Chapter Ten.
A Rough Jewel Polished.
Some months had passed since Horace Jackson’s brief conversation with Ruby Grigg on the green at Bridgepath, and the good work was making steady progress in that hamlet. A few of the adversaries continued rather noisy and troublesome; but it was observable that these avoided, as by common consent, one particular beer-shop, which used to be a favourite resort of the roughest and most dissolute characters, while the publican himself who kept this house was to be seen, at first occasionally, and now regularly at the service which was held in the schoolroom on the Sunday evenings.
News of this happy change had reached Horace from several quarters, and gave the sincerest pleasure to himself and his uncle. Meditating thankfully on these things, the young man was passing one afternoon down a by-lane which led to Bridgepath. It was a lonely spot, far from any house. On either hand the lane was closed in by tall hedges, and a broad belt of turf skirted the rugged road on each side, affording pasture to any stray beasts which might wander thither unbidden. Wild flowers and singing birds filled the untrimmed bushes; while the lowing of cattle, faintly heard from some far-off farm or pasture, added depth to the solitude. With his face turned in the direction of Bridgepath, Horace had just crossed the top of another and narrower lane, which joined at right angles that along which he was walking, and had passed the opening about a hundred yards, when he was startled by hearing a voice behind him shouting out, “Hi! Hi! Hi! Mister!” He looked back, and the sight that met his eye was not reassuring. A tall figure, bare-headed and without a coat, was striding after him, tossing its arms about, and brandishing in the right hand a long whip.
The thought at once suggested itself to Horace that this must be some poor lunatic escaped from an asylum, and the idea of a solitary encounter in that lonely spot was not an agreeable one, especially as the young man had no other weapon with him than a thin walking-cane, and he was well aware that these poor creatures, when excited and at liberty, often exhibited great strength of limb, and made use of it without scruple to the detriment of any they might fall in with; so he took no heed of the outcry, and hastened his pace onwards. But this had only the effect of exasperating his pursuer, who bawled out to him to stop, and then began to make after him with a shuffling sort of run. So when Horace looked back, and saw the presumed lunatic thus quickening his speed, and also wildly flourishing his whip, he fairly broke into a run himself, considering that, under the circumstances, “discretion was,” undoubtedly, “the better part of valour.” He was, however, arrested in his flight by a roaring burst of laughter from the supposed madman, which made him pause for a moment and turn full round; and then he became convinced that the cause of his anxiety, who was now leaning his back against a bank, and still laughing vociferously, was none other than the old caravan hawker, Ruby Grigg.
As soon as he could recover himself, the old man began to walk quietly forward, motioning to the other to come and meet him. Horace did this, though with some little reluctance, not feeling sure that the old man’s excitement might not be caused by either insanity or drink. But he was soon satisfied that all was right on that score, as the two drew nearer together.
“So you took me for a highwayman or a madman, Mr Horace!” said the old man, still laughing. “Eh! I don’t wonder; you must have thought it very strange. But I never thought how it’d look when I hollered arter you; I were only afeard you’d get out of hearing, and I’ve something to tell you as’ll make your heart right glad, I know.”
“What is it, my friend?”
“Well, can you spare me a few minutes, and I’ll tell you? My van’s just a few yards down the lane you crossed a minute ago. You didn’t look that way as you passed, and I didn’t take it in at first that it was yourself; and when my wife said, ‘There’s Mr Horace Jackson just gone by,’ I ran to the top of the lane just as I was, whip and all, and shouted arter you. Can you come with me for a minute?”
“With all my heart,” replied the other.
So they turned back, and soon reached the van, which was drawn up by the hedge-side, Grip and the old horse strolling about at leisure, and Mrs Gregson being engaged in cooking something savoury in an iron pot which was suspended over an open-air fire, gipsy fashion.
When Horace had seated himself on the bank, the old hawker plunged into his travelling shop, and having returned with something in his right
hand, seated himself by his young companion. “It’s this here little Testament as has been and gone and done it,” he said abruptly, opening his hand at the same time and disclosing the book which Horace had given him at their last meeting.
Greatly surprised and touched at these words, Horace looked earnestly into Reuben’s face for an explanation, and as he did so, it struck him that the old expression of cunning had given place to one of gentleness and peace.
“I’ll tell you all about it, sir,” proceeded the other. “You must know as I haven’t been easy in my mind for some time past—never since that new schoolmaster at Bridgepath said a few words to me last feast-day. You know I often come to the village, ’cos I’ve some good customers there, and I never used to miss the feast. Well, I’d heard a deal about the new goings on there long afore I set my own eyes on any on ’em, and I weren’t best pleased, nor weren’t my best customers neither, you may be sure. But still, down in my heart, I couldn’t help feeling as things were being changed for the better; yet it didn’t quite suit my pocket that they should be, and so I were very cross, and ready to take everything by the wrong handle. So when the schoolmaster came and spoke to me, I were as grumpy at first as a bear with a sore head, as the saying is. But he wouldn’t see it—no, not a bit, and talked to me as pleasant as if I’d been all the while looking sugar and honey at him; and I began to feel very uneasy all over. Then, too, I couldn’t help seeing as the boys and girls were as different as possible from what they used to be. Many was the time as I’ve sworn with a big ugly oath as I’d set Grip at them, when they came up and plagued me and wanted to meddle with my goods. But there weren’t no need for it now. Yet I stuck out for all that, and talked it over with the keepers of the beer-shops; and we all agreed as it were a great nuisance setting up this new school and reading-room. But we didn’t really think so, except that it began to hurt our trade; for this was where the shoe pinched. And then it was, when my mind was a-playing at ‘see-saw,’ first up on this side, and then up on the other, that you was sent that day to have a talk about the children and my own blessed little ’un, and to give me the Testament. When you was gone, I grumbled to myself at first, ‘Precious humbug this! What’s the use of a Testament to me? I ain’t a-going to pull a long face and sing psalms,’ and I were half in the mind to throw it away.”
“And what stopped you, old friend?” asked Horace.
“I’ll just tell you, sir,” replied the other. “When you gave it me, I stuck it in my coat-pocket, next my little girl’s picture-book: and when I took it out again, t’other little book came with it, and I couldn’t for the life of me do it any harm. So I put ’em both back again side by side; and the next time as we camped in a quiet place, I took the Testament out and began to read a bit out loud. And Sally heard me, and she came and listened with her mouth and eyes wide open, and then asked me what the book was and where I’d got it. I told her all about it; and then she asked me if I thought I could find in the book them last words which our dear little ’un spoke. I told you, sir, you’ll remember, as she said, ‘Jesus said, “Suffer the little children to come unto me.”’ Them was her last words, poor thing! Well, we sat on these steps day after day and hunted for them words between us; and we found ’em at last. But we found something else as we hadn’t been looking for. We found a couple of miserable old sinners, Ruby and Sally Grigg, as was going along the broad road to destruction.” He paused, for his voice had become choked and troubled.
“And did you find nothing more?” asked Horace, deeply interested.
“Ay, to be sure we did, sir. We found Jesus Christ was willing to have us; and we found peace—not at first, nor all at once, but by degrees, and after a while. Sally were the first to get a firm hold: but I believe I’ve grasped it myself now, and by God’s help I mean not to let go.”
“This is indeed joyful news, dear friend,” said Horace Jackson, when he could trust himself to speak. “Who would have thought it?”
“Ay, who indeed?” said Reuben warmly. “And now,” he added, “I want a bit of advice, sir, from you, for it ain’t all grass and gravel with me now; there’s some deepish ruts and some stony roads before me, and that’s why I were so anxious to stop you just now, sir, that I might tell you all about it, and get a word or two from yourself to give us a bit of encouragement.”
“I am truly thankful—I can’t tell you how thankful,” replied the young man. “The Lord has indeed done great things for you, and I shall be only too happy to be helpful to you in any way that I can.”
“Thank you, sir, kindly; ’tain’t worldly help as I wants from you. I’ve earned enough for me and Sally to last us as long as we live; and it’s almost time as I sold the old van, and settled down somewheres for the rest of my days. But it’s just this, sir—I want to do some work for the Lord, who’s been and done so much for Sally and me. Now I could, as I said just now, sell the old van and settle down; but then I mightn’t be able to do much good, and my old limbs would get stiff for want of my regular exercise, and I should just be snoozing away the rest of my time in a big arm-chair. Now I ain’t quite used up, nor Sally neither. So I could keep on the move from place to place, dropping a word for Christ here, and a word there, where I’ve been used to drop scores of words for the devil; and if you’d put me in the way, I could take a lot of Testaments and other good books with me, and sell ’em instead of the poisonous trash as I used to carry. Now, what do you advise me?”
“You couldn’t do better, old friend,” replied Horace; “you would be showing then your colours, and doing real work for the Master—better far than you could if you settled down.”
“Well, I think so too, sir; and you must know that I’ve begun to do a bit for the Lord already, though in a poor sort of way. I used to sell smuggled goods on the sly, and bad songs and bad books, but I’ve dropped all that now. You may look my van through, drawers and cupboards and all, every corner of it, and you’ll not find a scrap of the bad sort now. Eh! How some of my old customers do stare, and how some on ’em do jeer, when I tells ’em as I’ve done selling the old things as they delight in. But it don’t matter. I’ve made up my mind, and they’re beginning to find that out. They call me an old humbug, and tell me as Sally and I shall end our days in the Union. But I ain’t afeard; it ain’t the likes of them as can send me there, and I know I’m safe in the Lord’s hands.”
“That’s very true,” said Horace; “you’ll be taken good care of while you are in the path of duty, and you will have many a noble opportunity of helping on the good cause as you go from place to place. Many will get a word from you which they might not be in the way of hearing otherwise, and the very fact of such a change in the hearts and lives of your wife and yourself must tell on the consciences of many who see what you are now and know what you were in times past.”
“I believe you sir,” said the old man. “Now, there’s one who’s been touched already - Jim Grimes, who keeps ‘The Old Fighting-Cocks’ at Bridgepath. He were mightily surprised at first when he seed as I’d given up my old ways; he wouldn’t believe as it were the true thing, and he were for chaffing me out of it. But he found out after a bit as I was real. ’Tain’t for me to boast—it were the Lord’s doings, not mine—but when he came to be persuaded as I had taken to the better way in earnest, he couldn’t make it out at first; but now he has come to set his feet on the right road, too, I trust, and this has made me think as there’s work for the Lord for me to do in a quiet way without giving up the van—in a quiet way, I say, sir, for I don’t want to be put in a ‘mag.’”
“Put in a ‘mug,’ old friend!” exclaimed Horace, in amused surprise; “what can you mean? Is it slang for putting you in prison? Why should any one put you in prison for such a work as you are purposing to carry on? If any one tries to get you into trouble, come or send to me; they shan’t interfere with you.”
“Nay, nay, sir,” replied Ruby Grigg, with a laugh. “Thank you kindly for what you say; but you’ve not got hold of my meaning. What I’m driving at is this: I don’t want people to put me in a ‘mag,’—mag’s short for ‘magazine,’—one of them monthly or weekly papers as is full of pictures, and serves as town-crier to all the good deeds as is being done.”
“Ah, I understand you now,” said Horace, smiling in return; “you want to work quietly for Christ in the shade, and not to be made a public character of.”
“That’s just it, sir; I wouldn’t be put in a ‘mag’ for all the world. I’ve knowed many a good man spoilt by being put in a ‘mag.’ It blows ’em up with pride; and then them as don’t get put in the ‘mag’ is fit to burst with envy and jealousy.”
“I believe, my friend,” said Horace, “that there may be a great deal of truth in what you say. A good man’s usefulness may be injured by his being dragged into public notice; for no sin needs such watchfulness on the part of Christians, especially those at the beginning of their course, as pride. There is too much of this trumpeting in our day; it spoils the simplicity and reality of many a character.”
“I’ve seen it, sir,” replied Reuben. “I used to laugh at it formerly, but I grieve over it now. At any rate I’m sure, sir, as you won’t put me in a ‘mag.’ I don’t want to see myself in a couple of picturs, one with me and my van as they was, and t’other with the likeness of Mister Reuben Gregson in a brand new suit of clothes and a white choker, looking for all the world like a regular parson. ’Twouldn’t do me no good. I just want to do a little work in a quiet way—to jog along, telling how the Lord has done great things for me, and just to mix up a few Bibles, and Testaments, and tracts as I’m selling my goods. And I don’t want no reward here, and no notice, leastways no public notice. I’ve had more reward nor I deserve already; and if I make a few kind friends, such as yourself and the colonel maybe, I’d rather do it, Mr Horace, in a quiet way, and then I shall feel as I’m doing the work for the Lord himself out and out.”
“Well, dear old friend,” said Horace, “it shall be as you say, so far as I am concerned, and I can answer for my uncle too. And I feel sure that you are right, I understand now how the change has taken place in James Grimes. Yes, the Lord honours steady consistent example, and I do heartily thank him that he has seen fit to enlist you in the increasing and noble army of ‘workers in the shade.’”