THREE HAPPY YEARS.
ALTHOUGH Mr. Arkwright said with such decision, when Christie's
ignorance was remarked upon, "That must be remedied," you must not
imagine that he had any extensive educational scheme in his head for
the boy's benefit. He belonged to the old-fashioned way of thinking: if
a boy who had to live by the work of his hands could read and write,
and cipher a little, all beyond that, in the way of secular learning,
he would have considered dangerous, likely to give him tastes beyond
his station, and to unfit him for it. And it cannot be denied that
there is no kindness in unfitting a person for his station, unless you
fit him for a higher one, and secure to him a fair chance of rising to
it.
What Mr. Arkwright meant was that Christie should be taught to
understand his Bible and his religion in a more enlightened way. In his
talks with the boy, he had discovered that he was sincerely religious,
as far as he had light. He feared God, and tried to do right to please
Him; and to do right meant a good deal to Christie. It meant spotless
purity, perfect honesty, truth, and sobriety. It meant to be patient
under injury, to obey and honour his parents, and to be content to
work hard and to live hard: all this he had learned from his mother,
and all this, on the whole, he had honestly tried to carry out in his
life. He knew too that "Christ had died to save him," and he had read
and re-read the four Gospels. But it was curious to see how little
he understood or realized of the life of our Lord, or of the real
sinfulness of sin. Of the help of the Holy Spirit, and of the higher
duties and privileges of the Christian life, he had no knowledge
whatever.
But, like his poor mother, Christie presented the unusual spectacle of
one whose daily practice is very much better than the amount of light
vouchsafed to him would lead one to expect. Kate had been so ignorant
that she did not see the sin of settling down in a place where she
could never go to church, or receive help and instruction in any other
way. Christie had never been in a church in his life, since he was
baptized in St. Charles's, Plymouth. Little as was their knowledge,
however, they had lived it, and it had made them very different from
all their neighbours. Poor Christie, indeed, had been in a very bitter,
angry state of mind during his last few weeks in his old home, but
between the revival of Hessie's affection, and the change of scene and
all the new interests, he had nearly forgotten the bad feelings, and
had quite got over them.
It was just as well that Mr. Arkwright had not set his heart on
making a scholar of his new charge, for Christie was not particularly
clever, and was too old to change his tastes and habits now. But the
instruction which the good old man wished to give him, Christie drank
in eagerly. Mother had always told him that she knew very little, so
that he was quite ready to learn more. For one hour every day his
master taught him; on two evenings in the week he went to the Vicarage
to attend a class held by Mr. Forster for farmers' boys; and on other
evenings, Persis gave him a writing lesson.
But more than by any stated lessons, every one in the house taught him
by example. Before he could have told you what was meant by "the beauty
of holiness," he had recognized that beauty in Mr. and Mrs. Arkwright,
Persis, and the Vicar. Before he could have explained what humility
meant, he had learned to be humble by comparing himself with them. He
got his first real idea of the love of Christ for sinners, by seeing
Persis cry bitterly because Janet told a lie.
"Oh, Janet, Janet, I am so sorry for you! Dear Janet, do but think how
dreadful it is! Oh, mother, what can I do to help Janet to be really
sorry?"
Many a time had Christie heard untruths told, oaths and bad words used,
and only felt comfortably aware that "he" never did the like. Nor had
he ever tried to reason with any one except Hessie. All these thoughts
he kept turning about in his mind, and by degrees a clearer light
dawned on him. He had begun to love going to church too, and even to
understand something of the service and the sermon. But it was a work
of time; he learned the mysteries of gardening much faster and more
easily.
The pony and carriage were purchased in the spring after Christie came
to Mount Salem, and that pony became a wonderful pet, both to Persis
and to her faithful slave—for by this time Christie would have gone
through fire and water for Miss Persis. But in the light of after
events, I am not sure that the pony deserved to be made a pet of, and I
"am" sure that good Mr. Arkwright was cheated when he bought him.
The first difficulty that arose was about driving him. Mr. Arkwright
knew nothing about driving, and neither did his wife. Persis, who was
to drive her mother about the country, knew nothing about it either,
but being young and inexperienced, she was troubled by no misgivings:
probably thought, as Dogberry did about reading and writing, that it
came by nature.
Christie, having so often driven John Donkey, considered himself quite
able to teach Miss Persis. So Persis, with Christie in attendance, made
one or two trial trips, during which the pony behaved fairly well,
having a respect for Christie. He went at a decent pace, and did not
turn the corners too sharply, only just grazing the middle stone of the
gate when coming in. And after a drive or two, Persis announced that
she was ready to take mother out for a drive, any day. Christie thought
so too—yet there was a gleam in Tom Thumb's eyes which might have
enlightened him, had he been as well acquainted with ponies as with
donkeys.
The whole strength of the household assembled to see Mrs. Arkwright set
out for her first drive. Debby and Janet stood in the doorway; Christie
held the pony; Persis arranged cushions, Mr. Arkwright piled on shawls.
At last, both ladies were in.
"Now, Persis, not too far, my dear, nor too fast, this first day.
Christopher, lead the creature through the gate and set them on the
road. Go out towards the park, Persis,—not into the village until your
mother has got over her fears."
Any fears that were experienced that day were Mr. Arkwright's own. Mrs.
Arkwright looked quite placid. They drove away, Tom trotting gallantly.
Christie and his master went to the garden. Generally Mr. Arkwright
forgot everything else in the interest of his flowers, but to-day
he was uneasy, and kept trotting to the door to peep out every five
minutes. An hour elapsed. Mr. Arkwright was beginning to settle down
quietly, when both he and Christie heard a voice, calling—
"Christie! Christie!"
It was the voice of Persis.
Both gardeners rushed out, leaving the door open—a thing hitherto
unknown to history. There, near the gate, was the carriage, with Mrs.
Arkwright in it, apparently quite safe. But instead of sitting beside
her and flourishing her whip, Persis was at Tom's head, holding him
with all her might.
"Come and open the gate, Christie, I'm afraid to let him go. Father, we
are quite safe."
Christie ran to the gate. When he had set one side open, Tom Thumb put
the topstone to his iniquities—for plainly he had been misbehaving
himself—by making a rush in spite of Persis, who held on valiantly, and
trying to take the carriage through the half-gate. He brought the wheel
against the gate-post, which of course brought him to a stand.
"Persis, my child, are you hurt?" said the gentle voice from the
carriage.
"No, mother, not a bit."
Mr. Arkwright was simply beside himself with fright. Christie got hold
of the pony.
"Miss Persis, would you mind opening the other gate?" he said.
Persis did so, and Christie backed poor little Tom by main force, and
then led him up to the door.
"Andrew, I assure you there is no harm done, and I was not even
frightened," said Mrs. Arkwright. "I beg you not to be alarmed."
"Tell me exactly what happened," he said, huskily.
"The pony began to go slower and slower,—I think perhaps he is a little
too fat," and truly, thanks to Christie's feeding and tit-bits supplied
by Persis, this seemed to be true. "We did not like to beat him, and we
did not mind going slow, it was very pleasant. But about halfway up the
hill, Tom turned round, and nothing Persis could do would persuade him
to turn again, so we let him go on; and then he began to go faster and
faster, and we feared he might run away, so Persis got out and led him
home."
"And, really, father, he made a face at me," said Persis, laughing.
But Mr. Arkwright was in no mode for jokes. He said quite angrily,
"Persis! I am—"
But there he stopped. Mrs. Arkwright was by this time safe out of the
carriage, and when he ceased speaking, she looked up in his face with a
smile so sweet, so sympathizing and loving, that it made her pale, worn
face quite beautiful. Her husband turned away and walked quickly into
the garden.
"Mother, what's the matter?" cried young Persis, frightened out of her
wits.
"Your dear father was alarmed for us, Persis. Long ago we used to
laugh at him because when startled—for others, never for himself—he
was always angry. I think it is fifteen years since I saw him so much
overcome; no one would think now, that he had a very uneven temper."
"But, mother, was I to blame?"
"No, dear. Come in now. Christie, take the pony round to the stable,
and then—"
"I hope there is nothing wrong here?" said a new arrival. It was the
Vicar, who had come up unperceived.
"Oh, Mr. Forster, Tom Thumb has behaved quite badly," said Persis. "I
found I could not manage him, so I led him home."
"Thinking discretion the better part of valour," answered the Vicar;
"and rightly, as your mother was with you. Let me look at the creature."
Being very short-sighted, he put on his glasses, and inspected Tom more
keenly than he had done before.
"Where did your master buy him, Christie?"
"From a man in Leeds, sir, who was once in his employment. The man
wrote that he was a good steady pony with no vice about him; and
really, sir, the creature is as wise as many men."
"I think that the more likely, Christie, because he has had a good
deal of experience," said the Vicar, dryly. "But my brother William is
coming home this evening, and he will be the best person to consult.
Perhaps, Persis, you do not understand how to drive him? William shall
teach you; he is a first-rate whip. He will be with me now for some
time."
Christie led off Tom Thumb, and the others went into the house. When
pony and carriage were disposed of, Christie went back to the garden.
He found his master, not sowing mignonette as he expected, but sitting
quite idle on a garden-seat, looking exceedingly grave. He got up when
Christie appeared, but was by no means in his usual cheery, chirpy
state of mind, working away in silence until Persis came out, to say—
"Father, will you come in to tea? Mr. Forster is here."
The girl looked a little nervous, and Mr. Arkwright put his hand on her
arm and went with her.
In a moment, Christie heard her say in great distress—
"Oh, don't, dear father! I did not—I know—mother told me how it was."
"Well," said Christie to himself, "that 'is' being a Christian. He
couldn't be sorrier if he had hurt some one!"
William Forster came next day with his brother, and inspected Tom
Thumb. He laughed a good deal, which Christie and Miss Persis secretly
rather resented, and he made remarks not altogether complimentary on
the size of Tom's head. He at first advised that the pony should be
sold, as he was evidently very old, but everybody was so disconcerted
at this that he contented himself with telling Christie not to
over-feed him, and to give him plenty of exercise. He then took Tom
out himself, and on his return said that he seemed good-tempered,
though lazy, but that he would do very well if well driven, and he then
modestly offered to teach Persis to drive.
And after a few lessons, Persis could manage Tom very well, though she
never could bring herself to use her whip with the energy advised by
her teacher.
As to the bees which Mrs. Arkwright had once wished to have, she
changed her mind about them after a few talks with Christie. Being
asked what, in his opinion, made bees more inclined to sting one person
than another, Christie replied that "doubtless 'twas a gift"—but still,
he thought that as a general rule bees would sting any one who stood
before the hive so as to intercept them in flying in and out; also that
quick, sudden movements annoyed them.
Now Mrs. Arkwright knew very well that her husband would be always
watching them, and would as often as not forget that he must not
interrupt their line of march; also, that he would insist upon helping
Christie in what the boy called "handling them," and that his brisk,
rapid movements would then earn him many a sting, so without assigning
any reason, she declined to purchase a hive. Therefore, no bees were
added to the family at Mount Salem.
I say "added to the family" quite seriously. For it was wonderful how
every one in the household became one of the family after a time. Janet
and Debby—the former a girl who had been in many places, the latter,
one trained from the first by Mrs. Arkwright—both felt this. They
felt at home; they had a perfect trust in their mistress's kindness
and fairness. And Mrs. Arkwright, while treating them with invariable
courtesy and gentleness, yet exacted a respect and deference from them,
which now-a-days servants rebel against to their own great detriment.
For after all, a girl must obey her mistress, and to be obliged to obey
a person for whom you feel no deference is very degrading.
As to Christie, he would as soon have thought of flying as of giving
warning and getting higher wages elsewhere, though no doubt he could
have done so as time went on. In fact, when a person, or even an
animal, had once come within the gates of Mount Salem, there he, she,
or it, remained, unless the position was forfeited by very bad conduct.
Even Tom Thumb, though not quite the pony that he had been represented
to be, though rather elderly, very cunning and lazy, yet being accepted
as the Mount Salem pony, was safe for the rest of his days. "He had his
peculiarities, but he was a good little creature in spite of them," was
the worst that was said of him.
I have told you all this, just to give you an idea of the happy,
peaceful life Christie Brent now led, after his troubles in Blackmead.
Nor must you imagine that poor Blackmead was forgotten by him, or that
Mr. Arkwright and the Vicar, Mr. Forster, after a while, found out that
the place was in the parish of Grassley, and that the clergyman at
Blackmead, in old times, had been curate to the Rector of Grassley. But
as I told you before, the place had been deserted for a long time, and
the little church had quite disappeared—its very site was forgotten.
Had the mines proved valuable, and had the village increased and
prospered, no doubt something would have been done long ago, but as
the mines were soon abandoned, and the population dwindled down to a
few wretched families, who had little communication with other places,
Blackmead had been forgotten. Things were not then as they are now, and
such a thing was but too possible.
The present Rector of Grassley was a very old man, and the parish was
a poor one. He was written to, frequently, but he did nothing. Yet he
would not allow any one else to do anything! Every one knows how hard
it is, in a matter of this kind, first, to find out who is responsible;
and secondly, to rouse that person to a sense of his responsibility.
The first step had been accomplished in this case, but the second
seemed very hopeless. Mr. Arkwright and some friends were willing to
help liberally any reasonable scheme, but the poor old Rector made one
objection after another, and nothing could be done.
At last, somebody thought to mend matters by making the affair public,
and it got into the newspapers; which, though not quite so numerous
then as now, had begun to be a very real influence in the country. The
terrible fact, that in one of the richest shires of England, there was
a place which could hardly have been worse off if it were in a heathen
country, was a good deal talked about. And the first thing that came of
the talk was by no means a fortunate undertaking. Christie had by this
time been three years at Kingsfield.
Neither Mr. Forster, nor Mr. Arkwright, nor any of their friends, knew
that such an attempt was being made. It was undertaken by a well-known
itinerant preacher; I do not know exactly to what sect he belonged, but
he was a very good man, and had long travelled about, preaching in the
open air to miners, sailors, labourers, or any set of people who would
give him a hearing. Owing to the purity and unselfishness of his life,
and to his rough eloquence, he was greatly admired and loved in many
places.
This was the man who, hearing of the miserable condition of Blackmead,
set off without a word to any one, toiled up the mountain road, engaged
a bed at the Red Dog, and began preaching every evening to all who
would listen. Curiosity and idleness brought the whole population
together just at first, and really no one can say whether he might not
have succeeded in bringing many to better ways of thinking and living,
but for our old friend Ben Marks, the blacksmith.
The preacher was very plain-spoken; in unsparing words, he pointed
out the sin and folly of drinking, idleness, swearing, and other sins
to which he perceived his hearers to be addicted. He described the
results of drinking, results physical, mental, and spiritual. Ben was
there; and partly because he felt that what was said as to the effect
of drinking on a man's health, strength, temper, and mental vigour, was
all perfectly true, as he himself knew but too well, partly because
he did not care to show his neighbours how well the cap fitted—he was
silent. Indeed he was a little frightened, which was a new sensation,
and he did not like it.
But the preacher went on to upbraid them with their utter neglect of
their children. It was sad, he told them, to see little children, like
some he saw here, half-naked, half-starved, dirty, and miserable, but
it was worse to see them untaught, and to hear from baby lips the
foul oaths and wicked words which the poor innocents picked up from
all around them. But worst of all was the state of the elder boys and
girls. What did they expect their girls to come to, when in their youth
they had already taken sides with sin—when young girls could behave as
these girls behaved yesterday?
Now what he referred to on this occasion was a scene which had taken
place the day before—when a set of girls, headed by Hessie Marks, had
begun to play a noisy game of "Follow my leader" during the preaching.
At first they only circled round the little crowd, but growing bolder,
they rushed in among them, and flew here and there, amid laughs and
shouts.
The preacher took no notice, but persevered for some time, but the
girls, joined now by boys from among the crowd, kept pushing nearer
and nearer to him. At last he stopped, and singling out Hessie as the
leader, began to speak directly to her.
Hessie, already in wild spirits, and angry with him for addressing
her thus, suddenly rushed at him, tilted the chair on which he stood
until he fell off, and then jumped up on it. A cheer was raised; Hessie
was down and off again on her mad race in a moment, but of course her
following, boys and girls alike, had to "follow the leader."
The preacher was hustled about; some one knocked off his hat and flung
it among the crowd; and the noise and riot was so great, that when he
had found his hat, he went quietly away to the public-house and retired
to his room.
You will see now, that this allusion to the conduct of the girls gave
Ben Marks an excuse for showing anger, of which he was not slow to
avail himself. Pushing his way close up to the speaker, he called out—
"Come now!—no more of that. My girl and the rest were only at play, and
you've no right to be here in their way; they played here long before
you came. Nor you've no right to speak of my girl in that way. She's as
good as you, for all your talk. What right have you here, after all?"
It is not necessary to give any further particulars of this scene, or
of those which followed it. From that day Ben openly set himself to
"put down this nonsense," and he found plenty of helpers. It ended
in the poor preacher, who only wanted to do them good—though perhaps
we may not think his method the very best possible—being beaten and
ill-used, turned out of doors by the landlord of the Red Dog, and
driven from the village by a disorderly rabble. He made his way,
bleeding and lame, to Mrs. Smiles's farm, where he was kindly cared for
until he quite recovered.
Of course, in her next letter to her daughter Debby, Mrs. Smiles told
the story. Equally of course, Debby told it to Christie, and showed the
letter to her mistress.
Christie asked for a holiday, I really think for the first time: he
made his way to Grassley, saw the Smiles's, and the preacher, who was
still far from recovered. From him Christie heard the whole story.
"Did you see Hessie again before you left, sir?"
"No. She was not again present at the preaching, and she was not among
those who drove me away."
"I think, very like she was ashamed. Don't think hardly of Hessie, sir.
She has had a bad rearing, but she has a warm heart. She saved my life
once, when she was very angry with me."
"I do not think hardly of her. But I think very sorrowfully, Christie
Brent. She is a very pretty girl, and as wild as a hawk. What is to
become of her?"
Christie said farewell, and went his way back to Kingsfield, with those
words ringing in his ears with every step of the weary way. For his
heart was heavy, and so the way seemed weary.
"Very sorrowfully—what is to become of her?"
Oh, the old childish days of innocent play on the free hillside!—the
flowers and the garlands, and the merry talk! He could see her now, her
little dark head crowned with scarlet poppies, her eyes dancing, her
little feet flying about, her gay voice prattling away "so pretty!" How
she had loved flowers, and all birds and beasts; never had he known
her to hurt or frighten a dumb creature. How brave she was, the slight
little thing!—though afraid of her father, twice she had braved his
wrath to save her friend.
And now, "What is to become of her?" What had she become? Is there no
way open by which Hessie may escape?
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