donationsA DONATION PARTY.(Bringing the parson's "stipend.")
A DONATION PARTY.(Bringing the parson's "stipend.")
A DONATION PARTY.
(Bringing the parson's "stipend.")
But there is another kind of donation party that is by no means welcome at the parson's house. There are country churches who promise the pastor seven hundred dollars a year, without saying anything about a donation party. But in midwinter the donation party makes its appearance, the members of it bringing along anything they happen to have on hand which they do not want forthemselves. Sometimes the things are useful, sometimes not. They do not bring along their own supper; instead, they eat up everything the minister has in the house, often necessitating his sending out to shops for a sufficiency of provisions. When they have enjoyed their suppers, a man who is designated as the "donation spokesman" stands on a kitchen chair, and in a loud voice "appraises the value" of each article that has been "donated": a pair of boots so much, a few yards of calico so much, a jar of jam so much, a bale of hay so much; and thus the list of things is gone through. Then the appraised values are added up and the sum deducted from the ministers salary. If the appraiser considers that one hundred dollars' worth of things have been "donated," he then and there declares that sum to have been paid on account of the salary. Perhaps an etching, handsomely framed, has been among the articles. The poor parson does not stand in particular need of an etching, yet nevertheless the picture is counted as fifteen or twenty dollars towards his salary! A clergyman's wife who, during the first years of her married life, had been the victim of such donation parties, once told me this pathetic story. A young woman invalid, a member of her husband's church, hearing that a donation party was to be given to her pastor, and not knowing of the existence of such a personage as a donation "appraiser," wove a watch-guard from her own black hair that had been cut off during her illness; the guard was mounted in gold, and sent to the minister on the evening of the donation party. It was placed among the other articles, and at the end of the evening its value was appraised at ten dollars!
spokesmanA DONATION SPOKESMAN.(Appraising the value of each article.)
A DONATION SPOKESMAN.(Appraising the value of each article.)
A DONATION SPOKESMAN.
(Appraising the value of each article.)
One of the things about our small-salaried country parsons that has always excited my surprise and admiration is the way they contrive to give their children the benefits of a college education. No matter what their own struggles, no matter that the parson's wife must be her own cook and housemaid and washerwoman, no matter that her husband wears a shiny coat and a frayed shirt-front, a little sum of money is always laid by—an "education fund"—to be devoted to the education of the boys and girls of the family. In a great many of our colleges, especially those which are known as "denominational schools," a minister's daughter is charged only half the usual yearly college fee, which, of course, greatly facilitates matters. Then, at the colleges where the domestic system prevails—that of allowing the students to pay a part of their expenses by working in the domestic department, the minister's daughter, along with the farmer's daughter and the mechanic's daughter, helps to wash and wipe dishes and thus pays a part of her own expenses.
real
By the Rev. R. F. Horton, M.A., D.D., Chairman of the London Congregational Union.
II n the original Law of Moses it would seem that the most favoured tribe, the tribe of Levi, had no landed property. Even in that code of the law which came into operation at the end of the seventh centuryB.C.still ran: "The priests, the Levites, even all the tribe of Levi, shall have no portion nor inheritance with Israel: they shall eat the offerings of the Lord made by fire, and his inheritance. And they shall have no inheritance among their brethren: the Lord is their inheritance, and He hath spoken unto them." (Deut. xviii. 1-2). The Lord was their inheritance. Better than cities, and fields, and the gratifying sense of landed proprietorship, here was the notion of real property, the possession of the Eternal God, a personal part in the One Person, who is the Author and Giver of all possessions temporal and eternal. In the book of the Law this really magnificent idea is not developed. It seems rather to be a hint, a type, a suggestion for more spiritual times. The only application of it actually made, that certain parts of the sacrifices should belong to the priests (Deut. xviii. 3), a portion gradually in the process of time increased (see Lev. vii. 34, and Num. xviii. 12-24), gives but a poor and starved idea of what might be implied by "The Lord is their inheritance." As between a solid portion of the land, yielding its regular dues of corn and wine and oil, and the joints of meat, and first fruits of the crops and of the fleece, appointed for the priests, they might be pardoned for choosing the more substantial and permanent provision. But under the phrase "The Lord is their inheritance" lay hidden a mystical truth, which possibly priests and Levites as such never appropriated. It requires the Psalmist, or inspired poet, to liberate the promise from its merely official reference, and in liberating it to deepen it into a universal religious truth. In the sixteenth Psalm a far richer meaning is given to the notion that God Himself may be a portion preferable to broad acres and secured rents. This poet, some landless saint, we may surmise, in the time when the land of Israel was taken away from the people that they might learn to find a more inalienable property elsewhere, turns to his God in unreserved confidence: "I have said unto the Lord, Thou art my Lord"—that is the note of personal possession—"I have no good beyond Thee"—that is the note of a sufficient and satisfying possession. "The Lord is the portion of mine inheritance and of my cup; thou maintainest my lot"—that is the renunciation of outward possessions and sacraments in favour of the inward personal relation with God which suffices. This spiritual heritage is all that heart could wish; it is a prompter of blessing and thanksgiving even in the night season. Nay, more than this, in times of tumult when others are moved, and in the hour of death, when prosperity is stripped away, the saint is rejoicing with joy unspeakable, because the path of life is plain through the grave; the presence of God who is his portion cannot be taken from him, and that is joyful, and for ever (Psalm xvi. 5-11).
I n the original Law of Moses it would seem that the most favoured tribe, the tribe of Levi, had no landed property. Even in that code of the law which came into operation at the end of the seventh centuryB.C.still ran: "The priests, the Levites, even all the tribe of Levi, shall have no portion nor inheritance with Israel: they shall eat the offerings of the Lord made by fire, and his inheritance. And they shall have no inheritance among their brethren: the Lord is their inheritance, and He hath spoken unto them." (Deut. xviii. 1-2). The Lord was their inheritance. Better than cities, and fields, and the gratifying sense of landed proprietorship, here was the notion of real property, the possession of the Eternal God, a personal part in the One Person, who is the Author and Giver of all possessions temporal and eternal. In the book of the Law this really magnificent idea is not developed. It seems rather to be a hint, a type, a suggestion for more spiritual times. The only application of it actually made, that certain parts of the sacrifices should belong to the priests (Deut. xviii. 3), a portion gradually in the process of time increased (see Lev. vii. 34, and Num. xviii. 12-24), gives but a poor and starved idea of what might be implied by "The Lord is their inheritance." As between a solid portion of the land, yielding its regular dues of corn and wine and oil, and the joints of meat, and first fruits of the crops and of the fleece, appointed for the priests, they might be pardoned for choosing the more substantial and permanent provision. But under the phrase "The Lord is their inheritance" lay hidden a mystical truth, which possibly priests and Levites as such never appropriated. It requires the Psalmist, or inspired poet, to liberate the promise from its merely official reference, and in liberating it to deepen it into a universal religious truth. In the sixteenth Psalm a far richer meaning is given to the notion that God Himself may be a portion preferable to broad acres and secured rents. This poet, some landless saint, we may surmise, in the time when the land of Israel was taken away from the people that they might learn to find a more inalienable property elsewhere, turns to his God in unreserved confidence: "I have said unto the Lord, Thou art my Lord"—that is the note of personal possession—"I have no good beyond Thee"—that is the note of a sufficient and satisfying possession. "The Lord is the portion of mine inheritance and of my cup; thou maintainest my lot"—that is the renunciation of outward possessions and sacraments in favour of the inward personal relation with God which suffices. This spiritual heritage is all that heart could wish; it is a prompter of blessing and thanksgiving even in the night season. Nay, more than this, in times of tumult when others are moved, and in the hour of death, when prosperity is stripped away, the saint is rejoicing with joy unspeakable, because the path of life is plain through the grave; the presence of God who is his portion cannot be taken from him, and that is joyful, and for ever (Psalm xvi. 5-11).
Here we enter upon a truth which well repays a careful study. First, we have to seek a definite meaning to the idea that the Lord is the portion of those who trust in Him. Then we have to observe how and by whom this portion is secured.
No idea is at the first blush so definite as that of property, or at least of real property. Here is a stretch of country, accurately delimited on the ordnance map; I say of it, it is mine. I may build on it or I maytill it; I may grow what I will, or what the soil allows, or I may turn it into pasture. I may sell it or give it or leave it to my heirs. So definite is the idea, that a nobleman is called after his estate—he is So-and-so of So-and-so. He belongs to the land in something of the same sense that the land belongs to him, a small human entity so identified with the big estate that he becomes great; the lord, but also the product of these thousands of acres; a man with a stake in the country, a personality realising himself in this territorial way. You look at him and you see the vast and solid domain latent in him. You find it difficult or impossible to think that he and his landless valet are in any sense equal. The valet stands for six feet of flesh and blood, and his monthly wage. The lord stands for a considerable slice of the earth's surface in fee-simple, with royalty rights over what underlies of mineral or other wealth down to the centre. It is not my desire to cast any suspicion on the value or reality of this kind of property. I do not dwell on the fact that it cannot become part of the man, nor he a part of it until he is buried in the family vault at the centre of it. I do not wish even to remember that a trifling accident to his sensitive organism puts him out of possession for ever. Rather I desire to enlarge on this perfectly definite and distinct idea, which is nowhere so absolute and unquestionable as in England. We can have no difficulty in fixing the thought of a man's estate, his property, his possessions. Now we have to transfer this clear idea to God as the inheritance or portion of the soul. "The Lord is the portion of mine inheritance."
Possibly we may all have known a person, rich or poor, who has given us much the same impression of the estate in God which lies behind him as the landed proprietor gives us of his unseen spreading acres. The person may be like the poor woman who held up to Bishop Burnet the crust, exclaiming with gratitude, "All this and Christ!" Or think of David Elginbrod, or of that more real Scottish saint, the father of David Livingstone, bequeathing to his children on his deathbed no property, but the fact that in the generations of the family preserved in memory there was no dishonourable man. Such a person as I am speaking of is far more secure and serene than the owner of large estates, seems to find far more enjoyment in the beauty and interest of even this passing world, and dwells in the perpetual contemplation of an unseen domain which cannot by any possibility be taken from him. This is the person who has made the Lord his portion, and we want to realise what it is that has happened to him, the lines which have fallen to him in pleasant places. God is real to him, as landed property is to the landowner, not limited as the estate is, suggesting always a land-hunger for the fields beyond, but definite and certain. So definite and certain, that it is possible to say, "This is my God," very much as the landowner says of his estate, "This is my land."
But God presents to him also a security of salvation and of life, of progress and of joy. He finds in God a subject of endless contemplation, and a source from which he derives all things that are necessary for this world and for a world to come. God is his occupation. The will of God is his delight. The universe presents itself to him as the works of God, history as the development of a Divine thought, man as the shadow or image of God, religion as the relation between God and man, heaven as the goal of the knowledge and love which relate God to man.
If he is a thinker, like Spinoza, all things are seen in God. If he is a poet, God Himself appears the best poet, and the real is His song. If he is a man of science, he studies everything in nature, as thinking the thoughts of God after Him.
But if he is a plain man, innocent of abstract thought, none the less his business and his pleasure, his family and his friends, all present themselves as material furnished by God in which he is to work out the Divine will, and win the Divine approval. Nothing is dissociated from God, whom he recognises everywhere, and at all times. But as God who is thus all in all to him is Light and Life and Love, the problem of his own and of the world's existence is implicitly solved for him. God is all he wants, more than all in God he finds. Every question is brought up into the presence of God; in His light he sees light. Death disappears; for God is seen, the possessor of immortality, imparting life to him who possesses God. And as God is absolute love, there can be no question that all things are working together for good to those who love Him.
This sovereign presence and power of the Divine will make earthly possessions and station and success quite indifferent. They do not lose their value; but they find their value only in relation to God and His will, so that, if only a man's ways please God, and he lives in the reconciliation and obedience to the will of God, he must be sure that he has as much earthly property, as good a station, and as great a degree of success, as God thinks good for him. If all things seem taken from him, he reflects, God is my portion, and with Him I have all things. And if all things are his, he does not feel that he possesses any more than God; the things are temporary appearances within the bounds of his inheritance, which is God; they lie latent there always, appearing or disappearing as the wisdom and love of God determine.
As this portion is distinct and tangible enough, so it is obviously both larger and more satisfying than any earthly inheritance. It leaves none of the aching hunger for things beyond. It brings all things at once, and leavesto the soul the plain and endless task of developing the inexhaustible treasures that are contained in it.
But how and by whom is this portion to be obtained? In the typical arrangement of the Jewish law it fell to an order, the tribe of Levi. In the psalm it fell to one who trusted in the Lord. That furnishes the key to the new covenant, in which all that once fell to a privileged nation, or order, or office, falls to those who believe. By faith a man becomes a child of Abraham. By faith the believer becomes a priest and a king unto God. By faith the portion of this Divine inheritance is appropriated, and may be appropriated by whosoever will!
By faith, however, we are not to understand a vague and general act of the mind, which simply assumes that it has what it desires. The faith which appropriates the Divine inheritance is specific, it is faith which is in Jesus, a recognition and a reception of Christ as the Son of God entering into the sphere of human life in order to give to men God as their portion. "He that heareth My word, and believeth in Him that sent Me," said Jesus, "hath everlasting life." By faith in Jesus each of us inherits what was promised to Abraham, to Israel, to David, to Levi. Jesus has said that He will not cast out any that come to Him; and that who comes to Him comes to God. Now it is certainly remarkable—considering the universal desire for property, for real property, for lasting and inalienable property, and considering the definiteness and certainty of the possession of God, and the universality of the offer to every human being—that comparatively few persons exert themselves to become possessed of God, or bestow anything like the same energy and eagerness of endeavour on securing God as their portion which men show in the acquisition of a great earthly property. It is this remarkable fact to which Jesus alludes when He says that many are called but few are chosen, or that many walk in the broad way which leads to destruction, but few will come to Him that He may give them life.
Hollyer(Photo: F. Hollyer, Pembroke Square, W.)R F Horton
(Photo: F. Hollyer, Pembroke Square, W.)R F Horton
(Photo: F. Hollyer, Pembroke Square, W.)
R F Horton
But the Divine method of thus putting the great possession within the choice and reach of all, but forcing it on none, is in strict analogy with God's way of offering all other boons to men. The kingdom of Nature lies in the same way open for all who will exert themselves and take possession. The endless interest of the almost infinite variety of species is an open door which any investigator may enter. The bewitching beauty of sun and stars, of drifting cloud and summer skies, of all the changes of the earth and of the sea, is accessible to all, but it must be owned that only a few avail themselves of the opportunity. It seems to be the same with all the gifts of God, Who makes the sun to shine on the good and the evil alike. And thus His own being as the portion and inheritance of the soul is proffered—like the wonder and beauty of His creation—to all who will take and go in to possess it. It stretches away like the land of promise, a pleasant land flowing with milk and honey, a land of broad views and of fruitful fields, of vineyards and oliveyards, and of far distances, luminous in the fresh glory of sunrise, hazy with softened charm in the hot noon, transformed under the evening sky of crimson and gold at sunset, a land which one would have thought all might desire to possess; but, like the promised land, it is treated with scorn by those who will not believe (Ps. cvi. 24). To them the flesh-pots of Egypt are pleasanter; the very dearth and dreariness of the desert are preferred before it. A thousand excuses, imaginary fears, and obstinate depreciations are cited to evade the efforts of conquest. And this great inheritance, the portion of the human soul, God, remains unpossessed except by a handful of enterprising souls.
It should, however, be frankly acknowledged that entering into possession of this inheritance is by no means the matter of a single moment. We annex our property field by field and province by province. By searchingwe do not find out God unto perfection, though every further search gives us a greater joy and hope in the prosecution of it.
It is for want of this vigorous entrance into the possession that many have professed themselves disappointed with God as their portion. They have left their property unexplored and unrealised. They have neglected to pray—and prayer is the onward march into the promised land, the exercise by which the being and fulness of God are appropriated. They have forgotten to worship, and worship is the relish of possession, the discovery by gratitude and praise of what is given and what God still has to give. They have omitted the self-discipline by which the will is kept in harmony with God, and the thoughts and purposes of God take possession of the soul; and yet it is only by this kind of sustained discipline that one can have any feeling of apprehension, and progressive discovery, of God. They have forsaken the assembling of themselves together for worship, which is the forming of the host of invasion. They have ceased to study the Word, which is the chart of the land, showing all the approaches, the fastnesses to be taken, and the heights to be won. Or they have given up those good works of charity and helpfulness, the love of men, the love of souls, which are the very footsteps by which we come into the possession of God. It is this which explains the common discontent about that rich portion—God Himself—offered to the soul. The good land has only been surveyed for a moment from Pisgah; faith has flashed out as an intuition, or as a vision; but the actual and determined conquest of piece by piece, to which faith is intended to lead, has been overlooked. There are multitudes of persons who seemed to choose God as their portion in moments of religious excitement and apparent decision, but never arose to enter into possession; and they remain, in consequence, disinherited.
But this leads us to a last point which has to be observed. For one cause or another—the one just named is probably the most common—men conceive a discontent with their inheritance in God, and seek to supplement it with possessions which are regarded as more tangible and immediate. This was apparently what occurred with the priests, the Levites. Originally, as we saw in the Deuteronomic code, they were content with the Lord as their inheritance, and were fed with the meat which came from the offerings of the altar. But in a later code we find the Levites claiming cities to dwell in. There were to be forty-eight cities in all, given by the other tribes, cities of considerable size, with their corn lands and meadows (the suburbs) extending 2,000 cubits, or between a half and three-quarters of a mile, on all sides of the city; these were to be the possession of the Levites. And though six of the cities were to serve a certain religious purpose as asylums of refuge for the shedders of blood, the whole forty-eight were to be the landed property of the priests, the Levites. These forty-eight domains constituted a territory scattered throughout the tribes, as solid, and almost as bulky, as the possessions of Dan, or Asher, or Naphtali. But when we come to the book of Ezekiel, this real property of the disinherited tribe is found to be increased and consolidated; a vast district, 25,000 reeds long by 25,000 reeds broad, was to form the oblation assigned to the priests; this would be quite as large as the territory of any except the largest tribes (Ezek. xlviii. 8-30). And thus gradually, they who were to have no inheritance in the land, because the Lord Himself was their inheritance, laid claim to as large an inheritance as the rest of their brethren had.
That is a process to which the whole history of Christianity presents a series of parallels. We begin in God, in faith, in heavenly realities; we decline upon the world, and sight, and the fleeting shows of the earth.
"'Tis the most difficult of tasks to keepHeights which the soul is competent to win."
When we have got God for our portion and inheritance, we insensibly slip away, and fix our attention on things below. We would make the security of God doubly sure, by having earthly property as well; we would depend upon God, and yet lean on an arm of flesh; we would have our treasures in heaven—for heaven when we get there; but our hoard on earth—for earth while we are here.
Poor human nature! This is our delusion. The two portions cannot be ours. If God is our inheritance, He must be all in all to us. If He gives us Christ, He freely with Him gives us all things. "All this and Christ!"—yes, but in the sense that God in Christ is everything. Never can it mean that our inheritance is partly God and partly this world, that we lean, one arm on Him and the other on uncertain earthly riches.
Therefore the choice lies before us all. Can we choose Him as our portion, can we pray and trust Him to maintain our lot? Can we renounce the arm of flesh as weakness and vanity, can we disregard the alluring securities of what is considered here real property? If so we may have real property indeed: God will be ours, an inexhaustible mine of life and love, of interest and beauty, of peace and joy.
astonishedMiss Crane was too much astonished to speak.
Miss Crane was too much astonished to speak.
Miss Crane was too much astonished to speak.
MIMiss Crane lived in No. 13, King's Parade. Doubtless at some remote period King's Parade was a street of fashion and celebrity, but at the time we speak of its chief characteristic was that air of shabby gentility inseparable from houses in whose windows at intervals appear cards announcing "Furnished Apartments."
Miss Crane lived in No. 13, King's Parade. Doubtless at some remote period King's Parade was a street of fashion and celebrity, but at the time we speak of its chief characteristic was that air of shabby gentility inseparable from houses in whose windows at intervals appear cards announcing "Furnished Apartments."
Miss Crane was teacher of music by profession, and had what is termed "a good connection." By turns, music was her chief pleasure and pain. During the day she patiently listened to endless varieties of mistakes in the same exercises and scales; in the evening, seated at her own piano, she forgot all the cares and worries of her daily round of duty.
Everyone has a sacred ambition, as well as a secret romance, hidden in his heart. Miss Crane's ambition was to save up enough money to ensure independence, and she believed that to possess an income of £100 per annum would be the realisation of her dreams. For many years she had steadily saved and worked for this purpose, and now, at the age of forty-five, was not very far from having her desire fulfilled.
Miss Crane was a little woman, with very pretty hands, small and white. Years of patient drudgery had left some lines on her forehead and had taken the colour from her cheeks, but had not been able to spoil the sweet kindliness of her eyes and smile. She usually wore black gowns, made simply of soft, fine materials, her lace frill fastened by asmall silver brooch, which she always pinned in with loving care.
One day, towards the end of the summer term, she came in more than usually tired, and sat leaning back wearily in her chair, waiting for the maid to bring in her supper. She heard below stairs the scolding voice of the landlady and the querulous crying of children. Through the open window came the strains of a barrel-organ playing with irritating liveliness. She closed her eyes wearily as the servant came clattering up the stairs and burst open her door with noisy familiarity.
"Please, miss," began the servant, laying down the tray, "there were a gentleman t'see you when you was out."
"Indeed!" cried Miss Crane, opening her eyes with a start and sitting upright. "A gentleman to see me! Did he leave his card?"
"No, miss," answered the girl. "He seemed disappointed like when I told 'im you washout, and 'e said e'd call back again in th' evenin', as 'e wanted to see you particular."
"Very strange," cried Miss Crane. "Well! that will do now. Will you please come up in about ten minutes to clear away the tea-things, as I shouldn't like the room to look untidy if the gentleman calls again?"
Miss Crane drank her tea in great perplexity. A gentleman to see her! Such a thing had not happened for more than twenty years. Who could it be? Miss Crane's hand instinctively touched her silver brooch, as her thoughts turned to days long past.
A knock, a loud and impressive knock, at the hall-door roused her from her reverie. She stood up, listening eagerly, expecting she knew not what. The maid came slowly upstairs from the kitchen and opened the hall-door. There was an indistinct sound of a gruff voice, and then the footsteps of two people coming up the stairs.
The servant opened the door, saying—
"Mr. Spinner, miss."
A tall, imposingly rotund man walked in, hat in hand, his fat and rosy face all smiling affability.
"So sorry to disturb you, madam," he began, bowing.
"Not at all," murmured Miss Crane, wondering greatly who he could be. "Won't you sit down?"
"Thank you. I think I will."
He took a chair, sat down, carefully spreading out the skirts of his frock-coat, and, crossing his legs, looked condescendingly round the room.
Miss Crane, with heightened colour, waited expectantly.
"I am well aware," began Mr. Spinner presently, "that the name of business has to ladies a very unpleasant sound; but I venture to say that Miss Crane will find the little matter which has brought me here this evening far from being a disagreeable subject."
"Indeed!" murmured Miss Crane.
"But before I proceed further, allow me to consult my notes." Mr. Spinner took out a spectacle case, placed his glasses carefully on the bridge of his nose, glanced at Miss Crane through them, then taking a note-book from his breast pocket, opened it, and taking out a paper, cleared his throat and continued: "You are, I believe, Miss Letitia J. Crane, eldest daughter of the late Rev. Joshua Crane, M.A., formerly curate of St. Mary, in the parish of Tulberry."
"Yes, certainly, I am," cried Miss Crane.
"Then, madam, without troubling you about details, partly because business details are unwelcome to ladies, and partly because I am obliged to catch the 7.25 train up to town, I shall briefly tell you what I am certain, from my previous knowledge of human nature, will be welcome news to you, and that is——"
"What?" demanded Miss Crane with some impatience.
"It is that your uncle, the late John Crane, of No. 8, Harbourne Street, Liverpool, who died on the 27th of last month, has left you a sum which, invested as it is at present, brings in an income of £700 per annum—of," reiterated Mr. Spinner with impressive solemnity, "£700 per annum."
Miss Crane was too much astonished to speak.
"It is a fact, I assure you, madam," continued Mr. Spinner, rising from his chair and placing a card on the table. "Allow me to give you my card with the address of my place of business. Perhaps you could find time to call to see me some time to-morrow, when I shall be most happy to show you your uncle's will, and, in short, make myself useful in helping you in any way in my power."
"I cannot believe it," cried Miss Crane. "Are you quite sure there is no mistake?"
Mr. Spinner smiled indulgently.
"None whatever, and if it should be a convenience to you," he said, with a glance round the neat poverty of the room, "I shall be happy to advance you any reasonable sum as a proof of the truth of my statement."
"No, thank you," replied Miss Crane, flushing somewhat proudly. "I do not require it."
"Quite right! Quite proper!" said Mr. Spinner, taking up his hat. "Then I may expect to have the pleasure of seeing you to-morrow at, let us say, 11.30 a.m."
"Yes," said Miss Crane, "I shall certainly call at that hour."
"Then I may say good-bye, and," he added, shaking her hand with impressive fervour, "pray accept my heartiest congratulations on your good fortune."
The bang of the hall-door as Mr. Spinner closed it after him awoke Miss Crane from her stupor of astonishment.
For a few moments she sat motionless. Then she burst into a fit of violent weeping. Good fortune had come at last, but had come too late to bring happiness. All her youth had been crushed beneath the weight of poverty, and, bitterest remembrance of all! she had seen those dearest to her die before their time, fading uncomplainingly away, for want of a little of the sunshine of prosperity. During all these years she had thought of them as happy to be at rest from toil and misery. In her poverty she had never felt as lonely as she did now, in time of her prosperity. Especially, a passionate longing seized her for her mother. What delight to have been able to gratify those simple wishes so often repressed! How happy they could have been together! She had wanted so little, but that little had been ever denied her.
And Frank Whitman! The force of poverty had swept him far apart. He had not been strong enough to battle against the stream. She heard of him sometimes as a man rising in his profession, prosperous and respected. His marriage with the daughter of a rich shipowner had been, everyone said, "the making of him." And yet Miss Crane remembered the evening he had given her that silver brooch, and the words he had then spoken.
"Instead of thanking God for His goodness to me," sobbed Miss Crane, "I am wickedly ungrateful, but I do wish I had mother with me now."
Next morning, Miss Crane took a more cheerful view of things. She sent word to her pupils that she could not see them that day, but she had not yet sufficient belief in her good fortune to feel justified in telling them of it. It was so near the end of term that she did not like putting them to the disadvantage and inconvenience of changing to another teacher, and besides, she had not courage to cut herself adrift from her usual routine. Custom is a very strong rope indeed.
As she travelled up to town, she constructed castles in the air of all the delights now possible to her—the house in the country, the really good piano, a silk dress, a thing she had always secretly desired, for she had an instinctive love of dainty dress, and the sight of a beautiful thing gave her positive joy.
The further she went, the grander she became: until after her interview with Mr. Spinner, she actually felt bold enough to enter a fashionable shop, and, unawed by the magnificence of the attending maidens, she chose, paid for, and put on "the sweetest little French bonnet possible."
On leaving the shop, she met an old pupil, who, after a preliminary stare, greeted her warmly, declaring she had never seen Miss Crane looking so well, and asked her home to lunch.
Altogether, Miss Crane's day in town was a complete success. She had been more wildly extravagant than she could have believed it possible the day before: there was something positively intoxicating in the fact that there was now no need any more to count every penny.
She knew it was false charity to give money indiscriminately to beggars, and yet she could not resist brightening, even for the moment, the face of misery and want. "To-morrow, I shall be prudent again," she declared, as over and over again she stopped to slip a silver coin into some grimy hand.
In the evening, she sat, tired but very contented, considering where she ought to go for her holidays. The world was open to her now; it was difficult to decide which part to visit first. Entrancing visions of Italy especially bewildered her, but she felt still too timid to venture far from home, though that home was but two shabby little rooms in a cheap lodging-house. Like a bird caged for long, though the door stood open, she feared to fly away.
Presently a thought struck her, her cheeks glowed—she stood up and walked uneasily about the room. At length she muttered to herself, "I shall go there! I should like to see him once again!"
The place she had decided to go to was Stockton, the seaside town in which Doctor Frank Whitman lived. She had known his wife long ago, when a girl. She had heard there were a number of children. Perhaps the family would receive her kindly, and she would find in them the friendship and companionship without which her money was valueless.
Stockton was by the sea: to sit in the sunshine, on the sands, looking on the waves, would in itself be a delight. Miss Crane wished she could start on the morrow, but this, of course, was not possible. Ten days more of drudgery must be first endured, then liberty at last!
These last days passed rapidly enough, for they were fully occupied, and at length, on the 1st of August, Miss Crane found herself seated in the train, with a ticket to Stockton in her hand, a new portmanteau beside her, and her heart beating with excitement at being off at last.
When she reached Stockton and was driving from the station to her lodgings, she eagerly looked out of the window, half hoping, half fearing to recognise Frank Whitman in each passer-by.
She remained indoors that evening and the following morning, but in the afternoon she unpacked the contents of the portmanteau and dressed to go out.
"After all, how little dress can do!" she murmured to herself, as she stood critically examining her reflection in the looking-glass. "I wonder if he will remember me!"
blushingThe blood rushed to Miss Crane's face.
The blood rushed to Miss Crane's face.
The blood rushed to Miss Crane's face.
The day was brilliantly bright, with a fresh breeze blowing strongly from the sea. The shadows of the fleeting clouds passed swiftly by. The sunshine glittered on the dazzling waters rippling in one long white line along the margin of the bay. Along the horizon stood the ruddy sails of the fishing-smacks.
Miss Crane walked on slowly, enjoying the warmth, brightness, and freshness of the day. She had little difficulty in finding Victoria Villa, the residence of Doctor Frank Whitman. It was a large red-brick house, square, well-built and prosperous-looking, standing in its own grounds, with greenhouses, tennis-grounds, and all the usual belongings of provincial respectability and wealth.
Miss Crane's courage failed her as she came up to its entrance.
"What shall I do," she thought, "if Frank and Bessie have forgotten me, or if they should not like to know a poor little music teacher like me?"
She stood, hesitating, fearing to push open the massive iron gate.
"I cannot go in to-day," she said half aloud, and turned nervously away.
At this moment, a girl came quickly up the road, a pretty girl of some eighteen summers, wearing a white dress and shady hat, and carrying a tennis racket in her hand. As she passed, she glanced at Miss Crane, and the expression of her eyes was precisely like that of Frank Whitman's twenty years ago.
Miss Crane started. The thought, "It is his daughter!" flashed across her brain. She turned and hurried after her. The girl, hearing the footsteps behind, stopped, and looked inquiringly at Miss Crane, who hesitatingly began, "Might I trouble you to direct me to Doctor Whitman's house?"
"There it is," answered the girl smilingly. "And I am almost sure father is in at present. Will you come with me? I am just going home."
She spoke with a strangely familiar accent, she smiled with the same merry glance, quick and soft, which Miss Crane had remembered so long.
By the time they had reached the hall-door Miss Crane had confided how she had come hoping to find old friends, and then had felt too timid to enter their house. "And," she ended, "if I had not met you, my dear, I believe I should have gone straight home."
The girl laughed merrily, and then warmly assured Miss Crane that Mrs. Whitman would be sure to be delighted to see her. "And," she asked, "you said you used to know papa also a little, long ago, didn't you?"
"Yes," replied Miss Crane. "I knew him also."
"Here, mother," cried Miss Whitman, as she opened the drawing-room door; "here is an old friend to see you!"
Miss Crane advanced into the room. A tall, fashionably-dressed woman came to meet her with outstretched hand.
"What!" she exclaimed. "Letitia Crane! Well! I am glad to see you. What a time it is since we've met. But you've hardly changed at all. I should have known you anywhere. Sit down here and let us have a good long chat about the old days. Ida! go and tell your father that Miss Crane is here; I'm sure she'd like to see him."
Miss Crane sat down, grateful for being received with such cordiality. It was difficult to talk, her whole being seemed concentrated in listening. She heard Ida go downstairs, open the study door, and then came the sound of a voice she had not heard for twenty years.
"How silly I am!" she thought, as she tried to concentrate her attention on what Mrs. Whitman was saying.
Presently footsteps came up the stairs. The door opened, and Ida, followed by her father, came into the room. The blood rushed to Miss Crane's face, and for a second she could not see.
"So glad to see you again," said Doctor Whitman, in tones of bland cordiality.
Miss Crane could scarcely reply, her astonishment was so complete. Where was the man she remembered? The young fellow with the merry laughing eyes, the thick curling hair, the careless dress, the active step! The man who now stood before her was a portly, middle-aged figure, all immaculate linen and broadcloth; bald-headed, red-faced, with bland affability smilingly displaying an excellent set of false teeth. The ideal which Miss Crane had worshipped so long faded away for ever like some phantasm that had never had any being, save in her own mind. Only in Ida's eyes and Ida's smile lingered a mocking image of the past.
Miss Crane's time passed very pleasantly at Stockton. Most of the day she sat on the beach watching the children bathe and play about the sands.
Ida came down to bathe every morning, and afterwards used to sit talking to Miss Crane while drying and brushing her beautiful hair in the sunshine. One day, after sitting thoughtfully quiet for some time, Ida, in a somewhat embarrassed tone of voice, began—
"Are you fond of going to evening service, Miss Crane?"
"Well! my dear, you know that usually I have not time to do so on week-days. But why do you ask?" replied Miss Crane.
"Because," said Ida, "there is such a sweet little church not very far from here out in the country, and such a delightful service every evening, and," she added with heightened colour, "the curate, Mr. Archdale, preaches such beautiful sermons that I would like you to hear him!"
"I should like to hear him very much indeed," replied Miss Crane, smiling. "If you will not expect me to praise him too much!" Then, pitying Ida's confusion, she continued: "Perhaps, sometimes, he will allow me to play the organ in his church. It is the only thing I miss here. At home there is a little church quite close by, where the organist allows me to practise whenever I choose."
"Oh! I shall ask Cyril—I mean Mr. Archdale," cried Ida, blushing deeply. "I'm sure he will be delighted to allow you to practise whenever you like."
Thus it happened that almost every evening Miss Crane and Ida walked together to the little country church; and then, after service was over, Miss Crane sat down at the organ and played, while Ida and Mr. Archdale listened to her, as they sat in the porch or strolled about beneath thelime-trees; though it was curious, thought Miss Crane, how seldom it was, for people who professed to love music, that they remembered what she had played. Then in the increasing twilight the three walked back to Stockton together quietly, too happy to talk or laugh much.
The mornings on the beach were spent in talking of "Cyril," for the subject interested Miss Crane almost as much as it did Ida. She was touched by the young people's confidence in her, and their love revealed their characters in the most favourable light to her. Her love for Ida equalled her admiration of her, and she believed Mr. Archdale to be almost worthy of her.
The holidays were drawing to a close, and Miss Crane decided that she ought to delay no longer in telling her pupils of her change of circumstances; but, always reticent about her own concerns, she put off doing so from day to day. Even to Ida she had never spoken of her good fortune.
There was a charming house quite close to the church, which Miss Crane had determined to buy—quite an ideal old maid's cottage, she thought it, with its red-brick walls hidden by climbing roses, its garden sloping down to the riverside, and its cosy little rooms quaintly furnished with old oak. Its late owner had died and it was now to be sold, with all its belongings.
Miss Crane determined to buy it, and then, when everything was arranged, to astonish Ida, Mr. Archdale, and the Whitmans by inviting them to dinner in her new house, and then telling them the delightful news of her good fortune.
She felt very happy in anticipation of this coming pleasure.
She was never tired of imagining the joyful surprise Ida would be sure to show, and the merry days they would have together, arranging the new house.
On the day fixed for seeing the house-agent and finally deciding on the purchase, Miss Crane had asked Ida not to expect to see her, "for," she said gaily, "though but a humble little music teacher, I have some business matters to see about."
"Then," cried Ida, "I shall come and see you in the evening, for Cyril has determined to speak to father in the morning, and I must tell you how everything goes off, though I'm not in the least afraid, notwithstanding all Cyril's forebodings."
"Why? What is he afraid of?" asked Miss Crane.
"Well, you know," said Ida, in melancholy tones, "Cyril is not very rich. Clergymen never are, are they?"
"But," remonstrated Miss Crane, "surely he has some means or he wouldn't think of marrying?"
"He has," answered Ida; "he has £300 a year, which seems to me a great deal of money, but whether it will do so to papa is the question."
"Oh!" cried Miss Crane cheerfully. "Your father is a rich man, and very proud of his pretty little daughter; he will make it all right for you, never fear."
Ida flung her arms round Miss Crane's neck, called her "the dearest old thing in the world," and at last, promising to come the following evening, hurried away.
The next day was very stormy. The wind blew in great gusts from the east, rolling the waves in dashing breakers against the rocks. The rain descended in torrents. It was one of those days which sometimes come in autumn, precursor of the deadly tempests of the winter.
Miss Crane sat indoors, a shawl over her shoulders, writing letters round to her various employers and pupils, announcing the change in her circumstances. She had just closed the last envelope, and was putting the stamp on it, when the door burst open, and Ida rushed wildly into the room, her hair blown about her shoulders by the wind, and her waterproof cloak streaming with rain.
"Why, Ida, my dear!" exclaimed Miss Crane, aghast. "What is the matter?"
Ida threw herself on the sofa, sobbing violently.
"Oh! I don't know whatever I shall do," she began, as Miss Crane knelt down in alarm beside her. "Papa has been most dreadfully cross and angry with me, and he called Cyril a——" She stopped, her voice choked with sobs.
"A what?" demanded Miss Crane.
"He—he called him a——" said Ida, with another burst of indignant sobs, "a beggarly curate!"
"Then he does not personally object to Mr. Archdale?" said Miss Crane soothingly.
"How could anybody object to Cyril personally?" cried Ida, angrily rolling up her pocket-handkerchief into a tight, wet little ball and rubbing her eyes with it. "No; it is all on account of him not having enough money. He says he will never let me marry a man that has not at least £1,000 a year. And where is Cyril to get all that! Unless he is made a bishop, and he hasn't a chance of being made that until after years and yearsand yearsof waiting, when he is old and quite bald!"
At this mournful idea Ida's face again squeezed up into dismal lines and puckers, and her sobs broke forth with renewed strength.
Suddenly Miss Crane became so motionless, so quiet, that at last Ida's curiosity overcame her grief; she put down her pocket-handkerchief and looked at Miss Crane with pained astonishment at her want of sympathy.
Miss Crane came out of her reverie with a start.
"Don't cry any more, it will all come right," she said, with a forced smile.
"That's what everyone says!" cried Ida in the tone of injured friendship. "But I did think you would have sympathised with one."
She arranged her hair, put on her hat, and stood up as if to go away, expecting Miss Crane would make her stay; but Miss Crane sat motionless, staring fixedly out of the window.
"Good-bye, then!" said Ida stiffly.
"Good-bye, my dear," replied Miss Crane.
"I never saw anyone so horrid and unsympathising," muttered Ida, as she closed the door after her. "I wouldn't have believed it."
Miss Crane sat for more than an hour motionless, thinking. She sighed deeply now and again.
At length she stood up, and, taking the pile of letters she had written, tore them all up into fragments; then, putting on her bonnet and waterproof cloak, she went out and did not return home until late at night.
"Why, miss!" cried the landlady, as she came in white, tired, and wet; "you'll get your death stayin' out of doors such a day as this!"
"No," said Miss Crane gently. "It will do me no harm. I was obliged to go to town on business. I am sorry to have to tell you that I must leave you on Saturday."
"I'm sorry indeed to hear it," said the landlady. "Isn't that very suddint like?"
"Yes," agreed Miss Crane; "it is very sudden."
On Saturday, as Miss Crane was packing her trunk, suddenly Ida came bounding up the stairs into the room, all radiant with smiles and gaiety and flung her arms round Miss Crane's neck, exclaiming—
"What do you think has happened I Oh! it's just too delightful. Somebody has given Cyril £700 a year—somebody who refuses to give his name. We're all dying with curiosity to find out who it can be. I'm certain it is somebody who has heard Cyril preach. Don't you think it is?"
"Yes," agreed Miss Crane. "Very likely it is."
"And now," continued Ida, "everything is settled so nicely, and we're to be married at once. I only wish we had room at home to ask you to stay with us for the wedding. You dear old thing! I believe I was cross and horrid to you the other day, but really I was so distracted that I didn't know what I was saying. And now, dear, I must be off, for Cyril is waiting for me."
She kissed Miss Crane and hurried off.