BY THE PATH OF SUFFERING.
"AND we know that all things work together for good to them that love
God."
An easy text to adopt when the "all things" suit our inclinations and
are in accord with what we think should be.
Adam Livesey learned to make the text his own, and humbly acknowledged
that even the little provocations which, added together, took most of
the comfort out of his domestic life, drove him to seek to know more of
that "love of God which passeth knowledge." He was wonderfully patient
with Margaret, and, if she would have told the truth, she must have
owned that she found it as hard to persevere in her course of conduct
as Adam did in his.
Nay, harder, for he was upheld by a strength which she had not. She
had resolved to break Adam of his new-fangled notions, and whilst
conscience reproached her for harassing one who was so patient, and her
naturally warm heart pleaded for the husband who was, after all, dearer
than the whole world beside, Margaret did not like to give in when she
had determined on any course.
Sometimes she chose to taunt Adam about his friend the manager.
"A deal of good his coming has done us," she said. "Not one shilling
a week has your fine Mr. Drummond put on to your wages since he came.
And he never will. Don't tell me that he can't. I know better. Where
there's a will there's a way. And you that have worked all your life at
Rutherford's. You haven't had a rise for years. It's a shame. That's
what it is."
"I've had the best rise I ever had," replied Adam. "It's through Mr.
Drummond I got the good news that Jesus loved me and gave Himself for
me. That has made me a rich man—me that was o' no account;" And the
man's face was lighted with a holy joy as he spoke of his blessed
heritage.
"I don't make much account of riches that you can neither see nor
spend, Adam. I tell you my riches are a deal the best, for they bring
twelve pound ten every six months, and help to clothe and feed the
children and make home comfortable. If you could only put your new
fortune into the shape of half a crown a week more wage, I should like
it a deal better. And so would you, I'll be bound."
"No, dear lass, no," returned Adam fervently. "I would not change the
unsearchable riches of Christ for all the money in the world. I should
ha' said same as you once, but 'whereas I was blind, now I see.' I was
a poor lost sinner, now saved through faith in the 'grace of our Lord
Jesus Christ.' I'm hoping and praying every day that you'll say the
same before long. Good-bye, dear lass."
Adam looked at Margaret with a tender, yearning gaze, but she did not
return it or answer his good-bye, and he went off to his work, whilst
Margaret continued her grumble to a neighbour, who came in at the
moment.
"I was just talking to our Adam about his wages," she said. "As a
regular thing, he only gets a pound a week. When he has piece work, it
mends things a good bit, only the poor fellow has to slave like anybody
on the treadmill when Rutherford's is busy. But he never grumbles, not
he. You might think half Millborough belonged to him, to hear him talk."
"You're better off, by a deal, than most of us, Mrs. Livesey. Your
husband is just as steady as old Time, and never gives you an ill word.
Beside, you've your own little fortin, as one may call it, for a fortin
it is, added to regular wages," and the speaker gave a sigh. She had a
husband who earned more than Adam's wages and Margaret's fortune put
together, but owing to his drinking habits, she was far worse off with
only two children, while the Liveseys had six living.
Margaret liked any allusion to her "fortune." It gratified that feeling
of pride which had been growing ever since her mother's death. She
answered, with a satisfied smile, that it was a good job there had been
a bit o' money laid by on her side. She often wondered how she had kept
a house over their heads, when there was nothing but what Adam worked
for. He was always a real good husband.
"I expect he's better still now he's turned religious."
"He was good enough for me before. If he'd been like some men, I might
have been glad enough to see an alteration," returned Margaret, rather
sharply.
"You may say that," replied her neighbour, without resenting the
implied allusion to her own partner. "We're none of us so good, though,
but what we might be better. I often feel as if I wanted something
different, some comfort that I can't get out of my share of this world."
Margaret was not prepared to administer such, and the neighbour took
her leave with the thought in her mind that Mrs. Livesey hardly knew
when she was well off, specially in the matter of a husband.
It was true that Adam never grumbled. He worked with his might, was
satisfied with fair wages, and he had mastered that very difficult
lesson which St. Paul spoke of, and could say, "I have learned in
whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content."
He had his desires and longings, but not after the good things of this
world. He wanted to grow in likeness to Jesus, to be fruitful in every
good work, to increase in the knowledge of God.
He could not have put his longings into these very words unless he had
just read them, but he did feel like a very child, ready to be taught
and led, and humbly conscious of his ignorance and weakness. He clung
to what he had already gained, and thanked God for it with a rejoicing
heart. And only God knew how he prayed that the partner of his life,
the mother of his children, might yet share his fortune, and that they
might walk to the house of God in company.
All the while Margaret, with far less to try her than of old, was
making troubles both for Adam and herself. She was soon to experience a
very real one.
That very morning, one of the workmen at Rutherford's placed some
iron beams near a sliding gate. They were not firmly fixed, but were
only intended to remain for a few minutes, and then to be gradually
removed. The man was, however, called away for something else, and in
the meanwhile, Mr. Drummond and another workman approached the spot,
followed by Adam Livesey, who was a couple of paces behind the manager.
The workman advanced to open the gate without noticing the insecure
position of the beams, the first of which was displaced by the
movement, and the rest came crashing down. Adam's eye was turned
in that direction, and he saw the danger, and uttered a warning
cry, whilst darting forward to save Mr. Drummond, who was perfectly
unconscious of the possibility of risk.
No one could tell just how it was done; only the manager was thrust
aside, the first workman, whom Adam vainly strove to reach or warn, lay
crushed and bleeding on the ground, and Adam's strong right arm, broken
in two places, hung helpless by his side.
Great drops of moisture sprang to the poor striker's brow, and, sick
and faint, he sank down beside the wall of the building and tried
to wipe his pallid face with his rough hand. Even in that moment of
suffering, his first thoughts were for those at home, his first words
told of anxiety for them.
"Poor Margaret! How will she bear it? Oh, sir!" To Mr. Drummond, who
was bending over him in deep distress. "I shall never lift the hammer
again."
"Adam, my dear fellow, words cannot tell how grieved I am that you
should be bearing this for me. You saved my life at the cost of this
calamity to yourself."
"Did I? Did I really?" said the suffering man, as a ray of light
crossed his pallid face. "Then it's not all trouble. There's a bit of
comfort out of it. I doubt poor Jim has got the worst. I tried."
"You did, my friend, all that courage and presence of mind could do.
But poor Sam is past all earthly suffering. One of the beams struck him
on the temple, and must have killed him instantly."
Whilst these brief words passed, means were being used for the removal
of all that remained of poor Sam. Then Adam was conveyed to the
hospital accompanied by Mr. Drummond, who intended first to ascertain
the extent of his poor friend's injuries, and then to break the news to
Mrs. Livesey.
There are always loungers and hangers-on in the neighbourhood of a
great hive of industry like Rutherford's, and the tidings flew rapidly
from mouth to mouth, and lost nothing in the transit. It reached the
ears of little Tom Livesey, who was just leaving morning school. The
lad rushed wildly homeward, and bursting into the kitchen, in the midst
of tears and sobs, told that "there'd been a lot o' men killed at
Rutherford's, and they said father was one of 'em."
Poor Tom was not to blame for this false report. He told the tale as it
had been told to him, and in the anguish of his childish heart rushed
homeward and wailed out his terrible tidings.
Margaret Livesey will never forget that time or the half-hour that
followed it. She was almost like a woman turned to stone, and at first
incapable of speech or action, or anything but remorse. She endured a
lifetime of misery during the brief interval which passed before she
knew the truth.
All poor Adam's patience and long-suffering, his unselfishness, his
loving ways with his little ones, his steady industry, his perfect
confidence in and true affection for herself, his silence under
provocation, or the soft answers which always seemed most natural to
him, where many a man under similar circumstances would have replied
with an oath and a blow—all these things came before her mind's eye on
one side.
And on the other what did she see?
Ah, she could hardly bear to look. She got a view of herself, such as
all her previous experiences had never given her. All her own sharp,
impatient ways and words, her want of sympathy with her husband's joy,
her unwillingness to listen when he would fain have poured out his very
heart-longings for her to understand, if such might be. Her worritting
ways, her finding fault with the course which Adam had chosen, and at
which many another wife would have rejoiced with a full heart.
These things Margaret saw, and she clasped her hands in utter misery,
as she thought of his "good-bye" that very morning, when he lingered
for a word or look from her, and she gave him neither. Oh, if she could
have him back! If he had only been hurt, not killed, how she would have
worked for him in turn, and never grumbled, be the toil ever so hard,
the hours ever so long.
What was now the value of the fortune of which she had been so proud?
How gladly would she have given up every penny, just for the chance of
saying, "Forgive me, Adam. I'm sorry for my contradictious ways and
cross words. Say you forgive me, and put your kind arm round my neck
once more, whilst we have just one farewell kiss."
These thoughts did not take long to pass through Mrs. Livesey's mind,
and during the time she was moving about in a mechanical way and
preparing to go, she scarce knew whither, in search of what was left
of the husband who had gone from her in health and strength so short a
time before.
As she approached the outer door, she heard a step drawing near it,
and, looking up, she saw old Richard Evans, with a face full of mingled
sorrow and sympathy, coming towards her.