and that he remembered him. So, flinging his horse's reins to his
brother, he slipped off his saddle and elbowed his way vigorously
through the crowd. "Stop, young man," said the evangelist calmly and
solemnly, as he saw Walter pressing forward. But Walter made his way
close up to him, and, while the other was evidently perplexed as to the
meaning of his conduct, said quietly to him, "I am not come here to-day
to hinder or make game, but to ask pardon." The other looked at him in
amazement, and for a moment knew not what to say. Then, while there
arose a strange buzz of surprise and excitement among the bystanders,
Walter asked, "May I stand in your place for a minute, and say a few
words to these people?" The good man was clearly taken quite aback by
this request, and looked hard at him who had made it. Was this a scheme
for turning the preacher and his work into open ridicule? The other
members of the evangelist's party seemed to think so, and advised him to
refuse; that it was only a dodge on the young man's part to get up a
piece of extra rich entertainment for his friends, who, no doubt, would
not be far off. The good man had come down from his stool while these
remarks were being addressed to him. He hesitated, but when he turned
to Walter and looked in his face his mind was made up at once; for there
was something, he said, in that face which satisfied him that good would
come out of his yielding to the request made, and not evil. So, while
the spectators were looking on and listening with breathless
expectation, he said, in a clear voice, audible to those on the utmost
verge of the great assembly,--"Friends, before I address you, a young
man has asked leave to occupy my place for a short time. He shall do
so, for I have confidence in him that he will not abuse the liberty I
give him."
There was a murmur of approbation and intense interest as Walter mounted
the stool and looked upon the sea of upturned faces round him. He was
very pale, and his voice trembled at first, but soon grew calm and firm.
"My friends," he began, "I have come here to-day to do an act of
justice. Some days ago I was a spectator in this place, as you are now.
This good man, the preacher, stood then where I now stand. He had come
here to try and do you good; I came, I am sorry to say, in a different
spirit. Joining with others as wrong and foolish as myself, I
interrupted and ill-treated this servant of the good Master, our
Saviour. I am come to-day to make what amends I can. As I then
publicly ill-treated him, so I now equally publicly ask his pardon for
what I did then; and I earnestly beg you all to give him a patient
hearing, and to encourage him in his work of love."
Not a word of this short address was lost by a single hearer, though the
last part was almost stifled by the speaker's emotion. As for the
preacher, he knew not how to contain himself. When Walter had sprung to
the ground amidst the profoundest silence, both his hands were grasped
by the good man whose pardon he had asked, who, as he shook them warmly,
could only say at the moment, "The Lord bless you! the Lord be praised!"
Then, recovering himself, he sprang upon the stool, and cried out,
"That's a right noble young man, dear friends! There's real courage
there, and a generous heart, and no mistake. He has asked my pardon for
what he did, and, had I twenty hearts, he should have it from the bottom
of each. I thought, when he came here a few days since and put a little
hindrance in the way, `Now, the devil's very busy; what a crafty being
he is!' Ah, but see now. After all, he only outwits himself by his own
craftiness. The Lord brings good out of Satan's evil. Well, now, let
us proceed with our proper work." These words were followed by a hearty
cheer from the assenting crowd, and then all listened attentively while
the good man gave a plain, practical, faithful, and pointed gospel
address.
When this was over, and the crowd was dispersing, Amos, whose heart was
all in a happy glow, drew near the preaching-place with Julia, both of
them having now dismounted. The good evangelist's fellow-helpers were
distributing tracts among the retiring audience, while the preacher
himself was in earnest conversation with Walter. Julia held out her
hand for some tracts, saying to the man who gave them, "I will do my
best to distribute them among those who will be likely to benefit by
them. Please let me have as many as you can spare." He gladly did so.
In a short time all had left, except the preacher and his friends, Amos,
and his brother and sister. As Walter was about to go, he took out his
purse and said to the good man who had so heartily forgiven his former
unkindness, "You must allow me to offer you a contribution to your tract
fund. I am sure you will understand me. I am not asking you to accept
this as any compensation for my abominable treatment of you the other
day, but simply as a little token of my sincere desire to help on your
good work in however small a way."
The offering was at once and gratefully accepted. "There is no fear,"
said the good man, smiling, "of my taking offence at anything which the
Lord sends me, or at the way in which he chooses to send it. The work
is his, and the silver and the gold are his, and he supplies us with the
means in the best way, as he sees it, and therefore in the very best
way. So I thank you for your contribution, and accept it with pleasure;
and I think we shall neither of us forget this day as long as we live,
neither on this side of the river nor on the other."
With a hearty farewell on both sides, Walter and his companions
remounted their horses, and rode slowly away, full of happy thoughts:
Walter very happy, because he had been enabled to do what his conscience
had bidden him; Amos quite as happy, because the brother he loved so
dearly had behaved so nobly; and Julia calmly happy, because she felt
that bright sunshine had poured through a dark cloud which had brooded
for a while sadly over her spirit. And there was something yet more
stirring in her heart in consequence of all that she had seen and
heard,--it was a rising desire to be doing some real good to others, and
to be doing this at the cost of personal sacrifice and self-denial. Ah,
what a new and strange desire was this in one who had, till lately,
allowed the idol of self to occupy the shrine of her heart. To be
thinking of others, to be steadily keeping the good of others in view,
to put self-pleasing in the background, or to find it in pleasing
others, and that, too, from love to one who for her sake pleased not
Himself,--this was something wondrous indeed to her, and yet how full of
real and heavenly brightness when it had truly found an entrance into
her soul!
But how and where was she to begin? She had a little bundle of tracts
in her hand; should she begin at once with these? Of all things which
she once would have shrunk from, nothing would have then been more
repulsive than the office of a distributer of tracts. Some years
before, when once asked by a pious friend of her aunt if she would like
a few tracts to give away as she might have opportunity, her reply had
been, "She had rather not, for she believed that tracts were vulgar,
canting things, commonly given by hypocrites to their neighbours when
they wanted to deceive them under a cloak of affected godliness." She
had been rather proud of this reply, which certainly for the time had
the effect of completely shutting up the good lady who had recommended
the tracts to her notice. But now she felt very differently, and looked
at the little bundle in her hand, thinking how she might use it to the
best advantage. Not that she felt naturally drawn to the work; it would
require a considerable effort on her part to bring herself to offer a
tract to a stranger, and a far greater effort to accompany the offer
with a word or two from herself; but she now believed that she _ought_
to make the effort, and that word "ought," the idea of "duty" which it
kept before her, was beginning to exercise a constraining force hitherto
unknown to her. And there was a special advantage in the tract. Just
the giving of it without comment would be a good preparation for more
close and personal work in the loving Master's service. So, grasping
the papers with a trembling hand, she began to look out for an
opportunity of parting with some of them, and she had not long to wait.
When the little party turned away from the spot where the preaching had
been held, and were thinking of returning to their cottage, as they were
just directing their horses' heads homewards, Julia uttered a sort of
suppressed cry or exclamation, which at once drew the anxious attention
of both her brothers to her.
"Anything amiss, dear Julia?" asked Amos and Walter together.
"No, not exactly," she said in a troubled voice, and with a scared look.
Then, recovering herself, she pointed to a young woman dressed rather
fantastically, who had just passed them in a direction opposite to that
in which they were going. "Do you see that woman?" she asked in a low
humbled voice; "she is one I have reason to know too well. She was
associated in a theatre with poor Orlando. Oh, I wish I could do her
some good! Let us follow her; perhaps she would take a tract."
Who would have thought of such a speech from Julia Vivian a few days
back? But the earnest desire to do that poor outcast creature good had
evidently got possession of her, and so the three turned their horses'
heads in the direction in which the actress was walking. But the object
of their loving pursuit had now quickened her pace, and turned up a by-
street before they could come up with her. Should they follow? Some
impulse urged them forward. The side street led to a square or large
open piece of ground, in the centre of which was erected a temporary
theatre. The woman whom they were following was just about to enter
this building, but turned about and looked back before doing so. Her
eyes met those of Julia, and she at once recognised her with a peculiar
smile, which sent the blood rushing back to Julia's heart, and made her
for the moment half resolve to turn and fly from the place. But she
resisted the feeling and held her ground. The next moment the woman had
entered the theatre. The little party lingered for a few moments, and
then the theatre door again opened, and several persons in various stage
dresses came out and gazed on the newcomers. Then they began to wink at
one another as they stared at Julia, and to break out into a broad grin.
How earnestly did the object of their curiosity and merriment long to
rush away out of the reach of those mocking eyes and sneering lips! Yet
she did not move. A purpose was coming into her heart; she might never
have such an opportunity again. Yet how weak she felt in herself. But
then she lifted up her heart in prayer to the Strong One, and, turning
with blanched face, but perfect calmness, to her brothers, asked them to
help her to dismount, and then, leaving her horse's reins in Walter's
hands, advanced towards a group of some dozen persons of different ages
who had come out of the theatre to gaze and to make merry.
"You know me, I see," she said, in a voice sweet and sad, but clear as a
bell in its utterances, "and I know you. You knew my poor husband in
times gone by, but not lately. He is dead; and your time must come too.
He was pointed to that Saviour who alone can make a death-bed happy,
and I _hope_ he was able to see him. His last words were, `God be
merciful to me a sinner.' You and I shall probably never meet again. I
have gone back to my early home, and wish to forget the past, but I
could not see Jenny Farleigh go by without wishing to say a kind word to
her, and this has brought me to you. I believe God has changed my
heart; I have learned to know something of the love of my Saviour, and I
am happier now than I have ever been all my life. Oh, if you would only
give up your present life and come to the same Saviour, how happy you
would be! Don't be angry with me for saying this, but just each of you
take one of these little papers from my hand as a token of good-will on
my part, and read it when you are alone."
She paused, having uttered these words with deep feeling, but at the
same time in a steady and fearless voice. The effect on her hearers was
overpowering. Not a scornful eye, not a sneering lip remained when she
had finished, but sobs and tears burst from those who had for long years
known little other than fictitious weeping. Each took the offered
tract, each returned with warmth the kind pressure of her hand as she
parted from them; and as she remounted her horse, one voice was heard to
say, "Poor thing! God bless her!" Then all shrank back into the
theatre, and the happy three turned homeward once again. And oh, with
what deep thankfulness did all make their way along the cliffs, and then
close to the incoming tide, whose every wave seemed to throw up for them
a sparkle of joy in its glittering spray! Few words, however, were
spoken. Amos could hardly realise that this moral heroine was the
sister whom he had once known so weak, so self-willed, so unimpressible
for anything that was good and holy. Walter also was utterly staggered
and humbled when he reflected on what he had just witnessed, though at
the same time he was truly happy in having been strengthened to carry
out his own noble and self-denying purpose. As for poor Julia, she
could hardly believe that she herself was the person who had addressed
that group outside the theatre walls. Oh, it was so strange, so
terrible, and yet so blessed! for through that newly-opened door of work
for the gracious Master bright rays from the flood of glory in which he
ever dwells had been pouring in upon her soul.
The happy three reached their cottage, overflowing with love to one
another, and all anxious that Miss Huntingdon should be a sharer in
their happiness, when she should hear what a bright and blessed day had
been granted them. So they sought her in the evening, when their mother
had retired to rest. Seated at her bedroom window, the four looked
forth upon the mighty deep, now rolling in its great waves nearer and
nearer, and every wave flashing in the silver light of the full-orbed
moon. And surely the moonlight streaming down upon those waves, like
God's calm peace on the billows of earthly trial, was in sweet harmony
with the feelings of that little group, as Amos and Julia poured out
their account of Walter's noble address, and as Amos and Walter told of
the unexpected and loving self-sacrifice exhibited in the conduct of
their darling sister. Need it be said that in Miss Huntingdon they had
one who listened with almost painful interest and thankfulness to the
adventures of that never-to-be-forgotten day? Drawing them all round
her, she poured out her heart in praise to God for what he had done in
them and by them, and in prayer that they might be enabled to persevere
in the glorious course on which they had all now entered. And now, when
all were again seated--a little mound or pyramid of young hands being
heaped together over one another in Miss Huntingdon's lap--Walter's
voice was first heard. "I want an anecdote, an example of moral
courage, auntie; and it must be a female one this time, for we have a
moral heroine here, there can be no doubt about that."
"There is no doubt of it, I am sure," replied his aunt; "and there can
be no difficulty in finding moral heroines, as well as moral heroes.
Indeed, the only difficulty lies in making the most suitable selection
from so many. Our dear Julia has shown a moral courage such as I am
certain she could not have done had she not sought strength from the
only unfailing fountain of strength; and so I will take as my example
one who was surrounded, as Julia was, by persons and circumstances which
might well have daunted the stoutest heart, much more the heart of a
poor and desolate young woman. And my example will be the more
appropriate because it will bring before us a scene which is closely
connected with the seashore--such a seashore, it may be, as we are now
gazing on, with its sloping sands, and waves rushing up higher and
higher on the beach. My heroine, then--and she had a fellow-heroine
with her--was a humble Scottish girl who lived in the reign of Charles
the Second, when the poor and pious Covenanters were bitterly and
remorselessly persecuted, even to the death, because they would not do
violence to their consciences and deny the Lord who bought them. Many
of them, you know, were hunted by the king's savage soldiery among the
hills and mountains, and, when overtaken, were slain in cold blood, even
when in the act of prayer.
"Margaret Wilson, my heroine, was a young girl of eighteen. She was
taken prisoner by the soldiers, tried, and condemned to die, because she
steadily and courageously refused to acknowledge the supremacy of any
other than Christ in the Church. A few words might have saved her life;
but she would not utter them, because they would have been words of
falsehood, and, though she dared to die, she dared not tell a lie. So
they brought her out to the seashore, such as is before us now. The
tide was rising, but had not then begun long to turn. She had a fellow-
sufferer with her of her own sex--one who, like herself, preferred a
cruel death to denying Christ. This fellow-sufferer was an aged widow
of sixty-three. The sentence pronounced against them both was that they
should be fastened to stakes driven deeply into the sand that covered
the beach, and left to perish in the rising tide. The stake to which
the aged female was fastened was lower down the beach than that of the
younger woman, in order that the expiring agonies of the elder saint,
who would be first destroyed, might shake the firmness of Margaret
Wilson. The water soon flowed up to the feet of the old woman; in a
while it mounted to her knees, then to her waist, then to her chin, then
to her lips; and when she was almost stifled by the rising waves, and
the bubbling groan of her last agony was reaching her fellow-martyr
farther up the beach, one heartless ruffian stepped up to Margaret
Wilson, and, with a fiendish grin and mocking laugh, asked her, `What
think you of your friend now?' And what was the calm and noble reply?
`What do I see but Christ, in one of his members, wrestling there?
Think you that _we_ are the sufferers? No. It is Christ in us--he who
sendeth us not on a warfare upon our own charges.' She never flinched;
she sought no mercy from man. The waves reached her too at last; they
did the terrible work which man had made them do. The heroic girl
passed from the hour of mortal struggle into the perfect peace of her
Saviour's presence."
As she finished, Julia looked with tearful eyes into her aunt's face,
and said gently, "Dear auntie, Christ was her strength; and," she added
in a whisper, "I believe he was mine."
"Yes, yes, precious child," said Miss Huntingdon, drawing her closely to
her, "I am sure it was so; and the one great lesson we may learn from
our three heroines is this, `I can do all things through Christ who
strengtheneth me.'"
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.
THE CROWN WON.
All was now peace in the little cottage. Mrs Huntingdon's once clouded
mind was daily gaining in clearness and strength, not only from the
loving and judicious attentions of her children, but still more from the
inward peace which had now made its dwelling in her heart. Ah! surely
in nothing is that declaration of holy Scripture, that godliness has the
promise of the life that now is, as well as of that which is to come,
more evidenced than in the healthful tone which God's peace in the soul
imparts to a mind once disordered and diseased. Few, comparatively, are
aware in how many cases that which the world so specially prizes, "a
sound mind in a sound body," is enjoyed by its possessor because that
mind belongs to one whom God is keeping by his indwelling Spirit in
perfect peace. It was so with Mrs Huntingdon. She had found the only
true rest, and so was daily making progress in strength both of body and
mind. And her thorough establishment in this improvement in physical
and mental health was helped forward by the presence of her
grandchildren, whom Miss Huntingdon had brought with her to the cottage.
Their coming carried her back in thought to the days when her own
children were as young, and bridged over the gulf of sorrow which had
come in between; so that the painful impressions made when memory
recalled that sorrow grew fainter and fainter in the happy light that
shone on the path of present duties, just as the waking terrors from
some frightful and vivid dream fade away more and more, till they vanish
and are forgotten in the full, broad, morning sunshine and the realities
of work-day life. Nor were her grandchildren a source of comfort and
improvement to her alone. Their own mother had now learned to look upon
them in a very different light--no longer as clogs impeding her steps as
she pressed on in pursuit of pleasure and excitement, but as precious
charges intrusted to her by the great Master, to be brought up for him,
and in training of whom to walk on the narrow way by her side she would
herself find the purest and highest happiness to be enjoyed on earth.
So all things were now going on brightly at the cottage. Peace,
harmony, and love had their abode there; and never did a happier party
go down to meet the incoming tide, and listen to its gentle music, than
might be seen when Mrs Huntingdon, her children, grandchildren, and
sister-in-law issued forth for a morning stroll along the beach, to
gather shells, or drink in the bracing air, as they watched some passing
ship, or the sea-birds as they dashed across the spray.
But now thoughts of home, and of the restoration to that home of their
dear mother, were busy in the hearts of Amos and his brother and sister.
Mrs Huntingdon herself ventured only a hint or two on the subject, for
she felt that in this matter she must leave herself in the hands of her
children. When _they_ saw that the fitting time was come, doubtless the
return would be brought about. On the other hand, Amos was most anxious
to spare his father any pain which he might suffer from anything like an
abrupt disclosure of the intended return home of his wife. The matter
would require gentle and delicate handling, lest the happiness of that
return should in any degree be marred to Mr Huntingdon by his feeling
that his advice should have been asked and his wishes consulted before
even so happy a consummation should be brought about. So, after the
subject had been talked over with Miss Huntingdon, it was unanimously
resolved that she should be the person to break the happy tidings of his
wife's restoration to health to her brother, and should advise with him
as to the most suitable day for her going back again to the old home.
To this arrangement she cheerfully consented, and in a few days returned
alone to Flixworth Manor, to the great satisfaction of Mr Huntingdon,
who was getting heartily tired of his solitary life.
And now she had to make her important disclosure, and how should she
best do this? Unknown to her, the way had already been partially
opened; for one evening, when the squire was taking his dinner all
alone, and Harry was waiting on him, he said to the old man, "Rather
dull work, Harry, without the young mistress and the children."
"Ay, sir, to be sure," was the butler's reply; "the house ain't like the
same. It has got quite like old times again."
"Yes," said his master, sadly and thoughtfully; "something like old
times. Well, we shall have Mrs Vivian back again shortly."
"And the old missus too, maybe, afore so very long," said the other
quickly.
"What _do_ you mean?" asked his master in a disturbed voice.
"Oh, beg pardon, sir," cried Harry; "I hardly knew what I was saying--it
came natural like; but stranger things has happened afore now. You must
excuse me, master; I meant no harm."