Thou hast sent Me.’ If we were to lift up the white flag of truce and fight under it, every Christian man, shoulder to shoulder, the battle of peace and righteousness could be won. These things that you deplore need not exist another year. England is so small, and, therefore, so manageable. It is mapped out into parishes and into Parliamentary divisions. You have no difficulty in getting into contact with every man when you want his vote. Your School Board officers know the number and age of every child in the kingdom. It will be easy, therefore, for a committee of church members to ascertain the circumstances of every individual around the centre of a church or chapel. Gentlemen, nearly two-thirds of the entire population of England are members of some Christian church; the money, the intelligence, the influence, the character, the ability of the nation are mostly among these two-thirds. What of the other third? Do you believe that we are powerless to deal with it—two to one, and more? Why, we are strong enough to see that every man has work to do, and every man does it, that the idle shall be forced to labour, that the inefficient shall be taught, that the sick shall be nursed and the children fed, that our ships shall be laden with good things only, that our people shall not be drunken, that another language than that of swearing and blasphemy shall be heard in our streets, that cruelty and vice shall hide their heads. Sirs, we are the masters in England; why, then, do we allow the things which shame us to exist? Only because we are craven and selfish, and small when we ought to be great; only because we care more for our denominations, and our party, and our own personal ease than for Christ and righteousness. Shall we change all this? You are able. Are you willing and ready? Will you, sons of Wesley, who occupy the middle position between the Church of England and Nonconformity, lead the way?”

Cries of “Yes, yes!” greeted this appeal, and when Knight sat down many rose to their feet to echo his words. Later they called for him to speak again; but it was found that he had left, and he did not know till afterwards what was the result of his first speech.

His heart was beating rapidly as he went forth into the London streets. He had only uttered a part of his convictions, but he was thankful to have had the opportunity to do that. He crossed over, and stood for a few minutes among the graves of Bunhill Fields, and saw the names of the brave men who had done the work which God gave them to do; and he vowed that he would lose no chance of using his voice, whenever and wherever he could, for he longed to see the Church united in the work which was so evidently waiting to be done.

But he had much to engross him in his own and his father’s affairs. He spent some hours of every day in the office, endeavouring to grasp the real state of things there, and finding much to make him sad. His father was very disinclined to give way to the men; and one of those much-to-be-regretted labour disputes seemed inevitable. The men appeared to have very little power, really, to secure that which they wanted. Crowds of unemployed were always ready to step into vacant places. For one situation there would be fifty applicants, and this made it possible for masters to be to some extent independent of the men, notwithstanding the trades unions. And there had arisen an antiunionist association composed of men who helped each other and fought for each other, and who were now numerically strong enough to resist the trades union men who in a strike tried to keep them out of wharves, docks, and factories. Mr. Knight, finding that women and boys could do his work as well as men, and for less wages, had in his employ many thousands of these, and this was a grievance of which the men bitterly complained. It happened in an enormous number of cases that men were idling about, and drinking, while their wives were employed at factories, in consequence of which the homes were wretched, and the children sorely neglected. There were, indeed, a hundred wrongs that called for reform, and a crying need of some one with a clear head and a kindly Christian heart to put matters straight.

Arthur Knight knew from the first day that he spent in his father’s office that under existing conditions it was no place for him. He would not, he simply could not, for the sake of all the wealth of the world, so do violence to his conscience, and slay all that was best in him, as to continue to sell goods that were next to worthless, and keep thousands of families on the verge of starvation, while he was getting richer every year. So much he settled with himself once for all, although he equally resolved to have no rupture with his father.

He was troubled at the signs of seething discontent and unrest which were visible; and he succeeded in winning a promise from his father that he would consider one or two suggestions that he made. He had mentioned Hancourt, and although Mr. Knight would not promise to reinstate him, he commissioned his son to visit him for the purpose of discovering whether he would return if an offer were made him, and, accordingly, on Saturday afternoon, Arthur made his way to Hancourt’s residence. He was not at home, but as his wife expected him shortly, he waited.

Mrs. Hancourt was a good-looking woman, with a pleasant face, and with lady-like manners. The home was the picture of neatness and comfort, and it was evident that its mistress was a person of refined tastes and habits. The arrangements of the house were artistic even, and there was a warmth and homeliness about them which were to Arthur very attractive. And Mrs. Hancourt could talk well. She had read books, and thought about them. She had ideas of her own, and a happy way of expressing them. She was a good listener, too, and anxious to learn; and a very delightful half-hour was passed by Arthur, who felt as if he had found a little haven of refuge after a sea of trouble. Mrs. Hancourt had two beautiful children—the one, a boy between seven and eight; the other, a girl between five and six. A lovely picture they made, standing together and looking through their blue eyes into Arthur’s face with the frank fearlessness which characterises English children. They came very demurely to shake hands with Arthur, and the little girl, whom they called Sissie, lifted her pretty face to be kissed, and was perfectly willing to sit upon his knee, and to be told about little girls whose faces were black. But after a time, when the conversation became uninteresting, she said, “I like you, Mr. Arthur—you are a nice man; but I like my brother best. Please set me down.” And the children were soon happily at play together by the window. After a time Mrs. Hancourt was called away, and Arthur took a book, and appeared to be engrossed by it. In reality, he was being greatly entertained by the little ones.

“Now, Sissie, you are a prisoner, you know; the giant has locked you up, but I am a knight coming to deliver you. Look at me through the back of the chair—that is a strong iron gate, a fortress. I shall climb over the bars of the gate, and mount the tower, and pick you up, and carry you off, and make you my wife.”

“And then shall I crown you with flowers?”

“Oh, yes, of course! Knights are always crowned with flowers.”

“Are they the crowns they wear in heaven, Geoff? Jane told me we should all be crowned in heaven.”

“I don’t think they are flowers—they are gold crowns they have there.”

“Are the gold crowns heavy?”

“I suppose so; gold is the heaviest metal, I know, for I learnt that in my lesson book.”

“Oh, then, how their heads must ache! But perhaps they haven’t any heads in heaven.”

“Sissie, how foolish! Of course they have heads, or how could they be crowned?”

The girl was silent a little after that, but presently she said, musingly, “I’m so afraid I shall forget—and I don’t want to forget—but I can’t quite remember what heaven was like.”

“Sissie, what do you mean? Why, you never were in heaven!”

“Oh, yes, Geoff! I was in heaven before I came here.”

“What nonsense! I’m sure you have never been in heaven, at all.”

“Haven’t I? Then where was I?”

Geoff was thoughtful for a few minutes, and then he said, “I think it was like this: God thought He would like to have a little Sissie, so He said, ‘Let there be Sissie!’ and there was Sissie.”

“Yes; I suppose that was it. Geoffrey, say a little bit of the ‘Fairy Queen.’”

Geoff repeated a few lines which he had been taught, but his sister interrupted him.

“Geoff, where is the Fairy Queen now?”

“In heaven, I expect,” was the answer.

“How long has she been there?”

“Most all the time, I should think. You know, Sissie, our Lord was in the grave three days; but common people like the Fairy Queen have to stay longer—I should think about a fortnight or three weeks.”

Here the conversation abruptly terminated, for Arthur Knight burst into a laugh so loud and startling that the children were quite disconcerted.

“I am so sorry, but I really could not help it,” he said. And then the door opened, and Mr. Hancourt entered, looking very pale and anxious.

“Oh, Mr. Arthur,” he said, “I am sorry to see you here. I hoped you were at home. I am afraid there will be a riot this evening. The men who are disappointed are swearing that they will seek your father and compel him to listen to them. Indeed, they are talking very foolishly and wildly about revenge, and all that sort of thing.”

“Your money or your life, I suppose?”

“Exactly. It is a great pity that Mr. Knight lives so near the works. Most people reside a long way from their places of business, somewhere in the country, where their men cannot find them; but Mr. Knight has not chosen to do this, and as the men know where to find him they are going to march to his house. And they talk about having a band, and I am afraid they have a great many sympathisers and friends.”

“I came to ask you if you could give me any advice, or say what can be done.”

“I am afraid it is too late to do anything.”

“In any case I must hasten home and stand by my father. Will you come with me?”

As soon as a cab could be procured they drove away, telling the driver to make all possible speed.

But the crowd reached Brent House before them, and it was a more ugly crowd than that of the week before. As Hancourt and Arthur entered the gate, Mr. Knight showed himself at the window, and this was a signal for all sorts of cries and execrations.

“Give us our rights!” “Hypocrite!” “Robber!” “Tyrant!” “Live and let live, can’t you?” “Do as you’d be done by, or it will be the worse for you!” “What did you turn Hancourt away for?” “And Hamilton?” “And Allen?” “Better men than you are!” These and worse things were shouted by the crowd, which presented a very threatening aspect.

“Come into the house,” said Arthur to Hancourt. “We can get in by the side door.”

“No; I will not come in. I will be among the men, and see if they will hear reason, while you go to your father.”

Arthur found Mr. Knight greatly excited.

“I wanted you to go for the police,” he said. “But I have sent for them, and they will be here soon. The wretches! I did not expect them to-day. I meant to have had the place guarded to-morrow, but they have stolen a march upon me. And yet I cannot think how they got in. Those stupid servants must have undone the gate for them. What a horrible noise they are making! But they are only bringing worse things upon themselves.”

“Father,” said Arthur, “it is a pity to have all this fuss if we can help it. You are going to let me have a voice in the business, are you not? And I will tell them so, and that there will be two of us to consider their claims and grievances.”

Before Mr. Knight could answer he threw open the window, and his clear voice rang through the crowd. “Men,” he said, “I want you to give us a little time——” A stone was thrown at him, which struck his head and knocked him down.

It was not the first time that a messenger of peace had been misunderstood and ill-treated. Arthur thought at the moment of other peacemakers, and he kept his temper.

He rose to his feet, and, with the blood streaming from his head, he again faced the people. “The man who threw that stone does not know me,” he said, “or he would not have thrown it. I am Arthur Knight——”

“Oh, yes! the man who threw the stone knew that,” shouted a voice.

“I am going to help my father in his business, and I promise you that I will try to see that justice is done, both to him and to you. If your grievances are real they shall be removed, as far as I am able to arrange things; and if your claims are reasonable and just they shall be met—if possible. I cannot tell how far you are right. I know you are not at all right in coming here to make a commotion, and calling names and throwing stones—all this is unmanly and unworthy of you—but you may think that you have some excuse, and I will hear all you have to say about it if you choose three men, and let them meet me on Monday evening at eight o’clock in the office. Will you?”

“Yes, sir!” The words came in a great shout. The effect of Arthur’s little speech had been marvellous. Where was its power? In the words or in the man? These questions were to be often asked in the future.

“And what are we to do on Monday morning?” some one asked.

“What are you to do? Why, go to work, to be sure, if you want your wages. Don’t strike, don’t lose time. You cannot afford that as well as we can, you know. Be in your places on Monday morning, and do your best for us, and I promise you that I will do my best for you.”

How was it that they all believed him? They certainly did. There was not a man who doubted.

“Three cheers for the young governor!” said one, and a hearty hurrah was raised.

“Thank you,” said Arthur, when the noise ceased, “I shall be glad now to see how much or how little I am hurt.”

“Sorry you are hurt at all, sir,” said one. “Now then, mates, clear out! The youngster looks faintish like.”

They vanished speedily, and then as Arthur turned from the window he wondered where his father was, and what he would say to him. He was not in the room, but Hancourt was there, holding by the collar a pale, unkempt youth, who looked considerably crestfallen and frightened.

“This is the fellow who threw a stone at you, Mr. Arthur. His name is Jones. As there was no policeman near I arrested him myself. I suppose now that there is little need of their services the police will soon be coming, and I will keep this fellow until I can give him into custody.”

“Bring him into my room, and turn the key upon us both.”

Tea had been set on the table, some cold chicken, pie, cake, and toast.

“Come and have some,” said Arthur to his prisoner. “You look hungry, and it is tea-time.”

The lad could not keep his eyes from wandering to that well-spread table. He was hungry, certainly, for he had scarcely tasted food that day; but he did not think he was so far gone as to eat the food of the man whom he had struck with a stone.

“Now then,” said Arthur, “why don’t you begin? You know it will be some time before they give you anything to eat at the police-station. You had better get a meal while you have the chance.” As he spoke he was tying a handkerchief around his head.

“I wish that stone hadn’t hit you,” said the youth.

“Oh, yes! I am sure you do, because it was a cowardly thing to throw it, and no man likes to be a coward. I will cut you some chicken.”

A well-filled plate was put before the young man, who really could not resist it; and if he could have got rid of the lump in his throat he would have greatly enjoyed it, for such bread, such ham, and such chicken he had never tasted before.

“Will you have a glass of milk?” said Arthur, pouring it out. “I am not going to give you into custody, though a whole army of police should come to take you, because, as you say, you did not mean to hurt me.”

“Thank you, kindly, sir, I’m sure.”

Arthur Knight let the young man go on with his meal in comfort, and then he began to question him.

“Now, which workshop are you in?”

“I ain’t in no workshop at all, sir.”

“What do you do then?”

“Oh! I do odd jobs, and earn a sixpence here and there.”

“I suppose you work for my father?”

“What say, sir?”

“You work for Mr. Knight, don’t you?”

“No, sir.”

“Then what in the world are you here for if the quarrel is none of yours?”

“I seed the men coming, and as there was a row on I thought I’d come too.”

“Ah! there are plenty of lads about like you, I suppose? I have heard of you. Such as you do most of the mischief that is done, don’t you?”

“That’s about it, sir,” said the lad, grinning as if he thought it was a very fine thing, though that expression changed to one of shame when Arthur looked at him steadily.

“There is not much gain to be got out of such a life as that, you know,” said Arthur, gravely. “It is not anything to be proud of really, is it? I think it is a pity for a strong, likely lad such as you are to take up with that sort of thing. I wouldn’t if I were you. I call it a waste of good power, because you are sharp enough to make your way in the world if you will only set about it in the right fashion.”

“I ain’t got nobody to show me the way, nor I ain’t got nobody to help me.”

“Oh, yes, you have! You’ve got me, and I shall be very glad to help you. I will find some work for you, and if you don’t know how to do it, you shall be taught, and put in the way of earning an honest living. Will you do your best?”

The lad hesitated. He really felt that he was giving up a great deal. The prospect which Arthur held out was not very alluring. He and his companions considered that “earning an honest living” was far too slow a thing for them. But somewhere under his ragged waistcoat the lad had a heart, and Arthur had found his way to it, as to so many more of the same kind.

“Yes, I will, sir!”—the words were spoken quite solemnly—“I will, indeed, sir, to make up for hurting of ye.”

“Very good! Shake hands upon it.”

The steady tramp of the policemen’s feet was heard in the grounds, and Arthur opened the door. Hancourt came forward.

“Where is the boy?” he asked.

“Oh, the boy is all right! I am not going to give him into custody; and, Hancourt, will you tell those fellows that things are quiet, and send them about their business? If they see me with my head bandaged, I suppose they will think they ought to do something, and there is nothing for them to do.”

Arthur was getting anxious. He had no doubt that his father would be angry with him; but he had done what he felt sure was the only right thing to do, and he was not without hope that he would bring his father to his way of thinking. But he was desirous of getting it over as soon as possible, and he rang the bell and inquired of the servant if she knew where Mr. Knight was. She replied that she had heard him go into the library and shut the door some time ago.

Arthur went at once to the room and knocked. There was no response. He opened the door, and found the room empty. Then he went to his father’s bedroom, and found it locked. “Father!” he called, but there was no answer. He listened a moment, and then, with all the force of his strong young frame, he burst open the door, and saw what he feared to see—his father lying on the floor in a state of unconsciousness!

No time was lost, and two doctors were speedily on the spot; but they were able to do very little for the stricken man. They did not pronounce the case hopeless; they said it was possible that there might be partial recovery, but even that was improbable. They feared it was the beginning of the end, and the end might be not far off.

Arthur Knight was profoundly grieved. The love for his father—which had always been in his heart, though for years it had been restrained—was warm and strong now, as he sat by the bedside of the unconscious man, and he forgot everything but that he was his father, and had always been generous and kind to him. How he wished he had come home before! A flood of compassion filled his heart as he pictured the lonely man in the solitary house, melancholy and bitter. How joyless his life must have been! He seemed to have had little to comfort him but the one fact of his commercial success; and there must have been many times when that failed, and he was altogether comfortless. So far as the world judged him he was an honourable man. His life had been pure from many of the vices of the age, and as Arthur thought over these things he wished with all his heart that he might recover, if only to find comfort in his son. But there seemed little hope of that. The doctors looked more grave at each visit, and made no secret of their conviction that the days of Mr. Knight were numbered.

So Arthur had a son’s sacred duty to perform in nursing and watching his father, his heart full of sorrow that he could not do more for him. He was very tender and affectionate; and half hoping that some of his words might pierce through the cloud over him, he told him of his love, and uttered slowly and impressively those good words of the wonderful Book which tell of a Father’s love and a Saviour’s power. Arthur could not feel afraid to trust the dying man to the compassionate Christ. He did not doubt that the Great Father, who had loved and cared for this neglectful child of His for so many years, would pity him because he had lived out his life to such unworthy issues, and found it so disappointing, and had made so many mistakes, and suffered for them, as was inevitable, and that He would have mercy upon him, whether at the last he was able to ask for it or not. Arthur’s hope was not in his father, but in his God; and there was no fear, but much faith in his prayers.

Illness and death are great softeners of human hearts. It was wonderful how tender the people who knew Mr. Knight became towards him when they heard that he was dying. All thought the best and none the worst of him then. And when they looked through the eyes of love and pity, instead of those of censure, they were not long in finding his good traits. Even his workpeople altered their tones. “After all,” they said, “he had been no worse a master than other men. Of course, he had tried to get all he could out of them; it was only natural—other people did the same. And it was not altogether his fault, perhaps, that he had not used better materials; people would have nasty cheap things nowadays, and they could not expect them to be cheap and good too.” So they talked, the people whose hearts are mostly kind at the bottom, not because they quite believed what they said, nor because they did not understand the meaning of justice, truth, and honesty, but because in the presence of death even the hardest becomes pitiful.

It was a great comfort to Arthur Knight to know that many kind inquiries were being made and much sympathy shown for his father, and these things helped him through the time of waiting.

It was not a very long time either.

“He has not the strength to rally,” said the doctors. “He may have a gleam of consciousness towards the last, but it is scarcely likely, and the end may come at any time.”

The end came suddenly. Mr. Knight opened his eyes and fixed them upon his son. “Arthur,” he said.

“Yes, father; I am here. I love you. What can I do for you?”

The eyes closed wearily again for some minutes. Then they were once more lifted to the sorrowful and sympathetic face bending over him, and the dying man made an effort to speak. “Arthur—undo it all—if you can—and pray for me. God be merciful—to me—a sinner.”

Then, after a few minutes of struggle, his eyes closed, and his face grew calm.