A TRICOLOUR CRUSADER.
Ernest Stapleton blushed when Mr. Collinson looked at him, and all the
teachers of the Broad Street School followed the minister’s example. For
he was only a boy, not yet seventeen years old, and he was not even an
acknowledged teacher, since he only helped with the library, and
occasionally took a class for its absent president. He had been
attracted to Broad Street by Mr. Collinson himself, who was already
known in Granchester as “The Friend of all the Boys.” When they looked
at Ernest this is what they saw: A straight boy, rather tall, with
well-developed limbs, and a strong face, whose brown hair curled over a
thoughtful brow, and whose grey eyes met the gaze of the teachers with
frankness and fearlessness.
“How that boy is changed!” was the thought in the minds of several
persons who had known him all his life. And, indeed, he was; and the
secret of the change was declared to all by the little badge of ribbon
which he wore on his breast—the red, white and blue of Old England; the
blue for temperance, the white for purity, and the red for battle, or
endeavour.
The very first thing which the Rev. George Collinson had done on his
settlement was to establish a branch of The Young Volunteer Crusaders.
It can scarcely be said that Ernest Stapleton was a volunteer, for he
had cost Mr. Collinson some trouble and solicitude before he was finally
enrolled; but the new minister had loved the boy, and prayed for him and
sought him with wisdom and patience, until at length he was won
altogether and entirely. The effort had been made only just in time. The
boy had been fast sinking into bad habits that would have weakened and
debased him; already his sisters used his name in irony, and declared
that “Ernest had not a bit of earnestness in him,” for he cared for
nothing but smoking and drinking, and other discreditable
self-indulgences; but now, happily, he was saved, and was showing brave
qualities of alertness, endurance, and good sense, such as delighted
every one who cared for him, and won from his friends the declaration
that “No boy had in him the making of a finer man than Ernest
Stapleton.”
Mr. Collinson looked at him admiringly when his “I will” rang out in the
teachers’ meeting.
“Yes, Ernest,” he replied, “I am glad to believe that you will, indeed,
stand by me, and help to raise the character of this school.”
“But, sir, I am not a teacher,” he said, “I am only a boy, and I am
almost afraid to speak before those who are so much older and wiser than
I am; and yet, because I am young, and can look at all this from the
children’s standpoint, I should like, if I may, to express the hope that
all the teachers will agree with you, and have the training and the
preparation classes, and anything else that will make the Sunday-school
more helpful. You do not know how hard it is for boys and girls to be
right. Some fellows that I know, who belong to the Crusaders, had a
prayer meeting last night, and we all prayed to God to give us courage
not to pretend to be worse than we are. We are bad enough, I know
that——”
The young speaker hesitated, and broke down, and the most prejudiced old
teacher in the room felt some sympathy for him.
“Go on, Ernest,” said the minister gently, and the rest cheered the boy
with an encouraging clap. Presently he recovered himself. “We are not
good; we need a Saviour; but many of us would scorn to be as bad as we
make ourselves out to be, and there are some of the ‘boys’ ways’ which
those who teach us ought to know something about. But boys—the boys of
Broad street—will be as bad and black as—because it is supposed to be
the thing—some of them make themselves out to be—unless they are helped;
and what I want to say—and I hope you will not think me too
presumptuous—is this, that the old Sunday-school, as it is now carried
on, is not equal to the needs of new boys in these new times.”
“Well, to be sure! What next!” exclaimed a lady teacher; and one or two
men felt as if a good horsewhipping would do the young upstart good; but
for the most part the teachers knew that Ernest had spoken the truth,
and though his words had given them pain, yet they were glad that he had
uttered them, and hopeful that the result would prove beneficial.
“I, too, will stand by Mr. Collinson,” said the superintendent, “and by
right of the office with which you have invested me, I venture to repeat
Gideon’s words to his army, ‘Whosoever is fearful and afraid let him
return and depart.’ It is quite true that the usual Sunday-school,
though it has done splendid work in the past, is quite inadequate to the
needs of the children to-day, and if we are not willing to do anything
and everything to bring ourselves up to date, we had better stand aside
and yield the work to those who will.”
The scene which followed could not be other than painful. One after
another of the teachers resigned; and the resignation of a few was
accepted, while the discriminating superintendent advised some to try
the new plans before they quite gave up.
It was with an anxious heart that Ernest Stapleton went home after the
meeting. He was not at all sure that he had not been wrong, and the
author of much mischief; although with the usual confidence of youth he
had great faith in his own opinions. Still, he thought that Mr.
Collinson had approved of him, and if so, there was not much to fear,
for though he doubted himself a little, he doubted the minister not at
all; so his courage rose as he passed through the gates of his father’s
residence.
He ran up the steps, whistling as he went; but on the top one he sighed,
and a fear which he had known before came back to him. He was afraid
that there was something wrong in his home. His father looked dreadfully
worried, and although he knew that among his men another strike was
impending, yet even that was not sufficient, he thought, to quite
account for so much anxiety. And his mother—his beautiful mother, whom
he loved so dearly—looked sometimes pale, and as if she had been crying.
Ernest wondered what it all meant, and feared that trouble was
impending.
When he stepped into the hall he heard his uncle’s voice, and that, too,
he thought a little strange. Dr. Stapleton had visited them very rarely
until quite lately, but now it was no unusual thing for him to be there
once or twice in a week.
The Doctor came forward to greet him. He was looking wretchedly ill and
worn, but he had always a cheery word for his nephew, whom he cordially
approved.
“Well, Ernest, old boy, how are you? How are the Crusaders going on? Is
there much fighting at present?”
“Plenty of fighting, uncle, though we do not have a big gun to accompany
us. How are you? Have you come to stay a few weeks, or will you run away
directly, as you generally do?”
“I think my patients consider that I usually stay quite long enough. I
must try to get back by to-morrow evening. How many boys do you number
now in your regiment? Three hundred? That is splendid. I hope they will
all be faithful.”
“Certainly something has improved the boys of Granchester,” said Miss
Stapleton. “They are not nearly as rude and coarse as they were. Mother
and I were remarking it the last time we went through the streets.
Although it was evening we did not hear a single boy swear. And that is
a thing that ought to be written in red ink among the chronicles of
Granchester.
“You see, Mat, that these fellows are all capable of being taught and
persuaded, only the wrong teachers get hold of them. The best lessons
are not to be got in the streets; but it is in the streets that most
boys get their lessons. They are a little mistaken as to what manliness
is; but that is not their fault. How should they know if they are not
taught? They judge by the men whom they see. They seldom have the best
types exhibited to them.”
“They know something of their fathers’ masters, I suppose?”
“Yes; but all their fathers’ masters are not like our father. Many of
them do not treat their men properly.”
“You see, Uncle Fred, what Ernest’s tendencies are! He is a Socialist.
And he is a poet of the people! Think of it! Ernest, you will let Uncle
Fred see your last attempt. Here it is, uncle. I made him give me a
copy.”
Dr. Stapleton took the paper, and read—
“THE LOWER ORDERS.”
Who are the “lower orders,”
Not those who toil all day,
And for fair wages give good work,
As honest workmen may.
Such men are of the noblest
Who life’s rough paths have trod;
Faithful to wife, and kind to child,
And true to self and God.
These are the higher orders,
The self-restrained and strong,
Too great to yield to selfishness,
Too proud to do the wrong;
Who copy Christ of Nazareth,
And live and toil as He,
And claim their right as freemen,
Since He has made them free.
Men talk about “the masses,”
And call them “lowly born,”
But many are more worthy
Of reverence than of scorn.
Ah! some of wealth and place might learn
Of these heroic ones;
And well for dear old England
Were such her only sons!
But of “the lower orders,”
Enough and hosts to spare
Has England for her sorrow,
And have we all for care.
The idle and the dissolute,
The cowardly and base;
Alas! for countries and for homes
That have to give them space!
They are “the lower orders,”
Who practise low deceit;
The drones in hives of industry,
The loungers in the street,
The self-indulgent sons of vice,
The sullen and untrue,
Whose useless hands are stretched to take,
But are not skilled to do.
There are no lower orders
But these—the self-made low.
Men are despised and scorned because
They choose to have it so.
Unworthiness, not poverty,
Alone supplies the ban
Which keeps the hand of fellowship
Of man from brother man,
Cannot we lift the low ones
Up to a fairer height?
O! Love shall be the teacher,
And God will speed the right.
Let us go down in loving quest
These lowest ones to reach;
God’s heaven has room enough for all,
And His grace is for each.
Dr. Stapleton said very little after reading the verses; he simply
congratulated his nephew, and advised him to continue doing that sort of
work; but when, after supper, the household had retired, and the two
brothers were consulting together in the library, the Doctor spoke of
the boy to his father.
“It is a fine thing to have such a son,” he said; “he will be a help and
comfort to you, Felix.”
“Perhaps,” was the reply; “but I am afraid of the boy’s judgment. When
he comes to know the truth about my circumstances I am afraid he will
turn against me. He has strict notions of honour and truth, and I am
glad that he should have. But what will he think of me?”
“When are you going to tell him?”
“I cannot tell him at all—and yet he must know soon.”
“If I were you, Felix, I would take him into confidence at once. He is a
good boy and sensible, and his counsel may be as worth having and
following as that of any man of the world.”
“But he believes himself the heir to a fortune. It will be a terrible
disappointment and come down for him.”
“Oh, no! I think not. The young do not care for money as the old do. And
it is too bad to deceive him longer. Let us tell him the truth in the
morning. Who knows but that he may be able to throw a little light upon
the darkness?”
“Will you help me to break the news to him before you leave?”
“Yes, I will, and I cannot help hoping that good rather than harm will
come of it.”
Ernest slept soundly, as a healthy boy should, whose conscience is at
peace, and he awoke the next morning in a most merry mood. He opened the
letter-bag, and made his sister chase him for a letter addressed to
herself, and then he tossed his youngest sister into the air and caught
her like a ball, after which he took her for a ride on his bicycle,
until she screamed with delight.
He remembered all this years afterward; for it always seemed to him that
this was the morning when he suddenly grew out of boyhood into youth.
When breakfast was finished his father sent for him into the library;
and as the boy entered the room, he knew that he was going to learn
something about the shadow which had so long hung above his home.
“Ernest, my lad,” said Dr. Stapleton, gently, “your father has some bad
news for you, which it is harder for him to tell than for you to hear,
though it will trouble you greatly. You are young, but you are the
oldest son he has, and he has a right to look to you for sympathy and
help. You will not fail him, I know.”
The boy looked pale—it was such a solemn address for his uncle to
make—but he left his seat, and went to his father’s side and stood with
his hand on his shoulder.
“What is it, father?” he said. “Please tell me quickly. I have known for
some time that there was a trouble, though I cannot imagine what it is.”
“Do you find your pocket-money enough for your needs, Ernest?” Mr.
Stapleton’s voice trembled a little, but he tried to speak as cheerfully
as he could. The boy looked surprised at the question.
“It is now, father,” he said, “because I am more careful than I used to
be. Why? Has any one spoken to you about me? Indeed, father, I assure
you that I have no debts now.”
“No, my son, it is I who have the debts. I am sorry to tell you that I
have had heavy losses, and that my riches have taken to themselves wings
and flown away.”
“You mean that you are not as well off as you used to be, father? I have
guessed that lately. But there might be worse troubles than that, don’t
you think so?”
“Yes, my son, and there are. I cannot pay my debts.”
“Then let us part with some of the things we have. I will sell my pony
and my bicycle, and anything else that I have. We can sell this house
and our carriages, and go into a small place in the country, for, of
course, we must not live on other people’s property. If we cannot pay
for things, they do not belong to us, and we have no right to them.”
“But, Ernest, think of your poor mother.”
“It is of my beautiful mother that I am thinking all the time. Father,
we could not let any disgrace touch her, could we? There is no disgrace
in being poor, unless we pretend to be rich. You were rich once, so you
had a right to seem so; but now if the riches are gone, we shall be just
as happy. Do not doubt us, father; mother, Mat and I will not add to
your trouble. Be sure of that. Don’t become a bankrupt, father. Sell
everything, and let the money go as far as it will, and then after a
time we will pay the rest.”
It was all easy and natural and simple to the boy; and Mr. Stapleton was
half convinced as he listened to him. “Perhaps it will be best,” he
said; “indeed, it is the more honourable way, but for the disgrace of
it.”
Ernest opened his eyes widely. “Disgrace!” he cried. “There is no
disgrace if we pay people.”
“Ah, Ernest,” said Dr. Stapleton, “you do not know what temptations
there are in such a crisis as this. I will tell you what happened to me
soon after I knew of your father’s troubles. Naturally, I would give all
that I have and more to save my brother. One night, when I was wondering
how I could get money, a man came to me and offered me a thousand pounds
as a fee for doing something which both he and I knew to be wrong. I
hesitated; for I have always endeavoured to act honourably in my
profession; but I thought of the use that thousand pounds would be in
our present difficulty to your father, and seeing me waver, he placed
the cheque on my table, and left me.”
“Oh, Uncle Fred, I am so sorry; and I am sure father would not wish you
to do wrong for him, would you, father?”
“No, Ernest, not when I am in my right mind, but a drowning man will
catch at any straw, and I don’t know what I might have said if your
uncle had asked me just then. But that was before Mr. Knight’s visit. I
do thank God for that man’s faithful talk to me.”
“I thank God for him also,” said the Doctor. “I kept that cheque for
about thirty hours, Ernest, and then, I am glad to say, I sent it back.
Had I not have done so I never could have looked Arthur Knight in the
face again, and what would have been worse, my nephew would not have
respected me more.”
“But you never could have done it, Uncle Fred, if it was really wrong,”
said Ernest.