There just remain a few creases to be smoothed out, and our story is
done.
The morning after Samuel's arrival Betty made her way to the Hall,
taking her brother with her. She knew that the squire and his lady, and
indeed the whole family, would rejoice to hear that the wanderer was
returned, for all loved the simple-hearted Lancashire girl, and had long
sympathised with her and her father in their sorrow about Samuel.
Mr Collington and his lady having heard Betty's statement with the
deepest interest, sent for Samuel, and had a long conversation with him.
"And what do you say to entering my service?" asked the squire. "We
have learned to prize your father and sister so highly, that I shall
feel perfect confidence in taking you with no other recommendation than
your story and your relationship to them."
"Well, sir," replied Samuel, "you're very good. I'm tired of roving,
and shall be glad to settle, if you can find me a place as'll suit me;
only I mustn't forget as there's others I owe a duty to."
"You mean the friends you have left behind in Bolton?"
"Yes, sir," said Betty; "he's bound to be looking arter them. And
there's Deborah, as he'll be bringing to share his home with him."
"And Old Crow too?" asked Mrs Collington.
"I cannot say, ma'am," replied Samuel; "but I must either take his cart
back to him, or bring him over this side to his cart."
"Well, we'll see what can be done," said the squire.
Let us leave them for a while, and pass to Greymoor Park. Sir Thomas
and Lady Oldfield have left it for an absence of several years; indeed,
many doubts are expressed in the neighbourhood whether they will ever
come back to reside there again. There is the stamp of neglect and
sorrow upon the place. Sir Thomas has become a more thoughtful man--he
is breaking up, so people say. His wife has found a measure of comfort
at the only true Fountain, for her religion is now the substance--it was
once only the shadow. But the past cannot be recalled, and a sorrow
lies heavy on her heart which must go with her to her grave; and oh,
there is a peculiar bitterness in that sorrow when she reflects what her
poor boy might have been had she never herself broken down his resolve
to renounce entirely that drink which proved his after-ruin. And what
of the Oliphants at the Rectory? Bernard Oliphant still keeps on his
holy course, receiving and scattering light. Hubert is abroad and
prospers, beloved by all who know him.
And Mary, poor Mary, she carries a sorrow which medicine can never heal.
Yet she sorrows not altogether without hope; for, according to her
promise, she never ceased to pray for the erring object of her love; and
she still therefore clings to the trust that there may have been light
enough in his soul at the last for him to see and grasp the outstretched
hand of Jesus. And sorrow has not made her selfish. She has learned to
take a deepening interest in the happiness of others; and thus, in her
self-denying works of faith and labours of love, she finds the
throbbings of her wounded spirit to beat less fiercely. She has gained
all she hopes for in this life, peace--not in gloomy seclusion, but in
holy activity--and she knows that there is joy for her laid up in that
bright, eternal land where the sorrows of the past can cast no shadows
on present glory.
And now let us pass from those who mourn to those who rejoice. It is a
lovely day in early September, and there is evidently something more
than ordinary going on at Fairmow Park. In the village itself there is
abundance of bustle and excitement, but all of the most innocent kind,
for alcohol has nothing to do with it. Old and young are on the move,
but the young seem to be specially interested. In fact, it is the
"Annual Meeting of the Fairmow Band of Hope," which is to gather for
dinner and recreation, as it always does, in the Park. So banners are
flying, and children hurrying to and fro, and parents looking proud, and
all looking happy. But to-day there is to be a double festivity, for
Samuel Johnson and Deborah Cartwright are to be married. Deborah is
staying at John Walters', and Samuel has got a snug little cottage no
great way on the other side of the brook; and not far-off, and a little
nearer to the Hall, is still another cottage, where Old Crow is just
settled with Deborah's mother for housekeeper, for the old man could not
rest content to be so far away from his adopted son Jacob, for he "means
to call him Jacob and nothing else as long as he lives." The old man is
not without money of his own, and he still means to do a little in the
knife-grinding line. So his cart is to be wheeled up for him to the
Park this afternoon, and he is to sharpen just as many or just as few
knives for the squire, and scissors for the ladies, as he pleases. And
now--for it is almost half-past ten o'clock--there is a straggling of
various groups up to the neat little ivy-covered church. Oh, what a
joyful day it is for Thomas Johnson and Betty! They hardly know how to
hold all the love that swells in their hearts, and every one is so kind
to them. Then the bells ring out joyfully, and the churchyard is filled
with expectant faces of old and young. The squire, his wife, and
daughters are to be there, and after the wedding there is to be a short
service and an address from the clergyman. And now the little wedding-
party winds up the hill, two and two, from John Walters' cottage, all
supremely happy down to little Samuel and the babe, who are to share in
the festivities of the day. All enter the church; the squire and his
party being already seated. Old Crow is there, of course, for he is to
give Deborah away. He has a Sunday suit on now, the garments of various
eras being only for working days. Who so full of joy as Samuel, as he
passes through the gazing throng with Deborah on his arm. They are to
drive at once after the wedding to the Park in the squire's dog-cart.
The marriage-ceremony is duly performed, and the address delivered.
Then comes the band, with its brazen roar strangely jangling with the
merry bells. The road is all alive with labourers in clean smocks, and
lads with polished faces. The children in their holiday attire and Band
of Hope ribbons run in and out everywhere. Fathers and mothers look
glad, and old men and women benevolent. Flowers are to be seen in
profusion, for total abstinence and flowers go everywhere together:
there are flowers in the churchyard, flowers in the church, flowers in
button-holes, belts, and bonnets, flowers in huge fragrant nosegays,
flowers in choice little bouquets. And so, laughing, smiling, running,
walking, hastening, sauntering, chatting, greeting, on go young and
middle-aged and old, and the sloping sward of the Park is gained, and
the Hall comes into close view. And there, under a wide expanse of
canvas, is spread the healthful, bountiful repast--plenty of meat,
plenty of drink of the right sort, and nothing to stimulate appetite but
those odours which never tempt any but the gluttonous to excess. All
are now gathered and take their places; young and old sit side by side.
The squire, his lady, his daughters, and the clergyman are there. Every
one is assured of a hearty welcome, and falls to in earnest when the
grace has been sung. At length the vehement clashing of knives and
forks and clattering of plates has subsided to a solitary click or two;
all have been satisfied, and the squire rises. He has a word of
kindness, love, and encouragement for each. They know how he loves
them, and they listen with the deepest attention. And thus he speaks:--
"Our kind and beloved pastor has addressed us all in church this
morning, and I trust we shall remember well the words of truth and
wisdom which he spoke. And now it falls to myself to speak to you. I
can most truthfully declare how it rejoices myself and my dear wife to
see so many healthy, happy faces at our yearly `Band of Hope' festivity.
But to-day we specially rejoice, because we see here a happy couple who
have just been joined together as man and wife in our church, with the
blessed prospect of being fellow-partakers of the happiness of heaven.
I am very thankful to number them among my tenants and people. You all
of you now know something of Samuel Johnson, his trials, temptations,
and struggles as a Christian total abstainer. (`Hear, hear,' from Old
Crow.) What a truly happy gathering this is! I have no need to look at
any with misgiving lest their bright faces should owe their brightness
to excess in intoxicating liquors. We have no false stimulants here--we
have no clouded brains, no aching consciences here--none will go home
needing to rue the gathering and recreations of this day. And now,
young people of the `Band of Hope,' my dear boys and girls, I have just
a parting word for you. Never let any one persuade you, go where you
may, to forsake your pledged total abstinence. Never care for a laugh
or a frown, they can do you no harm while God is on your side. Oh,
remember what an insidious, what a crafty tempter the drink is! I have
a short story to tell you that will illustrate this. Many years ago,
when the English and French were at war with one another in North
America, a portion of the English army was encamped near a dense and
trackless forest. The French were on friendly terms with a tribe of Red
Indians who lived thereabouts, and our men were therefore obliged to be
specially on their guard against these crafty savage foes. A sentinel
was placed just on the border of the forest, and he was told to be very
watchful against a surprise from the Indians. But one day, when the
sergeant went to relieve guard, he found the sentinel dead, his scalp,
(that is, the hair with the skin and all), torn from his head, and his
musket gone. This was plainly the work of an Indian. Strict charge was
given to the new sentinel to fire his musket on the first approach of an
enemy. Again they went to relieve guard, and again they found the
sentinel dead and scalped as the one before him. They left another
soldier in his place, and after a while, hearing the discharge of a
musket, they hurried to the spot. There stood the sentinel uninjured,
and close at his feet lay a Red Indian dead. The sentinel's account was
this. While he was keeping his eyes on the forest, he saw coming from
it a sort of large hog common in those parts, which rolls itself about
in a peculiarly amusing manner. In its gambols it kept getting nearer
and nearer to him, when all of a sudden it darted into his mind,
`Perhaps this creature is only an Indian in disguise.' He fired at it,
and found it was even so. The crafty savage had thus approached the
other sentinels, who had been thrown off their guard by his skilful
imitation of the animal's movements, so that the Indian had sprung up
and overpowered them before they could fire or call for help. Now it is
just so, dear boys and girls, with the drink. It comes, as it were, all
innocence and playfulness: it raises the spirits, unchains the tongue,
makes the eyes bright, and persuades a man that the last thing he will
do will be to exceed; and then it gets closer and closer, and springs
upon him, and gets the mastery over him, before he is at all aware. But
don't you trifle with it, for it comes from the enemy's country--it is
in league with the enemy--repel it at the outset--have nothing to do
with it--it has surprised and slain millions of immortal beings--never
taste, and then you will never crave. Oh, how happy to show that you
can live without it! Then you may win others to follow your example.
Ay, the young total abstainer who will not touch the drink because he
loves his Saviour, does indeed stand on a rock that cannot be moved, and
he can stretch out the helping hand to others, and cry, `Come up here
and be safe.' And now away to your games and your sports, and may God
bless you all!"