THE EVENING SCHOOL.
"YOU have never been here before, I think?" said Mr. Aylmer. He had a pleasant voice, and, curious to say, it sounded familiar to Roger, though he was sure he had never seen Mr. Aylmer before.
"No, sir; I never heard of it before."
"A stranger here, I suppose?"
"Not exactly, sir."
"Tell me your name, that is, if you wish to attend here regularly. I keep school here for two hours every evening except Saturday."
"Oh, I should like that well! What do they teach here, sir?"
"They, means me," said Mr. Aylmer, laughing. "I have no help as yet. I teach whatever my lads want to know, and some of them have had more education than others. What do you wish to learn?"
"To understand the Bible and to keep accounts," replied Roger, with all the promptitude of one whose mind is made up.
Mr. Aylmer looked curiously at him.
"Tell me your name," said he, "and your age."
"Roger Read, sir; and I'm going on seventeen."
"And your employment? Are you in any of the shops here?"
"No; at least, yes. I keep a shop. I'm a fishmonger," answered Roger with some pride.
Mr. Aylmer at first thought that this was meant as a joke, and was not sure that he liked it. But Roger looked so quiet and grave that he gave up that suspicion, and said gravely,—
"Were you born a fishmonger?"
"Why, no, sir!" Roger said, laughing. "What do you mean?"
"You are so young to be in trade on your own account, that I want to know if it really is so, and how it came about."
"I have a shop in Cecil Street, and there's no one but myself. But I was born down in Devonshire, and my grandfather, Nicholas Read, was gamekeeper at Sir Carew Shafton's place near Bideford town."
Mr. Aylmer looked again at him, and said, "What was the Vicar's name?"
"The Reverend George Aylmer, sir."
"And I am his son, and you are the boy about whom Sir Carew was so unhappy, because, when your poor father's death became known to him, he could not find you. One of my brothers, who is in London, is on the look-out for you still, for all I know. I thought there was a touch of old Devon in your voice. Why did you not write to Sir Carew?"
Roger opened his eyes wide.
"Why, sir, he told me, if I went to my father, he would never have anything to say to me again! And I thought he meant it too. But I've done very well without his help."
"Ah, well! He'll be glad to know that," said Mr. Aylmer drily. "Now I must waste no more time, but when school is over, I must have a talk with you. Do you know anything of arithmetic? I'll set you to work at once."
"And to think you're one of the Vicarage young gentlemen!"' said Roger. "Master George, I'm sure; Master Fred was not so tall."
"Master George it is. Here's a slate and here's a book. Look over the book, and I'll come presently and see how much you know."
"I could tell him that now," thought Roger. "'Nothing' is easy said. I'll just begin at the beginning and learn it right off."
Mr. Aylmer soon found that he had a good pupil in Roger Read—good in a way. Roger spared no pains to learn what he wanted to know; but anything of which he did not see the practical use, he would not learn at all.
History! Of what use would history be to him? Mr. Aylmer said nothing for a long time: all that winter Roger worked away at arithmetic, book-keeping, writing, and his Bible. Before summer came, he could write a fair business hand, was a tolerable accountant, and could write without errors in spelling. His business was thriving, his time was fully occupied, and he was very happy.
No one would ever take Jack Sparling's place in his affections; but he was beginning to regard Mr. Aylmer as a friend, and to love him; and something to love was a great blessing to poor lonely Roger—greater than he knew it to be.
May was a week old, and one Saturday afternoon, Roger was putting up his shutters when some one touched him on the shoulder.
"Oh, Mr. Aylmer! Is that you?"
"It is; and I have come to talk to you. Shall I go down with you to your kitchen, or will you come out for a walk?"
"Whichever you like, sir. If you're not tired, it is pleasanter out than in my kitchen."
"Very good; follow me up to the station. I have a message to leave there."
Roger hastened to finish his work; and having made himself very neat and scrubbed his face and hands until they were crimson, he took his cap and set out for the station. Very soon he and Mr. Aylmer were going along a country road at a great pace.
"There's a wood out here," said Mr. Aylmer, "where I expect to get some primroses. Roger, I think you used to play cricket down in Devonshire?"
"Oh, yes, sir; you see, I had so little to do."
"Well, I'm going to set up a cricket club here, and I count on you as one of my best members. There'll be a yearly subscription, but it will be small. Mr. Dunlop has given us the use of a very nice field. It is easier to find a good flat field here than at home, Roger."
"Well, yes, sir. But don't count on me, Mr. Aylmer, I couldn't spare the time."
"Roger, when I urged you last week to join my English History class, you said the same thing."
"It is quite true, sir. I've got on wonderful, I know; but I have my rent to make up, and I have to put by for the furniture of the two rooms upstairs, and I have to live. And all that won't be done by pleasuring."
"Do you know what the boys call you, Roger?"
"Old Hard-as-nails," said Roger, laughing.
"And you're a little proud of the name? So I see. And they complain that you won't make friends with any of them, but keep altogether to yourself, and work morning, noon, and night."
"So I do, and so I ought! Do you remember my father, sir? He was the cleverest man I ever knew, and yet for want of sticking to his work, see how things went with him. I don't mean to end as he did."
"Very good. But if my dear old father, instead of being a hearty and a temperate old gentleman, bless him! had died, let us say, of over-eating himself, would you advise me to try to live without eating at all?"
"That's not at all the same thing," said Roger.
"I am not so sure of that. Most people divide a man into body, soul, and spirit; but, for my own convenience just now, I divide him into soul, brains, and heart, his body being the house in which these live. And if he doesn't take care of the house, the lodgers suffer for it. Now you, Roger, are neglecting the house, and taking care of only one of the lodgers."
"Which, sir?" said Roger, laughing.
"Your soul; yes, I am sure you are at heart a Christian; and that being the case, I expect you to listen to me when I give you a lecture, which I am going to do forthwith. Here's a very convenient wall, and we'll sit down and have it out. Let me see, how did I mean to begin? Oh, what was Mr. Dunlop's text last Sunday, Roger?"
Roger looked a little surprised and puzzled, but replied,—
"'Seek the peace of the city whither I have caused you to be carried away captives, and pray unto the Lord for it; for in the peace thereof shall ye have peace.'"
"Yes. Well, what did he say?"
"He spoke a good deal of the Prophet Jeremiah, and what a sad life he had; and so he had, poor man, though I never thought of it before. Then he told us who the people were who were to seek the peace of the city: what's this he called it?"
"Babylon."
"Yes—and then he said, that if the Jews, being no better than slaves and captives, were to seek the peace of that city, how much more should men seek the peace of England, their own native country, where all have rights and privileges and all are free! And he gave a lot of texts, more than I could remember afterwards, but I know he said that the Lord Himself loved His native country, for He wept over Jerusalem."
"Yes. Now, to whom do you suppose Mr. Dunlop was speaking?"
"He said, to all men. But when he began to talk about votes, I didn't understand him."
"Because of your ignorance, Roger. You know nothing about the past of your native land, nor even what is going on at this present time. But you know what a vote is, don't you?"
"I believe I do, sir. As to all that about my native land, I don't see what business I have with it."
"Well, Mr. Dunlop said that the time is coming when every man, or nearly every man, in England will have a vote. And he said that if people used that power well and conscientiously, it would be seeking the peace of the country. Now, you are sure to be a rich man, Roger; one of these days, you'll have a vote. If you knew something of the history of your country, you'd be in a position to use that vote intelligently and to help others to do the same. If you don't, you'll just be taken in by fine words and false promises, and you'll follow with others like a flock of sheep. Therefore I say that, whether you feel the want of it or not, you are bound as a Christian man to—join my English History class."
Roger laughed.
"I knew that was coming!" said he.
"That's one reason. Another is for your own sake. You have plenty of brains, but you are trying to starve them. You want to learn only what you can turn to immediate use and profit. Now that you have learned all the arithmetic you want, what are you going to do in the long evenings? If you'll learn other things, you'll soon get a taste for reading, and I can lend you books. If you don't care for reading—well, indeed, Roger, I don't like to think what may be the end of those long, lonely, stupid evenings."
"That's true," Roger admitted. "Before I began to go to the classes, I was almost mad with the long time, and nothing to do."
"I know it. And by degrees, either you must give in and find something to do, or it will be found for you. You know the old hymn,—
"'Satan finds some mischief stillFor idle hands to do.'
"And if I had written that hymn, I should have added, 'Also for idle brains.'"
"Well, Mr. Aylmer, I'll come!" said Roger, laughing again. "I won't keep my brains idle."
"Or feed them with only one kind of food, of which of course they would get very tired. And a tired brain, weary with harping on one idea, is no joke. That is what fills our mad-houses, the doctors say. So much for your brain.
"Now for the third lodger. Why don't you make friends with some of my lads? There are a few that I can understand not liking; though, mind you, if you could help them to improve, and don't, you are leaving a duty undone. But Robert Brown and John Meyler, and one or two more, would be good friends for you through life, and you would be the better for their companionship even now."
"But if I get mixed up with a lot of fellows, I shall be losing time, Mr. Aylmer."
"Do you call our walk this evening a loss of time?"
"No! Oh no, sir, I always know I shall get good by being with you."
"That's a great compliment, my dear boy, and a sincere one, I know. But now, are you not aware that what you have said is another proof of what I am trying to make you see—that you want to live altogether for yourself? You think, and plan, and work—all for what? You would get this good at least from making friends with lads of your own age and position; you would find your level, and cease to think of nothing but Roger Read, Fishmonger."
A short silence followed this home-thrust.
"Have I offended you, Roger?"
"No, sir," said Roger in a low voice. "It is true. Jack warned me that I must guard against that. Yet, sir, I do try to be kind to any one that is in want."
"My boy, I know you do. Did I not hear only yesterday that you have taken that poor old Betty Price, the fishwoman, to be your servant, only because she is no longer able to trudge about with her basket? And what I like so much is, that you never speak of these things. But there is something more wanting; you must come out of your shell, and realize that we have duties to our equals and to ourselves. If you don't, Roger, you'll never become more than half a man. And I want you to be a true man—body, soul, and spirit all at their best, so that our Lord may have a trained soldier in His service."
"I'll do whatever you tell me, Mr. Aylmer, I know you are right."
"Then you'll subscribe to my Cricket Club, and come every Wednesday and Saturday evening to help me to teach those who know nothing about it. And that brings me round to my fourth and last head. You know I divided you into four at the beginning, and I have disposed of the three lodgers. Now for the house, Roger, you don't look half so well as you did the evening you astounded me by proclaiming yourself a fishmonger."
"No, I am not; I miss the journey to and from Sandsea, and the pure salt breezes. But I can't go back to the old way now; my business has outgrown that."
"The cricket, and good long walks when you can spare time, will do just as well. By the way, we ought to be walking homewards. No primroses for me to-night; but if you keep your word, Roger, I shall not mind that."
"No fear, sir, I'll keep my word, and I'll try to get out of my shell."
It was not long before Roger felt the benefit to both mind and body which followed upon this determination. He was a clever, thoughtful fellow, and the study of the history of his native land led on to other studies; in fact, he became so fond of reading, that his evenings seemed as much too short as once they had seemed too long. He also took so kindly to cricket that the two evenings in the week were not grudged to it.
But it was a good long time before he succeeded in being on frank and friendly terms with the lads he had so long kept at a distance. They did not like him nor wish for his company. But he succeeded in time, thanks, partly, to a lecture Mr. Aylmer gave to Robert Brown; and he became popular when they knew him better, and he was much happier when he had "got out of his shell."
And his business did not suffer by all these other interests; he attended to it so thoroughly, and was so honest and trustworthy, that when a new fishmonger's shop, with marble slab, gold lettering, and every modern improvement, was opened in Kingsmore, the owner got so little custom that he was obliged to close the shop in a few months.
Now it happened, oddly enough, that this shop also belonged to Mr. George Rider; and Roger at once wrote to ask leave to exchange the house he was in for this far better one, as he was quite able to pay the higher rent.
Having got Mr. Rider's consent to this arrangement, he made a fair offer to the disappointed tradesman for the shop fixtures, and moved into his new premises as soon as his name, in all the glories of gold and scarlet, had replaced that of the original owner.
So it came to pass, that at one-and-twenty, Roger Read was the occupant of one of the best shops in Kingsmore, doing a good business, laying by a little every year, and leading a very healthy, happy life—and all because he attended to his grandfather's maxim, and never lost a chance.
JACK SPARLING.
ABOUT a year had passed since Roger moved into his new shop, and his prosperity had known no check.
Between work, friends, books, and helping Mr. Aylmer in the evening school, his hands, head, and heart were all occupied. There was a junior class in the evening school now, composed of errand boys, crossing-sweepers, telegraph boys, and others whose days were occupied, and Roger and his friend Richard Wilson, son of Mr. Wilson, of the Post Office, taught this class turns about, thus setting Mr. Aylmer free for the elder lads.
The Wilsons were very kind to Roger, and when their eldest boy finally left school, they often asked him to their house, feeling that he was a very safe companion for their boys. Indeed, Roger had used his opportunities so well that he was now a fairly educated man; and a real desire to be kind and courteous to every one made him a well-mannered man too.
All this time, amid all his interests, Roger had not forgotten his first and best friend, Jack Sparling. He had written several times to the address Jack had given him, but his letters were returned, marked, "Gone away and left no address."
Then Roger wrote to Mr. Avery, addressing his letter to the care of Messrs. Waring & Co.; but he got no answer, though the letter did not come back. He often thought of taking a holiday and going to Birmingham in search of Jack; but he was so busy that somehow time slipped away, and this holiday never was taken.
But now something happened which at once stirred up Roger's memory of the time when he had come, hungry and friendless, to the "first cutting" of the Sandsea Railway, and opened to him a chance of hearing something of his dear old friend. The single line of rails to Sandsea was no longer sufficient for the increased traffic, and a second was to be laid down. And soon Roger heard that the contract for laying the rails was undertaken by Waring & Co., the firm in whose service Avery and Sparling had come there some years before. As soon as he knew that the work was begun,—at the Sandsea end of the line, as before,—he went down one evening to Sandsea, and set out to meet the men as they came home from work.
"How well I remember that day!" he said to himself. "It was just here that Mrs. Avery hurt herself—how the town has grown, for there were no houses here then! That sprain of poor Bess Avery's ankle was a fine piece of luck for me, though that is a heathenish way of talking of it. Why, they are collecting their tools in the very same place! There is the lorry, all just the same! Oh! I wonder, shall I have Jack by his strong hand,—such a grip,—in a few minutes? I feel as if I were in a dream, and that presently I shall wake up and find the dinner basket on my arm, and feel the queer sinking that came over me when I saw the food. It was the last time I ever was hungry—more than is pleasant. I mean."
Here he reached the scene of action. The lorry had received its load, and a good many of the men were sitting on it; but seeing a stranger, they waited to see what he wanted. There were many strange faces, one or two who might be acquaintances a little altered, but only two about whom Roger felt no doubt, and neither of these was Jack Sparling. Walking up to the stout man in white flannels, he held out his hand, saying,—
"Mr. Avery, I can't mistake you! And that's Easy Deasy, isn't it?"
Avery looked at him, and said,—
"You have the advantage of me, sir."
While Deasy jumped off the lorry, a fine, tall strapping fellow, with a magnificent red beard, and exclaimed in a voice which had lost none of its brogue,—
"Boys honey! I hope he ain't some one I owed a few pence to when I was here long ago!"
"Not a penny. Larry, don't you know me?" said Roger, laughing. "Mr. Avery, where is Jack Sparling?"
Avery started and looked again.
"You don't mean to say as you—"
"It's himself—Roger Read," shouted Deasy. "And it's meself that's proud to see you, Roger. We were talking of you this very day, and I was wondering if I could find out what was become of you. But, Roger, you're quite a gentleman, now I look at you!"
"Not much of that," Roger answered; "but I've done very well. I have a shop in Kingsmore now. You come over and see me some evening, Deasy. But—"
"A shop!" said Deasy. "Do you mean, a shop of your own?"
"Yes, a fishmonger's shop. But I want to—"
"Well now, boys,"' interrupted Deasy with comical gravity, "I was telling you this very morning of the good turn Roger did me, and how 'twas the making of me; but I'm not so sure now that I'm grateful to him. It seems to me that I oughtn't to have changed places with him. He's had the best of it by far."
The men laughed, and one of them said,—
"Much good you'd ha' done, left to shift for yourself, Easy Deasy! Mr. Read, you mind me, don't you? Jem Bowles—don't you remember?"
Roger remembered very well, but remembered nothing to Mr. Bowles' advantage; besides, he was surprised to see that Avery had walked off towards Sandsea, as if to avoid him.
"Is Jack Sparling not with you?" said he anxiously to Deasy.
"Jack Sparling! I haven't heard the sound of his name I don't know when—lost sight of him, I have. Roger, will you walk back to Sandsea with me?"
"No, I must catch up Avery; he surely can tell me more about Jack than you know."
"He'll tell you more than you care to hear," muttered Deasy, as Roger sped away; "but maybe he won't choose to tell him at all. I believe in my heart he's ashamed. I always did think so."
Roger heard nothing of this. He ran after Avery, and soon overtook him.
"I want to ask you about old friends, Mr. Avery; your wife, who was so good to me, and Jack Sparling! He's not with you now, Deasy says."
"My missis is right well, thank ye—well and hearty,—but there's too many of us now for her to be coming away from home with me. We have six now, four boys and two girls."
"But Jack, where is Jack, Mr. Avery?"
"Well, I don't know that I can tell you," said Avery slowly. "Jack met with an accident, and left the place. He'd got a situation in the establishment, you know, he were such a steady old chap, poor Jack! And there was an accident—boiler bursted and killed two men and hurt a many, and poor old Jack were badly hurt. Might better ha' been killed outright."
"Oh, and to think I never knew—did you not get a letter from me? Where is he, Mr. Avery—you surely must have some idea where he is?"
"I really can't say—I never had no letter. The truth is, blame was laid upon Jack about the accident. He certainly made a mistake—he was never a very bright fellow, you know—and he certainly opened a valve that should ha' been shut, and shut one that should ha' been opened. The coroner's 'quest laid the blame to him, but it was well known 'twas only a mistake. Still, the rule of the firm is, that a man forfeits his pension."
"For a mere accident? I call that hard lines! But you didn't lose sight of him at once; where did you see him last?"
"In the hospital."
"And not after he came out?"
"No; I was away on a job, as it might be this here."
"And you are sure you know nothing more of him? My dear, good old Jack, I must find him, no matter how long it takes me. Deasy may be able to tell me something more."
He was turning to go in search of Deasy, when Avery said,—
"Look here, Roger. You've risen in the world, and are well thought of, I make no doubt. You look like a gentleman. You take my advice, and make no inquiry about poor old Jack."
"Mr. Avery, if every workman on the line, on every line in England, told me that Jack Sparling had done anything to be ashamed of, I shouldn't believe it! I do believe you know where he is; tell me at once, and have done with it. Find him I will, with your help or without it."
"Well, you were always obstinate, and it's no affair of mine—I s'pose I must."
"Must what? Tell me where to find him? Why on earth should you keep it back? What is the matter with you? Why, man, you look for all the world as if you were ashamed of yourself!"
"Well, I ain't, then!" said Avery sulkily. "I said then, and I say now, 'Charity begins at home;' you're a great one for proverbs, and that's a good one. It were the only difference Bess and me ever had, but I ain't, ashamed; she's only a woman, and women are some of 'em so soft, they'd take the bit out of their own mouth to give it away. If you must know, then—Jack had to go to the workhouse, and he was drafted off to his own native place, and I don't know where that is."
If Tom Avery really was not ashamed of himself, his countenance sorely belied him.
Roger gazed at him for a few minutes in horror and amazement, and then suddenly sat down on a pile of sleepers and cried like a baby.
"Oh, Jack, Jack! And I so well off and happy, never thinking, never doing more than writing a bit of a letter, I that owed him so much! Go on, Tom Avery, I see plain enough you did get my letter, and were ashamed to answer it, but I'm not the man to reproach you. Bad as you may be, I've been worse. I ought to have known there was something wrong."
Avery stood, doubtful, for a few moments, and then walked on, muttering,—
"I ain't a bit ashamed, 'Charity begins at home;' but if that young chap goes to Birmingham on his search, I do hope he won't come across Bess, I don't want to have her at me again."
Roger presently recovered himself and made the best of his way back to Kingsmore. He went at once to Mr. Aylmer, to consult him as to the best means of tracing Jack Sparling to his present abode. Mr. Aylmer said that the officials of the Birmingham Workhouse would have some record of the transaction; so, having provided as well as he could for his business during his absence, Roger started off on his journey the very next morning.
He had some difficulty when he reached Birmingham, having neglected to ascertain the exact date of Jack's admission to the workhouse. But he knew by this time how to get people to oblige him; and his Kingsmore friends would have thought he had gone mad, could they have seen how half-crowns and shillings slipped out of his hand. But he grudged neither money nor trouble, and at last ascertained that Jack had been passed on to Newcastle-on-Tyne, for which place he took the very next train.
"Man called John Sparling, sent on from Birmingham? No need for me to look at my books, sir; I know him well. Do you want to see him?" said the Master of the Newcastle Workhouse, who seemed a good kind of man.
"He is out; he likes being sent out with a message, and I sent him to post some letters, but he'll go round by St. Anne's Churchyard, for I told him he needn't hurry. Some one he knew is buried there. He won't be too long, he's such a good old fellow."
"Old!" Roger repeated. "He can't be old! Well, I suppose I cannot miss the way if I go to meet him?"
"Stay, sir, there's some one at the gate—yes, it is he. Sparling! Come in here."
The room in which the master had received Roger looked out into the outer court; and the big gate, which made Roger think of a prison, had just been opened to admit some one, but surely not Jack! Jack's hair and beard had been as black as jet, this man's hair was white, and he had but one arm, and walked with a crutch. Roger gazed in dismay; but next moment the man was in the room, and a deep voice said,—
"Did ye call me, sir?"
Roger knew him now. He hurried over to him.
"Oh, Jack—Jack Sparling! I have found you at last."
Sparling looked at him, at first only surprised, then with a sudden light in his eyes,—
"Well to be sure!" he said. "If it ain't the boy!"
Roger broke down utterly. The thin, worn face, with the queer grimace instead of a smile, the grey hair, but the grave grey eyes with the old affectionate look, and then the grasp of the big hand; but it was not quite such a grasp as in the days of old.
"What's the matter, boy? Don't be making a fool of yourself," growled Jack.
"I won't. Oh, Jack, I've had such a search for you."
And Roger quickly told him how he had heard from Avery about the accident, and then set out to find him.
image007
"Ah," said Jack mournfully, "I were very unfortunate, and very foolish too, to leave the work I could do as well as most, for work that wanted brains more than strength. But my Master knows I did my best, and that what happened, though it was my fault, was only a mistake, not a sin. But it is only fair that I should bear the blame, and they're very kind to me here, very kind."
"For all that, Jack, you won't sleep here another night! I have prospered beyond my hopes; and I have a comfortable home, a good business, and you will come home with me, and I'll take the best of care of you. I owe you so much, Jack—if I gave you every penny I have, I never could repay you—what you did for me was above all price."
But at first Jack would not hear of it; and Roger had to argue and persuade, and at last succeeded only when he bethought himself of saying how useful a really trustworthy assistant would be. Jack gave in at last.
"I would not, if I thought I'd live to be a burden," he said. "But I don't look to ever being an old man, you know. By the time you're ready to look-out for a wife, I'll be away. God bless you, Roger, I'll go with you."
Roger went out into the yard, where he found the master dawdling about, waiting for him. After a short consultation with him, he went into the town and repaired to a shop where they sold ready-made clothes, and purchased a modest outfit for his friend. Returning to the workhouse with his purchases in a neat box, he made Jack put off the grey uniform of the workhouse, and put on a decent suit of dark cloth, in which Jack declared shyly that he felt like a parson; but Roger could not help assuring him that he certainly did not look like one.
There was now but one thing to be done before they set off for home; it was to visit a certain grave with a small stone cross at its head, in St. Anne's Churchyard. Roger asked no questions—he knew that Jack's faithful heart was saying farewell to his long-lost Mary. Jack stood and gazed, and said, "My lass!" and that was all. He was always rather silent, and Roger took care not to speak to him until he seemed inclined for it. Next day they reached Kingsmore.
Great was the surprise of all who knew Roger Read when they made acquaintance with the friend he had brought home to live with him. Just at first, no one, except Mr. Aylmer, liked him very much. Mr. Aylmer took to him at once, and always said he was the truest, humblest Christian he had ever known.
Jack delighted in telling the story of Roger's search for him. He had no false shame about being found in the workhouse, or about being dependent on Roger now. He had worked when he could. The Master knew he couldn't work now, and put it into the boy's heart to love him.
And although deeply grateful for the love and tenderness which "the boy," as he called Roger, showed to him, he never failed to tell him plainly when he thought him in the wrong. He very soon saw that Roger's danger lay in the direction of pride and self-satisfaction, and that he was very hard upon the three boys he now had in his employment; and he pointed out these faults with unsparing frankness.
"Roger," he said to him once, "you'll be a Pharisee if you don't mind; and except me and Mr. Aylmer, everybody is trying to help you on to be one. But I'm bound to tell you the truth, for it is all I can do in return for all you are to me."
And Roger proved what a sound-hearted, honest young fellow he was, for he listened to all these truths, laid them to heart, and loved his friend all the better for telling them.
One day, not very long after Jack's arrival, he was sitting in the shop while Roger wrote some business letters in the parlour behind it. A man came quickly along the street and turned into the shop, as if in haste. He did not look up, but said, "Is this Roger Read's shop?"
"Yes, I'll call him. Roger, you're wanted."
Roger came out. The visitor was Tom Avery.
"Well, Roger," he said, still keeping his eyes cast down, and speaking in a sulky, injured tone, "our job is done, and I'm off to-morrow: I just thought I'd look in and ask you, did you ever hear—but, indeed, I suppose you never inquired—you thought better of it, no doubt, when you took time to consider."
"You mean about Jack? No, I didn't, I was only too glad of the chance to show him a little gratitude. Jack—here's our old friend, Mr. Avery."
Avery looked up now, and his face grew crimson. Jack held out his hand at once, saying,—
"I didn't know ye, Avery! And how's Bess, and the young ones?"
"They're well, thank ye. Jack, I'm glad to see you here—I'm main glad you're so comfortable and well off. I always knew Roger was a good fellow—and I hope, Jack—"
"Well?" said Roger. "Go a-head—what do you hope?"
"That—that there's no ill-feeling between us, Jack. You know 'twasn't with me as 'tis with Roger. I had wife and children to think of, and—'Charity begins at home.'"
"All right," said Roger; "but you'd do well to ask yours to take a walk occasionally."
And he marched back into his parlour without saying good-bye.
"I—hope there's no ill-feeling," repeated Avery, awkwardly.
"I hope not, Tom. There's none on my side. Mind you, I can't tell a lie, and I did feel that you might ha' given me house-room when I left the hospital, till I could look about and see if I could earn my keep in any way. I won't deny that I thought, and that I think still, that you might ha' done that, and Bess was more than willing.
"But I wasn't the one you injured, Tom. The workhouse did me no harm, but you missed the doing of a kind act, and you know the Master would ha' reckoned it as done to Himself; and I somehow doubt you're not the happier for it. But as to forgiving you, I do that, Tom, hearty! Shake hands—and give my love to Bess, and tell her I live like a prince now, and am very happy and content."
Avery grasped the offered hand, and left the shop in silence.
"Is he gone?" said Roger, presently.
"He is, and you never said a kind word to him, and that wasn't right, Roger. You may do something wrong yourself one day, and if you get the measure you're inclined to give, you'll be in a bad way, boy."
For five years Jack Sparling lived with Roger, and those years made a great change in the young man. No one could be much with so thorough a Christian, and not learn from him, unless resolutely determined not to learn. And Roger, to use his own words, was "right glad of the chance, for I don't want to be a Pharisee."
But Jack never was strong after that terrible accident; and by degrees, he failed more and more, until at last even Roger had to see and own that his faithful friend was leaving him.
"Yes," said Jack, "'tis so, lad, I am going to the dear Master, so don't you fret, Roger. I shall see my lass soon; and I give you my advice, Roger, to look-out for a wife when I'm gone. There's that pleasant, rosy-cheeked lass, Mary Wilson—the Post Office people, you know, and they all like you well. She were telling me how she lost her shilling when she were a child, and how you found it; and it's my belief you'd have a good chance,—and you like a chance, you know,—of getting that girl, and she's a good girl—reminds me of my Mary, in her ways. Not in her looks, Mary never had that healthy colour in her face.
"You try for her, Roger,—don't settle down when I'm gone, all alone, and turn yourself into a mill for making money; you will, if you have no one to soften you a bit. It's your snare, Roger, and so I warn you of it. It's all very well to do the best you can for yourself in business, but you want to keep your heart sound too. The good Book says,—
"'Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.'
"If you set it only upon doing well in business, it will get as hard as a flint. Try to remember that it is by the Master's help you have got on so well. He has blessed you and helped you, because He loved you so that He died on the cross to save you. He wishes you to do to others what you have done to me. Let Him have the first claim on your love and service, and then learn fully to be unselfish by trying to win the love of Mary Wilson. Dear me, boy, how happy we've been together. But Mary has been waiting now a long time."
Roger did not argue the matter with him, but he privately told himself that he had as much chance of getting Mary Wilson as of marrying a princess, and at the same time, if he did not marry her, he did not think he would ever marry at all. And Jack Sparling had been dead a year and more before Roger began to think there might be a chance, and he was not the man to lose it, if so. He had buried dear old Jack in the Newcastle churchyard, beside his lass, and with his own hands he had laid the little picture the faithful fellow had so often looked at on his breast, as he lay in his coffin.
And the house was very lonely, and one could but fail. But Roger did not fail; Mary liked him, her brother was his friend, and her parents had the good sense to see that, however low down the ladder of life Roger Read began, his wife was likely to be a happy woman, truly loved and manfully cared for. And so there is a happy home in the neat rooms over the shop of "Roger Read, Fishmonger."
He never lost Jack Sparling's influence; and though to the end of life, he never willingly lost a chance, he yet kept the best chance steadily in view. As he prospered, in many quiet ways, he gave a helping hand to others. The words of the Bible that he loved to keep ever in his mind were,—
"'What shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?' and 'Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye did it unto Me.'"
And I will only, in conclusion, ask my readers to remember, that though in this story I have used the word Chance, because Roger used it, yet in truth there is no chance—no element of doubt, in the choice that concerns us all equally, and more than any earthly chance, be it never so favourable. Each must make the decision for himself or herself—must choose to serve God, and to believe in His Son—or to serve the world and the Prince of this world. But concerning the ends of these two roads, there is no chance—and so I sincerely hope that all who read this may say, "'As for me, I will serve the Lord.'"
THE END.
Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.