Marred in the Making

Front matter

BY H. W. SHREWSBURY 1 ' Behold, to obey is better than sacrifice % and to hearken than the fat of rams." EDINBURGH & LONDON OLIPHANT ANDERSON & FERRIER OTHER BOOKS IN THIS SERIES. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, Illustrated, price 2s. 6d. ADELE'S LOVE. The Story of a Faithful Little Heart. By Maude M. Butler. MA TTHE IV DALE, FARMER. By Mrs. Sanders. KATE AND IEAN. The History of Two Young and Independent Spinsters, narrated by their Landlady. By Jessie M. E. Saxby. THE STRONGER WILL. IUDITH. MISS URACA. FALCONER OF FALCONHURST. THE DOCTOR'S DOZEN. By Evelyn Everett-Green. TIB. By George Douglas. AFTER LONG YEARS; or, Norman's Vow. RING IN THE TRUE: A Story of Transition Times in Village Life. By Ella Stone. AMONG THE HEATHER. By A. C. Hertford. TIBBY'S TRYST. By Roeina F. Hardy. THE A YRES OF STUDLEIGH.

By Annie S. Swan. IDA CAMERON. By Margaret Parker. LIFE'S BLINDFOLD GAME. FOR THE SAKE 0' THE SILLER. THROUGH LOVE TO REPENTANCE. By Maggie Swan. EDINBURGH St. LONDON : OLIPHANT ANDERSON & FERRIER, And all Booksellers. MORRISON AND GIBB, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.

Chapter I

"Since, Lord, to Thee A narrow way and little gate Is all the passage, on my infancy Thou dost lay hold, and antedate My faith in me." George Herbert. SUNBEAM touched the child's face. He sneezed, opened his eyes, sighed deeply, and shut them again in infant slumber. Little children peeping over the gallery front looked down wonderingly, and young men and women scanned the group at the com munion-rail, half fearing, half hoping, quite expecting to witness the passion of offended babyhood. Agnes Wedmore drew the veil lightly over her boy's face, and her husband John, nervously anxious, stood by and wished the scene well ended. It was an old-fashioned town chapel. The red baize of the square and roomy centre pews set off the black coats of the men, and killed the delicate tints of fashionably dressed women reclining in snug corners.

On the side benches under the heavy galleries, motley groups, humbly clad, leaned forward with an air of mild interest ; and far back in the raised seats by the entrance doors, a bald-headed man of some fifty years wiped his spectacles with a red silk handkerchief, and whispering, as he thought, to the old lady at his side, gave everyone in the neighbouring pews the benefit of his opinion. " Ay ! but it's a grand thing, now, to see the little ones brought to the Lord. Just thirty-one years to-day since we took our little Ishmael to be done, and might have had some bonny childer of his own if he had lived, poor lad ! " He readjusted his glasses and looked round. " Shame on the folk ! " he whispered again ; " they think naught of it, staring about as if it were a baby show. Ay ! but if I were a preacher, now, I'd give 'em a right rattling sermon.

I'd let 'em know that baptism's baptism." At the same moment the minister, ad vancing a few steps out of the shadow of the old mahogany pulpit, with its huge sounding board, stooped over the rail and took the child in his arms. Perhaps similar thoughts were passing through his mind. He called upon the congregation to rise and respond to the prayers of the Church on behalf of the lamb of the flock now to be received into Christ's fold. Then in clear, deep tones fell the words : " Fred, I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost." " Please, auntie, lift me up. Auntie, lift me up, please. I can't see nuffin." The sweet childish voice made itself distinctly heard, and the less devout worshippers, turning their heads, looked upon a pretty picture. A little girl, five years old perhaps, certainly not six, stood upon the seat of one of the middle pews, supported by a lady's arm.

The two faces were in striking con trast. The dark features of the child, with their quick, restless expression, bespoke a life unfolding to noble energies or misspent activity. The face that bent tenderly over her was singularly fair. The charm was not so much in the profusion of light auburn hair, the hazel eyes, or the graceful curve of her finely cut lips, as in that indescribable something which leaves the impression that the soul is shining through the countenance. For the highest type of beauty lies not in feature but in expression ; even as the simplest chords sent forth from the delicate touch of a skilled hand, create a pathos the sublimest strains faultlessly but coldly played do not inspire. Such was the beauty of Helen Duncan, or, as she was called in the home circle, Aunt Helen.

" What's he doing with baby - brother ? " The question came in lower tones, something of fear mingling with wonder, as Helen Duncan's little niece Hilda watched the minister take the child in his arms, and heard the vigorous response which the water of baptism called forth from his infant lips. " Hush, dear ! he's giving baby to God." "Oh, auntie!" said the child. "S'pose God keeps him ? He won't keep little Freddy, will He? I do wish we'd never come ! " " No, dear," replied Aunt Helen ; " we are giving baby to God to take care of him. Sit still by me and listen to what the minister says, and to-morrow I'll tell you all about it." The minister said but little, but two or three of his sentences found a permanent place in the record of that mother's memory. " Upon the mother especially," he re marked, " must depend the training of this child for heaven.

In later years he will look to his father for counsel and instruction, but through these years of infancy his knowledge of divine truth will reach him through his mother. Before his eyes learn to trace out letters, before his lips frame themselves to speech, before his ears can recognise your words, he will interpret your looks and understand your tones. Let Christ beam upon him through your counte nance, let Christ speak to him through your voice, let his training for heaven begin now ; and when presently his tongue shall find words, and he can make known his thoughts and feelings in speech, you will perceive already the good seed beginning to spring up in his heart." An hour and a half later, Mr. and Mrs. Wedmore sat together by the fireside of their cosy library. Master Fred slept peacefully in his cradle, shadowed by the table.

Aunt Helen was looking over the well-lined book shelves with an air of distraction which suggested wealth of volumes with poverty of literature as its possible source. Very snug was that little room, and very pleasantly passed the closing half-hour of the evening there, sometimes in reading, sometimes in conversation on incidents of the day. " Come, Helen," said Mr. Wedmore, "you've rummaged long enough amongst those books ; you're hunting out some delicious morsel of heresy, I'll be bound, and you'll find nothing but purest orthodoxy on every shelf." It was quite true. In Helen Duncan's opinion, Mr. Wedmore's library was sadly one-sided. Clarke and Benson and Matthew Henry had honoured places. Wesley's complete works occupied conspicuously the middle shelves. Watson's Institutes and Pearson On the Creed, with a host of other works equally sound in doctrine, were ranged within easy reach.

Yes, it was truly a one-sided library, but then Mr. Wedmore claimed that that was the best side. John Wedmore's home train ing had been a thoroughly Christian one. From his boyhood he had been versed in the Scriptures. His mind had no tendency towards logic. He was content to believe that things are, without seeking to know how they are or why. The lines had fallen to him in orthodox places. He had a goodly heritage of truth. That truth he unhesitat ingly received. Whatever opposed it he unhesitatingly rejected, and nothing exas perated him so much as that anyone should call in question his faith, or even appear to make an attack upon its outposts. His wife's temperament was similar, but her sister's mind had been cast in a different mould. From childhood Helen Duncan had shown a fondness for getting behind results to their causes.

Her mother used to call her that " tiresome, inquisitive little thing." It was Helen who broke open her brother's drum to see where the noise came from. It was Helen who set a box of matches ablaze, singeing her eyebrows and burning holes in her pinafore, in trying to find out " why that bit of red stuff on each match caught fire so easy when it was rubbed." And when at family worship the children were encouraged to ask questions about the lessons for the day, it was always Helen, then a girl in her teens, who brought out the strangest notions. When instead of the Apostle John's name the expression "the beloved disciple" occurred, it was Helen who asked, " Why does he call himself the beloved disciple? None of the others call him that." When the request for James and John to occupy seats right and left of the Master in the kingdom of God was being read, it was Helen again who wanted to know " if it was fair that when they had said they would drink of the cup, they were told they should indeed drink of it, but were not granted the seats."

And now Helen the child, Helen the girl, reappeared in Aunt Helen the woman, who in her twenty-eighth year had lived a longer life than many a matron of forty. A glance over the fifty-seven books which constituted her private library would broadly indicate the general drift of her character. Most worn and thumbed of these volumes was her Bible, and hardly less so the Pilgrim's Progress. Several devotional works clearly had their places, not for show, but for use. There were also volumes of a lighter kind, Charlotte Bronte, Dickens and Thackeray, Scott, Shelley, and Wordsworth, and authors of a very different kind again, Hume, Harriet Martineau, and John Stuart Mill. Once Tom Paine had ranked with these, but for some years now he had been banished. Many an hour of anxious thought some of these works had cost Helen Duncan — many a struggle ; and there had been times when she felt her faith waver, and when she had almost relinquished it.

But for long these books had been to her as serpents with their fangs drawn. She admired their beauties, but never more could they wound her soul ; she had tested them by the light of God's word, by the light of conscience, by the light of common sense ; and she was sure now that she had proved them also under the guiding inspiration of the blessed Spirit of Truth. " What is it, Helen ? " said her sister. " What are you looking for ? " " I was hunting for Tennyson," she re plied. " I know you have it, but I expect John has put it away somewhere, as a work of dangerous tendencies." " Well, never mind Tennyson now. You know enough by heart to serve for to-night. Come and sit down ; it's nearly bedtime." The three drew their chairs nearer the fire. Fred at the same moment stirred in his cradle, and the slight movement fixed simul taneously the thought of father, mother, and aunt upon him.

A quiet smile flitted across John Wed more's face, and, glancing across at his wife, he said, " Remember, dear, the burying of the old Adam in this child is all your work for the next three years." " Mind you bury the old Adam well in me, then, meanwhile," was the ready re joinder. " John," said Helen, " how would you feel if this nephew of mine should grow up into an irreligious young man ? " " He never shall, by God's grace, if I live," replied John Wedmore. " His books, com panions, and surroundings shall be such as to exclude all irreligious influences. His very first lessons, as soon as he can under stand anything, shall be Bible lessons ; in fact, his faith in God shall antedate his knowledge of evil." And then John Wed more quoted the verse from George Herbert which stands at the head of this chapter.

Chapter II

Beloved age of innocence and smiles, When each winged hour some new delight beguiles, When the gay heart to life's sweet day-spring true, Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue, Bless'd childhood, hail I Henry Kirke White. OW, Aunt Helen, you said you would tell me what that man was doing to little Freddy last night. You said you would tell me all about it, Hilda's dark eyes sparkled, and her face showed a fixed intention to give her aunt no peace until she had answered all her questions. It was half-past seven in the morning, from which time to half-past eight was Hilda's privileged hour. During that hour, whilst she was being dressed, Hilda was accustomed to confide to her aunt all her troubles and schemes and wants. And well Aunt Helen merited the unlimited confidence of her little niece for the patience and frankness and sincerity with which she received and replied to the flood of questions that poured in upon her.

" Well, Hilda," she said, " what do you want to know first ? " " What did the man pull out of that basin, auntie? I saw him pull something out and hold it over Freddy, and then he said some queer words, which made Freddy cry." " There was water in the basin, dear, and he sprinkled a few drops on baby's face." " But what did he do it for, auntie ? " " I'm afraid it will be hard to make my little Hilda understand ; but let us see. What did I tell you they called that man with the queer coat and brass buttons you saw sitting on a carriage yesterday, and thought he looked so fine ? " " The bootman, auntie ? " " No, dear, the footman. Well, and what did I tell you his coat was called, and why did he wear it ? " " You siid it was his liffry, 'cause it shewed who he b'longed to, like doggie's collar shows he b'longs to us."

" Well, now then, Hilda, the Lord Jesus Christ commands that we should all be sprinkled with water to show that we belong to Him. That was one reason why the minister sprinkled water on Freddy's face last night." A sudden thought flashed in Hilda's eyes, and, looking up with a quick smile, she said, " S'pose I souse doggie, will he b'long to Jesus Christ ? " " No, dear ; because it was not only sprinkling baby that made him belong to Jesus Christ, but what the minister said at the same time." " Was that those queer words, auntie ? What did he say ? It sounded so funny." " He said, ' Fred, I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.' " " That sounds queer, auntie. What does the Holy Ghost mean ? " " You are asking questions now, Hilda, my darling, that I cannot answer so as to make you understand.

Father, Son, and Holy Ghost are names of God. You will know what they mean when you grow older." But, auntie, what has God three names for ? " Helen Duncan paused a few moments completely puzzled. What philosophy is profound enough to bring forth from its depths answers to a child's artless questions ? Must Hilda be rebuked now for being un duly inquisitive, because her questions were probing the extreme limits of human know ledge ? That had never been Helen Duncan's custom with children. She always encouraged them in seeking information, because she held that thinking children must wonder and inquire, and she believed that harm was done by checking their inquiries, and forcing them to work out secretly answers to questions which might be driven from their lips, but could not be dislodged from their minds.

It was a deep question that Hilda put, but Helen Duncan was not a shallow woman. " Hilda," she replied at length, " do you remember those big words father uses at prayers, by which he means himself and mother ? " "Yes. 'Nited head of this fam'ly," answered Hilda gravely. " The united head of the family. Well done, Hilda ! Now, didn't father say the other day that he meant somebody else besides himself and mother ? " " Yes, you, Aunt Helen ; 'cause you're like a number two mother." " Well, then, Hilda dear, father, and mother, and I, three different persons, make the united head of this family. Well, now, just something like that, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost make one God — one United Head." "Where's the fam'ly?" asked Hilda promptly. " You and I, and father and mother, and everybody who promises to love and obey God, are the family ; and baby Fred is one of the family, because, as he can't speak for himself, father and mother have spoken for him."

Then there was a long pause. Helen Duncan, on her part, felt the insufficiency of her exposition. She was glad no professor of theology was lurking within hearing, for she was aware that her putting of the doctrine of the Trinity in Unity had a strong flavour of Tritheism. At the same time, she would have resented any censure of her lesson ; for, after all, the Scriptures had nowhere formu lated that great doctrine, and it was much to be questioned whether the ablest theo logian could have given Hilda a clear idea of its general bearing without involving himself as deeply in some heresy. Meanwhile the child's eyes grew thought ful, and a slight frown found a place on her brow. Some mental process was going on. Her next words explained it. She had lost for a moment the keynote to the conversa tion.

Suddenly it came to her, and with a smile of triumph she began again — " Then the man soused baby to show he belonged to God's fam'ly, like that man's coat showed who he belonged to ? " " Yes, dear, that was partly it, but some thing more besides. What is water for ? " " To drink, of course." " Yes, but what else ? What have I just been using it for ? " " To wash me. Is that what you mean auntie ? " " Yes, that's it. Well, now, the minister sprinkled baby to show that just as water washes away dirt, God will wash away his sins. You know what sin is, Hilda? I told you on Sunday." " Yes, vexing God, auntie. Why do we belong to God ? I'd sooner belong to father and mother and you. Doesn't Freddy belong more to us than to God ? " " But, Hilda, you forget that it was God who made us. Don't you remember that father said Freddy was God's gift to him ?

" Hilda's animated features passed again into the quiescence of reverie. Some new and deeper mystery arrested her thought. Her aunt divined it, and hastened to dash off into other topics, but Hilda anticipated her. Her next words came with charming artlessness, but somehow less readily, as if the spell of a new chain of ideas had been cast upon her. " Aunt Helen, how did God make Freddy?" What reply could she make? She might have responded with a fable. She might have denounced as improper a question which was most natural, and almost inevit able. If she had answered with a lie, it would not have stood proof against the penetration of her youthful questioner; she would simply have damaged her influence. If with a rebuff, she would only intensify a curiosity which, once aroused, could not thus be blunted ; she would repress its out ward manifestation only to drive it inward as a morbid condition of the mind.

Helen Duncan's quick discernment com prehended the situation. To impose upon Hilda's credulity would be a sin ; to rebuke her simple curiosity would be a folly ; to give an answer to the question was in the nature of the circumstances clearly impos sible. The natural solution of the difficulty was to make Hilda herself feel and appreciate that impossibility. " Bring me the soap, Hilda," she said. " Now," she continued, as Hilda placed a fragrant tablet in her hand, " do you know how this soap was made ? " " No, auntie, but I would like to. But baby didn't grow out of soap, did he?" " Wait a bit, Hilda ; one question at a time. I want to tell you first what soap is, and how it is made. Listen now. Soap is an alkaline detergent. The basis of its manufacture is the combination of oils and alkalis.

Do you understand me ? " Hilda looked fairly bewildered. " No, auntie," she said ; " I can't tell what those big funny words mean. Are they baccy-pipe words ? " " Are they what, dear ? " "You know, auntie, father said the man in the pulpit on Sunday talked such great big words, they were like grandad's long baccy-pipes." This was too much. Helen Duncan's voice was lost in laughter. Then, catching up Hilda for a kiss, she exclaimed, "You little monkey ! Father never meant you to hear that, I know. But now, Hilda," she continued, the kind, grave expression coming back to her face, " I want you to tell me whether you think it was harder to make this soap or Freddy ? " " Freddy, I suppose, auntie ; 'cause he's so much bigger, and he's all alive, you know." " Well, then, Hilda dear, if you can't understand me when I tell you how this soap is made, don't you see how much harder it would be for you to understand how Freddy is made?

When you can read and study things for yourself, mother or I will teach you ; but for the present it is too difficult for you to learn, and it would not be well for you to try. There are many things you will be taught as you grow older which you are too young to learn yet. Now, dear, are you satisfied ? " Hilda's face with its cheerful smile gave answer before her lips framed a reply. She threw her arms round her aunt's neck, and, giving her a loving hug, said simply, " Yes, Aunt Helen, it's all right, 'cause you say so. Now, can I go down, auntie ? " " One moment more, dear. I've some thing else to say about Freddy — something very special that I want you never to forget." Hilda looked up very attentively, almost anxiously. " I want you to remember, Hilda, that if Freddy is to grow up a good boy, you must help him all you can.

You must always be patient and gentle and kind with him. Will you promise me ? " With a kiss, and " I'll try, auntie," Hilda promised. " Now, run away down ; and mother has a wonderful secret for you." Five minutes later, Hilda was dancing about the kitchen wild with delight. " Cook, cook ! " she exclaimed, " guess where I'm going. Aunt Helen's going to take me with her into Scotland, where the people eat porridge and herrings, and talk so queer nobody can't hardly tell what they say. Mother says so." "Well, then, Miss Hilda, you needn't upset the toast in the fender if you are," was cook's retort.

Chapter III

" But yesterday I saw Two bees for one brief moment light Upon one flower, then wing their flight By lines as different as they came. With us 'tis much the same, There holds a general law." HIS way for Preston and the North ! Take your seats, please. Going by this train, sir ? " " Yes. Third-class, please." " Smoking, sir? " " No, thank you." " Thought you was, maybe. Allus thinks parsons smoke mostly. Here you are, sir. There ain't no empty carriage. — Right in front, there ? " A shrill whistle from the guard, a sharp screech from the engine, and the morning express glided out from the London and North-Western station of the great cotton capital, bound for the North. Who can say, as he scans the human freight of a passenger train, which life possesses the deepest interest? Naturally your glance wanders over a crowd of poorly dressed travellers to rest on that young lady whose pretty face set off by rich furs looks out from a first-class window.

You pass that window frequently. Your luggage happens to lie in that direction, and you are particu larly nervous to-day lest the porter should forget to put it into the van. For your boxes' sake you pace those few feet of the platform, at the same time casting repeated looks at that first-class carriage, and growing curious about the history of that handsome lady in furs. A tame story, as likely as not. Two visits a week to the circulating library, calls, flirting, and balls, with certain elegancies, ironically styled, in regard per haps to the difficulty of acquiring them and the vanity of the acquisition, " accomplish ments," that not improbably would sum up the achievements represented by the owner of the pretty face and furs. Or it may be that it pleases you rather to watch the tragedy of life unfolding itself in the annals of the poor.

To you, therefore, the romance of humanity is seen chiefly in the well-filled third-class carriages. But the truth is, every life has its romance, could we but read it. In one and all there are points of human interest the narration of which would strike responsive chords in the heart of every fellow-man. So at least the Reverend Edward Rushton was thinking as he stepped into his third-class carriage, and these thoughts so engrossed him that, whilst the train traversed its first mile, the porter's remark concerning the ministerial profession and tobacco lay in the ante-chamber of his consciousness. Thence proceeding to a brief audience, it created some passing amusement, and was promptly relegated to the department memory, other ideas suggested by images of the reverend gentleman's fellow - passengers thronging in to take its place.

There were seven people in the compartment, and the faces of two or three of them were worth the attention of a physiognomist. In one corner sat a portly man, whose broad forehead indicated average intelligence; his small restless eyes, chronic frown, occasional sardonic smile, and curt sentences, jerked out in a gruff voice, in dicating at the same time a cross - grained temper somewhat beyond the average. " Some obscure functionary," thought Edward Rushton to himself, — " a village postmaster, perhaps. Why doesn't the selfish fellow give his wife the corner seat and some kind words withal ? " A precise old lady, a young man whose uneasy attitudes and dandy dress suggested that he felt himself too well got up for third-class company, and a nondescript lad, occupied other places. Edward Rushton sketched for himself the characteristics of these in a casual survey, and then his interest was absorbed by a passenger sitting in the far opposite corner.

A lady, whose face was hidden behind an illustrated maga zine, had taken a little girl on her knees, and was successfully amusing her with the pictures. It is disturbing to a traveller's comfort when the features of one of his fellow - travellers are persistently screened from observation. Edward Rushton began to wonder what kind of a face that periodical concealed, and his curiosity increased two fold as he listened to the talk which flowed freely from behind it. Evidently the lady was not purposely concealing her features. She was simply holding the book in the most natural position for herself and the little girl to enjoy it together ; and meantime she described the pictures to the child, and answered the questions they called forth, with as little constraint as if she had been alone with her in a drawing room.

The Reverend Edward Rushton was a young man, having barely entered his thirty-first year, and unmarried. He would have disclaimed that he regarded woman with anything but veneration — a veneration verging upon awe. He treated women with uniform deference, but it must be confessed that, notwithstanding, he har boured some cynicism with regard to womankind at large. If you forced upon him a comparison with the other sex, he would mentally have determined that women grew no better thereby, but that men grew worse. Against the charm of beauty he was well-nigh proof. A pretty face and a well-formed figure affected him. He looked, and looked again. Pictures and marbles affected him similarly, but in each case the impressions resulting made their way upward to his head rather than down ward to his heart.

On the subject of love at first sight he was a hopeless sceptic, and his views on courtship generally were pronounced by his sisters sufficient to disqualify him for marriage — firstly, because they demanded an ideal character for a wife ; secondly, because they reduced wooing from rhapsody to prose ; and therefore, thirdly, because the lady of his choice was certain to reject his overtures, unless, indeed, some dispassionate woman might be induced to marry him out of boundless pity. That Mr. Rushton concurred fully in these conclusions of his sisters, it is not necessary to suppose. In spite of their forecast, he expected to marry, and he expected to marry his ideal character. That he had not yet discovered her mattered little. An infallible Providence would bring her across his path, and then all would be well, if his fallible judgment failed not to recognise her.