confide"Tell me, Pam. You won't mind confiding in an old woman."
"Tell me, Pam. You won't mind confiding in an old woman."
"Tell me, Pam. You won't mind confiding in an old woman."
"No, oh, no!"
"I thought not. What was it?"
"You don't know how good he is."
"That's not enough, Pam, though it might serve if your heart were free. What is that to make you give up your life, your freedom to think, to hope, to pray? It will be one long struggle, Pamela. You will be like a creature in prison, for whom the free world were paradise enough."
"I know Glengall is good," she went on. "Another girl might come to love him, in spite of his grey hairs, but not you, Pam. One sees clearer when one is going to leave all this. Why did you do it, Pam?"
"It is too late to ask."
"Why, Pam?"
"Partly because my father must winter abroad and we had no money. Partly, too, because I was angry with—with someone I loved, and I thought I would get rid of the anger and the thought of him if I were married."
"Minx would have taken care of your father. It was a useless sacrifice, Pamela."
She looked at her a minute hesitatingly.
"My people, those of them who survive, are rich. I could take care of you, too, Pam."
"It is too late to make any difference."
"It is not too late while you are yet free."
"You don't know how good he is. And he has ordered his future life so that I shall always be the centre of it. I can't break his heart."
"If Lord Glengall knew, he would be the first to set you free."
"He would, because he is all unselfishness. But he will never know."
"How will you keep it from him?"
"I shall learn to love him."
"My poor Pam!"
"Ah!" cried Pamela sobbing. "Don't try to turn me back. Because I am unhappy, and a burden to myself, would you forbid me making another person happy, and he one worthy of all happiness?"
"It is not too late, Pam."
"It is too late. And here is Sylvia. See how punctual she is. She grudges me this half-hour alone with you."
Sylvia looked curiously at her sister's haggard and tear-stained eyes, but made no comment. She had little sympathy with Pamela's languid looks this summer. She was one who had never felt a wound, and so had scant comprehension of the troubles of her sister, whose lot, indeed, she considered a highly desirable one.
After a few minutes Pamela stood up and took her leave.
She went by the shady paths through the woods, and Pat, who had accompanied her, scurried hither and thither in pursuit of many a pair of bright eyes and many a white scut. She was in no hurry to get home. After the disturbance of her conversation with Miss Spencer, she dreaded the meeting with herfiancé.
It had been a shock to her to learn that, if she had not been so precipitate, her father would still have been safe; for Miss Spencer's life was to be counted by weeks, and Sylvia's tenderness for him could be trusted.
The green glades of the wood were exquisite. She looked about her—at the roof of branches against the blue-and-white sky, at the green moss, dotted with harebells, and flecked by broad patches of sunlight on its velvety shade. The birds were singing their last love-songs, and the wood was full of the music of many waters.
Ah! With an overwhelming revulsion of feeling it came upon the girl that if she were only free, with her life in her hands, the beauty of the free world were, as Miss Spencer had said, paradise enough. If she were but free, if she were but free!
She had come to the Wishing Well in the wood. She put up her hand to her throat. Round it was a slender little chain of jewels and gold which Lord Glengall had given her. It was choking her.
She took it off stealthily, and laid it on the moss at her feet. Then she took a bracelet—his gift also—from her arm. Then she drew off her engagement ring of diamonds and emeralds, and added it to the glittering heap. If only she could remove those other bonds as easily! And all the time she hated herself for the wish.
Mechanically she stooped down, and, taking the water in her hand, drank of it. She wished she might forget what had happened here, and the poisoned sweetness of glances and words during those months of last winter.
"I must forget—I must forget," she wailed, half aloud. "It lasted such a little while. There was no time for it to take hold upon my life."
And then her hands fell to her side, for there was a quick step beside her, and, turning, she saw Anthony Trevithick.
"Pamela!"
He had come back, and his eyes and his voice were full of fire.
"Pamela! What have you done to yourself, my sweetheart? You are not the Pamela I left."
She had turned towards him as irresistibly as the needle to the pole. But at his words a quick shiver ran through her. Her eyes turned from him and darkened. Her head drooped.
"You have come too late," she said, almost under her breath; and her voice was cold.
"Look at me, Pam. I have so much to tell you that you must hear. You must not be angry with me. We have been cheated and tricked. I wrote to your father to say I would come and ask for you, Pam, the road being clear."
"He never had your letter."
"It was not posted, Pamela. I must tell you, Pam, though it is hard. You have a right to know. My mother intercepted the letter."
"She detested me. I knew it from the first moment her cold eyes rested upon me."
"She does not like me, Pam, much. But that will not part us."
"Ah!" said Pam, and her voice was almost a cry. "But weareparted. She could not do it, but I have done it by my own act."
His foot knocked against the heap of trinkets on the moss.
"What are these, Pam?" he asked wonderingly.
"Give them to me," she implored. "They are mine. And you must go away, Sir Anthony, and never come again."
"Why, I see"—holding the jewels in his hand—"they are his gifts. But you have thrown them off!"
His eyes blazed suddenly.
"It is an omen, Pam. Let him follow his jewels. What right has he to buy you? You had given yourself to me."
"Ah!" cried Pam, still stretching out her hands for the jewels. "You don't know what you are talking about. He is the best man in all the world; and our wedding-day is fixed, and my wedding-dress is ordered."
The young man flung the jewels on the ground.
jewelsThe young man flung the jewels on the ground.
The young man flung the jewels on the ground.
The young man flung the jewels on the ground.
"There," he said, "let them lie where I found them. Why should we think of them? It is all a bad dream, Pamela, but not so bad as it might have been—not so bad as it might have been. Why, you are talking folly, Pam, about wedding-days and wedding-dresses. It is our wedding-day you must think of, and the wedding-dress you will wear for me."
He held out his arms to her imploringly, and for a moment, with a dazed look, she seemed as if she must come. Then she pushed him off with a gesture of her two hands.
"No," she said. "Love is not everything—love is not everything. There is honour, there is loyalty, there is faith. And you,—you have your cousin to think about. She is sweet and lovely. I felt it, though I——"
She broke off suddenly.
"Though you loved me and were jealous"; and he laughed masterfully. "All wrong, my Pam! I never cared for Kitty in that way, nor she for me. She is going to marry my chum, Jack Leslie. They have been in love with each other for years."
"Your mother told me——"
His face darkened.
"I know. I shall forgive her when you have yielded your will to mine."
"That will never be."
"Never, Pam? Ah! yes, it will. If I had come here and found that you loved this other man, I could have done nothing but leave you. I came full of anger and fury. All through the journey I had been goading myself to a jealous madness; but the minute I saw you here beside the well where I toldyou I loved you, I knew you were mine. I can afford to forgive Lord Glengall."
"What do you propose to do?"
"I shall go to the house and explain to your father about the missing letter. I was on my way there when I turned aside to the Wishing Well and found you."
"My father loves Lord Glengall."
"He loves you better, Pam. He will not want you to marry him, loving me."
"You take too much for granted."
"Oh, no, I don't, Pam! You are not the girl to love me seven months ago and love another man to-day. And your eyes betray you, darling!"
"And if my father chooses Lord Glengall before you?"
"Then I will tell him the choice does not rest with him. I will go to Lord Glengall himself."
"And if he should refuse to listen to you?"
"Then I will come to you, Pamela, my beloved."
She suddenly turned on him her beautiful, stormy eyes, and her face was full of tragedy.
"And I shall send you away," she said. "It is no question of loving. I shall not see you any more, Tony"—using the familiar name unconsciously—"never, I hope, after to-day. And I love you; I do love you, and if I might love you for ever I should be the happiest woman on earth. No, don't come near me, for I am saying good-bye to you. I decline to purchase my happiness, and even yours, at the cost of unhappiness to the best man I ever knew. Ah! go now, my love, and do not tempt me any more. You will soon forget me."
She turned as if to go, but before Anthony Trevithick could make any effort to detain her, a quiet voice spoke beside them.
"I came to meet you, Pamela. I expected to find you alone. Who is this gentleman?"
Pamela turned quickly, and put her hand into the hand of her betrothed.
"It is Sir Anthony Trevithick, Lord Glengall."
The two men bowed coldly.
"I will take Miss Graydon home now," said Lord Glengall, drawing her hand through his arm. "I am grateful to you for having taken care of her."
home"I will take Miss Graydon home now," said Lord Glengall.
"I will take Miss Graydon home now," said Lord Glengall.
"I will take Miss Graydon home now," said Lord Glengall.
The two stood looking at each other, and the air was as if charged with a storm.
"I am staying in the neighbourhood," said Sir Anthony stiffly. "I shall hope to see your lordship later on."
"Come," whispered Pamela to her betrothed, "come away. I will explain to you."
She stole one glance at the hot and angry face of her young lover. Then, without a word, she passed out of his sight down oneof the wood paths, still clinging to Lord Glengall's arm.
They walked in silence for a few minutes. Then she lifted her eyes to her companion's sad face.
"You heard what I said," she half-whispered. "I am not afraid of you; I was loyal."
"Yes, you were loyal, Pam, in the spirit, but loyalty without love is poor comfort. It is not enough for me."
"I do love you."
"I believe you do, Pam, but there are different kinds of love. Is this that other you once told me about?"
"Yes."
"I thought so. You have had few opportunities for meeting men in your quiet life. This is the lad who was your father's pupil?"
"The son of his old friend, Sir Gerald Trevithick."
"I ought to have met him when he was here. But I was finishing up in Australia. He is honest, Pam—is he?"
"I am sure he is—now. Before I thought he was false."
"How did it come that he went away like that, having made you love him?"
"He was called away to a sick uncle. He wrote to father to explain, but the letter never reached him."
"You are sure he wrote?"
"Yes, he has told me. His mother——You saw her once?"
"A frozen-looking woman, dressed like an empress, who came one day. She was so haughty to me that I very soon removed myself."
"That was her."
"My poor little Pam!—that was the woman you went to visit afterwards? I had not realised it. I never thought of her after that day."
"She made me very unhappy. From the first she had a quiet way of making me feel not of her world, and afterwards she was horrid—about papa. She told me—falsehoods, too."
"Why didn't you come home, Pam?"
"I wouldn't let them know that the visit had been so horrible. Papa was pleased for me to go. Then he fell ill, and I came away."
"What did she tell you, Pam?"
"She told me Sir Anthony was engaged to his cousin. It was she who intercepted his letter to papa, in which he said he would come back."
"Ah! there are such women. But why didn't he speak fully and frankly before he went?"
"I do not know. There was some reason. He spoke of something that stood in the way."
Lord Glengall frowned, with his eyes on the ground.
"I shall find out the reason," he said.
"Ah! no," cried Pamela, clinging to his arm. "Let it be. I have told him he must go away. I belong to you, and not to him."
A little spasm of pain passed over the irregular features.
"Don't try me too much, Pamela, or I might take you at your word."
"I want you to take me at my word."
"I am sure you do—at this moment."
"Now and always."
"My little Pam! Still mine till I give you up of my own free will. You will trust me to do what is for the best?"
"I will trust you for ever. You are not going to give me up?"
Again his face contracted.
"Not unless I ought to, Pam. Not unless the lad is straight and can prove himself worthy of you. If I feel he can make you happier than I can, I will give you to him. If not, I will keep you in spite of yourself, and trust to my love to make you forget him."
"I think that might easily come true."
"Don't make it hard for me, Pam, if I have to cede my right to another. Pamela"—she had lifted her hands to him in her emotion—"where is your ring?"
Pamela wrung her hands in her trouble.
"Do not be angry with me," she entreated. "I took it off in the wood, there where you found me. It is there still."
"Pamela," his voice was stern. "Didheremove your ring?"
"No, no. A thousand times, no! How could you think I would let him?"
"Forgive me, child—I ought to have known you better. But why did you take off the ring?"
She looked to left and right, as though seeking a way of escape, and answered nothing.
"I see," said Lord Glengall, and his face had a look of suffering. "You took it off because it irked you to wear it. You wanted to be free."
"It was only a mood."
"A bad mood for me, child. Why could you not have trusted me, and have told me I had asked too much? It would have been kinder."
"I shall never forgive myself," cried Pam.
"I am going back for the ring, Pam. Run away home now, and I shall bring it. Run now—I can keep you in sight till I see you within the door of Carrickmoyle. I shall not be long."
"The ring is on the ground, by the well," said Pamela, her head hanging like the headof a sensitive child caught in the act of wrongdoing. "You will find it there, and my necklet and bracelet also."
Her voice stumbled as she made her full confession.
"Poor Pam!" said Lord Glengall.
"Ah!" she said, "if you would only forget about it. There was never any man like you. If I do not love you now, it is only because he came first. I shall love you in time. I could not help it."
"Kiss me, Pam, before you go. I have not asked you for kisses when I might."
"I have done nothing but hurt you," she cried, conscience-stricken. Then she lifted her face for his kiss.
hurt"I have done nothing but hurt you," she said.
"I have done nothing but hurt you," she said.
"I have done nothing but hurt you," she said.
"And I have been hurting you, quite unconsciously, all the time. It is the old story of May and December. But, thank God! it is not too late."
He lifted his hat again, with the reverential gesture characteristic of him. As he stood bare-headed, a glint of the dying sun fell on his hair and forehead. It made him look old and dusty and tired.
Then Pamela went away slowly across the park to the house, while he stood watching her. When she had entered the house, he went back down the wood path.
As he went slowly and sadly, he felt something thrust against him. He looked down. It was Pamela's dog, Pat, who had remained behind, hunting an elusive rabbit, and had only just come up with their trail. The dog jumped about him with demonstrations of joy.
Lord Glengall stooped down and patted the rough head.
"I am not to be your new master, after all, old fellow," he said.
Pat licked his hand vigorously, and then looked up inquiringly into his face.
"She has gone home," said Lord Glengall in answer, "and I should be a bad substitute."
But Pat manifested very unmistakably that he was going to accompany this friend of his back into the woods.
"Ah! good little beast," said Lord Glengall, oddly comforted. "It is good to have a dog sorry for one, Pat."
[END OF CHAPTER FIFTEEN.]
curiousIllustrated from Photographs.
Illustrated from Photographs.
Illustrated from Photographs.
II t is a well-known and pleasing fact that several millions of pounds are annually devoted, throughout the kingdom, to the purposes of public charity, but few people are aware to what a great extent charitable gifts inkindare nowadays sent to philanthropic institutions. These "donations" vary in value from a few pence to hundreds of pounds; and although the greater number consist of ordinary articles which are easily disposed of, yet some most extraordinary gifts are frequently received, of which the outside public hears little.
I t is a well-known and pleasing fact that several millions of pounds are annually devoted, throughout the kingdom, to the purposes of public charity, but few people are aware to what a great extent charitable gifts inkindare nowadays sent to philanthropic institutions. These "donations" vary in value from a few pence to hundreds of pounds; and although the greater number consist of ordinary articles which are easily disposed of, yet some most extraordinary gifts are frequently received, of which the outside public hears little.
Quite recently two mummified hands—one with the forearm attached—both authoritatively stated to be over 3,000 years old, were sent to the Church Army by a West-End physician, who brought them from Egypt, and they will doubtless be the means of an appreciable accession to the funds of the organisation when disposed of.
The Salvation Army also receives some curious articles at times. Jewellery of various kinds often finds its way to the Headquarters, and some little time ago a deaf-and-dumb convert presented a perfect model in cork of one of the barracks, showing the soldiers marching in and the roughs gathered around; whilst a travelling showman who recently joined the Army begged to be allowed to hand the officers his stock-in-trade, which included two remarkable-looking effigies used in his ventriloquial entertainments.
The most singular donations received by the Army, however, are presented at the harvest festivals. General Booth's followers are exceptionally energetic at such times, and it is no uncommon thing for the proceeds of the gifts collected for a festival service in a poor neighbourhood to amount to some seventy or eighty pounds, half of which is retained for the local funds, whilst the remainder is sent to Headquarters as a donation towards the general expenses. An impromptu barn is frequently erected in the meeting-room with the front open to the audience, and in this the gifts are displayed to the best advantage.
In addition to fruit, flowers, and vegetables, presents of live stock are often made which are notalwaysacceptable. For instance, at one place a calf was given, and was accommodated in a temporary stall on the platform. But it did not appear to enjoy the service. Wheneverthe band played, it made such a terrible noise that eventually it had to be escorted to a quiet corner outside. Birds of many descriptions have also joined in these services; and a Russian cat which was presented on such an occasion kept up harvest celebrations during the night, we are told, by devouring a pound of beef sausages, which represented another, though humbler, gift.
remainsMUMMIFIED REMAINS PRESENTED TO THE CHURCH ARMY.
MUMMIFIED REMAINS PRESENTED TO THE CHURCH ARMY.
MUMMIFIED REMAINS PRESENTED TO THE CHURCH ARMY.
Many people will question the advisability of allowing live stock to be present at such services. The important fact remains, however, that gifts of this nature frequently serve to attract large crowds of the very people the Army officers wish to influence. But difficulties sometimes arise through the thoughtlessness of enthusiastic donors. At Chester recently a live donkey was led up four flights of stairs to the barracks, and handed over as a free-will offering. When the service concluded, it was discovered to be impossible for the animal to walk down again; and, to use the words of the officer, they "had to tie the thing up in a knot, wrap it up in a sack, and lower it gently and gracefully over the banisters!" We may hope that the patient animal did not suffer any ill effects from his attendance at the service.
Some most curious articles are also occasionally received by the Poor Clergy Relief Corporation, which, as is well-known, does a most useful work by making grants in money and clothing to clergymen in temporary distress, and to the widows and children of clergymen who are left insufficiently provided for. These articles comprise revolvers, respirators, artificial teeth and wigs, feeding-bottles, military and naval uniforms, silk-worm cocoons, and bicycles, and all are turned to account either by direct gift or by realisation at a jumble or auction sale. An amusing incident, the secretary states, recently occurred in the clothing department in connection with an involuntary gift. The matron was filling a large bag for a poor family whilst a carpenter was in the room engaged on some repairs. He had placed his cap—which was a good one—on the table, and the matron, thinking it part of the stock, promptly annexed it and despatched it with the other things. It was gratefully acknowledged! Of course, the carpenter had to be provided witha new cap, which he has since been careful to place in his pocket when working in the building.
clothing(Photo: Russell and Sons, Baker Street, W.)A STACK OF OLD CLOTHING.(At the Offices of the Poor Clergy Relief Corporation.)
(Photo: Russell and Sons, Baker Street, W.)A STACK OF OLD CLOTHING.(At the Offices of the Poor Clergy Relief Corporation.)
(Photo: Russell and Sons, Baker Street, W.)
A STACK OF OLD CLOTHING.
(At the Offices of the Poor Clergy Relief Corporation.)
But the institution which receives the greatest number of gifts in kind is undoubtedly Dr. Barnardo's well-known Home for Waifs and Strays in Stepney Causeway. During last year alone 9,651 parcels were delivered from various supporters, containing in the aggregate over 97,000 articles of various kinds! When it is also stated that the sales of these goods realised, in the same twelve months, the grand total of £1,850, some idea will be gathered of the enormous number of articles dealt with every year, and the welcome addition which they bring to the income of the Homes.
The gifts come from all quarters of the globe. Even such far-distant countries as India, China, Corea, Burmah, and Japan contribute their quota, and many a pathetic history and much amazing romance is embodied in the articles received.
One of the most valuable, and certainly one of the most remarkable, of the donations which have found their way to Stepney Causeway was ex-King Theebaw's ivory throne, sent a year or two ago by a gentleman in Rangoon. The throne was somewhat in the form of a large armchair, and was ordered by the king in the palmy days of his despotism. According to his edict, only the very best craftsmen were employed to fulfil the commission, and only the finest and soundest tusks were used. The design was exceedingly elaborate, and both time and special talent were needed for the task, which it took years to accomplish. But, such is the irony of Fate, when the work was practically finished the king was deposed, and the completed throne never passed into his possession. After some little time it came into the hands of the Rangoon donor who so generously presented it to Dr. Barnardo. This interesting piece of furniture was estimated to be worth some £500. The detail of the work was exquisite, a delicate tracery covering nearly the whole, with some mostbeautiful and elaborate carving in high relief lying behind it. The little figures inside appeared to be executed with the utmost thoroughness, and the chair was an eloquent testimony to the genius and patience of the native workmen.
From the same country a number of quaint silver goods are constantly received from a resident Englishman and his native wife, both of whom take a very keen interest in the work of saving the waifs of the slums. Owing to the extensive fluctuations in the value of the rupee, and to the low rate of exchange in England, they find it more advantageous to purchase native goods which will realise good prices in London than to send their donations in cash.
IndianA HANDSOME PIECE OF INDIAN NEEDLEWORK.(Worked in Gold and Silver Braid and Sequins.)
A HANDSOME PIECE OF INDIAN NEEDLEWORK.(Worked in Gold and Silver Braid and Sequins.)
A HANDSOME PIECE OF INDIAN NEEDLEWORK.
(Worked in Gold and Silver Braid and Sequins.)
Dr. Barnardo has little difficulty in disposing of such gifts. There is a special trade department at Stepney Causeway, consisting of a show-room and several large and airy stores. These storage rooms, which are not open to the general public, contain a most extraordinary collection of gifts, including such articles as bedsteads, false hair and teeth, old pictures, jewellery, a microscopic cabinet, a three-manual organ, an oak lectern, boxes of geological and ornithological specimens, air pillows, sewing and sausage machines, a bottled snake, as well as a great variety of clothing both new and secondhand.
giftsA GROUP OF CURIOUS GIFTS.(From Ephesus, New Zealand, and India.)
A GROUP OF CURIOUS GIFTS.(From Ephesus, New Zealand, and India.)
A GROUP OF CURIOUS GIFTS.
(From Ephesus, New Zealand, and India.)
Amongst the more valuable of the articles which have recently been received may be mentioned a number of exceedingly dainty and costly Eastern shawls, and a cape constructed entirely from birds' feathers, which is supposed to be the only one of its kind in England.This handsome cape originally belonged to a Spanish lady, and is now more than a hundred years old. Each feather was worked in separately, and the various colours are so beautifully blended that the worker must have possessed considerable artistic talent as well as great patience, for it contains some thousands of tiny feathers of various hues. Another piece of work that must have entailed an immense amount of time and care is a sample of Indian needlework, of which we give a photograph. The ground is coarse black cloth, but the design is so cleverly worked in gold and silver braid and sequins that the result is a most handsome example of native embroidery, which needs to be seen to be fully appreciated.
receivingTHE RECEIVING ROOM AT STEPNEY CAUSEWAY.
THE RECEIVING ROOM AT STEPNEY CAUSEWAY.
THE RECEIVING ROOM AT STEPNEY CAUSEWAY.
From India also come the two models of native types photographed in the group shown on the preceding page. They are most delicately moulded, every detail being scrupulously attended to. The figure on the left is ten inches in height, and represents a grass-cutter, whilst that on the right depicts an Indian water-carrier, and both bear the name of the modeller—Buckshar Paul of Krishnagar.
A different form of Indian work may be seen in the candlestick in the same illustration, which is moulded in brass in the form of a serpent, and forms a curious and certainly not inartistic ornament. Standing beside this is an ordinary-shaped box with a diamond design on the lid, and this article is specially interesting, owing to its having been constructed of sixteen different varieties of wood grown in New Zealand. It is a far cry from this fertile colony to the historic city of Ephesus, but we are carried thither in order to explain the presence of the two odd-looking pieces of ware (representing an ancient vase and lamp) to be seen in the forefront of the same photographic group. They were selected at random from a number of such articles which Dr. Barnardo has in his possession awaiting a remunerative purchaser. The extraordinary character of the gifts received at the institution iswell exemplified in these articles, which were actually discovered in the ruins of the Temple of Diana by the well-known antiquarian, the late Mr. F. Wood. Each piece is authenticated by the signature of the excavator, which is affixed, and they were presented to Dr. Barnardo by Mr. Wood's widow about three years ago.
A striking instance of the wonderful changes wrought by time is shown in the generous gifts in money and kind recently received from the descendants of the mutineers of theBounty. Here is romance pure and unadulterated, and Dr. Barnardo may well have said that the following letter which recently came into his hands read like "something out of a book." It appears that the captain of a British vessel wrote to him from Australia as follows: "I called in our passage through the Pacific at Pitcairn Island. A number of the natives came off, and when they learned I was bound to Great Britain, they desired me to take some presents for you, consisting of a case full of fancy articles made by themselves. I have already despatched this case to you, and I now enclose postal orders for £5 10s. 8d., being the cash, less a spurious two-shilling piece, which the islanders had collected for your institution." The case contained six walking-sticks, eighty cocoanut-shell baskets, as well as a quantity of shells and a large number of bananas. These gifts form undoubted evidence of the Christian and philanthropic spirit of the present Pitcairn Islanders, and at the same time bear valuable testimony to the world-wide appreciation of Dr. Barnardo's life-work.
cornerA CORNER OF THE CLOTHES STORE.(At Dr. Barnardo's Homes.)
A CORNER OF THE CLOTHES STORE.(At Dr. Barnardo's Homes.)
A CORNER OF THE CLOTHES STORE.
(At Dr. Barnardo's Homes.)
A walk through the storage rooms is amply repaid by the number and the limitless variety of the articles to be seen therein. Here is an organ constructed by an amateur after seven years of assiduous work. It is unique in its way, the pipes being made of cardboard; but whether the gift of the ingenious organ-builder was an altogether disinterested one isnot for me to state. I heard it whispered that the cleverly constructed instrument refused to work properly, and was somewhat of the nature of a white elephant to the present owners. Another example of tireless ingenuity is to be seen in the three large brass models of engines which adorn a corner of the same room. The mechanism of these engines is perfect in every way, and the models are of considerable value.
In close proximity to them is a dinner service of Worcester china, dated 1794, and consisting of 150 pieces. This will doubtless soon be "discovered" by a lover of old china, who will also see another "find" near by equally worthy of attention. I refer to a dessert service of seventeen pieces, which originally formed a wedding present before it found its way to Stepney Causeway. The service is more than fifty years old, and its chief value lies in the exquisite pictures to be found on each plate. The design is different in every case, and when it is added that the pictures are hand-painted the munificence of the kindly donor will be recognised.
But it is impossible to give an adequate idea of the curiously mixed contents of the stores. Cumbersome articles such as mail-carts, rocking-horses, Bath-chairs, and water-beds will be found adjacent to billiard balls, pipes, samples of inlaid ebony work and other "small" goods; whilst near at hand will be found piles upon piles of articles of dress of all sorts and conditions. It is not surprising that a number of assistants are kept constantly employed in receiving, listing, sorting, and selling these miscellaneous gifts, which are sent by a grateful public as a small donation to the good and beneficent work which has for so many years been carried on by means of the Homes.
A. Palfrey Hollingdale.
classifyingCLASSIFYING THE MISCELLANEOUS GIFTS.(A View at Stepney Causeway.)
CLASSIFYING THE MISCELLANEOUS GIFTS.(A View at Stepney Causeway.)
CLASSIFYING THE MISCELLANEOUS GIFTS.
(A View at Stepney Causeway.)
By the Venerable Archdeacon Madden.
archbishop(Photo: Elliott and Fry, Baker Street, W.)ARCHDEACON MADDEN.
(Photo: Elliott and Fry, Baker Street, W.)ARCHDEACON MADDEN.
(Photo: Elliott and Fry, Baker Street, W.)
ARCHDEACON MADDEN.
It was close upon midnight. I was alone in my study, busy clearing off a pile of letters that had been waiting all day for a "leisure moment." In the midst of my work a vigorous ring of the door-bell resounded through the house, followed by such a peremptoryran-tanat the knocker that I jumped to my feet and rushed to the door to see what was the matter. There I found two rough-looking men, who lost no time in stating their business. "We want your reverence," they said, "to come and see a poor young fellow who is dying; the doctor has given him up, and he is crying out for a minister to come and pray with him." I could not refuse such an appeal, and off I started with the men. They led me to a narrow street in my parish and into one of the most dingy houses in the street. After groping my way, by the aid of lighted matches, up a dark flight of stairs, I found the dying man in a dirty back bedroom.
He could not have been more than thirty years of age. He was propped up in bed, and the grey look of death was upon his face.
As I entered he turned eagerly to me, and, holding out his hand, said, "I'm dying, and I am not ready—not ready!"
Just as I was about to speak he suddenly gasped out, "John, John! hand me those things on the table." John came forward and laid upon the bed a sporting paper, a pack of cards, a set of dice, a bottle of whisky, and some race lists.
There was a deliberation about the whole business which convinced me that the matter had been talked over between the men. When all were spread out in due order, the dying man again turned to me and said, "Look, vicar, those things have been the ruin of me; and they have been a curse to me, and I want to turn my back upon them all—I want you to help me to do it." Again I was about to speak, when suddenly, stooping down, he gathered them all up and thrust them into my hands with the words "Shove them up my back." I was so staggered by the request that I stammered out "What—what do you mean?" "I want you," he said, "as God's minister to shove them up underneath my shirt. I want to put them behind my back. I want God to see that I have done with them for ever." I did not know whether to laugh or cry. It was all so absurd and yet so pathetic. The man was in dead earnest. He had evidently thought over it, and meant it as an "act" of true repentance. He was undoubtedly a man who had "come down in the world," and it was not all ignorance.
I said to him, "I will do what you wish, but I will kneel down first, and you will repeat a prayer after me." I knelt and he repeated after me these words: "Father, I have sinned against heavenand before Thee. I renounce all my sins—from the bottom of my heart I renounce them all. Father, receive Thy prodigal son, and forgive me for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen."
I then rose from my knees and carried out his wishes. To us all in that chamber of death it was a most solemn sacramental rite. I, indeed, verily believed that it was the outward and visible sign of the inward and spiritual grace of a true repentance. There I held the things that had cursed his young manhood, ruined a promising career, and brought him down to poverty and a premature grave; and as I held those emblems of evil behind his back I told him of a Saviour who "carried our sins"—upon whom the Lord had laid the iniquities of us all.
Little by little he gasped out his tale of sin: the gambling, the betting, and the "horsey set" he had got amongst as a youth; then drinking and bad company; then "striding came ruin and poverty like a weaponed warrior." Deserted, degraded, he crawled into this wretched room, sick in mind and body, to die forsaken and forgotten by all his old boon companions except John.
The scene of that night has left an indelible impression upon my heart and mind. I believe the merciful God accepted that strange outward act as an evidence of sincere repentance. To the very last he would have us hold those instruments of sin between his shirt and his bare back, and as I held them there he died calling upon God.
When I passed out of that house of death into the streets and the morning light, I prayed, as I had never prayed before, that God in His mercy might deliver this fair England of ours from the deadly and degrading vice of gambling.
It is over ten years since my midnight visit to that gambler's death-bed. I remember still one sentence of the ruined man: "It doesn't pay, sir! It doesn't pay!" Aye! and even if it does pay some few, what then? Is it not ill-gotten gain? And if so, what shall it profit such a man, though he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?
The vice of gambling does not stand alone. It is the mother of sins; the sordid and the sensual too frequently go hand in hand. Lying, blasphemy, impurity, dishonesty, trickery, double-dealing, follow in its train.
The gambler who, by a stroke of "luck," becomes rich in an hour, is tempted to spend his winnings in riotous living. It is with him a case of "luxury" to-day, despair and drink to-morrow.
A general atmosphere of blackguardism seems ever to pervade the race-course. Here is a cutting from the daily press of August last:—
"Blackguardism at the Alexandra Park Races.—Fourteen brutal assaults, committed on the Alexandra Park race-course on Saturday afternoon, have been reported to the police, the assaults in several cases having been accompanied by robbery. One of the gentlemen assaulted was a professional man well known in the neighbourhood. He was standing at a refreshment bar in the grand stand when he was half-killed by roughs. Another person who was assaulted was a member of the Jockey Club staff; but many frequenters of the course were heard to express pleasure at this, in the hope that it would lead to some better provision being made for the exclusion of well-known roughs from the rings and stands."
"Blackguardism at the Alexandra Park Races.—Fourteen brutal assaults, committed on the Alexandra Park race-course on Saturday afternoon, have been reported to the police, the assaults in several cases having been accompanied by robbery. One of the gentlemen assaulted was a professional man well known in the neighbourhood. He was standing at a refreshment bar in the grand stand when he was half-killed by roughs. Another person who was assaulted was a member of the Jockey Club staff; but many frequenters of the course were heard to express pleasure at this, in the hope that it would lead to some better provision being made for the exclusion of well-known roughs from the rings and stands."
I have seen more than one young man of my acquaintance stand in the felon's dock, and I know they were brought there by betting. I have heard the wail of wife and children in the court as the culprit was hurried from the dock to his cell. And what was left for him to do when he was released from prison? Who will employ a man with the stigma of "imprisonment for dishonesty" resting upon him? He sinks lower and lower, dragging his poor wife and has little children down with him in his degrading descent—down to abject misery.
"In addition, too, to the frightful injustice to wives and children caused by betting and gambling, and the results on the home life," says a recent Report of the Convocation of York, "they have an injurious effect on those who are addicted to them, deadening their spiritual life, and making them indifferent to higher joys and nobler pursuits while the passion lasts. An example of this is afforded by Greville, who, in his memoirs, says: 'Thank God! the races are over. I have had all the excitement and worry, but have neither won nor lost. Nothing but the hope of gain would induce me to go through the demoralising drudgery,which I am aware reduces me to a level of all that is most disreputable and despicable, for my thoughts are eternally absorbed in them. It is like dram-drinking; having once begun, you cannot leave it off, though I am disgusted all the time with my occupation.'"
And it is useless, my brother, to juggle with your conscience in this matter. Gambling is a vice, whether it be for penny points or for "ponies." The question of the amount of the bet has nothing to do with the sin of gambling. The principle is what we look at.
"The wrong of gambling lies not in the excessive indulgence in an intrinsically innocent practice, but in the surrender to chance of acts which ought to be controlled by reason alone, and decided by the will in accordance with the moral laws of justice or benevolence."
Brother men! shun this vice. It is the certain road to ruin. Do not be lured to your doom by this terrible fascination. Shake off its spell, renounce its tyranny: "It doesn't pay! It doesn't pay!"