FROM DARKNESS TO LIGHT.
"WHAT a cross-grained woman that Mrs. Hill is!" said Benjamin Field to
his wife, as he sat down to his supper. "If you had served me so, I
don't know where we'd have been by this time." And he looked gratefully
round his comfortable room, supplied as it was now with everything
needful for use, and something more for good taste and mental
cultivation. "But you didn't forget your promises, Nelly, though I—"
"Well, never mind, Ben. You don't forget, neither, now, and we're
as happy as need be; only one thing, dear husband, don't let either
of us forget that it is all of God's goodness to us, and nothing in
ourselves. I do wonder how people get on at all who don't look to Him,
and trust, and pray, and try to do His will. It seems as if a house
must be terribly wanting for light and comfort where there's no God in
it to bless keep it."
"You got Him to come here and do it all, Nelly," said Ben; "and I feel
it more than ever after being at poor Hill's."
"I'm afraid Mrs. Hill forgets who can help her in her trouble," said
Mrs. Field. "I never listen to gossip, but it grieved me sadly to hear
that her husband has been drinking again after keeping so steady and
industrious such a good long while. I was obliged to hear that, but I
asked no questions about it."
"Well, it's my belief she'll have more trouble yet, for what do you
think? She lets me go up to speak to him if I like; so I did. And there
the poor fellow lies in pain, and, I may say, sorrow too, and she
hasn't given him a kind word since, and won't let the children go near
him. So he told me this evening that he shall get Mrs. Oakland to send
him a ticket for the Infirmary, and he'll go there and be nursed, and
give her no more trouble."
"Oh, Ben! Does she know? Will she bear to let strangers nurse him for
charity, while she can do it herself for love?"
"I fancy she will, Nelly; there's no knowing what a proud, cross woman
will do. 'You' wouldn't, unless you felt sure I'd be really better
tended and more comfortable, which you know might happen in an accident
or something sudden of that sort, and even then I don't know how I
could be better off than with you for my nurse. Why, Nelly, wasn't it
your kindness, your prayers, your forgiveness, your patience, that made
me see and feel what a brute I was, and how I was breaking your heart
and bringing you and the children to starvation?"
"Under God. Oh, Ben! He helped me, He taught me. I couldn't have done
it of myself."
"Well, any way, it was you took in what the Lord taught you," persisted
Ben, who never could separate the two as his humble, Christian wife
did, ever blessing her God for the happy change in her husband, "and
while I thank Him, do you think I can help thanking you too, my good,
kind Nelly?" And tears—yes, not sentimental drops that meant nothing
particular, but manly, honourable, beautiful tears—glistened in the
husband's eyes, his heart's true tribute to a good wife's patient love
and duty.
And Nelly, with sympathetic light in hers, made up of smiles and tears
together, bent her matronly head as she rose to hand his cup of tea,
and gave and received the kiss of true affection.
Well might Benjamin bless her, for she had been as a guardian angel to
him.
"But, as I was saying, Nelly, it's a very bad thing for them both,
this ugly temper of hers. For though I don't mean to excuse any man
who sins—nay, I just loathe myself when I think of it—still, if a man
doesn't fear God, he does make excuses for himself if he can. And a
drunkard thinks he can silence anybody about it if he can say he has a
cross-patch of a wife and a miserable home, and he can't be expected
to abide her ways. It makes people pity him too, and his own real
wickedness gets softened down or covered up altogether with a heap of
blame on her—more, perhaps, a deal than she may really deserve; for,
after all, it 'is' a shame, and it 'is' provoking to see a man drink
away his earnings and make a sot of himself while his poor family want
bread.
"Hill says if his wife had behaved different that night when the soot
vexed her, he'd have helped her clean up or do anything she bade him,
but her vixenish temper drove him out at last when he could bear it no
longer.
"She was in the room when he said this, and, instead of letting it be,
she flew out again, the foolish thing, and said 'she wasn't Job, and
never pretended to be, to have bricks and soot down the chimney and
think nothing about the mess, and that she'd as good a right to temper
as he to his drink.'
"And then Hill said, wearily, 'Well, only remember the temper came
first, that's all.'
"And then she went on again, determined to have the last word, until I
was heart-sick to hear them. But I can't help being sorry for Hill."
And Mrs. Field was sorry for him too, and in her wifely heart tried to
think what she could do to help.
"Perhaps the children are in her way," said she; "suppose I just run
and offer to take care of them while Mr. Hill is laid up?"
"Suppose you do—a very good thought, Nelly; she said something about
tiresome brats getting under her feet every minute, and the slap she
gave the boy, he passed on to his little sister, and there was a
terrible uproar for a bit."
"And, Nelly," continued Benjamin, "if she snubs you, don't mind it, but
speak a kind word for poor Matthew. She might bear it from you if she
knows—"
"She knows nothing from me, dear husband; but if I can do any good, I
will advise her."
"Ay, Nelly, show her your way, and how you did."
"God's way, as the Bible taught it me," softly murmured Mrs. Field, as
she put on her bonnet and set out on her neighbourly errand, leaving
her husband in charge for a little while at home.
Mr. Field got up and stood looking after her as long as her neat,
well-dressed figure was in sight. And when she just turned to nod to
him, he thought it was the very nicest, handsomest face in all Great
Britain, and no man had a wife at all to compare with his.
Then he turned in, shut the door, and sat down again. The younger
children were in bed and asleep, the elder were spending the day at
their grandmother's, and all was quiet. It was just between daylight
and dark, a lawful time for a working man who has been busy all day to
sit at ease by his own fireside, and look into the red coal and see all
sorts of curious things there if he pleases.
And Benjamin Field sat and looked, and as he gazed, a very bright
cinder shaped itself into the form of a young girl with a modest face
and pleasant smile. And then a larger piece slid down beside her which
was as like as it could be to a sincere admirer, and the two seemed to
talk confidentially together.
After a while, a gentle fall occurred among the coals, and a large
space, most reasonably supposed to represent a church or chapel,
appeared, with a little group in the middle, and the youth and the
maiden held hands and promised solemn things in solemn earnest before
God and His people; and they bowed their heads, and a prayer was
breathed over them, and a considerate cinder broke into a beautiful
archway to let them pass, looking very happy.
Then somehow the church turned itself into a cottage, and the same
young pair made home in it for some time. But a change came over
everything; the youth lost his manly step and bold, strong look, and
reeled about in a strange manner, and the girl's head drooped, and she
was often weeping, weeping bitterly. And she would shrink from the
rough voice with terror, and friends wondered at the care on her brow
and the meek silence of her lips. Benjamin's brow knitted as memory
still stung him, and a sudden collapse of the cottage recalled the
moment when his cowardly hand first fell on the drooping head, and laid
the light form prostrate at his feet.
The matter could no longer be hidden; angry faces now peered in, and
the mother implored her heart-broken child to leave him to his sins and
their punishment, to leave the husband to whom she had given her best,
holiest affections to the drunken maniac's doom.
But she could not, she did not.
"Oh, mother!" she said. "It was for better, for worse, in sickness, and
in health. If I can stay, I will; he is sick—oh, how sick, because of
sin! Who will have pity if his wife will not?"
So she stayed, alone, yet not alone, for sorrow had brought her to the
Friend of the sorrowful, and He had been faithful and true to her, and
henceforth would never leave her nor forsake her.
He had shown her what sin is—something, at least, of what it is—and she
saw herself a sinner too. She had set up idols and forgotten God. She
saw herself to blame in the early days of her husband's temptation, but
now a gentle voice breathed in her soul, a firm hand upheld and guided
her steps, and Ellen Field learned to know herself and her God at the
cross of Christ. She thought, and justly, in her self-abasement that
the blood which was shed for her was shed for any who would believe in
it. She thought, and truly, that if she had not been rejected, "none
who come unto God by Jesus would be cast out;" and when she had given
herself to Him and turned to face the world and life and duty again,
the aspect of all was changed. A new life was imparted, a new mission
begun, and she would never, never give up until her husband should have
"like precious faith," and be partaker of her joy.
Benjamin Field writhed under certain recollections as his thoughts
pursued their theme, and though he changed his attitude a little, the
fire seemed to fascinate him, and he continued to gaze. A little room
appeared next, and a bed, and a once strong man as weak as an infant
lay there apparently unconscious. But he saw the faithful watcher as
she noiselessly moved about, he felt the tender care, he heard the soft
but earnest petitions to the God of mercy for his life, for his pardon,
for his renewal by the Holy Spirit. He heard now and then a verse of
the Holy Book telling of the only Saviour, the only hope, the only way,
and truth, and life; of the blood that cleanseth from all sin, the free
invitation to come and be cleansed, accepted, blessed; the condition of
the sinner without Christ, consequently without anything but his sins;
the condition of the believer in Christ, sin forgiven, and consequently
the possessor of "all things" in Him.
He heard comforting words, soothing hymns; and a holy atmosphere seemed
floating around him; while the house was kept so still, and everything
he could need provided; while the scant portion of the watcher was
often nothing all day, and many days, but a crust of bread and a cup
of sugarless, milkless tea. Then the deep penitence, the shame, the
privation, discovered to its full extent—the despair of reparation;
then the gleam of hope, the smile of encouragement, the regaining of
opportunity, of work, of confidence, of good opinion; restoration by
degrees of home comforts, clothing, sufficient food, strength of body,
peace of mind.
"Ellen, I dare swear a solemn oath that I will never, never touch
intoxicating drink again," he had said.
"Oh, swear not at all, dear husband," she replied. "Put no trust in
your own resolutions, but pray constantly to God. He knows how weak we
are; He wants trust, not oaths. Ask for help to do right, and that is
better than a thousand resolutions. Asking, praying, brings us into
keeping company with God, and when we love His company, we can't go and
do what He hates."
"But shouldn't I sign the pledge, Nelly?"
"Oh yes, that will be right enough, but it is only a promise before
man—a good, right promise, and people will feel that you have taken the
right side, and mean to be reckoned on. But it's the heart that's at
the bottom of it all, Ben, and only God can manage that."
So Benjamin signed the pledge, and men called him "a total abstainer,"
and laughed at him or approved of him according to their ideas on the
subject; but he also took his poor, broken heart to God through Jesus
Christ his Saviour, and there was joy in heaven over the repentant
sinner. No, Benjamin Field could not be a drunkard again.
And just as the last sweet thoughts chased the frown which preceding
ones had brought upon his brow, he saw that the fire wanted coal, or
would be out before Ellen came in; and so ended the retrospection.
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