Out in the Forty-Five Part 57

"It will be dreadful," he answered, "if we provoke it at the Lord's hand."

"One feels as if one would like to save such men," I said.

"Do you? I feel as if I should like to save such Churches. It is like a son's feeling who sees his own mother going down to the pit of destruction, and is utterly powerless to hold out a hand to save her.

She will not be saved. And I wonder, sometimes, whether any much sorer anguish can be on this side Heaven!"

I was silent.

"It makes it all the harder," he said, in a troubled voice, "when the Father's other sons, whose mother she is not, jeer at the poor falling creature, and at her own children for their very anguish in seeing it.

I do not think the Father can like them to do that. It is hard enough for the children without it. And surely He loves her yet, and would fain save her and bring her home."

And I felt he spoke in parables.

Note 1. At this date, an innkeeper stood higher in the estimation of society than at present, and a clergyman considerably lower, unless the latter were a dignitary, or a man whose birth and fortune were regarded as ent.i.tling him to respect apart from his profession.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

HOW THINGS CAME ROUND.

"They say, when cities grow too big, Their smoke may make the skies look dim; And so may life hide G.o.d from us, But still it cannot alter Him.

And age and sorrow clear the soul, As night and silence clear the sky, And hopes steal out like silver stars, And next day brightens by and by."

ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO.

On the Monday morning, we left Gloucester on horseback, with two baggage-horses beside those we rode. We dined at Worcester, and lay that night at Bridgenorth. On the Tuesday, we slept at Macclesfield; on the Wednesday, at Colne; on the Thursday, at Appleby; and on Friday, about four o'clock in the afternoon, we reached home.

On the steps, waiting for us, stood Father and Sophy.

I had not been many minutes in the house before I felt, in some inward, indescribable way, that things were changed. I wonder what that is by which we feel things that we cannot know? It was not the house which was altered. The old things, which I had known from a child, all seemed to bid me welcome home. It was Father and Sophy in whom the change was.

It was not like Sophy to kiss me so warmly, and call me "darling." And I was not one bit like Father to stroke my hair, and say so solemnly, "G.o.d bless my la.s.sie!" I have had many a kiss and a loving word from him, but I never heard him speak of G.o.d except when he repeated the responses in church, or when--

I wondered what had come to Father. And how I did wonder when after supper Sam brought, not a pack of cards, but the big Bible which used to lie in the hall window with such heaps of dust on it, and he and Maria and Bessy sat down on the settle at the end of the hall, and Father, in a voice which trembled a little, read a Psalm, and then we knelt down, and said the Confession, and the General Thanksgiving, and the Lord's Prayer. I looked at my Aunt Kezia, and saw that this was nothing new to her. And then I remembered all at once that she had hinted at something which we should see when we came home, and had bidden us keep our eyes open.

The pack of cards did not come out at all.

The next morning I was the first to come down. I found Sam setting the table in the parlour. We exchanged good-morrows, and Sam hoped I was not very tired with the journey. Then he said, without looking up, as he went on with his work--

"Ye'll ha'e found some changes here, I'm thinking, Miss."

"I saw one last night, Sam," said I, smiling.

"There's mair nor ane," he replied. "There's three things i' this warld that can ne'er lie hidden: ye may try to cover them up, but they'll ay out, sooner or later. And that's blood, and truth, and the grace o'

G.o.d."

"I am not so sure the truth of things always comes out, Sam," said I.

"Ye've no been sae lang i' this warld as me, Miss Cary," said Sam. "And 'deed, sometimes 'tis a lang while first. But the grace o' G.o.d shows up quick, mostly. 'Tis its nature to be hard at wark. Ye'll no put barm into a batch o' flour, and ha'e it lying idle. And the kingdom o'

Heaven is like unto leaven: it maun wark. Ay, who shall let it?"

"Is Mr Liversedge well liked, Sam?" I asked, when I had thought a little.

"He's weel eneuch liked o' them as is weel liking," said Sam, setting his forks in their places. "The angels like him, I've nae doubt; and the lost sheep like him: but he does nae gang doun sae weel wi' the ninety and nine. They'd hae him a bit harder on the sinners, and a bit safter wi' the saints--specially wi' theirsels, wha are the vara crown and flower o' a' the saints, and ne'er were sinners--no to speak o', ye ken, and outside the responses. And he disna gang saft and slippy doun their throats, as they'd ha'e him, but he is just main hard on 'em. He tells 'em gin they're saints they suld live like saints, and they'd like the repute o' being saints without the fash o' living. He did himsel a main deal o' harm wi' sic-like by a discourse some time gane--ye'll judge what like it was when I tell ye the Scripture it was on: 'He that saith he abideth in Him ought himself also so to walk even as He walked.' And there's a gey lot of folks i' this warld 'd like vara weel to abide, but they're a hantle too lazy to walk. And the minister, he comes and stirs 'em up wi' the staff o' the Word, and bids 'em get up and gang their ways, and no keep sat down o' the promises, divertin'

theirsels wi' watching ither folk trip. He's vara legal, Miss Cary, is the minister; he reckons folk suld be washed all o'er, and no just dip their tongues in the fountain, and keep their hearts out. He disna make much count o' giving the Lord your tongue, and ay hauding the De'il by the hand ahint your back. And the o'er gude folks disna like that.

They'd liever keep friendly wi' baith."

"Then you think the promises were not made to be sat on, Sam?" said I, feeling much diverted with Sam's quaint way of putting things.

Sam settled the cream-jug and sugar-bowl before he answered.

"I'll tell ye how it is, Miss. The promises was made to be lain on by weary, heavy-laden sinners that come for rest, and want to lay down both theirsels and their burden o' sins on the Lord's heart o' love: but they were ne'er made for auld Jeshurun to sit on and wax fat, and kick the puir burdened creatures as they come toiling up the hill. Last time I was in Carlisle, I went to see a kinsman o' mine there as has set up i'

the cabinet-making trade, and he showed me a balk o' yon bonnie new wood as they ha'e getten o'er o' late--the auld Vicar used to ha'e his dining-table on't; it comes frae some outlandish pairts, and they call it a queer name; I canna just mind it the noo--I reckon I'm getting too auld to tak' in new notions."

"Mahogany?"

"Ay, maybe that's it: I ken it minded me o' mud and muggins. Atweel, my cousin tauld me they'd a rare call for siccan wood, and being vara costly, they'd hit o' late in the trade on a new way o' making furniture, as did nae come to sae mickle--they ca' it veneer."

"Oh yes, I know," said I.

"Ay, ye'll hae seen it i' London toun, I daur say? all that's bad's safe to gang there." I believe Sam thinks all Londoners a pack of thieves.

"Atweel, Miss Cary, there's a gran' sicht o' veneered Christians i' this country. They look as spic-span, and as glossy, and just the richt shade o' colour, and bonnily grained, and a' that--till ye get ahint 'em, and then ye see that, saving a thin bit o' facing, they're just common deal, like ither folk. Ay, and it's maistly the warst bits o'

the deal as is used up ahint the veneer. It is, sae! Ye see, 'tis no meant to last, but only to sell. And there's a monie folks 'll gi'e the best price for sic-like, and fancy they ha'e getten the true thing. But I'm thinkin' the King 'll no gi'e the price. His eyes are as a flame o'

fire, and they'll see richt through siccan rubbish, and burn it up."

"And Mr Liversedge, I suppose, is the real mahogany?"

"He is sae: and he's a gey awkward way of seeing ahint thae bits o'

veneered stuff, and finding out they're no worth the money. And they dinna like him onie better for 't."

"But I hope he does not make a mistake the other way, Sam, and take the real thing for the veneer?"

"You trust him for that. He was no born yestre'en. There's a hantle o'

folk makes that blunder, though."

Away went Sam for the kettle. When he brought it back, he said,--"Miss Cary, ye'll mind Annie Crosthwaite, as lives wi' auld Mally?"

Ah, did I not remember Annie Crosthwaite?--poor, fragile, pretty spring flower, that some cruel hand plucked and threw away, and men trod on the bemired blossom as it lay in the mire, and women drew their skirts aside to keep from touching the torn, soiled petals? "Yes, Sam," I said, in a low voice.

"Ay, the minister brought yon puir la.s.sie a message frae the gude Lord--'Yet return again to Me'--and she just took it as heartily as it was gi'en, and went and fand rest--puir, straying, lost sheep!--but when she came to the table o' the Lord, the ninety and nine wad ha'e nane o'

her--she was gude eneuch for Him in the white robe o' His richteousness, but she was no near gude eneuch for them, sin she had lost her ain--and not ane soul i' a' the parish wad kneel down aside o' her. Miss Cary, I ne'er saw the minister's e'en flash out sparks o' fire as they did when he heard that! And what, think ye, said he?"

"I should like to hear, Sam."

"'Vara gude,' says he. 'I beg,' he says, 'that none o' ye all will come to the Table to-morrow. Annie Crosthwaite and I will gang thither our lane: but there'll be three,' says he, 'for the blessed Lord Himsel'

will come and eat wi' us, and we wi' Him, for He receiveth sinners, and eateth with them.' And he did it, for a' they tald him the Bishop wad be doun on him. 'Let him,' says he, 'and he shall hear the haill story': and not ane o' them a' wad he let come that morn. They were no worthy, he said."