CHAPTER XXXIII.

SQUIRE FULLER INTRODUCES AN INNOVATION.

“List to the Saviour’s words: ‘Where two or three Meet in My name, there in the midst am I.’ Believe, and welcome to thy family The gracious Guest; and by His blessing try How much domestic bliss and amity Hang on domestic worship’s hallowing tie.”

_Bishop Mant._

After Squire Fuller had returned home from the county business which demanded his presence in the ancient town of York, he found himself much exercised in mind, as to certain important matters which pressed upon his notice. Lucy Blyth’s sudden departure was a surprise, and he was bound to acknowledge to himself that it was an unwelcome one. The fair girl had cast around him the magic spell which had taken captive all who came within its influence. Her presence in his lonely mansion, long unbrightened by the sweet subtleties of woman, had thrown more than a gleam of sunshine through its stiff and stately grandeur; her wondrous magic had given back to him the son of his right hand; her cheerful and attractive piety had excited something more in him than admiration; and her sweet songs of Zion and her clear witness for her Saviour had touched his heart. These things, together with his own son’s beautiful and consistent religious profession, and his convincing testimony of the power of Christianity, had left his harsh and narrow scepticism without a leg to stand on. Besides all this, Lucy had undoubtedly saved his own life by her well-aimed blow on the extended arm of the villain, Buckley. He felt that he must make some return to her, commensurate with the weighty and unspeakable service she had rendered, but how to set about it, under the peculiar circumstances of the case, he did not know. Then, again, he felt in his conscience that both she and Philip had possession of some secret inborn talisman which brought them peace, happiness, and hope, to which he was an utter and a miserable stranger. Intelligence of “the great revival” had reached him through the medium of his son, who was as yet unable to endure excitement and exposure, but who was kept well posted up as to the course of Methodist events, by his much-loved class-leader and minister, the Rev. Matthew Mitchell. The marvellous change which had come over Midden Harbour, and the other delightful results of that great movement, were all told to the wondering squire by his son, whose pale face was lit up the while, with a heaven-born joy, as he related the triumphs of the Gospel; and the poor old squire, drawn more and more by the unseen hand of Him who was “lifted up” for this very purpose, had a chronic heartache for the possession of the heaven-sent secret which was such a treasure to his son. Other witness, too, was now forthcoming, which still more clearly evidenced the mighty power of Methodism, hitherto despised, to work the highest moral wonders, and to produce in the hardest hearts and most unlikely cases, the sterling results of that Gospel which its ministers and people so vigorously proclaimed.

Immediately after that notable Sunday, on which Piggy Morris found peace with God, Squire Fuller received the following letter:--

“HONOURED SIR,--Years ago you turned me off the farm on which I was born, and which was rented by my father before me. You did justly, and only what I deserved. From that day until now I have hated you and yours, and would have gone far and done much to work you harm. There was a triumphant vengeance in my heart when circumstances led me to believe that I could strike at you through your son. I deeply repent, and would hereby express my bitter sorrow for the trouble my wicked hate has caused. God has shown me the greatness of my sin; He has shown me the greatness of His mercy; He has forgiven my sin. I pray you, forgive me also. I desire to subscribe myself, with great respect,

“Yours humbly and repentingly,

“GEORGE MORRIS.”

“Well! that’s a miracle, at any rate,” said the squire, as he handed the letter to his son; “that’s casting out a devil of no ordinary strength and size. I am bound to say it is a most satisfactory letter, and I shall write and express my pleasure at the receipt of it.”

“And your hearty compliance with his request?” said Philip.

“Certainly, my boy; George Morris’s conduct shall be forgotten and forgiven.”

“Father!” said Philip, softly and half timidly; “Is not that a miracle, too?”

The old gentleman, once stiff, stately, proud and unyielding to a degree, was compelled to feel that he himself had marvellously changed. He knew that that change had been largely wrought by the son he had received from the dead, and by the fair girl who had gotten so strong a hold upon his heart.

“Yes, Philip,” and the father’s eyes reddened with suffusing tears, “I’m bound to own that I too am something other, and I think, better than I was.”

Philip wisely and prudently said no more, but his soul was full of a yearning love to his mollified and chastened parent and of gratitude to God, who was so evidently leading him by a way he knew not, to a hitherto undiscovered resting-place for intellect and heart.

In the course of the day the squire met his head gamekeeper.

“Well, Hatfield,” said he, “how are you getting on?”

“Why, sir,” said Hatfield, touching his hat, “we don’t seem to have very much to do now. A fortnight or two since, me and my mates were in peril of our lives, and Waverdale Woods were as flush of poachers as they were of game; but they seem to be pretty nearly all gone.”

“Gone? What’s gone? The game?”

“No, sir; the poachers. I haven’t seen a snare set, or heard a gun for three weeks, and the hares that were snared at the beginning of that time we had the pleasure of taking ourselves.”

“I’m very glad to hear it, Hatfield. But how do you account for it?”

“Why, sir, it’s all owing to the Methodist preaching in Midden Harbour. I met Potter Bill the other day, and I said, ‘Why, Bill, you’ve given us no trouble lately.’ He said, ‘No, I ha’nt, an’ what’s mair, ah nivver sall nae mair. God’s been givin’ me trubble i’steead. Methody preeachers ez been pooachin’ i’ Midden Harbour, an’ they’ve aboot bagged all t’ game i’ t’ spot. You can tell Squire Fuller ’at he may knock off hoaf-a-dozen watchers, for we shan’t worrit him nae mair.’”

“Capital!” said the squire. “I’m sure I ought to be heartily obliged to them, and to the Methodist parsons, too. By the way, do you know anything about them yourself?”

“Yes, sir. I go to their preachings sometimes on a Sunday night; indeed I may say every Sunday.”

“Why, I thought you went to church, Hatfield, like the rest of my servants,” said the squire, with half a frown.

“Yes, so I do, sir: but that’s in the morning, you know; and as I go to church because you wish it, I felt myself free to go to chapel as well.”

“Because I wish it?” said the squire. “Wouldn’t you go if I had no wish on the subject? Surely the parish church is the proper place for the people of the parish to go to.”

“Why, sir, I’m quite sure that nearly all the servants at the hall _do_ go because you wish it, and for nothing else. Parson Elliott would have very few else. Among the Methodists things is plainer and more hearty like. I own I like it best myself.”

“But the Liturgy of the Church of England, Hatfield, is one of the most beautiful compositions in the English language, and nothing can be better for public worship.”

“Yes, sir, I dare say it is; but it doesn’t seem to come from the heart like the Methodist preacher’s does. He prays without any book at all, and the things he asks for comes so pat that you can’t help joining in them. At the church it only seems to send us to sleep, and as for the sermons, Parson Elliott reads something for ten minutes, and it’s all over. But Mr. Clayton, and Mr. Mitchell, and Nathan Blyth, they preach right out of their heads and hearts, for half-an-hour or more, and one can’t help thinking about what they say.”

It would be well if certain degenerate Methodist preachers of modern times, who read their sermons without a blush, would take to heart this witness of the honest gamekeeper, and mend their evil and utterly unacceptable ways. The strength of Methodism has been chiefly in the pulpit, and the introduction of manuscript sermons into that place of power sadly mars its effect, and leaves the congregation, like Gideon’s fleece, “unwatered still and dry.”

The squire turned away from the loquacious gamekeeper to ponder on the results of Methodist “poaching” and Methodist preaching, and he felt half inclined to go himself and hear what the thing was like. Nor did his day’s experiences end here, for as he retraced his steps, walking as his wont was with his head bent down and his hands behind him, he suddenly came upon Adam Olliver, who was returning homewards from his daily labour, on the back of Balaam. The squire was walking on the grassy path by the roadside, and the short winter’s day was fast deepening into night, so that neither form nor foot betrayed his presence to the happy old hedger, who was, as usual, opening his mind to his dumb companion, without any reserve. Conversation with bipedal donkeys needs a strong infusion of the latter article; with Balaam, however, the case was different.

“Balaam, aud boy,” the old man was saying, “a warse crew then them i’ Midden Harbour couldn’t be fun’ atween York and Lunnun, an’ ivvery yan on ’em ’ll be browt te God. His seeaving grace is cum te Potter Bill an’ Nanny Spink, just as it com te t’ yung squire, for the Lord mak’s nae difference. May the Lord seeave t’ aud squire. He nobbut wants t’ luv o’ Jesus iv ’is ’eart te be a blessin’ te all Waverdale, an’ then t’ new chapil wad be built iv a twinklin’.”

“Hem!” coughed the squire loudly, still keeping in the shade, deepened now by overhanging trees.

“Massy on uz! Ah did’nt knoa there was onnybody there!”

“Good evening!” said the squire. “You are just coming from work, I suppose.”

“Hey! Ah’ve been deeain’ a lahtle bit, but ah isn’t up te mitch noo-a-days. Ah can nobbut faddle aboot a bit wi’ me slashin’-knife, an’ if t’ maister nobbut payd me what ah addled, there wad be a good monny mair pennies then shillin’s te draw o’ Setterda’ neets. Are yo’ gannin’ te Nestleton?”

“Yes, I’m going in that direction for a little way.”

“That’s right. Ah’s fond ov a bit o’ cumpany, tho’ ah mak’s a shift te get on withoot. Ah was talkin’ te Balaam, when ah heeard yo’ cough.”

“That’s the name of your donkey, I suppose?” said the squire, with a smile.

“Yes. He hezn’t mitch te say te ma’ i’ answer, tho’ noo an’ then he’s noisy aneeaf, bud he’s a varry good lissener, at onny rate he’s better then nowt. Ah reckon you’ve heeard what’s bin gannin’ o’ in Midden Harbour latly. The Lord’s been gettin’ tiv Hissen a glorious victh’ry, an’ scoores o’ poor sowls hez been tonned frae darkness te leet, an’ frae t’ poo’er o’ Satan te God. De yo’ knoa owt aboot that, ah wunder?”

“Not much, I’m afraid,” said the squire, who was getting more than he bargained for.

“Why then, bless yo’, why nut? Jesus dee’d fo’ yo’, bare your sins iv His aun body upo’ t’ tree. Try Him! Beleeave iv Him, an’ ah’ll lay me life He’ll mak’ yo’ as ’appy as yo’ can live.”

“Then you are happy, are you?”

“’Appy! Prayse the Lord. Ah sud think I is, an’ hae been for mair then fifty year; an’ this minnit ah knoa nowt sae sartain as that Jesus is my Saviour, an’ ’at me’ neeame’s written i’ t’ Lamb’s Book ov Life.”

“What were you saying about a new chapel, when I overtook you? Is there likely to be one in Nestleton?”

“Hey, mair then likely, it’s sartain. Meeast o’ t’ monney’s riddy, and noo the Lord’s gi’en us a congregation an’ a society riddy, we’re nobbut waitin’ for t’ squire te be riddy, an’ then we sall ’rise an’ build.’”

“But have you any hope that the squire is likely to be ready? I thought he had refused you a piece of ground long since.”

“Why, seea he did--nay, nut exactly refused oot an’ oot; bud he said he wad tak’ tahme te think aboot it, an’ we’ve been prayin’ and beleeavin’ an’ waitin’ ivver since; an’ bless yo’, ah’ve neea mair doot aboot it, then I hev ’at t’ squire hisself ’ll cum te Jesus, an’ be meead as ’appy as Maister Philip is, God bless ’im. Ah tell yo’, that yung man’s a glorious and noble fello’ ’at ’ll sum day be yan o’ t’ greeatest blessin’s Waverdale’s ivver knoan.”

“And you really hope that the squire himself will become a Methodist, do you?”

“Why, ah didn’t say that. A man ’at’s a Methodist an’ nowt else is like a nut withoot a kennil, or a tree withoot sap, bud ah said ’at t’ squire ’ll becum a Christian. Why, his sun’s prayin’ for it, an’ ah nivver lets a day pass withoot prayin’ for it mysen--an’ mah lahtle class ’at meets i’ my hoose ivvery Thosday, prays for ’im as reg’lar as t’ neet cums. He’s bun’ te be seeaved, God bless ’im! an’ he’s bun’ te give us a bit o’ land for a chapil!”

“Well, good evening. I hope you will succeed,” said the squire, for here his road diverged.

“Good neet te yo’, an’ ah wop ’at you’ll finnd yer way te t’ Cross. That’s the spot for all on uz! Good neet.”

Old Adam Olliver went on his way, utterly unconscious as to the identity of his companion, and when seated by his humble fireside, he told Judy that he had just had the chance of “sayin’ a wod for Jesus.” Meanwhile Squire Fuller bent his steps to the gate of Waverdale Park, saying to himself, “Praying for me, are they? Thank God for it.” As he passed through the park gate, he saw the household of Gaffer Green, the lodge-keeper, kneeling round their little room at family prayer. The lighted candle on the round table shone through the diamond panes of the cottage window, and Squire Fuller saw the open Bible, the spectacles laid upon them, the kneeling forms of wife, and son, and daughter, and the uplifted face of the white-haired old man, as he commended his household to God. “God forgive me!” sighed he to himself, and then, with a firm step, as though some new resolve was born in him, he hastened home. That earnest prayer was heard in heaven, and its answer was recorded in his own submissive and believing heart!

For a little while neither Philip nor his father spoke. The former thought he saw a change in his father’s countenance, a new light in his eye; the latter was lost in solemn but not unpleasant thought.

“Philip!” said he, at last, “ask the butler to call all the servants in for family prayer.”

Philip threw one quick and joyful glance, which fell with an ineffable benediction on the father’s heart, and hastened to give the welcome message. Without one prefatory word, the squire read the fifty-third chapter of Isaiah to the amazed and wondering household. Then as they knelt around, he opened the unfamiliar prayer-book, and began to read. The printed form was too strait for him; he broke away on the flood-tide of the new life which had come to him. He pleaded, praised, and prayed, until the most indifferent was melted into tears. After commending them all to the watchful care of Heaven, they rose from their knees, and the two were left alone. Philip could contain himself no longer; he flung himself upon the old man’s neck, and wept with joy. The stars that night looked down upon no holier spot than that stately home in which the Ark of God had found an honoured place.