SQUIRE FULLER HEARS UNWELCOME NEWS.
“Behold the work of my unlawful hand,
That by rude force the passions would command,
That ruthless sought to root them from the breast;
They may be ruled, but will not be oppressed.
Taught hence, ye parents, who from nature stray,
And the great ties of social life betray;
Ne’er with your children act a tyrant’s part,
’Tis yours to guide, not violate the heart.”
_Thompson._
The new-found blessing which Philip Fuller had obtained on Nestleton
Wold, laid abiding hold on his whole being and influenced all his
life. He attended the services in Farmer Houston’s kitchen, and having
expressed his desire to meet in class, Adam Olliver gave him a
characteristic invitation to join the little band of true believers
which gathered round his cottage hearth. It cropped out, however, that
Lucy Blyth was a regular and exemplary attendant there, and that the
only other class was held in Nathan Blyth’s own dwelling. So Philip,
who was conscientiously bent on fulfilling his compact with his
father, in spirit as well as letter, resolved to ride into Kesterton,
and attend the class conducted by the junior minister, so as to give
no ground for discrediting remark or sinister suspicion. His next
step was to tell his father of his conversion and announce his
intention of casting in his lot with the despised people called
Methodists. The old squire received the unwelcome information in a
towering rage, and incontinently ordered the scion of the house of
Fuller from his presence. On the following morning, after a
constrained and silent meal, the squire re-opened the conversation. A
cloud was on his brow; his face, usually cold and sphinx-like, gave
evident token of the strong commotion which stirred his soul to its
profoundest depths. One arm was laid upon the table, the other rested
on his knee. His head was bent forward, and from beneath his thick
grey brows his eyes looked out into the face of his only son in fixed
inquiry, anger and alarm. Philip stood by the table, his handsome face
full of strong resolve, every feature showing excitement, and his eyes
met his father’s with a steady gaze, betokening a soul which had no
secrets to conceal.
“What new folly is this?” said the squire. “Do you mean to tell me
that, not content with paying court to a blacksmith’s daughter, you
have lowered yourself by casting in your lot with the contemptible
sectaries, the howling fanatics, the dairy-maids and plough-boys who
rave like dancing dervishes, and groan and shriek like Tom o’ Bedlam
without sense or reason?”
“I’ve no knowledge, father, of any such people as you describe. The
Methodists are as orderly and as reverent in their religious services,
as they are who go to the parish church. Since I have found my
Saviour, and have felt the love of God in my heart, attendance on
their simple worship has been among the happiest hours of my life.
Through the Methodists I found the pardon of my sins, among them I
find spiritual food and comfort more precious than I can describe, and
with the Methodists I desire to live and die.”
Baffled, but resolved, the squire, who had little idea of the strength
of his son’s character, hastily resolved upon risking all on the
hazard of a throw.
“Philip Fuller, listen to me. These idiotic fools are hateful to me.
Their religion is a parody; their sickening cant is blasphemy; they
are all composed of the poorest scum of the community. As the bearer
of an ancient and historic name, I utterly decline in any way, however
slight, to be brought into contact with them. Whatever I can do to
drive them out of Waverdale, I will do; and as for you, if you refuse
to obey me, and dare to cross the threshold of their disgusting orgies
again, you are no longer a son of mine. Remember that the estate is
not entailed, and I’ll leave it to the hospitals before it shall fall
into the hands of hypocritical rogues like these.”
Philip’s face had waxed as pale as death. The cruel words had fallen
harder than the speaker intended, and even now he would gladly have
recalled them. Tears of manly and filial grief stood in Philip’s eyes,
as he replied,--
“My father, I love you dearer than life, and if the sacrifice of life
would minister to your real happiness, I would not grudge it. I have
never disobeyed you. I have consented to put one light of my life out
in deference to your desire, and were this anything short of a robbery
to my soul and treason to my God, I would obey you in this as in the
rest. But I cannot; my conscience speaks in a voice I dare not ignore.
I have given myself to my Saviour; I believe it to be His will that I
should bear the despised and humble name of Methodist, and therefore,
though I will go on my knees, and beseech you to withdraw your cruel
words, happen what will, and come what may, this people shall be my
people, and their God my God.”
“Get out of my sight, sir!” thundered out the wrathful parent, “and
don’t see me again till I send for you.”
Little thought the angry squire how sad and terrible would be his
next interview with his distressed and suffering son. Bowing
respectfully, Philip retired from his father’s presence, and went out
into the frosty morning air, distressed and grieved. He had engaged to
spend the day in the covers of Sir Harry Elliott, and though little
disposed for personal pleasure, he went to join the baronet and his
party in a raid upon the partridges, hoping to obtain a little
distraction from the troubles that oppressed him.
* * * * *
The quarterly meeting of the Kesterton Circuit was held as usual.
After the ordinary business had been transacted, Mr. Clayton referred
to the steps which had been taken towards the erection of a new chapel
in Nestleton; he described the interview with Squire Fuller, “And
there,” said he, “the matter stands at present.”
“No,” said Adam Olliver, “since then t’ yung squire’s gi’en ’is ’art
te God, ’is neeame te t’ Chotch, an’ ’is hand’s gotten hod o’ t’
gospil ploo’, he’ll nivver leeak back, you may depend on’t. There
dizn’t seeam te be ony change i’ t’ squire hisself, bud the Lord’s
managin’ matters for uz. We hae neea need te stand an’ wait as though
we hae neea fayth i’ God, bud just gan on an’ raise t’ munny, an’ get
riddy for t’ tahme when the Lord says, ‘Arise an’ build.’ Tahmes an’
seeasons the Lord keeps iv ’is aun poo’er. Bud we’ve prayed i’ fayth,
an’ when He sees fit, t’ topstooane ’ll be browt on’ wi’ shootin’
‘Grace, grace be tiv it.’”
There was always something so infectious about Adam Olliver’s fixed
and fervent faith in God, that in spite of prudential policy and
worldly wisdom he managed to carry the day. Nor was Mr. Clayton at all
unwilling to be urged into energetic measures. That God was with them
he did not doubt. The gracious seasons of spiritual power and
refreshment which he himself had felt and seen, were proof enough that
the work was of God. Hence he encouraged and invited a free
conversation on the subject. The senior “circuit steward,” Mr.
Smallwood, was one of those wondrously cautious men who can only see
an inch before their nose, and who wish to make that much progress by
degrees.
“We must be very careful,” said he, “it is as much as ever we can do
now to pay our way, and this very quarter there is a deficiency of
more than ten pounds. Then there’s Bexton Chapel; they are trying to
reduce the debt on it by a hundred pounds, and if we begin another
scheme at the same time, we shall find ourselves in difficulties.”
“I confess, Mr. Chairman,” said Nathan Blyth, “that our good friend,
Adam Olliver, has more faith than I have. It’s true, the young squire
has cast in his lot with us, but that very thing has made his father
more bitter against us. He has even threatened to give Mr. Houston
notice to quit, if he does not close his kitchen against the Methodist
preachers.”
“Never mind about that,” said Farmer Houston, “threatened folks live
long, and threatened tenants may have long leases. I opened my doors
to the Methodist preachers, and God opened my heart to receive the
truth, and as long as I live, God helping me, those doors shall never
be closed again to those who brought me the news of a Saviour’s love.
My temporal affairs are in the hands of a kind Providence; and as a
token of gratitude for personal and family mercies, I gladly promise
for me and mine a hundred pounds towards Nestleton Chapel, to be paid
as soon as the Lord opens the way to build it.”
“Halleluia,” said the old hedger, “when God works whea can ’inder.
Ivverybody knoas ’at ah can’t deea mitch, eeaven if ah sell me
slashin’-knife an’ donkey, bud ah’ve seeaved a trifle oot o’ me
wayges, an’ be t’ tahme t’ chapel’s begun, ah sall hev five pund
riddy, seea you may put it doon.”
The old hedger’s grand self-sacrifice was greeted with a round of
hearty cheers.
“Brother Houston stopped me in what I was going to say,” said Nathan
Blyth, “but I’m not sorry, because of the capital finish he made. I
just wish to say that I’m half ashamed of my want of faith, and that
I’ll give fifty pounds when the day comes that we can make any use of
it.”
“Ha’k ye there, noo! O ye ov lahtle fayth! Maister Smallwood, you’ll
gan wi’ t’ tide, weean’t yo’? Bless the Lord! We’ll put Bexton te
rights, an’ build this chapil, an’ gi’e yo’ ten pund te sattle up wi’,
an’ then be riddy for summat else. Ah can hear t’ rappin’ o’ t’
’ammers, an’ t’ rasp o’ t’ saw, an’ t’ clink o’ t’ troowel alriddy.
Seea you can gan on an’ ‘get inte yo’r chariot an’ ride as fast as yo’
can, for there’s t’ sign ov abundance o’ rain?’ There’s t’ soond of a
gannin’, an’ t’ wind’s bloaing ower’d t’ tops o’ t’ mulberry trees,
an’ Nestleton’s gannin’ te hev a chapil as seeaf as taxes an’
quarter-day.”
Inoculated with the old patriarch’s faith and energy, the meeting took
up the matter with warmth, and before they separated, more than three
hundred pounds were promised to the new undertaking.
“Halleluia!” said Old Adam, when the result was announced, “whea is
sae greeat a God as oor’s? Mister Chairman! the Lord says, ‘Oppen yo’r
mooth wide, an’ ah’ll fill it!’ an’ mahne’s sae full, ’at ah’s nearly
chooaked wi’ luv an’ grattitude te God!”
“Mr. Chairman,” said Mr. Mitchell, just before the meeting broke up,
“I’ve been thinking that, as the matter has taken such a practical
turn, and as Mr. Houston’s kitchen won’t hold the people who come, it
will be well for us to try to get another place in which to hold a
second service, somewhere in or near Nestleton, so as to be ready not
only with the money, but the members necessary to keep the new chapel
going. I should like to get a foothold in Midden Harbour, and if you,
sir, and this meeting are agreeable, I’ll try what can be done.”
Here several members of the meeting shook their heads, and expressed a
doubt as to the possibility of getting the ploughshare into such a
very hard and flinty soil.
“There you are ageean,” said Adam Olliver, “dootin’ an’ fearin’, yo’
will hev it that the Lord is’nt a match for the devil. Let’s hod up t’
’ands of oor yung minister, God bless ’im. If t’ walls o’ Jericho fell
doon afoore t’ soond o’ t’ ram’s ’orns, it’s queer if Midden Harbour
can keep oot the hosts o’ God’s elect. If naebody else will, ah’ll
propooase it mysen; ’at a meetin’ be hodden i’ Midden Harbour, as
seean as we can finnd a spot te hod it in. My opinion is ’at it’s just
t’ right thing te deea. John Wesley said ’at we wer’ nut only te gan
te them ’at needed uz, but te gan te them ’at needs uz meeast. There
isn’t a warse spot i’ all t’ cuntry side then Midden Harbour, bud if
wa’ can nobbut get t’ Gospil fairly in amang ’em, we sall tonn the
devil clean oot ov his den, an’ mak’ t’ ugly spot as breet as a patch
o’ Paradise.”
The proposition of Father Olliver was seconded and carried, and the
meeting dispersed, strong in the determination to “go forward in the
name of the Lord.”