Chapter Nine.
Ruby Grigg.
Horace Jackson had come to take a deep interest in the inhabitants of Bridgepath, especially since his engagement; for Mary Stansfield’s heart was thoroughly in her work in that once benighted place, and she was only too glad to lead one now so dear to her to concern himself in the truest welfare of those in Bridgepath who were still living without thought of any world but this.
Things had indeed greatly improved through the diligent and loving exertions of the excellent schoolmaster, who was evidently determined to tread down all opposition that came in his way by the firm and weighty, though gentle, steps of a steady and consistent Christian walk. His task, it is true, was no easy one, for parents and scholars seemed for a time to be in league against all endeavours on his part to remove existing abuses. It was all very right, they allowed, that he should teach the children head-knowledge—this they were content to put up with; but as for his influencing the heart, or inducing them to change their conduct, and thereby to give up the pleasures of sin in which they had so long delighted, this was not to be tolerated; they were determined not to submit to it. And so the boys, when they could no longer carry on their encounters and settle their differences with the fist after school without interruption and remonstrance from the master, revenged themselves for this interference with their privileges by a thousand little sly tricks and bits of mischief at his expense, and with the full approbation, or, at any rate, connivance, of their friends.
As for the grown-up people generally, they gave the good master and his loving wife to understand, when they paid friendly visits to the parents of the scholars, that the inhabitants of the hamlet could do just as well if left to themselves; that they were too old now to go to school; and as for the master’s religious teaching, they had already quite as much religion amongst them as was necessary for their comfort and well-being: in fact, the schoolmaster and his wife would best consult their own interests and the peace of the place by being keepers at home and looking after their own household out of school hours.
Nor was this all. The good man having, in one of his Sunday evening addresses in the schoolroom, spoken some very plain though kindly words against sinful courses too prevalent in Bridgepath, an assault was made on his little garden one night during the following week, so that when he looked over his flower-beds next morning he found them all trampled over, his rose-trees cut down, and the flower roots torn up and thrown about in all directions.
As he rose from the examination of what remained of a favourite tree, his eyes encountered those of one of his most determined opponents in the village. The man was staring over the wall, and when his eyes met those of the schoolmaster, he inquired with a grin how his roses were getting on. With a slight flush on his face, but yet with a smile on his lips, the master replied very slowly, “I shall have to kill some of you for this.” Before the evening this little sentence had been reported in every house in Bridgepath.
“So you’re a-going to kill some of us, master. I thought you was one of them peaceable Christians,” sneered a man to the schoolmaster as he was passing by the door of one of the beer-shops, before which a number of men were assembled with their pipes and pots. There was a general scornful laugh at this speech. Nothing dismayed, however, the schoolmaster stood still, and facing his opponent, said, “Yes, I said I would kill some of you, and I mean it; and if you will come up to the schoolroom to-night at eight o’clock, I will tell you all how and why.”
“Let’s go and hear him,” said one of the drinkers. “Ay, let us,” said another.
By eight o’clock the schoolroom was half filled with men, women, and children. The master was standing at his desk ready to receive them, and when the school clock had struck the hour, began as follows:—
“Now, my friends and neighbours, I feel sure that you’ll give me a quiet hearing, as you have come that you may know why I said I must kill some of you. You’ve done me harm, some of you, but I’ve done you none; so the least you can do is to listen to me patiently.”
“Ay, ay,” said one or two voices, and there was a hush of earnest attention.
The master then unlocked his desk, and taking out a printed paper, read it out clearly and with due spirit and emphasis. It was the admirable tract entitled “The Man who Killed his Neighbour.” When he had finished reading there was a general murmur of satisfaction, and all were deeply attentive as he went on to say, “Now, dear friends, that’s the way I mean to kill some of you: I mean to do it by patience, by kindness, and by returning good for evil, as the good man in the tract did. I’m sorry of course, that my roses have been cut down and my flower-beds trampled on. But let that pass; I shan’t fret over it, nor try to find out who did it. But I do want to get you to believe that my great desire and aim is to do you good; and if I can manage, by God’s help, to persuade you of this, I shall have killed the enemy that is living in your hearts against me, and we shall be happy and good friends.”
No one offered any reply, and the meeting broke up; but the master had gained his object. Many who had been set against him were now thoroughly ashamed of themselves; nearly every door was gladly opened to himself and his wife; and one morning, when he came out into his garden, he found that some unknown hands had planted new rose-trees in the place of those which had been destroyed. So the good man was making a way steadily for the spread of the truth.
Nevertheless, the evil one had still many devoted followers, especially among the tipplers. As one of these unhappy men was one day emerging from a beer-shop in Bridgepath, with flushed face and uncertain step, he ran against Horace Jackson, who was just then passing through the village. Uttering a loud oath, the man was about to move on, when Horace, catching him by the arm, compelled him to stand still, while he sharply reproved him for his drunkenness and profanity. A little staggered and abashed, the man muttered something that sounded half like an apology; and then, shaking himself free from Horace’s grasp, pointed with his pipe across the green, and said scoffingly, “’Tain’t of no use speaking to me. If you wants a good hard piece to try your hand on, see what you can do with Ruby Grigg yonder;” saying which, he plunged back into the beer-shop.
Vexed and annoyed at this encounter, Horace was just about to hasten on, when his eyes fell on the man to whom the poor drunkard had referred him; and who was seated not far-off on the other side of the green, upon the steps of a large travelling van. The young man’s heart died within him as he gazed at the strange uncouth being to whom he was invited to try and do some good.
Reuben Gregson, popularly known as “Ruby Grigg,” was anything but a jewel in appearance. He wore at this time a very long coat, whose original colour, whatever it might have been, had now faded into a yellowish dirty brown in those parts which still remained unpatched. Trousers just reaching a little below the knee, and repaired here and there with remnants of staring blue cloth of various shapes and sizes, were succeeded by yellowish grey stockings, and by shoes which, if they ever enjoyed the luxury of blacking, must have last done so at a very remote period. A hat, which had once been black and of some definite shape, but was now rimless, distorted, and of the same faded hue as the coat, being stuck on one side, only partially covered a tangled mass of greyish hair, which radiated wildly in every direction. Beneath the foremost locks were two eyeballs, the one sightless, the other black and piercing, and ever on the move, having to do double duty. A rough, stubbly, and anything but cleanly beard, which was submitted to the razor only on festal occasions, gave an additional wildness to a countenance which was furrowed across the forehead and down either cheek with deep lines blotched and freckled. As for the mouth, it was a perfect study in itself. Usually pretty tightly closed, it displayed when open a small remnant of teeth at irregular intervals, and now grown old and decayed by long service. But, whether open or shut, there was an expression of amused consciousness and cunning about that mouth, as though the owner were living in a chronic state of self-satisfaction at having fairly outwitted somebody. Such was Ruby Grigg in his personal appearance.
His caravan, also, was a very original and peculiar structure, manifestly built more for use than ornament, and combining both shop and dwelling. It was formed of boards of various lengths and widths, some painted and others bare, the business part being in front, and arched over with a stout framework which was covered with a tight-fitting tarpaulin; while at the back a square little house, painted uniformly a sober green, and protected by a sloping roof of brown-coloured wood-work, and lighted by two little windows, served as parlour, bedroom, and kitchen to Ruby and his wife.
Mrs Gregson, or Sally Grigg as she was usually styled, was not a noticeable person, keeping out of the way as much as possible; and devoting her time and energies to seeing to the due feeding of her husband, his horse and dog, and herself—these forming the entire family, for they had no children—and also to taking care of, and tidying up from time to time, the very miscellaneous wares which were offered for sale in the caravan.
Ruby’s affections seemed pretty equally divided between his horse, his dog, and his wife—the two first having probably the best place in his heart. The horse, like its owner, had no external beauty to boast of, and must have numbered many years since the days of its foalhood. There was something rather knowing about its appearance, as though it had contracted a measure of cunning from constant companionship with its master. The dog, whose name was Grip, was one of those nondescript animals which seem to have inherited a mixture of half-a-dozen different breeds, and had a temper as uncertain as its pedigree. While journeying, his place was beneath the caravan, to which he was attached by a light chain, in which position he was a terror to all who might venture near the caravan without his master’s company or permission. When the little party rested for a day or so, Grip had his liberty; which he occasionally abused by appropriating to himself the meals intended for his fellow-dogs, none of whom, however superior to him in size or strength, durst for a moment resist him.
Such were the old man and his establishment. His business was that of a miscellaneous salesman, the difficulty being rather to say what he did not than what he did offer to his various customers. The front part of his van was hung with all sorts of hardware, inside and out; but, besides this, there were, within, secret drawers and cupboards containing articles which would not bear exhibition to the public - such as smuggled goods, both wearable and drinkable, which Ruby knew how to procure at a very low price, and could always part with confidentially for a sum which both suited the pockets of the purchasers, and also brought considerable profit to himself. Among his secret wares were also immoral songs, and impure and infidel books, for which he had many eager buyers, especially in such places as Bridgepath. He had his regular rounds, and his special customers, and was in the habit of attending all the feasts and fairs for many miles round.
It need hardly be said that poor Ruby knew nothing and cared nothing about better things; his heart was wholly in the world, and in making money as fast as he could, by hook or by crook,—and in this he was succeeding. For though the poor man and his wife were utterly godless, and even profane, yet Ruby was no drunkard; he loved his glass, it is true, but he loved money more, and so he always contrived to keep a clear head and a steady eye and hand. He also took good care of his horse and dog for his own sake, as he wanted to make the best and the longest of their services, and was shrewd enough to know that you cannot get out of anything, whether animate or inanimate, more than is put into it. So self and wife, and horse and dog were all well fed and cared for, and worked harmoniously together.
This was the man to whom the poor drunkard pointed his pipe and sneeringly invited Horace Jackson to try and do him good. The young man shrunk at first instinctively from coming in contact with old Reuben. Surely there was abundance of self-denying work in looking after the inhabitants of the hamlet itself; why then need he concern himself about a man who was only a passer through, and had no special claim on his attention? Half-satisfied with these thoughts, Horace Jackson was about to proceed homewards, when it seemed to him that a voice, as it were, said within him, “Accept the work; it may not be in vain.” Though still reluctant, he now felt that he could no longer hang back; so he crossed the green, and greeted the old hawker kindly.
Ruby looked up at him with a comical twinkle in his one eye, and, knocking out the ashes from his pipe, observed, “So you be the young gent as is turning all things topsy-turvy in this here village—you and the colonel between you. I’ve heard all about it; and a precious mess you’ll make of it, I doubt.”
“My friend,” said Horace, now perfectly relieved from all feeling of disinclination to encounter the old man, “you make a little mistake there: when we came here we found things topsy-turvy already, and we are just trying, by God’s help, to set them upright and straight.”
“And I suppose you think as you’re going to do it,” said the other scornfully.
“Yes, I hope so,” was the reply. “Come, my friend, now tell me honestly, isn’t it happier for the people of this village to have a good school and a good schoolmaster set down amongst them than to be living as they used to do, without proper instruction for the children, and without any knowledge of God and a better world?”
“Can’t say as to that,” said Ruby Grigg doubtfully, and a little sulkily; “there’s lots of people here as likes the old ways better.”
“Perhaps so,” said Horace; “but they may be wrong in what they like. Now, I ask you again—tell me honestly—don’t you see a change for the better yourself in Bridgepath?”
“Well, I don’t know,” replied the old man, fidgeting about; “it’s been a worse change for me. I ain’t done anything like the business this time as I use doing here, leastways in some things.”
Horace had now seated himself by the old man, spite of a deep growl from Grip, whose nearer approach was cut short by a backhanded slap from his master.
“Look there now, old friend,” continued the young man. At this moment the school doors were thrown open, and out poured a stream of boys and girls, tumbling one over another in their excitement, and singing gaily as they began to disperse over the green. But all suddenly stopped, for the schoolmaster made his appearance, and all clustered round him. School was over, and what was going to happen now? In former days the sight of the master would have been a signal for every boy and girl to slink out of reach of his observation; but now the master’s coming was hailed with a happy shout, and the young ones vied with one another in getting near him, while the youngest clung to his dress, and all looked up at him with bright and happy smiles. Horace turned towards the old man, and marked a flush on his worn and weather-beaten features. “That’s a sight worth seeing, my friend,” he added; “I think it used not to be so.”
Reuben made no answer. His eye seemed to be gazing at something beyond the busy scene before him.
“You’ve never had any children of your own, it may be,” said Horace, noticing his absent look.
Slowly the old man turned towards his companion, his face was now quite pale, and tears began to steal down its deep furrows. “I’ve never a child now,” he said in a hoarse and troubled voice, “but I had once—a blessed little ’un she were, but she died.”
“It may be, friend,” said the young man gently, “that the Lord took her in mercy from the evil to come. Did she die very young?”
Reuben Gregson seemed unable to reply for a while, then he said slowly, and apparently with a great effort, “Ay, sir, very young, and she were all the boys and girls I ever had. She were but five year old when she died, but she died happy, poor thing. It’s more nor thirty years now since she left us.”
“And she died happy, you say?” asked Horace, deeply touched. “Did she know anything of her Saviour?”
“I believe you,” replied the other earnestly, “yes. There were a good young lady—she ain’t living now—as seed her playing about by the roadside one day, and gave her this book.” Ruby drew out from his breast-pocket a large faded leathern case, and from its inmost depths brought out a small picture-book full of coloured Scripture prints. The frontispiece represented our Saviour hanging on the cross, and was much worn, as with the pressure of little fingers. “There, sir,” continued the old man, “the young lady showed her them pictures, and talked to her about ’em, and particular about Him as was nailed to the cross. We was staying on a common near her house for a week or more, and each day that young lady came and had a talk to our little Bessy. And she never forgot what the lady said to her. And so, when she were took with the fever, some weeks arter that, when we was far-off from where the lady lived, her last words was, ‘Daddy, I’m going to Jesus, ’cos he said, “Suffer the little children to come to me.”’ There, sir, I’ve told you now what I haven’t spoken to nobody else these thirty years.”
“And won’t you follow your dear child to the better land?” asked Horace kindly; “there’s room in our Saviour’s heart and home for you too.”
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” said the other gloomily; “these things ain’t in my line. Besides, I’m too old and too hard now; it’s no use for such as me to think about ’em.”
Horace said nothing immediately, but taking out a little New Testament, he read out, without any comment, the parables of the lost sheep and the lost piece of silver. Then he said, “Old friend, I am so glad we have met. Will you accept this little book from me? It will tell you better than I can all about the loving Saviour, who has taken that dear child to himself, and wants you and your wife to follow her.”
Without saying a word Ruby clutched the Testament, thrust it into his breast-pocket and then, rising hastily, said, “I wish you good day, sir; maybe we shall meet again. Thank you kindly for the little book.”
“Farewell for the present,” said Horace. “Yes, I believe we shall meet again,” and he turned his steps homewards, deeply thankful that he had not declined the work which was so unexpectedly thrust upon him.