GeorgianaHe saw Georgiana charging down upon them.
He saw Georgiana charging down upon them.
He saw Georgiana charging down upon them.
"I—I don't know, Georgiana. He was just beginning—I think he has fallen in love again."
The elder girl glanced at her young sister with a gleam of suspicion, but Dolly had spoken in all good faith. And, indeed, in the dim past Freddy had once or twice been smitten and had confided his troubles to the kind ears of Dolly. They had been slight affairs and, although unhappy, always less tragic than laughable.
"He did not say who it was?"
"No," answered Dolly, "because you interrupted. I—I—I'm trying to guess."
Georgiana turned her back on the wistful grey Irish eyes.
"Can't you?" she said, and walked away, utterly hard-hearted.
* * * * * *
That evening there was a formidable leave-taking. To Freddy Cockburn it was a nightmare.
As he sat in the drawing-room being talked to by Georgiana and Mrs. Rhodes(Dolly was very silent) he grew desperate. The last precious minutes were ticking loudly, now and then marked by a warning whirr, as the grandfather's clock reproached him.
He listened to them, but all the while he was wandering backwards hand in hand with Dolly—Dolly who now sat so distantly in the window.
With a start his mind came back impatiently to the present.
"Good-bye, my dear boy. We shall hear how you get on. Your mother will write and tell us——"
"You must let me know how you manage about the stairs," said Georgiana.
They accompanied him to the door, lingering affectionately to watch him go, and behind them the great brown clock was ticking the last, last minutes reproachfully. He shook hands and waited, desperately bold.
"Will you come to the gate with me, Dolly?"
There was a slight pause at that abrupt invitation. He saw Dolly involuntarily start forward and then hesitate, with a faint red wonderment in her cheek. He waited, gazing back eagerly at his fate in the balance.
"Yes, Dolly—come along!" said Georgiana.
II.
The Vicar of Little Easter was in his study. He had not been writing sermons, but pens were lying about the table, and there were other signs of an intellectual struggle.
OldThe old lady looked up keenly.—p. 222.
The old lady looked up keenly.—p. 222.
The old lady looked up keenly.—p. 222.
"I can't do it," he said at last, crumpling up many fragments of blotted paper, each the unlucky beginning of a letter. Then he thrust his hands through his hair, giving it a despairing rumple.
"It's no good," he said. "I can't put it in a letter, and it does look a cowardly way of—asking. Like chalking up a thing and running round the corner. If I were a girl and a fellow wrote to me instead of coming and standing to his guns, I should call it—cheek."
"Dear Dolly——"
He tore the last attempt furiously across.
"She would think it was a joke and show it all round the family for them to laugh at it too," he lamented; "if Georgiana did not kidnap it first. I don't think she would stick at that, and I'm afraid she regularly hates me. Queer!"
He stared forlornly at the heap of papers, and then all at once an idea struck him and he jumped up.
"Hurrah!"
With sudden energy he flung out of his study and crossed the hall. His mother was sitting in her room—the only place that was quite in order—stitching rings on curtains. She was going to stay and put him to rights before returning home and leaving him in his glory.
"What is the matter, Freddy?" she said.
"I was thinking," said the Vicar soberly, "that you've a lot to do. Couldn't you ask one of the girls over while you are here to help?"
"If you think the place is ready for visitors," said Mrs. Cockburn, smiling. The girls were, of course, Freddy's old companions.
"Well, you might ask Dolly; I'm sure she wouldn't mind."
The old lady looked up keenly, but his manner was very careless.
"Why not Georgiana?" she inquired. "Eldest first."
"I don't think she could be spared just now," said the Vicar, hiding his alarm, "and—and I'd like the place to be tidy before she came."
So Mrs. Cockburn wrote and invited Dolly.
The answer came very quickly: Dolly could not leave home just now.
While his mother was reading out the many sufficient reasons, Freddy stared hopelessly across at the fatal letter. His face expressed utter dejection until about halfway through. At the last clause it lighted up with an inspiration. He leaned over the table.
"Then, mother, of course, you'll ask Georgiana?"
His mother glanced at him oddly.
"Do you want her?"
"Want her?" cried the Vicar. "Rather!"
There was no mistaking the eagerness in his voice. It betrayed itself in the very stammer with which he proceeded.
"I didn't know she would come, but if Dolly's to manage the school treat this year, and if Dolly's to take the club, they won't want Georgiana. Tell her we can't possibly get the house put to rights without her. Say whatever you think will bring her. Only make her come."
He got up and fetched his writing things from the study. Mrs. Cockburn had to write the invitation then and there, almost to his dictation.
"Tell her shemustcome!" he cried impetuously, rushing away to look for a stamp, and then riding in with the letter himself to catch the early post. Mrs. Cockburn looked after him amused, but just a little bit disappointed.
"It's Georgiana then, after all," she said.
* * * * * *
Three days later Georgiana was installed at Little Easter.
She arrived with rather too many clothes for a person who was to help in getting a house in order, but that did not prevent her from buckling to. Mrs. Cockburn, a kind old lady with a twinkle of humour to comfort her in her trials, was taken aback by her visitor's authoritative grasp at the reins; but Freddy, having suffered more nearly from her tyrannical ways, thought he had never known her so gracious. In fact, he repented himself of the hard things he had been thinking—of all but a certain determination.
"I don't believe she hates me really," he thought. "It was only that she didn't want me to marry Dolly."
He made that reflection whilst shaving with care the morning after her arrival. On coming down to breakfast he found her at her post. She had already whisked away half the litter that was hampering the breakfast-room, and was making the tea. As he came in she nodded.
"Good morning, Freddy. Your mother is breakfasting in her room. What a wilderness your house is at present! The first thing after breakfast will be to have a man in and put down the carpets."
"But theyaredown," stammered the Vicar, who had laboured hard all the past week.
"All crooked," said Georgiana.
She poured out his tea and sat down opposite, with an air of calm superiority and possession (which the Vicar was tooagitated to remark). Having long since made up her mind as to what she wanted, she was not unduly elated at the present turn of affairs. Freddy was always fickle, and it had taken very little pains to keep him apart from Dolly while that fancy lasted. It was not her part to consider Dolly—Dolly, years younger, and pretty, and always liked.
Something like exultation glittered in Georgiana's eyes. She had a glimpse of Dolly at home and smiled; her triumph was pitiless.
"Oh, by-the-bye," she said. "Your idea of furnishing the drawing-room is too ridiculous. It ought to be smart and shiny—a company room. You don't want old pictures and comfortable chairs!"
"Don't I?" said the Vicar with a half-smile, thinking whose whims he had tried to suit in the furnishing.
"No," said Georgiana. Her tone was lordly. "I'll tell you what I will do. You shall drive me into the town, and I will help you to choose what you really want."
"Do——," began the Vicar, and then stopped hastily, reddening. She looked at him witheringly, unaware that the word suppressed had been simply "Dolly."
"In the meantime——" she vouchsafed after a crushing pause. He looked up suddenly from his letters.
"I'm afraid you'll be dull, Georgiana," he said, rising. "It's awfully good of you to come, and perhaps you can find some amusement. You can do what you like, you know—so long as you don't touch my study, or trick it up like a heathen place in Japan. The fact is, I find I must leave you and mother for a day or two. Is that the dogcart? My train is at half-past ten."
Georgiana looked out of the window. There was the dogcart, and a beast of a brown horse pawing and snorting, to take him away to the country station. She turned round angrily, like a person who had been cheated.
"Why?" she asked.
Dolly"Dolly!" he cried in a voice of triumph.—p. 224.
"Dolly!" he cried in a voice of triumph.—p. 224.
"Dolly!" he cried in a voice of triumph.—p. 224.
Freddy had left the breakfast table,and was stacking his letters behind the clock. He answered her with a kind of chuckle—
"Important business."
Three minutes later, he was running down the stairs, got up for a journey. Mrs. Cockburn was just saying good-morning to the rather blank-looking visitor, and he kissed her hurriedly.
"I must go off at once," he said. "Georgiana will explain. And I say, mother"—in a tone of anxious hospitality—"don't let her go home, or anything, till I come back. I must catch the early train."
III.
Dolly was all alone.
There was no dragon guarding her, and she might wander unwatched about the garden, unvexed by the family tyrant's whim. However, she sat forlornly under the willow tree.
She was disappointed at not being allowed to go and visit Mrs. Cockburn, but, queerly enough, it had hurt her more to find her refusal met by that urgent invitation to Georgiana. It was a much warmer letter. Mrs. Cockburn had been told in inviting Georgiana to say whatever would bring her, and she had according written—"Freddy says shemustcome," twice.
They were ringing in Dolly's ears, these impetuously written words; but she had not any right to be angry—and hardly any right to be sad. Only, if that message had been inherletters, she would have defied them all.
The sun burnt down over all the garden, except under the sad green shade of the willow tree. Afterwards, it sank lower and lower behind the beeches until it was almost dusk. It was then that Dolly heard a familiar whistle.
She started up from the grass, and her wistful face was scarlet. It must be imagination.
Almost before she knew it she was hurrying up the path.
"Oh!" she gasped, finding herself at the gate, and ready to turn and fly as the strange whistler came in sight. Her heart beat too fast for her to hear any step. As if it could be him!
"Dolly!" he cried, in a voice of triumph.
"How did you get here?" she panted.
He vaulted the gate this time, and was immediately by her side.
"By train," he said coolly. "As soon as I'd got Georgiana safe I bolted."
Dolly paled slightly. Had he come to make an announcement?
"Will you come in to mother?" she said faintly; but Freddy barred the way.
"No," he said. "I won't."
She was almost frightened. He was so white and eager, and so emphatic.
"Dolly," he said, "I've got my chance at last. Georgiana thinks I'm not half good enough for you, and I'm sure it's true, but I don't care, she'd no right to fight as she did for her lofty plans. It's your business. And Dolly—Dolly—I love you so!"
* * * * * *
"I like the house," said Georgiana.
She spoke in a slightly patronising tone, and poor Mrs. Cockburn sighed.
"It is rather big," she said. "But if Freddy should marry and settle down——"
"It will not be too big," declared Georgiana. "I have been drawing up my ideas about the rooms. And I have toiled all the morning in the study." Mrs. Cockburn looked alarmed. Even in a possible daughter-in-law this was rather drastic.
"He will not like you to touch his study."
"I know. He charged me to let it alone," said Georgiana calmly; "but it is no good giving in to a man's absurd notions, and he had crammed it with such extraordinary things. I have made it look like another place."
Again Freddy's mother sighed. It was the familiar tone of the family tyrant. She sighed for Freddy.
The sigh was interrupted by his return. Unexpectedly as he had disappeared yesterday, he came back. They heard him cross the hall with a long, quick, eager step, and then he burst in upon them, a boy again.
"Well, where have you been?" asked his mother, smiling. He was so tired and dusty, and so excited.
The Vicar looked at her like a school-boy, half-proud, half-shy.
"I've been to the old place," he said, "to ask Dolly if she would have me. And she says 'Yes.'"
R. Ramsay.
poem(By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co.)
(By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co.)
(By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co.)
I read to you one golden morn among the leaves of June,The flowers were sweet around our feet, the river sang its tune,I know not what the story was that stole upon your ears,I only saw your listening eyes were full of tender tears.I sang to you when twilight fell, and all the world had flown,A song that rose from out my heart and was for you alone,I cannot tell what words I sang,—of gladness or of pain,I only knew I felt your heart give back the sweet refrain.And when the night in silence rose, and all the song was o'er,The world was full of happiness I ne'er had known before,I know not what I told you then or what you said to me,I only knew your heart was mine for all the years to be.
I read to you one golden morn among the leaves of June,The flowers were sweet around our feet, the river sang its tune,I know not what the story was that stole upon your ears,I only saw your listening eyes were full of tender tears.
I sang to you when twilight fell, and all the world had flown,A song that rose from out my heart and was for you alone,I cannot tell what words I sang,—of gladness or of pain,I only knew I felt your heart give back the sweet refrain.
And when the night in silence rose, and all the song was o'er,The world was full of happiness I ne'er had known before,I know not what I told you then or what you said to me,I only knew your heart was mine for all the years to be.
Braddan(Photo: K. J. Harrison and Co., Kewaigue, Isle of Man.)SUNDAY AT KIRK BRADDAN.
(Photo: K. J. Harrison and Co., Kewaigue, Isle of Man.)SUNDAY AT KIRK BRADDAN.
(Photo: K. J. Harrison and Co., Kewaigue, Isle of Man.)
SUNDAY AT KIRK BRADDAN.
IUp and down the country there are several religious services held which are remarkable, not so much on account of the character of the service as in consequence of the strange places in which they take place. Of course, there are strange services—a few of which are detailed later—but,/ nevertheless, the majority obtain their notoriety by reason of their unusual place of assembly.
Up and down the country there are several religious services held which are remarkable, not so much on account of the character of the service as in consequence of the strange places in which they take place. Of course, there are strange services—a few of which are detailed later—but,/ nevertheless, the majority obtain their notoriety by reason of their unusual place of assembly.
For instance, who has not heard of the famous open-air service at Kirk Braddan churchyard in the Isle of Man?—a service which on an August Bank Holiday Sunday has attracted a congregation of twelve thousand people. Indeed, so great has been the crush on occasions that it has been impossible for the collection plate to reach all those gathered within sound of the preacher's voice—a truly lamentable fact from the churchwardens' point of view.
If the weather is fine, these open-air services begin, as a rule, on Whit Sunday and continue to the end of September, or, virtually during the whole of the holiday season. They were instituted in a somewhat remarkable way by a former vicar, "Parson Drury," as he was familiarly called, when it was decided to build Kirk Braddan New Church in consequence of the old church falling out of repair and being altogether inadequate as faras size was concerned for the worshippers who attended. Accordingly, while the new church was in process of erection, Mr. Drury conceived the happy idea of using the spacious churchyard, and so popular was the innovation that it has been kept up in the summer ever since.
Now the services are conducted by the present vicar—the Rev. Canon Moore—and, fittingly enough, his pulpit is the immense limestone slab erected to the memory of the founder of the churchyard services, "Parson Drury." It was felt, when the good man died, that no better memorial could be raised than a stone which might be utilised as a pulpit in the "Nature's church" where he had delivered so many powerful sermons.
The hymn-papers are distributed as the people pour into the churchyard on Sunday morning. The hymns are most heartily sung by the congregation. They are well known, and the tunes are also such as all can join in, and the effect of eight or ten thousand voices singing the simple strains is wonderful.
eggsA VIEW IN ST. JOHN'S, STREATHAM.(Showing the eggs presented for the Egg Service.)
A VIEW IN ST. JOHN'S, STREATHAM.(Showing the eggs presented for the Egg Service.)
A VIEW IN ST. JOHN'S, STREATHAM.
(Showing the eggs presented for the Egg Service.)
During the summer the aggregate number of worshippers amounts to sixty or seventy thousand, from all parts of the United Kingdom, but principally Lancashire and Yorkshire. Many people join in the service which is going on at the same time in Braddan new church close at hand, but the great majority prefer the open air under the shadow of the old trees and the venerable church.
It is rather remarkable that the Isle of Man should also possess what is believed by many to be the largest open-air service in the world. There are some folk who think that the Sunday service in Hyde Park answers to this description, though it is certain, in point of size, there is not a great deal of difference between that and the one held on Douglas Head.
There is, in reality, apart from the size, nothing very special to say about this service on Douglas Head. It is an ordinary service of an exceedingly simple character. Every attempt, however, is made to get a first-rate preacher, and two or three bishops have taken the service. Archdeacon Sinclair, who is a frequent visitor to Manxland, has officiated on several occasions. As at Kirk Braddan, the congregational singing is the great feature of the service. The Bishop of Sodor and Man is naturally the mostpopular of all the prelates who figure prominently at these services.
After these monster services, it is a delightful change to come to the "Egg Service," which was instituted in 1894 by the Rev. S. Alfred Johnston of St. John's, Streatham. It was thought that one of the most beautiful ways of observing Hospital Sunday would be to send a consignment of eggs to some of the patients in the great London hospitals, and accordingly the congregation were requested to make their offerings of eggs on the day when the various churches unite in rendering financial aid to the institutions in question.
The "Egg Service," like most other things, had a small beginning, for only 220 eggs were contributed the first year. In 1895 the number of eggs rose to 446, while the year following no less than 1,618 eggs were given. It was felt, however, that in Jubilee year a special effort ought to be made in view of the general assistance then being afforded to the hospitals by the scheme of the Prince of Wales, and so a "Jubilee" offering was arranged.
The service succeeded beyond all anticipations. Over five thousand eggs were to be seen in St. John's Church on Hospital Sunday, and the arrival of the various members of the congregation, carrying baskets of new-laid eggs, excited a great deal of local interest. By some means Her Royal Highness the Duchess of York heard of the service that year, and sent a sovereign to be spent on eggs. For this sum two hundred were obtained, the difficulties of transit alone preventing the Duchess from personally sending the eggs. It is only right to add that the giving of the delicacies referred to in no way interferes with the financial offertory at the service, which is forwarded to the Hospital Sunday Fund.
pit(Photo: J. Chenhalls, Redruth.)A REMARKABLE SERVICE IN THE GWENNAP PIT.
(Photo: J. Chenhalls, Redruth.)A REMARKABLE SERVICE IN THE GWENNAP PIT.
(Photo: J. Chenhalls, Redruth.)
A REMARKABLE SERVICE IN THE GWENNAP PIT.
There is some prospect of these "Egg Services" becoming an institution in other parts. This year the Essex town of Maldon has followed the good exampleset at Streatham. Carey Church, Reading, also made an initial effort of the same kind this year.
Tower(Photo: Taunt and Co., Oxford.)THE TOWER SERVICE AT OXFORD.
(Photo: Taunt and Co., Oxford.)THE TOWER SERVICE AT OXFORD.
(Photo: Taunt and Co., Oxford.)
THE TOWER SERVICE AT OXFORD.
These "Egg Services," inasmuch as they help the needy, call to mind the "Doll Service" that is held at St. Mary-at-Hill, Eastcheap, the church of the Rev. W. Carlile, the founder of the Church Army. On the Sunday before Christmas the congregation are requested to bring dolls, which are laid on a table near the altar. The gentlemen as well as the ladies are expected to provide a doll in some way or other, and consequently a goodly number of these ever-popular playthings are dispensed on Christmas Eve to the poorest of children in the East End of London. Mr. Carlile's service is now a fixed institution.
The followers of John Wesley are numerically very strong in Cornwall, and it is not surprising therefore that the strangest service held by that denomination takes place in that part of the country. A service in an old quarry is a decided novelty, and the fame of the "Gwennap Pit" service is justly popular with its lusty-voiced congregation of Cornishmen. Every Whit Monday the gathering takes place, so the Methodists within a radius of twenty miles are able to make it a day of pleasure as well as profit. The pit is situated not far from the quaint little town of Redruth.
The quarry forms a natural amphitheatre. Circular in form, and possessing row after row of steps, it is able to seat a good congregation, most of the members of which arrive by brakes. In the centre a sort of rostrum is erected for the various speakers, for addresses (and not a sermon) are the order of the day.
In days gone by John Wesley preached in this disused quarry to crowded congregations. Cornish folk always welcomed heartily the founder of Methodism, and they hold this monster service in memory of the time when Wesley frequently used the pit, first of all because it was the only place big enough, and secondly on account of the fact that it was the only one he was allowed to use. As a rule, great preachers are not invited, as the congregation prefer to hear the leading "local preachers." It is the boast of many a man that he first attended with his grandfather, who had already spent a good many Whit Mondays at Gwennap Pit.
The Oxford "May Morning" service is well known throughout the country, chiefly because it is the oldest of such gatherings, and—what is more—by far the best attended. It is held, as everybody knows, upon St. Mary Magdalen's tower at five o'clock in the morning, and is attended by the President and Fellows of the college as well as the members of the choir. A few strangers, however, are admitted, and, all told, the number of people on the tower amounts to about two hundred. The crowd in the street below, however, runs into thousands, instead of hundreds, as the illustration of the people on the bridge which crosses the River Cherwell fully bears out.
watching(Photo: Taunt and Co., Oxford.)WATCHING THE SERVICE ON ST. MARY MAGDALEN'S TOWER, OXFORD.(A crowd which gathered at four o'clock a.m.)
(Photo: Taunt and Co., Oxford.)WATCHING THE SERVICE ON ST. MARY MAGDALEN'S TOWER, OXFORD.(A crowd which gathered at four o'clock a.m.)
(Photo: Taunt and Co., Oxford.)
WATCHING THE SERVICE ON ST. MARY MAGDALEN'S TOWER, OXFORD.
(A crowd which gathered at four o'clock a.m.)
No matter what event takes place, the service is held on May Day. The crowd begins to assemble soon after four o'clock in the morning, when the bells begin to ring, warning the citizens that the time of service is approaching. At half-past four the choir begins to assemble, and one by one the members begin to make their way to the top of the tower, which very soon presents an animated appearance on account of the limited space to be obtained. When at last the hour of five arrives, and the clocks of the city begin to denote the time of day, the choir bursts forth into song ere the clocks have ceased striking.
The holding of the service confers upon the college the right of presentation to the living of Slimbridge in Gloucestershire, upon the income of which there is said to be an annual charge of ten pounds for the music on the top of the college tower. Similar services were at one time held at St. Paul's Cathedral, and at Abingdon, but after a time the custom died out. There is, however, no likelihood of that happening at Oxford, the service now having too great a hold upon the favour of the public.
Every July a most remarkable serviceis held at Folkestone. Like the majority of seaside resorts, Folkestone owns a big fishing industry, and it was felt that a service of thanksgiving for the harvest of the sea was just as desirable as the ordinary harvest festival. So every year the clergy and choir of the parish church march through the streets, singing hymns, and when the harbour is reached the fisher-folk join in the service of praise to God for the blessings vouchsafed in the past, and pray to be kept safe from harm in following their dangerous avocation, and also for "heavy catches" in the year to come.
Kirk Braddan churchyard service is not the only one of its kind in the country, though it is the biggest. For years a similar service has been held in the spacious churchyard of St. Tudno, situated on the Great Orme's Head at Llandudno.
openAN OPEN-AIR SERVICE ON THE GREAT ORME'S HEAD, LLANDUDNO.(Photo: Photochrome Co., Cheapside.)
AN OPEN-AIR SERVICE ON THE GREAT ORME'S HEAD, LLANDUDNO.(Photo: Photochrome Co., Cheapside.)
AN OPEN-AIR SERVICE ON THE GREAT ORME'S HEAD, LLANDUDNO.
(Photo: Photochrome Co., Cheapside.)
The services are held both in the morning and evening, and although the Llandudno churches have special preachers during the season, none of them is so well attended as St. Tudno's. The service is simple and hearty, the singing is good—for Welsh people can sing—and the voices of the visitors blend harmoniously with the rich native element. All the tunes are well known, and the same can also be said of the hymns, which are printed on hymn-sheets to avoid the necessity of bringing books.
The congregation is a varied one. Men are there dressed in cycling costume, while caps and straw hats, with other holiday attire, are adopted by the great majority. The ladies are allowed to put up their sunshades, if they wish, and everybody is permitted to do as he or she desires. The graves form the seats. Some of the more adventurous perch themselves on the headstones, while others lay full length on the grass mounds, many of which are unadorned with names of any kind. The rector, the Rev. J. Morgan, has a loyal band of workers, who distribute the hymn-sheets, and also hand out cushions to the many ladies present. The congregation, which often numbers a couple of thousand, forms the choir.
One of the most pleasing parts of the service is the taking up of the offertory. This is chiefly done by boys, many of them being the children of visitors, and the youngsters are only too delighted to take part in this novel duty.
When the congregation disperses comes the prettiest scene of all, as the peoplewend their way down the hill—a long, unbroken line, which seems to reach as far as the eye can distinguish.
derby(Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd.)THE RAILWAY MEN'S BREAKFAST SERVICE AT DERBY.
(Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd.)THE RAILWAY MEN'S BREAKFAST SERVICE AT DERBY.
(Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd.)
THE RAILWAY MEN'S BREAKFAST SERVICE AT DERBY.
How many people are there, aware of the fact that the railway town of Derby has a series of services at the breakfast hour for the men engaged in the engineering works? These are attended by two thousand men every morning, and owe their origin entirely to the idea of one man of very humble circumstances in life. Yet this quiet, unassuming man initiated one of the grandest services in the country, held not occasionally but upon every working day in the year.
Thirty years ago very few men were employed at the works of the Midland Railway, compared with the number who work there to-day. Many of the men, whose homes were too far distant to admit of their returning for breakfast, were obliged to bring this meal with them. George Wilkins, the founder of these mess-room services, was in charge of an engine-room, and in the winter, as it was a nice warm spot, some of the men asked Wilkins if they might have their meal by his fire. The engineer gladly consented, and, being a Christian man, he took the opportunity of reading the Bible to them.
This fact got noised abroad, and other men joined in. The reading was first of all supplemented by prayer and then by singing. The fame of the little service continued to grow, until at last Wilkins's engine-room was not nearly big enough, and the place of service had to be moved to an open shed outside. Forsome time this shed answered the purpose; but as the railway works grew, and more men were employed, the attendance at the service increased, until at last it was absolutely necessary to erect rooms especially for the service.
baptismA RIVER BAPTISM AT BOTTISHAM.(Photo: H. R. de Salis, Uxbridge.)
A RIVER BAPTISM AT BOTTISHAM.(Photo: H. R. de Salis, Uxbridge.)
A RIVER BAPTISM AT BOTTISHAM.
(Photo: H. R. de Salis, Uxbridge.)
First of all, grace is sung, and then the men set to work to eat their breakfast. Plates rattle and knives and forks jingle as the speaker for the day reads the Bible and gives a forcible address. But every word is heard, for the men are very attentive while eating their food. This is not surprising, for the services are taken by well-known laymen and clerics, and if a notable preacher is in the neighbourhood or about to pass through Derby, he is requested to break his journey and say a few words to the railway men at their breakfast. Many gladly do this if their engagements permit.
George Wilkins, the founder of these services, is dead, but a visit to Derby cemetery reveals the fact that his work has not been forgotten by those who now enjoy the fruits of his labour. Over his grave a fitting memorial has been placed, and upon it is inscribed the following: "In loving memory of George Wilkins, who died November 19th, 1872, aged fifty-three years. He was a faithful servant of the Midland Railway Company, and under God's guidance the beginner of a work for Christ which lives on still, though he is gone. Out of love for his character and gratitude for his work, his friends and fellow-workmen have erected this stone. His constant song was 'God is Love.'"
One does not hear very much nowadays of the open-air baptismal services which fifty years ago were so popular with the Baptist churches in the country districts. In Cambridgeshire, however, they still take place in many of the villages, and our illustration shows the service at Bottisham Sluice, which is situated near Waterbeach, the scene of the late Mr. Spurgeon's earliest labours. The minister stands in the river, and the candidate for church membership wades in to him and is immersed in the waters. A house near by is utilised for dressing purposes.
George Winsor.
coals
It was twenty years since I left Hambleton as the curate, and on the identical day I returned as vicar. I sat meditating in the little village inn, while a gig was being harnessed to draw me to the vicarage. I wondered how the place would look. I wondered whom I should see and recognise. Twenty years produce innumerable changes. Those whom I had known as boys would have grown to men, and men and women would have become silver-haired and wrinkled, and perhaps past the power of recognition, until a familiar voice in dubious accents should say, "I am such a one. Do you not know me?" To such a query I felt I should have to reply, "I knew you twenty years ago, and if you assure me you are the very same person, I know you now. But the identification must come from yourself."
"The gig's ready, sir," cried the man at the hotel parlour door, and in obedience to this admonition I shut up my tablets and took my seat in the vehicle. Off went the horse. I whizzed past all the familiar placesen route, and at last was landed safe and sound at the vicarage, but somewhat dazed and bewildered by the sudden panorama of a vanished past presented to me during the ride.
My experiences of the next few days proved to be exactly as I predicted. I saw innumerable people who turned out to be old acquaintances, though it was on the strength of their telling that I found them to be so. I should never have known them again in a crowd, nor would they, I imagine, despite their assertions, have known me. I saw old Haynes once again, Smart the gardener, England the bell-ringer who was so fond of frequenting "The Rose," Higgs, Nutcher, and many more.
Localities had not altered so much as people. I noticed that the old apple-tree in the vicarage garden bent down with the identical curve in its trunk, and seemed to have the exact number of apples upon it which it had when I left it. The vicarage had much altered, though, and so had its surroundings—several new cottages being built which quite shut out the pretty prospect from the study window which once was.
I found the circumstances of many of the inhabitants, like the "extension" of the vicarage, to have altered likewise. I found several people poor and reduced in circumstances whom I left fairly well-to-do. I met some people now in comparative opulence whom I remembered so poor that they were glad of doles from the curate. All this is a striking instance of a very great truth in English life, which is that circumstances, as generations pass, are on a sliding scale. If you look for the descendants of the nobility of some centuries ago, you will find them in the humblest cottagers of to-day. And if you search for the descendants of the former cottagers of our land, you will find them in its present nobility. Life fluctuates so in great cycles of time; and in the little cycle during which I had been absent from Hambleton, thus had existence fluctuated and changed.
Two visits in particular I intended to pay, namely, to the squire, and to Farmer Brownlow; and before many days elapsed I contrived to pay them. I saw the squire and the farmer, and I must confess I was very much struck by the change that had come over them both, but particularly Mr. Brownlow, whom I remember tall, erect, and jovial. I concluded there must have been more dissensions in his family since I last knew them, and that trouble was impending. I made such domestic inquiries as I could without receiving much satisfaction; but I took care to observe the greatest reticence about his son Arthur.
I must mention, in explanation of my last sentence, that when I was curate here Arthur Brownlow was a boy of about twelve or fourteen, and one of the brightest and most ingenuous lads it has ever been my lot to know. He was also blessed with a beautiful voice, and sang in the choir of the church all the solos in the anthems. Shall I ever forget the melodious tones that floated from that boy's lips? Neither I nor any who heard him can cease to remember them.
The popularity which the boy gained, the favour which he received from everybody and anybody, was so marked and so universal that it ultimately excited the envy and hostility of his elder brothers, who were young men of twenty and over, and who were, moreover, prompted to their animosity by the suspicion that their father intended to bequeath the farm (which was his freehold) and all his money to his favourite son, and leave them unprovided for.
Arthur's mother was Mr. Brownlow's second wife, who had been very dear to him, but had only lived about three years, and then had passed away, leaving as a legacy to her husband the little baby boy scarce two years old. The child became the farmer's idol, and was more and more worshipped as he grew to boyhood.
The elder sons being in the main clownish, stupid fellows, it was a common speech, half in joke, half in earnest, with the farmer:—
"You lads are strong of build and dull of wit. Why don't you exert your strength in other spheres than this, and leave the farm to little Arthur when he grows up? You, Hugh, might, for instance, go to America. William, you might take a piece of land of your own—you are old enough to manage it and strong enough to work it. You, Robert, should apply for the post of farm bailiff with Mr. Weatherstone or somewhere else; and you, Thomas, should go in for sheep farming in the colonies. There is your life mapped out for you all. It will be many years before I am laid on the shelf; and you are all getting too old to be anything but drags on me; while by the time I am about settling down in my chimney corner, to take my ease henceforth, Arthur will be just of an age to take the farm off my hands and commence the management of it. This will, moreover, keep the land in one piece, instead of chopping it up into five."
These words, I say, were often used by Mr. Brownlow in jest to his sons, who were a lazy lot, and who ought, moreover, to have been on their own hands by now. He possibly meant little more than jest, for he was not the sort of man to cut any of his family adrift at that time; but his sons chose to take the remarks in thorough earnest, and they one and all wreaked their bitterest spite on poor Arthur in consequence, till his life became almost intolerable to him.
He would often come to me in those days, and say:
"Mr. Calthorpe, I don't think I can stand it any longer, sir—at least, without telling father; and then, if I do that, I don't know what might be the consequences. He would certainly be so angry that he would send all my brothers away, which I should never wish to be done. Or, if he did not, they would persecute me still worse than they are doing. So between the two things I don't know what to do."
I strove as hard as I could to exhort the boy to patience, giving him what comfort I could, and I even offered to intercede between him and his brothers; but this proposal he would not listen to, and finally he decided that he would bear all in silence and would not tell his father. So that matters were at a deadlock, and remained so, until a new development began in the persecution of Arthur Brownlow by his brothers—which consisted in the deliberate attempt on their part to poison his father's mind against him by all sorts of stories and fabrications, and so get rid of him.
The diabolical attempt was made with greater and more elaborate cunning than I should have imagined such stupid young men as the Brownlows to be capable of. They not only carried on the plot themselves but got their neighbours—the young Spencers of Bray—to assist them, and from all sides Farmer Brownlow kept continually hearing of the precocious vices and bad manners of his darling son, which were at first discredited by him, but afterwards believed, and then greedily sought after.
"It is all this incense that comes to the boy along of his singing that is spoiling him," he said to me one day. "And you, Mr. Calthorpe, are partly to blame for encouraging it. What good can all that howling and caterwauling do the lad? Not a bit, that I can see, except that it takes him into company from which he would be better away. It stuffs the boy's head with nonsense, sir, and it will never bring him to any good."
It was in vain that I pointed out that there was practically no foundation for any of these charges against his son, who was oneof the model boys of the parish. The farmer regarded me as a biased witness, and kept his own opinion of the matter, which was more and more inimical to poor Arthur every day. Do what I could in the way of mediation, it was all no good. The ball once set rolling, continued to roll in the same direction, until one day I heard, to my unspeakable concern, that Arthur Brownlow had broken into his father's bureau and extracted five pounds from it, that the money had been found in his possession, and that he was now in the custody of the police.
disown"I disown him, sir."
"I disown him, sir."
"I disown him, sir."
I remember what a sensation the trial made at the assizes in the neighbouring town of C——. I appeared as a witness in the boy's behalf, and spoke up for him right gallantly; but all intercession and testimony were of no avail—the evidence was held to be quite conclusive. Although the father did not appear against him, the brothers did, and their testimony was sufficient to convict the boy, who was found guilty and sent to a reformatory for two years.
I saw him before he went, and he said to me—
"Tell father, sir, that I am unjustly condemned. Tell him it was a plot of my brothers, and that I would scorn to do such an action. But tell him, moreover, that after this disgrace I could never bear to show my face in the village again, and when I come out of this place I shall go beyond the seas or somewhere, but certainly shall never come to Hambleton, nor shall he be troubled by seeing my face again."
I wondered what effect this message would have on the old farmer, but to my surprise he received it with the greatest nonchalance.
"Aye, aye, sir," he said in reply, as with black face and lowering brow he sat in his parlour with his sons around him. "The lad has brought disgrace on the family. I disown him, sir. I knew what all this singing and caterwauling would lead to: I said so from the first, and my words have come true. He need never seek to see my face again until he has redeemed his character. Then I'll see him, but not till then. Meantime, as you are going to the reformatory occasionally to visit him, tell the lad—for, although a thief, he is a son of mine—that I will provide him with what money is necessary, when he leaves that home of thieves and vagabonds, to set up in something or to go away to some colony, or anything he likes; and then, as I say, when he has redeemed his character, he can come and see me—butnot till then. Tell him he shall have the money, sir, when he wants it; but tell him that till he has redeemed his character I disown him."
The money, however, was never applied for by Arthur Brownlow. I saw him several times at the reformatory, and, indeed, tried to get him released on the ground of insufficient evidence, but in vain. When the end of his time came, he obtained some employment—I know not how—went to London, and then I lost sight of him; for a month or two afterwards I left my curacy in Wiltshire and took another in Northumberland.
I saw the Brownlows now for the first time since that event of twenty years ago. I was informed incidentally that they had never heard anything more of Arthur. "I suppose," said one of them, "he's gone to the bad long ago."
The old man in the chimney corner now white-haired and bowed down with age, suffered a wistful look to pass over his face occasionally, but that was all. No more was said, and no more did I say. In a short time I had forgotten the story of twenty years ago as completely as they had and as the village had; but there was one remark alone of that afternoon's conversation which dwelt in my mind: "I suppose he's gone to the bad."
"Gone to the bad!" Why, there was one thing plain.All the Brownlows seemed to have gone to the bad—not Arthur alone—for a more besotted, lazy-looking set of men it had never been my lot to see.
It is the experience of every clergyman, when he comes to a new parish, that he can soon find by a sort of intuition where the troublesome spot in that parish is likely to be; and I very soon knew by instinct that the troublesome people in my parish would be the Brownlows—as was amply proved immediately after my arrival. Scarcely a day passed but one or other of them was at the vicarage. Now it was Robert—now it was Hugh—now it was Thomas. One came requesting me to go to see their father, who was "in dreadful low spirits." Another told me they had a horse for sale, and asked me if I would like to buy it. The third, Thomas Brownlow, wanted to borrow a little money of me; and this was the first actual hint I got of the hazardous state of their affairs.
"No, Thomas," I said, "I cannot lend you that money; for, in the first place, it is your father, not you, who ought to have asked for it, if the object is to make repairs on your farm; and, in the second place, I think I am considerably poorer than you. A well-to-do farmer has considerably more cash than a poor parson, and so for the second reason I must absolutely decline."
But this rebuff produced no diminution in the importunity of the Brownlows, which at last culminated in the appearance of the eldest brother and the father one day at the vicarage, when they told me, with much display of emotion, that the farm was heavily mortgaged, and, indeed, had been so for some time, and that the mortgagee, to whom no payments had been made for some time past, threatened to foreclose. Could I therefore either lend them the money, or get it from a friend, or ask the squire to oblige them, or, in fact, help them in any way whatever?
At the moment I could think of no way in which I might be of service to them in the manner indicated; but as, despite their importunity, I was sincerely sorry for them, I said I would turn the matter over in my mind, make inquiries, and let them know by the morrow if I could do aught for them.
The same afternoon my old college friend, Vincent Harrowby, who was vicar of a neighbouring parish, drove over to see me, and dine with me. It was the first time we had met for twenty years or more, and it was to celebrate our meeting that I had given orders to my housekeeper to prepare a somewhat elaborate repast in his honour and for our mutual delectation. As we sat over dessert, Harrowby talked of a score of subjects to which I paid a vague and partial attention; but at last, as his "inextinguishable tongue," as we used to call it at college, kept up its eternal stream of talk, I found myself listening with rapt attention to what he was saying, which sounded incredible to my ears.
"You remember that young choir boy of yours, Arthur Brownlow?" Harrowby was remarking. "Well, I saw him some years ago—about ten years, I think—and he had developed then into a man of means. He had plenty of money, I was told, and was in every respect a fine fellow. I often wondered what it was in his private history which you used to allude to in such a guarded manner——"
But before my friend had been able to finish his sentence I, to his great surprise, brought down my fist upon the table with the remark—
"The very man that is wanted! Where does he live, Harrowby, and what is his address?"
"As to that," replied my friend, with a look of amused surprise, "I cannot tell you to a street now. But I suppose he will be somewhere in the neighbourhood where I knew him, and that was in such and such a street, Bloomsbury" (naming it), "where he was practising as a solicitor. Doubtless he may have changed his residence, but Bedford Row ought to know him."
I then briefly explained to my friend thecircumstances which would make Arthur Brownlow's appearance at the present juncture a godsend for the distressed family; for I must add that one or two of the sons were married and had families, on which innocents, even more than on the men, the blow would fall.