DANGERS, DIFFICULTIES, AND DOUBTS.
“Fear not the lions, for they are chained, and are placed there
for trial of faith where it is; and for the discovery of those
that have none: keep in the midst of the path, and no hurt
shall come unto thee.”—_Pilgrim’s Progress._
It was long before Mark could get to sleep, and he awoke almost before
it was light. He felt a heavy oppression which was new to him, and rose
to open the window. The sky was now of that deep exquisite blue which it
wears the hour before dawn; the few stars that studded the heavens were
growing pale at the approach of morning. The street was perfectly quiet,
not a vehicle was moving about, and the sleepy sound of a cock crowing at
some distance was the only noise that broke the stillness.
“I feel as though I could not rest,” said Mark, “the sun will rise before
long; I will dress myself and go out, and have a quiet time before I
am required to work. I have been keeping too little watch over myself
lately, I have been too easily contented with the little knowledge to
which I have attained. Oh, what if I should have been deceiving myself
all the time—if I have never entered the strait gate at all!” Mark had
lost for a time that sweet assurance which had afforded him such joy
amidst trials.
Putting his Bible in his bosom that he might read it as he walked, Mark
opened the door of his attic. The instant that he did so he became
sensible of a most powerful smell of fire, and the next moment a volume
of smoke came rolling up from below!
Mark sprang down the staircase with anxious haste, every step making him
more certain of the fearful fact that the house of his master was on
fire! He rushed first to the sleeping apartment of Radley, then roused up
the servant of the house, and bidding her throw up the window and call
loudly for assistance, hurried to the bedroom of Mr. Lowe.
Startled from deep sleep, hardly able to comprehend what had happened,
only with a terrible consciousness that it was something dreadful, the
wretched man rose from his pillow, and was half dragged by Mark from
his apartment, which being immediately over the place of the fire, was
becoming very hot, and full of smoke. Such an awakening is terrible
here—but oh, what will it be to the hypocrite hereafter, when the trumpet
of the angel shall rouse him from his grave to behold a universe in
flames!
Assistance was speedily given; the cry of “fire!” brought crowds of
neighbours around; pails of water were passed from hand to hand, and the
fire-engine soon came rattling up the street. The cries and shouts, the
crackling and roaring of the devouring element, the suffocating dense
clouds, through which little could be seen but tongues of fierce flame,
now darting curling round the wood-work, now streaming upwards and
reddening the black canopy of smoke—the stifling heat, the occasional
glimpse of burning rafters, which looked as if glowing red hot in the
fire, all formed a scene which time could never efface from the memory of
those who beheld it!
Half wild with terror, anxiety, and grief, Lowe pushed his way here and
there through the crowd, sometimes urging on the firemen, sometimes
trying to assist them, sometimes standing still, to witness in helpless
misery the destruction of his property. Well might he look on in misery,
for that property was his _all_! The hypocrite had not laid up his
treasure in heaven, and he now beheld, consuming before his eyes, that
for which he had been daily bartering his soul!
Before the sun had reached his mid-day height, the fire had been entirely
subdued. The efforts of the firemen had prevented it from spreading, but
a charred and blackened shell of a house, floors, rafters, windows, all
entirely destroyed, alone remained of the habitation of Lowe!
The unhappy man was offered shelter in the house of a sympathizing
neighbour, and thither Mark went to see him. He found him in a pitiable
state, his mind almost crushed by his misfortune, yet still, true to his
character, he professed submission to the decree of Providence, even
while his excessive grief showed how little he felt it, and intermixed
his lamentations with various texts, thereby edifying his neighbours,
perhaps, but shocking one who knew him better than they did.
He received his errand-boy with great kindness. “One of the most bitter
parts of my trial,” said the really kind-hearted though unprincipled man,
“is that my ruin will throw you and poor Radley upon the world. I suppose
that you will return home directly.”
“I thought that I would go first to Mr. Ewart, and ask his advice.”
“I grieve to say that will no longer be in your power. That excellent
minister was to leave Marshdale for Yorkshire yesterday.”
This piece of information fell like a heavy blow upon Mark, and his face
showed how much he felt it. “Then I must return to the cottage at once,”
said he, in a low tone.
“I can understand your reluctance, my boy, to become a burden upon your
poor parents.”
There was not a particle of hypocrisy in Mark; he wanted no praise for
motives which were not his. “I was not thinking about that,” said he.
“Ah! I understand,” said Lowe, in his own peculiar tone; “you feel being
deprived of the spiritual advantages which you enjoyed while under my
roof.”
“Not exactly that,” replied Mark, hesitating and looking embarrassed,
for there was a mixture of this regret in his reluctance to return home,
though it was not his principal feeling.
The truth was, that Mark dreaded not so much the poverty and discomfort
of Ann’s cottage—though he did not like that—as the positive cruelty
which he would probably have to endure if he returned. Having for some
time slipped his neck from the yoke, he shrank exceedingly from having to
bear it again. A soldier who fights bravely on the battle-field, if he
leave it for a while till his blood cools and his wounds begin to stiffen
and smart, finds it a much greater trial of courage to return to his post
than to stay there without ever quitting it.
But Mark seemed to have no other resource, and bidding a friendly
farewell to his late master, who, whatever he was in the sight of Heaven,
had ever been kind to him, he walked slowly up the street. The gloomy,
threatening clouds above him, seemed like types of his darkened fate,
and the forerunners of a storm. As he proceeded, pondering over the
difficulties of his position, he was startled by the sight of a lady, who
was standing at a door at which she had just knocked. Mark had seen her
but once before, but her face was imprinted on a memory naturally good,
especially as the most important event of his life, his repentance and
turning to God, was in some way connected with her. She was the lady who
had dropped the bag by the stile which contained Mark’s precious Bible.
Now, it had often weighed upon the conscience of the boy, that his
dearest possession was not his by right; and that if ever he met with its
lawful owner, common honesty bound him to restore it. And yet, to give
that away which had been his life—to walk on in darkness, without that
light which had been his comfort and solace till now—Mark felt almost as
though he could not do it, and stood hesitating and arguing in his own
mind till the lady entered the house, and the door closed behind her.
“She is rich, she can buy many others,” whispered the Tempter in his
bosom. “She is certain to have supplied its loss long ago; but you, where
will you find another? You will lose all your religion with your Bible,
and fall under the temptations which you will be certain to meet.” Was
not this _mistrust_ of God’s sustaining power? “And what disgrace,” added
the Tempter, “will it be to own taking and using that which was not
yours! Notwithstanding your care, the book has been injured; it is not
worth returning to a lady. She may question you about the other things in
the bag—the purse, the money, the handkerchief with lace; of course you
cannot betray your family; you will be looked upon, perhaps punished, as
a thief!” These were the suggestions of a _timorous_ spirit, magnifying
every danger by the way.
But against all this was the plain word of God, _Thou shalt not steal_.
To keep anything from its owner that might be restored, was clearly to
break the commandment. So, after a short inward prayer for the help which
he so much needed, with a heart so low, and a frame so much exhausted
by the excitement and fatigue of the morning, that it would have been a
relief to him to have sat down and cried, Mark gently rang the bell.
He felt embarrassed when the servant-maid opened the door, and inquired
what it was that he wanted. But, recovering himself, he asked if he might
speak with the lady who had just entered the house. He said that he had
something which he believed that she had lost; and the servant, without
making any difficulty, ushered him into the parlour.
A silver-haired old gentleman and the lady were there; she had just
opened a piano, and was sitting down to play. Her face looked so gentle
and bright that Mark was somewhat reassured, though most reluctant to
part with his treasure.
“What did you want with me, my good boy,” said the lady, turning round
without quitting her seat, her fingers resting on the silent notes of the
instrument.
[Illustration: MARK RESTORING THE LOST BIBLE.]
Mark drew from his bosom the Bible. “I believe, ma’am, that this is
yours,” said he.
“My long-lost Bible!” exclaimed the lady, rising with an expression of
joy. “Oh! I never thought to see it again. Where could you have found it?”
“Near a stile, where you had dropped it as you went to church.”
“It was in my bag with other things; have you anything else?”
“I have nothing else,” replied Mark, feeling very uneasy.
“What is your name?” said the old gentleman, looking up from his paper.
“Mark Dowley, sir,” answered the boy.
“Mark Dowley! Ellen, have we not heard that name before?”
“Oh yes; ’tis the name of the boy in whom dear Mr. Ewart was interested.
Do you not remember his speaking about him?”
“I remember it perfectly well, my dear; it is easy to imagine what became
of the other contents of the bag.”
“And where are you staying now?” said Ellen, with a look of interest; “I
hope that you have a good situation.”
“I had a good situation last night, but the fire that happened to-day
burned down the house of my master, and now I am abroad in the world.”
Ellen glided to her father, and whispered something in his ear. Mark’s
heart beat very quickly, he scarcely knew why; but it was with a
sensation of hope. After a few minutes of conversation which he could not
hear, Mr. Searle—for that was the gentleman’s name—said aloud, “As you
please, my dear; we certainly were looking out for such a boy. We could
take him with us to Yorkshire; there could be no difficulty about that.”
“Would you like,” said Ellen, bending her kind eyes upon Mark, “to become
one of our household, to accompany us to Silvermere? Your work would be
light, and your situation comfortable. We live scarcely two miles from
Castle Fontonore.”
With a rebound of joy all the greater from the depth of his late
depression, Mark eagerly accepted the offer. Profiting, however, by the
remembrance of past regrets, and desirous to be more faithful to his duty
in future, he added that he must first obtain the consent of his mother.
“You are quite right, my boy,” said Mr. Searle, kindly; “let nothing ever
come between you and your duty to a parent. Her will, next to God’s,
should be your law; you never can do too much for her.”
“But it is not desirable to go till to-morrow,” said Ellen; “those heavy
clouds have burst; only see how it rains! The poor boy looks quite
knocked up already; he could occupy the little room here to-night.”
This arrangement was finally concluded upon, and the weary but thankful
boy again found a haven of rest. A comfortable meal was set before him,
to which he was inclined to do full justice. He enjoyed deep untroubled
sleep that night, and awoke in the morning refreshed and rejoicing. How
the difficulties that he feared had melted away before him! How one
painful effort made had brought its own rich reward!