Wild cherries
FOOTNOTE:[B]Reprinted by permission from "The Opposite House," published by T. Woolmer, 2 Castle Street, E.C.
[B]Reprinted by permission from "The Opposite House," published by T. Woolmer, 2 Castle Street, E.C.
[B]Reprinted by permission from "The Opposite House," published by T. Woolmer, 2 Castle Street, E.C.
"M
AY the Holy Vargin an' all the blissid saints purtect us! Here's yer father comin' up the coort as dhrunk as a pig. Get along inter hidin' wid yer, childer!" So saying, Mrs. Ryan, who had been standing with her baby in the doorway of her wretched home, gossiping with the neighbours, stepped into her kitchen, and awaited the arrival of her drunken husband with trepidation. "Maybe he'll tumble upsthairs an' slape off his dhrops, bad cess to him for a nasthy silfish brute," she muttered.
But no, Donovan Ryan staggered into the kitchen, and greeted his wife with an inane smile, which in no wise deceived her, taught by many an experience, how more than likely it was that the next moment his tipsy amiability might be exchanged for the utmost fury.
"An' what will I be gettin' for yer tay? Shure ye're home airly the night," she tremblingly said.
"It's yersilf that's mighty oblagin' intoirely, an' hasn't Donovan Ryan, at yer service, ma'am,"—making a low bow which nearly lost him his unsteady balance,—"a right to kem to his own home whiniver it may plaze him, widout askin' yer lave, ye miserable, dirthy, scoldin' broth uv a wumman?"
Donovan had raised his voice from low, mocking accents to stentorian tones, which shook the little room.
Poor Mrs. Ryan shrank further and further away.
"Shure, Donovan, I meant no harm at all, at all. Be aisy now; an' I'll git ye a cup uv tay in a jiffy," she said, coaxingly.
But, according to his ideas, Donovan had received a grievous insult, and there was only one way in which the said insult could be avenged; and, being made of that stern, courageous stuff of which some few of our British workmen are composed, he proceeded to teach Mrs. Ryan, in a very practical manner, that she really must not venture to offend the perfectly justifiable ideas which he held of his own importance and dignity. In all wifely submission, as in duty bound, and according to long-established custom, she made no demur to the very ordinary proceeding which occupied Donovan's attention for the next few minutes.
"See what ye'll git for venturin' to interfare wid yer husban'," he said, as he paused for want of breath.
With a well-directed kick at the prostrate form before him, and a few genial imprecations on womankind in general and his own wife in particular, he shuffled out of the house.
"He's been up to his tricks again; a beatin' of his poor wife. It's well he ain't my husband. I'd never stand it as she does, poor creature," said one of the women who were standing about.
"I don't see how you'd prevent it; but I'm going in to see whether poor Mrs. Ryan is quite done for."
Mrs. Fisher, the last speaker, left the group and entered her neighbour's house. In response to a feeble "Come in," she opened the kitchen door, which Donovan had slammed behind him. Mrs. Ryan was sitting on the floor crying bitterly.
"I'm kilt intoirely, Mrs. Fisher, an' me poor babby's frighted to death. Shure her father's a murtherin', battherin' wretch. I'll take him afore the magisthrate, I will."
"Poor thing, let me see what I can do for you," said Mrs. Fisher.
A few womanly ministrations, a cup of tea and kindly words, and Mrs. Ryan was comforted.
"Don't be thinkin' hardly uv Donovan. He's civil spoken an' kind enough whin the dhrink's out uv him; an' I'll have to put up wid his cross worruds an' his batin's, for he's me husban' an' the father uv me childer," were her parting words to her neighbour.
It was easy to be seen that Mrs. Ryan had provedno dull scholar, but had readily learned the manly logic that might is right almost as perfectly as her husband had intended that she should.
"I'll keep your children to tea, Mrs. Ryan; and, if you like, they can go with my Jimmie and Alice to some children's affair they're holding in the school-room round the corner this evening."
"Shure ye're the bist uv neighbours an' I'm grateful to ye for riddin' me uv the worrit uv of the childer for a spell. But will ye jist sind Meg in afore she's off to the matin'? Me head's crazy, an' she must git me a dhrop uv the craythur to put a bit uv spirit inter me."
Mrs. Fisher promised, and then left the house.
After tea, little Meg, a forlorn, wiry child of eight years, came in and fetched the stimulant which her mother craved, and with which Mrs. Ryan comforted herself over her trying lot.
About eight o'clock the little ones returned. Three unkempt, ragged urchins, full of excitement about all they had witnessed.
"Oh, mother, sich pritty picthures, an' sich fine singin'. An' sich nice spoken jintlemen an' ladies."
"An' sich swate cards wid ribbon to hang 'em up."
"An' what was it all about, thin?" asked the weary mother, roused to interest.
Meg answered: "The jintlemen tould us that the dhrink was a curse an' a shame, an' he said it made folks cruel an' bad—"
"Thrue for him!" interjected the mother.
"An' he said," continued Meg, "that it wad be betther for no wan niver to touch it at all, at all, an' thin they wad niver git dhrunk. An' he wanted all the childer in the room to sign a promise niver to put it to their lips; an' heaps uv 'em wint up an' signed, an' got a card wid their names on to hang up, an' Mrs. Fisher's Jimmie an' Alice signed. An' we said we'd ax you, mammy, an' maybe you'd say, 'Yes,' an' thin we could sign nixt week."
"Yes, an', mammy, we don't want to be like daddy whin we grow up, so we may sign, mayn't we?" eagerly put in Teddie, the youngest.
"Ye might be worse nor yer poor father, an' don't ye say a worrud against him; an' as for ye signin' the pledge, ye'll do no sich thing. A dhrap uv the craythur now an' thin won't hurt a livin' soul; an' I'll not have ye sit yersilves up to be betther nor yer own father an' mother." And poor deluded Mrs. Ryan finished her third glass of hot whiskey and water, and drained the sweet dregs into the open mouth of her wan-faced baby.
A few days after, his drinking bout being over for the time being, Donovan Ryan sat over the kitchen fire watching his wife's preparations for tea.
"Shure, Patty, have ye heard that Harry Fisher has turned teetotal?" he suddenly said.
"Niver, shurely, now; what's the likes uv him, as niver gits dhrunk more nor wance in a blue moon,nade to be jhinin' a wake-minded, wathery set like the teetotalers?" exclaimed Mrs. Ryan, in a tone of irritation.
Donovan stirred uneasily.
"Sorra am I the man to say he's made a misthake, for I'd jhine that same set mesilf if I thought I'd howld out whin the dhrink craze takes me."
"I'd be ashamed to own ye for me husban' if ye made such a fool uv yersilf, Donovan," cried his wife, with energy. "It's thrue enough ye overstips the bounds uv sobriety oftener nor Harry Fisher, more shame to ye; but to make out ye're afeard uv a dhrap uv the craythur, an' give yer worrud niver to touch it, wad be to confess yersilf a poor wake gossoon widout any sperrit in him at all, at all."
Mrs. Ryan was never afraid of her husband in his sober moments, as will be readily observed. Indeed, at such times, he stood somewhat in awe of her sharp tongue. On the present occasion she continued to rail against water-drinkers and their weakmindedness, till, as if ashamed of the moral cowardice he had evinced, Donovan said:
"Whist, wumman, hould yer tongue, ye've no nade to fear I'll jhine the teetotalers, so make yer mind aisy on that point."
After which assurance Mrs. Ryan cooled down, and allowed her husband to smoke his pipe in thoughtful silence.
"What on airth are ye thinkin' uv, Mrs. Fisher, tolet yer husban' sign against a dhrap uv good beer?" she said the next morning to her neighbour.
"I'm downright glad he has, and I mean to do the same. You see, the children's set the example, and were so earnest for their father to sign, that he made up his mind to do so. I wish you'd let your little ones do the same, and persuade your husband too."
"Bad cess to ye for settin' yerself up to be suparior to yer neighbours, and advasin' uv them to follow yer example. Faix, I'd rather me husban' git dhrunk ivery blissid day uv his life, an' bate me black and blue inter the bargain, nor sign the pledge." And in high dudgeon Mrs. Ryan went in, slamming her door behind her with great violence.
Weeks and months passed away, and still, in the dingy court where the Ryans and Fishers lived, the same sad scenes of sin and degradation were witnessed. One day it was rumoured that the Fishers were moving into a better neighbourhood, which rumour proved to be correct.
"An' didn't I say as her ladyship, wid her illigant slips uv childer, an' her jintleman husban' wad soon be too suparior intoirely to mix wid the likes uv us. Axin' yer kind lave, shure it's Peggy Ryan as wishes ye ivery blissin', an' has the honour uv givin' ye a partin' bit uv advace. Lave yer dacint neighbours alone, an' don't hould yer head up so high, me dear." Thus saying, Mrs. Ryan stood in front of Mrs. Fisher, who was about to follow her goods and chattels out of thecourt, and, to the amusement of the bystanders, spread out her scanty skirts, and made a sweeping curtesy. For some time past Mrs. Fisher had found it difficult to live peaceably among her neighbours, proving how advantageous to health and pocket her own and her husband's Temperance principles had been, they had both tried to secure adherents to the good cause. They had met with little success, and in some instances, notably that of Mrs. Ryan, had earned for themselves continual abuse and scorn.
Years passed and Donovan Ryan went down to a drunkard's grave unwept and unhonoured. With rapid footsteps his wife followed him, leaving to the children as her legacy, the craving for intoxicants which had been engendered in their infancy and ministered to with such assiduity in following years.
Is the story improbable, impossible? No, for thousands of lives cursed with the disease of drink attest its truth.
There was a ray of hope seen; there was help offered in earlier years; but some hand, perhaps that of the wife and mother, quenched the hope, and thrust aside the offered help, and forced those for whose salvation it was responsible into paths of ever-deepening darkness and rayless despair.
"I
T'S quite true, ma'am, I've been a drinker; but, indeed, I've given it up, and if you'll only give me a chance of redeeming my character, you shan't ever regret it."
The lady who was thus addressed looked up from the letter she had been reading, somewhat doubtfully, at the speaker who was a woman past her early youth, red-faced and coarse-featured, but with honest gray eyes and a set mouth that bore witness to the purpose indicated by her words.
"But you lost your last situation by giving way to drink," said Mrs. Reston.
"Yes, ma'am, I did. I had got into the habit, and nothing was kept locked up, and I couldn't help taking it when the longing came on me."
The woman was singularly frank the lady thought, and after further conversation, it was decided that she should enter Mrs. Reston's service as cook.
"You will find no temptation to drink here," said Mrs. Reston. "I keep all intoxicants under lock and key, and the housemaid does not take anything of the kind. So you see, if you really wish to reform you have a good chance, and, indeed, if I did not think you were sincere in your wish to turn over a new leaf, I would not engage you."
The woman's voice broke a little as she thanked her future mistress and left the house.
"Really, Edmund, I was so struck by her intense desire to begin a new life, and as in every other respect her character was unimpeachable, I thought here was a fine opportunity of putting the golden rule into practice," replied Mrs. Reston to her husband's remonstrances upon the rashness of her proceeding.
"What a woman you are! You know that such an argument is unanswerable, and I must retreat from the field vanquished," laughingly remonstrated the husband, and the matter dropped.
"Now, Jarvis," said Mrs. Reston, when a few mornings later she had given her orders to the new cook, "I dare say you will miss your usual stimulant for some time, and you are quite at liberty to make yourself coffee or cocoa whenever you wish, and if there is any other way in which you may be helped to fight against your besetment let me know, for I want you to look upon me as your friend."
Cook stammered something unintelligible, and,somewhat surprised at her agitation, Mrs. Reston left the kitchen.
"If this don't beat everything! Nothing but lectures and black looks have I ever had before, and now to think of a real lady speaking so kind, and saying she wanted to be my friend!" And, in her excess of astonishment and emotion, Jarvis stood and watched the milk for the pudding she was about to make boil over, and then mechanically emptied what remained into the coffee dregs which were yet standing on the breakfast table. Weeks passed away and Mr. Reston ceased to tease his wife about her latest philanthropic effort, and Mrs. Reston forgot to watch Jarvis with anxiety, and dismissed all misgivings as to the prudence of the step she had taken.
"Breakfast not ready yet! how's this?" asked Mr. Reston one morning, entering the dining-room at the usual time, to find the housemaid just commencing to lay the cloth, and his wife looking troubled.
"It can't be helped, dear. Symonds has been single-handed this morning, for Jarvis is not down yet," replied Mrs. Reston. Her husband raised his eyebrows and coughed significantly as he sat down and took up his newspaper.
"What's the matter with your paragon, my dear?" he presently said.
"I haven't asked her yet," was the dry answer. Mr. Reston thought he had better not pursue the subject, and relapsed into silence. After he had leftthe house, Mrs. Reston examined the contents of the cellaret, and came to the conclusion that Jarvis had been helping herself in large quantities from the stores of wine and spirits kept there.
She had been visiting with her husband the previous evening, and the housemaid had also been out, thus leaving every opportunity for Jarvis to indulge in the stimulants she had stolen.
Mrs. Reston also remembered that on returning home she had found the key of the cellaret, which she had missed, lying on the floor close to the side-board, and the door locked as usual. Symonds had come in to prayers alone, and said that cook had gone to bed with a bad headache.
"Send Jarvis to me as soon as she comes down," she said to the housemaid, who answered her summons.
"It's too disappointing," she soliloquised; "I felt so positive that Jarvis would do well; I am sure there is nothing I have left undone to help her in her attempts to abstain." Kind, good Mrs. Reston, there is just one thing you have left undone; but when you shortly learn how you have failed to do all that was necessary to effectually help your weak sister, will you have sufficient courage and love to enable you to remedy the past and help to save a soul from perishing in its sin?
There was a knock at the door, and Jarvis entered with swollen, downcast eyes and face redder than usual.
"Well, Jarvis," said Mrs. Reston, after a moment's silence.
"I've got nothing to say, ma'am; I can go as soon as you like," sullenly replied the woman.
Mrs. Reston sighed. Was it any use to give Jarvis another trial, or should she send her away at once? She looked at the half-averted face and the nervous hands that were busily folding and unfolding the hem of her apron, and with a wave of pity surging in her heart for the sinning, suffering creature before her, said quickly and tenderly:
"But I don't want you to go, Jarvis. I want to save you, if you will let me. Come, tell me what else I can do for you."
Jarvis looked up, half doubting the evidence of her senses.
"Ma'am," she gasped, between heavy, choking sobs; "do you really mean to say that you care about saving such an ungrateful wretch as me?"
"Why, Jarvis, of course I do. I will doanythingto help you."
"Would you, oh would you do anything, ma'am?"
Again Mrs. Reston repeated the assurance. Battling with her emotion, Jarvis said: "I'm ashamed to ask such a favour at your hands, ma'am, but I believe there's only one thing under heaven that would be the saving of me."
"What is that, Jarvis?"
There was a long pause, and then Jarvis blurtedout: "I've never signed the pledge, ma'am; but if you'd draw up some kind of a promise to keep from the drink, and put your own name to it, and let me sign after, it would be the saving of me."
"What a strange thing to ask, Jarvis! What good would it do you to know that I, who am always moderate in my use of stimulants, had given them up?"
"Oh, ma'am, it would make me feel that somebody in this wide world cared enough for me to give up something for my sake. I've never had any one to care for me since my mother died fifteen years ago. I made up my mind that I would be independent of every one and look after myself, and when I felt dull I just took a glass, until I got into the habit of taking too much. When I came here you were so kind to me that I couldn't help feeling you were different to my other mistresses who only seemed to care how much they could get out of me, and I've been that grateful, ma'am, I would have done anything for you; but last night I got low, and the longing for drink took me, and something whispered: 'There's your mistress for all her kind words, she's none so different as the rest of them, only she's got another way with her. You're a good cook and suit her well while you keep from the drink, and she thinks if she speaks fair she'll manage you well enough.' And then, ma'am, I thought of your beautiful wines which you could take without any harm to yourself, whilemy beer had done such cruel work for me, and suddenly the thought came: 'Why, your mistress cares for those luxuries that she takes every day far more than she does for you, you poor thing; she wouldn't give them up to save you from filling a drunkard's grave.' Then I grew desperate, and came in here to see if there was anything left about, and the key for once was in the side-board, and, and——"
"Yes, I know, my poor Jarvis, and now let me tell you that I do care more for you a thousand times than for the luxuries you speak of, and to prove it, I will never touch them again. I promise that, for your sake, Jarvis, do you understand?" For Jarvis was standing looking stupified. Her wide-open eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she fell at her mistress' feet, and seizing her hand covered it with kisses.
"Oh, ma'am, you've saved me, you've saved me," she said again and again.
Yes, Jarvis was saved. From that time she steadily fought against her deadly sin, until its besetment lost all power over her.
After years of devoted service she became the happy wife of one who loved and trusted her, and to whom she confided the story of her past degradation, and how she was reclaimed by the efforts and self-sacrifice of her former mistress.
"G
OOD-NIGHT, Mrs. Seymour. Must you leave so quickly?" asked a lady of an elderly woman, who was hurrying past her pew with the stream of worshippers that were leaving the chapel after the Sabbath-evening service was ended, without waiting for the short prayer-meeting which usually followed.
"Yes, ma'am, I can't wait a minute longer, for my husband's promised to go to the Mission Hall, and the angels are going to rejoice to-night," answered Margaret Seymour with a radiant light of expectancy upon her pale face.
"God grant that you may not be disappointed," returned the lady, with a cordial pressure of the hand, and, as Margaret hastened out, her friend inwardly marvelled at the strong faith which, during a lifetimeof neglect and cruelty, had sustained her poorer sister through terrible seasons of hardship and toil.
Margaret Seymour had early left a Christian home to become the wife of a man, who, destitute of any real religion himself, soon commenced to mock and persecute the woman who had been induced to take a false step, hoping to win her husband to seek for himself the joys which were hers. But, hitherto, the hope had proved vain. Richard Seymour had sunk lower and lower, until, enfeebled in health by his drunkenness and follies, his family mainly depended upon the exertions of the wife and mother for daily bread. Still, Margaret's faith did not fail. If she worked incessantly all day long, and often far into the night, her prayers went up without intermission to the Throne of Grace. There had been a time when she had trusted the answer was at hand, for her husband had been induced to attend a small Mission Hall near by, and whilst there had been powerfully moved, and for a few weeks had given up some of his sinful pursuits; but just when Margaret and the friends from the Hall were beginning to rejoice over Richard as a "brand plucked from the burning," he fell back into his former habits.
Margaret was sorely disappointed; but, casting herself again upon the faithful word of her God, she took up the cross apportioned to her, and went on her way in confident assurance of coming blessing. But for some weeks past her desire for her husband'ssalvation had intensified, and she had felt moved to pray with an earnestness that surprised even herself. Her cry became that of the patriarch: "I will not let Thee go, except Thou bless me." But no apparent result manifested itself. Indeed, Richard appeared to grow more hardened and desperate than ever, and it required all the grace and patience that Margaret possessed, to endure his continual cruelty with meekness.
On the Saturday evening preceding the Sunday when she had expressed her conviction of a joyful termination to her anxious watching, a knock was heard at her door, and opening it, the kindly face of one of the workers from the Mission Hall was seen.
"Is your husband in, Mrs. Seymour?" asked the man.
"Yes," answered Margaret, in an undertone, "he's just sitting down a bit before going out for the evening; but come in and you'll catch him nicely."
"Good-evening, Mr. Seymour, I'm glad to find you at home," were the words that caused Richard to look up in angry surprise.
"Evenin'," he muttered by way of reply, without removing his pipe from his mouth.
"I'm real sorry to have missed you from the Hall for so long, Mr. Seymour, and I've been wondering whether you meant to leave us altogether. We only want to be your friends, you know, and you don't want to run away from those who would do you agood turn if you'd let them," said the worker, nothing daunted by his ungracious reception.
Again Richard looked up, and perhaps the fact that his visitor was a working-man not much above his own station in life, rendered him more susceptible to the attention shown him. And besides, the spoken words were not mere empty talk, Richard could not but acknowledge; for practical help in dire need had found its way to the poverty-stricken home, from the Christian friends who had rallied round his wife. So, with half-shamed face, he answered gruffly:
"I didn't think of comin' again; such places ain't for the likes of me."
"And who do you think they are for then? Why, my man, it's poor folks like you and me, who wouldn't feel comfortable in grand churches and chapels, that want such homely places, where we can slip in and out without being looked down upon."
"Maybe you're right so fur; but you don't want no smokin', drinkin' fellers, anyhow," responded Richard.
"You're making another mistake, Mr. Seymour; for the truth is, we're better pleased to see them turn up than any other sort of folks; so you'd better give me leave to call for you to-morrow evening at eight o'clock, before the service begins."
"Well, I'm beat. You mean to take it out of me, somehow, and I may as well give in, but you needn't trouble to call. I'll come, sure enough."
"That's settled," said the man, rising to go, adding,as he offered his hand to Richard, "You won't forget."
"No fear, with my old woman to pester me," answered Richard, with a grim relaxing of his features. But as the door closed behind the visitor, his face darkened, and, although he said nothing to his wife, he sat gloomily watching the fire for a long time, then, muttering something about "them interferin' folks," he put his pipe into his pocket, and passed out into the street.
"God grant they may have interfered to some purpose!" said Margaret.
Hastily finishing the domestic duties which were filling her hands, she turned for encouragement to the Book which had proved its power to solace and cheer in the darkest hour. Presently, with thought and desire too intense to allow the usual posture of devotion, she rose, and began to pace her kitchen, while she wrestled and interceded for her sinning husband. It was during that memorable hour of strong crying, that the sweet assurance of a speedy answer was given; and the language of petition no longer poured from her lips, but gave place to that of thanksgiving for another repenting one, over whom there would shortly be rejoicing "in the presence of the angels."
But to the eye of sense, nothing seemed more unlikely, as Richard staggered home late that night in his usual drunken condition, and rose the nextmorning in the worst of tempers, following her footsteps from place to place, with the evident purpose of provoking her with his cruel taunts, until she should retaliate. Clothed in the armour of God, Margaret, however, withstood all the fiery darts that were flung around her during that eventful day. As the winter afternoon waned, she observed, with uneasiness, that Richard made no attempt to change the working clothes in which he had lounged about all day, for the better suit and the clean shirt, which she had managed by dint of self-denial should never be wanting.
"I'm pretty sure he'll make that his excuse for not going to the Hall to-night; but there, the Lord isn't confined to that place, and He can just as well save Richard in his dirty shirt at home, if He thinks best, as up there; and He's going to do it, sure enough; for didn't He tell me the angels should rejoice over him?" she said to herself. She ventured, however, a quiet remonstrance, saying: "Your Sunday things are laid out, Richard, and you'd better get a wash; you'll feel fresher." But the only answer she received was a curt: "Mind your own business, woman."
Meanwhile, Richard himself was feeling his own misery more deeply than he would have confessed to a living soul. "I'd like to escape from it all; but I've gone too far; I've had my chances, if ever a man had, and I'd like to know what good'll come of mygoin' to the Hall and seein' all those folks again; it'll only make me more miserable than I am. I wish I hadn't promised, and I've half a mind to turn into the 'Blue Boar' instead," muttered the man to himself.
"Richard," said his wife as she put on bonnet and shawl, and picked up her Bible and hymn-book, after tea was over; "I'm going up to the chapel, but the sermon will be over in plenty of time for me to get back to the Mission-place. You'll be sure to be dressed and ready waiting for me."
"I shan't promise nothin'," growled Richard; but although Margaret heard the words as she went out, she left the house with a light heart. Altogether uncertain of his own intention, Richard strode about the room, his pipe in his mouth, and his hands in his pockets.
"Anyhow," he said, "I may as well have a look at the water," and going to the sink he washed himself for the first time that day. And then he sat down, making no further attempt to prepare himself for his wife's return. "She never lets a feller have any peace," he said, inwardly blaming her for his mental unrest. He was sitting in his chair, still smoking, when Margaret returned.
"O, Richard, you are not ready, and we shall be late!" she said.
"I never told you I was goin'," he answered, scowling at her.
"No, but you told Mr. Brown so, last night; and ifyou aren't there soon, he's sure to come round, and see what's the matter, as he would be certain to suppose you'd keep your promise unless something had happened."
Surely it was heaven-sent wisdom that breathed in the words with which she answered Richard's evasions. She was unprepared for the sudden effect of her reply. Rising in haste, he said: "Here, get me my things as quick as you can; I don't want that feller again." In a few minutes, neatly dressed, Richard went up the street with his rejoicing wife.
They were singing as the two entered; but Margaret walked boldly up to the top of the room, and Richard was reluctantly compelled to follow her. He would have chosen to have slipped into the first seat by the door, from whence egress could have been easy; but his wife determined that once within those four walls, Richard should stay until the end of the meeting. So she allowed him to pass into his seat first, and then she followed him. But there was little fear of Richard being anxious to leave the place; for, after the first prayer, he sat spell-bound, and riveted to the spot, while the Holy Spirit revealed to him his guilt and sin. His wasted life rose before him until the burden of his misery seemed too great to be borne, and he could no longer prevent groans and tears from bearing witness to his anguish of soul.
"Come and speak to my poor husband, will you, please, Mr. Brown?" said Margaret, as the people weredispersing. The man crossed the room, and sought to pour in the balm of Gilead to the wounded conscience.
"You don't think he died for such a big sinner as me?" was the response. "Why, man, you don't know what a life I've led my poor wife there! She's been beaten and kicked, and half-starved most of her time, while I've spent my money in what's ruined body and soul, and you mean to tell me that I may be saved from the hell I deserve?"
"Yes, I mean just that, and the Saviour tells you so in His own words; so there can be no doubt about it."
"Let me know quick what He says," groaned the man. Mr. Brown took a pocket Bible from his coat and read the following passages:
"Then will I sprinkle clean water upon you and ye shall be clean: from all your filthiness and from all your idols, will I cleanse you." "The Son of man is come to seek and to save that which was lost." "I am not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance." "Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." "Him that cometh to Me, I will in no wise cast out."
"Do you mean to say that's written all fair and square, in black and white?" asked Richard, who had been listening with open mouth to the slow reading of the inspired words.
"Yes, I do; here, look for yourself." Richardgrasped the book and, following the direction of Mr. Brown's finger, with difficulty spelled out for himself the blessed promises and invitations. As he reluctantly handed the Bible back, a sigh of relief broke from him, and he exclaimed: "Ay, it's there, sure enough! so He came to call sinners, did He? drunkards like me!" A wonderful light overspread his face, and as the truth broke fully upon his troubled mind, he started to his feet crying out: "O, what a mighty Saviour! Bless Him, bless Him, for He died for me!" The workers gathered round in silent joy as the shout of a King rang through the place; but Margaret fell upon her knees and broke into praise that was surely no faint echo of the exulting song which pealed through the courts of heaven as the glad tidings were proclaimed of another soul new-born into the liberty of the sons of God.
"Ah, my dear," said Richard to his wife, as late at night they sat together in their home: "I've been a brute to you and the children; but, God helping me, I'll make amends."
"Don't trust to yourself, Richard, my dear; you'll get plenty of chaff from your mates, and plenty of temptation from within, and you must look for help to Him who's got all needful strength and grace for you," replied Margaret, as they sat and talked with one another far on into the early morning.
"I say, nurse, can't you give this 'ere feller a sleepin' draught, or summat as will keep his mouth shut for a spell? There's no such thing as gettin' a wink o' sleep with him a shoutin' 'glory' all the time," said a rough man who was occupying one of the beds in the infirmary.
"Poor fellow! it's a wonder to me how he can bear so much suffering and never open his lips to complain," answered the nurse, turning her kindly eyes towards the adjoining bed, where lay Richard Seymour, wasted by the ravages of a sore disease, doubtless the result of early excess and long years of intemperance. After witnessing a good confession of his faith before ungodly companions, and for his Master's sake enduring scorn and persecution nobly, he had suddenly been laid low on the bed of death.
"You needn't make any wonder of it, nurse," he answered; "I don't feel as if I could grumble at my pain when my blessed Lord suffered on the cross for me—praise His dear name!"
"Queer kind of a chap, ain't he?" said the man who had first spoken, moving uneasily in his bed.
"Ay, Jim, I wish you knew what it was to feel 'queer' after the same fashion. You may if you like, you know; the same mercy's for you as for me, and O, mates!" said Richard, looking round upon the rows of faces that were turned towards him; "it may be 'queer;' but it's worth while havin' somethin' that will make you so happy when you come to facedeath, that you can't sleep for thinkin' of the blessed Saviour, and how He's waitin' for you."
So Richard testified to his fellow-sufferers until the last. Early one morning the nurse heard him whisper faintly: "I'll soon be at home over there." The next moment he quietly closed his eyes in death. Verily, a brand plucked from the burning, a sinner saved by grace.
Branch
FLETCHER AND SON, PRINTERS, NORWICH.
Transcriber's Notes:Obvious punctuation errors repaired.The remaining corrections made are indicated by dotted lines under the corrections. Scroll the mouse over the word and the original text willappear.
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
The remaining corrections made are indicated by dotted lines under the corrections. Scroll the mouse over the word and the original text willappear.