"True to his Colours" (continued 4)

“Oh, never mind just now; but, please, let me look at the ring.”

She took it from her finger and handed it to him. He examined it carefully, and then nodding his head, with a smile on his lips, said, “I’ll be bound I’ve had this ring in my hands before.”

“It’s yours, then?”

“Nay, it’s not mine. But do you particularly want to know whose it is?”

“Yes, I do; or, rather, my father does, for the simple truth is, it’s father as has got me to wear it; and if you can find out the proper owner, he’ll be obliged to you.”

“Just so. If you don’t mind, then, lending me the ring, I’ll soon find out if I’m right; and I’ll bring it back to your father to-morrow night, and tell him all about it.”

To this Betsy immediately assented, and the clerk went away with the ring in his charge. The following evening he and Thomas Bradly were closeted together in the “Surgery.”

“So,” said Thomas, “you can tell me, I understand, who is the owner of this ring you’ve just returned to me.”

“I think I can,” replied the other; “indeed, I feel pretty sure that I can, though, strangely enough, the owner won’t own to it.”

“How’s that?”

“I can’t say, I’m sure, but so it is.”

“Well, be so good as to tell me what you know about it.”

“I will. You know the Green Dragon,—perhaps I ought to say, you know where it is. I wish I knew as little of the inside of it as you do; it would be better for me, though I’m no drunkard, as you are aware. But, however, I go now and then into the tap-room of the Green Dragon to get a glass of ale, as it’s near my lodgings. Mrs Philips, she’s the landlady, you know. Well, she’s a bit of a fine lady, and so is her daughter. Her mother had her sent to a boarding-school, and she has got rather high notions in consequence. But she and I are very good friends, and she often tells me about her school-days. Among other things, she has been very fond of talking about the way in which the other young ladies and herself used to be bosom friends; and one afternoon, when I was with her and her mother alone in the parlour, she took a ring off her finger, and asked me to look at it, and if I didn’t admire it. And she said that one of her schoolfellows, whose parents were very wealthy, had given it to her as a birthday present a short time before she left school. The ring was the very image of the one your daughter Betsy lent me.”—So saying, he took it up from the table, on which Thomas Bradly had placed it, and held it up to the light.—“I could almost swear to the ring,” he continued, “for I’ve had Miss Philips’s ring in my hands many a time. She’s very proud of her rings, and likes to talk about them; and I had noticed that she used to wear this ring with the ruby in it over one or two others, and that it slipped off and on very easily. And I used often to ask her to show it me, partly to please her, and partly for a bit of fun. Well, now, it’s curious enough, I’ve missed that ring off her finger for several weeks past. I couldn’t help noticing that it was gone, for she always took care that I should see it when she had it on. I asked her some time back what had become of it; but she looked confused, and made some sort of excuse which seemed odd to me at the time. But when I asked her again, which was very soon after, she said she had put it by in her jewel-case, for it was rather loose, and she was afraid of its getting lost. But somehow or other I didn’t quite believe what she said, so I asked her once more, and she snapped me up so sharply that I found it was best to ask no more questions about it. However, when I heard about your daughter wearing a ring with a red stone in it, and that it was looking out for an owner, it occurred to me at once that it might be Lydia Philips’s ring—that she had dropped it by accident, and didn’t like to own that she had lost it for some reason best known to herself, and that she’d be only too glad to get it back again. So when your daughter lent it me yesterday, I took it up in the evening; and getting her by herself in the parlour, I pulled it out, and said, ‘See, Miss Lyddy, what will you give me for finding this for you?’ I expected thanks at the least; but to my great surprise she turned first very pale, and then very red; and then, taking up the ring between her finger and thumb as cautiously as if she was afraid it would bite or burn her, she said—but I didn’t believe her—‘It ain’t mine, and I don’t want to have anything to do with it.’ I tried to make her change her opinion, and told her I knew her ring as well as she knew it herself, that she must have lost it, and that I was certain this was the very ring she had showed me so often; but she only got angry, and flung the ring at me, and told me to mind my own business. So I picked up the ring off the floor, and slunk off like a dog with his tail between his legs, and I’ve brought you back the ring. But it’s the most mysterious thing to me. I can’t make it out a bit. I’m as sure now as I can be sure of anything that it’s the same ring I’ve often handled, and that it belongs to her. Her own ring is gone from her finger, and that and this are as like as two peas; but, for some reason or other, she won’t have it to be hers, so I must just leave matters as I found them.”

“Thank you for your trouble,” said Bradly, “and I’ll keep the ring till the real owner turns up; and meanwhile, my friend, just take my advice, and keep as clear of the inside of the Green Dragon as you possibly can.”

When the railway clerk had left him, Thomas Bradly sat for some minutes in deep thought, and then sought his sister. “Dear Jane,” he said, “there’s just another step we’re being guided; ’tain’t a very broad one, but I believe it’s in the right direction.” He then gave her an account of what he had just heard from his visitor.

“And what do you make of his story, Thomas?” she asked. “Do you think that the ring really belongs to Lydia Philips, and that she knows anything about the bag?”

“Yes, Jane, I do; and I’ll tell you why. I believe that she was the person who dropped the Bible in at William Foster’s window. Why she did so, of course I can’t say. But I believe the ring slipped off while she was dropping the book, and now she’s afraid to acknowledge the ring for her own. You know the Bible and the bracelet were in the same bag; so, as she knew about the Bible, it seems pretty certain she must have known about the bracelet too. If she owns to the ring, of course it’s as good as owning as she was the person who dropped the Bible. She knows quite well, you may be sure, that the ring fell into Foster’s room, and that it can only be Foster or his wife that’s produced the ring, and she’s afraid of inquiries being set on foot which may trace the missing bag and bracelet to her. So she’s content to lose her ring, and persists in saying it ain’t hers; because if she owned to it, it would raise suspicions that she or some of her people was concerned with making away with or hiding away the bag and bracelet, and that might get the Green Dragon a bad name, and spoil their custom, or even get her and her family into worse trouble. That’s just my opinion; there’s foul play, somewhere, and she knows something about it. The bag’s in the place, hid away somewhere, and she knows where, or she knows them as has had to do with getting hold of it, and keeping it for their own purposes. So we must watch and be patient. I feel convinced we’re getting nearer and nearer to the light. So let us leave it now in the Lord’s hands, and be satisfied for him to guide us step by step, one at a time. I haven’t a doubt we’ve traced the ring to its right owner, so we’ll put it by for the present, and it can come out and give its evidence when it’s wanted.”

Chapter Fourteen.

Wild Work at Crossbourne.

It was now the beginning of April; a month had passed since the temperance meeting, and James Barnes and William Foster were keeping clear of the drink and of their old ungodly companions. But it was not to be supposed that the enemies were asleep, or willing to acquiesce patiently in such a desertion from their ranks. Nevertheless, little stir was made, and open opposition seemed nearly to have died out.

“How quietly and peaceably matters are going on,” said the vicar to Thomas Bradly one morning; “I suppose the intemperate party feel they can do our cause no real harm, and so are constrained to let Foster and Barnes alone.”

“I’m not so sure about that, sir,” was Bradly’s reply. “I’m rather looking out for a breeze, for things are too quiet to last; there’s been a queerish sort of grin on the faces of Foster’s old mates when they’ve passed me lately, as makes me pretty sure there’s something in the wind as mayn’t turn out very pleasant. But I’m not afraid: we’ve got the Lord and the right on our side, and we needn’t fear what man can do unto us.”

“True, Thomas, we must leave it there; and we may be sure that all will work together for the furtherance of the good cause in the end.”

“I’ve not a doubt of it, sir; but for all that, I mean to keep a bright look-out. I’m not afraid of their trying their games with me; it’s Barnes and Foster as they mean to pay off if they can.”

That same evening James Barnes knocked at Bradly’s Surgery door, and closed it quickly after him. There was a scared look in his eyes; his dress was all disordered; and, worse still, he brought with him into the room an overpowering odour of spirits. Poor Thomas’s heart died within him. Alas! was it really so? Had the enemy gained so speedy a triumph?

“So, Jim, you’ve broken, I see,” exclaimed Bradly sorrowfully. “The Lord pardon and help you!”

“Nothing of the sort,” cried the other; “I’ve never touched a drop, Thomas, since I signed, though a good big drop has touched me.”

“What do you mean, Jim?” asked Bradly, greatly relieved at the tone of his voice. “Are you sure it’s all right? Come, sit down, and tell me all about it.”

“That I will, Thomas; it’s what I’ve come for. You’ll easily believe me when I tell you,” he continued, after taking a seat, “that they’ve been at me every road to try and get me back, badgering, chaffing, threatening, and coaxing: it’s strange what pains they’ll take as is working for the devil. But it wouldn’t act. Well, three or four nights ago, when I got home from my work, I found two bottles on my table. They was uncorked; one had got rum, and the other gin in it. Now, I won’t say as my mouth didn’t water a bit, and the evil one whispered ‘Just take a glass;’ but no, I wasn’t to be done that way, so I lifts up a prayer for strength, and just takes the bottles at once out into the road, and empties them straight into the gutter. There was some looking on as would let the enemy know. So to-night, as smooth ways wouldn’t act, they’ve been trying rough ’uns. Four of my old mates, Ned Taylor among ’em, watches when my missus went off to the shop, and slips into the kitchen where I was sitting. They’d brought a bottle of rum with them, and began to talk friendly fashion, and tried might and main to get me to drink. But I gave the same answer—I’d have none of it. Then one of them slipped behind my chair, and pinned me down into it, and Ned Taylor tried to force my mouth open, while another man held the bottle, ready to pour the rum down my throat. But just then our little Bob, seeing how roughly they were handling me, bolted out into the street, screaming, ‘They’re killing daddy! They’re killing daddy!’ So the cowardly chaps, seeing it was time to be off, took to their heels, all but Ned Taylor. He’d taken the bottle of rum from the man as held it, and he took and poured it all down my coat and waistcoat, and said, ‘If you won’t have it inside, you shall have it out;’ and then he burst out into a loud laugh, and went after the rest of them. If you examine my clothes, Thomas, you can see as I’m telling the truth. However, they’ve just been and cut their own throats, for they’ve only made me more determined than ever to stick to my tee-totalism.”

“All right, Jim,” said the other cheerfully; “they’ve outwitted themselves. I’ve an old coat and waistcoat as I’ve nearly done with, but they’ve got a good bit of wear in them yet. They’ll just about fit you, I reckon. You shall go back in them, and keep them and welcome, and we’ll make these as they’ve spoilt a present to the dunghill. I only wish all other bad habits, and more particularly them as comes through rum, brandy, and such like, could be cast away on to the same place. You did quite right, Jim, to come straight to me.”

“Ay, Thomas, I felt as it were best; for I were in a towering rage at first, and I think I should have half killed some of ’em, if I could only have got at them.”

“Ah, well, Jim, you just let all that alone. ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.’ We’ll get our revenge in another way some day; we may heap coals of fire on some of their heads yet. But you leave matters now to me. I shall see Ned Taylor to-morrow myself, and give him a bit of my mind; and warn him and his mates that if they try anything of the kind on again, they’ll get themselves into trouble.”

“Thank you, Thomas, with all my heart, for your kindness: ‘a friend in need’s a friend indeed.’ But there’s just another thing as I wants to talk to you about afore I go. I meant to come up to-night about it anyhow, even if this do hadn’t happened.”

“Well, Jim, let’s hear it.”

“Do you remember Levi Sharples, Thomas?”

“What! That tall, red-haired chap, with a cast in his left eye, and a mouth as wide and ugly as an ogre’s?”

“Yes, that’s the man. You’ll remember, Thomas, he was concerned in that housebreaking job four years ago, and the police have been after him ever since.”

“To be sure, Jim, I remember him fast enough; he’s not a man one’s likely to forget. I suppose a more thorough scoundrel never set foot in Crossbourne. It was a wonderful thing how he managed to escape and keep out of prison after that burglary business. But what about him?”

“Why, Thomas, I seed him in this town the day before yesterday.”

“Surely, Jim, you must be mistaken. He durstn’t show his face in Crossbourne for the life of him.”

“No, I know that; but he’s got himself made up to look like another man,—black hair, great black whiskers, and a thick black beard, and a foreign sort of cap on his head,—and he’s lodging at the Green Dragon, and pretends as he’s an agent for some foreign house to get orders for rings, and brooches, and watches, and things of that sort.”

“But are you certain, Jim, you’re not mistaken?”

“Mistaken! Not I. I used to know him too well in my drinking days. He’ll never disguise that look of that wicked eye of his from them as knows him well; and though he’s got summat in his mouth to make him talk different, I could tell the twang of his ugly voice anywheres.”

“Well, Jim?”

“Ah, but it ain’t well, Thomas, I’m sorry to say: there’s mischief, you may be sure, when the like of him’s about. You know he used to be a great man with Will Foster’s old set; and, would you believe it, I saw him yesterday evening, when it was getting dark, standing near Foster’s house talking with him. They didn’t see me, for I was in the shadow; I’d just stooped down to fasten my boot-lace as they came up together. I’d had a message to take to William’s wife, and was coming out the back way, when I heard footsteps, and I knew Levi in a moment, as the gas lamp shone on him. I didn’t want to play spy, but I did want to know what that chap was up to. So, while their backs was towards me, I crawled behind the water-butt without making any noise, and I could catch a few words now and then, as they were not far-off from me.”

“Well, Jim, and what did you hear?”

“Why, Levi said, ‘It won’t do for me to be seen here, so let us have a meeting in some safe place.’—‘Very well,’ says William, and then they spoke so low I could only catch the words, ‘Cricketty Hall;’ but just as Levi were moving off, he said in a loud whisper, ‘All right, then—Friday night;’ and I think he mentioned the hour, but he spoke so low I couldn’t clearly mate out any more. So I’ve come to tell you, Thomas Bradly, for there’s mischief of some sort up, I’ll be bound.”

Bradly did not answer, but for a time a deep shade of anxiety settled on his features. But after a while the shadow passed away. “James,” he said earnestly, “I can’t believe as there’s anything wrong in this matter in William Foster. I can’t believe the Lord’s led him so far, in the right way, and has now left him to stray into wrong paths. I’ve watched him narrowly, and I’m certain he’s as true as steel. But I think with you as there’s mischief brewing. Though William has got a clever head, yet he’s got a soft heart along with it, and he’s not over wide-awake in some things; and I’ll be bound he’s no match for a villain like that Levi. I tell you what it is, Jim: it strikes me now, just as we’re speaking, as Levi’s being set on by some of William’s old mates to draw him out of the town to a place where they can play him some trick, or do him some harm, without being hindered or found out. I can’t explain how, of course, but that’s my thought. Now, if you’ll lend me a helping hand, I’m persuaded as we shall be able, if the Lord will, to turn the tables on these fellows in such a way as’ll effectually tie their hands and stop their tongues for many a long day to come.”

“All right, Thomas,” cried Barnes, “I’m your man; I think you’re on the right scent.”

“Very good, Jim; Cricketty Hall, and Friday night, that’s where and when the meeting’s to be. It means next Friday no doubt, for Levi Sharples won’t stay in this neighbourhood a moment longer than he can help. You may depend upon it, when these two meet at the old ruin, Levi’ll have some of their old mates not far-off, and there’ll be wild work with poor William when they’ve got the opportunity. But we’ll give ’em more company than they’ll reckon for. But now, Jim, we must be cautious how we act. Of course I could go and tell William privately what I think Levi’s up to, but I shall not do that; I want to catch that rascal in his own trap, and get him out of the country for good and all, and give the rest of them such a lesson as they’ll not soon forget. So it won’t do for you or me to be seen going out towards Cricketty Hall on Friday evening, for they are sure to set spies about, and we should spoil all. I’ll tell you how we’ll manage. I’ve been wanting a day at Foxleigh for some time, as I’ve some business of my own there. You get leave to meet me there, and I’ll pay your fare. Go by the eight a.m. train on Friday morning, and I’ll take the train that starts at dinner-time. No one’ll ever suspect us of going to Cricketty Hall that way. I shall tell the police at Foxleigh my business, and they’ll be glad enough to send some men with us when they know that Levi Sharples will be there, the man they’ve been wanting to catch. We can get round to the woods above Cricketty Hall from Foxleigh without being seen, when it begins to be dark, and can get down into the ruins without their noticing us, for they’ll never think of any one coming by that road, such a roundabout way. And mind, Jim, not a word to any one, not even to your missus. All you need tell her is, that I’ve wanted you to meet me about some business at Foxleigh, and you won’t be back till late.”

“All right, Thomas,” said Barnes; “you may depend on it I shan’t say nothing to nobody. I shall just tell my missus afore I’m setting off on the Friday morning as I’ve got a job to do for you, and she mustn’t expect me home till she sees me; and no one’ll be surprised at my turning up at the station, as they all know as I used to be porter there.”

Cricketty Hall was one of those decayed family mansions which are to be met with in many parts of England. Its original owners had been persons of importance many generations back, but their name and fame had passed away. The lands connected with the Hall had become absorbed into other properties; and the building itself had gradually crumbled down, many a neighbouring farm-house owing some of its most solid and ornamental portions to the massive ruins from which they had been borrowed or taken. Still, enough had been left to show that the place had once been a mansion of considerable pretensions. The old gateway, with its portcullis and drawbridge, was still standing, while the moat which surrounded the entire building indicated that it had been originally of very capacious dimensions. The roof and most of the walls had long since disappeared; trees grew in the centre, and spread out their branches over the space once occupied by the dormitories, while a profusion of ivy concealed many a curiously carved arch and window. From the gateway the ground sloped rapidly, affording a fine view of the neighbouring country. Behind the house was high ground, once thickly wooded, and still partially covered with trees and underwood. The Hall was about two miles distant from Crossbourne, and was well-known to most of its inhabitants, though but seldom visited, except occasionally by picnic parties in summer-time. Old tradition pronounced it to be haunted, but though such an idea was ridiculed now by everybody whenever the superstition was alluded to, yet very few persons would have liked to venture into the ruins alone after dark; and, indeed, the loneliness of the situation made it by no means a desirable place for solitary evening musings.

The ordinary way to the Hall was by a footpath leading to it out of the highroad across fields for a distance of nearly a quarter of a mile. It could also be approached by a much less frequented track, which passed along sequestered lanes out of the main road from the town of Foxleigh, the nearest town to Crossbourne by rail, and brought the traveller to it, after a walk of six miles from Foxleigh, through the overhanging wooded ground which has been mentioned as rising up in the rear of the old ruins.

The only exception to the dilapidated state of the premises was a large vaulted cellar or underground room. Its existence, however, had been well-nigh forgotten, except by a few who occasionally visited it, and kept the secret of the entrance to it to themselves.

The Friday on which the appointment between Foster and Levi Sharples was to be kept at Cricketty Hall, was one of those dismal April days which make you forget that there is any prospect of a coming summer in the chilly misery of the present. Cold showers and raw breezes made the passers through the streets of Crossbourne fold themselves together, and expose as little surface as was possible to the inclemency of the weather; so that when James Barnes and Thomas Bradly left the station by the early and mid-day trains, there were but few idlers about to notice their departure.

At length the mills loosed, and Foster hurried home, and, after a hasty tea, told his wife that an engagement would take him from home for a few hours, and that she must not be alarmed if he was a little late. Then, having put on a stout overcoat, he made his way through the higher part of the town, and past the vicarage, and was soon in the open country. It was past seven o’clock when he reached the place where the footpath leading to the old Hall met the highroad. It was still raining, though not heavily; but thick, leaden-coloured clouds brooded over the whole scene, and served to deepen the approaching darkness. It was certainly an evening not calculated to raise any one’s spirits; and the harsh wind, as it swept over the wide expanse of the treeless fields, with their stern-looking stone fences, added to the depressing influences of the hour. But Foster was a man not easily daunted by such things, and he had stridden on manfully, fully occupied by his own thoughts, till he reached the stile where the footpath to the ruins began. Here he paused, looked carefully in all directions, listened attentively without hearing sound of traveller or vehicle, and then whistled in a low tone twice. A tall figure immediately rose up from the other side of the hedge and joined him.

“Well, Levi,” said Foster, “I have kept my appointment; and now what would you have with me?”

“I’ll tell you, William,” replied his companion. “You know I’m a marked man. The police are looking out for me on account of that housebreaking job - more’s the pity I ever had anything to do with it. However, I’m a changed man now, I hope: I think I’ve given you some proof of that already, William, so you may trust me. A man wouldn’t come back and thrust his head into the lion’s mouth as I’ve done, to show his sincerity and sorrow for the past, if he hadn’t been in earnest. Now, what I want you to do is this:—You know how many Sunday afternoons you and I, and others of our old mates, have spent in card-playing in the cellar of that old Hall—the Lord forgive me for having wasted his holy day in such sin and folly! Now, I’ve a long story to tell, and I should like to tell it in that same place where you and I joined in what was sinful in our days of ignorance and darkness. I can tell you there how I was brought to see what a fool’s part I had been playing, and how I came to my right mind at last. You can give me some good advice; and I want to leave one or two little things with you to give or send to my poor old mother when I’m far away. And when we’ve had our talk out, we’ll part at the old ruin, and I shall make the best of my way out of the country, and begin a new and better life, I trust, where I’m not known. I’m sorry to have given you the trouble to come out all this way, specially on such a night as this; but I really don’t feel safe anywhere in or near Crossbourne, as the police might pop on me at any moment, and I felt sure, from what I heard of the change that has taken place in you, that you wouldn’t mind a little trouble to help an old companion out of the mire. You needn’t be afraid to come with me; I can have no possible motive to lead you into danger.”

“I’m not afraid, Levi,” said Foster quietly. “I’m ready to go with you.”

Nothing more was said by either of them till they had followed out the footpath and stood before the gateway of the old Hall. They were soon making their way cautiously amongst the fallen blocks of stone towards a turret which rose to a considerable height at the end of the ruins farthest from the gateway. “Go forward, William,” said Sharples, “while I light my lantern.” So saying, he paused to strike a match, while his companion threaded his way towards the turret. At this moment a figure, unobserved by Foster, emerged from behind a low wall, and, having exchanged a few whispered words with Levi, disappeared through an archway.

The two companions, having now gained the turret, proceeded to descend a few broken steps concealed from ordinary observation by a mass of brushwood, and reached the entrance of a spacious vault. “Stay a moment,” said Sharples; “I’ll go first and show a light.” So saying, he pushed past the other, and the next instant Foster felt himself held fast by each arm, while a handkerchief was pressed over his mouth. He was at once painfully conscious that he had been completely entrapped, and that resistance was perfectly useless, for two strong men grasped him, one on either side. But his presence of mind did not desert him, and he now had learnt where to look, in secret prayer, for that “very present help in trouble” which never fails those who seek it aright. Thus fortified, he attempted no resistance, but patiently awaited the event.

In a few minutes the handkerchief was withdrawn from his eyes, and he found himself in the presence of about a dozen men, all of whose faces were blackened. On a large stone in the centre of the vault was placed the bull’s-eye lantern which his companion had recently lighted, and which, by pouring its light fully on himself, prevented him from clearly seeing the movements of his captors. What was to come next? He was not long left in doubt.

“Saint Foster,” said Levi Sharples, who stood just behind the lantern, and spoke in a sneering, snuffling voice, “we don’t wish you any harm; but we have brought your saintship before our right worshipful court, that you may answer to the charge brought against you, of having deserted your old principles and companions, and inflicted much inconvenience and discredit on the cause of free-thought and good fellowship in Crossbourne. What say you to this charge, Saint Foster?”

Their poor victim had by this time thoroughly recovered his self-possession, and being now set at liberty—for his enemies knew that he could not escape them—answered quietly, and in a clear, unfaltering voice, “I must ask first by what authority this court is constituted; and by whose authority you are now questioning me?”

“By the authority of ‘might,’ which on the present occasion makes ‘right,’ Saint Foster,” was the reply.

“Be it so,” said Foster. “I can only reply that I have been following out my own honest convictions in the course I have lately taken. What right has any man to object to this?”

“A good deal of right, Saint Foster, since your following out your present honest convictions is a great hindrance to those who used to agree with you in your former honest convictions.”

“I am not responsible for that,” was Foster’s reply.

“Perhaps not,” continued Sharples; “nevertheless, we are met on the present agreeable occasion to see if we cannot induce you to give up those present honest convictions of yours, and join your old friends again.”

“That I neither can nor will,” said the other in a firm voice.

“That’s a pity,” said Sharples; “because if you persist in your determination, the consequences to yourself may be unpleasant. However, the court wishes to deal very leniently with you, in consideration of past services, and therefore I am commissioned to offer you a choice between two things.—Officer! Bring forward the ‘peacemaker.’”

Upon this, a man stepped forward, uncorked a bottle of spirits, and placed it on the stone in front of the lantern.

“Saint Foster,” proceeded his pretended judge, “we earnestly exhort you to lift this bottle of spirits to your lips, and, having taken a hearty swig thereof, to say after me, ‘Long life and prosperity to free-thought and good fellowship.’ If you will do this we shall be fully satisfied, and shall all part good friends.”

“And if I refuse?” asked the other.

“Oh! There’ll be no compulsion—we are not going to force you to drink. This is ‘Liberty Hall;’ only, you must submit to the alternative.”

“And what may that be?”

“Oh! Just to carry home with you a little of our ointment, as a token of our kind regards.—Officer! Bring forward the ointment.”

A general gruff titter ran round the vault as one of the men placed beside the bottle a jar with a brush in it and a bag.

“My worthy friend,” proceeded the former speaker, “that jar is full of ointment, vulgarly called tar, and that little bag contains feathers. Now, if you positively refuse to drink the toast I have just named in spirits, we shall be constrained to anoint you all over from head to foot with our ointment, and then to sprinkle you with the feathers; in so doing, we shall be affording an amusing spectacle to the inhabitants of Crossbourne, and shall be doing yourself a real kindness, by furnishing you with abundant means of ‘feathering your own nest.’”

A roar of discordant laughter followed this speech. Then there was a pause, and a deathlike silence, while all waited for Foster’s answer. For a few moments he attempted no reply; then he said, slowly and sadly: “I know it will be of no use for me to say what I think of the utter baseness of the man who has enticed me here, and now acts the part of my judge. You have me in your power, and must work your will on me, for I will never consent to drink the toast proposed to me. But I warn you that—”

At this moment a shrill whistle was heard by every one in the vault, and then the sound of shouts outside, and the tramping of feet.—“The game’s up!” cried one of the men with the blackened faces; “every one for himself!” and a rush was made for the steps. But it was too late: a strong guard of police fully armed had taken their stand at the top of the stair, and escape was impossible, for there was no other outlet from the vault. As each man emerged he was seized and handcuffed—all except Foster, whose unblackened face told at once that he was not one of the guilty party, and who was grasped warmly by the hand by Thomas Bradly and James Barnes, who now came forward.

When the vault had been searched by the constables, and they had ascertained that no one was still secreted there, the whole of the prisoners were marched into the open court and placed in a row. The sergeant, who had come with his men, then passed his lantern from face to face. There was no mistake about Sharples; his false hair and beard had become disarranged in the scuffle, and other marks of identification were immediately observed. “Levi Sharples,” said the sergeant, “you’re our prisoner—we’ve been looking out for you for a long time; you’ll have to come with us.—As for the rest of you, well, I think you won’t any of you forget this night; so you’d best get home as fast as you can and wash your faces.—Constables, take the handcuffs off ’em.”

No sooner was this done than the whole body of the conspirators vanished in a moment, while the police proceeded to carry off their prisoner. But before the officers were clear of the ruins, a strange moaning sound startled all who remained behind. “Eh! What’s that? Surely it ain’t—a—a—” exclaimed Jim Barnes, in great terror. The sergeant, who was just leaving with his men, turned back. All stood silent, and then there was distinctly heard again a deep groaning, as of one in pain. “Lend a light here, Thomas,” cried the sergeant to one of his constables. All, except those who were guarding the prisoner, proceeded in the direction from which the unearthly sounds came. “Have a care,” cried Bradly; “there’s some ugly holes hereabouts.” Picking their way carefully, they came at last to the mouth of an old well: it had been long choked up to within a few feet of the top, but still it was an awkward place to fall into.

There could now be no mistake; the groaning came from the old well, and it was a human cry of distress. “Who’s there?” cried the sergeant, throwing his light down upon a writhing figure. “It’s me—it’s Ned Taylor. Lord help me! I’ve done for myself. Oh, help me out for pity’s sake!” With great difficulty, and with terrible suffering to the poor wretch himself, they contrived at last to draw him up, and to place him with his back against a heap of fallen masonry.

“What’s to be done now?” asked the sergeant. “Leave him to us,” replied Bradly; “we’ll get him home. I see how it is: he’s one of these chaps as has been taking part in this sad business, and in his hurry to get off he has tumbled into this old well and injured himself. We’ll look after him, poor fellow; he shall be properly cared for. Good-night, sergeant, and thank you for your timely help.”

When the police had departed with their prisoner, Bradly went to the wounded man and asked him if he thought he could walk home with help; but the only reply was a groan. “He’s badly hurt, I can see,” said Thomas; “we must make a stretcher out of any suitable stuff we can find, and carry him home between us. The Lord’s been very gracious to us so far in this business, and I don’t doubt but he’ll bring good out of this evil.” So they made a litter of boughs and stray pieces of plank, and set out across the fields for Crossbourne.

“Stay a bit, Jim,” whispered Bradly to James Barnes; “lend me your lantern. Go forward now, and I’ll join you in a minute.” He was soon back again, having brought the jar of tar from the vault, about which and its purpose he had heard from Foster while the police were searching the place. “I must keep this,” he said, “in my Surgery; it’ll do capitally to give an edge to a lesson.” And it may be here said that the jar was in due time placed on a bracket in Bradly’s private room, and labelled in large red letters, “Drunkards’ Ointment,”—giving Thomas many an opportunity of speaking a forcible word against evil companionship to those who sought his help and counsel.

But to return to the party at the old Hall. Long and weary seemed that walk home, specially to the wounded man. At last they reached the town, and carried the sufferer to his miserable dwelling, with cheery words to his poor wife, and a promise from Bradly to send the doctor at once, and that he would call himself next day and see how he was going on.

Then the three friends hastened at once to Foster’s house, that they might be the first to acquaint his wife with her husband’s peril and deliverance. Never was thanksgiving prayer uttered or joined in with more fervour than that which was offered by Thomas Bradly after he had given to Kate Foster a full account of the evening’s adventure. Then all sat down to a simple supper, at which Foster was asked by Thomas Bradly to tell him how he came to be taken in by such a man as Levi Sharples.

“I don’t wonder,” began Foster, “that you should think it weak and strange in me; but you shall judge. Levi Sharples and myself used to be great friends—or rather, perhaps, I ought to say frequent companions, for I don’t think there was ever anything worth calling friendship between us. He used to profess a great respect for my opinion. He regularly attended the meetings of our club, and made smart speeches, and would come out with the vilest sentiments expressed in the vilest and foulest language, such as disgusted me even then, and makes me shudder now when I think of it. He had a ready way with him, and could trip a man up in an argument and get the laugh against him. Not that he had really read or studied much; but he had gathered a smattering on many subjects, and knew how to make a little knowledge go a great way. Most of the other members of the club were afraid of him, for he had no mercy when he chose to come down on a fellow; and if any one tried to make a stand against him for a bit, he would soon talk him down with his biting sarcasms and loud sneering voice.

“I told you that he professed to have a high opinion of myself as a debater and free-thinker. He seldom crossed me in argument, and when he did he was sure to give in in the end. I was vain enough at the time to set this down to my own superior wit and knowledge; but I am now fully persuaded that he was only pretending to have this good opinion of me that he might make use of me for his own purposes. He knew that I was a skilful workman, and earned more than average wages, and so he would often borrow a few shillings from me, which he never remembered to pay back again. But he managed to get these loans very dexterously, always mixing up a little flattery when he came to borrow.

“Often and often, I’m ashamed to say, I have wandered out with him and other members of our club in the summer, on Sunday afternoons, to Cricketty Hall; and there, down in the old vault, we have been playing cards and drinking till it was time to return. I could see plainly enough on these occasions that Levi would have been only too glad to win largely from me; but I had sense enough to keep out of his clutches, as I had noticed him managing the cards unfairly when playing with others.

“I can’t say that I felt any particular regret when he had to take himself off out of the neighbourhood. There were no ties that could really bind us together; for, indeed, how can there be any real union where the closest bond is a common hatred of that gospel which is so truly, as I am thankful to say I have myself found it, the religion of love? I scarcely missed him, and seldom thought of him, and was rather startled when, a few days ago, he made himself known to me in the twilight.

“We were alone, and I was going to pass on with a civil word; but he begged me to stop, and in such a tone of voice as rather touched me. He then reminded me that we had been companions in evil, and said that he had heard of the change that had taken place in me. He added that he was very unhappy, that he hated himself for his past wicked life, and that as I used to stand his friend formerly when he needed a helping hand, he hoped I would show that my change was a real one by my willingness to give an old mate a lift over the stile and into the same way of peace in which I professed to be walking myself. He had much to tell me and ask of me, he said; but he was afraid of being discovered by the police, spite of his disguise. Would I meet him at Cricketty Hall, he should feel safe there.

“I did not know what to say. I could not get rid of my suspicions, notwithstanding his changed tone and manner. He saw it, and said: ‘You doubt my sincerity. Well, I suppose you’ll agree that when a man’s sincerity gets into his pocket it’s pretty sure to be genuine. Now, you’ve lent me money at different times, and I never paid any of it back. I’ve reckoned it up, and it comes altogether to three pounds ten shillings. Here it is; and many thanks to you for lending it me. I’m only sorry that I was not an honest man before.’

“I hardly knew what to say; however, I took the money, for I knew that it was due to me. ‘Well, will you trust me now?’ he asked. ‘Meet me, Levi, to-morrow night just after dark outside my house,’ I said, ‘and I will tell you then.’ He hesitated a little, and then said, ‘Very well,’ and left me. I was sorely puzzled, and could not tell what to think. And then at last it occurred to me that perhaps it was wrong in me to hang back. There might be a real change beginning even in such a man as Levi Sharples. The Lord had been merciful to me, and why not to him? There hadn’t been much to choose between us in badness in bygone days; and should I be right in repelling the poor man if I could be in any way the means of bringing him into the narrow way? Well, you know the rest. We met the next night; and, mercifully for me, Jim Barnes, as I find from him, overheard the appointment to meet at Cricketty Hall; and wonderfully and graciously has the Lord kept me in my trouble, and delivered me out of it.”

“But how do you suppose that Sharples got hold of that money?” asked Bradly.

“Oh,” replied the other, “I can easily understand all about that. You may depend upon it the whole matter has gone on somewhat in this way:—My old mates have been scheming how to be revenged on me ever since I left them, and showed my colours on the side of Temperance and Religion. They’ve known Levi’s whereabouts, and were aware how thick we used to be; so they’ve set him upon drawing me into the snare. I don’t doubt that they subscribed that three pound ten between them, that Levi might be able to throw dust in my eyes with it, and throw me off my guard.”

“Just so, just so; I see it all!” cried Bradly. “Eh! Haven’t they been nicely outwitted? Why, they’ve lost their money, they’ve lost the bird out of the cage, and they’ve clapped their own man in prison. Mark my words, William, we shan’t have much more trouble from them for many a long day; but if they attempt to give us any, I shall bring them out the little jar of ointment they left behind them, and bid them tell us what complaints it’s good for. Ah! Well, there’s just a few words out of the good old book as’ll crown it all. Here they are in the Twenty-seventh Psalm: ‘The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? When the wicked, even mine enemies and my foes, came upon me to eat up my flesh, they stumbled and fell. Though an host should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear: though war should rise against me, in this will I be confident.’”

Chapter Fifteen.

Doctor Prosser at Crossbourne.

Dr and Mrs Prosser came to pay their spring visit to the Maltbys about ten days after William Foster’s happy escape out of the hands of his enemies. The doctor was exceedingly glad of this opportunity of having a little quiet conversation with his old college friend the vicar on subjects which, though near his heart, were too commonly pushed out of his thoughts by the pressure of daily and hourly engagements. For his was the experience so common in these days of multiplied occupations and ceaseless coming and going: he could find no time for pause, no time for serious meditation on subjects other than those which demanded daily the full concentration of his thoughts. He was not unconscious that he was moving on all the while through higher and nobler things than those which he was pursuing, just as we are conscious of the beauties of some lovely scenery, glimpses of which flash upon us on either side, as we dash on by rail at express speed to our journey’s end; but, at the same time, he was painfully aware that he was really living not merely amidst but for the things which are seen and temporal, without any settled and steady aim at the things which are not seen and are eternal. So he hoped that his visit to Ernest Maltby might be helpful to him by bringing him into an intellectual and spiritual atmosphere entirely different in tone from that with which he was surrounded in his London home and society. He had seen the true beauty and felt the persuasive force of holiness, in his previous intercourse with the vicar of Crossbourne; and he believed that it might do him good to see and feel them again, as exhibited in the character and conversation of his friend.

He was also very anxious that his wife should learn some practical wisdom from the Maltbys, which might guide her into the way of making her home happier both to herself and to him. It is true that things had considerably improved since the Christmas-eve when the doctor found her absent from home. His words of loving remonstrance had sunk deeply into her heart, and she had profited by them. She had managed to curtail her engagements, and to be more at home, especially when she knew that her husband was counting upon her society. Still, there were many self-imposed duties to which she devoted time and strength which could ill be spared, and in the performance of which she was wearing herself down; so the forced interruption of these by her visit to Crossbourne was looked upon by her husband with secret but deep satisfaction.

The only drawback to their visit was that neither Mrs Maltby nor her daughter would be at home; but Mr Maltby had begged them not to postpone their visit on this account, as his sister, Miss Maltby, would be staying with him, and would take the place of hostess to his guests. And, indeed, sorry as Dr Prosser was that he should miss seeing his old lady friends, he was satisfied that their place would be well supplied by the vicar’s sister.

Miss Maltby was considerably older than her brother, and had been almost in the position of a parent to him when he had, in his early life, lost his own mother. She was one of those invaluable single women, not uncommon in the middle rank of society in England, whose sterling excellences are more widely felt than openly appreciated. She was not one of those active ladies who carry little bells on the skirts of their good deeds, so as to make a loud tinkling in the ears of the world. Hers was a quiet and unobtrusive work. Her views of usefulness and duty were, in the eyes of some of her acquaintance, old-fashioned and behind the age. Standing on one side, as it were, out of the whirl of good excitement, she could mark the mistakes and shortcomings in the bringing up of the professedly Christian families which came under her observation, and of the grownup workers of her own sex. But the wisdom she gathered from observation was stored up in a mind ever under the control of a pure and loving heart. Sneer or sarcasm never passed her lips. When called on to reprove the wrong or suggest the right, she always did it with “meekness of wisdom,” her object being, not to glorify self by making others painfully conscious of their inconsistencies or defects, but to guide the erring gently into the paths of righteousness, sober-mindedness, and persuasive godliness. Practical good sense, the fruit of a plain scriptural creed thought out, prayed out, and lived out, in the midst of a thousand unrealities, and half-realities, and distortions of the truth in belief and practice, was the habitual utterance of her lips and guide of her daily life. She and Thomas Bradly were special friends, inasmuch as they were thoroughly kindred spirits, anything like sham or humbug being the abhorrence of both, while the Word of God was to each the one only infallible court of appeal in every question of faith and practice.

“You must see a good deal of the coarser-grained human material here in Crossbourne,” remarked Dr Prosser to the vicar, as they strolled together in the garden in the evening after their meeting. “When I last had the pleasure of visiting you, before you came to this living, your parishioners were of a more civilised stamp.”

“More ‘civil’ would perhaps be a more correct term,” said Mr Maltby, “at least so far as touchings of the hat and smooth speeches were concerned. But, in truth, with all the roughness of these people, there is that sterling courtesy and consideration in many of them which I rarely meet with in more cultivated districts.”

“Well,” said the other, “I suppose that is owing to the increased intelligence produced by habits of reading, attending lectures, and studying mechanism.”

“I think not,” replied the vicar. “I have not, in my own experience, found true courtesy and consideration to be the fruit of increased intelligence. On the contrary, the keener the intellectual edge, as a rule, the keener the pursuit of selfish ends, and the more conspicuous the absence of a regard to the interests and a respect for the feelings of others.”

“Then you don’t credit education with this improvement in courtesy and consideration.”

“Certainly not. I believe that with increased intelligence there is also an increased sensitiveness in all our faculties, and so an increased appreciation of what is beautiful and becoming; but it is the heart that must be touched if there is to be that real concern for the welfare and comfort of others which I have observed in many of my present parishioners. They are rough extremely, but there is an honest and warm heart beneath the surface; and when the love of Christ gets down into these hearts, and the grace of Christ dwells there, I do not know a nobler material to work with.”

Dr Prosser was silent for a minute, then he said, “I suppose we are all agreed that true religion has a very humanising and refining influence. I only feel a wish, at times, that Religion herself were less hampered by creeds and dogmas, so that her full power might be felt, and to a far wider extent. I think that then religious and intellectual advancement would keep steady pace side by side.”

“Do you, my dear friend?” said Mr Maltby sadly. “I must confess I am quite of a different opinion. People seem to me to have gone wild on this subject, and to have lost their senses in their over-anxiety to cultivate them. Intellect-worship is to my mind the master snare of our day. Cram the mind and starve the heart—this is the great popular idolatry. And so religion must be a misty, dreamy sort of thing; not well-defined truth, plainly and sharply taught in God’s Word, requiring faith in revealed doctrines which are to influence the life by taking up a stronghold in the heart, but rather a foggy mixture of light and darkness, of superstition and sentiment, which will leave men to follow pretty nearly their own devices, and allow them to pass through this world with quieted consciences, so long as they are sincere, let their creed be anything or nothing: and as to the future, why, this world is the great land of realities, and a coming judgment, a coming heaven or hell, these are but plausible dreams, or, at the most, interesting speculations. Excuse me, my dear friend, for speaking warmly. I cannot but feel and speak strongly on this subject when I mark the growing tendency in our day to fall down and worship the cultivation of the intellect, to the neglect and disparagement of definite gospel truth, and of that education of the heart without which, I am more firmly persuaded every day, there cannot be either individual peace, home virtue and happiness, or public honour and morality.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said the doctor thoughtfully. “There may be a danger in the direction you point out. Certainly we men of science have, many of us, while valuing and respecting the Christian religion, been getting increasingly impatient of anything like religious dogmatism and exclusiveness.”

At this moment a servant came to say that Thomas Bradly wished to have a word with the vicar when he was disengaged. “Oh, ask him to come to me here in the garden,” said the vicar.—“You shall see one of my rough diamonds now,” he added smilingly to his friend; “indeed, I may call him my ‘Koh-i-noor,’ only he hasn’t been polished.—Thomas,” he continued to Bradly as he entered, “here’s an old friend of mine, Dr Prosser, a gentleman eminent in the scientific world, who has come down from London to see me, and to get a little experience of Crossbourne ways and manners. I tell him that he’ll find us rather a rough material.”

“I’m sure,” replied Thomas, “I’m heartily glad to see any friend of yours among us. He must take us as he finds us. Like other folks, we aren’t always right side out; but we generally mean what we say, and when we do say anything we commonly make it stand for summat.”

“Well now, Thomas,” continued Mr Maltby, “you’re a plain, practical man, and I think you could give us an opinion worth having on a subject we’ve been talking about.”

“I’m sure, sir, I don’t know how that may be,” was the reply; “but we working-people sometimes see things in a different light from what those above us does,—at least so far as our experience goes.”

“That’s just it, Thomas. It will interest Dr Prosser, I know, to hear how a theory about religion and truth, which is becoming very fashionable in our day, would suit yourself and the quick-witted and warm-hearted people you have daily to deal with.”

“Let me hear it, sir, and I’ll answer according to the best of my judgment.”

The vicar then repeated to Bradly the substance of the conversation between himself and the doctor on religious dogmatism and breadth of views.

“Ah, well,” cried Thomas laughing, “you’re almost too deep for me. But it comes into my mind what happened to me a good many years ago, when I were quite a young man. There were a nobleman in our parts,—I wasn’t living at Crossbourne then,—and his son came of age, and such a feast there was as I never saw afore or since, and I hope I never may again. Well, my father’s family had been in that country for many generations, and so they turned us into gentlefolks, me and my father, that day, and we sat down to dinner with the quality; and a grand dinner it was for certain. When it was all over, as I thought, and the parson had returned thanks, just as I were for getting up and going, they brings round some plates with great glass bowls in ’em, nearly full of water, something like what an old aunt of mine used to keep gold-fish in; and there was a knife and fork on each plate. Then the servants brings all sorts of fruits,—apples and pears, and peaches and grapes,—and sets ’em on the table. I was asked what I’d have, and I chose a great rosy-cheeked apple. And then I were going to bite a great piece out of it, but a gent as sat next me whispers, ‘Cut it, man; it’s more civil to cut it.’ So I takes up the knife, which had got a mother-o’-pearl handle to it, and tries to cut the apple, but I could only make a mark on it such as you see on a hot-cross-bun. Then I looked at the blade of the knife, and it were just like silver, but were as blunt as a broomstick. However, I tried again, but it wouldn’t cut; so I axes a tall chap in livery as stood behind my chair if they’d such a thing as a butcher’s steel in the house, for I wanted to put an edge to my knife. Eh, you should have seen that fellow grin! ‘No, sir,’ he says, ‘we ain’t got nothing of the sort.’ ‘Well, then,’ says I, ‘take this knife away,—there’s a good man!—for it’s too fine for me, and bring me a good steel knife with an edge as’ll cut.’—Now, if you’ll excuse my long story, gentlemen, it seems to me that the sort of religion you say is getting popular among the swell people and men of science in our country is uncommon like that fruit-knife as couldn’t suit me. It’s a deal too fine for common purposes, and common people, and common homes, and common hearts; it hasn’t got no edge—it won’t cut. We want a religion with a good usable edge to it, as’ll cut the cords of our sins and the knots of our troubles. Now, that’s just the religion of the Bible. It tells us what we’re to do for God and for our fellow-creatures; it tells us how we’re to do it, by showing us how the Lord Jesus Christ shed his blood to free us from the guilt and power of sin, and bought us grace by which we might walk in his steps; and it shows why we’re to do it,—just from love to him, because he first loved us in giving Jesus to die for us. I don’t see what use religion or the Bible would be to us if these things weren’t laid down for us clear and sharp; if p’raps they was true, and p’raps not; or true for me, but not true for my neighbour; or half true, and half false; or true for to-day, and not true for to-morrow.”

“Bravo!” said Dr Prosser, delighted, and clapping his hands. “I believe your rough workman’s hammer has hit the right nail on the head, and hit it hard too.”

“I’m very glad, sir, if you think so,” said Bradly, “I’ve had chaps crying up to me now and then some such sort of views as the vicar and yourself have been talking about; but I’ve felt sure of this, however well they may look on paper, they’ll never act. What’s the use of a guide, if he’s blind and don’t know where he’s taking you to? I remember I were once spending a night at a gent’s house, and the next morning I had to walk to a town twenty miles off. It were quite a country-place where the gentleman lived, and when he were saying good-bye to me I axed him for directions, for I’d never been in that part of the country before. So he said, ‘You must go for about a mile and a half along this road, and then you’ll come to a wood on your left hand. You must go through that wood, and then any one’ll be able to direct you for the rest of the way.’—‘And pray,’ says I, ‘which path must I take through the wood? For I daresay there’s more than one.’—‘Oh, you can’t mistake,’ says he; ‘you’ve only to follow your nose.’ So I set off, supposing it was all right. I found the wood easily enough, but when I got to it I was quite at a nonplush. There was three roads into the wood, each one as distinct as the other. It was all very well to say, ‘Follow your nose;’ but if I looked down one road that would be following my nose, and so it would be when I looked down either of the other roads. I had to chance it; and a pretty mess I made of it, for I completely lost my way, and didn’t get to my journey’s end till after dark.—Now, some of these scientific gents as has got too wise to believe in the old-fashioned Bible and its plain meaning, what sort of directions would they give us through this world, so that we might do our duty in it, and get happily through it, and reach the better land? It would be much with poor sinners as it was with me. If we’re to have a religion without doctrines and without a revelation, or if we’re only to pick out just as much from the Bible as suits our fancies and our prejudices, we shall be just following our nose. And where will that lead us? Why, into all sorts of difficulties here, and the end will be nothing but darkness.”

“Just so, Thomas,” said the vicar; “I feel sure that you speak the truth. We want the plain, distinct teaching of the doctrines of God’s Word, if we are to be holy here and happy hereafter. We want to know unmistakably what to believe, and how to act out our belief. What a blessing it is that, when we take up our Bibles in a humble and teachable spirit, we can say, ‘Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.’ But we are come upon strange times indeed, when professed teachers of the Christian religion can propound to us ‘a gospel without an atonement, a Bible without inspiration, and an ignorant Christ.’—Well, Thomas, shall we come into my study? Dr Prosser will excuse me for a few minutes.”

An evening or two after this conversation, as the whole vicarage party lingered round the table after supper, Dr Prosser turned to his host and said, “Judging from all I see and hear, Maltby, a parish like yours must be a famous place for testing the working value of many modern theories of morality and religion.”

“Yes,” was the reply; “what you say, my dear friend, is true indeed. Learned and amiable men sit in their libraries and college rooms, and weave out of their own intellects or consciousness wonderful theories of the goodness of human nature, the charms of a more genial Christianity than is to be found by ordinary seekers in the Scriptures, and the need of a wider entrance to a broader road to heaven than the strait gate and narrow way of the Gospels. But let such men come to Crossbourne, and have to deal with these people of shrewd and sharpened intellects, strong wills, strong passions, and strong temptations, and they will find that the old-fashioned gospel is, after all, the only thing that will meet all man’s moral and spiritual needs. I have never been more struck with this than in the case of a reformed-infidel amongst us: the change in that man has been indeed wonderful, as even his bitterest enemies are constrained to acknowledge,—he has indeed found the gospel to be to him the ‘pearl of great price.’ The change in that man’s character, home, and even expression of countenance, is truly as from darkness to light.”

“I wish,” observed Miss Maltby, “there was less of the theoretical and fanciful, and more of the practical and scriptural, in many of the modern schemes proposed for the acceptance of my own sex in the matter of education. I wish wise men would let us alone, and allow us to keep our proper place, and follow out our proper calling, as these may be plainly gathered from the great storehouse of all wisdom.”

“Pray give us your thoughts a little more fully, Miss Maltby,” said the doctor. “I think there may be one here at any rate who will benefit by them.”

“Two, John, at least,” said his wife, laughing: “for if I am the one who am to benefit, you will be the other; for whatever improves me will be sure to improve your home, so we shall share the profits.”

Her husband held out his hand to her, and while they exchanged a loving pressure, Miss Maltby said: “Woman seems now to be treated as an independent rational being, whose one great object ought to be in this life to outstrip, or at any rate keep on a level with, the other sex in all intellectual pursuits. Did God put her into the world for this? Did he give her as a rule faculties and capacities for this? I cannot believe it. This ambition to shine, this thirst for excessive education, this craving after female university distinctions, why all this is eating out that which is truly womanly in hundreds of our girls, and turning them into a sort of intellectual mermaids, only one half women, and the other half something monstrous and unnatural. And what is the result? Let me read you the words of a high authority—Dr Richardson: ‘These precocious, coached-up children are never well,’ he says. ‘Their mental excitement keeps up a flush which, like the excitement caused by strong drink in older children, looks like health, but has no relation to it.’ And if this overtasking the mind is so injurious to the body, what will our women of the next generation be if things go on with us as they are doing at present? I must just quote again from the same authority. Dr Richardson says, ‘If women succeed in their clamour for admission into the universities, and like moths follow their sterner mates into the midnight candle of learning, the case will be bad indeed for succeeding generations; and the geniuses and leaders of the nation will henceforth be derived from those simple pupils of the Board schools who entered into the conflict of life with reading, writing, and arithmetic, free of brain to acquire learning of every kind in the full powers of developed manhood.’”

“You make out a very gloomy case and prospect for us,” said Mrs Prosser sadly and thoughtfully.

“I do,” replied the other; “and what makes all this far worse is, that this mental overwork cannot go on without depriving the sufferers—for they are sufferers to an extent they little dream of—of that sweet privilege of being a true blessing to others which Christian mothers, daughters, and sisters enjoy, whose work inside, and moderately outside the home, is done simply, unostentatiously, and in a womanly manner. Verily, those women who sacrifice all to this mental forcing, to this race for intellectual distinction,—verily, they have their reward. But they can look for no other.”

“But stay, my dear friend,” interposed Dr Prosser. “I have been going with you heart and soul, only I felt a little jolt just then, as if the wheels ran over a stone. Was not that last expression a little uncharitable? Will all women who covet and strive after intellectual honours be necessarily shut out of heaven?”

“Far be it from me to say so,” exclaimed Miss Maltby earnestly; “I was speaking about reward. Surely we make some sad mistakes on this subject; I mean about reward in a better world. We are naturally so afraid, some of us, of putting good works in the wrong place, that we have gone into the opposite extreme, and turned them out of their right place. It is surely one of the sweetest and most encouraging of thoughts that Jesus will condescend to reward earnest work done for him, though after all only the fruit of his own grace. But if we women are to have our share in these heavenly rewards, our hearts cannot be engrossed in the pursuit of earthly intellectual prizes. Oh! We cannot think and speak too earnestly on such a subject as this; can we, dear brother?”

“No, indeed,” said the vicar, “when we remember that the Lord is coming again, and then shall he reward every one according to his works.”

No one spoke for a while, and then Mrs Prosser asked, “What do you think, dear Miss Maltby, of these female guilds, and societies, and clubs?”

“I think very ill of them,” was the reply; “for they substitute, or are in danger of substituting, self-imposed rules and motives for the simple rules and constraining motives set before us in God’s Word.”

“I don’t quite understand you,” said the other.

“I mean thus,” continued Miss Maltby. “Let us take an example. I have some young lady friends who have joined an ‘early-rising club.’ They are to get up and be downstairs by a certain hour every morning, or pay a forfeit, and are to keep a strict account of their regularities or irregularities, as the case may be.”

“And what harm do you see in this?” asked Dr Prosser.

“Just this,” replied the other: “it seems to me that this banding together to accomplish an object, in itself no doubt desirable, gives a sort of semi-publicity to it, and thereby robs it of its simplicity, and in a measure deprives God of his glory in it, as though the constraining love of Christ were not sufficient to induce us to acquire habits of self-denial and usefulness. How much better for one who desires to live in the daily habit of unostentatious self-discipline modestly to practise this regularity of early-rising as an act of Christian self-denial, to be known and marked by Him who will accept and graciously bless it, if done to please him and in his strength. In a word, dear friends, I cannot but think that our female character is likely to suffer by the adoption of these new and, in my view, unscriptural theories and systems, and that the less of excitement and publicity there is in woman’s work, and the more of the quiet home work and home influence in her doings, the holier, the healthier, the happier, and the more truly useful will she be.”

“I quite agree with my sister in this matter,” observed the vicar. “I believe that there is a subtle element of evil in this club system among young females which has escaped the notice of many Christian people. I mean the independence of home which it generates, as well as the new motives which it introduces. Thus, a bright, intelligent young lady friend of mine had joined a society or club for secular reading. The members are bound to read works, selected by a responsible person connected with the society, for one hour every day, a certain fine having to be paid for every hour missed. And what was the consequence in my young friend’s case? Why, the society had usurped the place of the parents; it, not they, was to be the guide of her studies, and home duties must remain undone rather than this hour be infringed upon: for it was a point of honour to keep this hour sacred, as it were; and so the debt of honour had to be paid, even though the debt of conscience—that is, what home duties required—should be left unpaid. Just as it is on the turf and at the gaming-table,—the man’s gaming debts are called debts of honour, and must be paid, come what will, while debts to the tradesman, whose livelihood depends on his customers’ honesty, may remain unpaid. Such has been, or rather had been the result with my young friend. But finding that this reading-club was detaching her thoughts from home, weakening the hold of home upon her, causing her to lean on the judgment of others rather than on that of her parents, and to neglect, or do with an ill grace, duties clearly assigned to her by God, and to substitute for them self-imposed tasks and studies, she had the good sense and good principle to give it up. Surely a system which has a tendency to draw young people out of the circle of home duty, influence, and authority, and thus to make them independent of those whom God has given them to be their guides and counsellors, and to substitute the rules and penalties of a self-constituted society for the motives and discipline of the gospel, can neither be sound in itself, nor strengthening to the character, nor healthful either for mind or soul.”

“Well,” said the doctor thoughtfully, “there is a great deal, I am sure, in what you say, and I think my dear wife and myself are getting round to be pretty much of one mind with you now on these important matters.”

It was with much regret that Dr Prosser and his wife took their leave of the vicarage and its inmates on the first of May. It was a lovely morning, combining all the vigorous freshness of spring with the mature warmth of summer. As the doctor and the vicar strolled down to the station, leaving Mrs Prosser to ride down with the luggage, they encountered Thomas Bradly, who was also on his way to the line.

“Good morning, Thomas,” said Mr Maltby; “do you know how Edward Taylor is to-day?”

“Badly enough in body, sir,” replied Bradly; “but I believe the Lord’s blessing this trouble to his soul, and so he’s bringing good out of evil.—And so I suppose we’re to lose Dr Prosser. Well, I’m sorry for it, for all the working-men I’ve talked with was greatly set up with the lecture he gave us in the Town Hall the other night, and we were hoping he’d give us another.”

“We must get him to run down and favour us again when the autumn comes round,” said Mr Maltby.

“That I shall be charmed to do,” replied the doctor. “It was quite refreshing to speak td such an audience. They don’t leave one in any doubt about their understanding and appreciating what is said to them.”

“That’s true, sir,” said Bradly, “and that makes it all the more important they should listen to them as can show them as Scripture and science come from the same God, and so can’t possibly contradict one another; and that’s what you did, and I was very thankful to hear you do it.”

“I am glad that I made that clear,” said the doctor.

“Yes, you did, sir; and I’m so glad you did it without any ‘ifs’ and ‘buts.’ Why, we had a chap here the other day—the vicar weren’t at home at the time—and he puts out bills to say as he were going to give a popular lecture on the Evidences of Christianity, Historical, Geographical, and I don’t know what besides. It were put about too as he were an able man, and a Christian man, and so me and some of my friends went to hear him. But, bless you, he couldn’t go straight at his subject, but he must be making all sorts of apologies, he was so precious fearful of speaking too strongly in favour of the Word of God and the gospel, and lest he should be uncharitable to them as didn’t see just as he did; and he were full of compliments to this sceptical writer and that sceptical writer, and told us all their chief objections, and was so anxious to be candid, and not put his own opinions too strongly, that most of us began to think as the lecture ought to have been called a lecture against the evidences of Christianity. I’m sure, for one who remembered what he said in favour of the Bible there’d be a dozen as would just carry home the objections, and forget the little as was said on the other side. Indeed, it reminded me of Bobby Hunt’s flower-garden. But I ax your pardon, sir; I mustn’t be taking up more of your time.”

“Oh, go on by all means,” said Dr Prosser, laughing; “I want to hear your illustration from Bobby Hunt’s flower-garden.”

“Well, sir, Bobby Hunt, as he were usually called, though he preferred to be spoken to as Mr. Hunt, had a cottage on the hills. He were a man as always talked very big. He’d once been a gentleman’s butler, and had seen how the gentlefolks went on. So he liked to make things about him seem bigger than they really was. One day, in the back end of the year, he met me in the town, and asked me why I’d never been over to see his conservatory and flower-garden. I said I’d come over some day, and so I did.—‘I’m come to see your flower-garden,’ says I.—‘Come along,’ says he; ‘only, you mustn’t expect too much.’—‘’Tain’t likely,’ says I; but I weren’t exactly prepared for what I did see, or rather didn’t see. At the back of his cottage was a little bit of ground, with a few potatoes and stumps of cabbages in it, all very untidy; and he takes me to the end of this, and says, ‘There’s my flower-garden.’—‘Where?’ says I.—‘There,’ says he.—‘I can see lots of weeds,’ says I, ‘but scarce anything else.’—‘Oh,’ he says, ‘it only wants the weeds clearing off, and you’ll find more flowers than you think for.’—It were pretty much the same with the gent’s lecture. He showed us plenty of infidel weeds; but as for the Scripture flowers, they was so smothered by the sceptical objections, it’d take a sharp eye to notice ’em at all.”

“You don’t think, then, my friend,” asked the doctor, “that this apologetic style—this parade of candour in stating the views and objections of the sceptical—is of much use among the people of Crossbourne?”

“No use at all, sir, here or anywhere else, you may depend upon it. We don’t want such candour as that. The sceptics and, their creeds and their objections can take care of themselves. We want just to have the simple truth set before us.”

“I quite agree with you,” said the doctor: “timid defence is more damaging to the cause of truth than open attack.”

“I believe you, sir. Suppose I were to ask you to employ one of my mates, and you was to ask me if I could give him a good character; what would you think of him if I were to say, ‘Well, I’ve a good opinion of him myself, and he’s honest and all right, for anything that I know to the contrary; but I should like you to know that John Styles don’t think him over honest, and Anthony Birks told me the other day as he wouldn’t trust him further than he could see him; and though Styles and Birks aren’t no friends of mine, still they’re very respectable men, and highly thought of by some. But, for all that, I hope you’ll employ my mate, for I’ve a very high opinion of him myself on the whole’? If I were to give you such a character of my mate, would it dispose you to engage him? I fancy not. But this is just how some of these gents recommends the Scriptures in their lectures and their books. It’s my honest conviction, doctor, they’re not loyal believers in God’s truth themselves, or they’d never defend it in this left-handed way.”

“I’m afraid what you say is too true,” said Dr Prosser; “and I shall not forget our conversation on this subject.—What a lovely day!” he continued, turning to Mr Maltby. “What a contrast to the day on which I last passed through Crossbourne.”

“When was that?” asked his friend; “I did not know that you had been in this neighbourhood before.”

“Oh, I was only passing through by rail on my way to town. Let me see; I was coming from the north, and passed your station late at night on the 23rd of last December.”

“Ah, Thomas!” said the vicar, “that is a night we cannot forget.—Poor Joe Wright! His was a terrible end indeed.”

“What! A man killed on the line that night near Crossbourne?” said the doctor. “I remember having my attention drawn to it more particularly, because it must have happened a few minutes after I passed over the very same spot; so I gathered from the account of the accident in the Times.”

“You must have been going up to London then by the express,” said his friend.

“Yes. And I’ve special cause to remember the night—it was dismal, rainy, and chilly. The train was very full, and I was a little anxious about my luggage, as it contained some articles of considerable value. There was no room for it in the luggage vans, which were full when I joined the train, and I had to speak rather sharply to a porter who I suspect was not over sober. He jerked up my things very roughly on to the top of the first-class carriage into which I got, and was going to leave one of the most important articles on the platform, if I had not jumped out and seen it put up myself. And then I had to scold him again for not covering the luggage properly with the tarpaulin, without which protection it would, some of it at least, have been damaged, as a steady rain was falling. I don’t know when I have been more put out, and really I felt ashamed of myself afterwards. However, all was right in the end; the luggage was all safe and uninjured, and I had a prosperous journey.”

“I’ll wish you good morning, sir,” said Thomas Bradly to the doctor, as they entered the station yard. “A pleasant journey to you, sir; and there’ll be many of us working-men as’ll be very proud to see and hear you again in Crossbourne.”

“Farewell, my good friend,” said the other. “I shall look forward with much pleasure to the fulfilment of my promise.”

A few minutes more, and Dr and Mrs Prosser were on their way back to the great city.

Chapter Sixteen.

Confession and Explanation.

When Edward Taylor’s accident and its cause were known in Crossbourne, the consternation caused among the enemies of religion and of the temperance cause was indescribable. Thomas Bradly made no secret of what had happened, and of how Foster’s persecutors had been outwitted: not in any revengeful spirit, but partly because he thought it better that the plain truth should be known, and so the mouths of the marvel-mongers be stopped; and partly because he felt sure that the enemy would keep pretty still when they knew that their late proceedings were blazed abroad. So he just quietly told one or two of his fellow-workmen all the particulars, without note or comment, and left the account to do its own work.

Nor could there be any doubt as to the result. Never had there been such “a heavy blow and great discouragement” to the infidel party as this. Not only was there a storm of indignation poured out upon the heads of the conspirators by the more sober-minded working-men,—for it took no very shrewd guessing to find out who had been Ned Taylor’s companions in the heartless and cruel outrage,—but even those who might have secretly applauded had the plot been successful, were eager to join in the general expressions of disgust and reprobation now that it had failed; for nothing meets with such universal and remorseless execration as unsuccessful villainy. There were also those who never lost an opportunity of chaffing the unfortunate delinquents; while, to complete their mortification and discomfiture, a rude copy of satirical verses, headed, “A Simple Lay in Praise of Tar, by one of the Feathered Tribe,” was printed and widely circulated through the town and neighbourhood. Nor was there much sympathy, under their ignominious defeat, between the members and friends of the Free-thought Club. After a few nights, spent chiefly in personalities and mutual recriminations, which well-nigh terminated in a general stand-up fight, the meetings of the club were adjourned sine die, and the institution itself fell to pieces in a few weeks, and its existence was speedily forgotten.

The heaviest weight of trouble, however, had fallen upon poor Ned Taylor. He had suffered very serious injuries by his fall into the old well, and, having utterly ruined his constitution by intemperance, was unable to rally from the shock and the wounds and bruises he had received. So he lay a miserable, groaning wreck of humanity on his wretched bed, in the comfortless kitchen of his bare and desolate home.

His old companions soon came to see him; not from any real care for himself or his sufferings, but partly to coax and partly to threaten him into silence, so that he might not reveal the names of his companions in the attempt on Foster. But Ned’s wife soon gave them to understand that her husband had already had more than enough of their company; that they needn’t trouble themselves to call again; and that she hoped, if he was spared, that he would have nothing more to say to any of them as long as he lived. So his old companions in evil, taking this “broad hint” as it was meant, left him in peace, and he had leisure to look a little into the past, and to ponder his sin and folly.

He was a man, like many others of his class, not without kindly feelings and occasional good intentions; but these last had ever been as “the morning cloud and the early dew,” and like all good resolutions repeatedly broken, had only added fresh rivets to the chains of his evil habits. And so he had plunged deeper and deeper into the mire of intemperance and ungodliness, till scarce the faintest trace of the divine image could be discerned in him.

But now his conscience woke up, and he was not left without helpers. Thomas Bradly visited him on the day after his accident, and saw that he was properly cared for. William Foster also called on him in a day or two, and assured him of his hearty forgiveness. The poor unhappy man was deeply touched at this, and, hiding his face in his hands, sobbed bitterly. He was indeed a pitiable object as he lay back on his ragged bed, partly propped up with pillows, his head bound round with a cloth, his left eye half closed, and one arm lying powerless by his side.

“William,” he said, when he could manage to get the words out, “I don’t deserve this, kindness from you of all men in the world; it cuts me to the heart, it does, for sure. I think I heard the parson say once, when he were preaching in the open-air at the market-cross one summer’s evening, summat about heaping coals of fire on a man’s head as has wronged you, by returning him good for evil. I’m sure, William, you’ve been and heaped a whole scuttleful of big coals on my head, and they’re red-hot every one on ’em.”

“Well, well,” said Foster, much touched by this confession, “it will be all right, Ned, as far as I’m concerned, and I hope you’ll soon be better.—I’ve come to learn,” he added in an undertone, and with strong emotion, “my own need of forgiveness for all I’ve done against my Saviour in days gone by, and it would be strange and wrong indeed if I couldn’t heartily forgive a fellow-sinner.”

“The Lord bless you for that word,” said the other; “and let me tell you, William, bad as I’ve been agen you and poor Jim Barnes, I’ve never liked this job; and as for that Sharples, I knew as he was the meanest rascal to treat you as he did, and I only wish as I’d had the sense and courage to keep out of the business altogether.”

“Well, you’ve learnt a lesson, Ned; and if it should please God to bring you round, you must keep clear of the old set.”

“You may depend upon that, William,” said the sick man; “I’ve had enough and to spare of them and their ways.—I’ll tell you how it all began, William, and who it was as set the thing a-going.”

“Nay, Ned,” interposed Foster hastily, “I don’t want to know; I’d rather not know. I can guess pretty well, though I saw none of their faces distinctly. They don’t want any punishment from me if I wished to give it them, for they’re getting it hot and strong from all sides already; and as for Sharples, poor wretched man, he’s got caught in his own trap as neatly as if he’d set it on purpose to catch himself.”

“Just as you please, William; I’m sure it’s very good of you to take it as you do.”

“No, Ned, don’t say so; there’s no goodness anywhere in the matter, except in that merciful God who so wonderfully watched over and protected me. I’m sure it has been worth all I’ve gone through a thousand times over, to have learnt what he has taught me in this trouble,—a lesson of trust and love. But I will come and see you again, Ned; you have had talking enough for one time.”

The vicar also called on the sufferer frequently, and was glad to find him humble, patient, and willing to receive instruction. But it was to Thomas Bradly that the poor man seemed specially drawn, and to him he felt that he could open all his heart.

“I’ve summat on my mind, Thomas, as I wants to talk to you about,” he said to Bradly one day when they were left quite alone; it was about a week after the return home of Dr and Mrs Prosser. The sick man was able to sit up in a chair by the fire, though the doctor gave no hope of any real or lasting improvement. Through the kindness of his friends his cottage had partly lost its comfortless appearance, and himself, his wife, and children had been provided with sufficient food and clothing. Yet the stamp of death was on the poor patient’s wasted features, and a racking cough tried him terribly at times. But his mind was quite clear, and he had begun to see his way to pardon and peace, though it was with but a trembling hand that his faith laid hold of the offered salvation.