Frank Oldfield Part 39

She were always a-sighing o'er the wickedness of the neighbours, and wis.h.i.+ng she knew where she could find a young woman as'd suit her son for a wife. I didn't like her looks always, and I thought as there were a smell of spirits sometimes, as didn't suit me at all. But she were ever clean and tidy, and I never see'd any drink in the house. There were always the Bible or some other good book at hand, and I couldn't prove as all were not right. Howsever, her Jim took a fancy to our Rachel, and she to him. So they kept company, and were married: and the widow came to live with us, for Rachel wouldn't hear of leaving me. Jim were a good young man, honest and true, and a gradely Christian. But now our Rachel began to suspect as summat was wrong. I were often away with my cart for three or four days together; and when I were at home I didn't take so much notice of things, except it always seemed to me as widow Canter's religion tasted more of vinegar nor sugar--there were plenty of fault-finding and very little love. Says I to Rachel one day, when we was by ourselves, 'Thy mother-in-law's religion has more of the "drive" nor the "draw" in't.' The poor thing sighed. I saw there were summat wrong; but I didn't find it out then."

"Ah," interrupted Jacob, "it were the drink, of course. That's at the bottom of almost all the crime and wickedness."

"You're right, my lad," continued the other, with a deep sigh. "Ruth Canters drank, but it were very slily--so slily that her own son Jim wouldn't believe it at first; but he were obliged to at last. Oh, what a cheating thing is the drink! She were never so pious in her talk as when she'd been having a little too much; and nothing would convince her but that she were safe for heaven. But I mustn't go grinding on, or I shall grind all your patience away. Rachel had a little babe--a bonny little wench. Oh, how she loved it--how we both loved it! Poor Rachel!"

The old man paused to wipe away his tears.

"Well, it were about six months old, when Rachel had to go off for some hours to see an aunt as were sick. She wouldn't take the babe with her, 'cos there were a fever in the court where her aunt lived, and she were feart on it for the child. Old Ruth promised to mind the babe gradely; and our Rachel got back as quick as she could, but it were later nor she intended. Jim were not coming home till late, and I were off myself for a day or two. When our Rachel came to the house door, she tried to open it, but couldn't; it were fast somehow. She knocked, but no one answered. Again she tried the door; it were not locked, but summat heavy lay agen it. She pushed hard, and got it a bit open. She just saw summat as looked like a woman's dress. Then she shrieked out, and fell down in a faint. The neighbours came running up. They went in by the wash-house door, and found Ruth Canters lying dead agen the house door inside, and the baby smothered under her. Both on 'em were stone dead. She'd taken advantage of our Rachel being off to drink more nor usual, and she'd missed her footing with the baby in her arms, and fallen down the stairs right across the house door. Our Rachel never looked up arter that; she died of a broken heart. And Jim couldn't bear to tarry in the neighbourhood; nor I neither. Ah, the misery, the misery as springs from the cursed drink! Thank the Lord, Jacob, over and over again a thousand times, as he's given you grace to be a total abstainer."

There was a long pause, during which the old man wept silent but not bitter tears.

"Them as is gone is safe in glory," he said at last; "our Rachel and her babe, I mean; and I've done fretting now. I shall go to them; but they will not return to me. And now, Jacob, my lad, what do ye say to learning my trade, and taking shares with me? I shan't be good for much again this many a day, and I've taken a fancy to you. You've done me a good turn, and I know you're gradely. I'm not a queer chap, though I looks like one. My clothes is only a whim of mine. They've been in the family so long, that I cannot part with 'em. They'll serve out _my_ time, though we've patched and patched the old coat till there's scarce a yard of the old stuff left in him, and he looks for all the world like a _map_ of England, with the different counties marked on it."

"Well, Mayster Crow," began Jacob in reply; but the other stopped him by putting up his hand.

"Eh, lad, you mustn't call me _Mayster_ Crow; leastwise, if you do afore other folks, they'll scream all the wits out of you with laughing. I'm 'Old Crow' now, and nothing else. My real name's Jenkins; but if you or any one else were to ask for Isaac Jenkins, there's not a soul in these parts as'd know as such a man ever lived. No; they call me 'Old Crow.'

Maybe 'cos I look summat like a scarecrow. But I cannot rightly tell.

It's my name, howsever, and you must call me nothing else."

"Well, then, Old Crow," said Jacob, "I cannot tell just what I'm going to do. You see I've no friends, and yet I should have some if I could only find 'em."

"Have you neither fayther nor mother living then?" asked the old man.

"I cannot say. My mother's dead. As for the rest--well, it's just this way, Old Crow, I'm a close sort o' chap, and always were. I left home a fugitive and a vagabond, and I resolved as I'd ne'er come back till I could come as my own mayster, and that I'd ne'er tell anything about my own home and them as belonged me, till I could settle where I pleased in a home of my own. But I learnt at the diggings as it were not right to run off as I did, for the Lord sent us a faithful preacher, and he showed me my duty; and I came back with my mind made up to tell them as owned me how G.o.d had dealt with me and changed my heart. But I couldn't find nor hear anything about 'em at the old place. They'd flitted, and n.o.body could tell me where. So I'd rayther say no more about 'em till I've tried a bit longer to find 'em out. And if I cannot light on 'em arter all, why then, I'll start again, as if the past had never been, for it were but a dark and dismal past to me."

Old Crow did not press Jacob with further questions, as he was evidently not disposed to be communicative on the subject of his early history, but he said,--

"Well, and suppose you take to the grinding; you can drive the cart afore ye, from town to town, and from village to village, as I've done myself scores and scores of times, and maybe you'll light on them as you're seeking. It's strange how many an old face, as I'd never thought to see no more, has turned up as I've jogged along from one place to another."

"Ah," exclaimed Jacob, "I think as that'd just suit me! I never thought of that. I'll take your offer then, Old Crow, and many thanks to ye, and I hope you'll not find me a bad partner."

So it was arranged as the old man suggested, and Jacob forthwith began to learn his new trade.

It was some weeks before he had become at all proficient in the knife- grinding and umbrella-mending arts; and many a sly laugh and joke on the part of Deborah made him at times half-inclined to give up the work; but there was a determination and dogged resolution about his character which did not let him lightly abandon anything he had once undertaken.

So he persevered, much to Old Crow's satisfaction, for he soon began to love Jacob as a son, and the other was drawn to the old man as to a father. After a while Jacob's education in his new art was p.r.o.nounced complete, not only by the old knife-grinder himself but even by Deborah, critical Deborah, who declared that his progress was astonis.h.i.+ng.

"Why," she said, addressing Old Crow, "when he first took to it, nothing would serve him but he must have mother's old scissors to point; and he grund and grund till the two points turned their backs t'one on t'other, and looked different ways, as if they was weary of keeping company any longer. And when he sharped yon old carving-knife of grandfather's, you couldn't tell arter he'd done which side were the back and which side were the edge. But he's a rare good hand at it now."

And, to tell the truth, Deborah greatly prized a new pair of scissors, a present from Jacob, with the keenest of edges, the result of his first thoroughly successful grinding; indeed, it was pretty clear that the young knife-grinder was by no means an object of indifference to her.

The public proclaiming of his vocation in the open streets was the most trying thing to Jacob. The very prospect of it almost made him give up.

Deborah was very merry at his expense, and told him, that "if he were ashamed, she wouldn't mind walking in front of the cart, the first day, and doing all the shouting for him." This difficulty, however, was got over by the old man himself going with Jacob on his first few journeys, and introducing him to his customers; after which he was able to take to his new calling without much trouble. But it was quite plain that Old Crow himself was too much injured by his fall to be able to resume the knife-grinding for many months to come, even if indeed, he were ever able to take to it again. But this did not distress him, for he had learned to trace G.o.d's hand, as the hand of a loving Father, in everything. Though old and grey-headed, he was hearty and cheerful, for his old age was like a healthy winter, "kindly, though frosty;" for "he never did apply hot and rebellious liquors to his blood." Spite of his accident, these were happy days for him, for he had found in Jacob Poole one thoroughly like-minded. Oh, the blessings of a home, however humble, where Christ is loved, and the drink finds no entrance; for in such a home there are seen no forced spirits, no unnatural excitements!

It was a touching sight when the quaint old man, having finished his tea, would bring his rocking-chair nearer to the fire, and bidding Jacob draw up closer on the other side, would tell of G.o.d's goodness to him in times past, and of his hopes of a better and brighter home on the other side of the dark river. Deborah would often make a third, and her mother would join them too at times, and then Jacob would tell of the wonders of the deep, and of the distant colony where he had sojourned.

Then the old man would lay aside the tall cap which he wore even in the house, displaying his scattered white hairs, and would open his big Bible with a smile,--

"I always smile when I open the Bible," he said one day to Jacob, "'cos it's like a loving letter from a far-off land. I'm not afraid of looking into't; for, though I light on some awful verses every now and then, I know as they're not for me. I'm not boasting. It's all of grace; but still it's true 'there is therefore now no condemnation to them that are in Christ Jesus,' and I know that through his mercy I am gradely in him."

Then they would sing a hymn, for all had the Lancas.h.i.+re gift of good ear and voice, after which the old man would sink on his knees and pour out his heart in prayer. Yes, that cottage was indeed a happy home, often the very threshold of heaven; and many a time the half-drunken collier, as he sauntered by, would change the sneer that curled his lip at those strains of heartfelt praise, into the tear that melted out of a smitten and sorrowful heart, a heart that knew something of its own bitterness, for it smote him as he thought of a G.o.d despised, a soul peris.h.i.+ng, a Bible neglected, a Saviour trampled on, and an earthly home out of which the drink had flooded every real comfort, and from which he could have no well-grounded hope of a pa.s.sage to a better.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

FOUND.

Four years had pa.s.sed away since Jacob Poole raised the old knife- grinder from his fall in the street in Bolton. All that time he had made his abode with the old man, traversing the streets of many a town and village far and near, and ever returning with gladness to his new home. His aged friend had never so far recovered from his accident as to be able to resume his work. He would occasionally go out with Jacob, and help him in some odd jobs, but never again took to wheeling out the machine himself. He was brighter, however, than in even more prosperous days, and had come to look upon Jacob as his adopted son. It was understood, also, that Deborah would ere long become the wife of the young knife-grinder. There was one employment in which the old man delighted, and that was the advocating and forwarding, in every way in his power, the cause of Christian total abstinence. For this purpose he would carry suitable tracts with him wherever he went, and would often pause in fine weather, when he accompanied Jacob Poole on his less distant expeditions; and, sitting on a step or bank, as the case might be, while the wheel was going round, would gather about him old and young, and give them a true temperance harangue. Sometimes he met with scoffs and hard words, but he cared little for them; he had his answer ready, or, like his Master, when reviled he opened not his mouth. Some one called him "a canting old hypocrite."

"Nay, friend," he replied, "you're mistaken there. I'm not a hypocrite.

A hypocrite's a man with two faces. Now, you can't say you have ever seen me with two faces. I've seen many a drunkard with two faces--t'one as makes the wife and childer glad, and t'other as makes their hearts ache and jump into their mouths with fear. But you've ne'er seen that in a gradely abstainer."

"You're a self-righteous old sinner," said another.

"I'm a sinner, I know," was Old Crow's reply; "but I'm not self- righteous, I hope. I don't despise a poor drunkard; but I cannot respect him. I want to pull him out of the mire, and place him where he can respect hisself."

But generally he had ready and attentive listeners, and was the means of winning many to the good way; for all who really knew him respected him for his consistency. And Jacob was happy with him, and yet to him there was one thing still wanting. He had never in all his wanderings been able to discover the least trace of those whom he was seeking, and the desire to learn something certain about them increased day by day. At last, one fine July evening, he said to his old companion,--

"Ould Crow, I can't be content as I am. I must try my luck further off.

If you've nothing to say against it, I'll just take the cart with me for a month or six weeks, and see if the Lord'll give me success. I'll go right away into Shrops.h.i.+re, and try round there; and through Staffords.h.i.+re and Derbys.h.i.+re."

"Well, my son," was the reply, "you'll just do what you know to be right. I won't say a word against it."

"And if," added Jacob, "I can't find them as I'm seeking, nor hear anything gradely about 'em, I'll just come back and settle me down content."

"The Lord go with you," said the old man; "you'll not forget me nor poor Deborah."

"I cannot," replied Jacob; "my heart'll be with you all the time."

"And how shall we know how you're coming on?"

"Oh, I'll send you a letter if I ain't back by the six week end."

So the next morning Jacob started on his distant journey. Many were the roads he traversed, and many the towns and villages he visited, as he slowly made his way through Ches.h.i.+re into Shrops.h.i.+re; and many were the disappointments he met with, when he thought he had obtained some clue to guide him in his search.

Three weeks had gone by, when one lovely evening in the early part of August he was pus.h.i.+ng the cart before him, wearied with his day's work and journey, along the high-road leading to a small village in Shrops.h.i.+re. The turnpike-road itself ran through the middle of the village. On a dingy board on the side of the first house as he entered, he read the word "Fairmow."

"Knives to grind!--scissors to grind!--umbrels to mend!" he cried wearily and mechanically; but no one seemed to need his services. Soon he pa.s.sed by the public-house--there was clearly no lack of custom there, and yet the sounds that proceeded from it were certainly not those of drunken mirth. He looked up at the sign. No ferocious lion red or black, urged into a rearing posture by unnatural stimulants, was there; nor griffin or dragon, white or green, symbolising the savage tempers kindled by intoxicating drinks; but merely the simple words, "Temperance Inn." Not a letter was there any where about the place to intimate the sale of wine, beer, or spirits.

Waggons were there, for it was harvest-time, and men young and old were gathered about the door, some quenching their thirst by moderate draughts of beverages which slaked without rekindling it; others taking in solid food with a hearty relish. A pleasant sight it was to Jacob; but he would not pause now, as he wished to push on to the next town before night. So he urged his cart before him along the level road, till he came to a turn on the left hand off the main street. Here a lovely little peep burst upon him. Just a few hundred yards down the turn was a cottage, with a neat green paling before it. The roof was newly thatched, and up the sides grew the rose and jessamine, which mingled their flowers in profusion as they cl.u.s.tered over a snug little latticed porch. The cottage itself was in the old-fas.h.i.+oned black- timbered style, with one larger and one smaller pointed gable. There was a lovely little garden in front, the very picture of neatness, and filled with those homely flowers whose forms, colours, and odours are so sweet because so familiar. Beyond the cottage there were no other houses; but the road sloped down to a brook, crossed by a little rustic bridge on the side of the hedge furthest from the cottage. Beyond the brook the road rose again, and wound among thick hedges and tall stately trees; while to the left was an extensive park, gradually rising till, at the distance of little more than a mile, a n.o.ble mansion of white stone shone out brightly from its setting of dark green woods, over which was just visible the waving outline of a dim, shadowy hill. Jacob looked up the road, and gazed on the lovely picture with deep admiration. He could see the deer in the park, and the glorious sunlight just flas.h.i.+ng out in a blaze of gold from the windows of the mansion. He sighed as he gazed, though not in discontent; but he was foot-sore and heart-weary, and he longed for rest. He thought he would just take his cart as far as the cottage, more from a desire of having a closer view of it than from much expectation of finding a customer. As he went along he uttered the old cry,--

"Knives to grind--scissors to grind."

The words attracted the notice of a young man, who came out of the cottage carrying a little child in his arms.

"I'll thank you to grind a point to this knife," he said, "and to put a fresh rivet in, if you can; for our Samuel's took it out of his mother's drawer when she was out, and he's done it no good, as you may see."

Jacob put out his hand for the knife, but started back when he saw it as if it had been a serpent. Then he seized it eagerly, and looked with staring eyes at the handle. There were scratched rudely on it the letters SJ.

"Where, where did you get this?" he cried, turning first deadly pale, and then very red again. The young man looked at him in amazement.

"Who, who are you?" stammered Jacob again.