"THE WORLD IS SO CRUEL."
"There's a horse-fair at Kilmacredden on Saturday," said Lord
Glengall. "I was thinking you might find time to come along with me
and see what's to be picked up."
"It isn't time I'd be wanting," said Mr. Graydon, "and you know it
isn't inclination."
"Very well, then, you'll come. We'll have to make an early start and
give the mare her time over the mountain. Will four o'clock do?"
"For me, yes. Will you get up on Saturday morning and see that
there's a cup of tea ready for me by four o'clock?"
This to Sylvia, who was demurely making tea at a side-table.
"You know I will. Next to being up all night I like to get up before
daybreak."
Lord Glengall broke into a slow smile as he turned to look at the
speaker. He sat astride a small chair, with his chin resting on the
back. He still wore the frieze coat which he had on when he entered;
and with his clean-shaven, melancholy face and deep-set eyes, he
looked like nothing so much as a hard-pressed mountain farmer,
just as Sylvia had described him. Yet the smile was one of great
sweetness, and the mingled simplicity and shrewdness of the face
were far from being unattractive.
[Illustration: Lady Jane looked a little flurried.]
"'Tis well for you, Graydon," he said, "to have little girls to do
the like for you."
"You must marry, Glengall, and be properly taken care of," said Mr.
Graydon.
"I'm past marrying," said Lord Glengall; "I leave that to the girls
and boys."
"They'd make foolish marriages," said Sylvia, "if they were left to
themselves."
Lord Glengall smiled more broadly.
"'Tis a prudent little woman you're owning, Graydon," he said. "You
should turn match-maker, Miss Sylvia."
"For you, Lord Glengall?"
"I'll go bail you'd find no one to have me, Miss Sylvia."
"If I do will you entertain the proposal, Lord Glengall?"
"Provided she's not too old and will marry me for myself."
"I think I can find her for you, Lord Glengall."
"Come, Sylvia, give Glengall his tea, and don't be talking
nonsense," said Mr. Graydon, laughing.
"Here it is for you, Lord Glengall, just as you like it--hot, strong
and sweet."
"Thank you, Miss Sylvia; it's as good as ever I made for myself in
the Bush."
The two men fell to talking of business matters, while Sylvia
manipulated the teacups. Now and again she looked towards the door.
Mary was finishing her letter to Mick in the chilly room upstairs,
and Pamela had taken the dogs for a walk.
"If they don't come soon," muttered Sylvia over her teacup, "this
tea won't be fit to drink, and Bridget's in no humour to make more."
A rat-tat at the hall-door knocker interrupted her meditations.
"Some of those young fellows from the barracks, Sylvia," suggested
her father.
"It can't be," said Sylvia. "Mr. Baker was here yesterday, and Mr.
De Quincy on Tuesday, and Captain Vavasour's coming to-morrow."
"Lady Jane Trevithick," announced Bridget, flinging the door open.
"Oh, dear!" muttered Sylvia; "and it's one of Bridget's bad days
when she won't wear an apron. Now, where has the woman dropped from?"
Lady Jane swept across the room magnificent in purple and sables.
"How do you do?" said Mr. Graydon, going to meet her. "This _is_ a
pleasure. My daughter, Lady Jane. My friend, Glengall. No, don't sit
there. There's a dog in that chair."
For a self-possessed woman Lady Jane looked a little flurried.
Without meeting her host's gaze, she took the chair he handed her,
and turned it so that she sat with her back to the light. She bowed
in answer to his introductions, and, having seated herself, spoke in
a voice which she tried hard to keep under control.
"I find myself unexpectedly almost a neighbour of yours, Mr.
Graydon, and I did myself the pleasure of calling."
"You are very good, Lady Jane."
He looked at her with kindly scrutiny. Perhaps he was trying to find
in the middle-aged face the features of the proud and stately girl
who had married his dearest friend years ago. If so, the darkness in
which she sat baffled him.
"I am staying with Mr. Verschoyle," she went on; "I suppose you
count him a neighbour?"
"Yes, as country neighbours go. I have met him sometimes on the
Bench. I was not aware you knew him."
Lady Jane did not say that she had disinterred an old and almost
forgotten invitation in order to lead up to this visit.
"I knew him years ago," she said. "But, by the way, have you heard
from my boy?"
"Not directly--nothing since your Ladyship's letter."
"That is careless of Anthony! But he is nursing his uncle, you know,
and I daresay is finding time for a little mild amusement as well."
"Trevithick is no better?"
"No, I am sorry to say. There is no saying when he will be better,
or if he will ever be really better. My son thinks he ought to stay
with him, however."
"I am sure he is right," said Mr. Graydon, heartily.
"And this is--Pamela, I suppose?" said Lady Jane, turning her head
with forced graciousness to Sylvia, who was bringing her her tea.
"No; Pam will be here presently. This is Sylvia, my youngest girl."
"I am very much indebted to you all, Mr. Graydon, for making my son
so happy. He was grieved not to return to you, I know."
Still her eyes never met those of her host.
Seeing that he was practically ignored in the conversation, Lord
Glengall got up awkwardly, and with a bow to the visitor, and an
affectionate nod to Sylvia, took himself off.
"Ugh!" said Lady Jane to herself; "he smells of the stables! And to
think of Archie Graydon coming down to associate with such bucolics!"
Mary came in a little later and was introduced. Then came Pam. The
February air had blown a fitful flame into her cheeks, and when
she entered the drawing-room, not knowing there was a visitor,
Lady Jane's name blew the flame higher, and then extinguished it
altogether.
Her father watched her curiously, as she stood looking gravely down
into Lady Jane's face. The lady, who could be gracious when she
liked, held Pamela's hand a minute, and there was a caress in her
voice as she spoke to her.
"I can't feel," she said to Mr. Graydon, "that your girls are
strangers to me. I have heard such charming things about them from
my son."
"Well, indeed," said Mr. Graydon, to whom belief in the goodwill
of all the world came easily, "I should hope that we need not be
strangers to a Trevithick. I have never forgotten my love for
Gerald, Lady Jane."
"He was devoted to you," said the widow.
No one could have supposed from Lady Jane's manner that the visit
was a painful and difficult ordeal to her. Yet, when she was seated
in her carriage again, and had driven out of sight of Mr. Graydon,
bowing bare-headed on the doorstep, she drew a sigh of actual
physical relief.
Mr. Graydon returned to the drawing-room, rubbing his hands together.
"What a charming woman!" he said, coming up to the fire.
"I call her a cat!" said Sylvia, concisely.
"Oh, Sylvia!" cried Mary Graydon and her father simultaneously; but
Pamela said nothing. Lady Jane, for all her _empressement_, had not
made Pamela believe in her; indeed, Lady Jane was not sufficiently
an actress to deceive any but the most simple people. It was new to
her to play a part--to pretend fondness and friendship where she
felt arrogant dislike; and, to give her her due, she had played it
badly.
The day after Mr. Graydon had gone to the horse-fair with Lord
Glengall, he came out of the study as Pamela was going languidly
upstairs, and called her in. He put her in a comfortable chair by
the fire, and then stood leaning on the dusty mantelpiece, and
regarding her with a wistful and tender gaze.
"Not well, Pam?" he said at last.
"A little out-of-sorts," she answered, dropping her eyes before his
gaze.
"When did it begin, Pam--this being out-of-sorts? Up to Christmas I
thought you were blooming like a wild rose."
Pamela made a movement as if to escape.
"One is not always just the same," she said; "and you fancy things,
dad."
"Glengall noticed it, too. Don't go, child--we haven't finished our
conversation."
"Lord Glengall is as fatherly to us as you are. He is always
watching us like a mother-hen over a brood of ducklings."
Pamela spoke with an attempt at her old sparkle, but her face
retained the cold dulness which had fallen upon it of late, and
which made the father's heart ache to see it.
"Glengall is a good fellow, Pam," he said, wistfully.
"He's a dear," said Pam, in her listless way.
"A girl might do worse than marry Glengall."
"That's what Sylvia says."
"Sylvia's a wise child. And what do you think, Pam?"
"I?--I haven't thought about it."
"Could you think of it, Pam?"
Pamela looked at him incredulously.
"Poor Glengall would like to marry you, Pam. He's troubled about
you, poor fellow. He'd like to take you away, and show you all the
beautiful world, and lavish his wealth upon you. Could you do it,
Pam?"
To his consternation, Pam put down her head on the study-table, and
burst into tears.
"There, Pam, there! I didn't mean to distress you, and I know
Glengall wouldn't for the world. I only told you because I thought
you ought to know. He has no hope at all himself--and would never
ask you, I am sure. Only he is so good. I should know a little girl
of mine was safe with him."
Pam still sobbed, with her face buried in the dusty papers.
"There, there, child!" said her father, "don't think about it any
more. Poor Glengall! Of course, I know he's too old, and you are
only a child; and he'd be the first to say the young should marry
the young."
"I don't want to marry anyone," sobbed Pam. "Why can't I join a
sisterhood and be at peace?"
Mr. Graydon passed his hand fondly over the rumpled curls.
"You'd hate it, Pam, that's what you would. You'd come back again in
a week."
"I hate the world!" cried Pam. "The world is so cruel."
"Poor little girl!" said her father wistfully, though he smiled at
the same time.
"Pam," he said suddenly, "is there--is there anyone else?"
"There isn't," sobbed Pam, "and if there was, I wouldn't tell you."
"I only asked, Pam, because I thought I might be able to help you."
"No one can help me," cried Pam, "except by letting me alone."
"Very well, then," said her father patiently. "I'll let you alone.
Only dry your eyes, and be comforted. I'm afraid you'll have to wash
your face, Pam. You've been flooding my old tattered Euripides with
your tears, and you've carried off half the dust from him. There,
child, be comforted. I won't say another word about Glengall. He's
just like myself, poor fellow, only anxious to take care of you.
Sure, I know you're a child, and ought to have your freedom for
years yet."
"I wish her mother were here now," said Mr. Graydon, as he closed
the door behind his daughter.
He looked up at the pure and innocent face of his wife's portrait.
"I wish I had your wisdom, darling," he muttered. "It is so hard for
a man to deal with little girls. And, ah! what they lost when you
went to heaven!"
He sat before his study-fire deep in thought. Then he got up and
paced the room to and fro, with his brows knitted and his hands
behind his back.
"I'll do it," he said, half-aloud, at last. "I expect money
difficulties would really stand in the way. I know Trevithick died
poor, and Lady Jane had little of her own. The lad _must_ love her
if she loves him. And it will smooth the way. At worst I shall only
suffer a rebuff. I can bear it for the sake of Mary's children. And
poor Molly too! Why need she spend her girlhood fretting for her
lover when a little money would make things straight?"
He sat down and his face cleared. Again he looked up at the
benignant eyes of the portrait.
"I am doing the best I can for them, Mary," he said, speaking aloud
as if to a living person.
That evening he announced his intention of taking a run to London
during the following week. Such an unusual thing in their quiet life
provoked an outcry of surprise from his daughters.
"I may be an old fossil," he said, "but I'm not a limpet attached
to a rock. Perhaps I'm tired of you all. Perhaps I'm starved
for a walk down Piccadilly, or a visit to a good concert hall.
Perhaps--perhaps."
But he gave them no explanation after all of his reason for going.
One event crowded upon another. The next morning, at breakfast,
Mr. Graydon drew out a large, boldly addressed envelope from the
post-bag.
"Now, who can this be from?" he said, putting it down and looking at
it curiously. "'London, W.' Now, who'd be writing to me?"
"Better open it and see," said Sylvia, daintily chipping the top off
her egg.
Mr. Graydon broke the seal and read it.
"It's from Lady Jane Trevithick," he said soberly; "a very civil
letter. She's sorry she wasn't able to call again; and--and--she
wants to know if one of you girls--she mentions Pam, I see--will go
over and stay with her. It is very kind of Lady Jane."
He pushed the letter towards Pam, who took it unsteadily, and held
it before her face as she read.
"I'd rather not go," said Pam, putting down the letter. "I can't
go--I've no frocks."
"I should like you to go, Pam," said her father, wistfully. "The
invitation is kindly meant, and Lady Jane moves in very good
society, and is influential. Why should my girls be buried here? As
for the frocks--I can spare ten pounds--I really can manage that.
How much can be done with ten pounds, Mary?"
[Illustration: "Poor little girl!" said her father wistfully.]
"A good deal. Oh! I hope Nancy Cullen is still at home! We'll go
round after breakfast and see."
"Must I go?" said Pamela.
"I think you ought to go, Pam," said her father; "and we will travel
together. I shall wait for you till you can be ready."
In his heart Mr. Graydon thought that the invitation was a sort of
guarantee for his daughter's happiness. If Lady Jane had not known
or suspected that her son was in love with Pamela, and had not been
prepared to accept her, why should she have asked her on this visit?
"I used to think her a proud and cold girl in the old days," he said
to himself; "but, of course, the girl of my dreams was so different!
After all, I daresay Gerald made no such mistake as I used to fear."
"You will go then, Pam?" he said aloud. "The change will do you
good; and you will enjoy yourself."
"Very well," said Pamela, listlessly; "I would rather be here, but
if you wish I will go."
END OF CHAPTER NINE.
[Illustration: Knowledge Of The Future.]
Knowledge Of The Future.
_A NEW YEAR ADDRESS._
By the Lord Bishop of Ripon.
"Do not interpretations belong to God?"--GENESIS xl. 8.
The words were spoken by one of
those men who have moulded the history of the world. When he spoke
them he was a prisoner, forgotten in his misfortune and blameless
of offence. He was passing through a time of trial. Later he was
destined to emerge into a position of much power and usefulness.
Joseph had shown from the first a character and qualities which
distinguished him from his brethren. They were men with little or
no thought beyond their daily work. In the open fields, watching
their flocks and enjoying, after their day's task, physical repose,
they found enough to satisfy them. He possessed a soul which went
out beyond such a level of life; he reached out to something higher.
Like the great French preacher, he could not leave his soul amid
mere earthly things. In his brethren's eyes he was a dreamer. They
were practical, and they had no sympathy with his dreams. He,
meanwhile, was full of a wistful wonder, longing to find out the
meaning of the strange visions which filled his soul. Life to him
must be something more than eating, drinking, and tending sheep.
No doubt a touch of egotism and personal ambition mingled with his
dreams; this belonged to his youth; this, in time, would pass away.
Life, with its stern and remorseless reality, would come to test
him and his visions, proving what manner of man he was. Meanwhile,
he was better with his dreams of the larger purpose and scope of
life than his brethren, who were content with somewhat material
gratification.
Time showed that he was no mere dreamer. The day came when the
Prince of his people let him go free. The opportunity of large
and noble service came to him; and he showed force, readiness of
resource, sagacity, and practical vigour. His genius it was which
mitigated misfortune and averted disaster. He foresaw and provided
for the days of scarceness; he piloted Egypt through the bitter
seven years of famine. His dreams were not the idle dreams of
an empty mind; they were the visions of an energetic and finely
tempered spirit. His gifts stood the strain of practical duty.
They had previously endured the harder test of adversity, neglect,
and inaction. There are powers which lose their bloom under the
pressure of prosaic duties; there are powers which wither under
the shadow of misfortune and obscurity. The trial which comes from
neglect is, perhaps, the severer, since it is hard for men to
believe in themselves when there is seemingly none else to believe
in them. But in the darkness of those neglected days the genius of
Joseph remained bright. His insight, his power of vision, was not
dimmed in the prison. He entered into the sorrows of other men; he
showed a sympathy with their difficulties; he strove to read for
them and with them the meaning of their lives.
And the sustaining source of his powers breaks out into view in the
words of our text: "Do not interpretations belong to God?"
We can realise the pathos of the question and the tried, yet
unbroken, faith which it reveals. Joseph is trying to read the
meaning of the dreams of his fellow-prisoners. Life, and the
experiences of life, he assures them, are not meaningless. He will
not forego his faith in the significance of life. We may not be
able to explain all; but there is, nevertheless, a meaning in all.
It is as though he said, "I too have known my visions--beautiful
visions of life's triumphs and life's joys. They faded with my
growing years; and instead of the achievements which I saw in my
dreams, there came false accusation, imprisonment, and neglect; but
though the golden light of those visions is gone, they were not
meaningless. I wait still for the unfolding of their significance.
Still I rely upon Him who will make all things plain--for do not
interpretations belong unto Him?"
As we listen to the words, we feel how aptly they fit into our own
lives.
We, like Joseph, have had our visions. We dreamed of the bright
things, the noble achievements, the splendid triumphs which life
would bring; but as life unfolded her stern sequences of reality,
the golden lines of our dreams vanished, the splendid tints of the
morning melted into the light of common day.
Or perhaps our dreams have not gathered round ourselves, but round
others--Love, which sets her objects in such golden lights, that she
sees visions for them brighter than ambitions can dream for itself.
It may be only the little child, whose prattle half-pleases,
half-worries you; but you are delighted to be so worried to win such
pleasure. The dear innocence of its winsome ways, its simpleness and
quaint airs of sagacity, are perpetual fascinations. In their lives
we live; and for them we see visions and dream dreams.
"Thou wert a vision of delight
To bless us given;
Beauty embodied to our sight,
A glimpse of heaven."
But the vision of delight fades. The promise which the vision gave
seems to be denied its fulfilment.
It may be the young man, standing on the threshold of life, bearing
himself with quietness of manner, but full of a happy gentleness
and thoughtfulness towards others, and gifted with a sweet and rare
conscientiousness in little things.
Or, again, it may be the man of maturer years, full of high and
chivalrous impulses, ready like a knight of old to gird on his
sword, and yearning to fill his life with worthy deeds, and yet
blending, with all noble martial ardour, tender and generous
thoughts for those who are dear, dearer than life, to his heart.
At this season--teeming with tender and sorrowful memories--visions
such as these rush back upon our thoughts. The deep pathos and the
sad tragedy of life speak to us out of such memories; for what
golden dreams gathered round the heads of those who were so dear;
and what sorrow is ours, when with the revolutions of the sun, the
visions melt away; and all the hope, the promise, the expectation of
achievement are exchanged for sorrow and solitude of heart. Then we
too, like Joseph, find that our dreams can fade; we too encounter
the gloomy days which succeed the bright morning of our hopes. We
are imprisoned with sorrow; the iron enters into our soul; the bars
of stern adversity shut out the cheerful sunlight of other days.
In such hours, when life, which seemed at one time so full of
glorious meanings, droops into darkness and seems to grow cold and
insignificant, our stay must be that of Joseph. Our trust must be
in the living God. The vision seems to have lost its meaning. Life
has become, to our sorrow-stricken hearts, flat, stale profitless,
and meaningless; but it is not so. There is One who can fulfil
our best dreams and give back to us their lost meanings. "Do not
interpretations belong to God?"
Our trust must be in Him, and in none else. True, there is often to
be met with in life the easy chatterer who will take upon himself to
explain everything for us. All things are easy to the man who has
never faced mental anguish or heart-sorrow. He will not hesitate
to interpret our dreams for us, but his pretensions are vain. The
dream and the meaning of the dream are for us alone. Men may soothe
us in our grief. Their kindness and their attempted sympathy may be
welcome to us, as the faded bunch of flowers from a child's hot hand
may be sweet and acceptable; but to read the meaning of the vision,
and to explain it aright, to disclose its fulfilment, showing to us
that nothing is vain and no vision wholly meaningless--to do all
this belongs to God; for do not interpretations belong to Him? He
alone can sustain our trust in the trials of life. He alone can give
us back the visions which so soon vanished from our sight.
The power to realise this constitutes the difference between the
secular and the spiritual disposition. In the view of one poet, man
is but a compound of dust and tears. Life is but sorrow mingled
with earthliness; but better and higher than Swinburne's thought is
Wordsworth's teaching. The older poet has the nobler view. He will
not let life sink down to a mere secular meaning; it is more than
grief and earth. There is that in us which transcends the earth and
can triumph over tears:
"Oh! joy that in our embers
Is something that doth live."
Into the world we came, but not as mere dust, to be mingled with
tears. There was a breath of the Almighty which breathed upon us:
"With trailing clouds of glory did we come
From God, who is our home!"
The divine spark is ours. It kindles a light and a fire. It calls
forth visions past all imagining. Our young men, by a Divine
Spirit's help, may see visions, and our old men dream dreams. And
these visions are not mere idle fancies, creations of our folly or
of our ambition. True, there are foolish visions and empty dreams;
but all visions are not foolish, nor are all dreams empty. Far
more empty is the soul that has no visions, to whom no bright and
noble outlook upon life's possibilities can ever come. This is what
Shakespeare recognises. Theseus is the man of action. He has dealt
with the hard prosaic work-a-day world. To him the visions of the
poet or dramatist are alike empty imaginings. The grandest and the
most foolish are alike only beautiful bubbles which will vanish
with all their rich colourings into empty air. The work of the poor
players, who labour in their foolish fashion to give him pleasure,
is no worse and no better than that of the most finished actors. To
him all ideas or visions are unpractical and unreal. He is a man of
action, loving deeds and despising dreams.
There is a sort of virtue in this; but how secular it all is,
how low and insignificant life becomes, if no noble ideas and no
heavenly visions environ it! How vain its achievements, if there
be no promised land and no divine fire to give light in the night
season! And so Shakespeare lets us see that, while idle dreams are
vain enough, yet that for a man to be wholly without them, and to be
destitute of ideas and visions, is to be poor indeed.
The true idea of life lifts us above the secular plane and places us
where the heavenly vision is possible, and where the Shekinah light
of God's presence is ever visible--though seen now as cloud, and now
as flame.
But for the full meaning of all the visions and experiences of life,
we must wait. The vision is from God; the experience is from God;
from Him will come the explanation. "Do not interpretations belong
to God?" The vision was given us yesterday--we must wait for its
interpretation; the meaning comes to-morrow.
It is in the spirit of this principle that our Lord spoke, "What
I do thou knowest not now; but thou shalt know hereafter." So
at another time He spoke: "It is not for you to know the times
and the seasons." There is a sweet interpreting "afterwards" of
life's bitter experience. "No chastening seemeth to be joyous, but
grievous: nevertheless afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruit
of righteousness unto them which are exercised thereby." Our faith
carries us forward to that interpreting hereafter, when once we
realise that interpretations belong to God.
Herein we are not different from Christ our Master. He had the
vision of the world conquered, but the vision faded; and in its
place came Gethsemane and Calvary, the loneliness and the cross. And
yet afterwards came the interpretation. The vision, though it faded
for a time, did not die out unfulfilled. The kingdoms of the world
are becoming the kingdoms of the Lord and of His Christ.
So it is the order of life that first should come the glory of
the vision; then the fading of its colours, the grey day and
the postponed realisation; and then afterwards the glorious
interpretation. Not _now_ is the interpretation. Now is the sadness,
now the sense of disappointment, now the temptation to think that
all brightness is gone, and all hope lost; but hereafter the love
which gave the vision and the love which took it away will make all
plain--no whit of the beauty and the beatitude which the vision
promised will be lost. The vision is for an appointed time. Till
then, rest in the Lord; wait patiently for Him. The gem hidden in
the earth will yet sparkle in heaven's light. The meaning of all
will be made plain, hereafter, in God's own light and in God's own
way; for interpretations belong to God.
[Illustration: A VIEW OF RIPON CATHEDRAL.
(_From the Drawing by Herbert Railton._)]
[Illustration: CIRCUMVENTED.]
CIRCUMVENTED.
A Complete Story. By the Author of "Lady Jane's Companion."
"[Illustration: drop cap] I tell you he does not _dream_ of Dolly.
How can you imagine anything so absurd?"
That was how the family tyrant addressed her mother, and poor Mrs.
Rhodes was, as ever, annihilated. It was a vain thing to try and
brave Georgiana. There she stood in the window, majestic, the eldest
daughter, her straight hair stiffly ridged with hot irons, her face
pale, and her lips determined, altogether handsome, but very hard.
Behind her one had a glimpse of a forlorn little figure wandering in
the grass. The sight of that lonely figure, and a dim idea of its
unhappiness, made the poor lady pluck up spirit to murmur still--
"I--I--I thought that Freddy----"
"Impossible!" said Georgiana; her voice vibrated with a little more
than disdain. "Why, what could he see in a stupid little goose like
that? It would be cheaper to buy a sixpenny doll and set it up in
his house; then at least he could always change it. But if he wants
a wife----"
* * * * *
In the garden Dolly was walking rather sadly among the trees, and
her white skirts brushed against the grass like a sigh. She was
a little slip of a thing with Irish eyes, great and grey, always
brimming with either a laugh or tears; and she had the dearest
eager face in the world. It was a troubled face now, for she could
not understand why life had been made bitter to her just lately.
Perhaps it was because of some unwitting sin, perhaps because the
family tyrant felt, like her, the approaching parting with their old
playfellow. Georgiana had a peculiar way of showing when she was
vexed.
The Rev. Frederick Cockburn had not always been six feet high and
a parson. And for the greater part of their lives they had only
been parted by a garden wall. Even when he was at college he was
continually running down, and they had never made a plan without
him; he belonged to the girls like a brother. Later he had had to
admonish them as a curate, but he had been their old comrade still.
Of course, he was lucky to get a living offered to him so young, and
it was only right that he should accept it, but still it was a blow.
Freddy had run in so often to talk it over (the girls knew all about
his house and his parish, down to the woman who played the harmonium
and dragged the chants) that they had forgotten it was so far away.
Now they had suddenly to remember.
Dolly was under the weeping ash, where she and Freddy had hidden
when they were little. Georgiana had had the biggest bite of the
apple, and then she had deserted and said, "I'll tell!" How she
would miss him! Always he had been her champion, defending her when
Georgiana was angry and pulled her hair. And although these days
were past she wanted him more than ever. It had hurt her lately that
he should have been monopolised by Georgiana and that she had been
thrust back and made a third. He was a young housekeeper, and the
eldest daughter could talk of carpets and curtains and butcher's
bills. To Dolly life was a weary nightmare of Freddy serious in a
chair, and Georgiana giving him good advice. Vainly she tried to
keep her lip steady, leaning her head in among the leaves.
Half a mile away a black object was sitting on a fence whistling
impatiently, inwardly furious with Georgiana.
"If she would only come out of the gate!" he said, hitting wildly at
all the buttercups in his reach. "If she'd only give me a chance.
But she's just pinned to Dolly, and I never can get a minute."
His whistle grew more lugubrious.
"And I'm off to-morrow!"
Never in the ancient days, when he used to stand in front of his
younger playmate and defy Georgiana, had he felt her to be such a
tyrant. He longed to stand up to her and shake his fist at her as
of old. An instant he stood on the highest rail of the fence to
reconnoitre beyond the trees, and then sat down again in despair.
"I know she thinks I'm not good enough for Dolly," he said; "we
always were enemies, but she might let me ask her. It's Dolly's
business."
Then he jumped down in a hurry that would have been undignified in
any vicar less young and eager. Among the trees he had caught sight
of the unaccompanied white flutter of Dolly's dress.
At the familiar whistle she started, reddening and glancing
fearfully towards the house.
The tyrant's ears were sharp, but for once it appeared that she had
not heard it, and Dolly rushed down the tree-hidden path to the
gate. Her head was just under the green branches and they caught at
her hair as she hurried, the prettiest picture in all the garden,
with a quaint little forward stagger.
"Oh, Freddy!" she said.
He was leaning over the gate, which was fastened with a complicated
arrangement of twisted string, meant to hold it together and keep it
shut. There was something earnest and business-like in his manner;
he hardly smiled at her greeting, and it hurt her. His face was so
desperately solemn.
"Do you want Georgiana?" she said, bravely, "to--to talk
about--furniture?"
He looked at her reproachfully across the gate.
"Dolly," he said, "how can you be so unkind? I've been haunting the
place for hours, watching to catch you alone. I've no chance if I go
to the house, and--and I can't _stand_ housekeeping and chairs and
tables----"
At the emphatic climax they had to laugh. He was struggling
mechanically with the string, and Dolly was making believe to help
him.
"You used always to jump it," she said. Their hands touched as they
fumbled at it, and she felt a new and disturbing thrill. "Hadn't you
better do that, if you have not become too grand?"
"Don't," said Freddy. Ah, their fingers had been too near; he caught
hers and held them tight. "They are all chaffing me about being a
Vicar and having a house and all that. Asking if I've got anybody to
put into it. But what's the good if you can't get the girl you want?"
"Oh!" said Dolly, looking startled and shrinking as far as the
imprisoned hand would allow. He held it fast.
"Dolly," he said, "we've always been chums, you and I. Let me tell
you, and then you must tell me honestly if you think--if I've got
any chance----"
He was interrupted.
"Is that you, Freddy? What a blessing! I wanted to tell you what
you must do about the study."
It was with a kind of terror that he saw Georgiana charging down
upon them remorselessly through the trees. Dolly had wrung her hand
away and vanished with a little sound like a gasp, and he, on the
wrong side of the gate, was almost speechless with wrath and temper.
"If a man can't furnish his own study as he likes----" he stammered
darkly, turning on his heel. Georgiana was like a fate.
"What was Freddy saying?"
A rather sad little face was visible among the leaves of the weeping
ash.
[Illustration: He saw Georgiana charging down upon them.]
"I--I don't know, Georgiana. He was just beginning--I think he has
fallen in love again."
The elder girl glanced at her young sister with a gleam of
suspicion, but Dolly had spoken in all good faith. And, indeed, in
the dim past Freddy had once or twice been smitten and had confided
his troubles to the kind ears of Dolly. They had been slight affairs
and, although unhappy, always less tragic than laughable.
"He did not say who it was?"
"No," answered Dolly, "because you interrupted. I--I--I'm trying to
guess."
Georgiana turned her back on the wistful grey Irish eyes.
"Can't you?" she said, and walked away, utterly hard-hearted.
* * * * *
That evening there was a formidable leave-taking. To Freddy Cockburn
it was a nightmare.
As he sat in the drawing-room being talked to by Georgiana and Mrs.
Rhodes (Dolly was very silent) he grew desperate. The last precious
minutes were ticking loudly, now and then marked by a warning whirr,
as the grandfather's clock reproached him.
He listened to them, but all the while he was wandering backwards
hand in hand with Dolly--Dolly who now sat so distantly in the
window.
With a start his mind came back impatiently to the present.
"Good-bye, my dear boy. We shall hear how you get on. Your mother
will write and tell us----"
"You must let me know how you manage about the stairs," said
Georgiana.
They accompanied him to the door, lingering affectionately to watch
him go, and behind them the great brown clock was ticking the last,
last minutes reproachfully. He shook hands and waited, desperately
bold.
"Will you come to the gate with me, Dolly?"
There was a slight pause at that abrupt invitation. He saw Dolly
involuntarily start forward and then hesitate, with a faint red
wonderment in her cheek. He waited, gazing back eagerly at his fate
in the balance.
"Yes, Dolly--come along!" said Georgiana.
II.
The Vicar of Little Easter was in his study. He had not been writing
sermons, but pens were lying about the table, and there were other
signs of an intellectual struggle.
[Illustration: The old lady looked up keenly.--_p. 222._]
"I can't do it," he said at last, crumpling up many fragments of
blotted paper, each the unlucky beginning of a letter. Then he
thrust his hands through his hair, giving it a despairing rumple.
"It's no good," he said. "I can't put it in a letter, and it does
look a cowardly way of--asking. Like chalking up a thing and running
round the corner. If I were a girl and a fellow wrote to me instead
of coming and standing to his guns, I should call it--cheek."
"Dear Dolly----"
He tore the last attempt furiously across.
"She would think it was a joke and show it all round the family for
them to laugh at it too," he lamented; "if Georgiana did not kidnap
it first. I don't think she would stick at that, and I'm afraid she
regularly hates me. Queer!"
He stared forlornly at the heap of papers, and then all at once an
idea struck him and he jumped up.
"Hurrah!"
With sudden energy he flung out of his study and crossed the hall.
His mother was sitting in her room--the only place that was quite in
order--stitching rings on curtains. She was going to stay and put
him to rights before returning home and leaving him in his glory.
"What is the matter, Freddy?" she said.
"I was thinking," said the Vicar soberly, "that you've a lot to do.
Couldn't you ask one of the girls over while you are here to help?"
"If you think the place is ready for visitors," said Mrs. Cockburn,
smiling. The girls were, of course, Freddy's old companions.
"Well, you might ask Dolly; I'm sure she wouldn't mind."
The old lady looked up keenly, but his manner was very careless.
"Why not Georgiana?" she inquired. "Eldest first."
"I don't think she could be spared just now," said the Vicar, hiding
his alarm, "and--and I'd like the place to be tidy before she came."
So Mrs. Cockburn wrote and invited Dolly.
The answer came very quickly: Dolly could not leave home just now.
While his mother was reading out the many sufficient reasons, Freddy
stared hopelessly across at the fatal letter. His face expressed
utter dejection until about halfway through. At the last clause it
lighted up with an inspiration. He leaned over the table.
"Then, mother, of course, you'll ask Georgiana?"
His mother glanced at him oddly.
"Do you want her?"
"Want her?" cried the Vicar. "Rather!"
There was no mistaking the eagerness in his voice. It betrayed
itself in the very stammer with which he proceeded.
"I didn't know she would come, but if Dolly's to manage the school
treat this year, and if Dolly's to take the club, they won't want
Georgiana. Tell her we can't possibly get the house put to rights
without her. Say whatever you think will bring her. Only make her
come."
He got up and fetched his writing things from the study. Mrs.
Cockburn had to write the invitation then and there, almost to his
dictation.
"Tell her she _must_ come!" he cried impetuously, rushing away to
look for a stamp, and then riding in with the letter himself to
catch the early post. Mrs. Cockburn looked after him amused, but
just a little bit disappointed.
"It's Georgiana then, after all," she said.
* * * * *
Three days later Georgiana was installed at Little Easter.
She arrived with rather too many clothes for a person who was to
help in getting a house in order, but that did not prevent her from
buckling to. Mrs. Cockburn, a kind old lady with a twinkle of humour
to comfort her in her trials, was taken aback by her visitor's
authoritative grasp at the reins; but Freddy, having suffered more
nearly from her tyrannical ways, thought he had never known her so
gracious. In fact, he repented himself of the hard things he had
been thinking--of all but a certain determination.
"I don't believe she hates me really," he thought. "It was only that
she didn't want me to marry Dolly."
He made that reflection whilst shaving with care the morning after
her arrival. On coming down to breakfast he found her at her post.
She had already whisked away half the litter that was hampering the
breakfast-room, and was making the tea. As he came in she nodded.
"Good morning, Freddy. Your mother is breakfasting in her room.
What a wilderness your house is at present! The first thing after
breakfast will be to have a man in and put down the carpets."
"But they _are_ down," stammered the Vicar, who had laboured hard
all the past week.
"All crooked," said Georgiana.
She poured out his tea and sat down opposite, with an air of calm
superiority and possession (which the Vicar was too agitated to
remark). Having long since made up her mind as to what she wanted,
she was not unduly elated at the present turn of affairs. Freddy was
always fickle, and it had taken very little pains to keep him apart
from Dolly while that fancy lasted. It was not her part to consider
Dolly--Dolly, years younger, and pretty, and always liked.
Something like exultation glittered in Georgiana's eyes. She had a
glimpse of Dolly at home and smiled; her triumph was pitiless.
"Oh, by-the-bye," she said. "Your idea of furnishing the
drawing-room is too ridiculous. It ought to be smart and shiny--a
company room. You don't want old pictures and comfortable chairs!"
"Don't I?" said the Vicar with a half-smile, thinking whose whims he
had tried to suit in the furnishing.
"No," said Georgiana. Her tone was lordly. "I'll tell you what I
will do. You shall drive me into the town, and I will help you to
choose what you really want."
"Do----," began the Vicar, and then stopped hastily, reddening. She
looked at him witheringly, unaware that the word suppressed had been
simply "Dolly."
"In the meantime----" she vouchsafed after a crushing pause. He
looked up suddenly from his letters.
"I'm afraid you'll be dull, Georgiana," he said, rising. "It's
awfully good of you to come, and perhaps you can find some
amusement. You can do what you like, you know--so long as you don't
touch my study, or trick it up like a heathen place in Japan. The
fact is, I find I must leave you and mother for a day or two. Is
that the dogcart? My train is at half-past ten."
Georgiana looked out of the window. There was the dogcart, and a
beast of a brown horse pawing and snorting, to take him away to the
country station. She turned round angrily, like a person who had
been cheated.
"Why?" she asked.
[Illustration: "Dolly!" he cried in a voice of triumph.--_p. 224._]
Freddy had left the breakfast table, and was stacking his letters
behind the clock. He answered her with a kind of chuckle--
"Important business."
Three minutes later, he was running down the stairs, got up for a
journey. Mrs. Cockburn was just saying good-morning to the rather
blank-looking visitor, and he kissed her hurriedly.
"I must go off at once," he said. "Georgiana will explain. And I
say, mother"--in a tone of anxious hospitality--"don't let her go
home, or anything, till I come back. I must catch the early train."
III.
Dolly was all alone.
There was no dragon guarding her, and she might wander unwatched
about the garden, unvexed by the family tyrant's whim. However, she
sat forlornly under the willow tree.
She was disappointed at not being allowed to go and visit Mrs.
Cockburn, but, queerly enough, it had hurt her more to find her
refusal met by that urgent invitation to Georgiana. It was a much
warmer letter. Mrs. Cockburn had been told in inviting Georgiana to
say whatever would bring her, and she had according written--"Freddy
says she _must_ come," twice.
They were ringing in Dolly's ears, these impetuously written words;
but she had not any right to be angry--and hardly any right to be
sad. Only, if that message had been in _her_ letters, she would have
defied them all.
The sun burnt down over all the garden, except under the sad green
shade of the willow tree. Afterwards, it sank lower and lower behind
the beeches until it was almost dusk. It was then that Dolly heard a
familiar whistle.
She started up from the grass, and her wistful face was scarlet. It
must be imagination.
Almost before she knew it she was hurrying up the path.
"Oh!" she gasped, finding herself at the gate, and ready to turn and
fly as the strange whistler came in sight. Her heart beat too fast
for her to hear any step. As if it could be him!
"Dolly!" he cried, in a voice of triumph.
"How did you get here?" she panted.
He vaulted the gate this time, and was immediately by her side.
"By train," he said coolly. "As soon as I'd got Georgiana safe I
bolted."
Dolly paled slightly. Had he come to make an announcement?
"Will you come in to mother?" she said faintly; but Freddy barred
the way.
"No," he said. "I won't."
She was almost frightened. He was so white and eager, and so
emphatic.
"Dolly," he said, "I've got my chance at last. Georgiana thinks I'm
not half good enough for you, and I'm sure it's true, but I don't
care, she'd no right to fight as she did for her lofty plans. It's
your business. And Dolly--Dolly--I love you so!"
* * * * *
"I like the house," said Georgiana.
She spoke in a slightly patronising tone, and poor Mrs. Cockburn
sighed.
"It is rather big," she said. "But if Freddy should marry and settle
down----"
"It will not be too big," declared Georgiana. "I have been drawing
up my ideas about the rooms. And I have toiled all the morning
in the study." Mrs. Cockburn looked alarmed. Even in a possible
daughter-in-law this was rather drastic.
"He will not like you to touch his study."
"I know. He charged me to let it alone," said Georgiana calmly;
"but it is no good giving in to a man's absurd notions, and he had
crammed it with such extraordinary things. I have made it look like
another place."
Again Freddy's mother sighed. It was the familiar tone of the family
tyrant. She sighed for Freddy.
The sigh was interrupted by his return. Unexpectedly as he had
disappeared yesterday, he came back. They heard him cross the hall
with a long, quick, eager step, and then he burst in upon them, a
boy again.
"Well, where have you been?" asked his mother, smiling. He was so
tired and dusty, and so excited.
The Vicar looked at her like a school-boy, half-proud, half-shy.
"I've been to the old place," he said, "to ask Dolly if she would
have me. And she says 'Yes.'"
R. RAMSAY.
THE END OF THE SONG
BY F. E. WEATHERLY.
[Illustration: poem (_By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co._)]
I read to you one golden morn among the leaves of June,
The flowers were sweet around our feet, the river sang its tune,
I know not what the story was that stole upon your ears,
I only saw your listening eyes were full of tender tears.
I sang to you when twilight fell, and all the world had flown,
A song that rose from out my heart and was for you alone,
I cannot tell what words I sang,--of gladness or of pain,
I only knew I felt your heart give back the sweet refrain.
And when the night in silence rose, and all the song was o'er,
The world was full of happiness I ne'er had known before,
I know not what I told you then or what you said to me,
I only knew your heart was mine for all the years to be.
SOME REMARKABLE SERVICES
_IN VARIOUS PARTS OF THE COUNTRY._
[Illustration: (_Photo: K. J. Harrison and Co., Kewaigue, Isle of
Man._)
SUNDAY AT KIRK BRADDAN.]
Up and down the country there are several religious services held
which are remarkable, not so much on account of the character of
the service as in consequence of the strange places in which they
take place. Of course, there are strange services--a few of which
are detailed later--but, nevertheless, the majority obtain their
notoriety by reason of their unusual place of assembly.
For instance, who has not heard of the famous open-air service at
Kirk Braddan churchyard in the Isle of Man?--a service which on an
August Bank Holiday Sunday has attracted a congregation of twelve
thousand people. Indeed, so great has been the crush on occasions
that it has been impossible for the collection plate to reach
all those gathered within sound of the preacher's voice--a truly
lamentable fact from the churchwardens' point of view.
If the weather is fine, these open-air services begin, as a rule,
on Whit Sunday and continue to the end of September, or, virtually
during the whole of the holiday season. They were instituted in a
somewhat remarkable way by a former vicar, "Parson Drury," as he was
familiarly called, when it was decided to build Kirk Braddan New
Church in consequence of the old church falling out of repair and
being altogether inadequate as far as size was concerned for the
worshippers who attended. Accordingly, while the new church was in
process of erection, Mr. Drury conceived the happy idea of using the
spacious churchyard, and so popular was the innovation that it has
been kept up in the summer ever since.
Now the services are conducted by the present vicar--the Rev. Canon
Moore--and, fittingly enough, his pulpit is the immense limestone
slab erected to the memory of the founder of the churchyard
services, "Parson Drury." It was felt, when the good man died, that
no better memorial could be raised than a stone which might be
utilised as a pulpit in the "Nature's church" where he had delivered
so many powerful sermons.
The hymn-papers are distributed as the people pour into the
churchyard on Sunday morning. The hymns are most heartily sung by
the congregation. They are well known, and the tunes are also such
as all can join in, and the effect of eight or ten thousand voices
singing the simple strains is wonderful.
[Illustration: A VIEW IN ST. JOHN'S, STREATHAM.
(_Showing the eggs presented for the Egg Service._)]
During the summer the aggregate number of worshippers amounts to
sixty or seventy thousand, from all parts of the United Kingdom,
but principally Lancashire and Yorkshire. Many people join in the
service which is going on at the same time in Braddan new church
close at hand, but the great majority prefer the open air under the
shadow of the old trees and the venerable church.
It is rather remarkable that the Isle of Man should also possess
what is believed by many to be the largest open-air service in the
world. There are some folk who think that the Sunday service in Hyde
Park answers to this description, though it is certain, in point of
size, there is not a great deal of difference between that and the
one held on Douglas Head.
There is, in reality, apart from the size, nothing very special to
say about this service on Douglas Head. It is an ordinary service
of an exceedingly simple character. Every attempt, however, is made
to get a first-rate preacher, and two or three bishops have taken
the service. Archdeacon Sinclair, who is a frequent visitor to
Manxland, has officiated on several occasions. As at Kirk Braddan,
the congregational singing is the great feature of the service. The
Bishop of Sodor and Man is naturally the most popular of all the
prelates who figure prominently at these services.
After these monster services, it is a delightful change to come
to the "Egg Service," which was instituted in 1894 by the Rev. S.
Alfred Johnston of St. John's, Streatham. It was thought that one
of the most beautiful ways of observing Hospital Sunday would be
to send a consignment of eggs to some of the patients in the great
London hospitals, and accordingly the congregation were requested to
make their offerings of eggs on the day when the various churches
unite in rendering financial aid to the institutions in question.
The "Egg Service," like most other things, had a small beginning,
for only 220 eggs were contributed the first year. In 1895 the
number of eggs rose to 446, while the year following no less than
1,618 eggs were given. It was felt, however, that in Jubilee year a
special effort ought to be made in view of the general assistance
then being afforded to the hospitals by the scheme of the Prince of
Wales, and so a "Jubilee" offering was arranged.
The service succeeded beyond all anticipations. Over five thousand
eggs were to be seen in St. John's Church on Hospital Sunday, and
the arrival of the various members of the congregation, carrying
baskets of new-laid eggs, excited a great deal of local interest.
By some means Her Royal Highness the Duchess of York heard of the
service that year, and sent a sovereign to be spent on eggs. For
this sum two hundred were obtained, the difficulties of transit
alone preventing the Duchess from personally sending the eggs. It is
only right to add that the giving of the delicacies referred to in
no way interferes with the financial offertory at the service, which
is forwarded to the Hospital Sunday Fund.
[Illustration: (_Photo: J. Chenhalls, Redruth._)
A REMARKABLE SERVICE IN THE GWENNAP PIT.]
There is some prospect of these "Egg Services" becoming an
institution in other parts. This year the Essex town of Maldon has
followed the good example set at Streatham. Carey Church, Reading,
also made an initial effort of the same kind this year.
[Illustration: (_Photo: Taunt and Co., Oxford._)
THE TOWER SERVICE AT OXFORD.]
These "Egg Services," inasmuch as they help the needy, call to mind
the "Doll Service" that is held at St. Mary-at-Hill, Eastcheap,
the church of the Rev. W. Carlile, the founder of the Church Army.
On the Sunday before Christmas the congregation are requested to
bring dolls, which are laid on a table near the altar. The gentlemen
as well as the ladies are expected to provide a doll in some way
or other, and consequently a goodly number of these ever-popular
playthings are dispensed on Christmas Eve to the poorest of children
in the East End of London. Mr. Carlile's service is now a fixed
institution.
The followers of John Wesley are numerically very strong in
Cornwall, and it is not surprising therefore that the strangest
service held by that denomination takes place in that part of the
country. A service in an old quarry is a decided novelty, and
the fame of the "Gwennap Pit" service is justly popular with its
lusty-voiced congregation of Cornishmen. Every Whit Monday the
gathering takes place, so the Methodists within a radius of twenty
miles are able to make it a day of pleasure as well as profit. The
pit is situated not far from the quaint little town of Redruth.
The quarry forms a natural amphitheatre. Circular in form, and
possessing row after row of steps, it is able to seat a good
congregation, most of the members of which arrive by brakes. In the
centre a sort of rostrum is erected for the various speakers, for
addresses (and not a sermon) are the order of the day.
In days gone by John Wesley preached in this disused quarry to
crowded congregations. Cornish folk always welcomed heartily the
founder of Methodism, and they hold this monster service in memory
of the time when Wesley frequently used the pit, first of all
because it was the only place big enough, and secondly on account of
the fact that it was the only one he was allowed to use. As a rule,
great preachers are not invited, as the congregation prefer to hear
the leading "local preachers." It is the boast of many a man that he
first attended with his grandfather, who had already spent a good
many Whit Mondays at Gwennap Pit.
The Oxford "May Morning" service is well known throughout the
country, chiefly because it is the oldest of such gatherings,
and--what is more--by far the best attended. It is held, as
everybody knows, upon St. Mary Magdalen's tower at five o'clock
in the morning, and is attended by the President and Fellows of
the college as well as the members of the choir. A few strangers,
however, are admitted, and, all told, the number of people on
the tower amounts to about two hundred. The crowd in the street
below, however, runs into thousands, instead of hundreds, as the
illustration of the people on the bridge which crosses the River
Cherwell fully bears out.
[Illustration: (_Photo: Taunt and Co., Oxford._)
WATCHING THE SERVICE ON ST. MARY MAGDALEN'S TOWER, OXFORD.
(_A crowd which gathered at four o'clock a.m._)]
No matter what event takes place, the service is held on May Day.
The crowd begins to assemble soon after four o'clock in the morning,
when the bells begin to ring, warning the citizens that the time
of service is approaching. At half-past four the choir begins to
assemble, and one by one the members begin to make their way to the
top of the tower, which very soon presents an animated appearance on
account of the limited space to be obtained. When at last the hour
of five arrives, and the clocks of the city begin to denote the time
of day, the choir bursts forth into song ere the clocks have ceased
striking.
The holding of the service confers upon the college the right of
presentation to the living of Slimbridge in Gloucestershire, upon
the income of which there is said to be an annual charge of ten
pounds for the music on the top of the college tower. Similar
services were at one time held at St. Paul's Cathedral, and at
Abingdon, but after a time the custom died out. There is, however,
no likelihood of that happening at Oxford, the service now having
too great a hold upon the favour of the public.
Every July a most remarkable service is held at Folkestone. Like
the majority of seaside resorts, Folkestone owns a big fishing
industry, and it was felt that a service of thanksgiving for the
harvest of the sea was just as desirable as the ordinary harvest
festival. So every year the clergy and choir of the parish church
march through the streets, singing hymns, and when the harbour is
reached the fisher-folk join in the service of praise to God for the
blessings vouchsafed in the past, and pray to be kept safe from harm
in following their dangerous avocation, and also for "heavy catches"
in the year to come.
Kirk Braddan churchyard service is not the only one of its kind in
the country, though it is the biggest. For years a similar service
has been held in the spacious churchyard of St. Tudno, situated on
the Great Orme's Head at Llandudno.
[Illustration: AN OPEN-AIR SERVICE ON THE GREAT ORME'S HEAD,
LLANDUDNO.
(_Photo: Photochrome Co., Cheapside._)]
The services are held both in the morning and evening, and although
the Llandudno churches have special preachers during the season,
none of them is so well attended as St. Tudno's. The service is
simple and hearty, the singing is good--for Welsh people can
sing--and the voices of the visitors blend harmoniously with the
rich native element. All the tunes are well known, and the same can
also be said of the hymns, which are printed on hymn-sheets to avoid
the necessity of bringing books.
The congregation is a varied one. Men are there dressed in cycling
costume, while caps and straw hats, with other holiday attire, are
adopted by the great majority. The ladies are allowed to put up
their sunshades, if they wish, and everybody is permitted to do
as he or she desires. The graves form the seats. Some of the more
adventurous perch themselves on the headstones, while others lay
full length on the grass mounds, many of which are unadorned with
names of any kind. The rector, the Rev. J. Morgan, has a loyal
band of workers, who distribute the hymn-sheets, and also hand out
cushions to the many ladies present. The congregation, which often
numbers a couple of thousand, forms the choir.
One of the most pleasing parts of the service is the taking up of
the offertory. This is chiefly done by boys, many of them being the
children of visitors, and the youngsters are only too delighted to
take part in this novel duty.
When the congregation disperses comes the prettiest scene of all,
as the people wend their way down the hill--a long, unbroken line,
which seems to reach as far as the eye can distinguish.
[Illustration: (_Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd._)
THE RAILWAY MEN'S BREAKFAST SERVICE AT DERBY.]
How many people are there, aware of the fact that the railway town
of Derby has a series of services at the breakfast hour for the men
engaged in the engineering works? These are attended by two thousand
men every morning, and owe their origin entirely to the idea of one
man of very humble circumstances in life. Yet this quiet, unassuming
man initiated one of the grandest services in the country, held not
occasionally but upon every working day in the year.
Thirty years ago very few men were employed at the works of the
Midland Railway, compared with the number who work there to-day.
Many of the men, whose homes were too far distant to admit of their
returning for breakfast, were obliged to bring this meal with them.
George Wilkins, the founder of these mess-room services, was in
charge of an engine-room, and in the winter, as it was a nice warm
spot, some of the men asked Wilkins if they might have their meal by
his fire. The engineer gladly consented, and, being a Christian man,
he took the opportunity of reading the Bible to them.
This fact got noised abroad, and other men joined in. The reading
was first of all supplemented by prayer and then by singing.
The fame of the little service continued to grow, until at last
Wilkins's engine-room was not nearly big enough, and the place of
service had to be moved to an open shed outside. For some time this
shed answered the purpose; but as the railway works grew, and more
men were employed, the attendance at the service increased, until at
last it was absolutely necessary to erect rooms especially for the
service.
[Illustration: A RIVER BAPTISM AT BOTTISHAM.
(_Photo: H. R. de Salis, Uxbridge._)]
First of all, grace is sung, and then the men set to work to eat
their breakfast. Plates rattle and knives and forks jingle as the
speaker for the day reads the Bible and gives a forcible address.
But every word is heard, for the men are very attentive while eating
their food. This is not surprising, for the services are taken by
well-known laymen and clerics, and if a notable preacher is in the
neighbourhood or about to pass through Derby, he is requested to
break his journey and say a few words to the railway men at their
breakfast. Many gladly do this if their engagements permit.
George Wilkins, the founder of these services, is dead, but a
visit to Derby cemetery reveals the fact that his work has not
been forgotten by those who now enjoy the fruits of his labour.
Over his grave a fitting memorial has been placed, and upon it is
inscribed the following: "In loving memory of George Wilkins, who
died November 19th, 1872, aged fifty-three years. He was a faithful
servant of the Midland Railway Company, and under God's guidance
the beginner of a work for Christ which lives on still, though he
is gone. Out of love for his character and gratitude for his work,
his friends and fellow-workmen have erected this stone. His constant
song was 'God is Love.'"
One does not hear very much nowadays of the open-air baptismal
services which fifty years ago were so popular with the Baptist
churches in the country districts. In Cambridgeshire, however, they
still take place in many of the villages, and our illustration shows
the service at Bottisham Sluice, which is situated near Waterbeach,
the scene of the late Mr. Spurgeon's earliest labours. The minister
stands in the river, and the candidate for church membership wades
in to him and is immersed in the waters. A house near by is utilised
for dressing purposes.
GEORGE WINSOR.
[Illustration: Coals of Fire]
Coals of Fire
A Complete Story. By J. F. Rowbotham, Author of "Solomon Built Him
an House," Etc.
It was twenty years since I left Hambleton as the curate, and on the
identical day I returned as vicar. I sat meditating in the little
village inn, while a gig was being harnessed to draw me to the
vicarage. I wondered how the place would look. I wondered whom I
should see and recognise. Twenty years produce innumerable changes.
Those whom I had known as boys would have grown to men, and men and
women would have become silver-haired and wrinkled, and perhaps past
the power of recognition, until a familiar voice in dubious accents
should say, "I am such a one. Do you not know me?" To such a query
I felt I should have to reply, "I knew you twenty years ago, and if
you assure me you are the very same person, I know you now. But the
identification must come from yourself."
"The gig's ready, sir," cried the man at the hotel parlour door,
and in obedience to this admonition I shut up my tablets and took
my seat in the vehicle. Off went the horse. I whizzed past all the
familiar places _en route_, and at last was landed safe and sound
at the vicarage, but somewhat dazed and bewildered by the sudden
panorama of a vanished past presented to me during the ride.
My experiences of the next few days proved to be exactly as I
predicted. I saw innumerable people who turned out to be old
acquaintances, though it was on the strength of their telling that
I found them to be so. I should never have known them again in a
crowd, nor would they, I imagine, despite their assertions, have
known me. I saw old Haynes once again, Smart the gardener, England
the bell-ringer who was so fond of frequenting "The Rose," Higgs,
Nutcher, and many more.
Localities had not altered so much as people. I noticed that the old
apple-tree in the vicarage garden bent down with the identical curve
in its trunk, and seemed to have the exact number of apples upon it
which it had when I left it. The vicarage had much altered, though,
and so had its surroundings--several new cottages being built which
quite shut out the pretty prospect from the study window which once
was.
I found the circumstances of many of the inhabitants, like the
"extension" of the vicarage, to have altered likewise. I found
several people poor and reduced in circumstances whom I left fairly
well-to-do. I met some people now in comparative opulence whom I
remembered so poor that they were glad of doles from the curate.
All this is a striking instance of a very great truth in English
life, which is that circumstances, as generations pass, are on a
sliding scale. If you look for the descendants of the nobility of
some centuries ago, you will find them in the humblest cottagers
of to-day. And if you search for the descendants of the former
cottagers of our land, you will find them in its present nobility.
Life fluctuates so in great cycles of time; and in the little cycle
during which I had been absent from Hambleton, thus had existence
fluctuated and changed.
Two visits in particular I intended to pay, namely, to the squire,
and to Farmer Brownlow; and before many days elapsed I contrived to
pay them. I saw the squire and the farmer, and I must confess I was
very much struck by the change that had come over them both, but
particularly Mr. Brownlow, whom I remember tall, erect, and jovial.
I concluded there must have been more dissensions in his family
since I last knew them, and that trouble was impending. I made such
domestic inquiries as I could without receiving much satisfaction;
but I took care to observe the greatest reticence about his son
Arthur.
I must mention, in explanation of my last sentence, that when I was
curate here Arthur Brownlow was a boy of about twelve or fourteen,
and one of the brightest and most ingenuous lads it has ever been my
lot to know. He was also blessed with a beautiful voice, and sang
in the choir of the church all the solos in the anthems. Shall I
ever forget the melodious tones that floated from that boy's lips?
Neither I nor any who heard him can cease to remember them.
The popularity which the boy gained, the favour which he received
from everybody and anybody, was so marked and so universal that it
ultimately excited the envy and hostility of his elder brothers, who
were young men of twenty and over, and who were, moreover, prompted
to their animosity by the suspicion that their father intended to
bequeath the farm (which was his freehold) and all his money to his
favourite son, and leave them unprovided for.
Arthur's mother was Mr. Brownlow's second wife, who had been very
dear to him, but had only lived about three years, and then had
passed away, leaving as a legacy to her husband the little baby boy
scarce two years old. The child became the farmer's idol, and was
more and more worshipped as he grew to boyhood.
The elder sons being in the main clownish, stupid fellows, it was a
common speech, half in joke, half in earnest, with the farmer:--
"You lads are strong of build and dull of wit. Why don't you exert
your strength in other spheres than this, and leave the farm to
little Arthur when he grows up? You, Hugh, might, for instance,
go to America. William, you might take a piece of land of your
own--you are old enough to manage it and strong enough to work it.
You, Robert, should apply for the post of farm bailiff with Mr.
Weatherstone or somewhere else; and you, Thomas, should go in for
sheep farming in the colonies. There is your life mapped out for you
all. It will be many years before I am laid on the shelf; and you
are all getting too old to be anything but drags on me; while by the
time I am about settling down in my chimney corner, to take my ease
henceforth, Arthur will be just of an age to take the farm off my
hands and commence the management of it. This will, moreover, keep
the land in one piece, instead of chopping it up into five."
These words, I say, were often used by Mr. Brownlow in jest to his
sons, who were a lazy lot, and who ought, moreover, to have been on
their own hands by now. He possibly meant little more than jest, for
he was not the sort of man to cut any of his family adrift at that
time; but his sons chose to take the remarks in thorough earnest,
and they one and all wreaked their bitterest spite on poor Arthur in
consequence, till his life became almost intolerable to him.
He would often come to me in those days, and say:
"Mr. Calthorpe, I don't think I can stand it any longer, sir--at
least, without telling father; and then, if I do that, I don't know
what might be the consequences. He would certainly be so angry that
he would send all my brothers away, which I should never wish to be
done. Or, if he did not, they would persecute me still worse than
they are doing. So between the two things I don't know what to do."
I strove as hard as I could to exhort the boy to patience, giving
him what comfort I could, and I even offered to intercede between
him and his brothers; but this proposal he would not listen to, and
finally he decided that he would bear all in silence and would not
tell his father. So that matters were at a deadlock, and remained
so, until a new development began in the persecution of Arthur
Brownlow by his brothers--which consisted in the deliberate attempt
on their part to poison his father's mind against him by all sorts
of stories and fabrications, and so get rid of him.
The diabolical attempt was made with greater and more elaborate
cunning than I should have imagined such stupid young men as the
Brownlows to be capable of. They not only carried on the plot
themselves but got their neighbours--the young Spencers of Bray--to
assist them, and from all sides Farmer Brownlow kept continually
hearing of the precocious vices and bad manners of his darling son,
which were at first discredited by him, but afterwards believed, and
then greedily sought after.
"It is all this incense that comes to the boy along of his singing
that is spoiling him," he said to me one day. "And you, Mr.
Calthorpe, are partly to blame for encouraging it. What good can all
that howling and caterwauling do the lad? Not a bit, that I can see,
except that it takes him into company from which he would be better
away. It stuffs the boy's head with nonsense, sir, and it will never
bring him to any good."
It was in vain that I pointed out that there was practically no
foundation for any of these charges against his son, who was one
of the model boys of the parish. The farmer regarded me as a biased
witness, and kept his own opinion of the matter, which was more
and more inimical to poor Arthur every day. Do what I could in the
way of mediation, it was all no good. The ball once set rolling,
continued to roll in the same direction, until one day I heard, to
my unspeakable concern, that Arthur Brownlow had broken into his
father's bureau and extracted five pounds from it, that the money
had been found in his possession, and that he was now in the custody
of the police.
[Illustration: "I disown him, sir."]
I remember what a sensation the trial made at the assizes in the
neighbouring town of C----. I appeared as a witness in the boy's
behalf, and spoke up for him right gallantly; but all intercession
and testimony were of no avail--the evidence was held to be quite
conclusive. Although the father did not appear against him, the
brothers did, and their testimony was sufficient to convict the boy,
who was found guilty and sent to a reformatory for two years.
I saw him before he went, and he said to me--
"Tell father, sir, that I am unjustly condemned. Tell him it was a
plot of my brothers, and that I would scorn to do such an action.
But tell him, moreover, that after this disgrace I could never bear
to show my face in the village again, and when I come out of this
place I shall go beyond the seas or somewhere, but certainly shall
never come to Hambleton, nor shall he be troubled by seeing my face
again."
I wondered what effect this message would have on the old farmer,
but to my surprise he received it with the greatest nonchalance.
"Aye, aye, sir," he said in reply, as with black face and lowering
brow he sat in his parlour with his sons around him. "The lad has
brought disgrace on the family. I disown him, sir. I knew what all
this singing and caterwauling would lead to: I said so from the
first, and my words have come true. He need never seek to see my
face again until he has redeemed his character. Then I'll see him,
but not till then. Meantime, as you are going to the reformatory
occasionally to visit him, tell the lad--for, although a thief,
he is a son of mine--that I will provide him with what money is
necessary, when he leaves that home of thieves and vagabonds, to set
up in something or to go away to some colony, or anything he likes;
and then, as I say, when he has redeemed his character, he can come
and see me--but not till then. Tell him he shall have the money,
sir, when he wants it; but tell him that till he has redeemed his
character I disown him."
The money, however, was never applied for by Arthur Brownlow. I saw
him several times at the reformatory, and, indeed, tried to get him
released on the ground of insufficient evidence, but in vain. When
the end of his time came, he obtained some employment--I know not
how--went to London, and then I lost sight of him; for a month or
two afterwards I left my curacy in Wiltshire and took another in
Northumberland.
I saw the Brownlows now for the first time since that event of
twenty years ago. I was informed incidentally that they had never
heard anything more of Arthur. "I suppose," said one of them, "he's
gone to the bad long ago."
The old man in the chimney corner now white-haired and bowed
down with age, suffered a wistful look to pass over his face
occasionally, but that was all. No more was said, and no more did
I say. In a short time I had forgotten the story of twenty years
ago as completely as they had and as the village had; but there was
one remark alone of that afternoon's conversation which dwelt in my
mind: "I suppose he's gone to the bad."
"Gone to the bad!" Why, there was one thing plain. _All the
Brownlows seemed to have gone to the bad_--not Arthur alone--for a
more besotted, lazy-looking set of men it had never been my lot to
see.
It is the experience of every clergyman, when he comes to a new
parish, that he can soon find by a sort of intuition where the
troublesome spot in that parish is likely to be; and I very soon
knew by instinct that the troublesome people in my parish would be
the Brownlows--as was amply proved immediately after my arrival.
Scarcely a day passed but one or other of them was at the vicarage.
Now it was Robert--now it was Hugh--now it was Thomas. One came
requesting me to go to see their father, who was "in dreadful low
spirits." Another told me they had a horse for sale, and asked me if
I would like to buy it. The third, Thomas Brownlow, wanted to borrow
a little money of me; and this was the first actual hint I got of
the hazardous state of their affairs.
"No, Thomas," I said, "I cannot lend you that money; for, in the
first place, it is your father, not you, who ought to have asked
for it, if the object is to make repairs on your farm; and, in
the second place, I think I am considerably poorer than you. A
well-to-do farmer has considerably more cash than a poor parson, and
so for the second reason I must absolutely decline."
But this rebuff produced no diminution in the importunity of the
Brownlows, which at last culminated in the appearance of the eldest
brother and the father one day at the vicarage, when they told me,
with much display of emotion, that the farm was heavily mortgaged,
and, indeed, had been so for some time, and that the mortgagee, to
whom no payments had been made for some time past, threatened to
foreclose. Could I therefore either lend them the money, or get it
from a friend, or ask the squire to oblige them, or, in fact, help
them in any way whatever?
At the moment I could think of no way in which I might be of service
to them in the manner indicated; but as, despite their importunity,
I was sincerely sorry for them, I said I would turn the matter over
in my mind, make inquiries, and let them know by the morrow if I
could do aught for them.
The same afternoon my old college friend, Vincent Harrowby, who
was vicar of a neighbouring parish, drove over to see me, and dine
with me. It was the first time we had met for twenty years or more,
and it was to celebrate our meeting that I had given orders to my
housekeeper to prepare a somewhat elaborate repast in his honour
and for our mutual delectation. As we sat over dessert, Harrowby
talked of a score of subjects to which I paid a vague and partial
attention; but at last, as his "inextinguishable tongue," as we used
to call it at college, kept up its eternal stream of talk, I found
myself listening with rapt attention to what he was saying, which
sounded incredible to my ears.
"You remember that young choir boy of yours, Arthur Brownlow?"
Harrowby was remarking. "Well, I saw him some years ago--about ten
years, I think--and he had developed then into a man of means. He
had plenty of money, I was told, and was in every respect a fine
fellow. I often wondered what it was in his private history which
you used to allude to in such a guarded manner----"
But before my friend had been able to finish his sentence I, to his
great surprise, brought down my fist upon the table with the remark--
"The very man that is wanted! Where does he live, Harrowby, and what
is his address?"
"As to that," replied my friend, with a look of amused surprise, "I
cannot tell you to a street now. But I suppose he will be somewhere
in the neighbourhood where I knew him, and that was in such and such
a street, Bloomsbury" (naming it), "where he was practising as a
solicitor. Doubtless he may have changed his residence, but Bedford
Row ought to know him."
I then briefly explained to my friend the circumstances which would
make Arthur Brownlow's appearance at the present juncture a godsend
for the distressed family; for I must add that one or two of the
sons were married and had families, on which innocents, even more
than on the men, the blow would fall.
[Illustration: "The very man that is wanted!"]
"We must apply to him at all costs for the money," I remarked. "He
will never refuse to help his father, even if his brothers were
traitors. One of them must go to London to-morrow and search out
Arthur and obtain the funds needed."