The Project Gutenberg eBook ofOf no accountThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Of no accountAuthor: Ruth LambIllustrator: Paul HardyRelease date: April 17, 2024 [eBook #73416]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1893*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OF NO ACCOUNT ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Of no accountAuthor: Ruth LambIllustrator: Paul HardyRelease date: April 17, 2024 [eBook #73416]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1893
Title: Of no account
Author: Ruth LambIllustrator: Paul Hardy
Author: Ruth Lamb
Illustrator: Paul Hardy
Release date: April 17, 2024 [eBook #73416]
Language: English
Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1893
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OF NO ACCOUNT ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
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BY
RUTH LAMB
Author of "Only a Girl Wife," "Her Own Choice,""Holiday Stories," etc. etc.
London
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
56, PATERNOSTER ROW; AND 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD
BUTLER & TANNERTHE SELWOOD PRINTING WORKSFROME, AND LONDON.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. HOW MRS. LIVESEY "GAVE UP"
II. "FOR BETTER FOR WORSE"
III. AT RUTHERFORD'S
IV. MR. DRUMMOND IN HARNESS
V. THE NEW MANAGER TAKES ADAM UNAWARES
VI. "THE THIN END OF THE WEDGE"
VII. MAGGIE, HER BEST SIDE OUT
VIII. CALLER AND COGITATIONS
IX. FARTHER APART, YET NEARER
X. IN THE MISSION ROOM
XI. "THE GRACE OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST"
XII. NEW LESSONS
XIII. THE LIGHT BEGINS TO SHINE ON ADAM
XIV. THE LETTER AND ITS ANSWER
XV. CONSCIENCE AT WORK
XVI. STEPPING HEAVENWARD
XVII. HOW MRS. ALLISON MADE AMENDS
XVIII. RE-UNITED YET SEPARATE
XIX. STUMBLING-BLOCKS
XX. BY THE PATH OF SUFFERING
XXI. A GLEAM OF HOPE
XXII. FRIENDS IN NEED
XXIII. SUNSHINE AT LAST
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OF NO ACCOUNT
HOW MRS. LIVESEY "GAVE UP."
"I DON'T know why you should trouble yourself to come after me. I'm o' no account. What matter does it make whether a poor chap like me spends his Sundays at home or in the streets, at church or in a church with a chimney?"
The speaker, Adam Livesey, was a man whose appearance suggested that the world had dealt hardly with him, and that he had found life, regarded as a journey, very rough travelling.
He was spare of form, rugged of feature, not given to much talking, but usually civil spoken, and not unpleasant in manner. There was, however, one exception. Adam Livesey was deemed surly by those who ventured to interfere with what he considered his strictly private affairs. He might not say in so many words, "Mind your own business, and let mine alone. It's a hard case that a quiet fellow cannot be left to himself by folk that are nothing to him. I wasn't meddling with you." But he looked all this and more.
If Adam could have been induced to open his mind to anybody, he would have summed up his experience by saying that, all through life, he had received "more kicks than ha'pence."
A clever lad, he would have done credit to good schooling, but could not get it. Just as he was beginning to understand the value of learning, his father died, and Adam had to go to work. The years that followed were marked by scanty fare, rough treatment, and small wages, which went to the support of those at home, who were younger and more helpless than himself.
In after days, Adam seldom spoke of his mother, but the neighbours described her as being "of a sour sort."
Mrs. Livesey was always engaged in a struggle for bare bread, so had little time, even if she felt the inclination, to indulge in acts of motherly tenderness. The house was cheerless, for she went out washing and cleaning. There was no girl to attend to it and the younger boys, so the place looked desolate to the weary lad when he returned from work before his mother's arrival.
It had been different when the father was living, but then Mrs. Livesey had only to stay with her children and use for the common benefit good wages, regularly placed in her hands.
With a husband to lean on and look up to, she stood firmly enough. Without him, she was like a climbing plant from which the prop has been withdrawn. She became limp and comparatively lifeless.
But the plant which has lost its first support often stretches out new shoots in search of a fresh one, and throws its clinging tendrils round some new source of strength, which will lift it from the ground.
Not so Mrs. Livesey. To use her own words, "When my husband died, I just gave up. I've never had a bit of spirit for anything since. I drag on somehow, and that's all I can say."
It was the giving up and the "dragging on somehow" which was so terrible to the young ones, especially Adam, who had a great capacity for tenderness, but was shy at showing his affection. He fairly hungered for love and sympathy, and the one of all others, his mother—who should have shown both—gave neither.
The sweetness had been taken out of one portion of Mrs. Livesey's daily life, and she sought none elsewhere. She toiled hard enough to secure bread and shelter for their bodies, but these children's hearts were famished for want of what she might have bestowed if only she had not "given up." Home was brightest when the mother was out of it; for, though the children were neither beaten nor ill-treated—though she gave them the best she could, the presence of the grave, silent woman was like a wet blanket to them all.
Dear mothers, if you could only understand how much it is in your power to brighten your children's lives, you would surely do it. If Adam Livesey's mother had met him with a smile when he came in, and told him that she thanked God for having left her such a helper in her boy! If she had put her arms round his neck and given him a loving kiss, as she took his hardly-won wages, or said she was sorry he had so heavy a weight to carry while still so young! If she had gone with him and her other children to the throne of grace, and there and with them made her requests known unto God, and taught them that, though this may be a world of toil and trial, there is something better beyond! If she had put into their young hearts the precious, cheering thought that, though the earthly father had been taken, they had a Father in heaven, who had given sweet and precious promises to cheer the widow and the orphan! If she had done these things, toil would have been lightened, her children's lives made happier, their yearning for a mother's love satisfied, and within them would have been planted good seeds which, by God's grace, would have doubtless brought forth good fruit in their lives.
She did none of these things, and she reaped fruit of another kind. As the younger boys grew old enough, they went to work, and as soon as they could severed the tie between themselves and the home that had no brightness in it.
All went but Adam. Perhaps he had suffered most, because he was the only one who was old enough to remember the better days during his father's life. He, too, had a trial which the younger boys were spared, for the cup of learning had been snatched from his lips as he was beginning to taste its sweetness. Often was he sorely vexed, when he saw lads with no yearnings after knowledge waste the opportunities he would have prized. But there seemed no help for it.
Years passed, and Adam's boyhood was gone. "Too old to learn now, if I had the chance," he murmured. "I'm o' no account in the world, and I never shall be. I've got nothing to do, but to hammer away until I have struck my last stroke, and then—"
Adam often said these words, but he never finished his sentence. He stopped with "and then," seeming unable to look beyond the moment when, his last day's work on earth being done, some one else would have to lift the tool which his arm could raise no longer.
Adam's work was that of "striker" in a foundry. He had never been apprenticed to any mechanical trade, and his calling was one which required little beyond strength and adroitness. Though wiry, he was very strong, and, happily for him, his depressing surroundings had never driven him to drink.
His mother's last days were free from toil, for, when the other two lads had crossed the ocean and found homes in far-away lands, Adam stayed by her and worked for her. Before Mrs. Livesey died, she seemed to realize that she might have made her children happier, and that she herself might have found a good deal of sweetness towards the bottom of life's cup, if she had not closed her lips against what was left, because of the one bitter draught she had been compelled to drink.
"You'll do better without me, Adam," she said. "I've been nothing but a clog to you all your days. I wish I'd been a bit brighter, but after father died I had hard lines, and I gave up."
Adam would have liked to say something cheerful if he could, but he could not at the moment think of anything to say, because his mother's words were true. Before an answer came from him she had given up her last breath, and the young man, always lonely enough, felt a little more lonely than before.
It was some comfort to think of those last words of his mother, and to know that the grave, unsympathetic woman had in her heart recognised his devotion.
She had owned, after her fashion, that if she had done her part towards Adam as faithfully as he had performed his to herself, both their lives might have been happier. This was a crumb of comfort to feed upon, and threw just a ray of light across that death-bed, not for the departing soul, but for the watcher beside it; and Adam rejoiced that he had "stuck by mother to the last."
"Poor soul! I reckon she couldn't help feeling so down-hearted and dull. Dulness is catching, and I've got a good deal into mother's ways with being so much along with her. However, I'm glad I haven't got to look back and think that I left her to shift for herself, as Ned and Tom did."
Adam, you see, had done his duty according to his light, and this thought was the best comforter he had, as he sat by his solitary hearth that night, thinking of the past, and wondering how he should shape his future. Often and often had he rebelled in spirit against the monotony of his work and its hopeless character. He asked himself—Would it be possible for him to make a fresh start, now he had only himself to work for?
"FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE."
ADAM LIVESEY was not fated to be long without a companion. His mother's next door neighbour was a widow, like herself. Her only unmarried daughter had just given up her place to come and live with her, the one who had been at home having lately become the wife of a mechanic.
Mrs. Livesey, as we know, had not been much given to neighbouring, but, being "fond of peace and quietness," was certain to quarrel with nobody. She was silent enough, but Mrs. Allison, being a great talker, had liked her all the better on that account. So she told how Annie was going to be married, and Maggie, her youngest, coming to live with her at home, because she could not be left by herself.
"And lucky for me," she said, "my husband had a trifle of money that came to him only just before he died, or I am afraid he would have run through it; and he left it to me for life, and then it will go, share and share alike, amongst the four girls. Only a trifle when it comes to be divided, but enough to keep a little house over my head while I live, and so as I can have one daughter with me. Maggie is the last. Eh, dear! I hope nobody will want her!"
Maggie was a dark-eyed, rosy-checked damsel, full of spirits, rather too fond of finery, yet kindly hearted and of an affectionate disposition. She had only been home a few days when Mrs. Livesey was taken ill. What so natural as that the one neighbour who had persisted in making her acquaintance should minister to her during her sickness? What so certain as that one pair of hands proving insufficient, the bright-eyed daughter should relieve her mother?
Both were very kind. There could be no mistake about that, and Adam was very grateful, and longed to express his feelings; but having become taciturn by habit, he hardly knew how to begin. He thought he should offer payment, but was afraid of giving offence. However, greatly to his relief, Mrs. Allison guessed from the first hesitating words what was coming, and stopped the rest.
"Don't you say one word about what Maggie and I have done. Mrs. Livesey was heartily welcome to our best, whether by night or day. I felt for her, having no daughter or sister to watch by her. Our turns will come, when we shall want looking after, and somebody will have to do for us what we have done for your mother."
Adam found words to express his thanks, and the friendly widow extended her good offices, put his house in order for him, made all the arrangements that would have fallen naturally to a woman's hand, had there been one of his kindred to undertake them, and laid him under no small obligation by so doing. What so natural as for him to consult such kindly neighbours, and to talk over with them his plans for the future?
"I think I shall sell the few sticks of furniture and go into lodgings," he said. "It is so lonely to come home and find no mother. She was very quiet, but she was always there."
"I wouldn't, if I were you," replied the widow briskly. "It would never do for you to be by yourself. You must have somebody to look after you. If you sold your things, you would get next to nothing for them, and yet there is a tidy little lot. They would cost a good bit if you had to buy them. You'll not be a bachelor always, Mr. Livesey, and it says a deal for your good heart that you denied yourself of marrying and stopped with your mother."
The widow's words were strangely confusing to Adam Livesey, and the suggestion was a novel one to him. The idea of marrying had not entered his mind, though, now he was alone in the world, it came home with great force as the most fitting remedy for his solitude. Almost involuntarily he looked towards the widow's daughter, and she, seeing his glance, turned quickly to the window, though not soon enough to hide the flush that rose to her cheek at the words of her mother.
Maggie Allison was young, pretty, bright, and kind. How different it would be if he had such a face as that to meet him at the threshold! How pleasant to hear her singing about his little house, as she did about her mother's! He had heard her voice often, through the thin walls which divided the tenements, and thought that she was just like a bird, with her cheery voice and active movements. How delightful it would be to have her at one side of the hearth, turning that rosy face towards him, and chatting away about all that had happened during his working hours! Thus cogitated Adam Livesey. Before he went back to his own cottage that night, Mrs. Allison had persuaded him to let things be for a while, until he had time to turn round.
"Maggie and me will see to things for you. Just for a bit, till you settle on something, or somebody to keep house," added the widow, with a half-smile hovering round her features.
Adam thankfully agreed, and went home with his mind full of Maggie Allison, and wondering whether, after all her mother had said about her being the last daughter left, and her dread of losing her, she would look favourably upon him as a suitor. Perhaps if she were only coming next door it would not be like parting! There was hope in that fact.
Then Adam looked at his spare form and homely features, and thought, with a sigh, that he was too old, too plain, too poor for one so young and pretty as Maggie. His dimly-conceived plans for self-improvement must be given up if he married, for in this case he would have to work for a wife, instead of a mother. Well! He had never been afraid of work, and he thought, if he only had such a face as that to look on, and such a voice to cheer him on, he could do more and better than he had hitherto done.
It is easy to foresee the end of these musings. Maggie Allison's image drove out every other tenant from Adam's mind. Her mother, having a shrewd suspicion that the girl would not remain single for her sake, and wishing to keep her near at hand, encouraged his advances, and Maggie was won by the almost reverential wooing of this hitherto reserved and silent man.
There was really only six years difference in their ages, and, under the influence of this new affection, Adam grew younger looking, whilst his natural intelligence lighted up his face, and hope gave it a new expression.
"He worships the very ground I tread on, and I am certain he has never thought about anybody else in all his life," said Maggie; and she was right.
So the two married, and whilst there were only two, things were fairly bright. Adam poured his wages into his wife's hands, as he had formerly done into his mother's, and wished he had more to bring.
Children came, and Maggie could no longer manage to afford herself the bits of finery in which her soul delighted. She found that plenty for two, was but a scanty allowance for four, and scantier still for six, and grumbled accordingly.
Mrs. Allison helped a little from time to time, but finding that Maggie's appeals became more and more frequent, she grew tired, and, without having told her daughter until almost the last moment, left the cottage next door, and went to live near another of her children, whose circumstances were comparatively prosperous.
This was a terrible blow to Adam and his wife, especially the latter. Mrs. Allison went, as if only on a visit to her elder daughter, and then, having taken a cottage, sent a person with authority to remove her goods to the new home.
Then Adam Livesey had an opportunity of judging as to the relative merits of a silent, gloomy mother, and one who was too often a fretful, disappointed, scolding wife.
It had been pleasant, for a time, to be worshipped, to be of the first importance, to have Adam's eyes following her every movement with delighted wonder, to receive from his hands all that he had to give. But after all, Maggie found that they had not much in common, and when money ran short, that admiring looks would not make amends for the lack of it. So the wife grumbled at being a domestic slave, and being quick-tempered as well as keen-witted, often made the house too hot for husband and children.
Adam never retorted. On the contrary, he felt terribly guilty, and reminded himself of those old misgivings that had tormented him before his marriage. "I ought never to have asked a bright young lass like Maggie to tie herself to a grim know-naught of a fellow such as I am. But it can't be undone now. I must just work on, and when the children grow up, they'll help, and things will be better for the mother."
Poor, faithful soul! He loved his wife with the one affection of his heart, and blamed himself for the change in her. He would soothe the frightened little ones, when Maggie's angry words drove them in terror from the hearth. In summer, he would carry one in his arms, and with a couple more running beside him, would wander off into the public parks and silently watch, whilst they played in quick and happy forgetfulness.
Or, if it were winter, and the little ones were driven upstairs to creep into bed in the dark, Adam, remembering his own boyish hungering for the clasp of arms round his neck, would follow stealthily, and kiss and comfort them, or hold a tiny hand in his, until the child forgot its trouble in blessed sleep.
He had learned some lessons as a boy, which he was putting into practice as a man.
Adam had become as silent as his mother used to be. Never angry at Maggie, but very pitiful. Never giving way to the temptation to drink, though not restrained from it by any higher motive than the thought, "Poor lass! I have little enough to take her as it is. I mustn't make the little less, by spending it on myself."
So this poor fellow, with his big heart, his willing hands, his unsatisfied yearnings after knowledge, and his ignorance of things spiritual, went silently about his daily task, each day realising more fully the kind of weight of which his mother had spoken when she talked about "giving up."
It was not giving up work. She had never done that, and Adam was not likely to do it either. Work was the habit of his life, the one thing that gave a sort of satisfaction to his inner consciousness. It was all that he had the power to do, and it must be right to go on, apart from the needs-be, which ever cried in his ears, "Wife and children have to be clothed and fed, and your toil must win food and raiment for them."
The "giving up" was the yielding of all his old hopes and longings, the labouring on like a machine with as little power to turn aside, as little expectation of any future good, either in this world or the next, the working passively rather than patiently, the bearing himself humbly, as one whose opinion of himself is of the lowest. And yet the time was coming when a new and blessed light would burst upon Adam's mental and spiritual darkness, and change the whole of his daily life.
AT RUTHERFORD'S.
RUTHERFORD'S boilers were known all over the world, and it was at Rutherford's works that Adam Livesey wielded his hammer day after day. He was the subject of many a joke, on account of his silent, unsocial ways, and yet most of his fellow workmen felt kindly towards him. They could hardly do otherwise, for the man never resented their gibes, sometimes did not appear to hear them. If he contributed nothing to their enjoyment by his sayings, he took no offence at theirs, and did not attack the speakers in turn.
"Adam, lad," said one of them, as the striker paused to wipe the moisture from his brow, "have ye heard aught about the new manager that's coming?"
"No," was the brief reply.
"If saving words would save pence, Adam would be a rich man," put in another.
"'A still tongue makes a wise head,' they say. Do you believe that, Adam? I should think you must, or you wouldn't be so quiet. But, man, if it is true, how wise you must be!"
A general laugh followed this speech, and Adam smiled, somewhat grimly, for the words reminded him how he had longed to be something different from what he actually was.
"If Adam Livesey had been the first Adam that ever lived, I don't believe he would have felt lonely if no Eve had been given to him."
"Yes, I should, mates. I never was fond of being alone."
"Then you would stand by, for company, and let the other do the talking, eh, Adam?"
No response this time. There was work ready again, and the striker's hammer was raised to deliver one of those ponderous blows the sound of which was usually ringing through the smithy during working hours. But when another pause took place, the subject of the new manager was again introduced, and Adam listened attentively to what was said about him. He knew that Mr. John Rutherford, the junior partner, who had hitherto been the acting manager, had broken down in health, and was going abroad for some months. He had always been looked upon as the very life of the whole concern, and it was a matter of wonder and anxiety as to what Rutherford's would be without "our Mr. John."
"It will want a first-rate man to stand in his shoes," was the general verdict; "for Mr. John knows when a man understands his work. And likely, for when he came here, a lad, he went through his degrees, and learned the whole business up and down."
"A good thing for the men when the master does know what work means," said a steady old hand, who, like Adam, was not given to much talking.
"I don't say that," interposed another, whose face showed signs of intemperance, and in whose unsteady hand the tool shook again, as he paused in its use.
"I should have said it is good for the men whose minds are made up to do an honest day's work for a fair day's wages," returned the older man, with a half-pitying, half-contemptuous look at the trembling hand of the last speaker. "It isn't good in the eyes of those who try how little they can do for their money. I have always respected Mr. John for being a first-rate workman, as well as a fair dealing master, and I only hope the new manager may turn out to be after the same pattern. You've seen him, Jim. What is he like?"
"A clever-looking man. Got both eyes open, and won't be easy to gammon, I should say. Depend on it, he knows how many sixpences go to half a crown, and how much work should go into nine hours and a half. He came up to me, as the foreman brought him through, and he asked me a question. I thought I'd have him on a bit, and find out what he knew, but I'd better have let it alone. He made me look foolish, I can tell you, and I only hope he'll not remember my face when he starts here for good."
The speaker, Jim, was reckoned "a sharp un," a sort of workshop oracle, and his account of the coming manager was eagerly listened to. After Jim's experience, the conclusion come to was that Mr. Drummond would not be easily "done."
"They say he goes about preaching o' nights," remarked another. "Queer that, isn't it?"
"So long as he doesn't try on his preaching with me, he may do it where he likes," said Jim. "I should stand none o' that. I didn't agree for it, and it never did agree with me;" and Jim made a comical, wry face, as if he had just been trying to swallow something which would not go down.
"I only wish any preaching would do thee good, Jim," said the old workman, with a kindly look. "You've a deal in you that I like, for, if you've got a thing to do, you go at it with a will. But I can never stand your way of making fun of preachers that try to help their neighbours into the road that leads to heaven. If you won't go along with them, there's no need to make game and hinder other folks by laughing them out of it. You can see for yourself that if people go from comfortable firesides, where they have their wives and children, and could have more pleasant company besides—if they leave these, I say, where all is bright and tempting and cheerful, and go out into the dark lanes and miserable dirty homes, it must be out of love for Christ, and love for the souls He died to save. When a man gives time and strength, kind words and loving labours to those who are poorer than he is, and nought akin, and is certain that if he does it all his life he'll never be a penny the richer, you can't say that it's for his own sake."
Most of this talk took place during the dinner-hour, and as the speaker finished there were murmurs of assent from the men who were seated round. The old workman was much respected at Rutherford's.
Jim tried to raise another laugh against him, but not succeeding, he turned again upon Adam Livesey, who had been an eager but silent listener.
"You'll be the chap for the new manager to preach to, Adam," said he. "You're the one to take all in and give naught out. Eh, lad! I wish my wife were like you."
Jim's wife was known to possess a shrill tongue and a sharp temper, both of which were easily roused into action, but not easily stilled. Happily for him, he bore both with equal good humour, and either answered jestingly or got out of the way till the storm was over. His words now raised a laugh at his own expense, and when it subsided, the men rose and went back to work again.
Adam Livesey had not seen the new manager when he visited Rutherford's. In fact, he could hardly be called the manager yet. He was only chosen and appointed to fill that post, not actually in it. It would be a month, the men had heard, before Mr. Drummond could leave his present situation to enter upon the new one, and some regrets were expressed on account of the delay. Not, of course, that the men wanted to see anybody else filling the shoes of their grand favourite, Mr. John. But they saw that the latter gentleman was "looking bad," and thought the sooner he was away the better, and the more chance there would be of his coming back well. He was not to take the place of managing partner any more. Mr. Drummond, if all went well, was to be a fixture; but it would be pleasant to have Mr. John in and out amongst them, though taking things more easily than of old.
Adam Livesey said less than anybody about these things, but probably no one thought more of the new manager, or looked more eagerly for his coming, than did the silent striker.
MR. DRUMMOND IN HARNESS.
RUTHERFORD'S got its new manager before the month was out. Mr. John's state of health became alarming, and as he had to be hurried away, an arrangement was made for Mr. Drummond to come at once.
He had not been many days in the place before every workman had come to the conclusion that he was "a cute 'un," and that the person who wanted to "get round him" would have to be up very early in the morning.
Already, however, he had made a favourable impression. An accident happened the very day after his arrival, by which two men were rather seriously hurt, and his conduct on that occasion won the hearts of the lookers-on. He showed such anxiety to spare the injured men any needless pain, was so tender in word and deed, and, when he heard that one of them had an ailing wife, he took such precautions to prevent the bad news from reaching her suddenly.
Later in the day Mr. Drummond found time to visit the men at the Infirmary, and later still, to call at their homes and carry the cheering news that both were likely to do well.
"He's a good sort, that new manager," was the opinion expressed by the anxious wives, to whom his coming was as a ray of sunlight. "It isn't so many that would have called themselves. They would have thought it plenty to send word," said the one wife to her invalid neighbour, after Mr. Drummond's departure. "He feels for folks, because he evens himself to them. He said he once got hurt, and he knew what his missis went through, when she heard that he couldn't be brought home."
"He asked me if my man were in a club, and how we should get on while he was laid by. I said we should be all right there, and the two lads were working."
"He asked me too. And that was not what everybody would ha' done. Masters sometimes like to know as little as they can about the men's money matters. If they don't know that you have nothing coming in, though they can always have a pretty good guess, you see, they don't feel as anybody can blame them for not putting their hands in their pockets. I don't say it to find fault. Masters often have their minds full enough, and not too much in their pockets, after all's said and done. They would often help if they could, but they can't keep all the wives and families, when the men are doing naught. And they are often very ill plagued with the awkwardness of the men ¹ going off drinking just when they're busiest, and such-like work."
¹ "Very ill plagued." A common expression in Lancashire, denoting domestic troubles through slack work or sickness.
The words were true enough. Rutherford's knew what it was to be fined for non-fulfilment of a contract, now and then, through the sheer perversity of the less steady amongst their workpeople. There would be bitter complaints if there were not work enough to keep all going, and then, very often, when all was in full swing, some of those who had grumbled most loudly were the first to shirk their employment and stroll off to the public-house, whence they could neither be coaxed nor driven.
When pay time came on Friday evening, they would come up with the rest and hang about, until the steady workmen had received their well-earned wages. Then they would lounge up to the pay desk and plead for an advance on work partially done, or yet to be commenced, and make many a promise of future steadiness.
Perhaps they were met by a stern refusal, and had to listen to a sharp lecture on the folly of their ways and the misery they entailed on others by their evil doing.
Meanwhile, half clad, worn-looking women would be waiting the result with what patience they might.
The knowledge of this fact and the thought of the children who would have to go hungry if no advance were made, generally secured it, though at Rutherford's the cashier often made it a condition that the wife should be called to receive the money. It made little difference in the long run, for, unless she were very strong minded indeed, she was sure to have to yield up enough to pay the public-house score before she could begin her calculations for spending the little balance left in her hands. The two women who were comparing notes about the new manager were happy in having steady husbands, and being spared such experiences.
"Did Mr. Drummond say anything else to you?" asked the invalid, with an eager look on her pale face.
"Aye. He hoped I had the 'Best of friends' to be with me and cheer me whilst I was troubled about George. I was bewildered like, and hardly knew what he meant then, but I seemed to see after."
"He didn't say many words to me, but he brought back some verses I learned at Sunday school. One forgets in course of time, but it's a good thing to have one's memory brushed up a bit."
Here the conversation ended.
The accident had been the means of bringing Adam Livesey under Mr. Drummond's special notice. But for it the striker's shyness would have induced him rather to keep out of sight; yet, when the alarm was given, Adam was the first to run to the scene of the mishap.
"Poor old Silentsides dropped his hammer sharp enough to-day," said another workman, in Mr. Drummond's hearing. "When there's work on, Adam is never in any hurry. I've noticed many a time that his hammer gives the last stroke that sounds in the smithy when going home time has come."
The words made Mr. Drummond curious to know which was Adam Livesey. He thought that a man of whom his fellows gave such a character might be worth a little looking after. But the manager was too wise to startle the men by making sudden changes. He wanted to get acquainted with them, not merely as items in the human machinery which kept Rutherford's going, but as fellow men, with souls to be saved, minds to be enlightened, bodies to be cared for, homes to be brightened, lives to be cheered and influenced for good.
How to set about it was the difficulty. Mr. Drummond had already been spoken of as fond of preaching, but in one sense he did not deserve it. He did not intrude upon the men during their dinner-hour, or when they were talking together in groups. He knew how jealous many were of anything like interference with their freedom of action and word. He did not wish them to think that he desired to be a spy upon them, so he was extremely careful to do nothing which should excite doubt or suspicion. But opportunities are never long wanting to those who seek them, and, as Mr. Drummond's words were always well timed, the sight of his frank face and the sound of his footfall were soon welcomed by all amongst whom he moved.
Some of the workmen joked Adam Livesey about the manager's "'ticing ways."
"He'll make a talker of thee, whether thou wilt or no," said one.
"There's no standing against Mr. Drummond," put in another.
So many things were said about the manager's power of "leading whoever he chose with his little finger," that for once in his life, Adam had a feeling of almost dislike towards the object of so much praise. Though he did not say as much, he made up his mind not to be talked to or driven into anything, by the cleverest manager that ever lived.
Adam was almost painfully conscious of Mr. Drummond's great abilities and intimate knowledge of the duties he had undertaken. He thought he had long ago subdued anything like envy of those who were better taught, and the hope of rising beyond his monotonous work. Mr. Drummond's position seemed to reproach Adam, for, as a boy, the manager had been no better off than himself. But he had conquered opposing circumstances, whilst Adam had yielded to them, and been beaten down at every point. It hurt the man to know this, and he took every opportunity of avoiding Mr. Drummond. He succeeded in doing this while at his work, but met the person he least wished to see when and where he least expected to find him.
THE NEW MANAGER TAKES ADAM UNAWARES.
IT was Saturday afternoon and Adam Livesey had taken charge of all his children except the eldest, who was staying at home to fetch and carry and to be made generally useful during the weekly "cleaning up" for Sunday. The one left behind cast longing glances after the little troop who, under father's convoy, were being taken out of mother's way. It was rather hard lines for the solitary little damsel, who would have so enjoyed a run in the park with the rest, but who, being ten years old and the eldest of six, mostly boys, paid the penalty of being a sort of household drudge.
The mother could hardly be blamed for this, since, as she truly said, her own work was never done, and in the pinched face and often peevish tones of Mrs. Livesey there was not much to remind any one of rosy-checked Maggie Allison. But she might have made her willing little helper much happier, if she had only led the child instead of driving her, and given kind words in place of perpetual fault-finding.
As to Adam, he silently rejoiced in being able to take so many of the youngsters into the somewhat grimy enclosure called the "People's Park." There was plenty of space for play, the air was as fresh as any in the neighbourhood, and there were swings, trees and flowers, though to pluck a leaf or blossom with clean gloves on would have destroyed their purity for ever.
However, the park was not so much for the clean-gloved people, so that mattered little; and it was a vast source of enjoyment to many whose hands were innocent of covering, and alas! their feet too, in many cases.
Before lifting the baby in his strong arms, Adam whispered a promise in the ears of Maggie junior, which brought a flush of gladness to her rueful face, and would do much to cheer her during her hours of toil. Then he went off to the park with his youthful following.
The day was pleasant, the breeze just fresh enough to make walking delightful; and the spirits of the children infected their father.
Mrs. Livesey often said that Adam gave them more words during one walk than anybody else got out of him in a week; but then she should have remembered that she talked more than enough for them both. Even patient Adam had been driven to say that there was no edging in a word beside her. Anyway, he always answered the little folks pleasantly and kindly, and the walk to the park seemed short to them all. Once there, the four went off to the swings, and baby being asleep, Adam sat down on a bench well sheltered by a background of shrubs, lest his smallest charge should suffer by exposure to the breeze, and began to think things over.
When with the children, the man's mind was often sorely perplexed. He loved them dearly, and, in spite of the change in his wife's looks, he had never varied in his affection for her. True, she was not just the Maggie she used to be. But was he not to blame? If he had not married her, somebody brighter and better off might have made her his wife. Was it not wrong of a man who was so little in himself, and who had nothing else, to marry at all? And would the children have no better prospect to look forward to? He could see nothing tempting before any of them. He was only forty years of age now, and his wife thirty-four, but how much older both of them looked than their actual ages!
Just at this moment Adam heard voices behind the shrubs. One was that of a girl, and as she passed on, she gaily hummed a tune. It was one that his wife used to sing in her clear fresh voice, which he had so loved to hear, during their brief courtship and early married days. The sound actually brought moisture, of which he felt thoroughly ashamed, to Adam's eyes, and he was gently disengaging one hand so as to wipe it away, when a different voice addressed him by name. He recognised it in a moment. It was that of Mr. Drummond, and he was by no means glad to hear it, though the words were friendly and the tone pleasant.
"I am glad to see you here, Livesey," said the manager. "You are a wise man to use your half-holiday in this way. One would think that most workers who spend so much time in places like the cotton mill or smithy would be glad to get the smoke and steam blown out of them, now and then, by such a sweet breeze as this."
Adam gave a sort of indistinct murmur of assent, said something about bringing the children out, and "cleaning day," and made as if he would have risen.
He did not want the manager's company, but the man's instincts were ever on the side of courtesy, and he never failed in civility to those whom he had been used to call his "betters."
Mr. Drummond saw the movement, and laying his hand on Adam's arm, said, "Do not get up, please. You might rouse that little sleeper. What a pretty creature!" And he looked admiringly at the child, whose forehead was shaded with dark rings of silky hair, and her long lashes rested on the flushed cheeks.
"By your leave," added the manager, "I will sit down beside you."
What could Adam say? Certainly he could not refuse, for the seat was as free to Mr. Drummond as to him, and there was room for five occupants. Then, too, the feeling of antagonism which he had cherished towards Mr. Drummond was beginning to give way already. That gentleman's frank admiration of his youngest born touched Adam in his tenderest point, and his politeness had gained him a further advantage.
"To think he should say 'By your leave' to me. Why, one of the men wouldn't have troubled himself to do that, but would have flung himself down, and maybe stuck his feet up with his shoe soles against my clothes, and whether I wanted his company or no."
Adam's cogitation was perfectly correct, and by the time he came to the end of it, he could say with truth, "Sit down, sir, by all means. There's lots of room. Besides," he added, "nobody has any call to ask leave."
"Maybe not, in one sense, and so far as occupying a seat goes. But when a person you know is sitting quietly and alone, it is perhaps as well to find out whether your company will annoy him or not."
"I suppose that would be so if it were a gentleman," returned Adam, slowly.
"Do you mean a gentleman sitting?"
"Yes. I reckon very few folks would trouble about manners to a man o' no account like me."
"Then it would be their own loss. It always does harm to those who miss a chance of showing civility. I had a very good mother, Adam. Not a fine lady, according to the world's notion, but a hard-working woman, and she taught me this lesson, that one-sided politeness is not worth much. It should go everywhere, and be practised all round."
"You learned that lesson right off, and you've remembered it, sir," said Adam, on whose face an expression of interest was already manifest.
It was very curious, but during the brief moments that the two men had spent together, the manager succeeded in touching the most sensitive chords in the striker's nature. His love for his children, his own low self-estimate, and his memory of the mother who "gave up."
Mr. Drummond went back to the first. Bending over the lovely unconscious baby-sleeper, he touched its soft cheek with his lips, too gently to rouse it, however, and then looking into Adam's face with a smile he asked, "How old is she?"
"Fifteen months. She can toddle about a bit, but not walk far; so I have to carry her, you see."
"I have one the same age. We lost the next oldest."
"And so did Maggie and me. Maggie's my wife, sir."
"How many have you altogether?"
"Six, and the eldest is just turned ten, poor little lass!"
Mr. Drummond put two and two together, and guessed the meaning of these last words. "I suppose she is at home helping her mother, and would have liked to be here."
"That's just it, sir. The rest are here. They will come to me when they're tired."
Adam would have liked to ask how many children Mr. Drummond possessed, but his shyness overcame him, and he remained silent. The manager wanted to draw him out a little, and thinking the best way was by being communicative, said, "You are twice as rich as I am, Livesey."
"Then you have three children. I was just wondering. But you are a many times as rich as I am in other ways—learning and place, money and manners. I have very little of anything except children. Seems queer now, doesn't it?"
"It does. People often puzzle over that subject, and wonder that the meat and the mouths get sent in different directions. But you must not fancy that I am a rich man, or that my way has been made smooth for me."
Adam never could tell how it was that he managed to get out the question, but he next found himself inquiring about Mr. Drummond's mother, to whom he had alluded as "a hard-working woman."
"I beg your pardon, sir," said he, "but was your mother one that 'gave up'?"
The manager hardly understood Adam's meaning. He hesitated, then said, "Gave up what?"
Livesey's features worked in a most peculiar manner, as if he might be engaged in the manufacture of words by which to make his meaning clear. After a struggle, he answered, "I'm not sure whether I can tell you, sir. But mother was left a widow with three of us, and nobody to help, and she was like somebody that has too much weight on them. She bent under her troubles, and had a grave face and a down-trodden look and way with her. Things were very dull at our house, and I am sure it was because, as mother said, she 'just gave up.'"
By dint of thinking and questioning, Mr. Drummond at length realised Adam's meaning. "I see," he said. "Now I can answer you. My mother would have been one of the last to give up. She worked bravely and steadily. She set us an example of cheerfulness, and cheered us when we were inclined to break down. With a mother leading her children in the right way, and always looking up with her bright face heavenward, we children could hardly help following, could we?"
"But what did she look up for, sir?"
A glance at the questioner showed Mr. Drummond that Adam made the inquiry in perfect good faith.
"I do not mean that her eyes were always looking up. She had to keep those on her work, in a general way. I meant that her thoughts were turned heavenwards. She remembered God's many promises to the weary, the troubled, the widow and the fatherless, and believing that they were meant for her, and that He was faithful that had promised, the faith cheered her, and she looked for their fulfilment, and taught us to do the same; only I, for one, was a careless scholar."
Adam answered something, but the words meant little.
The slight allusion made to God's dealings with His children had carried the striker out of his depth already.
Mr. Drummond perceived this, and began to question Adam in turn. He was interested in him, and showed it.
"It's a queer thing for anybody to want to know about me. I told you about mother. She wasn't like yours. I might ha' been something better than a striker if I'd had a chance. I had it in me to learn, and I was never afraid of hard work. Maybe, if I hadn't got married after mother died, I should have saved money and gone in for a bit of learning; but I'd been slaving on for years, making no friends, because she couldn't abide neighbours. A big town's an awful lonely place if you've nobody belonging to you. I couldn't stand the loneliness. Then it's hard work starting again at school after you're grown up; so I thought, 'There are lots more in the same fix as I am. I may as well settle down to it like the rest,' and I did.
"I had used to work for mother, you see, and when she was gone, it seemed so queer to have all my wages for myself, and be slaving away for just Adam Livesey. There was a girl next door—"
Here Adam's face began working again, as the image of Maggie as she then was came into his mind.
"Never mind," he continued, almost fiercely. "She has been my wife for a dozen years, and sometimes I wish she hadn't. Nothing the matter with her, mister. Don't you go thinking that. Only marrying me turned as pretty a lass as you would wish to see into a mother of seven—one dead, you know—and a thin, weary woman, with too many children, too much work, and far too little money to make things comfortable. Maggie couldn't go out to work and help. How could she, with seven of 'em born in ten years? And one pair of hands! I say, sir, it's wonderful she has managed as well as she has done. Don't you think now I did wrong by that pretty young woman by marrying her? If she hadn't had a place to lay her head in, it would ha' been different. But she had a nice home with her mother, and used to sing like a lark up and down their house, and for a good while after she was married to me. She never sings now. There's a man at Rutherford's that has a bird. It used to be in a large place, where it could fly about and hardly know it was in prison. Something happened to the man who owned the place, and the birds were sold. This man bought the one I spoke about. It was the grandest singer, he said. He put it in a little cage; but though he gave it the primest spot in the cottage, it never sang any more.
"When he told me, I said I was sorry to hear it, but I thought to myself, 'That's just like my poor Maggie.'
"Well, I've had my share of slaving too, but it came natural. And plenty of them to slave for, as you may see, sir."
Adam gave a grim wintry smile as he alluded to the number of his olive branches, but at the same time he pressed the sleeping child a little more closely, as if to say, "I should not like to part with one, for all that," and relapsed into silence.
"THE THIN END OF THE WEDGE."
ADAM LIVESEY'S story was not told all at once and straight forward as it is here put down, but jerked out at intervals in a spasmodic fashion, and a few words at a time, in response to much kindly questioning. Then the man seemed half ashamed of having been drawn out, and shrank into himself again.
But Mr. Drummond had taken a liking to Adam. He felt strongly for the man, with his cravings after a higher and better life, his ignorance of the greatest yet simplest truths. He was profoundly touched at the wealth of fatherly tenderness that lay deep down in his heart, at his painful sense of wrong done to the pretty bright-eyed girl who had so sadly changed since she had linked her fate with his, at the manifest hopelessness which weighed down his whole nature.
Moreover, the manager had observed Adam at his work, and noticed how faithfully it was performed. He had found out that while many laughed at his grave, silent ways, all respected "the poor chap," as they called him, even while they pitied him for having "no pluck to help him to stand up for himself."
Mr. Drummond, in his own mind, compared Adam to those Gentiles of whom St. Paul wrote in the Epistle to the Romans. "This man," he thought, "is living in the heart of a great city and in the midst of a Christian nation. And yet, while he is as ignorant as a heathen, he has been doing by nature the things contained in the law. He has a tender, though not an enlightened conscience, and has obeyed its dictates and been a law unto himself. If only the gospel message could be brought home, first to his ears, and then by the blessed influence of the Holy Spirit to his soul, what a different life would Adam Livesey's become! Oh that into his heart might shine the light of the glory of God, in the face of Jesus Christ.
"And," he added the silent but heartfelt prayer, "oh that I might be made the instrument in leading him to the one and only Saviour!"
If the baby had waked up in a very short time, all this talk would have been impossible, but the words which take long to write are quickly spoken.
"I cannot help thinking, Adam, that it is not too late for you to better your position. I know you can in one sense, if not in another."
"It's no good talking, sir. What's done is done. I'm forty years old, and I'm just where I was at twenty-five, as far as wages go. I had two to feed then. I've eight now. Things are past mending for me. I'm o' no account in the world, and I shall never be of any."
"Of no account! I cannot agree with you there. You are of account, as a workman. What would become of Rutherford's if all such as you were withdrawn? There are many idle, useless people in the world, who could be better spared in a batch, than one man who does as honest a day's work as Adam Livesey."
In spite of himself, Adam's deep set eyes were kindled into an expression of pleasure, but he did not speak.
"Are you of no account to the wife and little woman at home? To the playing children, whose voices sound very full of music to me, as the breeze wafts them this way? Are you of no account to that sweet little sleeper who rests so trustfully and safely in her father's arms? Adam, your heart must tell you that there are many by whom you could be ill spared."
"Yes," he answered, simply. "They would want me."
"And though poor Maggie may not have cheeks as round and rosy, and her voice may not often be raised in song, I daresay she has a warm heart at the bottom. Depend on it, Adam Livesey, she keeps the best corner of it for you, though many cares prevent her saying much about it. Would she let anybody call you names behind your back?"
The striker's face assumed a look of positive amusement, as he said, "It wouldn't be good for 'em to try that game on with Maggie."
"Does she ever keep the best bit for your dinner, and try to go without any of it herself? I say 'try,' Adam, because I know you would not let her."
"To be sure she does. That's just Maggie. Why, sir, you might have seen for yourself."
"And do you think, if it could be possible for any one to say, 'Mrs. Livesey, if you would like to go back twelve years, you can. You shall be the girl Maggie again, only you must say "good-bye" to Adam and these six little plagues who make you so much work, and are so full of wants. Say the word, take back your youth and your roses, on condition that you part with husband and children.' Would she say the word, Adam?"
The man was strangely moved. The rugged features worked again, and showed the effect of Mr. Drummond's questioning. "No, no," he cried, "Maggie may scold a bit and say sharp words, then wish she hadn't, but nobody would drag that word out of her."
"Here's a nice man to say he's of no account. Why, Adam, you are a regular fraud, to set up as a person that nobody would miss."
Mr. Drummond laughed cheerily, and his hearer caught the infection. "I'm afraid I haven't come out very well in this line," he said. "I shall be getting conceited just now, and forget to give up."
This was the effect the manager wished to produce. He wanted Adam to take a higher and more just view of his calling and responsibilities. He wanted first to raise his self-estimate, to encourage efforts at self-improvement; above all, to lead him to a knowledge of his spiritual need, and the all-sufficiency of Christ to meet it. But this last part of the subject would have to be carefully approached. There must be no plunging recklessly into it. He must prove his good-will to Adam, and thus secure his confidence, and he was a good deal astonished at the progress already made.
The manager had no thought of meeting Adam when he did, but he had been longing for such an opportunity, and was thankful for such a fulfilment of one of the desires of his heart.
"You think, then, I did not do wrong by marrying Maggie?" said Adam, interrupting Mr. Drummond's thoughts by the inquiry.
"I imagined that question had been settled a few minutes ago."
"I'm glad you think so, sir. It has troubled me for a long time, ever since her mother went away to live beside her elder daughter. She used to be next door to us, but the children began to run in and out too often, and Maggie was p'raps a bit too having, seeing her mother was independent like. Maggie will have a matter of three hundred pound when the old lady dies, so I may well wonder she married me."
Adam was relapsing, and would be o' no account again directly.
"No doubt she was, and is, very fond of you, Adam. You have proved this by your own evidence, and I was sure of it almost without that. I do not think I durst have felt certain if you had been like some of the men whose wives are waiting for them at pay time. You do the best you know how to do, and Maggie must respect you."
At this instant the baby opened her dark eyes, then looked into Adam's face, and began to laugh and struggle to be on her feet. Just then, too, the other four children, tired of the swings and wanting a change, approached the bench on which they had left their father.
The sight of the gentleman checked their rapid advance, and they hung shyly back. But Mr. Drummond encouraged them, saying that he wanted to see Adam's flock, and at the father's call they came to be inspected.
The manager congratulated Adam on their healthy looks, and the signs of a mother's care to be seen in their neatly mended clothing. Then he asked, "What school do you go to on Sundays?"
Adam answered for the children. "They don't go anywhere, sir. They get schooling enough on week days, when they must go. I'm glad for them to learn, but they want their little heads to rest one day in the seven."
It was a good thing that baby became obstreperous, and insisted on joining her elders on the ground. So they formed themselves into a bodyguard for the youngest darling, and led her to the soft grass on the other side of the walk, where they enticed her to join in gambols contrived for her special benefit.
"We fathers like to look on such pictures," said Mr. Drummond, still lingering by Adam's side, and pointing to the children.
"We do, sir."
Mr. Drummond, by coupling his own interests with those of Adam, had forged another connecting link between them.
"By the way, Livesey, where do you and your family go on Sundays?"
The man's first inclination was purposely to misunderstand the question and say, "Sometimes to this place, but mostly we stop about home." But the striker's nature was a true one, and he hated himself for thinking of such a paltry subterfuge. So he replied,—
"To say the truth, sir, we don't go to church or chapel any more than the children go to school. I never was in a religious way myself, and Maggie, though she had been used to go to a place of worship when she was in service, never had much heart for it. She liked better to take a walk with me, and show her pretty face beside my ugly one. She wore pretty bonnets too, in those days. If we did not trouble about church before, we weren't likely to put ourselves out when there was a baby to mind. So we keep to a church with a chimney, though by that we don't mean what your public-house men do. It's just our own little place you would find us in, mostly."
"I wish you would go for a time or two to hear a gentleman I know something about," said the manager.
"I don't know why you should trouble about where we go, sir," said Adam, with the least pleasant manner Mr. Drummond had noticed. "What matter does it make whether a poor chap like me spends his Sunday at home or in the streets, so long as he isn't doing any harm, or drinking himself into a—"
"Do not say 'beast,'" remarked Mr. Drummond, with a good-humoured smile.
"I won't. I was stuck for a word, and didn't like to say that, seeing it isn't fair on the beasts, that only drink when they're thirsty, and know nothing about reeling zig-zag to their kennels. Maybe I might ha' said drinking till they have to stay from work on Monday, to sleep themselves sober. I reckon I've a right to spend my Sunday as I like, so long as I'm always up to time at Rutherford's."
It would have been strange if there had not been a spice of doggedness somewhere in Adam Livesey's composition. The man who had all his life manifested such firmness in resisting the temptations to self-indulgence, such steadiness and industry in his humble calling, such patient consideration for mother and wife in turns, was almost certain to carry some of these excellencies to the extreme. His very firmness was sure to have a stubborn side, and Mr. Drummond detected its whereabouts.
Adam held strong views with regard to outside interference from his employers, and, to use a homely phrase, "his back was up" the moment the manager made an allusion to the mode in which he and his family spent their Sabbaths. His tone was alike resentful and expressive of injury received, and the conversation had reached this point when Adam uttered almost the identical words with which this account of his life begins.
"I am never a minute behind my time, and I work as long as any man does in all the place. I never stopped a job by being off a single day when there was anything to do, and for what need this new man be poking and prying into what I do on Sundays? I've a right to do as I like, and I shall too, for all his meddling."
These were Adam's thoughts, and Mr. Drummond had little difficulty in reading them, though he answered only the words.
"It does not matter to me, in one sense," he said, "but it does in another. We have had a very pleasant talk together, and you have been kind enough to tell me a good deal about yourself and those at home. I know you are not reckoned a great talker, and so I felt your frankness the more. I cannot help seeing what a life of constant toil it has been, and, as a man who feels for and sympathises with his brother man, I thank God you have not made worse of things, either for yourself or those who depend on you for bread. I honour you for your patience, steadiness and industry, but you must not be offended if I wish for you something better still. Do not think me a meddler for speaking of what is outside Rutherford's."
Adam felt a little ashamed. Mr. Drummond's politeness rebuked his ungracious manner and dogged utterance. He seemed to have read his thoughts too, and answered them, for had he not felt very angry with him for interfering with his freedom of action outside the works? He was, however, too confused to reply, and the manager added, "Once I was like you. I thought it was enough to give six days' work to my employers, and to be just in all my dealings, doing harm to no one. But I was led to see that I had to answer for more than my six days' work, that there were duties to God, my neighbour, and my own soul, that called for my urgent attention. I was very proud of the work done, but I forgot to be humble on account of what I left undone, or did amiss. There were calls which I had not answered, opportunities neglected, privileges despised, gifts received without thankfulness, and Sabbaths misused. Perhaps I turned them to more account than you do, for I was restless and eager to get on in the world. I often spent them in calculations and plans for bettering myself. I did not even rest, but I brought all the anxieties of the other six days into the Sunday. Then I was led to think and act differently."
Adam's dogged manner was all gone, charmed away he hardly knew how, and he was eager to hear more. But the children were coming, and the boom of a great clock was borne to their ears by a favourable breeze. This told the striker that Maggie would be expecting their return, and there was a good mile between the park and home.
Mr. Drummond rose from the bench also. "No time now to tell you what brought new life and light and joy to my life, Adam. But it was through a message which God was pleased to send me. And it is because my whole being has been changed and made glad by it, that I want everybody else to have the same joy. The man who brought me the message is in Millborough now, holding some mission services. I wish you would go and hear him, Livesey. His name is Kennedy, and the room is in Aqueduct Street. Good-bye."
Mr. Drummond held out his hand. Adam was so astonished that at first he did not hold out his own, though not from unwillingness.
"Will you not shake hands, though I have been stepping on forbidden ground? I am not 'the manager' here, but with you as man to man."
If Mr. Drummond had after cause for fault-finding, it was certainly not on account of want of heartiness. The effects of Adam's grip, made his fingers tingle for some time. Then, after a farewell pat to the baby, and an acknowledgment of the striker's lifted cap, the manager walked rapidly away.