"For the highest and the humblest work had been given them to do."
Yes, Allison Bain was in an evil case, but if an entire change of scene
and manner of life, and hard work and plenty of it, were likely to have
a beneficial effect upon her, she had come to the right place to find
them. And she had come also to the right place to get faithful,
patient, and kindly oversight, which she needed as much as change.
When she had been longing to get away--anywhere--out of the great town,
which was like a prison to her, Dr Fleming had spoken to her about
taking service at the manse of Nethermuir, and she had said that she
would go gladly, and at once.
The only manse which she knew much about was in her mind when she made
the promise,--a house apart, in a sheltered, sunny spot, having a high
walled fruit garden behind it, and before, a broad, sloping lawn, with a
brown burn running at the foot. Yes, she would like to go. She would
get away from the din and closeness of the town. In a place like that
in which the old minister lived alone among his books, with only his
children or his grandchildren coming home to see him now and then, she
would be at peace. She would be away from the curious eyes that were ay
striving, she thought, to read her sorrowful secret in her face. Yes,
she would be glad to go.
But it was a very different place in which she found herself when she
reached Nethermuir. Anything more unlike the ideal Scottish manse than
the house to which she had come could not well be imagined. There was
no walled garden or lawn, or "wimplin burn" to see. If it had even a
right to be called "The Manse," might be doubted.
For it was only the house of the "Missioner Minister," a humble abode,
indeed, in comparison with the parish manse. It was a narrow,
two-storied house, with but the causey (pavement) between it and the
street. Across the close, which separated it from a still humbler
dwelling, came the "clack, clack" of a hand-loom, and the same sound,
though the night was falling, came from other houses near.
"A poor place, indeed," was Allison Bain's first thought, as she stood
regarding it from the darkening street, with a conscious, dull sinking
of the heart, which had already fallen so low. Not that the place
mattered much, she added, as she stood looking at the lights moving here
and there in the house. She was too weary to care for anything very
much that night. The morning stars had lighted her way the first two
hours of her journey, and there had been little time for rest during the
short November day. Footsore and exhausted after her thirty miles of
travel, she went slowly and heavily in. She could only listen in
silence to the kindly welcome of her new mistress, and then go silently
to the rest and quiet of her bed.
Morning came. Rest and quiet! These were not here, it seemed. The
sound of many voices was filling the house when Allie, having long
overslept herself, awoke at last and lifted her heavy head from the
pillow. There were shrill, boyish voices, laughing, shouting,
wrangling, without pause. There was racket on the stairs, and wrestling
in the passage, and half-stifled cries of expostulation or triumph
everywhere, till a door opened, and closed again, and shut it all out.
And so Allison's new life began. She had not come to seek an easy time.
And as for quiet, if she had but known it, the noise and bustle and
boyish clamour, the pleasant confusion of coming and going about the
homely little manse, and the many claims upon her attention and patience
and care, were just what she needed to help her. Whether she knew it or
not, she set herself to her work with a will, and grew as content with
it, after a while, as she could have been anywhere at this time of her
life.
Mr Hume belonged to the little band of remarkable men, to whom, on
their first coming North, was given the name of "Missioners." Some
people say the name was given because these men were among the first to
advocate the scheme of sending missionaries to the heathen. Others say
they were so named because they themselves came, or were sent, to preach
the Gospel of Christ to those who were becoming content to hear what the
new-comers believed and declared to be "another Gospel." In course of
time the name given to the leaders fell also to those who followed--an
honourable name surely, but in those days it was spoken contemptuously
enough sometimes, by both the wise and the foolish, and Mr Hume, during
the first years of his ministry in Nethermuir, had his share of
contumely to meet or to ignore as well as the rest.
But all that had been long past before Allison Bain came with her
spoiled life, and her heavy heart, to seek shelter under his roof. By
that time, to no minister--to no man in all the countryside--was a truer
respect, a fuller confidence given, by those whose good word was of any
value.
He had not been over-eager to win the good word of any one. The courage
and hopefulness of youth and an enthusiastic devotion to the work to
which he had been set apart, carried him happily through the first
troubled years, and when youthful courage and hopefulness had abated
somewhat, then natural patience, and strength daily renewed, stood him
in good stead. He loved his work not less, but more as time went on,
and it prospered in his hands. His flock was only "a little flock"
still; but the gathering in of these wanderers to the fold had given
him, as one by one they came, a taste of such perfect satisfaction, as
few of the great ones of the world--be they heroes or sages--have
claimed to be theirs, even in the moment of their highest triumphs.
This kind of success and his satisfaction in it might not be appreciated
by those who looked on from the outside of his circle of influence; but
there was another kind, both of success and of satisfaction in it, which
they could appreciate, and at which they might well wonder.
By means of the pennies and sixpences and shillings slowly gathered
among themselves, though few among them had many pennies to spare, and
with the help of occasional pounds, which by one hand and another found
their way into the treasury from abroad, first the kirk had been built
and then the manse. They were humble structures enough, but sufficient
for their purpose, and indeed admirable in all respects in the eyes of
those who had a part in them.
Then out of a low stretch of barren clay, which was a slimy pool, with a
green, unhealthy margin for some months of the year, the minister had
made such a garden as few in the town could boast. The hawthorn hedge
around it, as well as every tree and bush in it, was planted by the
minister's own hand, or under his own eye. It might not have seemed a
very fine garden to some people. There were only common flowers and
fruits in it, and still more common vegetables; but the courage, the
skill, the patience which had made it out of nothing, must have been
appreciated anywhere. To the moderately intelligent and immoderately
critical community of Nethermuir, the visible facts of kirk and manse,
of glebe and garden, appealed more clearly and directly than did the
building up of "lively stones into a spiritual house," which was his
true work, or the flourishing of "trees of righteousness" in their
midst, which was his true joy.
And, perhaps, this was not so much to be wondered at, considering all
things. For some of the "trees" looked to be little other than "crooked
sticks" to their eyes; and of some of the "stones" it might well be
said, that they "caused many to stumble." And since it was halting, and
shortcoming, and inconsistency that some of their critical neighbours
were looking for among "folk that set themselves up to be better than
their neebors," it is not surprising that it was these that they should
most readily see.
Even the minister himself saw these things only too often. But then, he
saw more. He saw the frequent struggle and resistance, as well as the
rare yielding to temptation, and he saw also, sometimes, the soul's
humiliation, the repentance, the return.
And even the "crooked sticks" were now and then acknowledged to be not
altogether without life. Saunners Crombie might be sour and dour and
crabbed whiles, readier with reproof and rebuke than with consolation or
the mantle of charity. But even Saunners, judged by deeds rather than
by words, did not altogether fall short of fruit-bearing, as many a poor
soul, to whose wants, both temporal and spiritual, he ministered in
secret, could gladly testify.
And on many of the folk who had "ta'en up wi' the little kirk," a change
had passed, a change which might be questioned and cavilled at, but
which could not be denied. In more than one household, where strife and
discontent had once ruled, the fear of God and peace and good-will had
come to dwell. To another, long wretched with the poverty which comes
of ill-doing, and the neglect which follows hopeless struggle, had come
comfort, and at most times plenty, or contentment with little when
plenty failed.
There were lads and lassies among them, of whom in former days, evil
things had been prophesied, who were now growing into men and women,
earnest, patient, aspiring--into such men and women as have made the
name of Scotland known and honoured in all lands. They were not spared
a sneer now and then. They were laughed at, or railed at, as "unco
gude," or as "prood, upsettin' creatures, with their meetings, and
classes, and library books," and the names which in the Scotch of that
time and place stood for "prig" and "prude," were freely bestowed upon
them. But, all the same, it could not be denied that they were not
"living to themselves," that they were doing their duty in all the
relations of life, and of some of them it was said that "they might be
heard o' yet" in wider spheres than their native town afforded.
Neither could it be denied that some who had set out with them in life,
with far fairer promise than they, had "gaen the wrang gait," with an
ever-lessening chance of turning back again. And what made the
difference?
Was it just the minister's personal influence teaching, guiding,
restraining, encouraging? Or was it that a change had really passed
upon them--the change in which, at least, the minister believed, and
which he preached--which, according to him, must pass on each man for
himself, before true safety or happiness, either in this world or the
next, could be assured--the change which can be wrought by the Power of
God alone?
Converted! The word had long been a scoff on the lips of some in
Nethermuir, but even the scoffers had to confess that, to some of the
missioners at least, something had happened.
There was Peter Gilchrist. If an entire change of heart, and mind, and
manner of life meant conversion, then Peter was converted. And that not
through the slow process of reading the Bible on the Sabbath-day, or by
learning the catechism, or by a decent attendance upon appointed
ordinances--not even "under the rod"--the chastising hand of Him who
smites the sinner for his good--which would have been reasonable enough.
It had happened to others.
But Peter had been converted by one sermon, it was said, a sermon
preached at the house-end of Langbarns in the next parish. No great
sermon, either. At least many a one had heard it without heeding it.
But it had "done" for Peter.
The very last thing that Peter had been thinking about was listening to
the sermon. He, with some of his chosen friends, had gone to the
meeting--held out of doors, because there was no other place in which to
hold it--for the help and encouragement of the constable, who, it was
said, had a warrant to seize and carry before a magistrate "the
missioner minister" for a breach of the law, in holding a preaching
meeting at Langbarns without the consent of the parish minister. The
presumption was that the sight of the constable, and the announcement of
his errand, would be enough to silence the minister and disperse the
meeting. But that did not follow. If he were to be meddled with, "it
should not be for nothing," the minister declared to a rather timid
friend and adviser. And his courage stood him in good stead. He gave
the folk assembled such a sermon as probably few of them had ever heard
before. The constable had not, he acknowledged, nor Peter; and the
worst of it--or the best of it--for Peter was, that having heard it, he
could not forget it.
When the meeting was over, Mr Hume went silently and swiftly away with
the departing crowd, and he never would have been quite sure that
anything serious had been intended if he had not afterward had Peter's
word for it.
Returning home from a similar meeting, held in another direction, a week
or two afterward, he was waylaid by that unhappy man, and in a rather
unexpected manner called to account for his sermon, and for the misery
it had caused. They went home to the manse together, and spent a good
part of the night in the minister's study, and more nights than one
before Peter "came to himself" and "went to his Father," and so was made
ready to begin a new life indeed.
It _was_ a new life. There was no gainsaying that. He had been a
reckless character, a drunkard, a swearer, an ill husband and a worse
father, in the sight of all men. But from the day when at last he came
out of the minister's study with a face which shone, though there were
tears upon it, all that was over.
For days and months his wife watched him and wondered, and rejoiced with
trembling, never sure how it all might end. His children, with
something of the dogged indifference with which in former days they had
come to bear the effects of his drunken anger, took the good of his
changed ways "while they lasted," they said to one another, hardly
daring to hope that they would last "for ay."
But though he had had a stumble or two since then he had, on the whole,
during thirteen years walked warily and wisely, even in the unwilling
judgment of those who had watched for his halting. Even they were
compelled to allow that "to be converted" meant something to the
purpose, at least in the case of Peter Gilchrist.
There were many besides him whose lives illustrated the power of the
Gospel as held forth by Mr Hume, and there were but a few in the place
who went beyond a grumble of dissent or disapproval of him and his
doings now. Even the most inveterate of the grumblers, or the most
captious of the fault-finders, could not withstand the persistent
friendliness which never resented an injury nor forgot a favour, and
which was as ready, it seemed, with a good turn for those who wished him
ill as for those who wished him well.
According to some folk, the minister ought to have been "sour, and dour,
and ill-conditioned," considering the belief he held and the doctrines
he preached. These were the folk who never went to hear him. But even
they acknowledged that he was friendly and kindly, cheerful and
forbearing, even when vexation or indignation on his part might have
been excusable. And they also acknowledged that "he wasna a man who
keepit a calm sough, and slippet oot o' things just to save himself
trouble." He could be angry--and show it, too--where cruelty, or
dishonesty, or treachery came under his eye, or where blasphemous words
were uttered in his hearing. And there were two or three of the
evildoers of the place who had been made to feel the weight of his
words, and the weight of his hand also on occasion, and who were in the
way now of slipping down the lanes, rather than meet the minister in the
light of day.
And he was "a weel learnt man," and fair in an argument, and willing to
look at all the sides of a subject. This was Weaver Sim's opinion of
the minister, and he was an oracle in a small way among his neighbours.
"He has his ain notions and opinions, as is to be expectet o' the like
o' him. But he's a weel learnt man, and on the whole fair and liberal.
And whiles he has a twinkle in his e'e that tells that he sees some
things that ither folk canna see, and that he enjoys them."
All this had been conceded during the early years of the minister's life
in Nethermuir. He had made his own place among the town's folk since
then, and so had his wife. It was a good place, and they were worthy of
it. And it is possible that, in all Scotland, poor Allison Bain could
have found no safer refuge than she was likely to find with them.
She filled her place well--was indeed invaluable in it. But when weeks
and months had passed, her master and mistress knew nothing more of her
heart or her history than on the day when she first came among them.
But they had patience with her, and watched her with constant and kindly
oversight, and they trusted her entirely at last.
"Her trust in us will come in time," said her mistress; "and in the
meanwhile I can only be thankful that she has been sent to us, both for
her sake and ours."
It was indeed "a great relief and comfort" for Mrs Hume to know that a
wise head and capable hands were between her and many of her household
cares. For what with her husband, and her six sons, and her frail
little daughter, and the making, and mending, and thinking for them all,
her days were sometimes over-full.
To the minister his wife was hands, and eyes, and sometimes head. She
had to keep her heart light and her face bright, and now and then she
had to "set it as a flint" for his sake. She had to entertain many a
wearisome visitor, and to listen to many a tale of care or trouble or
complaint, that the quiet of his study need not be broken in upon. She
stood between him and some vexations which he might have taken
seriously, and from which he might have suffered, but which yielded
under the influence of her smiles and soft words, or disappeared in the
presence of her indifference or her anger, as the case might be.
She had slow, dull natures to stir up, and natures hard and crabbed to
soften and soothe, and in numberless other ways to hold up her husband's
hands, and maintain his honour in the little community to which he stood
as God's overseer.
There were "puir bodies" in every street, into whose dim little rooms
the face of the minister's wife came like sunshine. She was a kind of
Providence to some of them, having made herself responsible to them for
cups of tea, or basins of soup, or jugs of milk in their time of need.
And for better help still. To the suffering and sorrowful she came with
words of comfort and consolation, and with words of chiding or of cheer
to the "thraward" and the erring, who had helped to make their own
trouble. She was mindful of all and kind to all as they had need and
she had power.
She had other uses for her time also, duties and pleasures which she
could not neglect. A new book found its way to the manse sometimes, and
she had the _Evangelical Magazine_ to read--it would be thought dry
reading nowadays--and the weekly paper as well, for great interest was
taken in public affairs at that time. These books and papers were to be
thought over, and considered, and then discussed with her husband, and
sometimes with the two or three hard-handed farmers or artisans of their
flock, who had, under their teaching, learned to care for books, and
even for "poyms," and for all that the great world in the distance was
trying to say and to do.
It was well for her that she had learned to do two things at once, or
even three,--that she could enjoy her book quite as well with her
knitting-needles glancing busily in her skilful fingers, and her foot on
her boy's cradle, and withal never forget to meet and answer the smile
of her patient little daughter, or by glance or word or touch to keep
her restless lads in order.
Her brown eyes seldom looked troubled or weary, and her voice, though at
times imperative enough, never grew sharp or fretful. Her steps went
lightly up and down the stair, and through the streets of the town, and
her smile was like sunshine at home and abroad.
And the help that Allison's willing and efficient service was to her
mistress cannot be told. It would have helped her more if the girl had
been happier in the giving of it.
"But," said her hopeful mistress, "that will come in time."