THE SHADOW OF DEATH.
It was a soft balmy day in June, just two years later than the close
of our previous chapter. The little village of Wenton lay nestling
white and beautiful among its surrounding hills. The words white and
beautiful are meant literally. For the mill and cottages and stores
and schoolhouse and chapel were all as white as fresh paint could make
them, and the village was beautiful because every cottage had its
garden, and green plot, and shrubs and flowers; while the mill was
surrounded with tasteful lawns and tall shade trees and climbing vines.
George Branford firmly believed that there was a moral and an elevating
influence in the beauties God has thrown around us. He said it costs
the manufacturer but little more to make his cottages and factories
pretty and tasteful in their surroundings, and that he is more than
compensated for the extra outlay in the ennobling effects upon his
employés. They are broadened in mind, made contented in heart, and
elevated in spirit. So, with Mr. Bacon's permission, he had during the
two years and more that he had been here at Wenton carried out his
ideas to a practical result, and he was satisfied; for there never was
a happier nor more contented manufacturing community.
The little village had grown somewhat also during this time. First of
all, the mill itself had been so enlarged as to be hardly recognizable.
Indeed, the additions were so extensive that the old mill was only
a wing of the main building now. Then this enlargement of the mill
necessitated more tenement houses; so a new street was opened back to
the hills, and that row of pretty white cottages was built. Nor was
this all. There was one other new building. Just down the street there,
and almost in the centre of the clustered houses was a chapel, its
white spire rising sixty feet toward the heavens. That has a history
all its own.
When George Branford first moved to Wenton no religious services were
held in the village. He stood this condition of things just one week,
and then he organized a Sunday-school and established a weekly prayer
meeting. These services were held in the schoolhouse, for the want of
a more suitable place. But one day Sailor Jack came down to Wenton
to visit his old friend. After going over the mill, he took a stroll
around the village. He even climbed the highest hill and looked down
upon the busy community at its base. Then he returned to the mill
office, and said, abruptly, to George Branford:
"You need a chapel here badly."
"I know it," George replied. "We shall have it in time."
"There is a nice lot out there on that knoll for it," added Sailor
Jack. "It's almost the centre of the village, and it would be a sightly
position."
"Yes," answered George, with more interest; "that's the site I had
picked out for it."
"Wonder what it is worth?" went on Jack, rising from the chair into
which he had thrown himself on entering the office, and going to the
door to get a better view of the knoll.
"Oh, it can be bought at a reasonable price," said George. "Chapman,
the storekeeper, just beyond, owns it; but he is a Christian man, and
is anxious for the chapel, and will do the right thing when the time
comes for building."
"Guess I'll go over and talk with him," Jack responded, sauntering off
in the direction of the store.
George turned to his desk with a smile. He understood the drift of
Jack's questions, and lifted up a silent prayer that the Lord would
lead his old friend to carry out the purpose that was slowly forming in
his mind.
He saw nothing more of Sailor Jack until dinner time. He seemed
pre-occupied at the table, and ate in almost absolute silence. When
he had finished his meal, however, he pushed his chair back from the
table, and crossing one knee over the other, he looked steadily at
George for a half minute.
"Did I ever tell you, George," he then asked, "that my mother was born
in this town?"
"No," replied George, in some surprise.
"It is a fact," answered he; "she was born about a mile out of this
village, and lived there until she was quite a girl. Her maiden name
was Wenton, and it's from some of her folks most likely that the
village takes its name."
"There used to be an old grist mill on the stream near where the
factory now stands, owned and run by a man named Isaac Wenton; that
gave rise to the name of Wenton's Mill, and when a post office and
railroad station were established here, it was shortened to Wenton,"
explained George.
"He was my mother's uncle," said Jack; "but what I'm coming at is this:
I have bought that knoll of Chapman, and I'm going to erect a neat,
comfortable chapel on the lot at my own expense, and call it Wenton
Memorial Chapel, in memory of my mother. Whenever you organize a church
here, I'll present the property to it, and add funds enough to keep the
building in constant repair."
And he was as good as his word. As soon as the plans could be
perfected, the building was begun, and before another winter came the
Wenton Memorial Church was organized with twenty-four members, and
took possession of the valuable chapel property.
But let us now look at some of the persons at Wenton in whom we have
already become interested, for there have been changes in them also
during the past two years. The mill whistle blew sharply for noon, and
a stout, well-dressed gentleman stepped out from the mill office, and
nodded pleasantly to the employés, who were passing him on their way
to their homes. He was soon joined by a young lady, from the office
also, and the two walked up the street toward a neat cottage near its
end. The gentleman was Mr. George Branford, superintendent of the
Wenton Manufacturing Company; for a corporation of which Mr. Bacon was
president now controlled and ran the mill, and this accounted for the
many improvements in the mill property and village that we have already
noticed. George has developed into a first-class business man, and when
the corporation was organized a year before, he was unanimously chosen
superintendent at a handsome salary. The young lady by his side was
his youngest sister, who had taken a course of study at a commercial
college, and was now bookkeeper in the mill office. The two other
sisters have married Christian men, and live in adjoining cottages
over in the new row next to the hillside. That matronly woman standing
on the porch of yonder cottage is our old friend Betsy Branford,
though you would scarcely recognize her as the pale, thin woman we
last saw at the Forge. Good care, nourishing food, and abundant help
in the household duties have wrought this change. You can see, too,
by her thoughtful, intelligent face that she has kept pace with her
husband in his mental growth, and that her religious faith is still
strong and fervent. A glance within the cottage, moreover, at its
tastefully-arranged apartments, its well-filled bookcases, and its air
of comfort, tells of a refinement and culture you would scarcely have
expected to see. It is wonderful how the grace of God can in so little
time transform a whole household; but it has been done here. Greeting
her husband and sister with kisses, Betsy says:
"Dinner is all on the table. I will call father, and we will sit down
at once."
In answer to her call, an old white-haired man came briskly in from
the garden, and his neat dress, his pleasant features, and his quiet,
gentlemanly appearance indicate a great change in Mr. Branford, the
elder. That prison life, under God's blessing, reformed the man. His
heart was touched as he entered those prison gates. Ray and George and
the girls had all, at times, visited him. They wrote to him frequently,
and even tried to point him to the "Lamb of God who taketh away the
sin of the world." Nor were those visits and letters without their
influence upon him. But it was that Bible that Ray gave him, and the
Spirit's influence on the truth, as the penitent man pored over its
pages, that finally gave him peace. God's time came, and the answer to
the prayers that had so earnestly been lifted up for him was granted.
He found Jesus precious unto his soul. He is very doubtful of himself.
He has made no great professions; but all who knew him in his old life
can see the change. Through good behavior his term of service was
materially shortened, and for some months now he has made his home
with George, going faithfully to every religious service, working at
whatsoever he can find to do, asking no favors of any one, yet thankful
if he can be of use anywhere.
The family now sit down at the table, and the four children, young
as they are, all bow their heads as George asks the blessing, and
throughout the meal one would be impressed by the perfect order that
reigned. There is evidently good training in that home.
"Oh, George, have you heard anything from Ray yet?" Betsy suddenly
asked.
"Yes, and I must have left the letter at the office," he replied,
feeling in every pocket for the missing letter. "I can tell you its
contents, however. His school is over, and he is in Afton now. The
letter came from there. He will be down on the five o'clock train
to-night, and Edward and Daisy Lawton will come with him. All will
remain over the picnic to-morrow. Ray agrees to make the speech, as he
calls it, to the Sunday-school, and all three will help us with the
singing; so we are all provided for in that direction. It now promises
to be a fine day; I shall stop the mill, and I see no reason why we may
not have a grand time."
"Are we going to White Rock Lake, papa?" asked Bessie, a child of five
or six years.
"Yes, dear," responded her father.
"Wid horses?" cried Master two-year-old Bob.
"Yes, with horses and wagons," replied George, tossing the boy high in
the air, and catching him as he came down; "and when we get there, we
shall have boating and swinging and a feast, and Uncle Ray will make a
speech to the children, and the children will sing, and we shall have a
big time generally, for young folks as well as old ones. Do you want to
go, sir?"
"Me drive the horses," cried Bob, struggling to get down on the floor;
and, succeeding, he pranced around in imitation of the steeds he had
such a passion for.
"You'll go over to the train, of course, George?" asked his wife.
"Yes, and you had better come down to the office, and go over with me
also. Nettie is going. We'll give them a family welcome," responded
George.
The five o'clock train came rushing up to the little station, and
scarcely was at a standstill, when the two young men and Daisy stepped
down on the platform, and hurried toward the waiting Branfords.
Of the three, Ray, perhaps, had changed the least. His tall form had
rounded out somewhat, and he had a maturer look, but otherwise there
was scarcely a perceptible difference. The same honest eyes and noble
countenance, the same resolute purpose, and the same trustful spirit
were all there. He and Edward have actually completed three years at
Clinton Academy, and are now nearly twenty. They have lost nothing in
rank as scholars, or in their influence as Christians; and they have
been able to meet their expenses largely through their own exertions.
Ray was no longer the bell ringer and sweeper at the academy, however.
Not that he was ever ashamed of those offices, but because he no longer
needed to keep them. George persisted in paying back the money that he
had received from Ray in the time of his greatest need, and Mr. Jacob
Woodhull as stubbornly declared he had money that belonged to the
lad, and from these two, with what he had himself earned during the
summer vacation, Ray had enough to meet the expenses of the second year
without special effort. Since then he had had a position as tutor to
a deformed boy in Easton, and the compensation he received was ample
enough to defray his school expenses. This was an arrangement for the
year to come also, and Ray had no anxiety on the score of his finances.
Edward was more delicate than Ray, and his studies told upon him more.
He was, too, the same slightly-built lad of two years before. Daisy,
however, had changed the most of all. She was a young lady now; had
graduated from the Graded School at Afton, and had been for a year in
a young ladies' school of national repute. If she was beautiful as a
girl, she is certainly more interesting now as she is just budding into
young womanhood. Her golden locks adorn a face of intense loveliness;
her bright blue eyes look up almost saucily into yours, while her
sweet disposition and earnest Christian spirit win hosts of friends
for her wherever she goes. She is a rare scholar, a fine musician, and
possesses a voice that would bring her a fortune if she cared to use
it for the public. She and Ray are as good friends as ever, and his
fine tenor and her soprano blend in wondrous harmony as they sing some
of those old matchless hymns of praise unto God. This is not her first
visit to Wenton with Ray, and Nettie Branford and she are fast friends,
for one tie binds them close together: they are both members of the
same royal family, are both daughters of the King.
The next morning dawned bright and beautiful. A delightful day was
promised for the picnic, and at an early hour the Wenton Memorial
Sunday-school and its friends were off on their five miles' ride to
White Rock Lake. This was a beautiful sheet of water, lying at the foot
of the highest hill in that part of the State. The lake afforded fine
boating and fishing, while from the summit of the hill a most charming
view of the country for forty miles around could be obtained. These two
features had made the locality one of great resort by the people for
miles around.
A drive of about an hour brought the party to the favored spot, and
soon the large grove by the lake rang with the merry voices of the
happy children at their play. Some played at hide and seek, some used
the swings, some ran off to the boats, some played on the sandy beach,
or tossed stones into the shining ripples. After two or three hours
of amusement, the children were called together for dinner; and when
this had been eaten there was to be Ray's address, and the singing of
familiar songs. Before the children had well gotten into their places,
however, a piercing scream was heard a short distance away. A glance
showed Daisy Lawton part way up the hillside, where she had gone with
several other young ladies in search of wild flowers, and from her
lips there came for the second time that piercing scream. A number
ran at once toward her, and when near enough they beheld the cause of
her alarm. She had stooped to pluck a bunch of flowers just in front
of her, when a large red or copper-back snake had crawled out from a
thicket near by; and now, with its bright eyes fastened upon her with
a power she could not resist, was slowly creeping toward her for its
fatal strike.
Those who had run thither from the neighborhood of the table would
hardly have been in time to save the terrified girl, however. But
only a short distance away, and coming down from the hilltop, was Mr.
Branford. He heard the girl's cry, and saw her danger, and sprang down
the hill with tremendous bounds. The hand Daisy had extended to pluck
the flowers was still held, as though paralyzed, in that position, and
as Mr. Branford reached her side the snake was already coiled for its
spring. He had no weapon with him, and he did the only thing he could
do in the brief instant remaining to him to save the girl. He quickly
thrust his own arm before hers and received the stroke that otherwise
would have fallen upon her fair hand. Then shaking off the snake, he
ground it to pieces beneath his heavy boots.
The greatest confusion now followed. Some bore the fainting but
uninjured girl to the nearest house; others took care of the bitten
man. Horses were harnessed, Mr. Branford was hurried into a wagon, and
driven off to the nearest doctor. The rest, with no heart to continue
the festivities, made ready for a return home.
Ray and George had accompanied their father. He was perfectly calm.
"There is but one way to save me, my lads," he said, "and that I cannot
permit. Liquor would perhaps, if taken in large quantities, nullify
this poison, but it would awaken a serpent more to be feared. Take me
home, I am willing to die, now that sweet young life is saved."
They carried him home, and a physician was brought. The wound was
cauterized, but to no purpose; the poison had already entered the whole
system.
"There is but one thing we can do," said the physician. "Liquor must be
poured down him until he is stupefied. It is our only chance to save
him."
"We will not take it, then," replied Mr. Branford, resolutely. "It
would only awaken the slumbering appetite I have for the accursed
stuff; and I cannot live a drunkard, but I can die a sober man."
No persuasion would get him to yield.
George and Ray stayed by him to the last. He suffered terribly. When
the end was near, he was still calm in mind, and could talk. Suddenly
he cried out: "I'm ready. What is that Scripture, Ray--'Though I
walk--though I walk----'"
Ray instantly repeated the sublime and comforting words: "Yea, though
I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil;
for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me."
"That's it! that's it!" cried the dying man. "I'm going down the
valley, but I fear no evil; for he is with me." His voice failed--a
single gasp--and he had passed through the valley of the shadow into
the infinite light.