CHAPTER II.
Now I must tell you about Miss Toosey's Mission, and I think it will surprise you to hear that her Mission was the conversion of the heathen,—not the heathen at Martel, though there were enough and to spare, even in that favored spot; not the heathen in London, or our great towns even; but the heathen in foreign parts, real bona fide black heathen, with war-paint and feathers, and strings of beads, and all the rest of it. Her Mission began in this manner: A missionary Bishop came to preach at Martel. I do not know quite how it happened, as he certainly did not pronounce "Shibboleth" with the same distinct and unctuous intonation which was deemed essential at Martel; but I have been told that he met Mr. Peters out at dinner, and that the rector, always good-natured, offered his pulpit, red-velvet cushion and all, for the Bishop's use on the following Sunday evening.
The Bishop gladly accepted the offer. He was not quick to see microscopic differences of opinion; the cut of a coat, a posture, or the use of a cant word, did not seem to him of such vital importance as he found attached to them among Churchmen at home; and he was fairly puzzled at the hot blood and animosity that arose from them, bidding fair even at times to rend the woven garment without seam. He had been used to a clearer, simpler atmosphere, a larger horizon, a wider span of heaven overhead, than we can get in our streets and lanes, making it easier, perhaps, to look up steadfastly, as those should whose lives are ever teaching them how far, how terribly "far, the heaven is from the earth," where the earth lies in darkness and idolatry. To one who was used to the difference between Christian and heathen, the difference between Churchman and Churchman seemed unutterably small; so that he was fain to say with Abraham, "Let there be no strife between us, I pray, for we are brethren."
He had come home with his heart burning within him with the urgency of the work he left behind, confident that he could not fail to find help and sympathy in happy, rich Christian England. In his waking thoughts, as well as in his dreams, there always stood by him a man of Macedonia, the Macedonia of his far-off labors, saying, "Come over and help us;" and he found that the love of many had waxed cold, and that indifference and scarcely concealed weariness received him wherever he went.
So he was glad to accept Mr. Peters's invitation, and thought Mr. Malone looked rather sourly at him in the vestry, and even the rector was not quite so cordial to him as he had been at the dinner-party, still he scaled the heights of the pulpit with alacrity, to the enlivening strain of "From Greenland's Icy Mountains," which not even the "Mitre Hymn-book" and the Martel choir can rob of its charms.
The text which Miss Toosey found out in her little brown Bible was from St. John, the 6th chapter and 9th verse: "There is a lad here with five barley loaves and two small fishes; but what are they among so many?" The Bishop began by describing the scene where the miracle occurred,—the barren hillside; the blue sea of Galilee; the towns in the distance, with their white, flat-roofed houses, nestling in the green valley like "a handful of pearls in a goblet of emerald;" the sun setting behind the purple Galilean hills, and the soft evening light touching the mountain-tops with gold, and casting long shadows on the quiet sea, where the fishing-boats were going forth to their nightly work. And then he told of the weary, foot-sore crowd, gathered on the slope of the hill, far from home, and hungry and fainting,—women and little children, as well as men,—many of whom had come from far-away Capernaum and Cæsarea, skirting the north side of the lake for many a weary mile, on foot, to meet the ship that bore our Lord across the sea.
Whence can they buy bread in this wilderness? But among that hapless crowd there is One, footsore and weary and fasting like them, yet Who is the Creator himself. "He Who maketh the grass to grow upon the mountains, and herb for the use of man," Who "feedeth the young ravens," and Who "filleth the hungry soul with good things;" and he is looking with infinite compassion on their want; and He says to His disciples, "Give ye them to eat." And then, abruptly, the Bishop turned from the story of the miracle to his own work, and he told of the great extent of mountain forest, and plain, of the mighty rivers, of the rich and fertile land, and the luxuriant beauty all around, fair as the promised land of which Moses said, "The eyes of the Lord thy God are always upon it, from the beginning of the year even unto the end of the year." But the people of this fair land are, like the weary crowd on the hillside, far from home—ah! how far from heaven, with the deep, deep sea of ignorance rolling between; they are hungry, sinking for the want of the Bread of Life; but civilization and knowledge and light are far away from them across the ocean, and "how can we satisfy these men with bread here in the wilderness?" It is evening too; surely the sun of this world is getting near its setting, and casting long shadows, if we would but see them. Shall we send these poor souls away fasting?—these women and little children? Will they not faint by the way? How can they hope to reach their heavenly home without the Bread of Life?
But the Lord is looking on them with the same infinite compassion, and He is saying to me and to you, "Give ye them to eat." Is there not here this evening, among you Martel people, a lad with five barley loaves and two small fishes for the Lord's use? It seemed so little to the disciples, scarcely worthy of mention. "What are they among so many?" Merely enough for two or three, and here are five thousand and more. But the Lord said, "Bring them hither to Me." He had no need of them. He could have commanded the stones to be made bread; He could have called manna down from heaven; He could have satisfied them with a word; but He was graciously pleased to take that poor and humble little store in His all-powerful hand; and it was sufficient; the people were filled, they had as much as they would, and there were yet fragments that remained. Never think of the smallness, the poorness of the instrument, when it is the Master's hand that uses it,—He who made this lovely world out of chaos, and formed the glorious light out of utter darkness. Do not be kept back by false humility, by thinking too much of the insignificance and worthlessness of the gift. Give your best,—give your all. "Bring them hither to Me," saith the Lord. What have you to give? Turn over your store,—yourself, that is best of all, most worthy offering, poor though it may be—your money, your time, your influence, your prayers. Who so poor but what he has one or more of these barley loaves of daily life to offer to Him Who gave us all? I am not here to beg and entreat for your money, though to our dim sight it seems sorely needed just now, when, from village after village, the cry comes to me for teachers and for light, and I have no men or means to send them; and worse still is the silence of those who are in such utter darkness; they do not know their own need. But still we know and believe that it is the Lord's work, and it will be done. It may not be by me or you, but in His own good time it will be done. He does not need your money; He only offers you the glorious privilege of being fellow-workers with Him. Yours is the loss if you do not heed; the work will not suffer; only you will have had no share; only you may not have another opportunity given you; only the time may come when it will be said to you, "Forasmuch as ye did it not to these" (who are indeed poor and sick and in prison), "ye did it not to Me."
It was not by any means what the almshouse men called "a powerful discarse;" the old men belonging to Frowde's charity, in their snuff-colored coats, each with a large F on the left shoulder, clustering round the north door after service, shook their heads in disapproval.
"He don't wrusstle with 'um," said old Jacobs; "he ain't fit to hold a candle to old Thwackum, down at Ebenezer. Why, I have seen him punish that there pulpit cushion till the dust came out like anything, and he had to take off his neckcloth, it were that wet; that's what I calls preaching now, and to think of the likes of this 'un being a Bishop."
Miss Baker, too, of the firm of Silver & Baker, drapers in High street, expressed her opinion in a high key, under an umbrella, as she went home along Church lane, "that he did not preach the gospel;" but then she was very particular, and the Apostle Paul himself would scarcely have come up to her standard of "gospel" sermons.
There was not a very good collection either. You see, it was partly from its being a wet evening, so that the congregation was altogether small; and it had not been given out on the preceding Sunday; and no bills had been printed and posted on the church doors and principal public houses in the town, as was always done in the case of sermons in aid of the Irish Church Mission, or the Jew's Society. So people had not been attracted by the announcement of a real live Bishop; and those who came had not had time to get small change; and so at the end of the sermon, with the best intentions and a natural dislike to pass the basket without giving anything, they found themselves devoid of the necessary threepenny-bits and sixpences. So, when Mr. Mackenzie, the tall lawyer, who always held the basket lined with green baize at the north door, emptied its contents on the vestry table, and the other baskets added their quota, there was but a poor show; and Mr. Peters, kind man, when Mr. Malone was not looking, slipped a sovereign out of his waistcoat pocket to add to the heap, more for the honor of Martel than from interest in the Mission; and he explained that unfortunately some of his best people were not at church, and that they had had a collection so very recently, and that he hoped that next time the Bishop was in those parts—but here a warning glance from Mr. Malone cut him short, and he did not commit himself further.
What a fortunate thing it was that Mr. Peters had a curate of such high principle!
"Who was the old woman sitting in front of Wyatt?" John Rossitter asked his mother, when the brougham door was closed and they were going down High Street slowly, with the drag on, for it was very steep, with a blurred view of lights and moving umbrellas through the rainy windows.
"My dear John, do you suppose I know every old woman in Martel?"
"No; but I thought you might have noticed her; her face was a sight to see in the sermon."
"Well, John," Mrs. Rossitter answered rather fretfully, feeling conscious of a temporary oblivion on her own part in the middle of the sermon, "it was no wonder if any one went to sleep; the church was so hot; I felt quite faint myself."
And she felt whether her bonnet had got pushed on one side, and hoped she had not wakened with a snore.
John laughed: "I don't mean a sight to see that way, mother; that's not so very unusual at Martel; but it was her absorbed interest that struck me as something out of the way."
"It must have been one of the young women at Purts."
"My dear mother, don't insult those elegant creatures by supposing they would put on anything half so respectable as my old woman's bonnet; they would rather die first."
"Then I don't know who it could have been, unless it was Miss Toosey—lavender ribbons and hair done in a little curl on each side? Ah, then it is. Her father was old Toosey the doctor; he was parish doctor when we first came to Brooklands: and she was a pretty young girl, in a green spencer; and your father used to say"—
And here followed reminiscences unconnected with Miss Toosey's Mission, which I need not chronicle.
Mrs. Rossitter lived two miles from Martel, at Brooklands, and she attended church regularly, twice on Sunday, "because it is a duty to set a right example to the lower orders." So the lower orders around Brooklands—mostly, as far as the men were concerned, smoking their pipes in their shirt sleeves, hanging over a pigsty, or nursing their babies; mostly, as far as the women were concerned, waxing fierce in preparations for dinner, or gossiping with their next-door neighbors—saw the Brooklands brougham pass four times on Sunday; and the children ran after and shouted "Whip behind!" and the babies were possessed with suicidal interest in the horses' feet, and toddled, or crawled, or rolled into imminent danger, according to their age or walking capacities.
When John Rossitter was down from London, he went with his mother; and when he was not, she went alone, because Humphrey altogether declined to go.
"It was more than any fellow could stand," he said, gnawing his yellow mustache, and looking down at his mother with those handsome, idle gray eyes of his, which were the most convincing of arguments, before which all her excellent reasons for attending church—such as "what people would say," and "how would it look," and "what a bad example it would set," if he did not go—crumbled to ashes. She found John more amenable; but I do not on this account credit John with any great superiority to Humphrey only that he had greater powers of endurance, and was not so sure as Humphrey that the very surest way to please his mother was to please himself. Then, too, Sunday mornings at Brooklands were apt to hang heavy on his hands, for he had not the resources of Humphrey. He could not spend an hour or two in contented contemplation of a family of fox-terrier puppies; he found that "the points" of the very cleverest little mare in creation palled after five minutes' serious consideration, and that the conversation of grooms and stablemen still left a good deal to be desired in the way of entertainment; in fact, he had none of the elevated and refined tastes of an English country gentleman; so John Rossitter went to church with his mother, and endured, with equal stoicism, sermons from Mr. Peters, Mr. Glover, or Mr. Malone. He did not yawn in the undisguised manner of Dr. Gardener Jones opposite, who let every one see what a fine set of teeth he had, and healthy red tongue, at short intervals; he did not go to sleep and snore like old Mrs. Robbins, and one or two more; but when the regulation half hour was over, his eyebrows would rise and the calm inattention of his face became ruffled, and his hand move quietly to his waistcoat pocket and his watch appear, an action which Mr. Glover felt acutely in every fibre, though his back was turned to John Rossitter, and he would grow red to the very finger-tips, and his "finally," "lastly," and "in conclusion" would get sadly muddled in his nervous efforts to make short cuts to the end. So strong had this habit of inattention become, that it would have required something much more striking than our missionary Bishop to startle him out of it; and it was only the sight of Miss Toosey's face that brought back his thoughts from their wanderings, to Martel church and its sleepy congregation, and the Bishop's voice from the high pulpit. He could see her through a vista of heads between Mr. Cooper's bald head and Miss Purts's feathers and pink rosebuds; now and then the view was cut off by Mrs. Robbins giving a convulsive nod, or one of the little Miss Coopers fidgeting up a broad-brimmed hat.
(Church-goers)
"Was the sermon so eloquent?" John Rossitter wondered. Certainly that listening, rapt face was—quite a common, little, wizen, old-maidish face, with nothing intellectual or noble about it, and yet transfigured into something like beauty with the brightness of a reflected light. Don't you know how sometimes a scrap of broken glass on a dust heap will catch the sunlight and shine with quite dazzling brilliancy, and how a little smutty raindrop in a London court will hold the sun and a gleaming changing rainbow in its little mirror?