As time advanced Philip Maylands’ circumstances improved, for Phil belonged to that class of which it is sometimes said “they are sure to get on.” He was thorough-going and trustworthy—two qualities these which the world cannot do without, and which, being always in demand, are never found begging.
Phil did not “set up” for anything. He assumed no airs of superior sanctity. He did not even aim at being better than others, though he did aim, daily, at being better than he was. In short, the lad, having been trained in ways of righteousness, and having the Word of God as his guide, advanced steadily and naturally along the narrow way that leads to life. Hence it came to pass in the course of time that he passed from the ranks of Out-door Boy Telegraph Messenger to that of Boy-Sorter, with a wage of twelve shillings a week, which was raised to eighteen shillings. His hours of attendance at the Circulation Department were from 4:30 in the morning till 9; and from 4:30 in the evening till 8. These suited him well, for he had ever been fond of rising with the lark while at home, and had no objection to rise before the lark in London. The evening being free he devoted to study—for Phil was one of that by no means small class of youths who, in default of a College education, do their best to train themselves, by the aid of books and the occasional help of clergymen, philanthropists, and evening classes.
In all this Phil was greatly assisted by his sister May, who, although not much more highly educated than himself, was quick of perception, of an inquiring mind, and a sympathetic soul. He was also somewhat assisted, and, at times, not a little retarded, by his ardent admirer Peter Pax, who joined him enthusiastically in his studies, but, being of a discursive and enterprising spirit, was prone to tempt him off the beaten paths of learning into the thickets of speculative philosophy.
One evening Pax was poring over a problem in Euclid with his friend in Pegaway Hall.
“Phil,” he said uneasily, “drop your triangles a bit and listen. Would you think it dishonest to keep a thing secret that ought to be known?”
“That depends a good deal on what the secret is, and what I have got to do with it,” replied Phil. “But why do you ask?”
“Because I’ve been keeping a secret a long time—much against my will—an’ I can stand it no longer. If I don’t let it out, it’ll bu’st me—besides, I’ve got leave to tell it.”
“Out with it, then, Pax; for it’s of no use trying to keep down things that don’t agree with you.”
“Well, then,” said Pax. “I know where George Aspel is!”
Phil, who had somewhat unwillingly withdrawn his mind from Euclid, turned instantly with an eager look towards his little friend.
“Ah, I thought that would rouse you,” said the latter, with a look of unwonted earnestness on his face. “You must know, Phil, that a long while ago—just about the time of the burglary at Miss Stivergill’s cottage—I made the amazin’ discovery that little Tottie Bones is Mariar—alias Merry,—the little baby-cousin I was nuss to in the country long ago, whom I’ve often spoke to you about, and from whom I was torn when she had reached the tender age of two or thereby. It follows, of course, that Tottie’s father—old Bones—is my uncle, alias Blackadder, alias the Brute, of whom I have also made mention, and who, it seems, came to London to try his fortune in knavery after havin’ failed in the country. I saw him once, I believe, at old Blurt’s bird-shop, but did not recognise ’im at the time, owin’ to his hat bein’ pulled well over his eyes, though I rather think he must have recognised me. The second time I saw him was when Tottie came to me for help and set me on his tracks, when he was goin’ to commit the burglary on Rosebud Cottage. I’ve told you all about that, but did not tell you that the burglar was Tottie’s father, as Tottie had made me promise not to mention it to any one. I knew the rascal at once on seeing him in the railway carriage, and could hardly help explodin’ in his face at the fun of the affair. Of course he didn’t know me on account of my bein’ as black in the face as the King of Dahomey.—Well,” continued Pax, warming with his subject, “it also follows, as a matter of course, that Mrs Bones is my blessed old aunt Georgie—now changed into Molly, on account, no doubt, of the Brute’s desire to avoid the attentions of the police. Now, as I’ve a great regard for aunt Georgie, and have lost a good deal of my hatred of the Brute, and find myself fonder than ever of Tottie—I beg her pardon, of Merry—I’ve been rather intimate—indeed, I may say, pretty thick—with the Boneses ever since; and as I am no longer a burden to the Brute—can even help ’im a little—he don’t abominate me as much as he used to. They’re wery poor—awful poor—are the Boneses. The Brute still keeps up a fiction of a market-garden and a dairy—the latter bein’ supplied by a cow and a pump—but it don’t pay, and the business in the city, whatever it may be, seems equally unprofitable, for their town house is not a desirable residence.”
“This is all very interesting and strange, Pax, but what has it to do with George Aspel?” asked Phil. “You know I’m very anxious about him, and have long been hunting after him. Indeed, I wonder that you did not tell me about him before.”
“How could I,” said Pax, “when Tot—I mean Merry—no, I’ll stick to Tottie it comes more natural than the old name—told me not for worlds to mention it. Only now, after pressin’ her and aunt Georgie wery hard, have I bin allowed to let it out, for poor Aspel himself don’t want his whereabouts to be known.”
“Surely!” exclaimed Phil, with a troubled, anxious air, “he has not become a criminal.”
“No. Auntie assures me he has not, but he is sunk very low, drinks hard to drown his sorrow, and is ashamed to be seen. No wonder. You’d scarce know ’im, Phil, workin’ like a coal-heaver, in a suit of dirty fustian, about the wharves—tryin’ to keep out of sight. I’ve come across ’im once or twice, but pretended not to recognise ’im. Now, Phil,” added little Pax, with deep earnestness in his face, as he laid his hand impressively on his friend’s arm, “we must save these two men somehow—you and I.”
“Yes, God helping us, we must,” said Phil.
From that moment Philip Maylands and Peter Pax passed, as it were, into a more earnest sphere of life, a higher stage of manhood. The influence of a powerful motive, a settled purpose, and a great end, told on their characters to such an extent that they both seemed to have passed over the period of hobbledehoyhood at a bound, and become young men.
With the ardour of youth, they set out on their mission at once. That very night they went together to the wretched abode of Abel Bones, having previously, however, opened their hearts and minds to May Maylands, from whom, as they had expected, they received warm encouragement.
Little did these unsophisticated youths know what a torrent of anxiety, grief, fear, and hope their communication sent through the heart of poor May. The eager interest she manifested in their plans they regarded as the natural outcome of a kind heart towards an old friend and playfellow. So it was, but it was more than that!
The same evening George Aspel and Abel Bones were seated alone in their dismal abode in Archangel Court. There were tumblers and a pot of beer before them, but no food. Aspel sat with his elbows on the table, grasping the hair on his temples with both hands. The other sat with arms crossed, and his chin sunk on his chest, gazing gloomily but intently at his companion.
Remorse—that most awful of the ministers of vengeance—had begun to torment Abel Bones. When he saved Tottie from the fire, Aspel had himself unwittingly unlocked the door in the burglar’s soul which let the vengeful minister in. Thereafter Miss Stivergill’s illustration of mercy, for the sake of another, had set the unlocked door ajar, and the discovery that his ill-treated little nephew had nearly lost his life in the same cause, had pulled the door well back on its rusty hinges.
Having thus obtained free entrance, Remorse sat down and did its work with terrible power. Bones was a man of tremendous passions and powerful will. His soul revolted violently from the mean part he had been playing. Although he had not succeeded in drawing Aspel into the vortex of crime as regards human law, he had dragged him very low, and, especially, had fanned the flame of thirst for strong drink, which was the youth’s chief—at least his most dangerous—enemy. His thirst was an inheritance from his forefathers, but the sin of giving way to it—of encouraging it at first when it had no power, and then of gratifying it as it gained strength, until it became a tyrant—was all his own. Aspel knew this, and the thought filled him with despair as he sat there with his now scarred and roughened fingers almost tearing out his hair, while his bloodshot eyes stared stonily at the blank wall opposite.
Bones continued to gaze at his companion, and to wish with all his heart that he had never met him. He had, some time before that, made up his mind to put no more temptation in the youth’s way. He now went a step further—he resolved to attempt the task of getting him out of the scrapes into which he had dragged him. But he soon found that the will which had always been so powerful in the carrying out of evil was woefully weak in the unfamiliar effort to do good!
Still, Bones had made up his mind to try. With this end in view he proposed a walk in the street, the night being fine. Aspel sullenly consented. The better to talk the matter over, Bones proposed to retire to a quiet though not savoury nook by the river-side. Aspel objected, and proposed a public-house instead, as being more cheerful.
Just opposite that public-house there stood one of those grand institutions which are still in their infancy, but which, we are persuaded, will yet take a prominent part in the rescue of thousands of mankind from the curse of strong drink. It was a “public-house without drink”—a coffee-tavern, where working men could find a cheap and wholesome meal, a cheerful, warm, and well-lit room wherein to chat and smoke, and the daily papers, without being obliged to swallow fire-water for the good of the house.
Bones looked at the coffee-house, and thought of suggesting it to his companion. He even willed to do so, but, alas! his will in this matter was as weak as the water which he mingled so sparingly with his grog. Shame, which never troubled him much when about to take a vicious course, suddenly became a giant, and the strong man became weak like a little child. He followed Aspel into the public-house, and the result of this first effort at reformation was that both men returned home drunk.
It seemed a bad beginning, but it was a beginning, and as such was not to be despised.
When Phil and Pax reached Archangel Court, a-glow with hope and good resolves, they found the subjects of their desires helplessly asleep in a corner of the miserable room, with Mrs Bones preparing some warm and wholesome food against the period of their recovery.
It was a crushing blow to their new-born hopes. Poor little Pax had entertained sanguine expectations of the effect of an appeal from Phil, and lost heart completely. Phil was too much cast down by the sight of his friend to be able to say much, but he had a more robust spirit than his little friend, and besides, had strong faith in the power and willingness of God to use even weak and sinful instruments for the accomplishment of His purposes of mercy.
Afterwards, in talking over the subject with his friend Sterling, the city missionary, he spoke hopefully about Aspel, but said that he did not expect any good could be done until they got him out of his miserable position, and away from the society of Bones.
To his great surprise the missionary did not agree with him in this.
“Of course,” he said, “it is desirable that Mr Aspel should be restored to his right position in society, and be removed from the bad influence of Bones, and we must use all legitimate means for those ends; but we must not fall into the mistake of supposing that ‘no good can be done’ by the Almighty to His sinful creatures even in the worst of circumstances. No relatives or friends solicited the Prodigal Son to leave the swine-troughs, or dragged him away. It was God who put it into his heart to say ‘I will arise and go to my father.’ It was God who gave him ‘power to will and to do.’”
“Would you then advise that we should do nothing for him, and leave him entirely in the hands of God?” asked Phil, with an uncomfortable feeling of surprise.
“By no means,” replied the missionary. “I only combat your idea that no good can be done to him if he is left in his present circumstances. But we are bound to use every influence we can bring to bear in his behalf, and we must pray that success may be granted to our efforts to bring him to the Saviour. Means must be used as if means could accomplish all, but means must not be depended on, for ‘it is God who giveth us the victory.’ The most appropriate and powerful means applied in the wisest manner to your friend would be utterly ineffective unless the Holy Spirit gave him a receptive heart. This is one of the most difficult lessons that you and I and all men have to learn, Phil—that God must be all in all, and man nothing whatever but a willing instrument. Even that mysterious willingness is not of ourselves, for ‘it is God who maketh us both to will and to do of His good pleasure.’ ‘Without me,’ says Jesus, ‘ye can do nothing.’ A rejecter of Jesus, therefore, is helpless for good, yet responsible.”
“That is hard to understand,” said Phil, with a perplexed look.
“The reverse of it is harder to understand, as you will find if you choose to take the trouble to think it out,” replied the missionary.
Phil Maylands did take the trouble to think it out. One prominent trait in his character was an intense reverence for truth—any truth, every truth—a strong tendency to distinguish between truth and error in all things that chanced to come under his observation, but especially in those things which his mother had taught him, from earliest infancy, to regard as the most important of all.
Many a passer-by did Phil jostle on his way to the Post-Office that day, after his visit to the missionary, for it was the first time that his mind had been turned, earnestly at least, to the subject of God’s sovereignty and man’s responsibility.
“Too deep by far for boys,” we hear some reader mutter. And yet that same reader, perchance, teaches her little ones to consider the great fact that God is One in Three!
No truth is too deep for boys and girls to consider, if they only approach it in a teachable, reverent spirit, and are brought to it by their teacher in a prayerful spirit. But fear not, reader. We do not mean to inflict on you a dissertation on the mysterious subject referred to. We merely state the fact that Phil Maylands met it at this period of his career, and, instead of shelving it—as perhaps too many do—as a too difficult subject, which might lie over to a more convenient season, tackled it with all the energy of his nature. He went first to his closet and his knees, and then to his Bible.
“To the law and to the testimony” used to be Mrs Maylands’ watchword in all her battles with Doubt. “To whom shall we go,” she was wont to say, “if we go not to the Word of God?”
Phil therefore searched the Scripture. Not being a Greek scholar, he sought help of those who were learned—both personally and through books. Thus he got at correct renderings, and by means of dictionaries ascertained the exact meanings of words. By study he got at what some have styled the general spirit of Scripture, and by reading both sides of controverted points he ascertained the thoughts of various minds. In this way he at length became “fully persuaded in his own mind” that God’s sovereignty and man’s responsibility are facts taught in Scripture, and affirmed by human experience, and that they form a great unsolvable mystery—unsolvable at least by man in his present condition of existence.
This not only relieved his mind greatly, by convincing him that, the subject being bottomless, it was useless to try to get to the bottom of it, and wise to accept it “as a little child,” but it led him also to consider that in the Bible there are two kinds of mysteries, or deep things—the one kind being solvable, the other unsolvable. He set himself, therefore, diligently to discover and separate the one kind from the other, with keen interest.
But this is by the way. Phil’s greatest anxiety and care at that time was the salvation of his old friend and former idol, George Aspel.
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |