Athlos; or, the Story of a life

Front matter

ATHLOS ; OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 'laov i-pyov Icrov a6\ov. No light shines down now from above at noonday with a brightness more piercing than the radiance of the sun ; and the word Conversion itself has gained for our ears a doubtful, even if it has not an unfamiliar sound. Nevertheless, the old, strange story remains true now as of old ; and to him who has felt the first stirring of that movement in his heart — of that movement that is to mean the change of all his life — to him, I say, whether he be child or man, the light has shone down once more from above, and there has dawned in very truth an Advent morning. AT H LOS; OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. IN TWO VOLUMES. M. A. CURTOIS, Author of "My Best Pupil," " The Story of Meg," fye. VOL. I. % anban : REMINGTON AND CO., PUBLISHERS, HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 1886. [All Rights Reserved.] CONTENTS. PAGE Preface 1

Preface

. It was Advent Sunday. The children were all collected together in the centre of the church. It was a dull day ; there was no light on the young faces from the stained-glass windows, and no gleam upon the rough stones of the unwhitewashed walls, or upon the recently scraped seats, un varnished now, in which they had sat whilst Sunday School was held. They were all seated in rows now in the centre of the church; the closing ceremony had come. It was to be an unwonted, awful ceremony to-day, a ceremony such as had never been held in the Sunday School before. The strange clergyman was to speak ; public re- VOL. I. B ATHLOS: 2 buke and disgrace were to be administered ; the culprit was standing before him even now. Oh, what a thing was this, that a member of the Sunday School should be standing in such a position before them all !

The assembled rows of children, who had been in a state of subdued excitement during the time of teaching, were breathless now in their awestruck attention and delight. Mr. Mole, standing before them all, with his hat held reverently in his hand, and the other hand grasping one of the buttons of his coat, felt also the importance of the occasion, and the necessity that he should do justice to it himself. He was a young man, not yet ordained a priest, and was anxious for his eloquence to have all the practice that it could. All the afternoon he had been teaching the first-class, but this occasion, for which he had been carefully prepared before he came to the church, meant some thing more to him than that. He stood be fore this assembly of nearly a hundred children, tall, slender, flaxen-haired, imbued with solemnity, only a little nervous, prepared to do his best as he addressed them all.

Perhaps to him also the occasion was not without its charm. THE STOR Y OF A LIFE. 3 There was one standing before him, how ever, who could hardly be expected to be charmed, the little boy for whose special benefit this scene had been prepared, the culprit whom — if this shame and crush ing disgrace failed entirely of their effect — the Sunday School was prepared to reject from its midst, as proved incurable at last. He stood now with his back to the children, in front of Mr. Mole, a small eleven-years old child, neatly enough dressed, with his cap in his hand, and his dull brown hair cut short and parted neatly on his head. In this manner, and with his head bent a little, and his eyes cast down, he stood waiting for his correction to begin. It had been all very well managed, as Mr. Mole reflected with some complacency in the little interval of time before he spoke.

The prayers and hymns had closed ; the children had risen from their places ; and then the lady superintendent, standing before them, had desired them all to wait, and going up to Mr. Mole, had asked him, in a whisper, if he did not wish to speak to Johnnie Aston now. And then with care and trouble the children had been arranged again in classes, and Mr. Mole had taken his position in front of them, ATHLOS : and then, when they were all seated and still, and in breathless excitement, there had been a movement in the lower ranks, aud the little brown-haired boy had emerged and come up to stand in front of his judge. He came up solemnly, without turning his head to grin at the ranks of children as he passed — which action, if Mr. Mole had known more of children, he might have had reason to expect.

How many children there were ! Boys on his right-hand, girls on his left ; all in their Sunday clothes, arranged in careful order, down to the mites at the end ; and, great or small, with their eyes all fixed on him. The thought crossed his mind but for an instant as he glanced down their ranks, looking far over the head of the little criminal who stood in front — he was a young man, very much in earnest, who had not yet learnt the connecting links between his theories and life — this great assembly of children meant an audience to him ; he scarcely thought more of them, perhaps, or reflected that beneath every one of those girls' hats or boys' jackets existed the mystery of a separate and individual life. He felt pretty sure that they intended to criticize him, that was all. So he began to speak, pleased to discover that his nervousness was no lonp-er so overwhelming as he spoke, indeed, that it served to add a certain force and vibration to his words.

It may serve as a proof of what I have said that he had only given one glance at the face of the boy he was professing to address, and that this glance was chiefly given to assure himself that the culprit would stand still and offer no interruption to his words. He had collected carefully all facts concern ing him, he had been told he was a bad boy, and that was all. And yet the outward ex pressions of badness are many and various — as the teachers of children's schools must surely know. Afterwards Mr. Mole remembered this one well, though he had paid no special attention to it at the time. A small sturdy head, a pale, set, childish face, eyes bent down and invisible, lips pressed closely together, a little sturdy chin, pressed hard into the childish neck, and a general expression of remaining motionless, and getting through this whilst paying as little attention to it as possible.

Not a very ordinary look, after all, for eleven years to wear, but a close observer might have gathered from it one fact at least — viz., that ATHLOS: whatever effect Mr. Mole's eloquence pro duced upon the innocent, it was not likely to have much upon tbe offender. But he did not think much of this himself as he began. After all it is probable that the Sunday School itself had only one object in view with regard to the culprit — that, namely, of giving a bad boy a few minutes made publicly unpleasant. And, indeed, hard and hardened as the small offender was, it could not have been an altogether easy matter to eleven years to re main unconcerned during an hour of school with this public solemnity in front, and to endure unmoved this public exposure and rebuke. But that to a boy so obstinate any real good would ensue, that no one had any reason to expect.

At any rate, he was here, these were his minutes of punishment, and Mr. Mole began. He began by saying— after first giving a little nervous cough, and looking far beyond the children on to the doors of the belfry in the distance — that he had very much enjoyed this afternoon that he had spent with them, that it had been a great pleasure to him to see their interesting church, and to join in the work of the school that was being carried on there whilst the school-bouse was beinorebuilt. It had been a happy afternoon, and he would have been glad to carry only plea sant impressions away. But he had been asked to say a few words — and here he stopped. He began again by saying that in all large assemblies of people were to be found a few whose conduct was different from that of the others, and that large and thriving as their school was, this fact must be also true of them.

He had been asked to-day to speak to a boy who had given a great deal of trouble : a boy so troublesome that the teachers of the Sunday School were in doubt whether, in justice to the other children, they ought to retain him with the rest. And here he paused again. A little thrill went through the seated rows of children, the teachers looked solemn, the small boy, standing with his cap in his hand, remained unmoved and motionless as before. Mr. Mole resumed his speech. He said that in the discipline of a Sunday School there were three things that must always be observed — punctuality, attention to lessons, and good conduct. He spoke a little of punctuality, of the necessity for it in all kinds of labour, even in that of children, ATHLOS: and of the danger of irregular and slothful habits in after life.

And then he said he had been told that Johnnie Aston was always unpunctual, and often did not attend the school at all. Baising his voice a little, he spoke of learn ing, of the blessing's that had been found in knowledge in all ages of the world, of the comfort that the study of the Bible furnished to many thousands of weary hearts and minds. It was the Bible that was taught in the Sunday School — but this boy never seemed as if he cared to learn. After another pause. He wished, he said, that his words could have ended there. It was not pleasant to him or anyone to have to find fault, though there were occasions on which it must be done. He had heard that this boy was not only idle and unpunctual, but that he was also inattentive and rebellious, that he had repeatedly disobeyed his teachers, and that he showed no disposition to amend.

The Sunday School, however, was determined to be merciful, and had resolved to give him one final chance, whilst at tbe same time it had sent that afternoon one final complaint of him to his home. (There was a little stir and murmur amongst the children here, and for one moment a slight movement even of the little culprit's frame.) If after that Sunday no alteration followed, the Sunday School would be reluctantly compelled to receive this boy no more. But he trusted that some alteration would ensue. Pausing here, he glanced again for one instant at the culprit's face, the childish face, set, quiet, compressed into resolute obstinacy ; even Mr. Mole could see that there was not much chance of any alteration there. With a little sigh he looked over the neat brown head again, and addressed his oration to the rest.

Then he spoke long, and well, and earnestly. He told of the duties of children to their parents, of pupils to their teachers, of all to Cod. He spoke of youth, the precious springtime in which the seed must be planted that shall blossom to full perfection in after years, of the care of the elder for the younger, of the love that One who once trod with human footsteps on this earth had for the little children He took within His arms. There came a hushed silence amongst the children as they heard ; but as he glanced down at the little culprit's face he could see it pale, set, unmoved entirely, as before. ATHLOS : 10 Then, perhaps, there came upon Mr. Mole a slight feeling of human irritation, for his concluding remarks had a different and very marked severity and sternness in their tone. He trusted, he said, that the children would take warning by the scene that had occurred that day.

He spoke of the shame and disgrace of being thus publicly rebuked ; and in a few solemn words he pointed out the evil that indulged faults bring upon human lives here, and the ruin that they may ensure to souls hereafter. There came again that hushed silence, more intense this time than before, and in that he suffered his oration to conclude. It seemed to be known that he had done, for there was a slight stir among the children, though they would not rise to depart until he gave the word. He raised his head, which he had dropped for an instant, that he might give the permission they required. Then, as his eyes glanced down those long rows of children, the girls on the left hand and the boys upon the right, there came over him a strange feeling, a whisper of the heart, which told him that he was going away from there, and that of all these young faces which had seemed to listen so eagerly whilst he spoke he might never behold one upon this earth again.

And then his eyes dropped once more upon the small, dull brown head in front; and the inward words came more distinctly now. "I am going away from here; and this boy, who may never see me again, who has only seen me on this one afternoon, will say to himself whenever he thinks of me that I never said a single word of him that was not a hard one." It was one of those sudden instincts that occur in the midst of our calculated actions now and then : and without considering further he yielded to it on the instant as it came. His oration had been only too defi nitely concluded ; this new idea plunged it into an anti-climax and into absurdity at once. Leaning a little forward he signed to the children to be still, and touched for an instant with his hand the little shoulder that was so far beneath his own.

Then he spoke, in a hurried, nervous manner that had no studied grace of oratory now. "You may go directly," he said; "but there is just one thing I should like to say first to you. I — I don't like to say nothing but bad things of a boy ; and I suppose there ATHLOS: is something good to be said of every boy on earth. At any rate, I know something good of him." He waited an instant. There was a breathless silence. He had begun now and must go on. " They tell me," he went on, in the same nervous and hurried manner still, " that since the school has been held here the children have often brought apples and eaten them in the church. But this boy, even when he has apples, never eats them inside the church. It is a good thing not to eat apples in church. You may follow him in that. I like that 1 " There was a sudden murmur, perhaps not altogether of delight, and all at once the little culprit raised his head.

For one in stant Mr. Mole looked down into two great eyes, round, blue, solemn; then they dropped, a sudden rush of colour flushed the childish face, and slowly down the boy's cheeks two large tears began to roll. Probably, after what had passed, Mr. Mole would have liked to have said some words to him. But the children were to be restrained no longer, they rose with an out burst, and in another instant he was lost to view amongst the rest. Mr. Mole had him- THE STOR Y OF A LIFE. 13 self to set out on his journey ; he smiled for a few minutes, as he drove away, over the trivial scene, and then began to think of hopes more important to himself. It is a very trifling occurrence — is it not ? — of which we have heard, an absurdly small and commonplace affair ; it seems hardly worth while to have wasted so many words upon anything so slight.

And yet that im portant events may spring from trivial causes has become a truism too obvious to be quoted, and it may before now have happened that great and lasting matters have found their first outward tokens in appearances as insignificant as — as the two round, salt tears that once found their slow way down the cheeks of a naughty boy on Advent Sunday. At any rate we shall see.

Part I. In The Cottage

I. Johnnie Aston — whose fortunes this history must follow, now and henceforward — became separated from all the other children as soon as they had left the church. Partly this was because he was not a favourite, and fre quently took his walks from school alone, but partly also from feelings in his own mind that restrained him from any disposition to be quick. He knew that the final bad report had been sent to his adopted parents, and understood easily in what manner he would be received at home. ATHLOS: THE STORY OF A LIFE. 15 Let us not forget when reckoning up the blessings of our childhood — on which some of us are so much disposed to dwell — that overwhelming dread of punishment and disgrace that is so often present to the feelings of a child. For childish frames and feelings are tender still ; they have not the older strength that can withstand disgrace and blows.

Johnnie was not particularly submissive, as we know ; he was " 'ardened," as his old schoolmaster had said ; but that vague terror was all the same within his mind, and his steps grew slower and slower as he ap proached more nearly to his home. The still whiteness of a winter afternoon was on the world, the sky rested grey above, and the evening shadows were be ginning to fall upon the snow. Johnnie turned with slow footsteps from the steep ness of the village street, down which he had gone, into the path bordered with more detached cottages that led out towards the Fens. The sight of the wide white fields beyond, with the hedges showing blackly through the snow, had no great charm for him, though with that sight in front of him he loitered more and more. If it had been ATHLOS: a weekday he would have stopped to play marbles on the road — probably with un certain hands that would soon have lost all the marbles he possessed.

He looked a little neat brown figure as he went slowly down the path over the snow, rather short even for eleven, but sturdy enough, though not large, and with little hands and feet. The compressed, pale, blue-eyed face had not any points of resem blance with the adopted relations who had brought him up, and no doubt this helped to make him appear an alien amongst them all. Those who saw him for the first time were chiefly struck with that tight com pression of his lips and face, an expression that appeared strange and not very attrac tive in a child. Johnnie's home was some way down the Fen Road, and quite out of the village — a little cottage that from the higher ground above the church appeared to nestle prettily into the undulating country, but that was in reality a poor rough place enough.

The little strip of garden in front was white and black in this winter weather, but gleams of red firelight came through the window and open door, together with a confused noise of THE STORY OF A LIFE. 17 children's footsteps and scolding voices — evidently a large family was to be expected here. Still lingering, Johnnie waited for an instant outside the gate, unwilling yet to face the greeting that must come. All the way down the village street and up the road the strange remembrance of what had been said about the apples had made an unwonted sensation near his heart, but the sense of approaching troubles had allowed him no time to think of that. There was no use in delay ; he opened the gate, and went through the garden to his home. Instantly a child near the open door an nounced the fact, iu piercing tones, with a broad appalling accent upon the first syllable it spoke — " Moa-ther, Johnnie's coom."

Johnnie stood still at that, but Mrs. Gibbs was already at the door. " What are you waitin' there for ? Why are you standin' there?" she cried, in rough accents, as she darkened the doorway with her form. " Come you in at once, and doan't stand starin' there. Ah-h ! I wouldn't be in your shoo-as when father comes home this night." Not very much encouraged, Johnnie advol. i. ATHLOS: vanced dubiously within the door, carefully avoiding the grasp that she put out at him as he came in. The room was hot in spite of the open door, for it was small and low, and there were four little girls in it, the eldest nursing a baby by the fire. There was a rough armchair with a red cushion in it on the other side ; there were a few rough ornaments on the mantelpiece, and some staring Scripture prints upon the wall.

Other wise the room was bare enough. Mrs. Gibbs closed the door, and came into the room. She was a tall strong woman, poorly dressed, with long bare arms, and a rough and hardened face. At this moment she was so much flushed that a stranger might have thought she had been drinking, which was not the case. She was trembling with anger, and as the baby burst out into sudden crying made a violent movement towards it, and then, changing her mind, seized hold of Johnnie, pulling him towards her by his arm. " Look you here," she cried, seizing him by the shoulder now, and shaking him to and fro, " and tell me that — isn't it enough for me to have had the bringin' up of you, and the noarsin' of you, and the rearin' of you, THE STOR Y OF A LIFE. 19 but I must hear all the things of you that have been in my ears this day ?

Miss Ellis, she say to me, ' Mrs. Gibbs, that boy's been a soor trooble to you.' And I says to her, ' You speak truth, Miss Ellis, if them was to be the last woords you say.' And she didn't speak to me of coo-als, nor of half-croons, and Mrs. Weston has 'em as hasn't no family at all, and it's all along a-you. And father shall hear of it when he comes bock this night, and there won't be a boan left, I tell you that." It was to be hoped that this last statement was rather figurative than literal, but under any circumstances it was enough to strike terror into the stoutest heart. The little girls became very still, and looked round with awe-struck eyes. Johnnie stood quiet, looking down upon the ground. In the dark cottage you must have been close to him to have seen the small compressed look his mouth assumed.

Mrs. Gibbs let go of his shoulder as she spoke, and going to the cupboard began to rattle the cups and saucers with the manner of one who has said her mind at last. " Moather," said the little girl who had spoken before, " Johnnie'll be roonin' away before father cooms, he will." ATHLOS: 20 Johnnie turned his head towards her with a little scowl, but without raising his eyes. Mrs. Gibbs stood pausing before the cupboard door, with a cup and saucer in her hand. "Johnnie shall go to the bed-pooast," she said. She looked at him as if she expected him to move, but as he continued standing she set down the cup and saucer, and swooping down on him like a large whirlwind laying hold of a small stone, she swept him out of the room and up the stairs. Here was a small room, the boy's apartment, that a four post bedstead almost filled.

The winter sun light came in on it. The bed was large, and tenanted as a rule by Johnnie, Willie, Tom, and Fred ; but the other three boys were absent now from home. Long used to such occasions, Mrs. Gibbs did not let go of her captive prey again. She had picked up a great dusty red silk handkerchief from the cupboard as she passed, and with that she secured his hands behind him, after first shaking him till his very teeth seemed loose. This done, she tied his hands to the bedpost, with a skill that only long practice could have given, and when he was fairly secured she proceeded to improve upon the position by knocking his head against it. Johnnie could not have found himself in any very pleasant condition ; but he remained perfectly quiet, and did not attempt to cry. He never cried when mother beat him, though he did sometimes when father did, partly because father was stronger and hurt more, but partly, too, because father was more tender-hearted, and sometimes let you off if you cried very hard indeed.

He remained still, looking out of the little window, which was close, at the winter sunlight on the snow ; and Mrs. Gibbs, after one tug at his hands to see that they were safe, went with a flourish and a bang from the room. Left to himself, Johnnie gave one little tug as well; but he knew of old that there was no good in pulling at what mother's hands had tied, so he gave up the vain attempt, and resigned himself to thought. How quietly fell the winter sunlight on the snow, which had something of au evening glow upon it even now ! The road was still ; no one was walking to the village ; there ATHLOS: 22 were the ruts in the snow where the waggons passed ; in the distance the sky was grey, as if more snow would come. Johnnie stood and thought, with his eyes upon the quiet road and on the snow.

Something new and strange there was at his heart, the remem brance of what had been said about the apples; he could not understand it even now. Father had gone tc Langton that morning, and would not be back till late. The whip ping that was to be expected would not be for some hours ; he need not think about it yet. Father generally came back in a temper from Langton — that was bad. They were moving down below ; he thought he heard the rattle of cups and saucers as he stood. He was tired and hungry, and it was very cold up here, but he would get no tea to-night. And all the children had been told that he did not eat apples in the church — there was something strange in that. They had been told that they might follow him in that. Whatever was said about him now, he could always say that, too, as well.

How kind the gentleman's hand had been when it touched his shoulder ! And all at once Johnnie's eyes filled fast with tears again. He looked out through his tears upon the snow. The sunlight was on it, and two little birds were pecking at it in the path. Johnnie watched them for some minutes, and then fell back into his former thoughts once more. Why had he never eaten apples in the church ? He could not really tell. He knew that he had not done so, that when he had reached the porch he had always, after perhaps one final bite, put back such fruit as he had into his pocket, to be taken out again in much worse condition when he reached the porch once more. He had been told always that it was wicked to eat fruit in church, and had always silently agreed, though why he, who attended to no rules whatever, should have kept this one he did not exactly know.

At any rate he had kept it, and now un looked-for and strange reward had come. Perhaps if he had done other things as well — looking out still upon the snow, strange, confused visions seemed to pass before his eyes, crowds of children in the church, footsteps and voices of men, and above and through all other sounds, the words that said, " Johnnie learns his lessons well through all the year — you may follow him in that ! " ATHLOS: Material fancies enough ! and yet touched with a strange force that has power still within the world, whether it stirs in the heart of the strong man, compelled to own at last that there can be ways more pleasant to him even than his darling sins; or in little sore-headed Johnnie, leaning against the bed post, and looking out with blue, round, dejected eyes upon the snow.

That one lesson ! that can come closer to us than any that blows and punishment can teach. Johnnie stood looking upon the snow out side. A young man and woman were walk ing arm-in-arm down the path towards the village ; he followed them closely with his eyes. He was hungry, sleepy, frightened; he wished that father would come quickly, that it might all be over soon. And then he listened for such sounds as could be heard below, and felt some wish to begin crying for his tea. The slanting light was pleasant upon the snow ; he was very tired, and his eyelids began to droop upon his eyes. There was a pleasant dark interval that followed, and then it began to be disturbed again by the fancies of footsteps and of voices. And then he seemed to wake all at once, and to find himself in a large room, the schoolroom of the village, with the sunlight coming in on it, and countless rows of children filling it from end to end.