IN THE MISSION ROOM.
MRS. LIVESEY'S deputy promised to be a very efficient one. Adam and
the children found everything in order when tea-time came, and to the
little people, the sight of a young face had a great attraction. That
of Sarah Evans might well have a charm for the small Liveseys, for, as
we know, the mother who scrubbed from morning till night for the common
good was very chary of praise or caresses. Too often the toil was
accompanied by sharp words and fretful complaints, because her little
namesake's hands were less skilful, her movements less quick, than were
her own.
Sarah Evans, on the contrary, found much to praise. She told Adam that
the children were "just wonderful for putting things in their places
when they came in. Mrs. Livesey must have taken a world of pains with
them," she said; "and it's a deal harder to get little ones in such
neat ways, than to right up after them."
Adam assented, and said his missis was very clever in her way. Then he
expressed his gratification at seeing that the very little ones had
taken to Sarah so nicely.
"We shall get on all right, no fear. Maggie's quite a little woman, and
can tell me where everything is, and what mother does when she's at
home."
Sarah amazed the children by calling them "darlings," and, instead of
bidding them sharply "do this or that," she said, "Maggie, dear, please
shut the door," and so on.
It was evident that a kind word would go as far and produce as
immediate obedience as a sharp one.
After tea, Adam strolled out by himself. He was not in the mood for
company, and the little people were happily employed at home. Sarah
Evans was telling nursery rhymes to the three youngest, and the eldest
two were learning their lessons for the morrow.
Their father's mind was full of the parting with his wife, and the
words which had preceded it. It had set him pondering whether they had
not both missed their way somehow, and got off on a wrong track.
He certainly had with regard to Maggie, who, in spite of her sharp
temper, had kept the warmest corner in her heart for him alone.
Who could doubt her love for the children? And yet she often called
them "the plagues of her life."
How nice she could be when she had her best side out! If she were
always, or even often like what she had been during those few precious
minutes in the railway carriage, what a little heaven their home might
be! Was there no way of bringing about such a state of things?
Thus mused Adam, and then it seemed as if the words of Richard Evans
and the testimony of Mr. Drummond came with fresh force. Both of these
ascribed the brightness of their lives to religion. They were happy
men, of this there could be no doubt.
Finally, Adam, whose feet had all the while been tending towards
Aqueduct Street, made up his mind to enter the Mission Room and see
if he could get any light on the subject that was perplexing him. He
had no idea how to make a start on the new road, and he thought it was
best to try and find out during his wife's absence. She was against
this sort of thing, and he remembered a remark made by her that very
morning, as she unfolded her one carefully preserved stuff gown, and
smoothed out its creases. "See, Adam, it looks almost as good as new. I
am glad I never started going to church on Sundays. If I had, this gown
would have been worn out, and I should not have one decent to go in
now."
Adam was in good time, and he at first stood near the Mission Room
door, then ventured inside, and waited until some one invited him to
take a seat. "You can go where you like," he was told, so he placed
himself where he could get a clear view of the platform. He had made
up his mind to hear all he could, and if he felt in any way the better
for his new experiences, to tell Maggie when she came home. If not, he
would be silent.
Adam was not quite prepared to see Mr. Drummond. Indeed, he heard his
voice before he did see him, for the manager came in along with the
mission preacher, Mr. Kennedy. As they passed towards the upper end
of the room, Mr. Drummond came close to Adam, and at sight of the
striker's earnest face, his own brightened. He stopped for an instant
to shake hands, and to tell Adam that he was glad he had not forgotten
the invitation given on the previous Saturday.
"My wife's mother is ill, and she's gone to see her, I felt lonely,
so I thought I'd come here for a bit," said Adam, as if his presence
needed an excuse. Then he noticed how the manager went forward and
talked to first one and another of the homely-looking men, such as
himself, meeting them as if there were no social differences. In the
group near the platform, he saw the two who had called at his door on
the Saturday evening, and he observed how all their faces seemed to
brighten as they exchanged greetings.
"And yet," thought Adam, "though Mr. Drummond makes himself of no
account here, he's not the man to be trifled with at Rutherford's. What
he says has got to be done. The place was never better ordered than it
is now, but nobody ever says he isn't fair to everybody."
Adam's musings were interrupted by the giving out of a hymn, and at
the same moment, a book was put into his hand, with the place found
for him. He was not much given to singing, but he had a great love for
music, and we know the charm his wife's voice had exercised over him
in their early married days. It was a delight to him to find that the
children "were so tuneable," though they sang more out of doors than
in, because the mother complained that she could not bear the racket;
it made her head ache.
Everybody knows how the little folks catch the tunes and words of
popular hymns, though they often sing them with no knowledge of their
real meaning, and Adam's were no exception. The moment he heard the
tune, he recognised it as one that his children sang sometimes, but he
had never noticed the words. Now he read them.
"I am so glad that our Father in heaven
Tells of His love in the Book He has given:
Wonderful things in the Bible I see
This is the dearest, that Jesus loves me."
Then uprose the rejoicing chorus, in which, however, Adam took no part.
How could he? What did he know of that love they were singing about?
What of the Book which told the story of the love of Jesus?
The man was only sensible of an inner longing that nothing within his
own life and experience could satisfy. In his heart was that yearning
after God, that sense of void which, at one time or other, is felt
instinctively by every human soul, and which must remain until He who
first implanted it also satisfies it. He who has made of one blood all
nations of men has ordained "that they should seek the Lord, if haply
they might feel after Him and find Him, though He be not far from every
one of us. For in Him we live and move and have our being."
Poor Adam was beginning to feel after Him, though only as one who
gropes in the dark.
Again rose the words,—
"Though I forget Him, and wander away,
Still He doth love me wherever I stray;
Back to His dear loving arms do I flee,
When I remember that Jesus loves me."
So on, through all the verses to the end, and still Adam's lips were
closed. He was too true a man to say or sing words that had no meaning
for him. These, though English words, spoke in an unknown tongue to
Adam Livesey.
The mission preacher did not ask the people to kneel down at once, but,
keeping the hymn-book open in his hand, said:
"I hope you who sang these words just now felt as well as uttered them.
I mean those which speak of your love for Jesus. You are right about
His love for you. He loves the sinner, the forgetful, the wanderer,
the wilful, the disobedient. He would have the worst and vilest to
be saved, and to come to a knowledge of the truth. It was love that
brought the Son of God from heaven to redeem your souls and mine.
It was love which made the Father willing to bestow on us His most
precious gift. It was love that made Jesus die on the tree, to save us
everlastingly. It was love which brought the Holy Spirit to show the
sinner his need, and to lead him to Jesus.
"No doubt about all these things. They are true, for they come from Him
who is the Truth. In believing them is life, for faith lays hold on
Christ, who is our Life, and makes us one with Him.
"If you have found Christ you have also found the way to peace, joy,
happiness, and to a new service and a new master. You have found the
way to heaven, for Jesus is the new and living Way.
"All right to sing about His love. But how about yours? Are you carried
away with the music with its joyful chorus? Or can you say from your
hearts, 'Jesus loves me, and I know I love Him?' If there were doubts
in your minds that kept you from joining, thank God that you kept
silent. If you felt your hearts sink within you as you heard other
voices take up the words, whilst you could only sigh and say within
yourself, 'Oh, how I wish I could feel the love and the assurance that
brings sweetest rest,' thank God for that. Your heart is no longer
quite dead; there are stirrings of life in it. You are not wholly
asleep, for the Holy Spirit has awakened you to a sense of want, and is
striving with you now. You are beginning to feel after God."
Here the preacher paused, and said, "Let us pray, dear friends, that
every soul in this place to-night may not only seek but find."
It seemed to Adam that Mr. Kennedy might have been enabled to look into
his very thoughts, so exactly had he described his feelings during the
singing of that hymn.
In all his life, Adam had never realised that he had much to be
thankful for. On the contrary, he had been apt to look on himself as an
ill-used man, and to say that things had always been against him. But
when he heard the preacher begin, not by asking for fresh gifts, but by
expressing his thankfulness for those already bestowed, Adam's thoughts
were a sort of running comment on his words.
Mr. Kennedy thanked God for life and breath, for health and strength to
work, for the rest and food which renewed his powers from day to day,
for air and light, for the pure water, the sunshine and rain, for the
love and kindness of earthly friends. Not for his own share alone, but
on behalf of all who possessed these common every-day mercies.
To Adam Livesey the thanksgiving was a revelation. Why, even he had all
these things, and had never thought of being thankful for them, and yet
how would it be with him if any of them were taken away?
After all, such gifts were of more account than money.
But the preacher went to heights and depths which Adam could not
follow. He thanked God for all who had been enabled to receive the
blessed message of the gospel, and prayed that, having heard the word,
they might keep it, and bring forth fruit with patience. He poured
out supplications for those who were still afar off, that they might
be brought nigh through the precious blood of Jesus, and know the
blessedness of those "who have the Lord for their God."
Adam had a dim sense that he was being prayed for amongst the rest and,
though he could not see the meaning of the prayer, or the advantages
that were to follow, there was a sort of inward pleading that in some
way good might come of it to him and his.
Then there was another hymn, which began—
"Lord, I hear of showers of blessing,
Thou art scattering full and free—
Showers the thirsty land refreshing;
Let some droppings fall on me—
Even me!
"Pass me not, O gracious Father!
Sinful though my heart may be;
Thou might'st leave me, but the rather
Let Thy mercy fall on me."
Again Adam's voice was silent, but his desires were eloquent. He felt
that these words, and the verses that followed, were more in harmony
with his sense of need than was the joyful song of confidence in the
love of Jesus with which the worship had been begun. He did plead for
"even me" to have a portion in those blessings of which many around him
seemed to know the value, and he waited with eager expectancy for the
preacher to say something which should enable him to understand it too.