THE ARMOUR AND THE BATTLE.
“Then did Christian begin to be afraid, and to cast in his
mind whether to go back or to stand his ground.”—_Pilgrim’s
Progress._
Our Pilgrim rose early, with a heart full of hope. He determined not to
quit the house till he had seen Mr. Searle or his daughter again, and
waited in the hall till they should come down. Mark’s attention was at
once riveted by what he had never seen before—a complete suit of armour
hung against the wall; and while he was looking at it, and admiring its
various parts, the master of the house approached him unobserved.
“That is a fine suit of armour,” said Mr. Searle, “such as was worn in
the time of the Crusades, when warlike pilgrims went to the Holy Land.
Perhaps you have never heard of such?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Mark, modestly.
“There is the helmet, you see, to protect the head; the mail to cover the
body and breast; the weighty sword, and the pointed shield. You observe
the red cross upon it?”
The looks of Mark showed the interest that he took.
“We’re not done with fighting yet,” said the old gentleman, in a quaint
manner which was peculiar to him. “While our three old enemies—the world,
the flesh, and the devil—are lying in ambush to attack us, and the Holy
Land which we hope to gain is before us, we must be armed pilgrims, ay,
and fighting pilgrims too!”
“Pray go on, sir,” said Mark, as the old gentleman stopped; “I so like to
hear of these things.”
“You see that our Leader has not sent us into battle unprovided. We have
the Helmet of Proof, the Hope of Salvation, to prevent sinful doubts from
wounding the head. Then the Breastplate of Righteousness to guard us; for
we may be full of knowledge, and quite correct in our belief, but if we
give way to wilful sin, of what avail is the soundness of the head when
the heart is pierced by the fiery dart? Nor must we neglect the Girdle of
Truth, nor the preparation of the Gospel of Peace for our feet.”
“That is a part of the armour which I do not understand,” said Mark.
“No? Long before you are as old as I, I hope that you will experimentally
understand it. Yet I should think that you had known already what it is
to tread some of the rough ways of life.”
Mark heartily assented to this.
“And every one knows the difference between walking with shoes and
without them. Were I barefoot, I should start if I trod on a thorn,
I should bleed if I struck against a sharp-edged stone; and so it is
with the people of this world who are not shod with the Preparation of
Peace. I have known the smallest thing worry and fret them; they were
as wretched from one small brier in their path, as if it had been one
labyrinth of thorns.”
“And are all Christians safe from these little vexations?”
“I can’t say that,” replied the old gentleman, “I can’t say that. There
are many who cannot tread down small difficulties, but go on their whole
way to heaven shrinking and starting at the least of them. But it strikes
me that is because, while they have put on all the rest of the armour of
God, they have neglected the sandals for the feet.
“Well, to proceed with our description of the armoury of heaven—We come
next to the most wonderful, the most powerful of weapons—the Sword of
the Spirit, which is the Word of God. Now this flashed so bright, and
its edge was so sharp, in the days of early Christianity, that many were
its conquests in various parts of the world, and old idolatry fell fast
before it. But when the great Enemy found that it could not be withstood,
he devised a deep-laid scheme to destroy its effect, and made a curious
sheath, all covered with jewels and gold; and the name of this sheath was
Superstition. In this, for many ages, was the Word of God buried; and
though flashes of its brightness shone out here and there, it was almost
quite hidden from the eyes of the people, till Wickliffe, and Luther, and
many Reformers beside—some yielding up their blood and their lives for
the truth—drew it from its fatal scabbard, clear and glittering again;
and it sent forth a flash at its unsheathing that was seen over almost
all Europe, and enlightened the distant shores of the New World.
“And now the last thing that we come to is the strong shield Faith.
Without this neither helmet nor breastplate could have power to resist
the shafts of the Enemy. St. Peter threw it aside in a moment of fear,
and instantly his righteousness was pierced through and through. And it
is not only in battle that our faith is precious; we pillow our head upon
it when we rest, and when we take water from the wells of salvation,
it is in the hollow of this shield alone that we can raise it to our
thirsting lips.”
Ellen now came down-stairs, with her Bible in her hand; that Bible which
Mark had prized so dearly, and parted with so very unwillingly.
“I could not have the heart to deprive you of this,” said she; “take
it, and keep it, and may you ever find it to be your best comforter and
guide.”
With what grateful joy Mark replaced the Bible in his bosom, and with
what a courageous heart, about an hour after, he set forth to ask his
mother’s consent to remaining with Mr. Searle! He had very little doubt
of obtaining it, or he would hardly have advanced with such a light,
joyous step. When he had quitted the town, and found himself on the open
plain, he gave vent to his happy emotions in songs of praise. We are
commanded in everything to give thanks; let us never forget to do so when
all seems smiling around us; no—and even when mists fall, and tempests
gather over our heads, let us still remember in _everything_ to give
thanks.
How many thoughts were awakened in the Pilgrim’s mind, as again he
approached his home! There was the stile where the Bible had been found;
there the stone upon which he had sat to read it, and felt such terror
flash upon his mind at the words, “_The soul that sinneth, it shall
die_;” there was the piece of ground which the children had been weeding,
when he warned them, but vainly, to flee from the wrath to come. There
was not a thistle now left on the spot; and as he looked at the earth,
all cleared and prepared for seed, Mark silently prayed that the grace of
God might likewise so prepare and make ready the hearts of his own little
sister and brothers. He could see over the fields, at a little distance,
the old ruin where he had first met Mr. Ewart; not a day had passed,
since that meeting, in which Mark had not prayed with grateful affection
for him whose words had been such a blessing to his soul.
And now Mark stood at the door of the cottage; a loud, coarse voice
which he heard from within announced to him, before he reached it, that
John Dowley had returned. There were other things to show that a change
had taken place, of which Mark became aware as he entered the cottage.
A large pewter pot stood at the door, a black bottle and dirty pack of
cards appeared on the table, a joint of meat was roasting before the
fire, and Ann, who started with surprise on seeing him, wore a silk shawl
and golden ear-rings. John must have returned with his pockets full of
money.
He was sitting at the table, a short, stout-built man, with a louring
expression in his bleared eye, and a face flushed by intemperance; no
one who beheld them together would have imagined him to be the father of
the pale, thoughtful, intellectual boy, to whose greeting he returned no
answer but something resembling a growl. Mark fancied that Ann looked
sorry to see him; but that, perhaps, was no sign of unkindness. Jack,
Madge, and Ben, sprang eagerly forward, full of news, and of things to
show him.
“See, Mark, what father has brought me!”
“We’re getting so rich now!”
“Look at my brooch and my bracelets!”
Such were the sort of exclamations which, uttered all together, took the
place of any words of welcome.
Mark, in his secret heart, thanked Heaven that it was not his lot to
remain in this place.
“Sit down, Mark,” said Ann, looking joyless, notwithstanding her finery;
“and be silent, you children, will you? One can’t hear one’s own voice,
in the midst of so much noise.”
The children might not have obeyed their mother very readily, had not a
savage look from John seconded her words.
“I thought that you had a good situation, Mark,” continued the woman;
“you’ve not been so foolish as to leave it?”
“You have not heard, then, of the fire which took place yesterday:
poor Mr. Lowe has been burned out of house and home. But a far better
situation has been offered to me. If you consent, and if father approve,
I shall go to Yorkshire next week, with—”
“Yorkshire!” muttered John; “and what’s the gentleman’s name?”
“Searle; he lives at a place called Silvermere.”
“Silvermere!” exclaimed both Dowley and his wife at once. Anne added, in
a voice that was scarcely audible, “That’s close to Castle Fontonore!”
“Everything is arranged for me,” continued Mark; “but I thought that it
would not be right to go so far without coming and asking your consent.”
“Consent!” thundered Dowley, in a tone so loud that the cottage rang
again, and the astonished children shrank closer to each other in fear.
“Do you think that I ever would consent to _your_ going _there_?”
Here was a blow so sudden, so unexpected, that it almost took away Mark’s
breath. Recovering himself soon, however, he began, “I should be able to
maintain myself, perhaps even to assist—”
“Don’t say one word more, or—” John uttered a horrible oath, but left his
hearers to imagine, from his clenched hand and savage look, what was the
threat which he intended should follow.
“At least,” said Mark, in an agitated voice, “allow me to return and
tell Mr. Searle that you forbid me to go with him. He would think me so
ungrateful—”
“What do I care what he thinks!”
“Oh, is it not enough,” cried Mark, in bitterness of spirit, “that my way
is barred, that my hopes are ruined—” he could not speak on, his heart
was too full.
“If he isn’t going to cry!” whispered Jack.
“A pretty pilgrim, to be so soft!” murmured Ben.
These mocking words roused the spirit of the persecuted boy, but it was
rather an earthly spirit of indignation than a spirit of endurance for
the Lord’s sake.
“Let him go,” said Anne, “and tell the gentleman that he can’t serve him;
he can just say that you’ve found something better for him.”
“He won’t return if I once let him go.”
“Yes, he’ll return; won’t you, Mark?”
“Yes, I will,” replied the boy, with difficulty restraining his tears at
even so slight a mark of kindness. John gave ungracious permission rather
by silence than words, and Mark left the cottage almost choking with his
feelings.
It was a little time before he could regain sufficient composure even to
look his difficulties in the face. Oh, it is hard to go down into the
deep Valley of Humiliation, and few are those called upon suddenly to
descend from their high hopes but meet with some slips by the way!
Mark was tempted, and this was a grievous temptation, to doubt even God’s
goodness and mercy towards him. Why was he placed in a situation so
painful, why suddenly plunged back into that furnace of trial from which
he had so lately been snatched? It seemed to Mark as if the Almighty had
forsaken him, as if God had forgotten to be gracious, and had left a poor
mortal to be tempted beyond what he could bear!
The pilgrims to heaven must expect on their way thither to meet sometimes
with trials like this. The Evil One whom they served in the days of
their ignorance will not suffer a victim to escape him, without making
efforts—strong and subtle efforts too—to draw back the ransomed soul to
his service. He put rebellious thoughts into the mind of Mark, like so
many fiery darts, to make him chafe with an impatient and despairing
spirit, under the difficulty of obeying the fifth commandment; and which
of us dare say that in such an inward struggle we should have stood our
ground better than he?
But Mark had not been so lately warned and armed, to make no fight
against his Enemy. He had still power to lift up his heart in prayer;
to try to recall some precious promise on which to stay his sinking
spirit. “_Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end_,” was the word from
Scripture with which he now met the Enemy. The Saviour whom he loved
was beside him here, the Saviour was witnessing his struggle with sin,
would help him, would bless him, if his faith failed not. Oh, better that
wretched abode with the presence of his Lord, than the stateliest palace
without it! Could he who had been forgiven so much, could he who had been
promised so much, faint in the moment of trial! Where should the soldier
be but in the battle—what should a pilgrim do but bear his cross!
With thoughts like these poor Mark was struggling for submission, and
resisting the suggestions of evil; but the tempter had yet another shaft
in his quiver, and tried by arousing another passion to crush down the
resistance of piety and conscience. Mark heard a quick step behind him,
felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and turning round beheld John Dowley.
“You walk fast,” said the man; “I could hardly overtake you. You were
going to the town, were you not? well, I’ve a little job for you to do
for me there.”
Mark signified how readily he would do it.
“You see these two bright sovereigns,” said the man, taking two yellow
pieces from a heavily filled purse, and putting them into the hand of
the boy. “I want these changed—you understand me; buy some trifle at two
different shops—mark me, two shops not too near each other; and bring
back the change in silver.”
“What trifles do you want?” said Mark, poising the coins upon his finger.
“Anything—gingerbread, or sugar-plums, if you like; only see that the
change is right.”
Mark struck the two pieces against one another; he did so again, as if
not satisfied with the sound. “Are you sure that these are good?” said he.
“What does that matter to you? put them in your pocket, and do as I bid
you.”
“Forgive me,” replied the boy; “but I dare not.”
“Dare not! I did not know that you were such a coward. What are you
afraid of—the police?”
“I fear doing wrong; I fear offending my God. Oh, father, I _cannot_ pass
that money.”
“Say that word again,” muttered Dowley between his teeth, raising a
cudgel that he grasped in his hand.
“Ask anything else—anything that is not wrong! I consented for you to
give up my place. I obeyed you, though in sorrow and disappointment; but
this thing I may not, cannot do, even if refusing cost me my life!”
“Then take the consequences!” exclaimed the man in a fury of passion,
seizing the unhappy boy with one hand, while with the other he showered
on him a torrent of blows. Mark winced beneath them, struggled, called
out for assistance; but neither fear nor torture made him lift a hand
against his earthly oppressor, or yield to the assault of the tempter
within, who urged him to procure mercy at the price of his conscience!
Wearied at length with his barbarous labour, Dowley flung his bruised,
bleeding, gasping victim into a dry ditch, and muttering to himself that
he had served him out at last, walked with long, hurried strides from the
spot.