CHAPTER XXV.
THISTLES OR GRAPES?
“Are there any lodgings to let in Darentdale?”
The village post-office closed early; and the postman had just called, in his curious red cart, drawn by a gaunt horse that was celebrated for getting over the ground quickly, and, having received the bag, was hastening away to the nearest town. The postmistress, an active woman who, having a paralysed husband, needed all her activity, had come to the door to look after him, when a stranger arrived with a letter. “Too late?” he asked; and she replied “Too late!” and was about to go in and close the door, when his other question arrested her.
Now, it happened that Mrs. Orley had been thinking only that afternoon how well she could spare her best parlour and the bedroom over it, if by doing so she could earn an honest pound or two. She knew that in many villages there had been inquiries for lodgings, and wondered that none of the inquirers came her way—and here stood one before her, as if in answer to her thoughts.
But Mrs. Orley was a wary woman, and the very coincidence of her thought and his appearance created a doubt in her mind.
“Lodgings?” she said, “No, I never heard of anybody who lets lodgings in this village.”
“No? Now, that is a pity, for a prettier village does not exist in England.”
“Maybe you’ve seen all the others. I haven’t, so I don’t pretend to say. ’Tis pretty enough for us.”
“And healthy, I suppose?”
“Yes; we live as long as most folks, especially in these days, when the houses are better than they used to be.”
“Well, I should like to stay here for a week or two, and I wouldn’t mind paying fairly. I have taken a fancy to the place. I like the undulations and the woods; and I think the squire’s house is very pretty. But I suppose it is no use to stay longer. You know everybody. I have always found that a postmaster is the best person in a place of whom to make inquiries, so if you say there are no lodgings, I must go on to the next village.”
“How much did you want to pay? I have a sitting-room and a bedroom. I wouldn’t mind obliging you if we can come to terms. Would you like to look at the rooms?”
“I should,” said the stranger, with alacrity; and no sooner had he seen them than he declared that they were exactly what he wanted.
“Make me an offer,” said Mrs. Orley.
“I shall not give much trouble,” said the stranger. “Would a pound a week satisfy you?”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” said Mrs. Orley; “I will oblige you if you like for a pound a week.”
If she had mentioned a sum, it would have been half that amount. But the stranger appeared pleased, and soon settled down, giving his name as Samuel Smart. Mrs. Orley decided that he was an author, for he was always writing. She was not surprised at his coming to Darentdale, for she knew that a good deal had been written about the place, and no doubt this man was making up a story in which Darentdale would figure to advantage. So, being a kind-hearted woman and very fond of an innocent bit of gossip, she told her lodger many interesting things about the inhabitants of the village. She offered to introduce him to the parson and the squire, but he declined her services in this respect, and only made a few acquaintances on his own account. He bought a good many books during his stay. He had a list of those which he wanted, and asked for them one at a time of Mr. Harris. He had none in stock, but could always get the volume in a day or two; so there was much coming and going between the bookseller and the customer, and however busy with his pen the stranger might be, he had plenty of time to spare for a talk with him.
“He interests me exceedingly,” he said to Mrs. Orley; and she told him all she knew of Margaret and her grandfather. “Miss Miller is much more interesting than the old man,” said the postmistress; but Mr. Smart did not seem to think so, and she set him down as a confirmed old bachelor, with very poor tastes and little knowledge of beauty. Margaret was a great favourite of hers, and she was never tired of talking of her; but only once did she succeed in arousing anything like feeling in Mr. Smart. And that was when she had done something which she certainly ought not to have done.
For, of course, Mrs. Orley had sworn before a magistrate that she would regard as sacred all letters that passed through her hands, and she did not doubt that letters included postcards; and yet one morning she not only read the whole contents of a postcard herself, but actually took the card to her lodger, and he read it too.
It was a very insulting postcard, written anonymously, and addressed to Margaret Miller.
“Read this, sir,” she said, handing it to him with the contents side up, and he read it before he turned it and saw the address.
Mrs. Orley was frightened; she did not think her lodger could exhibit so much passion. “A coward!” he said, between his teeth, “and, of course, a woman. Men are bad enough, but no man could do such a mean thing as that. It takes a jealous, spiteful woman to insult another woman by means of an anonymous postcard. Let us throw the thing on the fire.”
Mrs. Orley snatched it away in alarm. “It is as much as my place is worth not to deliver it,” she said, “and I’ve just bethought myself that I ought not to have shown it to you; not that the envious thing who wrote it cares how many people see it; it is put on a postcard on purpose. But I don’t think it will hurt Miss Miller very much. Her lips will tremble a little when she reads it, and she will ask herself if it contains a lesson that she ought to learn and benefit by, and will read it again to see, and then she will burn it and try to forget the unkindness of it. That is her way.”
“And a very good way, too,” said Mr. Smart, more gently, as he put on his hat and went out.
Mrs. Orley watched him a little after that; but she could never discover that he took the slightest interest in Margaret Miller, or ever spoke to her, or even looked at her if she happened to pass him in the street.
He stayed at Darentdale three weeks, and when he left he asked his hostess to accept an extra pound, which he declared was only her due, because he had been so much more comfortable than he expected.
He had appeared much interested in the scenery, the place and people, as well he might be, for there was another village beside Craighelbyl in which the summer passed ideally; and it was Darentdale, where all were trying to make life as joyous as God intended it should be. It is one thing to make a great effort of good work in order to float a scheme, it is quite another to keep it going when the first enthusiasm has died out. The little homes among the green were inhabited by no stronger people than the rest of the world; but their friends were far-seeing and patient, and exceedingly solicitous that there should be no failures. It was known that many towns and villages had followed when Darentdale led the way; and it could be said of more than a few places that all that man could do to prevent sin and misery was being done in their locality. Some complaints, indeed, were made that there was danger of a narrowing of interests; but this was scarcely true. A farmer who puts forth all his powers to keep every inch of his own land in good condition is yet quite able to look at his neighbours’ farms, and even, by means of the Press, to cast a glance over the whole wide world. The Darentdale Church, united, for the sake of those who were outside, had plenty of work on its hands, and a great solicitude in its heart.
And there was a “revival” in Darentdale. There had to be—first, in the church, where it was most needed; and, secondly, outside—among those whom it was necessary to bring in. For those who worked the most earnestly were not able to do, of themselves, that which they most desired to do, and the more entirely they felt their own helplessness the more entirely were they thrown upon God.
They were disappointed again and again. One woman, who had been helped and who had seemed grateful, relapsed into drunkenness, and was quite candid. “I have been a fool,” she said, “to sign the pledge and pretend that I want to be goody. But never again! A short life and a merry one for me!”
The way was too narrow, the fight too strenuous, for them. They needed a Helper stronger than the human, and until they sought Him, the immoral could not become moral, or the evil good.
“We must pray more! Let us give an hour a day to intercessory wrestling with God, that He will save the people, for they cannot save themselves; neither can we save them; but we are sure that, if it be God’s will, they must be saved,” said one.
“And I am sure,” replied Mr. Harris, “that it is most certainly God’s will that they should be saved.” But he prayed with the rest, for, although he did not even now attend the ordinary religious service at church or chapel, he was always present at the united meetings that were public.
The whole church, indeed, gave itself up to prayer, both private and united; and, as is always the case, there were some remarkable incidents proving that prayers were heard and answers abundant; one man, Benham, declaring that after what he had seen he would never doubt again. “Since that woman is changed,” he added, “I am sure that any one can be. There is an alteration in this place, sure enough.”
“There is,” said Nelson, who was the recipient of Benham’s confidences; “but it is because good people mean it all much more than they used.”
“Yes; and things will never be the same again, for now they know how to look after the boys and girls. And this is the most promising thing of all.”
And indeed it was. The Darentdale Committee of Helpfulness set a very high value on every young person living in the village. If he or she should show vicious tendencies the best and ablest person among them undertook the case. All the ingenuity and watchful love of wise parents were brought to bear, and at present there had been no case that proved invulnerable to these benign powers and influences. It soon became an extraordinary thing to the Darentdale people that there could ever have been a time when a child was of small account in the place. “We shall make men out of these,” was a consideration never overlooked now in regard to the children.
A very merry place was Darentdale during those summer evenings. There were a dozen tennis-courts, and as many cricket-grounds, each presenting a scene of most complete enjoyment. The young ladies played with the poor girls. Mr. Dallington, the clergyman, and the Baptist minister, each superintended some recreations, and all sorts of delightful games were organised, in which lads and girls joined and their teachers assisted. There were botany classes held in the fields and woods; there were the sounds of sweet songs in the meadows, and open-air concerts in the groves; there were gymnastic feats in the orchards, and races in the lanes; but everything was under the supervision of Christian men and women, who guided the conversation, and helped with the jokes, and made it impossible for gambling or bad language to be mixed up with the play, and who believed that in all this they were doing the Lord’s work as certainly as when they were teaching in the Sunday-school.
Margaret Miller and John Dallington were quietly waiting. The look of youthfulness had passed from John’s face and form, but Margaret was as sweet as ever. John shouldered his cross of care manfully, and Margaret daily laid hers down at the feet of Him who is as able to bear our sorrows as our sins; and both helped in the efforts that were being made for the betterment of the people who had been, as they believed, committed to their care.
One thing had greatly delighted Margaret, and it was that her grandfather, as she still called him, had undertaken the care of a dozen of her Young Crusaders. At first, though neither he nor she knew it, there had been a demur among some of the committee.
“This must be kept in the hands of Christians,” one said “and we have no proof that Mr. Harris believes in Christ.”
But another replied, “Let us judge him by the Master’s rule, ‘By their fruits ye shall know them.’ We cannot doubt that He would deal very tolerantly with such a man as Henry Harris if He were here now. No one has ever heard him say a word against Christ in all the years we have known him.”
“And now he never says a word against anybody, he has become wonderfully gentle and good. He will do no harm to the boys.”
And this was certainly the feeling of the majority. As for Margaret, she almost envied the boys, for she knew how wisely and lovingly they would be trained.
For two hours each evening Mr. Miller’s house and garden were open to them, and for the first hour he gave them something to do with their bodies—gardening, or quoits, or football, or cricket—and for the second he was at their service to tell them tales or read to them, or take walks with them, or anything else they pleased. Before they had been a week with him they all loved him, and would have done anything or given up anything for him. And he loved them greatly. He believed that every boy had the making of a hero in him, and he sought to find out how to develop the best of his nature and his powers. He liked to set the eleven to some work or play which they liked, and take the twelfth away where the two could talk confidentially to each other. The boy would pour out his very soul to his friend, telling him his ambitions, his troubles, his sins, and his hopes, as he had never told any one before. And what wise counsel he received in return, what good words to be treasured in the boy’s heart even after he became a man, no one knew but God, not even the man or the boy himself.
Mr. Harris was always very tired after the boys had gone. It was really a bit of his very life that he gave them. If the heart be not put into work of this kind very little is accomplished; but if it be heart work it can only be done at great personal cost to the worker. But he was always very happy, too, and had usually something to tell Margaret which she was glad to hear.
One evening Mr. Harris was walking over the fields with a lad called Dick Nelson, a bright, mischievous boy, “worth saving at any price,” Harris said to himself, when a question was put to him of a more direct character than any which he had ever before been called to answer. They were talking about men who had made England, especially the warriors and the statesmen, and at length they mentioned General Gordon. “He would have done more lasting work if he had been less general and more Gordon,” said Harris. “He was a very fine man, but I have always wished that he had not been a soldier. You know, Dick, that is one of my fads. I don’t like war, but I like Gordon; he was a splendid Christian fellow, true as steel.”
“You don’t like him any better because he was a Christian, though, Mr. Harris, do you?” asked the boy, looking curiously into the grey eyes beneath the shaggy brows.
“Don’t I? Indeed, I do,” said Harris, with a kindly smile.
The lad was thoughtful for a moment too, and then an exciting incident occurred; for they saw a fox running across a meadow, and of course the boy must needs chase it. What boy could resist such a chance as that? He came back hot, but pleased, and ready to endure the banter of his friend, who had been watching with an indulgent look upon his benevolent face, and thinking of his own boyhood as if it were but yesterday. After that they had a talk about amusements; but when that subject had been dropped, and a silence had fallen between them, the boy suddenly asked, “Mr. Harris, what do you think about Jesus Christ?”
Harris replied very gently, “I think He was the greatest and best Man that ever lived.”
“But don’t you think, sir,” said his questioner, wistfully, “that He must have been more than a man to do all the things He did—that is, if He ever did do them—I suppose we cannot be sure of that.”
Harris detected the tones of regret in the boy’s voice. “Why cannot we be sure?” he said. “The writers of the biographies of Jesus Christ are certainly as much to be believed as any other writers, to say the least of it; and for my part I have not any doubt that they told the truth about Him. Dick, my boy, you cannot do without Jesus Christ. He is the best Friend a man ever had—don’t doubt that; and as for a poor, hard-working lad like you, why, you will find the world a very dark place if you try to shut Him out of it.”
“But I don’t want to,” said Dick. “I like to read about Him. There is nothing sham about Him, is there, sir?”
“Sham! There is nothing half so real as Jesus Christ,” and Harris took off his hat.
“I am glad you think so,” the boy said gently, putting his hand affectionately on the arm of his master.
Young Nelson never forgot this talk, and it influenced his whole life.
Mr. Harris was half touched, half amused at the incident. He spoke of it to Margaret that evening, for she kept all his confidences, and thoroughly understood him. “I am not quite the sceptic I think myself, I suppose,” he said. “Certainly, the longer I live the more am I impressed by the strong personality of the marvellous Man of Nazareth. I think His time is coming nearer; and it will be a happy time, indeed, for the world. Do you see the signs, Margaret?”
So they talked together; and presently he asked her to sing “one of the old, old hymns,” and she sang “Jesus, the very thought of Thee,” and he joined in as if he felt it. Indeed, that night, after Margaret had left him, sitting as he loved to sit, with the blinds up, and the moonlight filling the room, she heard him sing softly the words, which for so many generations loyal lips have sung to Jesus; and she said to herself, “Dear Graf! Why does he call himself an unbeliever?”
In Darentdale those who were joined together in Christian love and helpfulness had instituted a communion service which was for their mutual comfort and edification. It was held usually in the house of the clergyman, but although many church people attended, the number of Nonconformists was still larger. They did not call it a sacrament, but “a breaking of bread together,” and “all who loved the Lord Jesus in sincerity” were invited to be present. A few evenings after the boy’s question to Mr. Harris the friends were together as usual. The door of the Vicarage was open, and they were singing a hymn of praise, the sound of which floated through the garden, and reached the high road. Along the road Mr. Harris was walking, and he stopped at the gate to listen. Then he went noiselessly to the room where the meeting was held, and took his seat at the door. Of course he was at once recognised. After the hymn was sung a chapter was read, prayer was offered by any who wished to pray, and the chairman asked any friend who could to speak.
Mr. Harris rose and said a few words, which came from his heart, and went to the hearts of others. He told them that he had not been quite sincere in his profession of lack of faith in Christianity, that he had believed always in Christ, but only lately in Christians. He said that he had long ago put his trust in Jesus as the living Saviour, and could say, “I know in whom I have believed”—although he had not thought it necessary to join any part of the Church. “But now,” he said, “I have a great hunger for the communion of saints! Unworthy as I feel myself, yet, because I love our Lord, I ask you to let me join you in this service. Will you receive me as one of yourselves? I love my Master, and I love His brethren, and I crave your prayers and your help. I want to be taught and strengthened. Let me take the lowest place among you, but do not shut me out, for I believe that Jesus is the Christ, and that He loved me, and gave Himself for me.”
His voice grew rather unsteady—perhaps it was because he saw Margaret weeping—and he resumed his seat. But the little company stood, and with one accord they sang,