papa took us to B to see the manufactory. And it was the treat that the children have every year; there were such crowds of people in the park—”
“A nasty, black, cindery place! I spoilt my nice lavender boots,” interrupted a little girl.
“You shouldn’t have gone in them,” retorted her brother, then hastened on with his story. “And they had games and roast beef—I mean the men and women had dinner, and the children had tea and cakes. And there was such a nice gentleman, a Mr.—Mr.—”
“Howard,” said the little girl.
“Yes, Howard; and he told them such pretty stories about children working for their parents, and taking care of them, and all that, you know, and talked to them, and so did papa. And then they all went to the Town-hall, that is, the grown-up people did, and papa says that he—I mean Mr. Howard—gave such a beautiful lecture to the masters about being just to their men, you know.”
“Well, that was but fair,” said a second boy, who had not spoken, “because he had told the men all about their duty—”
“And what did he say was their duty?” asked Miss Maitland, who saw some remark was expected from her.
“That they were to serve, not with eye-service as men-pleasers, but in singleness of heart, doing service as unto God, not unto men,” answered the boy, with reverent voice.
“And wasn’t it funny,” added the sister, “when he knew we came from Tremawr—he used to be here long ago—and asked so many questions about it, and you too—”
“Not so fast, Cissy; your imagination is running away with you,” said Mrs. Wilmot, who had joined the group. “Mr. Howard only asked who was at the Hall now, and when he heard he seemed glad to know that it was any one who was active among the people.”
Mrs. Wilmot had a tolerably correct understanding of the state of affairs; at the secret sorrow she of course could not guess. She thought the children’s account of their holiday, and their new friend, could do no harm; it might gratify, and could not grieve.
Mr. Wilmot was warmly interested in all measures of factory and prison discipline and reform. He had always found Miss Maitland a ready listener; he now (on a hint from his wife) kept her supplied with Reports and Returns, so that she was soon quite up in the subject. To her surprise and pleasure she found her cousin’s name in the foremost lists of those who not only gave the movement their countenance and approval, but their active assistance and furtherance. He was no longer a sympathiser merely, but a toiler in the good cause.
His labours for the weal of his fellows seemed to have no special limit, or definition. All outcasts, in or out of stone walls, apparently came in for a share of his attention. Here, four or five; there, ten or a dozen; elsewhere, a score or two. Marion was rejoiced; she could imagine no trace remaining of the old self-worship to which, after all these years, she could now give the right name. A man who loved himself first of all, would hardly devote all his leisure to so unengaging a work.
Nor was it his leisure only that was willingly offered. Hours and days were taken from his profession, in which formerly it had been his dearest ambition to achieve fame. There was real sacrifice here. And she was struck, too, by the unambitious, almost private manner in which he seemed to carry it on. Seldom, or never heard of at popular meetings, his work only came to light now and then. The organised army of philanthropists, with commissariat and baggage waggons, when they came, in their march, to a tract of land which they expected to find particularly sterile, were occasionally surprised to find the ground well broken up, and ready for the crop. Marston Howard had but small funds at his command, and no apparatus but heart, head, and hands. Like that unappreciated husbandman the mole, he ran his galleries hither and thither, turning up fresh earth to air and light: when he heard the noise of the pickaxe, and knew that other agents were at work, he was satisfied, and turned his own course in a new direction.
Marion was rejoiced. But there was a question that would rise to trouble her, and would not be trodden down. These out-door interests did not argue a cheerful fireside; yet, there was an occasional covert allusion hardly perceptible to a less keen observer—to an impulse given by a woman—a dear friend—as by one lost; then again, ever at hand. Her memory travelled back to the Highland inn. Who was that Mrs. Marston?
General Maitland was in town in June, 1857. He used a cane now when he walked, and had a habit of looking on the ground: his sight was not so good as it had been. Thus, it came to pass, that as he mounted the steps of a club-house, to call on a friend, and opened the heavy glass doors, he pushed against a gentleman coming out.
“Your pardon, sir?”
“Ah! Mr. Howard! glad to see you: have not met for many years.”
Marston answered a few words, and then, pleading an engagement, the General asked him to dinner next evening, at his club, and bowing, left him.
To dine with General Maitland was an honour which Marston Howard would rather have declined: it would be disagreeable to him: but a voice stronger than inclination, less severe than duty, prompted him to accept the invitation.
At seven, therefore, precisely, for he did not desire a tête-à-tête, and knew his host’s military punctuality, Mr. Howard presented himself.
There were, besides himself, a brother officer of General Maitland’s, a much younger man, and one on whom the eyes of Europe had rested;—a splendid soldier, and a quiet, courteous gentleman. Also, his brother, a barrister, and a man of some literary reputation. The party was well assorted; the dinner excellent; the wines superlative. Conversation never flagged, and was above the average. The varying ages and professions of the company averted the gossip, not to say scandal, which would inevitably have entered, had all four been
