One frosty winter afternoon Sir James Clubley sat in his chambers,
having finished dinner, and toasted his toes while he sipped his wine
and glanced languidly over the _Times_.
Sir James was a lazy, good-natured man, in what is sometimes styled easy
circumstances. Being lazy, and having nothing to do, he did nothing--
nothing, that is, in the way of work. He found the world enjoyable, and
enjoyed it. He never ran to excess--in truth he never ran at all,
either literally or figuratively, but always ate, drank, slept, read,
and amused himself in moderation. In politics, being nothing in
particular, he was wont to say he was a Liberal-Conservative, if
anything, as that happy medium, in which truth is said, though not
proved, to lie, enabled him to agree with anybody. Everybody liked him,
except perhaps a few fiery zealots who seemed uncertain whether to
regard him with indignation, pity, or contempt. It mattered not to
which feeling the zealots leaned, Sir James smiled on them all alike.
"That foolish fellow is going to be late," he muttered, glancing over
his paper at the clock on the chimney-piece.
The foolish fellow referred to was George Aspel. Sir James had at last
discovered and had an interview with him. He had offered to aid him in
any way that lay in his power, but Aspel had firmly though gratefully
declined aid in any form.
Sir James liked the youth, and had begged him, by letter, to call on
him, for the purpose of chatting over a particular piece of business,
had appointed an hour, and now awaited his arrival.
The muttered remark had just passed Sir James's lips when there came a
tap at the door, and Aspel stood before him.
But how changed from what he was when we last saw him, reader! His
aspect might have forcibly recalled the words, "was lost and is found."
His tall, broad frame stood erect again as of old, but the proud bearing
of the head was gone. There was the same fearless look in his bright
blue eye, but the slightly self-satisfied curl of the lip was not there.
He looked as strong and well as when, on the Irish cliffs, he had
longed for the free, wild life of the sea-kings, but he did not look so
youthful; yet the touch of sadness that now rested at times on his
countenance gave him a far more regal air,--though he knew it not,--than
he ever possessed before. He was dressed in a simple suit of dark grey.
"Glad to see you, Aspel; thought you were going to fail me. Sit down.
Now, come, I hope you have considered my proposal favourably.--The piece
of business I asked you to come about is nothing more than to offer you
again that situation, and to press it on you. It would just suit a man
of your powers.--What! No?"
The Baronet frowned, for George Aspel had smiled slightly and shaken his
head as he sat down.
"Forgive me, Sir James, if I seem to regard your kind proposals with
indifference. Indeed, I am sincerely grateful, especially for the
motive that actuates you--I mean regard for my dear father's memory--"
"How do you know, sir," interrupted Sir James testily, "that this is my
only motive?"
"I did not say it was your only motive, Sir James. I cannot doubt, from
your many expressions of kindness, that personal regard for myself
influences you; but I may not accept the situation you offer me--bright
with future prospects though it be--because I feel strongly that God has
called me to another sphere of action. I have now been for a
considerable time, and hope to be as long as I live, a missionary to the
poor."
"What! A city missionary? One of those fellows who go about in seedy
black garments with long lugubrious faces?" exclaimed Sir James in
amazement.
"Some of them do indeed wear seedy black garments," replied Aspel,
"under some strange hallucination, I suppose, that it is their duty to
appear like clergymen, and I admit that they would look infinitely more
respectable in sober and economical grey tweeds; but you must have seen
bad specimens of the class of men if you think their faces long and
lugubrious. I know many of them whose faces are round and jovial, and
whose spirits correspond to their faces. No doubt they are sometimes
sad. Your own face would lengthen a little, Sir James, if you went
where they go, and saw what they sometimes see."
"I dare say you are right. Well, but have you seriously joined this
body of men?"
"Not officially. I--I--hesitate to offer myself, because--that is to
say, I am a sort of free-lance just now."
"But, my young friend," returned Sir James slowly, "I understand that
city missionaries preach, and usually have a considerable training in
theology; now, it is not very long ago since you were a--excuse me--I--I
shrink from hurting your feelings, but--"
"A drunkard, Sir James," said Aspel, looking down and blushing crimson.
"State the naked truth. I admit it, with humiliation and sorrow; but,
to the everlasting praise of God, I can say that Jesus Christ has saved
me from drink. Surely, that being the case, I am in some degree fitted
to speak of the Great Remedy--the Good Physician--to the thousands who
are perishing in this city from the effects of drink, even though I be
not deeply versed in theology. To save men and women from what I have
suffered, by exhorting and inducing them to come to the Saviour is all
my aim--it is now my chief ambition."
Sir James looked inquiringly at the fire and shook his head. He was
evidently not convinced.
"There is truth in what you say, Aspel, but by taking this course you
sacrifice your prospects entirely--at least in this life."
"On the contrary, Sir James, I expect, by taking this course, to gain
all that in this life is worth living for."
"Ah! I see, you have become religiously mad," said Sir James, with a
perplexed look; "well, Aspel, you must take your own way, for I am aware
that it is useless to reason with madmen; yet I cannot help expressing
my regret that a young fellow of your powers should settle down into a
moping, melancholy, would-be reformer of drunkards."
To this Aspel replied with a laugh.
"Why, Sir James," he said, "do I look very moping or melancholy? If so,
my looks must belie my spirit, for I feel very much the reverse, and
from past experience--which is now considerable--I expect to have a
great deal of rejoicing in my work, for it does not all consist in
painful strivings with unrepentant men and women. Occasionally men in
our position know something of that inexpressible joy which results from
a grateful glance of the eye or a strong squeeze of the hand from some
one whom we have helped to pluck from the very edge of hell. It is
true, I do not expect to make much money in my profession, but my Master
promises me sufficient, and a man needs no more. But even if much money
were essential, there is no doubt that I should get it, for the silver
and gold of this world are in the hands of my Father."
"Where do you work?" asked Sir James abruptly.
"Chiefly in the neighbourhood of Archangel Court. It was there I fell
and sinned; it was there my Saviour rescued me: it is there I feel bound
to labour."
"Very well, I won't press this matter further," said the Baronet,
rising; "but remember, if you ever get into a better frame of mind, I
shall be happy to see you."
Profound and various were the thoughts of the reformed drunkard that
afternoon as he left his friend's abode and walked slowly towards the
City. There was a strange feeling of sadness in his heart which he
could not account for. It was not caused by the sacrifice of worldly
good he had just made, for that had cost him no effort. The desire to
rescue the perishing had been infused so strongly into his soul that he
had become quite regardless of mere temporal advancement. Neither had
he been unfaithful, as far as he could remember, in the recent
conversation--at least not in words. The hopes and joys which he had
truly referred to ought to have been as strong as ever within him,
nevertheless his spirit was much depressed. He began to think of the
position from which he had fallen, and of the great amount of good he
might have done for Christ in a higher sphere of society--but this
thought he repelled as a recurrence of pride.
As he came to St. Martin's-le-Grand he stopped, and, forgetting the
bustling crowd of people, buses, cabs, and carts by which he was
surrounded, allowed his mind to wander into the past. It was on the
broad steps of the Post-Office that he had been first led astray by the
man who wished to compass his ruin, but who was eventually made the
willing instrument in bringing about his salvation. He thought of the
scowling look and clenched fist of poor Bones as he had stood there,
long ago, under the grand portico. He thought of the same man on his
sick-bed, with clasped hands and glittering eyes, thanking God that he
had been brought to the gates of death by an accident, that his eyes and
heart had been opened to see and accept Jesus, and that he had still
power left to urge his friend (George Aspel) to come to Jesus, the
sinner's Refuge. He thought also of the burglar's death, and of the
fading away of his poor wife, who followed him to the grave within the
year. He thought of the orphan Tottie, who had been adopted and
educated by Miss Stivergill, and was by that time as pretty a specimen
of budding womanhood as any one could desire to see, with the strong
will and courage of her father, and the self-sacrificing, trusting,
gentleness of her mother. But above and beyond and underlying all these
thoughts, his mind kept playing incessantly round a fair form which he
knew was somewhere engaged at that moment in the building at his side,
manipulating a three-keyed instrument with delicate fingers which he
longed to grasp.
Ah! it is all very well for a man to resolve to tear an idol from his
heart; it is quite another thing to do it. George Aspel had long ago
given up all hope of winning May Maylands. He not only felt that one
who had fallen so low as he, and shown such a character for instability,
had no right to expect any girl to trust her happiness to him; but he
also felt convinced that May had no real love for him, and that it would
be unmanly to push his suit, even although he was now delivered from the
power of his great enemy. He determined, therefore, to banish her as
much as possible from his mind, and, in furtherance of his purpose, had
conscientiously kept out of her way and out of the way of all his former
friends.
Heaving a little sigh as he dismissed her, for the ten-thousandth time,
from his mind, he was turning his back on the Post-Office--that precious
casket which contained so rich but unattainable a jewel--when he
remembered that he had a letter in his pocket to post.
Turning back, he sprang up the steps. The great mouth was not yet wide
open. The evening feeding-hour had not arrived, and the lips were only
in their normal condition--slightly parted. Having contributed his
morsel to the insatiable giant, Aspel turned away, and found himself
face to face with Phil Maylands.
It was not by any means their first meeting since the recovery of Aspel,
but, as we have said, the latter had kept out of the way of old friends,
and Phil was only partially excepted from the rule.
"The very man I wanted to see!" cried Phil, with gleaming eyes, as he
seized his friend's hand. "I've got mother over to London at last.
She's longing to see you. Come out with me this evening--do. But I'm
in sudden perplexity: I've just been sent for to do some extra duty. It
won't take me half an hour.--You're not engaged, are you?"
"Well, no--not particularly."
"Then you'll do me a favour, I'm sure you will. You'll mount guard here
for half an hour, won't you? I had appointed to meet May here this
evening to take her home, and when she comes she'll not know why I have
failed her unless you--"
"My dear Phil, I would stay with all my heart," said Aspel hastily,
"but--but--the fact is--I've not seen May for a long time, and--"
"Why, what on earth has _that_ to do with it?" asked Phil, in some
surprise.
"You are right," returned Aspel, with a deprecating smile, "that has
nothing to do with it. My wits are wool-gathering, Phil. Go: I will
mount guard."
Phil was gone in a moment, and Aspel leaned his head on his arm against
one of the pillars of the portico. He had scarcely breathed a prayer
for guidance when May approached. She stopped abruptly, flushed
slightly, and hesitated a moment, then, advancing with the hearty air of
an old playmate, she frankly held out her hand.
This was enough for Aspel. He had been depressed before; he was in the
depths of despair now. If May had only shown confusion, or shyness, or
anything but free-and-easy goodwill, hope might have revived, but he was
evidently nothing more to her than the old playmate. Hope therefore
died, and with its death there came over Aspel the calm subdued air of a
crushed but resigned man. He observed her somewhat worn face and his
heart melted. He resolved to act a brother's part to her.
"I'm so glad to meet you at last, May!" he said, returning the kindly
grasp of the hand with interest, but quite in a brotherly way.
"You might have seen me long ago. Why did you not come? We would all
have been so glad to see you."
May blushed decidedly as she made this reply, but the shades of evening
were falling. Moreover, the pillar near to which they stood threw a
deep shadow over them, and Aspel did not observe it. He therefore
continued--in a quiet, brotherly way--
"Ah! May, it is cruel of you to ask that. You know that I have been
unfit--"
"Nay, I did not mean _that_," interrupted May, with eager anxiety; "I
meant that since--since--lately, you know--why did you not come?"
"True, May, I might have come lately--praise be to God!--but, but--why
should I not speak out? It's all over now. You know the love I once
bore you, May, which you told me I must not speak of, and which I have
tried to cure with all the energy of my heart, for I do not want to lose
you as a sister--an old playmate at least--though I may not have you
as--But, as I said, it's all over now. I promise never again to intrude
this subject on you. Let me rather tell you of the glorious work in
which I am at present engaged."
He stopped, for, in spite of his efforts to be brotherly, there was a
sense of sinking at his heart which slightly embittered his tone.
"Is true love, then, so easily cured?"
May looked up in his face as she asked the question. There was
something in the look and in the tone which caused George Aspel's heart
to beat like a sledge-hammer. He stooped down, and, looking into her
eyes,--still in a brotherly way, said--
"Is it possible, May, that you could trifle with my feelings?"
"No, it is not possible," she answered promptly.
"Oh! May," continued Aspel, in a low, earnest tone; "if I could only
dare to think,--to believe,--to hope, that--"
"Forgive me, May, I'm so sorry," cried her brother Phil, as he sprang up
the steps; "I did my best to hurry through with it. I'm afraid I've
kept you and George waiting very long."
"Not at all," replied May, with unquestionable truth.
"If you could have only kept us waiting five minutes longer!" thought
Aspel, but he only said--"Come along, Phil, I'll go home with you
to-night."
The evening was fine--frosty and clear.
"Shall we walk to Nottinghill?" asked Phil. "It's a longish tramp for
you, May, but that's the very thing you want."
May agreed that it was a desirable thing in every point of view, and
George Aspel did not object.
As they walked along, the latter began to wonder whether a new
experiment had been made lately in the way of paving the streets with
india-rubber. As for May, she returned such ridiculous answers to the
simplest questions, that Phil became almost anxious about her, and
finally settled it in his own mind that her labours in the telegraph
department of the General Post-Office must be brought to a close as soon
as possible.
"You see, mother," he said that night, after Aspel had left the cottage
and May had gone to her room, "it will never do to let her kill herself
over the telegraph instrument. She's too delicately formed for such
work. We must find something better suited to her."
"Yes, Phil, we must find something better suited to her.--Good-night,"
replied Mrs Maylands.
There was a twinkle in the widow's eye as she said this that sorely
puzzled Phil, and kept him in confused meditation that night, until the
confusion became worse confounded and he fell into an untroubled
slumber.