Chapter II: Its Results (4)

"I haven't asked her yet," was the dry answer. Mr. Reston thought he had better not pursue the subject, and relapsed into silence. After he had left the house, Mrs. Reston examined the contents of the cellaret, and came to the conclusion that Jarvis had been helping herself in large quantities from the stores of wine and spirits kept there.

She had been visiting with her husband the previous evening, and the housemaid had also been out, thus leaving every opportunity for Jarvis to indulge in the stimulants she had stolen.

Mrs. Reston also remembered that on returning home she had found the key of the cellaret, which she had missed, lying on the floor close to the side-board, and the door locked as usual. Symonds had come in to prayers alone, and said that cook had gone to bed with a bad headache.

"Send Jarvis to me as soon as she comes down," she said to the housemaid, who answered her summons.

"It's too disappointing," she soliloquised; "I felt so positive that Jarvis would do well; I am sure there is nothing I have left undone to help her in her attempts to abstain." Kind, good Mrs. Reston, there is just one thing you have left undone; but when you shortly learn how you have failed to do all that was necessary to effectually help your weak sister, will you have sufficient courage and love to enable you to remedy the past and help to save a soul from perishing in its sin?

There was a knock at the door, and Jarvis entered with swollen, downcast eyes and face redder than usual.

"Well, Jarvis," said Mrs. Reston, after a moment's silence.

"I've got nothing to say, ma'am; I can go as soon as you like," sullenly replied the woman.

Mrs. Reston sighed. Was it any use to give Jarvis another trial, or should she send her away at once? She looked at the half-averted face and the nervous hands that were busily folding and unfolding the hem of her apron, and with a wave of pity surging in her heart for the sinning, suffering creature before her, said quickly and tenderly:

"But I don't want you to go, Jarvis. I want to save you, if you will let me. Come, tell me what else I can do for you."

Jarvis looked up, half doubting the evidence of her senses.

"Ma'am," she gasped, between heavy, choking sobs; "do you really mean to say that you care about saving such an ungrateful wretch as me?"

"Why, Jarvis, of course I do. I will do _anything_ to help you."

"Would you, oh would you do anything, ma'am?"

Again Mrs. Reston repeated the assurance. Battling with her emotion, Jarvis said: "I'm ashamed to ask such a favour at your hands, ma'am, but I believe there's only one thing under heaven that would be the saving of me."

"What is that, Jarvis?"

There was a long pause, and then Jarvis blurted out: "I've never signed the pledge, ma'am; but if you'd draw up some kind of a promise to keep from the drink, and put your own name to it, and let me sign after, it would be the saving of me."

"What a strange thing to ask, Jarvis! What good would it do you to know that I, who am always moderate in my use of stimulants, had given them up?"

"Oh, ma'am, it would make me feel that somebody in this wide world cared enough for me to give up something for my sake. I've never had any one to care for me since my mother died fifteen years ago. I made up my mind that I would be independent of every one and look after myself, and when I felt dull I just took a glass, until I got into the habit of taking too much. When I came here you were so kind to me that I couldn't help feeling you were different to my other mistresses who only seemed to care how much they could get out of me, and I've been that grateful, ma'am, I would have done anything for you; but last night I got low, and the longing for drink took me, and something whispered: 'There's your mistress for all her kind words, she's none so different as the rest of them, only she's got another way with her. You're a good cook and suit her well while you keep from the drink, and she thinks if she speaks fair she'll manage you well enough.' And then, ma'am, I thought of your beautiful wines which you could take without any harm to yourself, while my beer had done such cruel work for me, and suddenly the thought came: 'Why, your mistress cares for those luxuries that she takes every day far more than she does for you, you poor thing; she wouldn't give them up to save you from filling a drunkard's grave.' Then I grew desperate, and came in here to see if there was anything left about, and the key for once was in the side-board, and, and----"

"Yes, I know, my poor Jarvis, and now let me tell you that I do care more for you a thousand times than for the luxuries you speak of, and to prove it, I will never touch them again. I promise that, for your sake, Jarvis, do you understand?" For Jarvis was standing looking stupified. Her wide-open eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she fell at her mistress' feet, and seizing her hand covered it with kisses.

"Oh, ma'am, you've saved me, you've saved me," she said again and again.

Yes, Jarvis was saved. From that time she steadily fought against her deadly sin, until its besetment lost all power over her.

After years of devoted service she became the happy wife of one who loved and trusted her, and to whom she confided the story of her past degradation, and how she was reclaimed by the efforts and self-sacrifice of her former mistress.

WHY THE ANGELS REJOICED.

"GOOD-NIGHT, Mrs. Seymour. Must you leave so quickly?" asked a lady of an elderly woman, who was hurrying past her pew with the stream of worshippers that were leaving the chapel after the Sabbath-evening service was ended, without waiting for the short prayer-meeting which usually followed.

"Yes, ma'am, I can't wait a minute longer, for my husband's promised to go to the Mission Hall, and the angels are going to rejoice to-night," answered Margaret Seymour with a radiant light of expectancy upon her pale face.

"God grant that you may not be disappointed," returned the lady, with a cordial pressure of the hand, and, as Margaret hastened out, her friend inwardly marvelled at the strong faith which, during a lifetime of neglect and cruelty, had sustained her poorer sister through terrible seasons of hardship and toil.

Margaret Seymour had early left a Christian home to become the wife of a man, who, destitute of any real religion himself, soon commenced to mock and persecute the woman who had been induced to take a false step, hoping to win her husband to seek for himself the joys which were hers. But, hitherto, the hope had proved vain. Richard Seymour had sunk lower and lower, until, enfeebled in health by his drunkenness and follies, his family mainly depended upon the exertions of the wife and mother for daily bread. Still, Margaret's faith did not fail. If she worked incessantly all day long, and often far into the night, her prayers went up without intermission to the Throne of Grace. There had been a time when she had trusted the answer was at hand, for her husband had been induced to attend a small Mission Hall near by, and whilst there had been powerfully moved, and for a few weeks had given up some of his sinful pursuits; but just when Margaret and the friends from the Hall were beginning to rejoice over Richard as a "brand plucked from the burning," he fell back into his former habits.

Margaret was sorely disappointed; but, casting herself again upon the faithful word of her God, she took up the cross apportioned to her, and went on her way in confident assurance of coming blessing. But for some weeks past her desire for her husband's salvation had intensified, and she had felt moved to pray with an earnestness that surprised even herself. Her cry became that of the patriarch: "I will not let Thee go, except Thou bless me." But no apparent result manifested itself. Indeed, Richard appeared to grow more hardened and desperate than ever, and it required all the grace and patience that Margaret possessed, to endure his continual cruelty with meekness.

On the Saturday evening preceding the Sunday when she had expressed her conviction of a joyful termination to her anxious watching, a knock was heard at her door, and opening it, the kindly face of one of the workers from the Mission Hall was seen.

"Is your husband in, Mrs. Seymour?" asked the man.

"Yes," answered Margaret, in an undertone, "he's just sitting down a bit before going out for the evening; but come in and you'll catch him nicely."

"Good-evening, Mr. Seymour, I'm glad to find you at home," were the words that caused Richard to look up in angry surprise.

"Evenin'," he muttered by way of reply, without removing his pipe from his mouth.

"I'm real sorry to have missed you from the Hall for so long, Mr. Seymour, and I've been wondering whether you meant to leave us altogether. We only want to be your friends, you know, and you don't want to run away from those who would do you a good turn if you'd let them," said the worker, nothing daunted by his ungracious reception.

Again Richard looked up, and perhaps the fact that his visitor was a working-man not much above his own station in life, rendered him more susceptible to the attention shown him. And besides, the spoken words were not mere empty talk, Richard could not but acknowledge; for practical help in dire need had found its way to the poverty-stricken home, from the Christian friends who had rallied round his wife. So, with half-shamed face, he answered gruffly:

"I didn't think of comin' again; such places ain't for the likes of me."

"And who do you think they are for then? Why, my man, it's poor folks like you and me, who wouldn't feel comfortable in grand churches and chapels, that want such homely places, where we can slip in and out without being looked down upon."

"Maybe you're right so fur; but you don't want no smokin', drinkin' fellers, anyhow," responded Richard.

"You're making another mistake, Mr. Seymour; for the truth is, we're better pleased to see them turn up than any other sort of folks; so you'd better give me leave to call for you to-morrow evening at eight o'clock, before the service begins."

"Well, I'm beat. You mean to take it out of me, somehow, and I may as well give in, but you needn't trouble to call. I'll come, sure enough."

"That's settled," said the man, rising to go, adding, as he offered his hand to Richard, "You won't forget."

"No fear, with my old woman to pester me," answered Richard, with a grim relaxing of his features. But as the door closed behind the visitor, his face darkened, and, although he said nothing to his wife, he sat gloomily watching the fire for a long time, then, muttering something about "them interferin' folks," he put his pipe into his pocket, and passed out into the street.

"God grant they may have interfered to some purpose!" said Margaret.

Hastily finishing the domestic duties which were filling her hands, she turned for encouragement to the Book which had proved its power to solace and cheer in the darkest hour. Presently, with thought and desire too intense to allow the usual posture of devotion, she rose, and began to pace her kitchen, while she wrestled and interceded for her sinning husband. It was during that memorable hour of strong crying, that the sweet assurance of a speedy answer was given; and the language of petition no longer poured from her lips, but gave place to that of thanksgiving for another repenting one, over whom there would shortly be rejoicing "in the presence of the angels."

But to the eye of sense, nothing seemed more unlikely, as Richard staggered home late that night in his usual drunken condition, and rose the next morning in the worst of tempers, following her footsteps from place to place, with the evident purpose of provoking her with his cruel taunts, until she should retaliate. Clothed in the armour of God, Margaret, however, withstood all the fiery darts that were flung around her during that eventful day. As the winter afternoon waned, she observed, with uneasiness, that Richard made no attempt to change the working clothes in which he had lounged about all day, for the better suit and the clean shirt, which she had managed by dint of self-denial should never be wanting.

"I'm pretty sure he'll make that his excuse for not going to the Hall to-night; but there, the Lord isn't confined to that place, and He can just as well save Richard in his dirty shirt at home, if He thinks best, as up there; and He's going to do it, sure enough; for didn't He tell me the angels should rejoice over him?" she said to herself. She ventured, however, a quiet remonstrance, saying: "Your Sunday things are laid out, Richard, and you'd better get a wash; you'll feel fresher." But the only answer she received was a curt: "Mind your own business, woman."

Meanwhile, Richard himself was feeling his own misery more deeply than he would have confessed to a living soul. "I'd like to escape from it all; but I've gone too far; I've had my chances, if ever a man had, and I'd like to know what good'll come of my goin' to the Hall and seein' all those folks again; it'll only make me more miserable than I am. I wish I hadn't promised, and I've half a mind to turn into the 'Blue Boar' instead," muttered the man to himself.

"Richard," said his wife as she put on bonnet and shawl, and picked up her Bible and hymn-book, after tea was over; "I'm going up to the chapel, but the sermon will be over in plenty of time for me to get back to the Mission-place. You'll be sure to be dressed and ready waiting for me."

"I shan't promise nothin'," growled Richard; but although Margaret heard the words as she went out, she left the house with a light heart. Altogether uncertain of his own intention, Richard strode about the room, his pipe in his mouth, and his hands in his pockets.

"Anyhow," he said, "I may as well have a look at the water," and going to the sink he washed himself for the first time that day. And then he sat down, making no further attempt to prepare himself for his wife's return. "She never lets a feller have any peace," he said, inwardly blaming her for his mental unrest. He was sitting in his chair, still smoking, when Margaret returned.

"O, Richard, you are not ready, and we shall be late!" she said.

"I never told you I was goin'," he answered, scowling at her.

"No, but you told Mr. Brown so, last night; and if you aren't there soon, he's sure to come round, and see what's the matter, as he would be certain to suppose you'd keep your promise unless something had happened."

Surely it was heaven-sent wisdom that breathed in the words with which she answered Richard's evasions. She was unprepared for the sudden effect of her reply. Rising in haste, he said: "Here, get me my things as quick as you can; I don't want that feller again." In a few minutes, neatly dressed, Richard went up the street with his rejoicing wife.

They were singing as the two entered; but Margaret walked boldly up to the top of the room, and Richard was reluctantly compelled to follow her. He would have chosen to have slipped into the first seat by the door, from whence egress could have been easy; but his wife determined that once within those four walls, Richard should stay until the end of the meeting. So she allowed him to pass into his seat first, and then she followed him. But there was little fear of Richard being anxious to leave the place; for, after the first prayer, he sat spell-bound, and riveted to the spot, while the Holy Spirit revealed to him his guilt and sin. His wasted life rose before him until the burden of his misery seemed too great to be borne, and he could no longer prevent groans and tears from bearing witness to his anguish of soul.

"Come and speak to my poor husband, will you, please, Mr. Brown?" said Margaret, as the people were dispersing. The man crossed the room, and sought to pour in the balm of Gilead to the wounded conscience.

"You don't think he died for such a big sinner as me?" was the response. "Why, man, you don't know what a life I've led my poor wife there! She's been beaten and kicked, and half-starved most of her time, while I've spent my money in what's ruined body and soul, and you mean to tell me that I may be saved from the hell I deserve?"

"Yes, I mean just that, and the Saviour tells you so in His own words; so there can be no doubt about it."

"Let me know quick what He says," groaned the man. Mr. Brown took a pocket Bible from his coat and read the following passages:

"Then will I sprinkle clean water upon you and ye shall be clean: from all your filthiness and from all your idols, will I cleanse you." "The Son of man is come to seek and to save that which was lost." "I am not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance." "Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." "Him that cometh to Me, I will in no wise cast out."

"Do you mean to say that's written all fair and square, in black and white?" asked Richard, who had been listening with open mouth to the slow reading of the inspired words.

"Yes, I do; here, look for yourself." Richard grasped the book and, following the direction of Mr. Brown's finger, with difficulty spelled out for himself the blessed promises and invitations. As he reluctantly handed the Bible back, a sigh of relief broke from him, and he exclaimed: "Ay, it's there, sure enough! so He came to call sinners, did He? drunkards like me!" A wonderful light overspread his face, and as the truth broke fully upon his troubled mind, he started to his feet crying out: "O, what a mighty Saviour! Bless Him, bless Him, for He died for me!" The workers gathered round in silent joy as the shout of a King rang through the place; but Margaret fell upon her knees and broke into praise that was surely no faint echo of the exulting song which pealed through the courts of heaven as the glad tidings were proclaimed of another soul new-born into the liberty of the sons of God.

"Ah, my dear," said Richard to his wife, as late at night they sat together in their home: "I've been a brute to you and the children; but, God helping me, I'll make amends."

"Don't trust to yourself, Richard, my dear; you'll get plenty of chaff from your mates, and plenty of temptation from within, and you must look for help to Him who's got all needful strength and grace for you," replied Margaret, as they sat and talked with one another far on into the early morning.

* * * * *

"I say, nurse, can't you give this 'ere feller a sleepin' draught, or summat as will keep his mouth shut for a spell? There's no such thing as gettin' a wink o' sleep with him a shoutin' 'glory' all the time," said a rough man who was occupying one of the beds in the infirmary.

"Poor fellow! it's a wonder to me how he can bear so much suffering and never open his lips to complain," answered the nurse, turning her kindly eyes towards the adjoining bed, where lay Richard Seymour, wasted by the ravages of a sore disease, doubtless the result of early excess and long years of intemperance. After witnessing a good confession of his faith before ungodly companions, and for his Master's sake enduring scorn and persecution nobly, he had suddenly been laid low on the bed of death.

"You needn't make any wonder of it, nurse," he answered; "I don't feel as if I could grumble at my pain when my blessed Lord suffered on the cross for me--praise His dear name!"

"Queer kind of a chap, ain't he?" said the man who had first spoken, moving uneasily in his bed.

"Ay, Jim, I wish you knew what it was to feel 'queer' after the same fashion. You may if you like, you know; the same mercy's for you as for me, and O, mates!" said Richard, looking round upon the rows of faces that were turned towards him; "it may be 'queer;' but it's worth while havin' somethin' that will make you so happy when you come to face death, that you can't sleep for thinkin' of the blessed Saviour, and how He's waitin' for you."

So Richard testified to his fellow-sufferers until the last. Early one morning the nurse heard him whisper faintly: "I'll soon be at home over there." The next moment he quietly closed his eyes in death. Verily, a brand plucked from the burning, a sinner saved by grace.

FLETCHER AND SON, PRINTERS, NORWICH.

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

Page 43, "caligraphy" changed to "calligraphy" (calligraphy with an air)

Page 53, "want's" changed to "wants" (this gentleman wants)

Page 88, "it's" changed to "its" (ha' its turn)

Page 115, "want's" changed to "wants" (if the babby wants)