A SONG AND A STORY.
Yes, Granny was quite right. It was difficult not to spoil that little beggar. Everyone helped to do so; everyone, that is to say, but one person. That one person was Briggs, Chris's dignified and severe nurse. The whole household concurred in petting and spoiling him in every possible way. Briggs alone maintained her course of justice, inflexible and unbending. Her yoke was not one under which the little beggar willingly bowed his head. He was not accustomed to any yoke, and Briggs' was not at all to his taste.
In consequence of this state of affairs, nursery rows were by no means infrequent; nor was it very long before I witnessed one. It was but a few days after I had arrived, and I was sitting one afternoon in the library reading the Morning Post to Granny, who was busy with some work she was doing for the poor.
It was a quiet and peaceful state of affairs which we were both enjoying. Suddenly, however, we were interrupted by a tap at the door, and the entrance of Briggs, flushed, heated, and slightly panting.
"If you please, mum," she began, a little breathlessly, and placing her hand on her side as if to still the beating of her heart, "I wish to know if Master Chris is to be allowed to speak to me as he likes?"
"Certainly not, certainly not," Granny replied, raising herself straight in her arm-chair, and trying to assume the severity of manner she felt was suitable to the occasion. "What has he been saying?"
"It was just this, mum," Briggs started, with the air of resolving to give a full, true, and particular account; "it was just this. We were down in the village, and I stepped into the post-office to buy a few reels of black cotton, which it so happens I have run out of. Likewise, I wanted to buy some blue sewing-silk, which you may remember, mum, you asked me to keep in mind next time I happened to be that way."
"Yes, I remember, Briggs. And Master Chris was naughty?" Granny said, gently trying to bring her to the point.
"Well, mum, I was going to tell you," she continued, without hurrying, "when I had bought the cotton and the silk, it came to my mind to buy a packet of post-cards and two shillings' worth of stamps. But the rector's young ladies had come in, and being pressed for time, Mrs. Thompson, she says to me, 'I make no doubt but that you will let me serve the young ladies first'; to which I made answer, 'I wait your pleasure'. But Master Chris he gets cross, because he wants to go on home at once and roll his new hoop. 'Come along, old Briggs!' he says; 'come along, you old slow-coach!' Such behaviour, such language! Before the young ladies from the rectory, too! Where he learnt it I'm sure I can't tell. Not from me, I do assure you, mum," she concluded with indignation.
"It was very naughty of him," Granny remarked mildly.
"But that was not all, mum," the irate Briggs continued; "for all the way home he walks in front of me, tossing his head and singing as loud as possible, 'For I'm a jolly good fellow'; and Jack there barking and making such a row alongside of him; it was for all the world like a wild-beast show. Nothing I could say could stop the pair of them."
She paused to allow Granny to take in the full extent of Chris's enormity. As she did so, a scampering of little feet was heard outside, the handle of the door was impatiently turned—first the wrong way, and then rattled angrily. Finally the door itself was burst open, and that little beggar ran in, with excited countenance; the big holland pinafore, in which Briggs insisted upon enveloping him, and his especial detestation, half dropping off him, and trailing behind on the ground.
"Granny," he began immediately, "is 'For he's a jolly good fellow', that Uncle Godfrey sings, a wicked song?"
"It's very naughty of you to behave rudely to Briggs," she replied gravely.
Looking round, Chris's eyes fell upon Briggs, whom at first he had not noticed; then, realizing that she had been first in the field, he burst into a loud, tearless wail.
"Briggs, you're a nasty, nasty thing, and I hate you!" he cried vehemently, stamping his foot as he spoke.
"There, mum! Is that the way for a young gentleman to speak?" she asked, not without a certain triumph.
"I don't like you!" Chris cried, stamping his foot again. "You are always cross! Nasty, cross, old Briggs!"
"Chris, I am shocked, very, very shocked," Granny said gravely. "You must stand in the corner for a quarter of an hour."
The little beggar wailed again; real, unfeigned tears this time.
"I don't—want to—go into—the corner," he said sobbing. "It's all—your fault, Briggs."
Briggs shook her head slowly and solemnly from side to side.
"Oh, Master Chris!" she exclaimed, "is that a way for a nice young gentleman to speak?" Then she left the room with dignity.
Chris, looking after her with impotent anger, moved towards the corner with laggard steps, crying bitterly as he did so.
"Must I go into the corner, my Granny?" he wailed. "Uncle Godfrey is never sent into the corner."
"Yes, yes, you must, Chris," she said, obliging herself to be firm.
The little beggar looked entreatingly with large tearful eyes at her, as he crept towards the hated corner. But she would not allow herself to relent. Justice, in the form of the deeply offended Briggs, had to be propitiated, and Chris had to bear the punishment for his misdeeds.
At the same time, I believe Granny would joyfully have gone into the corner herself, if by so doing she could have spared her darling this wound to his pride, and yet have satisfied her own conscience. I think, indeed, in her sympathy for Chris in his disgrace, she really suffered more than he. It was therefore with relief, and as a welcome diversion that, when the footman came to announce the arrival of visitors, she rose to go to the drawing-room.
"I must go, Miss Baggerley," she said. "Will you be so kind as to see that Chris stays in the corner for a quarter of an hour? Only for a quarter of an hour, if he is good; but I know that he will be good, for he does not want to make his Granny unhappy any more. I am sure of that." With which gentle persuasion she went.
For a time Chris wept loudly and sorely, after which he was silent, save for an occasional sniff. This silence continued uninterrupted for so long that it at last aroused my suspicions. Turning my head the better to see him, I found that he was engaged in drawing strange and mystic signs upon the wall, by the simple process of wetting his finger in his mouth.
Hence the explanation of this sudden calm; for so absorbing, apparently, was this occupation, that it had had the effect of drying up all those bitter tears which, but a few minutes earlier, had flowed so freely.
"What are you doing?" I asked. "You must not dirty the wall like that."
"I am writing my name," the little beggar said with much pathos. "Chris-to-pher God-frey Wyndham. Then when I'm dead and gone far away over the sea, Granny will see it, and she'll be sorry she was so cross."
"Jane will wash out those dirty marks," I replied, ruthlessly destroying his mournful hopes. "They will not remain there."
At this the little beggar desisted from disfiguring the wall, but reiterated, though more weakly, "Granny will be very sorry by and by; she was cross, and she'll wish she hadn't put me in the corner."
"No, she won't," I answered decisively; "she'll be sorry that you were naughty, but she won't wish that she had not punished you. You deserved to be punished."
Feeling that I did not regard him as the ill-used little being that he considered himself, and that there was a want of sympathy about my remarks that was not altogether to his taste, Chris once more was silent.
Ten minutes elapsed, broken only by an occasional sigh from the occupant of the corner. Then I was asked wearily:
"Is it nearly time for me to come away?"
"Yes," I said, as I looked at my watch, "you may come out now."
A forlorn little figure came towards me, and crept on my knee.
"Was I very naughty?" he asked, deprecatingly.
"Yes, dear, I am afraid you were," I answered. I should have liked to speak more severely, but that was a difficult matter with Chris.
"Briggs is a nasty thing," he said, nestling his head contentedly on my shoulder.
"Granny will send you back to the corner if she hears you speak like that," I said, with more confidence than I felt upon the subject.
"She was so unkind to me; she isn't a kind Briggs," he said. "Do you like her?"
Then without waiting for an answer he went on: "I love my Granny best, and Uncle Godfrey next, and you next, and Briggs last,—the most last."
"If you were good to Briggs you would love her more," I said.
"Would I?" he asked doubtfully.
"Yes," I answered; "and though you are a happy little boy now, you would be still happier then. There is nothing that makes us happier than to love people very much and try to be kind to them."
"Even Briggs?" he inquired, thoughtfully.
"You should not talk of her like that," I said, trying not to smile. "She is really very fond of you, and very kind to you. If she was angry, it was because you were rude."
Chris moved impatiently. He did not like that view of the case. There was a pause, then: "Shall I tell you a story?" I asked. "I shall just have time before you go to your tea."
"I don't know," he answered, with some indifference. "I've heard them all lots of times. Briggs has told them to me often and often—'Jack the Giant-Killer', and 'Jack and the Beanstalk', and 'Red Riding-Hood', and 'Cinderella' ("I don't much like those two," he put in, with a touch of masculine contempt, "'cause they're all about girls"), and 'Hop o' my Thumb.' And the story of the Good Boy who had a cake, and gave it all away to the Blind Beggar and his dog, except a tiny, weeny piece for himself; and the Bad Boy who had a cake, and told a wicked story, and said there never was one, 'cause he didn't want anyone else to have it; and the Greedy Boy who had a cake, and ate it all up so fast he was dreadfully sick. Briggs has told them all to me, and she says there ain't no more stories to tell; leastways, if there are, she's never heard tell of them."
"If I were you I shouldn't say 'leastways', 'never heard tell', or 'ain't no more'," I remarked as he paused, out of breath.
"Why not?" he asked.
"They are not the expressions a gentleman uses," I answered.
"Does a lady?" he asked with curiosity; "'cause Briggs does."
"My dear child, never mind what Briggs does. We were not talking of her," I replied. "You know I have told you before you should not always ask so many questions. It is a troublesome habit."
"Is it?" he said, with the utmost innocence.
"Decidedly," I replied, and once more struggling not to mar the effects of my words by smiling. "Well, about my story. It is not one of those you have spoken of. I don't think that you have heard it."
"Then tell it to me, please," he said, with a touch of condescension.
"Well, once upon a time," I began, in the most approved fashion, "there were two men who had a great hill to climb. It was a long and difficult climb, but, if they only reached the top of that hill, they would be fully rewarded for all their pains. I will tell you why. There was there a beautiful country, where they would live and be happy for evermore. It was such a beautiful country! The trees were always green, the flowers never withered, and it was always sunny,—never a cloud to be seen. The Lord of that country was not only very great and powerful, but He was also very loving and good. He knew how wearying and difficult that uphill journey was to the dwellers in the valley beneath. So, in His love, He sent messengers to tell the travellers how they must journey if they hoped ever to reach the beautiful country over which He ruled.
"One of these messengers came to the two men of whom I have spoken just before they started on their journey, with these plain and simple directions:
"Follow the straight and narrow path that leads up-hill; you cannot mistake it, for it goes right on without any curves or twists. You will come across many rough and difficult places, but do not turn aside, though the path leads you over them. You may see other paths that lead round them, but don't turn off from the narrow one. Don't take the others; they don't lead up, they lead down. The straight path is the only right one. Go straight on, don't be afraid. These are my Lord's directions.
"'The journey is very tiring,' went on the messenger, 'and the sun will beat down by and by with much fierceness, so that you will suffer at times from great thirst. But, see, my Lord has sent you these!' As he spoke, he held out two flasks. You cannot imagine anything so beautiful as they were. They were made of pure gold, bright and shining, and ornamented with diamonds that flashed and sparkled in the light like fire. To each of the men the messenger gave a flask.
"'Look,' he said, 'and you will find that they are filled with fresh, clear water. This water is magic; it will never come to an end, and you will never suffer from thirst, so long as you obey the order which my Lord sends you. This is the order. Drink none yourself, but give of it to all who need it. If you do so, your thirst will never overpower you. But if you are churlish, and wish to keep it for yourself, some day you will suffer—suffer terribly. By and by you will find, too, that there is no water left, for the magic will all have gone! The beauty also of your flasks will have all disappeared; the gold will have become dim, the diamonds will have lost their sparkle, and you yourself will have no power to go onwards and climb higher. Good-bye—remember that my Lord waits to welcome you with love.'
"Now, when he had given them these directions, the messenger went, and after a while the two men started on their journey.
"At first the hill went up so gently that they hardly noticed the incline. The way did not appear very difficult in the beginning. They went through a wood where the trees were all young, and the leaves a tender green, as you see in the springtime, Chris, my dear. And the sunlight fell through the trees and made a pattern on the ground, which moved slowly and gracefully as the gentle breezes swayed the branches. There were no rough places then, or, if there were, they were so slight that the two travellers hardly remarked them. And as they walked along they sang in the joy of their hearts; the sunshine, the soft light breezes, the pretty wild flowers, the trees—all made them so glad and so happy. Nor did they forget to give to all who passed by some of the fresh, pure water out of their golden flasks.
"By and by they came out of the pretty little wood, and the hill became steeper, the rough places rougher and more frequent.
"Then one grew impatient. He wanted to go on more quickly than he had done hitherto. It seemed to him a waste of time to stop so often to give to the passers-by that pure, refreshing water. Besides, he began to doubt the truth of the message he had received. It did not seem possible to him that he could give away the water in his flask and yet not suffer from thirst. He resolved to keep it all for himself. Nor could he believe that it was always necessary to follow the narrow path. It was a different thing when it led through the pretty wood, but now that it led so often over such difficult places, he determined to find an easier one. Therefore he separated from his companion, and went his own way, avoiding all the roughnesses of the road, and taking the paths that seemed less hard. Nor did he any longer stop to offer to others the magical water of his golden flask, he kept it all for himself, and let the wearied and sad ones pass him by without compassion.
"But he never remarked how dim the gold of the flask was growing, nor how fast the water was diminishing. Nor did he see that instead of going up he was really going down-hill, and that the paths he chose were misleading him. In his hurry he never noticed this, till one sad day it came upon him.
"He had been feeling very tired and out of heart, for the way seemed so long and tiring. Yet, he had been struggling on, hoping to find his rest at last. On this day, however, he found that his strength had gone; he could climb no further. He took out his flask, now so dim, hoping to quench the terrible thirst that was overpowering him; but alas! alas! there was hardly any water left; not nearly enough to revive him. So there, by himself, sad and disappointed—for he knew that now he would never see the happy land he had started for with such glorious hopes,—he died—died all alone and uncared for!
"And the other traveller? Well, he went straight on as the good Lord had directed. Often the rough places were terribly rough, and the sharp stones in the pathway wounded his feet sadly. Nevertheless, he never turned aside; he went right on as he had been directed, whilst to all those who passed by, thirsting for some of the beautiful, clear water from his golden flask, he gave freely and willingly. Little children who met him with tearful eyes went on their way laughing and singing. Older people, also, who were too tired to cry, whose hearts were heavy with many sorrows, drank of that water and went on their way refreshed. And his golden flask remained bright, and the water within it undiminished, right to the very end.
"What was the end? Ah, it came sooner than he thought it would! The journey was not so very long after all! And when he arrived at that beautiful country, and his eyes saw 'The King in His beauty', he forgot all about the rough places, and all about his past weariness. It was the land of sunlight, you see, and the land of shadows passed from his recollection for ever."
"Is that all?" Chris inquired, as I paused.
"Yes, that's all," I replied.
"It's a very nice story," he said, patronizingly. "I like it almost as much as 'Jack the Giant Killer' and 'Jack and the Beanstalk', and better than 'Cinderella'."
"Shall I tell you what it means?" I asked.
He looked at me doubtfully.
"Are you going to scold me?" he asked, moving restlessly on my knee; "'cause I'm going to be a good boy now."
"No, my dear, I'm not going to scold you," I said reassuringly. "I only want to tell you what I mean by my story."
"Will it take long?" he asked; "'cause I'm hungry, and want my tea."
"No, it won't take long," I answered persuasively. "I will tell it to you quickly. This is what it means. You know, Chris, God wants us all to go to heaven and live with Him by and by. In His great love He has shown us all the way; it is the way that the blesséd Jesus went; a way that sometimes takes us over hard and difficult places, but that always goes up—never down. It is a way that leads us higher and higher, right away to the happy land you were singing of last Sunday. But there is one thing God has told us to do if we ever hope to reach that happy land—we must love everyone. Just as the man who in my story reached the beautiful land at last, just as he gave freely of the water in his flask, so must we give freely of the love God has put into our hearts. He has put it there, not that we should spend it on ourselves, but that we should spend it on others. So long as we do that, so long will our hearts remain pure and good as God wants them to be. And the more we love everyone, the more we shall know of God, and the nearer we shall be to heaven; for you see, dear, to know God is Heaven, and God is Love."
I paused, and Chris looked contemplative.
"I'm going to be like the good man, who gave away the water out of his flask," he said, with the air of one taking a great resolution. "I'm going to love everyone, and Briggs too."
"I like to hear you say that," I said, stroking his head, with the tumbled, golden curls. "Now, I think you had better go to your tea. Briggs will be waiting for you."
He jumped off my knee and went as far as the door, then came back to my side.
"Miss Beggarley," he said, putting his arms round my neck, "I want to give you a great, good hug like I give my Granny. I love you very, very much."