THISTLES OR GRAPES?
“Are there any lodgings to let in Darentdale?”
The village post-office closed early; and the postman had just called,
in his curious red cart, drawn by a gaunt horse that was celebrated for
getting over the ground quickly, and, having received the bag, was
hastening away to the nearest town. The postmistress, an active woman
who, having a paralysed husband, needed all her activity, had come to
the door to look after him, when a stranger arrived with a letter. “Too
late?” he asked; and she replied “Too late!” and was about to go in and
close the door, when his other question arrested her.
Now, it happened that Mrs. Orley had been thinking only that afternoon
how well she could spare her best parlour and the bedroom over it, if by
doing so she could earn an honest pound or two. She knew that in many
villages there had been inquiries for lodgings, and wondered that none
of the inquirers came her way—and here stood one before her, as if in
answer to her thoughts.
But Mrs. Orley was a wary woman, and the very coincidence of her thought
and his appearance created a doubt in her mind.
“Lodgings?” she said, “No, I never heard of anybody who lets lodgings in
this village.”
“No? Now, that is a pity, for a prettier village does not exist in
England.”
“Maybe you’ve seen all the others. I haven’t, so I don’t pretend to say.
’Tis pretty enough for us.”
“And healthy, I suppose?”
“Yes; we live as long as most folks, especially in these days, when the
houses are better than they used to be.”
“Well, I should like to stay here for a week or two, and I wouldn’t mind
paying fairly. I have taken a fancy to the place. I like the undulations
and the woods; and I think the squire’s house is very pretty. But I
suppose it is no use to stay longer. You know everybody. I have always
found that a postmaster is the best person in a place of whom to make
inquiries, so if you say there are no lodgings, I must go on to the next
village.”
“How much did you want to pay? I have a sitting-room and a bedroom. I
wouldn’t mind obliging you if we can come to terms. Would you like to
look at the rooms?”
“I should,” said the stranger, with alacrity; and no sooner had he seen
them than he declared that they were exactly what he wanted.
“Make me an offer,” said Mrs. Orley.
“I shall not give much trouble,” said the stranger. “Would a pound a
week satisfy you?”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” said Mrs. Orley; “I will oblige you if you
like for a pound a week.”
If she had mentioned a sum, it would have been half that amount. But the
stranger appeared pleased, and soon settled down, giving his name as
Samuel Smart. Mrs. Orley decided that he was an author, for he was
always writing. She was not surprised at his coming to Darentdale, for
she knew that a good deal had been written about the place, and no doubt
this man was making up a story in which Darentdale would figure to
advantage. So, being a kind-hearted woman and very fond of an innocent
bit of gossip, she told her lodger many interesting things about the
inhabitants of the village. She offered to introduce him to the parson
and the squire, but he declined her services in this respect, and only
made a few acquaintances on his own account. He bought a good many books
during his stay. He had a list of those which he wanted, and asked for
them one at a time of Mr. Harris. He had none in stock, but could always
get the volume in a day or two; so there was much coming and going
between the bookseller and the customer, and however busy with his pen
the stranger might be, he had plenty of time to spare for a talk with
him.
“He interests me exceedingly,” he said to Mrs. Orley; and she told him
all she knew of Margaret and her grandfather. “Miss Miller is much more
interesting than the old man,” said the postmistress; but Mr. Smart did
not seem to think so, and she set him down as a confirmed old bachelor,
with very poor tastes and little knowledge of beauty. Margaret was a
great favourite of hers, and she was never tired of talking of her; but
only once did she succeed in arousing anything like feeling in Mr.
Smart. And that was when she had done something which she certainly
ought not to have done.
For, of course, Mrs. Orley had sworn before a magistrate that she would
regard as sacred all letters that passed through her hands, and she did
not doubt that letters included postcards; and yet one morning she not
only read the whole contents of a postcard herself, but actually took
the card to her lodger, and he read it too.
It was a very insulting postcard, written anonymously, and addressed to
Margaret Miller.
“Read this, sir,” she said, handing it to him with the contents side up,
and he read it before he turned it and saw the address.
Mrs. Orley was frightened; she did not think her lodger could exhibit so
much passion. “A coward!” he said, between his teeth, “and, of course, a
woman. Men are bad enough, but no man could do such a mean thing as
that. It takes a jealous, spiteful woman to insult another woman by
means of an anonymous postcard. Let us throw the thing on the fire.”
Mrs. Orley snatched it away in alarm. “It is as much as my place is
worth not to deliver it,” she said, “and I’ve just bethought myself that
I ought not to have shown it to you; not that the envious thing who
wrote it cares how many people see it; it is put on a postcard on
purpose. But I don’t think it will hurt Miss Miller very much. Her lips
will tremble a little when she reads it, and she will ask herself if it
contains a lesson that she ought to learn and benefit by, and will read
it again to see, and then she will burn it and try to forget the
unkindness of it. That is her way.”
“And a very good way, too,” said Mr. Smart, more gently, as he put on
his hat and went out.
Mrs. Orley watched him a little after that; but she could never discover
that he took the slightest interest in Margaret Miller, or ever spoke to
her, or even looked at her if she happened to pass him in the street.
He stayed at Darentdale three weeks, and when he left he asked his
hostess to accept an extra pound, which he declared was only her due,
because he had been so much more comfortable than he expected.
He had appeared much interested in the scenery, the place and people, as
well he might be, for there was another village beside Craighelbyl in
which the summer passed ideally; and it was Darentdale, where all were
trying to make life as joyous as God intended it should be. It is one
thing to make a great effort of good work in order to float a scheme, it
is quite another to keep it going when the first enthusiasm has died
out. The little homes among the green were inhabited by no stronger
people than the rest of the world; but their friends were far-seeing and
patient, and exceedingly solicitous that there should be no failures. It
was known that many towns and villages had followed when Darentdale led
the way; and it could be said of more than a few places that all that
man could do to prevent sin and misery was being done in their locality.
Some complaints, indeed, were made that there was danger of a narrowing
of interests; but this was scarcely true. A farmer who puts forth all
his powers to keep every inch of his own land in good condition is yet
quite able to look at his neighbours’ farms, and even, by means of the
Press, to cast a glance over the whole wide world. The Darentdale
Church, united, for the sake of those who were outside, had plenty of
work on its hands, and a great solicitude in its heart.
And there was a “revival” in Darentdale. There had to be—first, in the
church, where it was most needed; and, secondly, outside—among those
whom it was necessary to bring in. For those who worked the most
earnestly were not able to do, of themselves, that which they most
desired to do, and the more entirely they felt their own helplessness
the more entirely were they thrown upon God.
They were disappointed again and again. One woman, who had been helped
and who had seemed grateful, relapsed into drunkenness, and was quite
candid. “I have been a fool,” she said, “to sign the pledge and pretend
that I want to be goody. But never again! A short life and a merry one
for me!”
The way was too narrow, the fight too strenuous, for them. They needed a
Helper stronger than the human, and until they sought Him, the immoral
could not become moral, or the evil good.
“We must pray more! Let us give an hour a day to intercessory wrestling
with God, that He will save the people, for they cannot save themselves;
neither can we save them; but we are sure that, if it be God’s will,
they must be saved,” said one.
“And I am sure,” replied Mr. Harris, “that it is most certainly God’s
will that they should be saved.” But he prayed with the rest, for,
although he did not even now attend the ordinary religious service at
church or chapel, he was always present at the united meetings that were
public.
The whole church, indeed, gave itself up to prayer, both private and
united; and, as is always the case, there were some remarkable incidents
proving that prayers were heard and answers abundant; one man, Benham,
declaring that after what he had seen he would never doubt again. “Since
that woman is changed,” he added, “I am sure that any one can be. There
is an alteration in this place, sure enough.”
“There is,” said Nelson, who was the recipient of Benham’s confidences;
“but it is because good people mean it all much more than they used.”
“Yes; and things will never be the same again, for now they know how to
look after the boys and girls. And this is the most promising thing of
all.”
And indeed it was. The Darentdale Committee of Helpfulness set a very
high value on every young person living in the village. If he or she
should show vicious tendencies the best and ablest person among them
undertook the case. All the ingenuity and watchful love of wise parents
were brought to bear, and at present there had been no case that proved
invulnerable to these benign powers and influences. It soon became an
extraordinary thing to the Darentdale people that there could ever have
been a time when a child was of small account in the place. “We shall
make _men_ out of these,” was a consideration never overlooked now in
regard to the children.
A very merry place was Darentdale during those summer evenings. There
were a dozen tennis-courts, and as many cricket-grounds, each presenting
a scene of most complete enjoyment. The young ladies played with the
poor girls. Mr. Dallington, the clergyman, and the Baptist minister,
each superintended some recreations, and all sorts of delightful games
were organised, in which lads and girls joined and their teachers
assisted. There were botany classes held in the fields and woods; there
were the sounds of sweet songs in the meadows, and open-air concerts in
the groves; there were gymnastic feats in the orchards, and races in the
lanes; but everything was under the supervision of Christian men and
women, who guided the conversation, and helped with the jokes, and made
it impossible for gambling or bad language to be mixed up with the play,
and who believed that in all this they were doing the Lord’s work as
certainly as when they were teaching in the Sunday-school.
Margaret Miller and John Dallington were quietly waiting. The look of
youthfulness had passed from John’s face and form, but Margaret was as
sweet as ever. John shouldered his cross of care manfully, and Margaret
daily laid hers down at the feet of Him who is as able to bear our
sorrows as our sins; and both helped in the efforts that were being made
for the betterment of the people who had been, as they believed,
committed to their care.
One thing had greatly delighted Margaret, and it was that her
grandfather, as she still called him, had undertaken the care of a dozen
of her Young Crusaders. At first, though neither he nor she knew it,
there had been a demur among some of the committee.
“This must be kept in the hands of Christians,” one said “and we have no
proof that Mr. Harris believes in Christ.”
But another replied, “Let us judge him by the Master’s rule, ‘By their
fruits ye shall know them.’ We cannot doubt that _He_ would deal very
tolerantly with such a man as Henry Harris if He were here now. No one
has ever heard him say a word against Christ in all the years we have
known him.”
“And now he never says a word against anybody, he has become wonderfully
gentle and good. He will do no harm to the boys.”
And this was certainly the feeling of the majority. As for Margaret, she
almost envied the boys, for she knew how wisely and lovingly they would
be trained.
For two hours each evening Mr. Miller’s house and garden were open to
them, and for the first hour he gave them something to do with their
bodies—gardening, or quoits, or football, or cricket—and for the second
he was at their service to tell them tales or read to them, or take
walks with them, or anything else they pleased. Before they had been a
week with him they all loved him, and would have done anything or given
up anything for him. And he loved them greatly. He believed that every
boy had the making of a hero in him, and he sought to find out how to
develop the best of his nature and his powers. He liked to set the
eleven to some work or play which they liked, and take the twelfth away
where the two could talk confidentially to each other. The boy would
pour out his very soul to his friend, telling him his ambitions, his
troubles, his sins, and his hopes, as he had never told any one before.
And what wise counsel he received in return, what good words to be
treasured in the boy’s heart even after he became a man, no one knew but
God, not even the man or the boy himself.
Mr. Harris was always very tired after the boys had gone. It was really
a bit of his very life that he gave them. If the heart be not put into
work of this kind very little is accomplished; but if it be heart work
it can only be done at great personal cost to the worker. But he was
always very happy, too, and had usually something to tell Margaret which
she was glad to hear.
One evening Mr. Harris was walking over the fields with a lad called
Dick Nelson, a bright, mischievous boy, “worth saving at any price,”
Harris said to himself, when a question was put to him of a more direct
character than any which he had ever before been called to answer. They
were talking about men who had made England, especially the warriors and
the statesmen, and at length they mentioned General Gordon. “He would
have done more lasting work if he had been less general and more
Gordon,” said Harris. “He was a very fine man, but I have always wished
that he had not been a soldier. You know, Dick, that is one of my fads.
I don’t like war, but I like Gordon; he was a splendid Christian fellow,
true as steel.”
“You don’t like him any better because he was a Christian, though, Mr.
Harris, do you?” asked the boy, looking curiously into the grey eyes
beneath the shaggy brows.
“Don’t I? Indeed, I do,” said Harris, with a kindly smile.
The lad was thoughtful for a moment too, and then an exciting incident
occurred; for they saw a fox running across a meadow, and of course the
boy must needs chase it. What boy could resist such a chance as that? He
came back hot, but pleased, and ready to endure the banter of his
friend, who had been watching with an indulgent look upon his benevolent
face, and thinking of his own boyhood as if it were but yesterday. After
that they had a talk about amusements; but when that subject had been
dropped, and a silence had fallen between them, the boy suddenly asked,
“Mr. Harris, what do you think about Jesus Christ?”
Harris replied very gently, “I think He was the greatest and best Man
that ever lived.”
“But don’t you think, sir,” said his questioner, wistfully, “that He
must have been more than a man to do all the things He did—that is, if
He ever did do them—I suppose we cannot be sure of that.”
Harris detected the tones of regret in the boy’s voice. “Why cannot we
be sure?” he said. “The writers of the biographies of Jesus Christ are
certainly as much to be believed as any other writers, to say the least
of it; and for my part I have not any doubt that they told the truth
about Him. Dick, my boy, you cannot do without Jesus Christ. He is the
best Friend a man ever had—don’t doubt that; and as for a poor,
hard-working lad like you, why, you will find the world a very dark
place if you try to shut Him out of it.”
“But I don’t want to,” said Dick. “I like to read about Him. There is
nothing sham about Him, is there, sir?”
“Sham! There is nothing half so real as Jesus Christ,” and Harris took
off his hat.
“I am glad you think so,” the boy said gently, putting his hand
affectionately on the arm of his master.
Young Nelson never forgot this talk, and it influenced his whole life.
Mr. Harris was half touched, half amused at the incident. He spoke of it
to Margaret that evening, for she kept all his confidences, and
thoroughly understood him. “I am not quite the sceptic I think myself, I
suppose,” he said. “Certainly, the longer I live the more am I impressed
by the strong personality of the marvellous Man of Nazareth. I think His
time is coming nearer; and it will be a happy time, indeed, for the
world. Do you see the signs, Margaret?”
So they talked together; and presently he asked her to sing “one of the
old, old hymns,” and she sang “Jesus, the very thought of Thee,” and he
joined in as if he felt it. Indeed, that night, after Margaret had left
him, sitting as he loved to sit, with the blinds up, and the moonlight
filling the room, she heard him sing softly the words, which for so many
generations loyal lips have sung to Jesus; and she said to herself,
“Dear Graf! Why does he call himself an unbeliever?”
In Darentdale those who were joined together in Christian love and
helpfulness had instituted a communion service which was for their
mutual comfort and edification. It was held usually in the house of the
clergyman, but although many church people attended, the number of
Nonconformists was still larger. They did not call it a sacrament, but
“a breaking of bread together,” and “all who loved the Lord Jesus in
sincerity” were invited to be present. A few evenings after the boy’s
question to Mr. Harris the friends were together as usual. The door of
the Vicarage was open, and they were singing a hymn of praise, the sound
of which floated through the garden, and reached the high road. Along
the road Mr. Harris was walking, and he stopped at the gate to listen.
Then he went noiselessly to the room where the meeting was held, and
took his seat at the door. Of course he was at once recognised. After
the hymn was sung a chapter was read, prayer was offered by any who
wished to pray, and the chairman asked any friend who could to speak.
Mr. Harris rose and said a few words, which came from his heart, and
went to the hearts of others. He told them that he had not been quite
sincere in his profession of lack of faith in Christianity, that he had
believed always in Christ, but only lately in Christians. He said that
he had long ago put his trust in Jesus as the living Saviour, and could
say, “I know in whom I have believed”—although he had not thought it
necessary to join any part of the Church. “But now,” he said, “I have a
great hunger for the communion of saints! Unworthy as I feel myself,
yet, because I love our Lord, I ask you to let me join you in this
service. Will you receive me as one of yourselves? I love my Master, and
I love His brethren, and I crave your prayers and your help. I want to
be taught and strengthened. Let me take the lowest place among you, but
do not shut me out, for I believe that Jesus is the Christ, and that He
loved me, and gave Himself for me.”
His voice grew rather unsteady—perhaps it was because he saw Margaret
weeping—and he resumed his seat. But the little company stood, and with
one accord they sang,
Praise God from whom all blessings flow.