TEMPTATION AND TRIUMPH.
The one day in the week that Bert did not like at Maplebank was Sunday;
and, indeed, under the circumstances, he was not without excuse. At
home, the Lord's Day was always made as bright and cheerful as possible.
The toys and playthings of the week-days were of course put aside, and
wading by the seashore or coasting down the lane was not to be thought
of, but in their place Bert had his father's company, of which he never
had enough, and Mr. Lloyd made it a point, whether he really felt in
good spirits himself or not, to appear to be so to Bert; and, in
consequence, the little chap never thought his father quite so
delightful as on the day of rest, that was so welcome to the lawyer,
tired by a week's toil at his profession.
Then mother had more leisure, too; and besides the pleasure of going
with his parents to church, dressed in his best clothes, a privilege
Bert fully appreciated, there was the enjoyment of having her read to
him wonderfully interesting stories from the Bible or Pilgrim's
Progress, and explaining to him whatever puzzled his brain.
If the day was fine, Mary would take him with her to the Sunday school,
where, with a number of youngsters like himself, the hour would pass
quickly enough, as Miss Brightley entertained them with song and story,
and pictures bearing upon the lesson. And then, after Sunday school, in
summer time, his father would lead him off to the old fort, where they
would sit on the grassy ramparts, watching the white sailed ships
cleaving the blue waters, that never seemed more beautiful than on
Sunday afternoon.
But at Maplebank it was all very different. Squire Stewart was a
Presbyterian of the stern old Covenanter stock. To him the Lord's Day
meant a day to be spent in unsmiling strictness of conversation and
demeanour. No laughter, no bright talk, no semblance of joyousness was
sanctioned; nor, indeed, could have existed within the range of his
solemn countenance. He was a grave and silent man at any time, but on
Sunday the gravity of his appearance was little short of appalling. One
meeting him for the first time would certainly have thought that he had
just been visited by some overwhelming affliction. Bert, on the morning
of his first Sunday, coming out of his mother's room, after receiving
the finishing touches to his dress, and dancing along the hall, in
joyous anticipation of the drive in the big carriage to the village, ran
right into his grandfather. Laying a strong hand on the boy's shoulder,
Squire Stewart looked down at him, with disapproval written on every
line of his stern face.
"My boy," said he, in his deepest tones, "know you not that this is the
Sabbath day, and that you are to keep it holy, and not be dancing along
the hall?"
Poor Bert shrank away, with a trembling, "I didn't mean to, sir," and
thenceforth avoided his grandfather as completely as though he were a
criminal and the Squire was a policeman.
Not only at the house, but at the church, did Bert find Sunday a day of
dreariness. And here again, who could blame him? He was only a boy and a
very restless, active boy, at that, to whom one half-hour's sitting
still was about as much as he could endure. How, then, could he be
expected to be equal to four whole hours of stillness? Yet that was what
his grandfather required of him whenever he went to church.
The order of the day was as follows:--Leaving the house about ten
o'clock in the big covered carriage, of which the Squire felt duly
proud, as being the only one in the county, they drove leisurely into
the village, where the horses were put up, and after the ladies had
dropped in at a friend's to make sure their bonnets and dresses were as
they ought to be, they wended their way to the church, which, standing
right in the centre of the village, was noisily summoning its
worshippers to its seats as the big bell swung to and fro high up in the
steeple.
The church service began at eleven o'clock, and was of the most
old-fashioned orthodox type. No organ had yet profaned the sanctity of
that holy place, but instead thereof, a quartette of singers, selected
seemingly more for the strength than the sweetness of their voices,
occupied a large box right under the pulpit, and thence led the
congregation by a whole bar at least, in the rendering of Tate and
Brady's metrical version of the Psalms. Very weird and sorrowful were
many of the tunes. None were bright and inspiring like those Bert was
wont to hear at home, and as choir and congregation vied with one
another in the vigour of their singing, the little fellow was sometimes
half-frightened at the bewildering noise they made.
A saintlier pastor than the Reverend Mr. Goodman, D.D., few
congregations possessed; but only those members of his audience who were
of like age with himself thought him a good preacher. He had, indeed,
some gifts in expounding the Bible, and even Bert would be interested if
the lesson happened to be one of those stirring stories from the Old
Testament which seem so full of life and truth. But when it came to
preaching a sermon--well, it must be confessed there were then few dryer
preachers throughout the whole Province of Acadia. Bending low over his
manuscript, for his eyesight was poor, and lifting his head only now
and then to wipe his brow, or relieve his throat, with a dry, hard
cough, Mr. Goodman pursued his way steadily and monotonously from
"firstly" to "lastly" every Sunday.
And not only once, but twice on every Sunday. For be it understood, that
although many of the congregation lived too far away from the church to
make two trips to it from their homes, they were not thereby going to be
deprived of two services. Accordingly, after the morning service--which
usually lasted until one o'clock--was over, a recess of one hour for
lunch and fresh air followed, and at two o'clock a second service,
precisely similar in character, was entered upon, which occupied two
hours more. And then, having thus laid in a supply of sound theology for
the rest of the week, the good people of Calvin church, after indulging
in a little harmless gossiping at the church door--of which indulgence,
by the way, Squire Stewart strongly disapproved, and would have
prohibited, had he been able--harnessed up their horses and drove away
home.
Four hours of church service of so unattractive a character, and that in
mid-summer! Poor little Bert! He did not want to shock his grandfather,
or bring his mother's discipline into condemnation; but really, how
could he be all that the Squire, who, if he ever had been a boy himself,
must have quite forgotten about it, expected him to be? If he went to
sleep, Aunt Sarah or Aunt Martha, in obedience to signals from
grandfather, shook or pinched him awake again. If he stayed awake, he
felt that he must wriggle or die. Sometimes the temptation to scream out
loud was so strong that it seemed little short of a miracle he did not
yield to it. Mrs. Lloyd fully sympathised with her son's troubles, but
accustomed from infancy to obey her father unquestioningly, she would
not venture to do more than softly plead for Bert, now and then, when he
was more restless than usual. Her pleadings were not altogether vain,
and frequently they had the result of securing for Bert a boon that he
highly appreciated.
Squire Stewart was bothered by a troublesome chronic cough. He did not
mind it very much when at home, but at church he felt it to be a
nuisance both to himself and his neighbours. To ease it somewhat he
always carried to church with him a number of black currant lozenges, a
supply of which he kept in his big mahogany desk at home. Occasionally,
either as encouragement to him to try and be a better boy, or as a token
of relenting for being over severe, he would pass Bert one of these
lozenges, and Bert thought them the most delicious and desirable
sweetmeat ever invented. Not that they were really anything wonderful,
though they were very expensive; but the circumstances under which he
received them gave them a peculiar relish; and it was in regard to them
that Bert fought and won the sharpest battle with the tempter of all his
early boyhood. It happened in this way:
As already mentioned, Squire Stewart kept a supply of these lozenges in
his big mahogany desk, that had a table to itself in the parlour. This
desk was always kept locked, and Bert had many a time, when alone in the
room, gone up to it, and passed his hand over its polished surface,
thinking to himself how nice it would be if the package of lozenges was
in his pocket instead of shut up in there where nobody could get at it.
One morning, as Bert was playing about the house, a message came that
the Squire was wanted at once at the farthest barn, as one of the horses
had been hurt by another. He went out hastily, and shortly after, Bert,
going into the parlour, saw the desk wide open, his grandfather having
been looking for a paper when so suddenly called away. The moment his
eyes fell upon the open desk, a thought flashed into his mind that set
every nerve tingling. As though the old desk exerted some strange and
subtle fascination, he drew near it; slowly, hesitatingly, almost on
tiptoe, yet steadily. His heart beat like a trip-hammer, and his ears
were straining to catch the slightest sound of any one's approach. The
house was wonderfully quiet. He seemed to be quite alone in it; and
presently he found himself close beside the desk. Although open, the
inner lids were still shut, and ere Bert put out his hand to lift the
one under which he thought the package of lozenges lay, the thought of
the wrong he was doing came upon him so strongly as well-nigh to
conquer the temptation. For a moment he stood there irresolute; and then
again the hand that had dropped to his side was stretched forth. As it
touched the desk lid a thrill shot through his heart; and again he
hesitated and drew back.
It was really a tremendous struggle, and one upon which great issues
hung, so far as that boy, alone in that room with the tempter, was
concerned. Bert fully realized how wrong it would be for him to touch
the lozenges; but, oh! what a wonderful fascination they had for him!
Reaching forward again, he lifted up the desk lid, and there, fully
exposed to view, lay the package temptingly wide open, displaying its
toothsome contents. The crisis of the temptation had come. An instant
more, and Bert would have yielded; when suddenly his better nature got
the upper hand, and with a quick resolution, the secret of which he
never fully understood, he cried out:
"No, I won't." And slamming down the desk lid, he tried to run out of
the room, and ran right into the arms of his grandfather, who, unseen
and unsuspected, had witnessed the whole transaction from the door.
Overwhelmed with a sense of guilt and terror at having been detected by
the one person of all others whom he dreaded most, Bert sank down on the
floor, sobbing as though his heart would break. But, strange to say, the
stern old man had no harsh words for him now. On the contrary, he bent
down and lifting the little fellow gently to his feet said, in tones of
deepest tenderness:
"No tears, laddie; no tears. You've fought a grand fight, and glad am I
that I was there to see you win it. God grant you like success to the
end of your days. I'm proud of you, Bert boy; I'm proud of you."
Scarce able to believe his ears, Bert looked up through his tears into
his grandfather's face. But there was no mistaking the expression of
that rugged old countenance. It fairly beamed with love and pride, and
throwing himself into his arms, Bert for the first time realised that
his grandfather loved him.
He never forgot that scene. Many a time after it came back to him, and
helped him to decide for the right. And many a time, too, when
grandfather seemed unduly stern, did the remembrance of his face that
morning in the parlour drive away the hard feelings that had begun to
form against him.