THE ARBOUR ON THE HILL.
“Now, about the midway to the top of the hill was a pleasant
arbour made by the Lord of the hill for the refreshment of
weary travellers.”—_Pilgrim’s Progress._
Several days passed with but few events to mark them. Mark did everything
for Ann to save her from exertion, and under his care her ankle became
better. He also endeavoured to keep the cottage more tidy, and clear
the little garden from weeds, remembering that “cleanliness is next to
godliness,” and that _if any man will not work, neither should he eat_.
One morning Madge burst into the cottage where Mark and Ann were sitting
together. “He is coming!” she exclaimed in a breathless voice; “he is
coming—he is just at the gate!”
“Who?” cried Ann and Mark at once.
“The parson—the—”
“Not Mr. Ewart!” exclaimed Ann, starting up in terror.
“Yes it is—the tall man dressed in black.”
In a moment the woman rushed to the back room as fast as her ankle would
let her. “I’ll keep quiet here,” she said. “If he asks for me, say that I
have just gone to the miller’s.”
“Mother’s precious afraid of a parson,” said Madge, as a low knock was
heard at the door.
With pleasure Mark opened to his benefactor.
“Good morning,” said Mr. Ewart, as he crossed the threshold. “I have not
forgotten my promise to you, my friend. I hope that I have obtained a
place for you as errand-boy to a grocer. Being myself only a temporary
resident in these parts, I do not know much of your future master,
except that he appears to keep a respectable shop, and is very regular
in attendance at church; but I hear that he bears a high character. Mr.
Lowe, if you suit him, agrees to give you board and lodging; and if he
finds you upon trial useful and active, he will add a little salary at
the end of the year.”
“I am very thankful to you, sir,” said Mark, his eyes expressing much
more than his lips could. “I trust that you never will have cause to be
sorry for your kindness.”
“Is your mother within?” said Mr. Ewart.
Mark bit his lip, and knew not what to reply, divided between fear of
much displeasing his parent, and that of telling a falsehood to his
benefactor.
“She’s gone to the miller’s,” said Madge boldly.
But the clergyman turned away from the wicked little girl, whose word
he never thought of trusting, and repeated his question to Mark, whose
hesitation he could not avoid seeing.
“She is within, sir,” said the boy, after a little pause; then continued
with a painful effort, as he could not but feel that Ann’s conduct
appeared rude and ungrateful to one whom above all men he was anxious to
please; “but she would rather not see you to-day.”
“Very well, I have seen you; you will tell her what I have arranged.”
Mark ventured to glance at the speaker, and saw, with a feeling of
relief, that Mr. Ewart’s face did not look at all angry.
It was more than could be said for Ann’s, as, after the clergyman’s
departure, she came out of her hiding-place again. Her face was flushed,
her manner excited; and, in a fit of ungovernable passion, she twice
struck the unresisting boy.
“Lord Jesus, this I suffer for thee!” thought Mark; and this reflection
took the bitterness from the trial. He was only thankful that he had been
enabled to keep to the truth, and not swerve from the narrow path.
On the following day Mark went to his new master, who lived in a
neighbouring town. He found out the shop of Mr. Lowe without difficulty;
and there was something of comfort and respectability in the appearance
of the establishment that was very encouraging to the boy. To his
unaccustomed eye the ranges of shining brown canisters, each neatly
labelled with its contents; the white sugar-loaves, with prices ticketed
in the window; the large cards, with advertisements of sauces and soap,
and the Malaga raisins, spread temptingly to view, spake of endless
plenty and abundance.
Mark carried a note which Mr. Ewart had given to him, and, entering the
shop, placed it modestly on the counter before Mr. Lowe.
The grocer was rather an elderly man, with a bald head, and mild
expression of face. He opened the note slowly, then looked at Mark over
his spectacles, read the contents, then took another survey of the boy.
Mark’s heart beat fast, he was so anxious not to be rejected.
“So,” said Mr. Lowe, in a slow, soft voice, as if he measured every word
that he spoke, “so you are the lad that is to come here upon trial,
recommended by the Reverend Mr. Ewart. He says that you’ve not been
well brought up; that’s bad, very bad—but that he hopes that your own
principles are good. Mr. Ewart is a pious man, a very zealous minister,
and I am glad to aid him in works of charity like this. If you’re pious,
all’s right, there’s nothing like that; I will have none about me but
those who are decidedly pious!”
Mr. Lowe looked as though he expected a reply, which puzzled Mark
exceedingly, as he had no idea of turning piety to worldly advantage, or
professing religion to help him to a place. He stood uneasily twisting
his cap in his hand, and was much relieved when, a customer coming in,
Lowe handed him over to his shopman.
Radley, the assistant, was a neat-looking little man, very precise and
formal in his manner, at least in the presence of his master. There was
certainly an occasional twinkle in his eye, which made Mark, who was very
observant, suspect that he was rather fonder of fun than might beseem the
shopman of the solemn Mr. Lowe; but his manner, in general, was a sort of
copy of his master’s, and he borrowed his language and phrases.
And now, fairly received into the service of the grocer, Mark seemed to
have entered upon a life of comparative comfort. Mr. Lowe was neither
tyrannical nor harsh, nor was Radley disposed to bully the errand-boy.
Mark’s obliging manner, great intelligence, and readiness to work, made
him rather a favourite with both, and the common comforts of life which
he now enjoyed appeared as luxuries to him.
“I have been climbing a steep hill of difficulty,” thought he, “and now
I have reached a place of rest. How good is the Lord, to provide for me
thus, with those who are his servants!”
That those with whom Mark lived were indeed God’s servants, he at first
never thought of doubting. Was there not a missionary-box placed upon
the counter—was not Mr. Lowe ever speaking of religion—was he not
foremost in every good work of charity—did he not most constantly attend
church?
But there were several things which soon made the boy waver a little in
his opinion. He could not help observing that his employer took care to
lose no grain of praise for anything that he did. Instead of his left
hand not knowing the good deeds of his right, it was no fault of his if
all the world did not know them. Then, his manner a little varied with
the character of his customers. With clergymen, or with those whom he
considered religious, his voice became still softer, his manner more
meek. Mark could not help suspecting that he was not quite sincere. The
boy reproached himself, however, for daring to judge another, and that
one so much more advanced in the Christian life than himself. He thought
that it must be his own inexperience in religion that made him doubt its
reality in Lowe.
Thus a few weeks passed in comfort with Mark; but the pilgrim was
making no progress. It is not well for us to dwell amongst those whose
profession is greater than their practice. The fervour of Mark’s first
love was a little cooled. Alas! in weak, infirm mortals, such as we are,
how inclined is that fervour to cool! There were no strong temptations to
stir up the flame—no anxious fears to drive him to the mercy-seat—his
prayers were perhaps more frequent, but they were less deep and earnest.
Mark was tempted to rest a little upon forms, and think that all must be
right, because others approved.
The Christian must not dream that he is only in danger whilst dwelling
with the careless or profane. The society of professors may be quite as
dangerous, by lulling his conscience to sleep. He is less on his guard
against inward foes, less able to distinguish true religion in his heart,
from the natural desire to please, and many of God’s children on earth
have found the arbour more dangerous than the hill!
Not that Mark did much with which he could reproach himself, unless it
were that he never sought an opportunity of going to see his mother. He
connected nothing but ideas of persecution and unkindness with his home.
He thought that by this time John Dowley might have returned, a man who
had ever treated him with unnatural cruelty; and to say the truth, Mark
rather dreaded going again near the place. I fear that my pilgrim is
falling in the estimation of my reader; but I am drawing no sinless model
of perfection; and, perhaps, if we closely examine our own hearts, even
after they have been enlightened by the Spirit, there may be something
in our own experience which will remind us of this chapter of the life
of the pilgrim. I said that Mark suspected a little the sincerity of
the religious professions of his master. This suspicion was painfully
strengthened by an incident which occurred when he had been a few weeks
under his roof.
One night, after the shop had been closed, and prayers said, and Mark had
retired to his small attic, he fancied that he heard a little noise down
below, and crept from his chamber to listen. All was very still, only the
clock on the stairs seemed to tick twice as loudly as usual. Then again
there was a slight sound, apparently from the shop, and Mark wondered
what, at that hour, it could be. Softly he crept down the creaking stair,
unwilling to disturb his master, who had retired to rest rather earlier
than usual, happening to feel not very well. Mark reached the door which
opened into the shop, and there was no doubt left that somebody was
within engaged in some occupation.
Mark observed that the door, though nearly closed, was not shut, a narrow
line of light showed it to be a little ajar; he pushed it very gently to
widen the opening, and within, to his surprise, saw Radley.
“Who’s there?” exclaimed the shopman; “why, Mark, is it you? That’s
lucky, you’ll come and help me, I daresay. I am so sleepy to-night—but
this must be done.”
“What are you doing?” said Mark, with a feeling of curiosity.
“I’m mixing this with that, as you see,” replied Radley, pointing to two
heaps of what looked like coffee on the counter.
[Illustration: MARK’S INDIGNATION AT DECEIT.]
“Why should you mix them?”
“Oh, ask no questions, and I’ll tell you no stories!” said Radley, quite
dropping his usual formal manner, with a laughing look in his eye which
startled the boy.
“Do you mean—is it possible—” exclaimed Mark, his face flushing with
indignation as he spoke, “that you are mixing chicory with coffee in
order to deceive our master’s customers?”
“You are very green, or you would know that it is constantly done.”
“It cannot be right,” said Mark, “to sell an article under a false name,
and get a false price for it too! Surely Mr. Lowe does not know what you
are doing!”
“Oh, you most simple of simpletons!” laughed Radley; “do you suppose that
I am doing it for my own diversion, to serve my pious master against his
will?”
“You do it by his orders then?”
“Of course I do.”
“I could never have believed that he could have been guilty of such a
thing!” exclaimed Mark, more shocked and disgusted by the hypocrisy of
Lowe, than by any of the open wickedness that he had ever witnessed. “And
you, Radley, how can your conscience let you do what is so wrong?”
“My conscience is my master’s, I only obey what he commands.”
“Your conscience your master’s! Oh no!” exclaimed Mark; “you will have to
answer for yourself before God.”
“If I refused to do this I should have to leave the grocer’s service.”
“Better leave his service than the service of God.”
“I say, young man,” replied Radley, still good-humouredly, though with
some appearance of scorn, “mind your own business, and leave me to mind
mine. When you carry the goods to the customers, no one asks you whether
the parcel holds tea or gooseberry leaves.”
“But can you endure to kneel down, and repeat prayers to the Almighty,
when you know—”
“I tell you,” said Radley, as though he thought it a joke, “my master’s
religion and mine is like the articles in this shop, it is mixed. But
what matter? it makes as good a show as any, it serves our purpose, and
I really think that the world likes to be taken in. We get on, look
respectable, and thrive; what can be better than that?”
“Better to starve—better to struggle up hill all one’s life, beset with
difficulties and trials.”
“We’ll leave the starving to you, if you like it; and as for struggling
up hill, only fools do that, if they can find an easier way round! Now
go to your bed, and rest quiet my lad, and leave me and my conscience to
settle our affairs together.”
Startled as from a dream, Mark returned to his attic, disappointed,
disgusted, and grieved. “Can a blessing ever rest on this house?” thought
he; “can Lowe ever, even in this world, be really a gainer by such awful
hypocrisy and deceit? Oh, I have been too little on my guard in this
place, I have been a drowsy pilgrim on the way—blessed be God that I am
awakened before too late!”