CHAPTER XVI.

SQUIRE FULLER RECEIVES A DEPUTATION.

“Scorn not the smallness of early endeavour, Let thy great purpose ennoble it ever; Droop not o’er efforts extended in vain; Work! work, with a will; thou shalt find it again. Fear not! for greater is God by thy side Than armies of Satan against thee allied.”

_Anon._

The lovely spring had deepened into a warm, fruitful summer, the corn was rapidly ripening for the scythe, and the orchards were beginning to bend beneath a burden of expanding fruit, when the Rev. Theophilus Clayton mounted his antique gig, and directed Jack, the circuit horse, on the road that led to Nestleton Magna. That good man had but just finished his dinner of plain and frugal fare--such lusts of the flesh as expensive cates and costly luxuries were far beyond the reach of all his tribe--and his intention was to drop into Farmer Houston’s for a cup of tea, and then to talk over a scheme for a new chapel, which was rendered necessary by the fact that the spacious kitchen was quite unequal to the increasing congregation. Jack bore his master onward at his usual slow and sober pace, and Mr. Clayton gave himself up to a sort of waking dream, now thinking over his evening sermon, now weighing the _pros_ and _cons_ of the proposal to “arise and build,” when he was roused from his ponderings by means far more effective than agreeable.

“Here’s a Methody parson, lads! Let’s have a shy at him!”

Scarcely had he time to turn his head towards the speaker, and scan the group of lazy loafers congregated by the roadside at the corner of Midden Harbour, before he was saluted with a shower of stones, which fell on startled Jack, rattled on the ancient gig, and one of them, at any rate, made an unnecessary indentation in his silk hat, whose long term of faithful service demanded more respectful treatment. Waxing indignant at this gratuitous and cowardly attack, he turned to expostulate with the lawless batch of wastrels, when a well-aimed brickbat from the hand of Black Morris struck him on the cheek, and, after drawing a stream of blood, fell into the body of the gig. Mr. Clayton, maintaining his presence of mind, brought down his whip upon the withers of the startled pony, which broke into a gallop, and bore him through the village with the crimson token of the outrage still wet upon his face.

When he drove up to Farmer Houston’s gate, quite a knot of villagers gathered around him, alarmed and indignant at the scurvy treatment he had received. He lifted up the quarter brick which had dealt the ugly wound, and said, with a smile, for he was a hero in his way, “That’s the mischievous gentleman that did it, and you see, like a true soldier, I carry my scars in front.”

“Oh, what a shame!” “Who did it?” “Who threw it?” were the exclamations of the farmer and his household, as warm water and sticking-plaster were being provided. The prudent preacher, however, in the spirit of his Master, thought of the probable results to Black Morris if he mentioned his name, and so he contented himself with a general statement that he had been maltreated by a set of scoundrels at Midden Harbour.

Well done, Mr. Clayton! Your kindly forbearance will bear richer fruit than you imagine, and, like many another persecution meekly borne for the Master’s sake, will in no wise lose its reward. After the needful attention had been bestowed on his wounded cheek, and a few cups of tea had refreshed his inner man, Theophilus was himself again: and when Nathan Blyth, Old Adam Olliver, and Farmer Houston were closeted with him in close committee on the new chapel, he was able to guide their deliberations with his accustomed skill.

The first, and, indeed, the crucial point was the question of a site. The entire village, with the exception of the undesirable locality of Midden Harbour, was the property of Squire Fuller; and the very first step was to ask that gentleman to sell or lease them a plot of ground suitable to the requirements of the case. Their hopes of success were by no means strong; but Mr. Clayton, who was never much given to beating about the bush, proposed that they should form themselves into a deputation, and see the squire on the subject.

“It’s no use going to the steward,” said Farmer Houston, “for he hates the Methodists like poison, and would set his foot on us if he could.”

“I’m willing to try the squire,” said Natty Blyth, “if you think it’s best; but I don’t expect he’ll be particularly glad to see me, seeing that Master Phil’s unlucky fancy has angered his father with me and mine.”

“Nivver mind that,” chimed in Old Adam; “t’ aud squire knoas it’s neean o’ your deein’, and as for its bein’ unlikely, he’ll be fooast te deea as God tells ’im, an’ if it’s His will ’at we sud hev a chapel, it isn’t Squire Fuller nor t’ devil aback on ’im ’at can hinder uz! Let’s pray aboot it. We’ll fost ax the Lord, ’at hez t’ hearts ov all men in His hands, an’ then ax t’ squire, an’ leeave t’ rest wi’ God.”

This admirable hint was at once acted on, and Mr. Clayton asked the old hedger to engage in prayer. Adam went straight to the point at once--a practice not too common, as many a heavy and listless prayer-meeting can testify.

“Oh, Lord,” he prayed, “Thoo knoas ’at we want te build a sanctuary i’ Thy honour, an’ for t’ good o’ sowls. Thah good Spirit’s meead wer borders ower strayt for uz. We beseeach Tha te give uz room te dwell in. Thoo can oppen t’ way as eeasily as Thoo oppen’d t’ Rid Sea for t’ children o’ Isra’l, an’ Thoo can tonn t’ heart o’ Squire Fuller as Thoo tonn’d t’ heart o’ King Pharaoh. We’re gannin’ te see ’im i’ Thah neeam, an’ for t’ seeak o’ Thah cause. Gan wiv uz, Lord; wi’ Thoo wiv us we’re bun’ te prosper. Thoo wadn’t hev crammed t’ kitchen wi’ precious souls te hear Thah Wod if Thoo didn’t meean te gether ’em all inte t’ Gospel net. Lord, t’ ship’s full an’ beginnin’ te sink! Bud it can’t sink while t’ prayers o’ Thah people hod it up. Lord help uz! and gan wiv uz, for Jesus Christ’s seeak. Amen.”

O wondrous power of faithful prayer! The four men rose from their knees, ready and eager for the interview, and as Farmer Houston was able to affirm that the squire was at home, they resolved at once to go forward in the name of the Lord.

Waverdale Hall, the seat of Ainsley Fuller, Esq., J.P., was a large and imposing building, in which the Italian style of architecture was exhibited to the best advantage, and which was said to have been erected under the personal superintendence of that noted deviser of aristocratic piles, Inigo Jones. Situated in the midst of a large and well-wooded park, and partially surrounded by trim terraces and well-kept ornamental grounds, it formed the centre of a landscape of which the inhabitants of Waverdale were justly proud. Our brave quarternion of Methodists made their way to a side entrance to the stately mansion, and in answer to their call, a grave-looking, white-headed butler, ushered them into the bounteously-furnished library, whose multitudinous bookshelves laden with ancient and modern literature, so excited the astonishment of Adam Olliver, that he could not help exclaiming,--

“What a parlous lot o’ beeaks! Pack’d like herrin’s iv a barrel! Thoosan’s upo’ thoosan’s. Mah wod, Natty! bud they must mak’ t’ squire’s heead wark te’ read ’em. They a’most tonn me dizzy te leeak at ’em.”

Again the butler appeared, cutting short Old Adam’s wonderment, and ushered them into the presence of the stern and stately squire, whose reception of them was courteous enough but cold. Farmer Houston, as the tenant of a farm which had been in the Houston family through many generations, was personally known to Squire Fuller, who accosted him by name.

“Good evening, Mr. Houston. Take a seat, but first introduce me to your friends.”

Mr. Clayton received a cold and distant bow; Nathan Blyth a scrutinising gaze, more piercing than pleasant; but that good man and true, bore him as a true man should.

“And this,” said Farmer Houston, “is one of my labourers, who has been an old and trusted servant to myself and my father for more than fifty years. His name is Adam Olliver.”

The squire bowed in honest reverence to the time-worn veteran, who bore such a certificate of character, and asked them to what he was indebted for the honour of their visit.

Farmer Houston stated their case. He spoke of the lowly band of Methodists who lived in the village and worshipped God as their taste and conscience taught; of the services held in Adam’s cottage, and then in his own kitchen; how even that was now too small for the congregation; how they desired to build a little chapel for the more decent and successful carrying out of their work, and how they had come to ask him to sell or lease to them a scrap of land, on which to build their house of prayer. “Mr. Clayton,” he said, “will answer any questions as to our doctrines or proceedings, and we shall be deeply grateful, sir, if you can see your way to grant us our request.”

“I do not think there is any need to ask questions,” said Mr. Fuller, with an ominous shake of the head. “You have the parish church, which is sufficiently large to hold all who choose to go. My friend the rector is a most estimable man, and I do not see that anything is to be gained by setting up an opposition establishment. I don’t understand this newfangled religion you call Methodism, but I gather that it is a kind of fanatical parody on the National Church; that its adherents are remarkable for shouting and groaning, and for going to great excesses of mere emotional excitement. I am not particularly in love with the ideas that are taught in the parish church itself, but I certainly prefer them to yours, and shall as certainly refuse to be the means of introducing what is sure to be a source of sectarian jealousy, into our quiet and peaceful little village. It has done without such a thing from time immemorial, and shall not with my permission be exposed to what I cannot but regard as the introduction of a very pernicious element of mischief.”

“Bud,” said Adam Olliver, whose anxiety could not be restrained, “we aren’t inthroducin’ owt ’at’s new. We’ve been hoddin’ meetin’s i’ Nestleton for five-an’-thotty year, an’ naebody’s na worse for it, an’ monny on us, sor, is a good deal better for ’t. Parson knoas ’at we hae nae opposition tiv ’im, an’ some on us gans te t’ chotch i’ t’ mornin’s. Ah could tell yo’, sor, o’ monny a yan ’at’s been meeade ’appy there; o’ pooachers ’at’s sell’d their guns, an’ drunkards ’at’s tonn’d sober, an’ monny a scooare o’ precious sowls ez dee’d rejoicin’ i’ Jesus Christ, through t’ meetin’s ’at’s been hodden i’ mah lathle hoose an’ i’ t’ maister’s kitchin. As for t’ village bein’ peeaceful, there’s plenty te deea at Midden Harbour, roond t’ publichoose an’ uther spots. We want all t’ village te fear God an’ seeave their sowls. If yo’ pleease, sor, deean’t damp uz all at yance. Tak’ a bit o’ tahme te consither on ’t. While you’re thinkin’, we sall be prayin’, an’ ah wop you’ll excuse ma, sor, if ah say ’at if you’ll pray aboot it yo’rself, it’ll help yo’ te cum tiv a right detarmination.”

Here Farmer Houston slyly pulled the old man’s coat, afraid that he should venture too far and do more harm than good. Mr. Clayton, however, was delighted with the clear, concise way in which the old man pleaded the cause of his Master. He knew that He who told His disciples that when they were brought before rulers and magistrates He would tell them what they ought to say, was speaking through the lips of the godly hedger, who knew so well how to talk with God.

“Ah weean’t trubble yo’ no farther,” said the old man, in obedience to the farmer’s hint; “bud if you’ll tonn te t’ fifth chapther ov Acts, an’ t’ thotty-eight’ an’ thotty-nint’ vasses, you’ll me’bbe finnd a bit o’ good advice.”

The squire smiled, partly in superior knowledge, and partly in amusement at the unsophisticated Doric of the speaker, but he could not ridicule such transparent honesty.

“Well, gentlemen,” said he, “I can give you no encouragement to-night, but I’ll take time to weigh the matter, and will let you know my decision.”

“Prayse the Lord for that,” said Adam Olliver, “an’ may God guide uz all!”

Little did they think of the awful storm and tempest which should burst over Waverdale Hall and its aristocratic inmates before that final decision should be announced. The portly butler was summoned to conduct them to the door, and when the little party was fairly out into the park, they began to compare notes on the aspect of affairs.

“I don’t think we shall succeed,” said Farmer Houston, who was never of a very sanguine temperament.

“No,” said Mr. Clayton, “Adam’s pleading won upon his courtesy, but it will not change his mind.”

“No,” said Nathan Blyth, with a sigh, “we may put it out of court. Nestleton’ll have to go without a Methodist chapel for this generation, depend on’t.”

“Seea you think ’at squire’s bigger then God, di yo’? Yan wad think, te hear yo’ talk, that it was a matter for him an’ uz te sattle. Is ther’ onnything ower hard for the Lord? an’ it’s His business noo, an’ nut oors, an’ ah for yan’s gannin’ te trust Him te t’ end. Though it tarry, wayt for it. T’ oad gentleman dizn’t like it, ah can see, bud he’ll hae te lump it, for ah’s as sartan as ah’s livin’ ’at Nestleton chapel ’ll be built afoore twelve munths is ower. He says he’ll tak tahme te think on’t; that’s summat, an’ mind mah wods, Squire Fuller’ll be willin’ aneeaf befoore the Lord’s deean wiv ’im.”

Adam’s faith was great, as all God’s people’s ought to be. The mountain may be great, but when such faith as Adam’s says “Be thou removed,” it rocks from base to summit and is cast into the sea.