Look back some forty years--there was not a quieter place then than the
little village of Crossbourne. It was a snug spot, situated among
hills, and looked as though it were hiding away out of the sight and
notice of the bustling, roaring traffic that was going ceaselessly on
all around it.
A little fussy stream or brook flowed on restlessly day and night
through the centre of the village, and seemed to be the only thing there
that was ever in a hurry. Carts and carriages, but seldom many of the
latter, had to drive through the stream when they wished to cross it;
for there was no bridge except a very rude one for foot-passengers just
before you came to the old mill, where the villagers had had their corn
ground for generations.
Then to the north of the stream the houses straggled up on either side
of a long winding street, sometimes two or three together under one long
thatched roof, and in other places singly, with a small bit of meagre
garden round them; a wooden latch lifted by a string which dangled
outside being the prevailing fastening to the outer doors.
Right up at the top of the street, and a little to the left, was the old
Saxon church, which had retained a considerable share of its original
massive beauty, spite of the combined attacks of plaster, mildew, and a
succession of destructive restorations which had lowered the roof,
bricked up more than one fine old window, and thrust out a great iron
chimney, which looked not unlike the mailed hand of some giant shaking
its clenched fist at the solid tower which it was unable to destroy.
Just under the shadow of the old church, and separated from it by the
low wall of the churchyard, was the vicarage, a grey-looking structure
in the midst of a small but well-stocked garden; while beyond it were
fields in long succession, with a ponderous-looking farm-house crouching
down here and there amongst them.
Of course there was an inn in the village. It was marked out to
travellers by a sign-board dependent from a beam projecting over the
footpath. Something had once been painted on the board, but it had
become so blurred and indistinct under the corroding action of sun and
rain, that it would be quite impossible now to decide whether the
features delineated on it were those of a landscape, a lion, or a human
countenance.
Such was Crossbourne some forty years back. But now, what a marvellous
change! Coal has been found close by, and the little village has leapt,
as if by magic, into a thriving town. Huge factories and foundries rise
from the banks of the stream; the ford is spanned by a substantial
bridge; the corn-mill has disappeared, and so have the rheumatic-looking
old mossy cottages. A street of prim, substantial houses, uniform, and
duly numbered, with brass handles, latches, and knockers to the doors,
now leads up to the church. And that venerable building has certainly
gained by the change; for the plaster and the iron chimney have
vanished, full daylight pours in through all the windows, while two new
aisles have been added in harmony with the original design of the
unknown architect. The vicarage, too, has expanded, and been smartened
up to suit more modern tastes and requirements. And then all around the
principal street are swarms of workmen's dwellings,--and, alas! public-
houses and beer-shops at every corner ready to entrap the wretched
victims of intemperance. Besides all these there are a Town Hall and a
Mechanics' Institute; and the streets and shops and dwelling-houses are
lighted with gas.
Crossbourne has, in fact, become a very hive of industry; but,
unhappily, too many of the cells of the hive are fuller of gall than of
honey, for money is made fast and squandered faster: and what wonder,
seeing that King Alcohol holds his court amongst the people day and
night! And, to make all complete, Crossbourne now boasts of a railway
running through it, and of a station of its own, from which issues many
a train of _goods_; and near the station a distillery, from which there
issues continually a long and lengthening train of _evils_.
Turning out of the principal street to the right, just opposite to where
the old dingy sign-board used to swing, a passer-by could not fail to
notice a detached house more lofty and imposing in its appearance than
the plain working-men's cottages on either side of it.
At the time our story opens this house was occupied by William Foster, a
skilled ironworker, who was earning his fifty shillings a week, when he
chose to do so; which was by no means his regular habit, as frequent
sprees and drinking-bouts with congenial companions made his services
little to be depended on. However, he was a first-rate hand, and his
employers, who could not do without him, were fain to put up with his
irregularities.
Foster was now in the prime of life, and had a young wife and one little
baby. He was professedly a sceptic, and gloried in his creed--if _he_
can be said to have any creed who believes in nothing but himself. Of
course the Bible to him was simply a whetstone on which to "sharpen his
tongue like a serpent, that he might shoot out his arrows, even bitter
words." As for conscience, he ridiculed the very idea of such an old-
fashioned guide and monitor. "No," he would say, "as a true musician
abhors discordant sounds, and as a skilled mechanic abhors bad work, and
therefore cannot turn it out without doing violence to his finer and
more cultivated sensibilities, so the best guide in morals to an
enlightened man is his own sense of moral fitness and propriety."
Nevertheless, he was by no means over-scrupulous as to the perfection of
his own handiwork when he could slur over a job without fear of
detection; while the standard of morality which he set up for himself,
certainly, to judge by his own daily life, did not speak much for the
acuteness of his moral perceptions.
But he was shrewd and ready, and had a memory well stored with such
parts of Scripture as were useful pegs on which to hang clever
objections and profane sneers. Not that he had read the Bible itself,
for all his knowledge of it was got second-hand from the works of
sceptics, and in detached fragments. However, he had learned and
retained a smattering of a good many scientific and other works, and so
could astonish and confound timid and ill-informed opponents.
No wonder, therefore, that he was the admired chairman of the
"Crossbourne Free-thought Club," which met two or three times a week in
one of the public-houses, and consumed, for the benefit of the house,
but certainly not of the members themselves or their homes, a large
quantity of beer and spirits, while it was setting the misguided world
right on science, politics, and religion. The marvel, indeed, to Foster
and his friends was how ignorance, bigotry, priestcraft, and tyranny
could venture to hold up their heads in Crossbourne after his club had
continued its meeting regularly for the last two years.
Perhaps they might have been a little less surprised could one of them
have taken down an old volume of Dr South's sermons from the vicar's
library shelves, and have read these words to his fellows: "Men are
infidels, not because they have sharper wits, but because they have
corrupter wills; not because they reason better, but because they live
worse." Assuredly this was true of the infidelity in Crossbourne.
And what sort of a home was William Foster's? The house itself looked
well enough as you approached it. Those houses of a humbler stamp on
either side of it had doors which opened at once from the street into
the parlour or living-room; but to Foster's dwelling there was a small
entrance-hall, terminating in an archway, beyond which were a large
parlour, a kitchen, and a staircase leading to the upper rooms.
There was an air of ambition about everything, as though the premises,
like their occupiers, were aiming to be something above their station,
while at the same time a manifest absence of cleanliness and neatness
only presented a sort of satirical contrast to the surrounding grandeur.
On either side of the entrance-hall, and just under the archway, was a
plaster-of-Paris figure, nearly as large as life--that on the right-hand
being a representation of Bacchus, and that on the left of a nymph
dancing. But the female image had long since lost its head, and also
one of its arms--the latter being still in existence, but being hung for
convenience' sake through the raised arm of Bacchus, making him look
like one of those Hindu idols which are preposterously figured with a
number of superfluous limbs. If the effect of this transference of the
nymph's arm to its companion statue was rather burlesque than
ornamental, the disconnected limb itself was certainly not without its
use, small fragments of it being broken off from time to time for the
purpose of whitening the door-steps and the hall-flags when the
hearthstone could not readily be found.
Within the archway, over the parlour door, was a plaster bust of
Socrates; but this had met with no better treatment than the statues,
having accidentally got its face turned to the wall as though in
disgrace, or as if in despair of any really practical wisdom being
allowed to have sway in the sceptic's household.
Things were no better in the sitting-room: there was plenty of finery,
but no real comfort--scarcely a single article of furniture was entire;
while a huge chimney-glass, surmounted by a gilded eagle, being too tall
for its position, had been made to fit into its place by the sacrifice
of the eagle's head and body, the legs and claws alone being visible
against the ceiling. The glass itself was starred at one corner, and
the frame covered with scars where the gilding had fallen off. There
were coloured prints on the walls, and a large photograph of the members
of the "Free-thought Club;" the different individuals of the group being
taken in various attitudes, all indicative of a more than average amount
of self-esteem. There were book-shelves also, containing volumes
amusing, scientific, and sceptical, but no place was found for the Book
of books; it was not admitted into that cheerless household.
It was a December evening; a dull fire burned within the dingy bars of
William Foster's parlour grate. William himself was at his club, but
his wife and baby were at home: that poor mother, who knew nothing of a
heavenly Father to whose loving wisdom she could intrust her child; the
baby, a poor little sinful yet immortal being, to be brought up without
one whisper from a mother's tongue of a Saviour's love.
Kate Evans (such was Mrs Foster's maiden name) had had the best
bringing up the neighbourhood could afford; at least, such was the view
of her relatives and friends.
Her parents were plain working-people, who had been obliged to scramble
up into manhood and womanhood with the scantiest amount possible of
book-learning. When married they could neither of them write their name
in the register; and a verse or two of the New Testament laboriously
spelt out was their farthest accomplishment in the way of reading.
Kate was their only child, and they wisely determined that things should
be different with her. The girl was intelligent, and soon snapped up
what many other children of her own age were a long time in acquiring.
She was bright and attractive-looking, with keen eyes and dark flowing
hair, and won the affection of her teachers and companions by her open-
heartedness and generosity of disposition.
Naturally enough, the master and mistress of the large school which she
attended were proud of her as being one of their best scholars, and were
determined to make the most of her abilities for their own sake as much
as hers. And Kate herself and her parents were nothing loath. So books
were her constant companions and occupation in all her waking hours.
The needle was very seldom in her fingers at the school, and the house-
broom and the scrubbing-brush still less often at home.
The poor mother sighed a weary sigh sometimes when, worn out with
toiling, she looked towards her child, who was deep in some scientific
book by the fireside; and now and then she just hinted to her husband
that she could not quite see the use of so much book-learning for a girl
in their daughter's position; but she was soon silenced by the remark
that "Our Kate had a head-piece such as didn't fall to the lot of many,
and it were a sin and a shame not to give her all the knowledge possible
while she were young and able to get it."
So the head was cultivated, and the hands that should have been busy
were neglected; and thus it was that, at the age of sixteen, Kate Evans
could not sweep a room decently, nor darn a stocking, nor mend her own
clothes, nor make nor bake a loaf of bread creditably. But then, was
she not the very rejoicing of her master and mistress's hearts, and the
head girl of the school? And did not the government inspector always
give her a specially pleasant smile and word or two of approbation at
the annual examination?
Poor Kate! It was a marvel that she was not more spoiled by all this;
but she was naturally modest and unpresuming, and would have made a fine
and valuable character had she been brought up to _shine_, and not
merely to _glitter_. As it was, she had learned to read and write well,
and to calculate sums which were of little practical use to her.
Indeed, her head was not unlike the lumber-room of some good lady who
has indulged a mania for accumulating purchases simply because of their
cheapness, without consideration of their usefulness, whether present or
future; so that while she could give you the names and positions and
approximate distances of all the principal stars without mistake or
hesitation, she would have been utterly at a loss if set to make a
little arrow-root or beef--tea for a sick relation or friend.
She wound up her education at school by covering her teachers and
herself with honour by her answers, first to the elementary, and then to
the advanced questions in the papers sent down from the London Science
and Art Department. And when she left school, at the age of seventeen,
to take the place at home of her mother, who was now laid by through an
attack of paralysis, she received the public congratulations of the
school managers, and was afterwards habitually quoted as an example of
what might be acquired in the humbler ranks of life by diligence,
patience, and perseverance.
As for her religious education, it was what might have been expected
under the circumstances. Her parents, ignorant of the truth themselves,
though well-disposed, as it is called, to religion, had sent her when
quite a little one to the Sunday-school, where she picked up a score or
two of texts and as many hymns. She also had gone to church regularly
once every Sunday, but certainly had acquired little other knowledge in
the house of God than an acquaintance with the most ingenious methods of
studying picture-books and story-books on the sly, and of trying the
patience of the teachers whose misfortune it was for the time to be in
command of the children's benches during divine service.
As she grew up, however, Sunday-school and church were both forsaken.
Tired with constant study and the few household duties which she could
not avoid performing, she was glad to lie in bed till the Sunday-school
bell summoned earlier risers; and with the school, the attendance at
church also was soon abandoned.
In summer-time, dressed in clothes which were gay rather than neat or
becoming, she would stroll out across the hills during afternoon service
with some like-minded female companion, and return by tea-time listless
and out of spirits, conscious of a great want, but unconscious of the
only way to satisfy it. For Kate Evans had a mind and heart which kept
her from descending into the paths of open sin. Many young women there
were around her, neglecters, like herself, of God, his house, and his
day, who had plunged into the depths of open profligacy; but with such
she had neither intercourse nor sympathy, for she shrunk instinctively
from everything that was low and coarse. Yet she walked in darkness; an
abiding shadow rested on her spirit. She had gained admiration and won
esteem, but she wanted peace. Her heart was hungry, and must needs
remain so till it should find its only true satisfying food in "Jesus,
the bread of life."
Such was Kate Evans when she had reached the age of twenty--restless,
unsatisfied, fretting under the restraints and privations of a poor
working-man's home, shrinking from earning her bread by the labour of
her hands, yet unable--for her heart would not allow her--to apply for
any school work which might remove her from the home where her services
were greatly needed by her now bed-ridden mother.
It was, then, with no small gratification, though not without some
misgivings, that she found herself the object of special attentions on
the part of William Foster. She was well aware that he was no friend to
religion, but then he was supposed to be highly moral; and she felt not
a little flattered by the devoted service of a man who was the oracle of
the working-classes on all matters of science and higher literature;
while he on his part was equally pleased with the prospect of having for
his wife one who, both in personal attractions and education, was
universally allowed to be in her rank the flower of Crossbourne.
Kate's parents, however, were very unwilling that the intimacy between
Foster and their child should lead to a regular engagement. They had
the good sense to see that he who "feared not God" was not very likely
to "regard man," nor woman either; and they were also well aware that
the public-house and the club would be pretty sure to retain a large
share of Foster's affections after marriage.
But remonstrance and advice were in vain; love was to take the place of
religion, and was to gather into the new home all the cords which would
have a tendency to draw the young man in a different direction. And
neighbours and friends said, "Young people would be young people;" that
Kate would turn any man into a good husband; and that she would be near
at hand to look in upon her old father and mother. So the attachment
duly ripened without further check; and before she was one and twenty,
Kate Evans was married to William Foster at the registrar's office.
And now, on this December evening, rather more than a year had gone by
since the wedding-day. And what of the _love_ which was to have
effected such great things? Alas! the gilding had got sadly rubbed off.
Not many weeks after the marriage a cloud began to gather on the face
of both husband and wife.
Coming home some day at dinner-time he would find no table laid out, the
meat half raw, and the potatoes the same; while an open book of poetry
or science, turned face downwards on the sloppy dresser, showed how his
wife had been spending the time which ought to have been occupied in
preparing her husband's meal. Then, again, when work was over, he would
find, on his return home, his wife, with uncombed hair and flushed
cheeks, on her knees, puffing away at a few sparks in the cheerless
grate, while the kettle rested sulkily on a cliff of black coal, and
looked as if boiling was on its part a very remote possibility indeed.
Not that Kate was a gadder about or a gossip, but she was sleeveless,
dawdling, and dreamy, and always behindhand. Everything was out of its
place. Thus Foster would take up a spill-case, expecting to find
material wherewith to light his evening pipe; but instead of spills, it
was full of greasy hair-pins. And when, annoyed and disgusted, he tore
a fly-leaf out of one of his wife's school prizes, declaring that, if
she did not provide him with spills, he would take them where he could
get them, a storm of passionate reproaches was followed by a volley of
curses on his part, and a hasty and indignant retreat to the public-
house parlour.
And then, again, his late hours at the club, or the unwelcome presence
of his sceptical companions, whom he would sometimes bring home to
discuss their opinions over pipes and spirits, would be the ground of
strong and angry remonstrance. And the breach began soon to widen.
Washing-day would come round with all its discomforts, which she had not
learned the art of mitigating or removing. Coming in, in better spirits
perhaps than usual, intending to have a cheerful tea and a cozy chat
after it, he would find everything in a state of disturbance, especially
his young wife's temper, with plenty of steam everywhere except from the
spout of the tea-pot. Indeed, poor Kate was one of those domestic
paradoxes in her own person and house which are specially trying to one
who cares for home comfort: and who is there who does not care for it?
She would be always cleaning, yet never clean; always smartening things
up, and yet never keeping them tidy. And so when William, on coming
home, would find pale, ghost-like linen garments hanging reeking from
the embossed arm of the gas chandelier a large piece of dissolving soap
on the centre of the table-cover, a great wooden tub in the place where
his arm-chair should be, a lump of sodden rags in one of his slippers,
and his wife toiling and fuming in the midst of all, with her hair in
papers and her elbows in suds, with scarce the faintest hope for him of
getting his evening meal served for more than an hour to come,--what
wonder if harsh words escaped him, repaid with words equally harsh from
his excited partner, and followed by his flinging himself in a rage out
of such a home, and returning near midnight with a plunging, stumbling
step on the stairs, which sent all the blood chilly back to the heart of
the unhappy woman, and quenched in sobs and tears the bitter words that
were ready to burst forth!
But at last there came the little babe, and with it a rush of returning
fondness and tenderness into the heart of both the parents; yet only for
a time. The tide of home misery had set in full again; and now on this
winter evening, a little more than a twelve-month after her marriage,
poor, unhappy Kate Foster knelt by the side of the little cradle, her
tears falling fast and thick on the small white arm of her sick baby;
for very sick it was, and she feared that death (ay, not death, but
God--her heart, her conscience said, "God,") was about to snatch from
her the object she loved best on earth, even with a passionate love.
Though it was winter and cold, yet the casement was ajar, for the
chimney of the room had smoked for weeks; but nothing had been done
towards remedying the trouble, except grumbling at it, and letting in
draughts of keen air through half-open doors and windows, to the
manifest detriment of the health of both mother and child. And what was
she to do, poor thing, in her hour of special trial and need?
Looking earnestly at her baby through her tears, she leaned eagerly and
breathlessly forward into the cradle. Was it gone? Was it really taken
from her? No; she could hear its disturbed breathing still. And then
as she knelt on, with clasped hands and throbbing heart, something
brought to her lips words of prayer: "O Lord! O Lord, have pity on me!
Oh, baby, baby!--don't take baby from me!"
Even that poor prayer gave her some relief, followed as it was by an
agony of weeping. Never had she uttered a word of prayer before since
the day she was married, and her own words startled her. Yet again and
again she felt constrained to make her simple supplication, pleading
earnestly for her baby's life with the God the reality of whose being
and power she now _felt_, spite of herself.
But what was that sound that made her spring up from her knees, and
listen with colourless cheeks and panting breath? She thought she heard
footsteps pass under the half-open window. There was no regular road at
the back of the house, but the premises could be approached in that
direction by a narrow path along the side of the hill which shut in the
buildings in the rear. Between the hill and the house was a back-yard
into which the parlour looked, and through this yard William would
sometimes come from his work; but ordinary visitors came to the front,
and trades-people to a side door on the left.
Could the footsteps have been those of her husband? And had he paused
to listen to her words of earnest and passionate prayer? If so, she
well knew what a torrent of ridicule and sarcastic reproach she must
prepare herself for. And yet the step did not sound like his. Alas!
she had learned to know it now too well! She dreaded it. There was no
music in it now for her. Perhaps she was mistaken. She listened
eagerly; all was still, and once more her eyes and heart turned towards
the little cradle, as the restless babe woke up with a start and a cry.
So again she knelt beside it, and, rocking it, gave free vent to her
tears, and to words of prayer, though uttered now more softly.
But there--there was that footstep again! There could be no mistake
about it now; and as certainly it was not her husband's tread. Annoyed
now that some intruder should be lurking about and listening to her
words, she was just going to ask angrily who was there, when the
casement was pushed cautiously a little more open, and a hand holding a
small book was thrust into the room.
Amazed, terrified, Kate stood up erect, and stared with parted lips at
the strange intrusion. What could it mean? The hand was that of a
woman, and there were rings on the fingers. It was but a moment that
she had time to mark these things; for before she could recover from her
surprise, the mysterious hand had dropped the book into the room, and
with it one of its rings, which rolled towards the hearth, sparkling as
it went. Then there was a rapid retreat of quiet footsteps outside, and
all was still again.
Taking up the ring, which had a red stone in the centre like a ruby, and
was seemingly of considerable value, after examining it for a moment,
she put it into her pocket, and then picked up the little book, which
lay on the floor where it had fallen, just underneath the window. She
knew what it was in a moment,--a small Bible. It was very old, and very
much worn, and had clearly done good service to its owner, or owners,
for many a long year. Sitting by the cradle, and rocking it with one
hand, she held the little volume in the other, and closely examined it.
The paper of which it was made was coarse, and the printing old-
fashioned. On the inside of the stiff cover was written in faded ink:--
_Steal not this book for fear of shame_,
_For here you see the owner's name_.
_June 10, 1798_.
_Mary Williams_.
Kate's perplexities only increased. But now her attention was drawn to
the words themselves of the book. As she turned over page after page,
she noticed that all the most striking texts were underlined with red-
ink, especially those which spoke of help in trouble, and of the mercy
and love of God. Her attention was now thoroughly aroused. Verse after
verse was read by her, with tearful eyes and a heart opening itself to
the sunshine of divine love; while every fresh text, as she turned from
leaf to leaf, seemed more and more appropriate to her own troubles and
sorrows.
Could this be the same Bible which she used to read in the Sunday-
school, and hear read at church? She could scarcely believe it. It
seemed now as if this were altogether another book, just written and
printed expressly for her, to meet her case. All the once familiar
passages and verses had new life and light in them now. The baby
stirred; she hushed it back to sleep. The fire burned low, but she read
on,--she was living out of herself.
At last she laid down the little volume, and resting her forehead on her
hand, thought long and deeply, her lips moving in silent prayer. Then
she started up hastily, stirred and brightened up the fire, and put the
room and herself into the best order that she could. Then she took up
the Bible again, and gazing at it earnestly, said slowly and half-out
loud to herself, "Wherever can this have come from?" And then a voice
seemed to speak within her; and lifting up her eyes reverently to that
heaven which she had never dared to think about for years past, she
exclaimed softly and fervently, as she clasped her hands together: "O my
God, thou didst send it! It came to me from heaven!"
But her thoughts were soon recalled to earth again. Her husband's step
was heard now. It was past ten o'clock, and he was returning from his
club.
It was often now that she had to watch and wait in weariness to as late
an hour. "He mustn't see this," she cried shudderingly to herself, as
she heard his hand upon the latch; "not yet, not yet!" So, snatching up
the little Bible, she placed it deep down under the clothes of the
baby's cradle.