Chapter Nine.Crossbourne Annual Temperance Meeting.Week after week rolled by, and James Barnes continued firm to the pledge which he had signed in Thomas Bradly’s “Surgery.” And now the usual time for holding the annual meeting of the “Crossbourne Temperance Society” had come round, and a meeting was accordingly advertised to be held in the Town Hall. But mischief was apparently brewing; for all the bills announcing the meeting which were posted on the walls were either torn down or defaced the same night that they were put up,—a thing which had never happened before. So it would seem that the enemies of the temperance cause were prepared to offer more than ordinary opposition, and that very possibly they might try to spoil or interrupt the meeting itself.And the friends of the temperance movement in Crossbourne had not to look far to find the cause. There had been mutterings of a coming storm for some time past. The lovers of strong drink, supported by those who made capital out of their unnatural and ruinous thirst, had been laying plans and concocting schemes for thwarting the steady advance which temperance was making in the town. And now the sudden and shocking death of poor Joseph Wright, so far from teaching any of his old associates the lesson which God, who can bring good even out of man’s evil, would have had them learn from that frightful disaster, had only made them plunge more deeply into the slough of drunkenness; and so total abstainers and their principles got more abuse and hatred from them than ever. Consciencewouldbe heard for a little while, roused into utterance as it was by the death of their miserable companion; but they hated that inward voice—it exasperated them. Drink they would have, and cordially would they hate more and more all who would try, however gently and lovingly, to draw them away from the intoxicating cup. And now the desertion of James Barnes, as they considered it, to the enemy, made the fire of their wrath and indignation burn with a tenfold intensity.“We’re like to have hot work to-night, sir,” said Bradly to the vicar, as he sat in the vicarage study on the morning of the meeting talking over the arrangements for the evening.“I fear so,” said Mr Maltby; “so we must take proper precautions. I hear that the friends of poor Joseph Wright intend to muster in full force and spoil the meeting if they can. However, I have spoken to the police sergeant, and he will be there with one or two of his men to prevent any serious disturbance. You must see that they don’t turn off the gas, and get us into trouble that way.”“All right, sir,” replied Bradly, “we’ll take care about that; but I ain’t much afraid. There’s a deal of bluster among those chaps, but it don’t take much to empty it out of ’em. Somehow or other I think we’re going to have a good meeting after all.”Nevertheless, it was not without some considerable feeling of anxiety that the vicar entered the committee room of the Town Hall about a quarter of an hour before the time of commencement. He was accompanied by a brother clergyman from a distant county, who had brought a plain working-man with him from his parish. These were to be the chief speakers of the evening. Thomas Bradly was to bring James Barnes with him, and both were to take their places among the audience, but near the platform, so as not to attract more observation than necessary, at the first.The hall, which was a spacious and well-lighted building, began to fill as soon as the doors were opened. There was manifestly an unusual interest taken, not necessarily nor probably in the cause itself, but, at any rate, in the present meeting. The friends of Joseph Wright and their companions had made it publicly known, and a matter of open boasting, that they intended to be there; and this announcement was the inducement to a number of idle men and boys to attend the meeting in the hopes of having some diversion. But Thomas Bradly and his friends were quite equal to the occasion; they were fully alive to the intention of their adversaries, and acted accordingly. As the opponents of temperance entered the hall, members of the Temperance Society contrived to slip in with them, and so to distribute themselves over the seats that no large number of the other side could be gathered in a compact body together.By the time the minute-hand of the clock over the chairman’s seat had reached twenty-five minutes past seven—the meeting being advertised to begin at half-past seven—the hall was densely packed from one end to the other, the only unoccupied places being one or two seats close under the platform. Punctually at the half-hour the party from the committee room walked on to the platform, headed by the vicar; while at the same moment Thomas Bradly, followed by James Barnes, emerged from a side door near the platform, and the two friends placed themselves on two of the vacant foremost chairs. The entrance of these two parties was greeted by a roar of mingled cheers, laughter, and a few groans and hisses.Mr Maltby advanced to the front of the platform, and there was instantly silence. “Just one word, dear friends, before we commence our meeting,” he said. “I have such confidence in your manly English honesty and common fairness, that I am persuaded that, whether you agree with us or no, you will give myself and my friends a quiet and uninterrupted hearing. We are come here to try and do some good. Bear with us, then, and listen to us.”This short speech had the desired effect. There was indeed a grand effort made to obstruct and disturb on the part of the drinking faction; but it became apparent at once that the great bulk of the working-men present—though most had come chiefly with a view to be amused—were not at all disposed to allow the vicar and his friends to be hissed or shouted down. The few straightforward words just spoken aroused their better feelings, and the intended rioters felt that they must wait a little before attempting any further demonstration.Thankful for the success of his brief speech, Mr Maltby proceeded to open the meeting with Scripture and prayer as usual. All were very still; but as he rose from his knees his eyes fell upon a man who sat at the extreme end of the front bench to his right. That man was William Foster. Never had the vicar seen him before at any meeting where he himself was present; and as he took his seat in the chair, he whispered to his clerical friend, “Do you see that man at the extreme end of the front bench? I am afraid his being here to-night bodes us no good, for he is the leading infidel and mischief-maker in the place.”—“Indeed!” replied his friend; “well, let us hope the best. Perhaps the Lord will give us a word even for him to-night. At any rate, we have a noble and intelligent audience before us; and let us do our best for them, and leave the issue in higher hands.”—“Thank you,” whispered the vicar; “I feel ashamed of my want of faith. Doubtless all will be overruled for good.”He then proceeded to give a short address, in which, avoiding all harshness and bitterness of expression, he strove to leave on his hearers’ hearts the impression that love and nothing else constrained him and his fellow-workers in the efforts they were using to promote the spread of temperance in the parish and neighbourhood. The other speakers followed in the same strain; the working-man being able, in his rough-and-ready way, to carry with him the great majority of the meeting, so that a feeble attempt at disturbance from the opponents proved a decided failure.But now a strange stir and excitement rustled through the vast assembly as James Barnes, at the invitation of the vicar, mounted the platform, and stood unabashed before his fellow-townsmen. But scarcely had he begun to open his lips when a torrent of yells and shouts burst from a score or two of drunken throats; others cheered, many laughed, some shouted; then followed a thunder of clapping and stamping, whistling and shrieking, and it seemed for a few moments as though the triumph were to be on the side of disorder and intemperance. But, as a second whirlwind of uproar was beginning, the vicar again stepped forward, and, raising his right-hand as begging silence, smiled pleasantly on the excited crowd, while he placed his left hand on the shoulder of James Barnes, who stood his ground manfully. Then followed shouts of “Shame, shame!”—“Sit down!”—“Hold your noise!”—“Hearken Jim!” and the storm gradually subsided into a calm.“I’m one of yourselves,” began Jim bluntly, as soon as order was restored, and not in the slightest degree discomposed by this rough reception; “you shouldn’t make such a din. How’s a fellow to make himself heard? Why, it’s worse than half a dozen engines all whistling at once.” There was a buzz of amused satisfaction at this professional illustration, and James Barnes had got the ear of the meeting. “I’ll tell you what it is, friends,” he went on; “it’s true I ain’t much of a speaker, but I can tell you a thing or two about myself as may be useful. I’ve got my Sunday coat on to-night, and it’s my own, and it’s never been to the popshop. I couldn’t have said that a month ago, for I’d never a Sunday coat then. Another thing, I’m spending my own wages; that’s more nor I’ve done for many years past, for the devil’s been used to spend the best part of them for me and put ’em into the landlord’s till. Now I takes ’em to buy bread and clothes for the wife and children. Another thing, and better still, I’ve got one or two good friends as pulled me out of the mire, and won’t let me go. Tommy Tracks there, as you call him, he’s one of them; andyourgood friend the vicar,—for heisyour friend, think as you please,—he’s another. And, best of all, I’ve got a clear head and a clear conscience, and a hope of a better home by-and-by, and a Saviour above all to look to; and I shouldn’t have had none of these if I’d been going on in my old ways. Soyoumay laugh if you please when you say, ‘Jim Barnes has turned teetotaler;’ but I mean to sing when I says it, for it’s true, and he means to stick to it, with God’s help, all the days of his life.”Having delivered himself of this brief address, James Barnes hurried down from the platform, followed by a roar of hearty applause, which completely drowned the efforts of a few dissentient voices.The vicar was now just rising to call on another speaker to address the meeting, when his attention, as well as that of the whole audience, was turned to William Foster as he got up deliberately from his seat. Mr Maltby had watched him narrowly during the evening, and not without considerable anxiety and interest. Up to the close of Barnes’s speech Foster had apparently taken little or no interest in the proceedings; certainly he had not joined either in the applause or in the dissent. What was he now about to do? Turning to the vicar, amidst a breathless silence throughout the hall, he said, in a firm and clear voice, “Mr Chairman, may I say a few words to this meeting?” The vicar hesitated. Was this man going to spoil all? His eye at that moment caught Thomas Bradly’s. Thomas nodded to him, and then turned to Foster and said, “Get you on to the platform, William; the vicar and all the rest of us will give you a patient hearing, I’m sure.” Foster then mounted the platform, and stood for a moment facing the audience without speaking. He was very pale, and his voice trembled at first, but soon recovered its firmness as he spoke as follows:—“Mr Chairman and fellow-townsmen, I have not come here to-night to oppose the temperance movement, but quite the contrary. I am quite sure that movement has been doing good in this town, and is doing good still. You have only to look at Jim Barnes to see that. Everybody knows what he was, and everybody knows what he now is; there is no sham nor deceit in the matter. Now, whatever our creeds may be, whether we think alike in other things or not, there can be no two opinions about this matter with honest and reasoning men. The temperance movement is doing good, and we have before us a plain proof of it. Now, I am not here to-night merely to talk. I should not have come if that were all. I have come to act. I have professed to be a reasoning man, and to belong to a party that prides itself upon being governed by reason, and yet I have allowed myself to come more or less under the dominion of that strong drink which just turns a reasoning man into something far lower than an irrational brute. ‘Well, then,’ some of you might say, ‘can’t you exert your own will and give it up without coming to a temperance meeting to talk about it?’ Yes, I could; but that would be just merely doing good to myself. Now, I can’t help being aware that your chairman, the vicar of this parish, and his right-hand man, Thomas Bradly, are not content with being total abstainers for their own benefit, but are doing their best, spite of ridicule, opposition, and persecution, to get others to become abstainers also. They can have nothing to gain by this except the happiness of making others happy. I see this plainly; and my reason (theywould call it conscience, I suppose) tells me that, if I am a really honest and unprejudiced man, I ought to follow their example. I am here to-night to do it. I have other reasons besides for taking this course, but I do not think it necessary to mention them on the present occasion. I know what it will cost me to take this step, but I have well weighed the consequences and am prepared to accept them. Mr Chairman, I will sign the pledge to-night in your book, and join your society, if you will allow me.” Having spoken thus, William Foster quietly resumed his seat.The effect of this speech on the meeting was most overwhelming. Every word had been heard all over the hall, for Foster had a clear and powerful voice, and had spoken calmly and deliberately, as one who weighed every word and sentence carefully; and the silence while he addressed his audience had been almost oppressive. Was it possible that Foster could be in earnest? There was no mistake about it—every man was at once convinced of this from the vicar down to the most sottish of the anti-temperance gathering. Such a man as Foster would never have come forward in this way had he not had powerful and all-constraining motives to lead him to take such a step. When he sat down there was neither shouting nor laughter: the great body of working-men, including the obstructionists, seemed stupified; they looked at one another with open-eyed and open-mouthed wonder, and whispered their amazement and perplexity. Then the vicar, struck dumb for the moment by sheer astonishment, after exchanging with his brother clergyman on the platform a glance of deep thankfulness, rose, and addressing William Foster, said, “I cannot tell you, my friend, how truly glad I am to find that you have been guided to take such a step as you now contemplate; most cordially shall I receive your signature in our pledge-book, and welcome you to our society.” Then the crowd of hearers rose to their feet, and gave vent to their feelings in three hearty cheers; while the opponents of the cause made their way to the door as quickly as they could.The next minute Thomas Bradly stood by the vicar’s side, and all sat hushed in attention as he addressed the meeting. Tears were in his eyes, and half-choked was his voice as he began:—“Friends, I’ve been at many a temperance meeting in my day, but never at one that I shall remember like this. Some of us abstainers came here to-night with doubting hearts; it seemed as if the evil one was a-going to put a big stone or two in the way of the temperance cause, but instead of that he’s been and trod upon his own tail, as he often does. O bless the Lord for his goodness! We’ve had a mighty large stone took out of the way, instead of any new ’uns laid in our path. Ah! Why should we ever be fainthearted? The cause is a good cause, and itwillprosper, depend upon it. And now, friends, there’s many of you here to-night as came, I know, just for a bit of fun; you didn’t mean no harm, but you wouldn’t have minded a little bit of a laugh against us. But it’s turned out just the other way: you’ve given us a help, and stopped the mouths of them as would have upset our meeting; so let them laugh as wins. And now, friends, I want to say a word to you about our friend William here. We’re all thinking about him; he has come forward like an honest man to-night, and a right brave man too. I know he can’t have done it without having to pay for it. I know, and you know too, as it’ll not be all smooth work between him and his mates. Now, whether you like or don’t like what he has done to-night, you can’t help respecting him for it; so just keep your tongues off him when you meet him, and do him a kind turn if you can. He and I ain’t of one mind, you well know—at least we haven’t been; but he knows this, that in anything that’s good I’ll back him up through thick and thin if he’ll let me. And now, here’s a grand opportunity; just some of you chaps as have been cheering him like anything come up to the table and sign the pledge with him, and keep it by God’s help, and you’ll bless this night every day of your lives, and so will the wives and children.”There was a cheery response to this speech in many a hearty word of assent; and then the vicar closed the meeting, inviting any who were willing to come and sign. The crowded room was soon emptied of all but a very few, among whom were William Foster and about a dozen more of the working-men, who expressed their intention to sign with him. Foster himself signed his name with an unflinching hand, but said nothing. The vicar thought it wisest not to endeavour to draw him into conversation at this time, but with a kindly shake of the hand, and an expression of thankfulness at his joining the Temperance Society, bade him good-night.As the committee and the speakers were leaving the hall, the vicar kept Thomas Bradly back, and said to him: “This is wonderful indeed; it is the Lord’s doing, and is marvellous in our eyes. Now you must keep your eye, Thomas, on Foster; I think you will get at him at first better than I should be likely to do. You will be able to see just how the land lies, and I shall be ready to come in at any time; only with such a man we must use discretion, knowing what his antecedents have been.”“Ay, surely,” replied the other; “I’ll not let him go, sir, now that we’ve got hold of him—you may depend upon it. Oh! This is indeed what I never could have dreamt of. Well, we’ve had a grand night; and it’s a sign, I believe, as we’re going to have some rare bright sunshine on our temperance work.”“I trust and believe so, indeed,” rejoined Mr Maltby, and they parted.That meeting was never forgotten in Crossbourne, but was always spoken of as emphaticallythegreat Crossbourne Temperance Meeting.
Week after week rolled by, and James Barnes continued firm to the pledge which he had signed in Thomas Bradly’s “Surgery.” And now the usual time for holding the annual meeting of the “Crossbourne Temperance Society” had come round, and a meeting was accordingly advertised to be held in the Town Hall. But mischief was apparently brewing; for all the bills announcing the meeting which were posted on the walls were either torn down or defaced the same night that they were put up,—a thing which had never happened before. So it would seem that the enemies of the temperance cause were prepared to offer more than ordinary opposition, and that very possibly they might try to spoil or interrupt the meeting itself.
And the friends of the temperance movement in Crossbourne had not to look far to find the cause. There had been mutterings of a coming storm for some time past. The lovers of strong drink, supported by those who made capital out of their unnatural and ruinous thirst, had been laying plans and concocting schemes for thwarting the steady advance which temperance was making in the town. And now the sudden and shocking death of poor Joseph Wright, so far from teaching any of his old associates the lesson which God, who can bring good even out of man’s evil, would have had them learn from that frightful disaster, had only made them plunge more deeply into the slough of drunkenness; and so total abstainers and their principles got more abuse and hatred from them than ever. Consciencewouldbe heard for a little while, roused into utterance as it was by the death of their miserable companion; but they hated that inward voice—it exasperated them. Drink they would have, and cordially would they hate more and more all who would try, however gently and lovingly, to draw them away from the intoxicating cup. And now the desertion of James Barnes, as they considered it, to the enemy, made the fire of their wrath and indignation burn with a tenfold intensity.
“We’re like to have hot work to-night, sir,” said Bradly to the vicar, as he sat in the vicarage study on the morning of the meeting talking over the arrangements for the evening.
“I fear so,” said Mr Maltby; “so we must take proper precautions. I hear that the friends of poor Joseph Wright intend to muster in full force and spoil the meeting if they can. However, I have spoken to the police sergeant, and he will be there with one or two of his men to prevent any serious disturbance. You must see that they don’t turn off the gas, and get us into trouble that way.”
“All right, sir,” replied Bradly, “we’ll take care about that; but I ain’t much afraid. There’s a deal of bluster among those chaps, but it don’t take much to empty it out of ’em. Somehow or other I think we’re going to have a good meeting after all.”
Nevertheless, it was not without some considerable feeling of anxiety that the vicar entered the committee room of the Town Hall about a quarter of an hour before the time of commencement. He was accompanied by a brother clergyman from a distant county, who had brought a plain working-man with him from his parish. These were to be the chief speakers of the evening. Thomas Bradly was to bring James Barnes with him, and both were to take their places among the audience, but near the platform, so as not to attract more observation than necessary, at the first.
The hall, which was a spacious and well-lighted building, began to fill as soon as the doors were opened. There was manifestly an unusual interest taken, not necessarily nor probably in the cause itself, but, at any rate, in the present meeting. The friends of Joseph Wright and their companions had made it publicly known, and a matter of open boasting, that they intended to be there; and this announcement was the inducement to a number of idle men and boys to attend the meeting in the hopes of having some diversion. But Thomas Bradly and his friends were quite equal to the occasion; they were fully alive to the intention of their adversaries, and acted accordingly. As the opponents of temperance entered the hall, members of the Temperance Society contrived to slip in with them, and so to distribute themselves over the seats that no large number of the other side could be gathered in a compact body together.
By the time the minute-hand of the clock over the chairman’s seat had reached twenty-five minutes past seven—the meeting being advertised to begin at half-past seven—the hall was densely packed from one end to the other, the only unoccupied places being one or two seats close under the platform. Punctually at the half-hour the party from the committee room walked on to the platform, headed by the vicar; while at the same moment Thomas Bradly, followed by James Barnes, emerged from a side door near the platform, and the two friends placed themselves on two of the vacant foremost chairs. The entrance of these two parties was greeted by a roar of mingled cheers, laughter, and a few groans and hisses.
Mr Maltby advanced to the front of the platform, and there was instantly silence. “Just one word, dear friends, before we commence our meeting,” he said. “I have such confidence in your manly English honesty and common fairness, that I am persuaded that, whether you agree with us or no, you will give myself and my friends a quiet and uninterrupted hearing. We are come here to try and do some good. Bear with us, then, and listen to us.”
This short speech had the desired effect. There was indeed a grand effort made to obstruct and disturb on the part of the drinking faction; but it became apparent at once that the great bulk of the working-men present—though most had come chiefly with a view to be amused—were not at all disposed to allow the vicar and his friends to be hissed or shouted down. The few straightforward words just spoken aroused their better feelings, and the intended rioters felt that they must wait a little before attempting any further demonstration.
Thankful for the success of his brief speech, Mr Maltby proceeded to open the meeting with Scripture and prayer as usual. All were very still; but as he rose from his knees his eyes fell upon a man who sat at the extreme end of the front bench to his right. That man was William Foster. Never had the vicar seen him before at any meeting where he himself was present; and as he took his seat in the chair, he whispered to his clerical friend, “Do you see that man at the extreme end of the front bench? I am afraid his being here to-night bodes us no good, for he is the leading infidel and mischief-maker in the place.”—“Indeed!” replied his friend; “well, let us hope the best. Perhaps the Lord will give us a word even for him to-night. At any rate, we have a noble and intelligent audience before us; and let us do our best for them, and leave the issue in higher hands.”—“Thank you,” whispered the vicar; “I feel ashamed of my want of faith. Doubtless all will be overruled for good.”
He then proceeded to give a short address, in which, avoiding all harshness and bitterness of expression, he strove to leave on his hearers’ hearts the impression that love and nothing else constrained him and his fellow-workers in the efforts they were using to promote the spread of temperance in the parish and neighbourhood. The other speakers followed in the same strain; the working-man being able, in his rough-and-ready way, to carry with him the great majority of the meeting, so that a feeble attempt at disturbance from the opponents proved a decided failure.
But now a strange stir and excitement rustled through the vast assembly as James Barnes, at the invitation of the vicar, mounted the platform, and stood unabashed before his fellow-townsmen. But scarcely had he begun to open his lips when a torrent of yells and shouts burst from a score or two of drunken throats; others cheered, many laughed, some shouted; then followed a thunder of clapping and stamping, whistling and shrieking, and it seemed for a few moments as though the triumph were to be on the side of disorder and intemperance. But, as a second whirlwind of uproar was beginning, the vicar again stepped forward, and, raising his right-hand as begging silence, smiled pleasantly on the excited crowd, while he placed his left hand on the shoulder of James Barnes, who stood his ground manfully. Then followed shouts of “Shame, shame!”—“Sit down!”—“Hold your noise!”—“Hearken Jim!” and the storm gradually subsided into a calm.
“I’m one of yourselves,” began Jim bluntly, as soon as order was restored, and not in the slightest degree discomposed by this rough reception; “you shouldn’t make such a din. How’s a fellow to make himself heard? Why, it’s worse than half a dozen engines all whistling at once.” There was a buzz of amused satisfaction at this professional illustration, and James Barnes had got the ear of the meeting. “I’ll tell you what it is, friends,” he went on; “it’s true I ain’t much of a speaker, but I can tell you a thing or two about myself as may be useful. I’ve got my Sunday coat on to-night, and it’s my own, and it’s never been to the popshop. I couldn’t have said that a month ago, for I’d never a Sunday coat then. Another thing, I’m spending my own wages; that’s more nor I’ve done for many years past, for the devil’s been used to spend the best part of them for me and put ’em into the landlord’s till. Now I takes ’em to buy bread and clothes for the wife and children. Another thing, and better still, I’ve got one or two good friends as pulled me out of the mire, and won’t let me go. Tommy Tracks there, as you call him, he’s one of them; andyourgood friend the vicar,—for heisyour friend, think as you please,—he’s another. And, best of all, I’ve got a clear head and a clear conscience, and a hope of a better home by-and-by, and a Saviour above all to look to; and I shouldn’t have had none of these if I’d been going on in my old ways. Soyoumay laugh if you please when you say, ‘Jim Barnes has turned teetotaler;’ but I mean to sing when I says it, for it’s true, and he means to stick to it, with God’s help, all the days of his life.”
Having delivered himself of this brief address, James Barnes hurried down from the platform, followed by a roar of hearty applause, which completely drowned the efforts of a few dissentient voices.
The vicar was now just rising to call on another speaker to address the meeting, when his attention, as well as that of the whole audience, was turned to William Foster as he got up deliberately from his seat. Mr Maltby had watched him narrowly during the evening, and not without considerable anxiety and interest. Up to the close of Barnes’s speech Foster had apparently taken little or no interest in the proceedings; certainly he had not joined either in the applause or in the dissent. What was he now about to do? Turning to the vicar, amidst a breathless silence throughout the hall, he said, in a firm and clear voice, “Mr Chairman, may I say a few words to this meeting?” The vicar hesitated. Was this man going to spoil all? His eye at that moment caught Thomas Bradly’s. Thomas nodded to him, and then turned to Foster and said, “Get you on to the platform, William; the vicar and all the rest of us will give you a patient hearing, I’m sure.” Foster then mounted the platform, and stood for a moment facing the audience without speaking. He was very pale, and his voice trembled at first, but soon recovered its firmness as he spoke as follows:—
“Mr Chairman and fellow-townsmen, I have not come here to-night to oppose the temperance movement, but quite the contrary. I am quite sure that movement has been doing good in this town, and is doing good still. You have only to look at Jim Barnes to see that. Everybody knows what he was, and everybody knows what he now is; there is no sham nor deceit in the matter. Now, whatever our creeds may be, whether we think alike in other things or not, there can be no two opinions about this matter with honest and reasoning men. The temperance movement is doing good, and we have before us a plain proof of it. Now, I am not here to-night merely to talk. I should not have come if that were all. I have come to act. I have professed to be a reasoning man, and to belong to a party that prides itself upon being governed by reason, and yet I have allowed myself to come more or less under the dominion of that strong drink which just turns a reasoning man into something far lower than an irrational brute. ‘Well, then,’ some of you might say, ‘can’t you exert your own will and give it up without coming to a temperance meeting to talk about it?’ Yes, I could; but that would be just merely doing good to myself. Now, I can’t help being aware that your chairman, the vicar of this parish, and his right-hand man, Thomas Bradly, are not content with being total abstainers for their own benefit, but are doing their best, spite of ridicule, opposition, and persecution, to get others to become abstainers also. They can have nothing to gain by this except the happiness of making others happy. I see this plainly; and my reason (theywould call it conscience, I suppose) tells me that, if I am a really honest and unprejudiced man, I ought to follow their example. I am here to-night to do it. I have other reasons besides for taking this course, but I do not think it necessary to mention them on the present occasion. I know what it will cost me to take this step, but I have well weighed the consequences and am prepared to accept them. Mr Chairman, I will sign the pledge to-night in your book, and join your society, if you will allow me.” Having spoken thus, William Foster quietly resumed his seat.
The effect of this speech on the meeting was most overwhelming. Every word had been heard all over the hall, for Foster had a clear and powerful voice, and had spoken calmly and deliberately, as one who weighed every word and sentence carefully; and the silence while he addressed his audience had been almost oppressive. Was it possible that Foster could be in earnest? There was no mistake about it—every man was at once convinced of this from the vicar down to the most sottish of the anti-temperance gathering. Such a man as Foster would never have come forward in this way had he not had powerful and all-constraining motives to lead him to take such a step. When he sat down there was neither shouting nor laughter: the great body of working-men, including the obstructionists, seemed stupified; they looked at one another with open-eyed and open-mouthed wonder, and whispered their amazement and perplexity. Then the vicar, struck dumb for the moment by sheer astonishment, after exchanging with his brother clergyman on the platform a glance of deep thankfulness, rose, and addressing William Foster, said, “I cannot tell you, my friend, how truly glad I am to find that you have been guided to take such a step as you now contemplate; most cordially shall I receive your signature in our pledge-book, and welcome you to our society.” Then the crowd of hearers rose to their feet, and gave vent to their feelings in three hearty cheers; while the opponents of the cause made their way to the door as quickly as they could.
The next minute Thomas Bradly stood by the vicar’s side, and all sat hushed in attention as he addressed the meeting. Tears were in his eyes, and half-choked was his voice as he began:—
“Friends, I’ve been at many a temperance meeting in my day, but never at one that I shall remember like this. Some of us abstainers came here to-night with doubting hearts; it seemed as if the evil one was a-going to put a big stone or two in the way of the temperance cause, but instead of that he’s been and trod upon his own tail, as he often does. O bless the Lord for his goodness! We’ve had a mighty large stone took out of the way, instead of any new ’uns laid in our path. Ah! Why should we ever be fainthearted? The cause is a good cause, and itwillprosper, depend upon it. And now, friends, there’s many of you here to-night as came, I know, just for a bit of fun; you didn’t mean no harm, but you wouldn’t have minded a little bit of a laugh against us. But it’s turned out just the other way: you’ve given us a help, and stopped the mouths of them as would have upset our meeting; so let them laugh as wins. And now, friends, I want to say a word to you about our friend William here. We’re all thinking about him; he has come forward like an honest man to-night, and a right brave man too. I know he can’t have done it without having to pay for it. I know, and you know too, as it’ll not be all smooth work between him and his mates. Now, whether you like or don’t like what he has done to-night, you can’t help respecting him for it; so just keep your tongues off him when you meet him, and do him a kind turn if you can. He and I ain’t of one mind, you well know—at least we haven’t been; but he knows this, that in anything that’s good I’ll back him up through thick and thin if he’ll let me. And now, here’s a grand opportunity; just some of you chaps as have been cheering him like anything come up to the table and sign the pledge with him, and keep it by God’s help, and you’ll bless this night every day of your lives, and so will the wives and children.”
There was a cheery response to this speech in many a hearty word of assent; and then the vicar closed the meeting, inviting any who were willing to come and sign. The crowded room was soon emptied of all but a very few, among whom were William Foster and about a dozen more of the working-men, who expressed their intention to sign with him. Foster himself signed his name with an unflinching hand, but said nothing. The vicar thought it wisest not to endeavour to draw him into conversation at this time, but with a kindly shake of the hand, and an expression of thankfulness at his joining the Temperance Society, bade him good-night.
As the committee and the speakers were leaving the hall, the vicar kept Thomas Bradly back, and said to him: “This is wonderful indeed; it is the Lord’s doing, and is marvellous in our eyes. Now you must keep your eye, Thomas, on Foster; I think you will get at him at first better than I should be likely to do. You will be able to see just how the land lies, and I shall be ready to come in at any time; only with such a man we must use discretion, knowing what his antecedents have been.”
“Ay, surely,” replied the other; “I’ll not let him go, sir, now that we’ve got hold of him—you may depend upon it. Oh! This is indeed what I never could have dreamt of. Well, we’ve had a grand night; and it’s a sign, I believe, as we’re going to have some rare bright sunshine on our temperance work.”
“I trust and believe so, indeed,” rejoined Mr Maltby, and they parted.
That meeting was never forgotten in Crossbourne, but was always spoken of as emphaticallythegreat Crossbourne Temperance Meeting.
Chapter Ten.Light in the Dark Dwelling.The day that followed the great temperance meeting was one full of excitement to the operatives of Crossbourne. Every mill and workshop resounded with the eager hum of conversation and conjecture touching the marvellous occurrence of the previous evening—the speech and conduct of William Foster. Of course a variety of distorted versions of the matter flew abroad, and were caught and carried home into the country by some who lived at a distance from the town. Among these versions was a strongly affirmed and as strongly believed account of the last night’s occurrences, which set forth how William Foster, with a picked party of his friends, had forced their way to the top of the hall, and were in the act of mounting the platform for the purpose of turning the vicar out of the chair, when a voice of unearthly loudness was heard to shout, “Forbear!”—upon which the meeting broke up in wild confusion, leaving Foster prostrated on the ground by some invisible and mysterious power, where he lay till brought back to consciousness by the joint efforts of Mr Maltby and Thomas Bradly; after which, at their earnest suggestion, he there and then signed the pledge.Foster’s own companions, however, had not been altogether taken by surprise. For some weeks past he had been absent from his club, and from the public-house, and when questioned on the subject had given short and evasive answers. A change had been coming over him—that was clear enough; but whence it originated even those who had been the most intimate with him were at a loss to conjecture. And now on the morning after the meeting, when he walked into the mill-yard, while some looked on him with the sort of wonder with which a crowd would gape at some strange animal, the like of which they had neither seen nor heard of before, others began to assail him with gibes and taunts and coarse would-be witticisms. But Foster bore it all unmoved, never uttering a word in reply, but going on steadily with his work. As the men, however, were about to leave for their homes, after the mill had loosed, a sneering, sour-looking fellow, one Enos Wilkinson, who had gathered a little crowd about him, and was watching for Foster, whose work detained him a little later than the ordinary hands, stepped across his path, and raising his voice, cried, “Come now, Saint Foster, you’ll be bringing out a nice little book about your conversion, to edify us poor sinners who are still in heathen darkness. When do you mean to favour us with the first edition?”—“The day after you become sober and sensible, Enos,” was Foster’s reply, and he walked on, leaving his persecutors unprepared with an answer.Two hours later, and Thomas Bradly might be seen standing outside Foster’s house, with a happy smile on his face, and a short whispered conversation going on between two parts of himself. “Now, then, Thomas, you’re in for it.” “Ay, to be sure; and in for a good thing too.” “What’ll Will Foster say? And what’llyousay, Thomas?” “Ah! Well, all that’s best left in the Lord’s hands.”After this a loud, decided knock on Thomas’s part, and then the cautious tread of a woman inside.“All right, missus; it’s only me, Thomas Bradly.”No answer for a minute, and then the heavier tread of a man. Foster himself opened the door, and holding out his hand, said,—“Come in, Thomas. You’re just the man I’ve been wanting to see.”“And you’re just the man I’m right glad to hear say so,” was the other’s reply.The two men walked into the inner room together. All was very neat, and the whole place wore an air of comfort far different from what had been its appearance in days past. But the greatest change was in Foster’s wife. Bradly, who had met her often in the street or in the shops, could hardly believe her to be the same. “Ha, ha!” said he inwardly to himself; “the Lord’s been at work here, I can see.” Yes! There was that marked change on the features which can come only from a changed heart. There was peace on that face—a peace whose tranquil light had never shone there before. There was not joy yet, but there was peace. Not, indeed, peace unmixed, for there was a shade of earth’s sadness there still; but God’s peace was there, like a lunar rainbow, beautiful in its heavenly colouring cast upon the clouds of sorrow, but not intensely bright. As she held out her hand to Bradly to give him a friendly welcome, he could see that her eyes were full of tears. “All right,” he said to himself; “the work’s begun.”As he was seating himself on one side of the fire, his eye fell on a little, stout, shabbily-bound volume lying in a corner near some showily-ornamented books. Could it really be a Bible? “Right again,” thought Thomas; “I ain’t often mistaken aboutthatbook. The secret’s out; I see what has worked the change.”“I’m truly glad, but almost ashamed, to see you, Thomas,” began Foster, seating himself opposite his guest. “However, I’m glad now of this opportunity of expressing my regret for the many hard and undeserved things I’ve spoken against you, both to your face and behind your back.”“Never give it another thought, William,” cried the other. “You’ve never done me the least harm; but quite the other way. It’s as good as physic, and a deal better than some physic, to hear what other people think of us, even if it ain’t all of it quite true to the life.”“Ah! But I did you injustice, Thomas.”“Never mind if you did. You never said half as much evil of me as I knew of myself. But let by-gones be by-gones. You’ve made me happier than I can tell you; for I can see plainly enough as the Lord has been laying his loving hands on you and your missus.”“You are right, Thomas; and I know it will give you real pleasure to hear how it has all come about.—So sit down, Kate, and help me out with my story.”Ah, what a different scene was this from that sorrowful time when the poor, broken-hearted young mother leant hopelessly over the cradle of her little one thirsting for that which she knew not where to find! Now the same wife and mother sat with a smile of sweet contentment, busily plying her knitting, while her husband told the simple story of how the God of the Bible had “brought the blind by a way that they knew not.”“You know what I have been, Thomas,” began Foster. “Well, I am not ashamed now to confess that I never was really happy, nor satisfied with my own creed. Spite of my conviction of my own superior knowledge, I could not help acknowledging to my inward self that you were right and I was wrong; at least, I saw that your creed did for you what my creed could not do for me. It was very pleasant and flattering, of course, to be looked up to as an oracle by the other members of my club, and to get their applause when I said sharp things against religion and men whose views differed from our own. But all the while I despised those very companions of mine, and their praises; and, what’s more, I despised myself.“And another thing—I had no real happiness at home, nor poor Kate neither. I was disappointed in her—she won’t mind my saying so now—and she was disappointed in me. We had nothing to bind our hearts together but a love which wanted a stronger cement than mere similarity of tastes. Besides which—for I may as well speak out plainly now while I’m about it—it was poor satisfaction to come home and find books lying about, and scarce a spark of fire in the grate; no tea getting ready, but, instead of it, twenty good reasons why things were not all straight and comfortable. And these reasons were but a poor substitute for the comforts that were not forthcoming, and only made matters worse. And if there was neglect on her part, there was plenty of fault-finding on mine. I was sharp and unreasonable; and then we both of us lost our temper, and I was glad to seek other company, and began to care less and less for my home, and more for the public-house and for the drink which gives the inspiration to the conversation you meet with in such places.“Sometimes things would go on a little better, but not for long. And when we got to angry words with one another, we had no higher authority than ourselves to appeal to when we would set one another right. Thomas, I see this more plainly every day now. Freethinkers—would-be atheists, like my former self—are at an immense disadvantage compared with Christians in this respect. A Christian has a recognised, infallible authority to which he can appeal—the will of his God, as set forth in the Word of his God. When he differs from a fellow-Christian, both can go to that authority, and abide by its decision. Christians will do this if they are honest men, and really love one another. We freethinkers have no such court of appeal. However, let that pass.“Things went on as I’ve been telling you, and were getting worse. Our two hearts were getting further apart every day, and colder and colder towards each other. This went on, and the breach kept widening, till a few weeks ago. You’ll not have forgotten, I know, poor Joe Wright’s sad end. Well, it was a few days after the accident that I came home much the worse for liquor, I’m ashamed to say, and in a particularly bad temper. Things had not been pleasant at the club. One of the members had been breaking the rules; and when I pointed this out, I was met with opposition, and the determined display of an intention on the part of several others to side with the offender. Words ran high, and I spoke my mind pretty freely, and received in return such a shower of abuse as fairly staggered me. So I betook myself to the public-house, and drank glass after glass to drown my uncomfortable reflections, and then went home.“The drink, instead of driving away my mortification, only made me more irritable; and when I got into my own house, I was ready to find fault with everything, and to vent the bitterness of my spirit on my poor little wife. But, to my surprise, she did not answer me back, far less repay my disparaging remarks with usury, which she might very well have done, and would have done a few days before. I could not help seeing, too, that she had been taking pains to make the room look tidier than usual. My supper was ready for me, my slippers set by the fender, and the arm-chair drawn up near the fire. I did not choose to make any remark on this at the time; indeed, I got all the more cross, because I was annoyed by the sense of my own injustice in being angry with her. So poor Kate had but a sad time of it that night.“However, I had made a note in my mind of what I had seen, and I was curious to mark if this change in domestic matters would continue. To my surprise, and, I am ashamed to say, not altogether to my gratification, I found that it did continue. I was suspicious as to the motive and reason for this change, and therefore not satisfied. So I took the improvement in my poor wife’s temper and conduct very surlily; the real fact being, I now believe, that I was inwardly vexed by being forced to feel that she was showing by her behaviour to me her superiority to myself. But the change still continued, and I could detect no unworthy motive for it; so at last Kate’s loving ways and patient forbearance got the victory, and then I began to look around for the cause of this transformation. What could it have been that had made my wife so different, and my home so different?“While I now freely confessed to her my pleasure at the improvement, and endeavoured to repay her loving attentions by coming home regularly in good time and sober, I forbore to question her as to what had made such a difference in her, and she was evidently anxious to avoid the subject. But I was resolved to find out how this new state of things had come about, and an opportunity for doing so soon presented itself. One evening there was a break-down at the mill, and I returned home earlier than usual. I was getting near the house, when I heard my wife singing, and the tune was clearly a hymn tune. The secret was discovered now. I took off my boots, and crept slowly up to the door. The singing had stopped, and all was quiet. Then I heard Kate’s voice gently reading out loud to herself, and the words she read, though I could not catch them distinctly, were manifestly not those of any book of science or amusement: I could tell that by the seriousness of the tone of her voice. The conviction then came strongly upon me that she was reading the Bible, and that this book was the cause of the great change in her. A thousand thoughts stirred in my heart. I durst not venture to look in at the window, lest she should see me, for I had not at all made up my mind what to do. So I went back a little distance, put on my boots again, and came into the house as if nothing had happened.“I was unusually silent that night, and I saw Kate looking aside at me now and then with a half-frightened glance, as if she was afraid that I was going to change back to my old unkind ways. I watched her very narrowly, and she saw it, and was uneasy. The fact was, I wanted to get at her Bible, if she really had one, and I had not yet the courage to speak to her about it. She knew how I had talked to her against it, and made a mock at it, and I couldn’t yet humble myself enough to ask for a sight of it. I noticed, however, that she looked a little anxiously at me when I turned down the baby’s bed-clothes in the cradle to have a look at him; and as I could see no Bible anywhere about the room, it darted into my mind that she had hidden it under the clothes. So when she was gone up into the bedroom, to set things to rights upstairs, I found the book I was looking for stowed snugly away, and began to read it as eagerly as if it had been a rich man’s will leaving me all his property.”“You weren’t far wrong there, William,” broke in Thomas Bradly; “for the gospelisour heavenly Father’s will and testament, making us his heirs; and it’s written with his own hand, and sealed with the blood of his dear Son. But go on, William.”“I don’t doubt but you’re right,” resumed Foster. “Well, as I read the little Bible, I was quite astonished, for I saw how utterly ignorant I had been of its contents and teaching. Ah, yes; it’s one thing to know a few texts, just enough to furnish matter for censure and ridicule, and quite a different thing to read the very same book with a sincere desire to learn and understand what it has to tell us. I found it so, I can assure you. So I learnt from that humble little Bible of Kate’s what all my philosophy and all the philosophy in the world could never teach me.“It isn’t to the point now, but I’ll tell you another time how this Bible came into Kate’s hands; for of course we had not one of our own in the house. A singular chance I should have called it a short time ago; but I’m coming more and more to your mind, Thomas, that chance is only a wrong and misleading term for the guiding hand of One whom I now hope to trust in, love, and obey, however unworthily.”“The Lord be praised, his blessed name be praised!” cried Thomas Bradly, while the tears ran fast down his cheeks.“Yes,” said Foster reverently, “he may well be praised, for I have indeed good reason to praise him.—So you see I had got to the bottom of the mystery at last, and that little book has become to me now worth a thousand times its own weight in gold.“Day after day I went on reading it by stealth, and every day I wondered more and more at its marvellous suitableness to my own case. And then I began to do that which a few weeks back I should have looked upon as simply an evidence of insanity in a man of my views. I began to pray. I hardly dared make the attempt at first. It seemed to me that were I to venture to address the great Being whose existence I had denied, and whose name I had constantly blasphemed, a flash of lightning or some other sudden exertion of his power would strike me dumb. But I did venture at last to offer up an earnest cry for mercy and pardon in the name of that Saviour who invites us to offer our prayers in his name; and then it seemed as though a mountain were lifted from my heart, and blindness were removed from my eyes.“Next day, after tea, I quietly asked Kate for the Bible. I shall never forget her look as long as I live. Fear, hope, joy followed one another like sunshine breaking through the clouds. Could I be in earnest? She did not hesitate long, for she saw that in my face which told her that she might trust me with her treasure. Then she brought out the book from its hiding-place, put it on the table by me, and throwing her arms round my neck, wept away the sorrows of years. And it may be that at that time angels looked down upon us, and shed tears of joy to see two poor penitent sinners thus ‘sitting at the feet of their Saviour, clothed, and in their right mind.’”For a while no one spoke, for all were too deeply moved. At last Foster continued: “I knew I should have to come out on the right side openly sooner or later, but you may be sure it would be no easy matter. However, I had made up my mind: it would have to be done some time or other, so, as the Annual Temperance Meeting was soon to come off—I knew that, for Joe Wright’s party were boasting of what they meant to do—I determined to show my colours by joining your society, and you have seen the result.”“Yes, William,” said Bradly, cheerily, “I see it, and I bless the Lord for it; and if he has made me in any way an unworthy instrument in helping to bring about this change, I can truly say that he has paid me back interest a thousandfold for any little I’ve ever done or suffered for him.”“Then, Thomas,” said the other earnestly, “you may be pleased to know that it was your hand that gave the first blows to the nail, though, it was my dear wife that was the means of driving it home. I often thought I could easily knock down your arguments, and, though I knew you had the best of it—for you had honesty and truth on your side—yet when I went home after one of our talks, I’ve vexed myself many a time by thinking, ‘Well, now, if I’d only thought of this or that thing, I might have floored him.’ But there was one thing that always flooredme, and that was ‘the logic of the life;’ I couldn’t find an answer tothat. And not only so, but, as I said a little while ago, I saw that the religion of Jesus Christ made you truly happy, and I knew that my free-thinking never did that for me nor for any of my like-minded companions; so that deep down in my heart a voice was constantly saying, ‘Tommy Tracks is right.’ And now I’msurethat he is so. Thomas, I now ask your friendship and your help, as I have already asked your forgiveness.”Bradly wrung the other’s hand with a hearty grip, and then said, “You shall have them, William. I know you’ll be all the better for an earthly friend or two, for there’ll want a deal of backing up just at first. But oh, I’m so truly thankful that you and your missus have got the best Friend of all on your side, who will never leave you nor forsake you. Yes, come what will, you can go to One now who will keep peace in your conscience, peace in your heart and peace and love in your home.”By Foster’s request, before they parted, Thomas Bradly knelt with them and offered a prayer. Ah, what a sight! Glorious even for angels to look down upon! Those three uniting in prayer—the old disciple; the blasphemer, persecutor, and injurious; and the till late Christless wife—all now one in Jesus, bowed at his footstool, while the humble servant of the Lord poured out his heart in simple, fervent supplication and praise, as all bent head and knee in the felt presence of the unseen God.Next Sunday Foster was at church in the morning, and was there with his wife in the evening, Mrs Bradly having undertaken to look after the baby. As for Bradly himself, his face was a sight worth seeing on that Sunday. It was always brighter than usual on the Lord’s-day; but on this particular Sabbath every line of his features shone with a glow of gladness, as though, like Moses, he had just come down from the mount. It need hardly be said that the vicar’s heart also deeply rejoiced. As for the inhabitants of Crossbourne generally, some were glad, with a spice of caution in their gladness; some shook their heads and smiled, meaning thereby to let all men know that, in case Foster should not persevere in his new career,they, at any rate, had never been over-sanguine as to the genuineness of his reformation; some simply looked grave; while the profligate and the profane gnashed their teeth with envy hatred, and malice, and exchanged vehement asseverations of “how they’d pay off the sneaking humbug of a deserter, and no mistake.”
The day that followed the great temperance meeting was one full of excitement to the operatives of Crossbourne. Every mill and workshop resounded with the eager hum of conversation and conjecture touching the marvellous occurrence of the previous evening—the speech and conduct of William Foster. Of course a variety of distorted versions of the matter flew abroad, and were caught and carried home into the country by some who lived at a distance from the town. Among these versions was a strongly affirmed and as strongly believed account of the last night’s occurrences, which set forth how William Foster, with a picked party of his friends, had forced their way to the top of the hall, and were in the act of mounting the platform for the purpose of turning the vicar out of the chair, when a voice of unearthly loudness was heard to shout, “Forbear!”—upon which the meeting broke up in wild confusion, leaving Foster prostrated on the ground by some invisible and mysterious power, where he lay till brought back to consciousness by the joint efforts of Mr Maltby and Thomas Bradly; after which, at their earnest suggestion, he there and then signed the pledge.
Foster’s own companions, however, had not been altogether taken by surprise. For some weeks past he had been absent from his club, and from the public-house, and when questioned on the subject had given short and evasive answers. A change had been coming over him—that was clear enough; but whence it originated even those who had been the most intimate with him were at a loss to conjecture. And now on the morning after the meeting, when he walked into the mill-yard, while some looked on him with the sort of wonder with which a crowd would gape at some strange animal, the like of which they had neither seen nor heard of before, others began to assail him with gibes and taunts and coarse would-be witticisms. But Foster bore it all unmoved, never uttering a word in reply, but going on steadily with his work. As the men, however, were about to leave for their homes, after the mill had loosed, a sneering, sour-looking fellow, one Enos Wilkinson, who had gathered a little crowd about him, and was watching for Foster, whose work detained him a little later than the ordinary hands, stepped across his path, and raising his voice, cried, “Come now, Saint Foster, you’ll be bringing out a nice little book about your conversion, to edify us poor sinners who are still in heathen darkness. When do you mean to favour us with the first edition?”—“The day after you become sober and sensible, Enos,” was Foster’s reply, and he walked on, leaving his persecutors unprepared with an answer.
Two hours later, and Thomas Bradly might be seen standing outside Foster’s house, with a happy smile on his face, and a short whispered conversation going on between two parts of himself. “Now, then, Thomas, you’re in for it.” “Ay, to be sure; and in for a good thing too.” “What’ll Will Foster say? And what’llyousay, Thomas?” “Ah! Well, all that’s best left in the Lord’s hands.”
After this a loud, decided knock on Thomas’s part, and then the cautious tread of a woman inside.
“All right, missus; it’s only me, Thomas Bradly.”
No answer for a minute, and then the heavier tread of a man. Foster himself opened the door, and holding out his hand, said,—
“Come in, Thomas. You’re just the man I’ve been wanting to see.”
“And you’re just the man I’m right glad to hear say so,” was the other’s reply.
The two men walked into the inner room together. All was very neat, and the whole place wore an air of comfort far different from what had been its appearance in days past. But the greatest change was in Foster’s wife. Bradly, who had met her often in the street or in the shops, could hardly believe her to be the same. “Ha, ha!” said he inwardly to himself; “the Lord’s been at work here, I can see.” Yes! There was that marked change on the features which can come only from a changed heart. There was peace on that face—a peace whose tranquil light had never shone there before. There was not joy yet, but there was peace. Not, indeed, peace unmixed, for there was a shade of earth’s sadness there still; but God’s peace was there, like a lunar rainbow, beautiful in its heavenly colouring cast upon the clouds of sorrow, but not intensely bright. As she held out her hand to Bradly to give him a friendly welcome, he could see that her eyes were full of tears. “All right,” he said to himself; “the work’s begun.”
As he was seating himself on one side of the fire, his eye fell on a little, stout, shabbily-bound volume lying in a corner near some showily-ornamented books. Could it really be a Bible? “Right again,” thought Thomas; “I ain’t often mistaken aboutthatbook. The secret’s out; I see what has worked the change.”
“I’m truly glad, but almost ashamed, to see you, Thomas,” began Foster, seating himself opposite his guest. “However, I’m glad now of this opportunity of expressing my regret for the many hard and undeserved things I’ve spoken against you, both to your face and behind your back.”
“Never give it another thought, William,” cried the other. “You’ve never done me the least harm; but quite the other way. It’s as good as physic, and a deal better than some physic, to hear what other people think of us, even if it ain’t all of it quite true to the life.”
“Ah! But I did you injustice, Thomas.”
“Never mind if you did. You never said half as much evil of me as I knew of myself. But let by-gones be by-gones. You’ve made me happier than I can tell you; for I can see plainly enough as the Lord has been laying his loving hands on you and your missus.”
“You are right, Thomas; and I know it will give you real pleasure to hear how it has all come about.—So sit down, Kate, and help me out with my story.”
Ah, what a different scene was this from that sorrowful time when the poor, broken-hearted young mother leant hopelessly over the cradle of her little one thirsting for that which she knew not where to find! Now the same wife and mother sat with a smile of sweet contentment, busily plying her knitting, while her husband told the simple story of how the God of the Bible had “brought the blind by a way that they knew not.”
“You know what I have been, Thomas,” began Foster. “Well, I am not ashamed now to confess that I never was really happy, nor satisfied with my own creed. Spite of my conviction of my own superior knowledge, I could not help acknowledging to my inward self that you were right and I was wrong; at least, I saw that your creed did for you what my creed could not do for me. It was very pleasant and flattering, of course, to be looked up to as an oracle by the other members of my club, and to get their applause when I said sharp things against religion and men whose views differed from our own. But all the while I despised those very companions of mine, and their praises; and, what’s more, I despised myself.
“And another thing—I had no real happiness at home, nor poor Kate neither. I was disappointed in her—she won’t mind my saying so now—and she was disappointed in me. We had nothing to bind our hearts together but a love which wanted a stronger cement than mere similarity of tastes. Besides which—for I may as well speak out plainly now while I’m about it—it was poor satisfaction to come home and find books lying about, and scarce a spark of fire in the grate; no tea getting ready, but, instead of it, twenty good reasons why things were not all straight and comfortable. And these reasons were but a poor substitute for the comforts that were not forthcoming, and only made matters worse. And if there was neglect on her part, there was plenty of fault-finding on mine. I was sharp and unreasonable; and then we both of us lost our temper, and I was glad to seek other company, and began to care less and less for my home, and more for the public-house and for the drink which gives the inspiration to the conversation you meet with in such places.
“Sometimes things would go on a little better, but not for long. And when we got to angry words with one another, we had no higher authority than ourselves to appeal to when we would set one another right. Thomas, I see this more plainly every day now. Freethinkers—would-be atheists, like my former self—are at an immense disadvantage compared with Christians in this respect. A Christian has a recognised, infallible authority to which he can appeal—the will of his God, as set forth in the Word of his God. When he differs from a fellow-Christian, both can go to that authority, and abide by its decision. Christians will do this if they are honest men, and really love one another. We freethinkers have no such court of appeal. However, let that pass.
“Things went on as I’ve been telling you, and were getting worse. Our two hearts were getting further apart every day, and colder and colder towards each other. This went on, and the breach kept widening, till a few weeks ago. You’ll not have forgotten, I know, poor Joe Wright’s sad end. Well, it was a few days after the accident that I came home much the worse for liquor, I’m ashamed to say, and in a particularly bad temper. Things had not been pleasant at the club. One of the members had been breaking the rules; and when I pointed this out, I was met with opposition, and the determined display of an intention on the part of several others to side with the offender. Words ran high, and I spoke my mind pretty freely, and received in return such a shower of abuse as fairly staggered me. So I betook myself to the public-house, and drank glass after glass to drown my uncomfortable reflections, and then went home.
“The drink, instead of driving away my mortification, only made me more irritable; and when I got into my own house, I was ready to find fault with everything, and to vent the bitterness of my spirit on my poor little wife. But, to my surprise, she did not answer me back, far less repay my disparaging remarks with usury, which she might very well have done, and would have done a few days before. I could not help seeing, too, that she had been taking pains to make the room look tidier than usual. My supper was ready for me, my slippers set by the fender, and the arm-chair drawn up near the fire. I did not choose to make any remark on this at the time; indeed, I got all the more cross, because I was annoyed by the sense of my own injustice in being angry with her. So poor Kate had but a sad time of it that night.
“However, I had made a note in my mind of what I had seen, and I was curious to mark if this change in domestic matters would continue. To my surprise, and, I am ashamed to say, not altogether to my gratification, I found that it did continue. I was suspicious as to the motive and reason for this change, and therefore not satisfied. So I took the improvement in my poor wife’s temper and conduct very surlily; the real fact being, I now believe, that I was inwardly vexed by being forced to feel that she was showing by her behaviour to me her superiority to myself. But the change still continued, and I could detect no unworthy motive for it; so at last Kate’s loving ways and patient forbearance got the victory, and then I began to look around for the cause of this transformation. What could it have been that had made my wife so different, and my home so different?
“While I now freely confessed to her my pleasure at the improvement, and endeavoured to repay her loving attentions by coming home regularly in good time and sober, I forbore to question her as to what had made such a difference in her, and she was evidently anxious to avoid the subject. But I was resolved to find out how this new state of things had come about, and an opportunity for doing so soon presented itself. One evening there was a break-down at the mill, and I returned home earlier than usual. I was getting near the house, when I heard my wife singing, and the tune was clearly a hymn tune. The secret was discovered now. I took off my boots, and crept slowly up to the door. The singing had stopped, and all was quiet. Then I heard Kate’s voice gently reading out loud to herself, and the words she read, though I could not catch them distinctly, were manifestly not those of any book of science or amusement: I could tell that by the seriousness of the tone of her voice. The conviction then came strongly upon me that she was reading the Bible, and that this book was the cause of the great change in her. A thousand thoughts stirred in my heart. I durst not venture to look in at the window, lest she should see me, for I had not at all made up my mind what to do. So I went back a little distance, put on my boots again, and came into the house as if nothing had happened.
“I was unusually silent that night, and I saw Kate looking aside at me now and then with a half-frightened glance, as if she was afraid that I was going to change back to my old unkind ways. I watched her very narrowly, and she saw it, and was uneasy. The fact was, I wanted to get at her Bible, if she really had one, and I had not yet the courage to speak to her about it. She knew how I had talked to her against it, and made a mock at it, and I couldn’t yet humble myself enough to ask for a sight of it. I noticed, however, that she looked a little anxiously at me when I turned down the baby’s bed-clothes in the cradle to have a look at him; and as I could see no Bible anywhere about the room, it darted into my mind that she had hidden it under the clothes. So when she was gone up into the bedroom, to set things to rights upstairs, I found the book I was looking for stowed snugly away, and began to read it as eagerly as if it had been a rich man’s will leaving me all his property.”
“You weren’t far wrong there, William,” broke in Thomas Bradly; “for the gospelisour heavenly Father’s will and testament, making us his heirs; and it’s written with his own hand, and sealed with the blood of his dear Son. But go on, William.”
“I don’t doubt but you’re right,” resumed Foster. “Well, as I read the little Bible, I was quite astonished, for I saw how utterly ignorant I had been of its contents and teaching. Ah, yes; it’s one thing to know a few texts, just enough to furnish matter for censure and ridicule, and quite a different thing to read the very same book with a sincere desire to learn and understand what it has to tell us. I found it so, I can assure you. So I learnt from that humble little Bible of Kate’s what all my philosophy and all the philosophy in the world could never teach me.
“It isn’t to the point now, but I’ll tell you another time how this Bible came into Kate’s hands; for of course we had not one of our own in the house. A singular chance I should have called it a short time ago; but I’m coming more and more to your mind, Thomas, that chance is only a wrong and misleading term for the guiding hand of One whom I now hope to trust in, love, and obey, however unworthily.”
“The Lord be praised, his blessed name be praised!” cried Thomas Bradly, while the tears ran fast down his cheeks.
“Yes,” said Foster reverently, “he may well be praised, for I have indeed good reason to praise him.—So you see I had got to the bottom of the mystery at last, and that little book has become to me now worth a thousand times its own weight in gold.
“Day after day I went on reading it by stealth, and every day I wondered more and more at its marvellous suitableness to my own case. And then I began to do that which a few weeks back I should have looked upon as simply an evidence of insanity in a man of my views. I began to pray. I hardly dared make the attempt at first. It seemed to me that were I to venture to address the great Being whose existence I had denied, and whose name I had constantly blasphemed, a flash of lightning or some other sudden exertion of his power would strike me dumb. But I did venture at last to offer up an earnest cry for mercy and pardon in the name of that Saviour who invites us to offer our prayers in his name; and then it seemed as though a mountain were lifted from my heart, and blindness were removed from my eyes.
“Next day, after tea, I quietly asked Kate for the Bible. I shall never forget her look as long as I live. Fear, hope, joy followed one another like sunshine breaking through the clouds. Could I be in earnest? She did not hesitate long, for she saw that in my face which told her that she might trust me with her treasure. Then she brought out the book from its hiding-place, put it on the table by me, and throwing her arms round my neck, wept away the sorrows of years. And it may be that at that time angels looked down upon us, and shed tears of joy to see two poor penitent sinners thus ‘sitting at the feet of their Saviour, clothed, and in their right mind.’”
For a while no one spoke, for all were too deeply moved. At last Foster continued: “I knew I should have to come out on the right side openly sooner or later, but you may be sure it would be no easy matter. However, I had made up my mind: it would have to be done some time or other, so, as the Annual Temperance Meeting was soon to come off—I knew that, for Joe Wright’s party were boasting of what they meant to do—I determined to show my colours by joining your society, and you have seen the result.”
“Yes, William,” said Bradly, cheerily, “I see it, and I bless the Lord for it; and if he has made me in any way an unworthy instrument in helping to bring about this change, I can truly say that he has paid me back interest a thousandfold for any little I’ve ever done or suffered for him.”
“Then, Thomas,” said the other earnestly, “you may be pleased to know that it was your hand that gave the first blows to the nail, though, it was my dear wife that was the means of driving it home. I often thought I could easily knock down your arguments, and, though I knew you had the best of it—for you had honesty and truth on your side—yet when I went home after one of our talks, I’ve vexed myself many a time by thinking, ‘Well, now, if I’d only thought of this or that thing, I might have floored him.’ But there was one thing that always flooredme, and that was ‘the logic of the life;’ I couldn’t find an answer tothat. And not only so, but, as I said a little while ago, I saw that the religion of Jesus Christ made you truly happy, and I knew that my free-thinking never did that for me nor for any of my like-minded companions; so that deep down in my heart a voice was constantly saying, ‘Tommy Tracks is right.’ And now I’msurethat he is so. Thomas, I now ask your friendship and your help, as I have already asked your forgiveness.”
Bradly wrung the other’s hand with a hearty grip, and then said, “You shall have them, William. I know you’ll be all the better for an earthly friend or two, for there’ll want a deal of backing up just at first. But oh, I’m so truly thankful that you and your missus have got the best Friend of all on your side, who will never leave you nor forsake you. Yes, come what will, you can go to One now who will keep peace in your conscience, peace in your heart and peace and love in your home.”
By Foster’s request, before they parted, Thomas Bradly knelt with them and offered a prayer. Ah, what a sight! Glorious even for angels to look down upon! Those three uniting in prayer—the old disciple; the blasphemer, persecutor, and injurious; and the till late Christless wife—all now one in Jesus, bowed at his footstool, while the humble servant of the Lord poured out his heart in simple, fervent supplication and praise, as all bent head and knee in the felt presence of the unseen God.
Next Sunday Foster was at church in the morning, and was there with his wife in the evening, Mrs Bradly having undertaken to look after the baby. As for Bradly himself, his face was a sight worth seeing on that Sunday. It was always brighter than usual on the Lord’s-day; but on this particular Sabbath every line of his features shone with a glow of gladness, as though, like Moses, he had just come down from the mount. It need hardly be said that the vicar’s heart also deeply rejoiced. As for the inhabitants of Crossbourne generally, some were glad, with a spice of caution in their gladness; some shook their heads and smiled, meaning thereby to let all men know that, in case Foster should not persevere in his new career,they, at any rate, had never been over-sanguine as to the genuineness of his reformation; some simply looked grave; while the profligate and the profane gnashed their teeth with envy hatred, and malice, and exchanged vehement asseverations of “how they’d pay off the sneaking humbug of a deserter, and no mistake.”
Chapter Eleven.A Blighted Life.Spring had come, but the cloud still rested on poor Jane Bradly. True, her heart was lighter, for she now believed with her brother that there was deliverance at hand for her, and that the mists were beginning to melt away. She was firmly persuaded that her character would be entirely cleared. But when? How soon would the waiting-time come to an end? And what good could come out of such a trouble? Here was the trial of her faith; but she bore it patiently, and the chastening was producing in her, even now, “the peaceable fruit of righteousness.” She began to improve in health and strength, and had lost much of the look of abiding care; for the habitual peace of a mind stayed on God, and the consciousness of innocence as regarded the wrong-doing of which she had been suspected, kept her calm in the blessedness of a childlike trust.But there was one who lived not far from her, a sister in affliction, about whose sad heart the clouds were gathering thicker and thicker. Spring, with its opening buds and rejoicing birds, brought no gladness to the spirit of Clara Maltby. She was gradually wasting away. Change of air and scene had been recommended, but she would not hear of leaving home, and clung with a distressing tenacity to her round of daily studies, shortening her brief time of exercise, and seeming anxious to goad herself into the attainment of the utmost amount of knowledge which it was possible for her to acquire, grudging every minute as lost and wasted time that was not given to study. To shine had become with her the one absorbing object; to shine, not, alas! for Christ, but for self, for the world, that she might gain the prize of human applause. So she was using the gifts with which God had endowed her, not to his glory, by laying them at the foot of the cross, and employing them as talents with which she was to occupy till the Master came, but as means whereby she might win for herself distinction, and outstrip others in the race for earthly fame. But such a strain on mind and body could not last; the overtaxed faculties would assert their claim for the much-needed rest; and so, in the early spring-time, Clara Maltby was suddenly stricken down and lay for days in a state of half-unconsciousness.At last she rallied, in a measure; and when she was sufficiently recovered to bear conversation, she earnestly begged that she might be allowed to see Thomas Bradly, and have an opportunity of saying a few words to him in the presence of her parents, previously to her being taken from home by her mother to the seaside, to which she had been ordered by her medical man, as soon as she could bear the removal. So one evening, after his work, Bradly, with a sorrowful heart, made his way up to the vicarage, and was introduced by Mr Maltby into the inner room, where his daughter had gathered together her own special library.The patient lay on a low couch near the fire, which burned cheerfully, and lighted up, though not with gladness, the care-smitten features of the vicar’s daughter. Close to her was a little table, on which lay a small Bible, a pile of photographs, and a few printed papers. Her writing materials occupied part of a larger table, and were flanked on either side by heaps of volumes—scientific, historical, and poetical; while beyond the books was a small but exquisitely-modelled group of wax flowers, most life-like in appearance, under a glass shade. Over the fire-place was a large water-colour drawing of Crossbourne Church, with miniatures of her father and mother, one on each side of it. On the mantelpiece was an ivory statuette, beautifully carved, the gift of a travelled friend; and other articles of taste and refinement were scattered up and down the room. But now the gentle mistress of this quiet retreat lay languid and weary, incapable of enjoying these articles of grace and beauty which surrounded her. There was a flush indeed on her cheek, but no light in the heavy eyes. She looked like a gathered flower,—fair, but drooping, because it can strike no root and find no moisture. Thomas Bradly was shocked at the change a few days had made in the poor girl since he last saw her, and could hardly restrain his tears. At the head of the couch sat Mrs Maltby, with a face sadly worn and troubled; and between her and the fire was her husband, on whose features there rested a more chastened and peaceful sorrow.“Come, sit down, Thomas,” said Mr Maltby; “my dear child cannot rest till she has seen you, and told you something that lies on her mind. I think she will be happier when she has had this little talk; and it may be that God will bless her visit to the sea, and send her back to us in improved health. I know we shall have your prayers, and the prayers of many others, that it may be so.”“You shall, you do have our prayers,” cried Bradly, earnestly; “the Lord’ll order it all for the best. He’s been doing wonderful things for us lately, and he means to give you and dear Miss Clara a share of his blessings.”“Well,” replied the vicar, “we will hope and trust so, Thomas. The clouds have not gathered without a cause; but still, I believe that, as the hymn says, they will yet ‘break with blessings on our head.’—Clara, my child, it will not be wise to make this interview too long; so we will leave the talking now to yourself and Thomas Bradly.”“Dear, kind friend,” began Miss Maltby, raising herself from her couch, and leaning herself on her mother, who came and sat by her, “I could not be satisfied to leave Crossbourne without seeing you first, as I want you to do something for me in the parish which I cannot ask my dear father to do. And I want to make a confession also to you, as it may be the means of doing some little good in the place where I have left so much undone, and as perhaps it may not please God that I should come back again to my earthly home.”She was unable to proceed for a few moments, and Bradly dared not trust himself to speak, while the vicar and his wife found it hard to control their feelings.“Thomas,” she at length continued, her voice gaining strength and her mind clearness under the excitement of the subject which now filled her heart and thoughts, “I want you to say something for me to my class—at least to those girls who belonged to it when I used to teach it. Say it to them in your own plain and simple way, and I trust that it may do them good.“I want you to tell them from me that I have tried what the world and its idols are, and I have found them ‘vanity of vanities.’ Not that I have been leading what is called a wicked life; not that I have loved gay company or worldly amusements; not that I have lost sight of Christ and heaven altogether, though they have been getting further off from my sight every day; but I have been fashioning for myself an idol with my own hands, which has been shutting out heavenly things from me more and more. And now God has in mercy shattered my idol, and I trust that I can see Jesus once more as I have not seen him, oh, for so long!“I am startled when I look back and see how far I have gone astray, and how I have let the devil cheat me with a thousand plausible falsehoods. Oh, what a useless life I have been leading! What a selfish life I have been leading! And yet I have been persuading myself that I was only cultivating the powers which God gave me. But it has not been so; it is as though I had been set to draw a picture of our Saviour, and had ability and the best of materials given me for making a beautiful likeness, and I had all the while gone on just drawing an image of myself, and had then fallen down and worshipped it.“Tell my girls, then,—for I may never have the opportunity of telling them myself,—that there is no real happiness in such a life as mine has lately been. It is really purely for self is this struggle after distinction; God put us into this world for something far different. I know, of course, that my scholars are not any of them likely to be snared exactly in the same way that I have been. Still, they might be tempted to think what a grand thing it would be to have the advantages for getting knowledge and distinction that I have had. Ah, but what has been my life, after all? Why, like that group of wax flowers under the glass shade. Don’t they look beautiful? But you see they are not real; they have no life and no sweetness in them, and they can never make the sick and the suffering happy as real flowers do. My life, with all its advantages, and what people call accomplishments, has been as unreal, as lifeless, as scentless as those wax flowers. It has not pleased God; it has not made others happy; there has been nothing to envy in it, but oh, quite the other way: it should rather be a warning. Tell my girls so, for they have their temptations even in this direction; there is so much attention paid now to head knowledge in all ranks and classes, and such a danger of neglecting heart knowledge and Christ knowledge. Show them how it has been with me. Tell them how I feel now on looking back.“What have I really gained by this eager pursuit after earthly fame? Nothing. I have strained body and mind in seeking it—strained them, probably, past recovery. And what have I lost in the pursuit? I have lost peace; I have lost a thousand opportunities of doing good which can never be recalled; I have lost the happy sense of Jesus’ love and presence.—Dear father, would you give me that open book?—These words just suit my life, Thomas:—“‘Nothing but leaves! The Spirit grievesOver a wasted life;O’er sins indulged while conscience slept,O’er vows and promises unkept;And reaps from years of strife—Nothing but leaves! Nothing but leaves!’”She paused, and hiding her face in her mother’s breast, wept long and bitterly.Thomas Bradly had listened with deep emotion to every word, but had not yet been able to command himself sufficiently to speak. But now he stretched his hand forward, and took up the little hymn-book from which Clara Maltby had been reading, and, as he turned over its pages, said—“I don’t doubt, dear Miss Clara, but you’ve just said the plain truth about yourself; I’ve grieved over it all, and prayed about it. But that’s all past and gone now, and the Lord means to bring good out of the evil, I can see that, and you’ll let me read you these lines out of your book, as I’m sure it ain’t going to be ‘nothing but leaves’ after all. Listen, miss, to these blessed words, for they belong to you:—“There were ninety and nine that safely layIn the shelter of the fold;But one was out on the hills away,Far-off from the gates of gold,—Away on the mountains wild and bare,Away from the tender Shepherd’s care.“‘Lord, thou hast here thy ninety and nine:Are they not enough for thee?’But the Shepherd made answer: ‘This of mineHas wandered away from me;And although the road be rough and steep,I go to the desert to find my sheep.’“And all through the mountains, thunder-riven,And up from the rocky steep,There rose a cry to the gate of heaven,‘Rejoice! I have found my sheep!’And the angels echoed around the throne,‘Rejoice, for the Lord brings back his own!’”“Thank you, Thomas, thank you most sincerely,” cried the sick girl, raising herself again. “Yes, I trust that these beautiful wordsdoapply to me. Jesus has gone after me, a poor wandering and rebellious sheep, and brought me back again. Do then, kind friend, tell my dear class for me that I have found all out of Christ to be emptiness, and that there can be no true happiness here unless we are working for him.“Of course, I might have pursued my studies innocently had I given to them leisure hours when other duties had been done, and then they would have been a delight to me, and a source of real improvement. But instead of that I made an idol of them, and they became a snare to me. I lived for them, and in them, and all else was as good as forgotten. Yes, even my Bible, that was once so precious,—it might as well have lain on the shelf, and indeed, latterly, it has seldom been anywhere else. I had no time for reading it; earthly studies absorbed every moment. But now it has become to me again truly my Bible; it has shown me, and shows me more and more plainly every day, my sin and my neglect. Ah! It is an awful thing when the struggle after this world’s honours and prizes makes us thrust aside thoughts of God and of the crown of glory. It has been so with me. I have been chasing an illuminated shadow until it has suddenly vanished, and left me in a darkness that might be felt.“Tell my girls, then, dear friend, to take warning from me. Tell them how I mourn over my wasted life; but tell them also that I have a good hope that God, for Christ’s sake, has forgiven me, and ask them to pray for me. The great lesson I want you to impress upon them from my case is just this, that no knowledge can be worth having that interferes with our following our Saviour; that no pursuit, though it may not be outwardly sinful or manifestly worldly, which unfits us in body or mind for doing our duty in that state of life to which it has pleased God to call us, can be innocent, for it robs Jesus of that service which we all owe to him.“And now I am going to ask you to give these photographs, one a piece, to my girls: they will value them, I know, as the likeness of one who was once happy in being their teacher, and who hopes, should God spare her, to be their teacher again; a better instructed teacher far, I hope, because taught in the school of bitter but wholesome experience to know herself.”These last few words, uttered with deep feeling, made it necessary for Clara to pause once more. So Thomas Bradly, seeing that her strength was well-nigh exhausted, simply expressed his hearty readiness to comply with her requests, and was rising to take his leave, when she signed him to remain.“Just one thing more, dear friend,” she added, as soon as she was sufficiently recovered.—“Nay, dearest mother, you must let me finish what I have to say. I shall be happier and calmer when I have told all.—O Thomas! I have been on the very edge of a dreadful precipice; nay, I almost fear that I have scarcely avoided beginning the terrible fall. Finding myself unequal to the full strain which my studies imposed upon me, I began to have recourse to intoxicating stimulants, first a little, and then a little more, till at last I got to crave them, oh, how terribly! And, alas! alas! worse still. As I was ashamed to bring such things openly into my father’s house, I have employed a servant once or twice to fetch them for me, but simply as a medicine, and I have found myself scheming how I might do this to a still greater extent without detection. Oh, to what a depth have I fallen! But I see it all now; the Lord has opened my eyes. What I wanted was rest, not stimulants. And surely nothing could justify me in putting such a strain upon my mind as to make it needful to fly to such a restorative.“I don’t ask you to mention this to my girls, nor to any one else, for it might not do good, and might be a hindrance, in a measure, to my dear father in his work; but I tell it you to ease my own heart, and that you may pray for me, and that you may hear me now, in the presence of my beloved father and mother, declare that from this time forward I renounce all such study, if God spare me, as shall unfit me for a loving service of Jesus, in my home and out of it, and that I have done with all intoxicating stimulants, the Lord helping me, now and for ever.”“Bless the Lord!” said Bradly to himself, as, after a silent pressure of Clara Maltby’s hand, he stole out of the room. “All’s working for good, I’m sure,” he added, as he walked homewards. “We shall do grandly now. One great stone has just been struck out of our good vicar’s path. Satan’s a queer, knowing customer, but he often outwits himself; and there’s One wiser and stronger than him.”
Spring had come, but the cloud still rested on poor Jane Bradly. True, her heart was lighter, for she now believed with her brother that there was deliverance at hand for her, and that the mists were beginning to melt away. She was firmly persuaded that her character would be entirely cleared. But when? How soon would the waiting-time come to an end? And what good could come out of such a trouble? Here was the trial of her faith; but she bore it patiently, and the chastening was producing in her, even now, “the peaceable fruit of righteousness.” She began to improve in health and strength, and had lost much of the look of abiding care; for the habitual peace of a mind stayed on God, and the consciousness of innocence as regarded the wrong-doing of which she had been suspected, kept her calm in the blessedness of a childlike trust.
But there was one who lived not far from her, a sister in affliction, about whose sad heart the clouds were gathering thicker and thicker. Spring, with its opening buds and rejoicing birds, brought no gladness to the spirit of Clara Maltby. She was gradually wasting away. Change of air and scene had been recommended, but she would not hear of leaving home, and clung with a distressing tenacity to her round of daily studies, shortening her brief time of exercise, and seeming anxious to goad herself into the attainment of the utmost amount of knowledge which it was possible for her to acquire, grudging every minute as lost and wasted time that was not given to study. To shine had become with her the one absorbing object; to shine, not, alas! for Christ, but for self, for the world, that she might gain the prize of human applause. So she was using the gifts with which God had endowed her, not to his glory, by laying them at the foot of the cross, and employing them as talents with which she was to occupy till the Master came, but as means whereby she might win for herself distinction, and outstrip others in the race for earthly fame. But such a strain on mind and body could not last; the overtaxed faculties would assert their claim for the much-needed rest; and so, in the early spring-time, Clara Maltby was suddenly stricken down and lay for days in a state of half-unconsciousness.
At last she rallied, in a measure; and when she was sufficiently recovered to bear conversation, she earnestly begged that she might be allowed to see Thomas Bradly, and have an opportunity of saying a few words to him in the presence of her parents, previously to her being taken from home by her mother to the seaside, to which she had been ordered by her medical man, as soon as she could bear the removal. So one evening, after his work, Bradly, with a sorrowful heart, made his way up to the vicarage, and was introduced by Mr Maltby into the inner room, where his daughter had gathered together her own special library.
The patient lay on a low couch near the fire, which burned cheerfully, and lighted up, though not with gladness, the care-smitten features of the vicar’s daughter. Close to her was a little table, on which lay a small Bible, a pile of photographs, and a few printed papers. Her writing materials occupied part of a larger table, and were flanked on either side by heaps of volumes—scientific, historical, and poetical; while beyond the books was a small but exquisitely-modelled group of wax flowers, most life-like in appearance, under a glass shade. Over the fire-place was a large water-colour drawing of Crossbourne Church, with miniatures of her father and mother, one on each side of it. On the mantelpiece was an ivory statuette, beautifully carved, the gift of a travelled friend; and other articles of taste and refinement were scattered up and down the room. But now the gentle mistress of this quiet retreat lay languid and weary, incapable of enjoying these articles of grace and beauty which surrounded her. There was a flush indeed on her cheek, but no light in the heavy eyes. She looked like a gathered flower,—fair, but drooping, because it can strike no root and find no moisture. Thomas Bradly was shocked at the change a few days had made in the poor girl since he last saw her, and could hardly restrain his tears. At the head of the couch sat Mrs Maltby, with a face sadly worn and troubled; and between her and the fire was her husband, on whose features there rested a more chastened and peaceful sorrow.
“Come, sit down, Thomas,” said Mr Maltby; “my dear child cannot rest till she has seen you, and told you something that lies on her mind. I think she will be happier when she has had this little talk; and it may be that God will bless her visit to the sea, and send her back to us in improved health. I know we shall have your prayers, and the prayers of many others, that it may be so.”
“You shall, you do have our prayers,” cried Bradly, earnestly; “the Lord’ll order it all for the best. He’s been doing wonderful things for us lately, and he means to give you and dear Miss Clara a share of his blessings.”
“Well,” replied the vicar, “we will hope and trust so, Thomas. The clouds have not gathered without a cause; but still, I believe that, as the hymn says, they will yet ‘break with blessings on our head.’—Clara, my child, it will not be wise to make this interview too long; so we will leave the talking now to yourself and Thomas Bradly.”
“Dear, kind friend,” began Miss Maltby, raising herself from her couch, and leaning herself on her mother, who came and sat by her, “I could not be satisfied to leave Crossbourne without seeing you first, as I want you to do something for me in the parish which I cannot ask my dear father to do. And I want to make a confession also to you, as it may be the means of doing some little good in the place where I have left so much undone, and as perhaps it may not please God that I should come back again to my earthly home.”
She was unable to proceed for a few moments, and Bradly dared not trust himself to speak, while the vicar and his wife found it hard to control their feelings.
“Thomas,” she at length continued, her voice gaining strength and her mind clearness under the excitement of the subject which now filled her heart and thoughts, “I want you to say something for me to my class—at least to those girls who belonged to it when I used to teach it. Say it to them in your own plain and simple way, and I trust that it may do them good.
“I want you to tell them from me that I have tried what the world and its idols are, and I have found them ‘vanity of vanities.’ Not that I have been leading what is called a wicked life; not that I have loved gay company or worldly amusements; not that I have lost sight of Christ and heaven altogether, though they have been getting further off from my sight every day; but I have been fashioning for myself an idol with my own hands, which has been shutting out heavenly things from me more and more. And now God has in mercy shattered my idol, and I trust that I can see Jesus once more as I have not seen him, oh, for so long!
“I am startled when I look back and see how far I have gone astray, and how I have let the devil cheat me with a thousand plausible falsehoods. Oh, what a useless life I have been leading! What a selfish life I have been leading! And yet I have been persuading myself that I was only cultivating the powers which God gave me. But it has not been so; it is as though I had been set to draw a picture of our Saviour, and had ability and the best of materials given me for making a beautiful likeness, and I had all the while gone on just drawing an image of myself, and had then fallen down and worshipped it.
“Tell my girls, then,—for I may never have the opportunity of telling them myself,—that there is no real happiness in such a life as mine has lately been. It is really purely for self is this struggle after distinction; God put us into this world for something far different. I know, of course, that my scholars are not any of them likely to be snared exactly in the same way that I have been. Still, they might be tempted to think what a grand thing it would be to have the advantages for getting knowledge and distinction that I have had. Ah, but what has been my life, after all? Why, like that group of wax flowers under the glass shade. Don’t they look beautiful? But you see they are not real; they have no life and no sweetness in them, and they can never make the sick and the suffering happy as real flowers do. My life, with all its advantages, and what people call accomplishments, has been as unreal, as lifeless, as scentless as those wax flowers. It has not pleased God; it has not made others happy; there has been nothing to envy in it, but oh, quite the other way: it should rather be a warning. Tell my girls so, for they have their temptations even in this direction; there is so much attention paid now to head knowledge in all ranks and classes, and such a danger of neglecting heart knowledge and Christ knowledge. Show them how it has been with me. Tell them how I feel now on looking back.
“What have I really gained by this eager pursuit after earthly fame? Nothing. I have strained body and mind in seeking it—strained them, probably, past recovery. And what have I lost in the pursuit? I have lost peace; I have lost a thousand opportunities of doing good which can never be recalled; I have lost the happy sense of Jesus’ love and presence.—Dear father, would you give me that open book?—These words just suit my life, Thomas:—
“‘Nothing but leaves! The Spirit grievesOver a wasted life;O’er sins indulged while conscience slept,O’er vows and promises unkept;And reaps from years of strife—Nothing but leaves! Nothing but leaves!’”
“‘Nothing but leaves! The Spirit grievesOver a wasted life;O’er sins indulged while conscience slept,O’er vows and promises unkept;And reaps from years of strife—Nothing but leaves! Nothing but leaves!’”
She paused, and hiding her face in her mother’s breast, wept long and bitterly.
Thomas Bradly had listened with deep emotion to every word, but had not yet been able to command himself sufficiently to speak. But now he stretched his hand forward, and took up the little hymn-book from which Clara Maltby had been reading, and, as he turned over its pages, said—“I don’t doubt, dear Miss Clara, but you’ve just said the plain truth about yourself; I’ve grieved over it all, and prayed about it. But that’s all past and gone now, and the Lord means to bring good out of the evil, I can see that, and you’ll let me read you these lines out of your book, as I’m sure it ain’t going to be ‘nothing but leaves’ after all. Listen, miss, to these blessed words, for they belong to you:—
“There were ninety and nine that safely layIn the shelter of the fold;But one was out on the hills away,Far-off from the gates of gold,—Away on the mountains wild and bare,Away from the tender Shepherd’s care.“‘Lord, thou hast here thy ninety and nine:Are they not enough for thee?’But the Shepherd made answer: ‘This of mineHas wandered away from me;And although the road be rough and steep,I go to the desert to find my sheep.’“And all through the mountains, thunder-riven,And up from the rocky steep,There rose a cry to the gate of heaven,‘Rejoice! I have found my sheep!’And the angels echoed around the throne,‘Rejoice, for the Lord brings back his own!’”
“There were ninety and nine that safely layIn the shelter of the fold;But one was out on the hills away,Far-off from the gates of gold,—Away on the mountains wild and bare,Away from the tender Shepherd’s care.“‘Lord, thou hast here thy ninety and nine:Are they not enough for thee?’But the Shepherd made answer: ‘This of mineHas wandered away from me;And although the road be rough and steep,I go to the desert to find my sheep.’“And all through the mountains, thunder-riven,And up from the rocky steep,There rose a cry to the gate of heaven,‘Rejoice! I have found my sheep!’And the angels echoed around the throne,‘Rejoice, for the Lord brings back his own!’”
“Thank you, Thomas, thank you most sincerely,” cried the sick girl, raising herself again. “Yes, I trust that these beautiful wordsdoapply to me. Jesus has gone after me, a poor wandering and rebellious sheep, and brought me back again. Do then, kind friend, tell my dear class for me that I have found all out of Christ to be emptiness, and that there can be no true happiness here unless we are working for him.
“Of course, I might have pursued my studies innocently had I given to them leisure hours when other duties had been done, and then they would have been a delight to me, and a source of real improvement. But instead of that I made an idol of them, and they became a snare to me. I lived for them, and in them, and all else was as good as forgotten. Yes, even my Bible, that was once so precious,—it might as well have lain on the shelf, and indeed, latterly, it has seldom been anywhere else. I had no time for reading it; earthly studies absorbed every moment. But now it has become to me again truly my Bible; it has shown me, and shows me more and more plainly every day, my sin and my neglect. Ah! It is an awful thing when the struggle after this world’s honours and prizes makes us thrust aside thoughts of God and of the crown of glory. It has been so with me. I have been chasing an illuminated shadow until it has suddenly vanished, and left me in a darkness that might be felt.
“Tell my girls, then, dear friend, to take warning from me. Tell them how I mourn over my wasted life; but tell them also that I have a good hope that God, for Christ’s sake, has forgiven me, and ask them to pray for me. The great lesson I want you to impress upon them from my case is just this, that no knowledge can be worth having that interferes with our following our Saviour; that no pursuit, though it may not be outwardly sinful or manifestly worldly, which unfits us in body or mind for doing our duty in that state of life to which it has pleased God to call us, can be innocent, for it robs Jesus of that service which we all owe to him.
“And now I am going to ask you to give these photographs, one a piece, to my girls: they will value them, I know, as the likeness of one who was once happy in being their teacher, and who hopes, should God spare her, to be their teacher again; a better instructed teacher far, I hope, because taught in the school of bitter but wholesome experience to know herself.”
These last few words, uttered with deep feeling, made it necessary for Clara to pause once more. So Thomas Bradly, seeing that her strength was well-nigh exhausted, simply expressed his hearty readiness to comply with her requests, and was rising to take his leave, when she signed him to remain.
“Just one thing more, dear friend,” she added, as soon as she was sufficiently recovered.—“Nay, dearest mother, you must let me finish what I have to say. I shall be happier and calmer when I have told all.—O Thomas! I have been on the very edge of a dreadful precipice; nay, I almost fear that I have scarcely avoided beginning the terrible fall. Finding myself unequal to the full strain which my studies imposed upon me, I began to have recourse to intoxicating stimulants, first a little, and then a little more, till at last I got to crave them, oh, how terribly! And, alas! alas! worse still. As I was ashamed to bring such things openly into my father’s house, I have employed a servant once or twice to fetch them for me, but simply as a medicine, and I have found myself scheming how I might do this to a still greater extent without detection. Oh, to what a depth have I fallen! But I see it all now; the Lord has opened my eyes. What I wanted was rest, not stimulants. And surely nothing could justify me in putting such a strain upon my mind as to make it needful to fly to such a restorative.
“I don’t ask you to mention this to my girls, nor to any one else, for it might not do good, and might be a hindrance, in a measure, to my dear father in his work; but I tell it you to ease my own heart, and that you may pray for me, and that you may hear me now, in the presence of my beloved father and mother, declare that from this time forward I renounce all such study, if God spare me, as shall unfit me for a loving service of Jesus, in my home and out of it, and that I have done with all intoxicating stimulants, the Lord helping me, now and for ever.”
“Bless the Lord!” said Bradly to himself, as, after a silent pressure of Clara Maltby’s hand, he stole out of the room. “All’s working for good, I’m sure,” he added, as he walked homewards. “We shall do grandly now. One great stone has just been struck out of our good vicar’s path. Satan’s a queer, knowing customer, but he often outwits himself; and there’s One wiser and stronger than him.”