ARTHUR GLYN

AND OTHER STORIES

BY

RUTH LAMB

AUTHOR OF "DEAR MISS MEG," "A WILFUL WARD," "HER OWN CHOICE," "ONLY A GIRL WIFE," ETC.

LONDON

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

4 BOUVERIE STREET, AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD

CONTENTS.

ARTHUR GLYN'S CHRISTMAS-BOX

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

SIX MILESTONES: A CHRISTMAS MEMORY

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

FINISHED AT CHRISTMAS.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

A CUCKOO IN THE NEST.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

HER MAJESTY'S MAIL-BAGS

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

ONLY A SERVANT

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

ARTHUR DREAMING.

ARTHUR GLYN'S CHRISTMAS-BOX.

CHAPTER I.

NOT a bit like Christmas.

Everybody said so to everybody else, and surely, what all agree about must be strictly true. The farmers' wives said it to each other, as they jogged to market with well-filled baskets, containing all sorts of home-fed Christmas cheer. The butcher said it to each customer in turn, as he lightly passed his keen-edged knife outside the yellow rind of his prime Christmas beef, to suggest where the actual incision should be made and the "cut" severed from the rest.

The grocer said it, as he handed over the parcels, so much larger than usual, because of the ingredients required for mince pies, spice bread, and plum pudding. The postman said it, as the wet dripped off his waterproof cape, and he handed letters with moist envelopes to outstretched hands, the owners of which kept well under cover, instead of presenting a smiling face and offering a pleasant greeting to Her Majesty's messenger.

Boys and girls in plenty, home from school and boiling over with long-suppressed energy, sat gloomily surveying the prospect, and feeling themselves defrauded. They understood Christmas to mean fun and frolic, notably such as a good, sharp frost brings with it. A Christmas with such weather seemed to have no real ring about it. Where was the good of getting stout nails inserted to roughen boot soles for sliding, of furbishing old or purchasing new skates, if the thin coat of ice on the pond had all disappeared, with no signs of renewal?

There had been a few flakes of feathery snow two days ago, but these had changed for sleet, and this for drizzle. The disgusted lads flung aside their skates; the girls, far better off under the circumstances, applied themselves to exclusively feminine occupations and secret preparations for the Christmas-tree.

One boy said, gloomily, that he had spent his time in watching the changes out of doors, and stated, for the benefit of his compeers, that these consisted of two varieties only, "squash and splash," —otherwise, as he condescended to explain, of constant drizzle, with a ground accompaniment of thick mud; and steady downpour, with an equally liberal supply of thin ditto.

The very horses, as they plodded wearily homeward through country lanes, dragging the wheels along deep ruts temporarily filled with mire, would have joined the human chorus if they could, and declared that such weather was "not a bit like Christmas."

Perhaps, if there was one individual who felt this more deeply than his neighbours, yet without saying it, the Rev. Arthur Worsley Glyn, curate of Little Cray, was the person. He did not say this, for two reasons; firstly, because he was alone, and pacing in somewhat melancholy fashion up and down his study; secondly—though this was really the stronger reason of the two—because he was not a man given to grumbling, either aloud or in his secret heart, about what could not be cured. I will leave him here whilst I tell his story as briefly as I can.

The Rev. Arthur, in his thirty years of life, had experienced some pretty rough travelling. His path thus far had been none of the smoothest, and the real hardship lay, not in the fact that difficulties had to be overcome, but in the knowledge that needless impediments had been placed in his way by the very hand which should rather have removed them.

It sometimes happens that the evil example of a parent is so overruled for good that the son shrinks with horror from the sin which has brought about domestic shipwreck; that having no earthly father to look up to, no paternal arm to lean upon or hand to guide, children seek more earnestly, and with a greater sense of need, the love of the Heavenly Father, the support of the everlasting arms. It had been so with Arthur Glyn, and from his very boyhood his mother and two young sisters had looked to him as the staff and comfort of their home, rather than to its nominal head.

Those who knew Worsley Glyn the elder marvelled that he could have a son like Arthur. They saw the man fritter away a fortune by all sorts of reckless expenditure, waste golden opportunities for want of exercising his undoubted talents, and lose a position which might have proved the stepping-stone to another fortune, from sheer indolence and self-indulgence.

Thus Worsley Glyn lost his self-respect, and went rapidly on the downward course, despite the efforts of loving hands which strove to stay him as he descended the social scale. The wife might cling to the arm on which in bygone days she was so proud to lean. Her feeble grasp was easily shaken off; her voice, half-choked with sobs, which implored him to stay in his home, was drowned by the invitations of boon companions. Mother and children had to struggle as best they might, lest they too should be dragged down by the reckless hand which ought to have upheld them and shielded them from every shock.

Himself a highly educated man, Worsley Glyn had resolved that Arthur, his first-born, should have every advantage that money could procure for him. The work of teaching and training was well begun; but whilst the boy's education was in progress, so great a change took place in the circumstances of the family that it could no longer be carried on in the same expensive manner.

"Never mind," said Arthur. "The Grammar School is open to me. I have no fear of failing to win a free scholarship there. With brains, health, and the determination to turn them to account, I shall do well enough at very little cost, so far as money goes."

So the earnest young student soon took his place at the Grammar School, and went onward and upward, until he went thence to Cambridge, the winner of two scholarships, which rendered him almost independent of help from his father.

Had Arthur needed assistance, it would not have been long forthcoming. Hard work and rigid economy, however, placed him beyond such need, and, when the young man's name stood high on the list of Wranglers, and a Fellowship followed, he began to think that now he might look joyfully forward and hope for a bright future. But with the thankful, congratulatory letters from home came also sad tidings of his father.

Money was gone, character forfeited; friends were becoming weary of helping, seeing that no opportunity was seized and utilized; no amount of pecuniary aid produced any permanent benefit, either to Worsley Glyn or his family. They pitied the gently nurtured lady whose fate was bound up with that of the reckless spendthrift. But people said, as it is quite natural they should say, that a wife cannot be separated from her husband; that if she could be aided without the benefit being shared by the worthless partner, helping hands should be outstretched in all directions.

This, however, could not be, so one friend fell off after another, and Mrs. Glyn was driven to tell her troubles to her son.

"You have always been my true comforter, Arthur," she wrote, "and often of late, I have been tempted to let you know how things have gone from bad to worse. But when your hopeful letters came, and I felt how necessary it was for my dear boy's mind to be clear from harassing thoughts, in order to ensure success after all these years of mental labour, I refrained from seeking relief for my own overburdened heart by telling what must grieve and trouble you. Now that your success is an accomplished fact, and your position a more assured one, you can better bear the tidings which I can no longer withhold. There is only One who knows what a trial it is to me to damp your well-earned triumph by bad news from home."

The tale which these words prefaced was sad enough. The father, Worsley Glyn, was doing nothing, and of income there was literally none. Those who had given him opportunities of retrieving his position, more for his family's sake than for his own, would trust him no longer. All available resources had been tried, and were exhausted. Of house debts there were few as yet; at Mr. Glyn's personal liabilities, his wife was afraid to hazard a guess. For herself, she said, she would rather starve than incur debts which she had no means to discharge.

Arthur knew that his mother had strained every nerve to give a thorough education to his young sisters, Hilda and Gertrude. Under her careful training they had grown-up into a lovely girlhood, tender, true, modest, refined, and well-informed, but in the way of accomplishments she could do little more. The services of good masters were needed in order to fit the girls for earning their bread as teachers, and such were too costly to be thought of for a moment.

Then there was another cause for anxiety. The life insurance which Mr. Glyn had been induced to effect in better days would fall through unless the premium were immediately paid. This was the more important as his health was beginning to fail, and the sum insured was the only semblance of a provision for mother and girls, as well as to meet Mr. Glyn's debts.

No wonder if the joyous light faded from Arthur's eyes, and the flush of gladness from his cheek, as he read his mother's letter. The long-hoped for, well-earned holiday must be given up. The sum hoarded and husbanded at the cost of much self-denial, in order to purchase change of scene and a brief rest to fit him the better for renewed labour, must be otherwise devoted.

It would pay the all-important insurance premium, and leave a very narrow margin for immediate necessities, and that was all.

Arthur Glyn was a brave young fellow. Not with the courage that makes a country ring with applause, because of some daring deed, entered upon, perhaps, in obedience to a momentary impulse, and with little thought of consequences. Yet many a hero in public life has proved himself a coward when called upon to exercise self-denial, or to battle with the petty cares and anxieties of daily life.

Ay, and many a simple-minded, true-hearted girl, who has taken a too heavy load on her young shoulders, and borne it, day after day, with head erect and smiling face, to save a still weaker back from being bowed, and a troubled mind from over-much sorrow, has shown a courage far beyond what is needed for a single act of valour, performed with the world looking on, and waiting to applaud its hero!

Arthur Glyn was an every-day hero, fighting his way by hairs' breadths, counting the cost of every step, and not shrinking from paying it to the full. Not that he came off conqueror in his own strength. What true hero ever did? Had he trusted to himself alone, he must have been worsted long before. But humbly seeking guidance and courage from above, the power was given him to work, to withstand, and to stand.

Here had come to him the tidings of fresh trouble, of a new burden to be borne. He asked himself, "Am I the person who should meet the one and bear the other?" He thought of the dear mother, grown grey and looking old before her time; of the girls, so young, fair, and, as yet, so dependent.

The matter did not require much consideration, and having once decided, Arthur Glyn was not the man to put off doing what conscience and duty declared to be right. So the premium was paid, and in the letter containing the money went a cheering message to Arthur's mother, and a promise that the greater portion of the income assured to him by the Fellowship should be dedicated to her use. As a tutor, he could earn enough in addition to supply his own wants, and he hoped to do yet more for those at home.

It is not to be supposed that the sacrifice cost Arthur no pang. He wanted the holiday as medicine for mind and body. He felt that he had earned it, and he knew that by but small efforts on the part of his father these greater struggles might have been spared, not to himself alone, but to those at home who were less fitted to endure hardship.

There were, however, two things for which Arthur Glyn was always remarkable: first, having made up his mind that a certain course was right, he took it, and at once; secondly, no human being ever heard him regret that he had done so, murmur at the cost to himself, or fret about what was inevitable.

Yet the sacrifice meant much. It was the darling wish of his heart to enter the ministry, and become a labourer in his Master's vineyard as early as possible. These home calls would compel him to use his talents first and foremost as a means of earning money, even bread for those at home.

"Ah, well!" thought he. "My Master has permitted the trouble to come, so it must be for good. There is work round and about the vineyard, if I cannot yet be admitted as a regular labourer. I can fight on my Captain's side, and 'endure hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ,' before I put on the uniform which is supposed to manifest me as such to the world at large."

Seven years have passed since Arthur Worsley Glyn made the mental resolve above recorded, and it has been bravely kept. He has worked hard and uncomplainingly, has cheered his mother, assisted to complete the education of his sisters, has stood by the death-bed of his father, penitent enough, but, alas! Repentance came too late to make any amends for all the trouble he had brought upon his family.

And, in order that no needless dishonour should be attached to his memory, the son had taken upon himself a weight of debt far exceeding the worst anticipations of those he left behind. Even with the insurance money to assist, Arthur was still heavily burdened. But though he might sometimes almost stagger under his load, he never swerved from the path which he had decided to be his path of duty.

He had been ordained about eighteen months. His beloved mother had been spared to see this, and to know that her girls would now be able to maintain themselves by their own exertions. She had only one anxiety, and whilst she grieved at the thought that Arthur had been obliged to deny himself so much, and for so long a time, she yet pleaded for the completion of the task he had taken upon himself.

"It has been uphill work for you, Arthur," she said. "But you have been the best of sons and brothers, and your life and words were made a blessing to your father in his last days. It seems almost wrong to ask you to persevere until all—"

"Hush, dear mother," said Arthur, tenderly; "do not add a word. I made a promise, and by God's help I will fulfil it. I will work until my father's debts are paid to the last farthing."

"Arthur, in God's Word there is a portrait drawn for us of the mother whose 'children shall rise up and call her blessed.' Surely it is no less joyous a picture when the mother can herself rise up, and say the same of her children. I thank God for His precious gifts in mine. Truly I can say of my son and daughters, they have been to me 'an heritage from the Lord.'"

"Mother, dear, if we children deserve such a name, it is to you we owe it—next to God. From our infancy you knelt with us at His footstool, and taught us that in Him alone could we find our Father, Saviour, and Sanctifier. You constantly pointed us to God's works as proofs of His almighty power, wisdom, glory, and greatness. In all things you strove to show us the wondrous love of our God, but most of all as manifested in the gift of His dear Son, to be our perfect Pattern in life, our all-sufficient Saviour by His death on the cross."

"You taught us not only to read the Bible, but to love it, and to go to its pages for guidance, for comfort, for a supply of every spiritual need, and to ask for the light of the Holy Spirit, that we might be made 'wise unto salvation.'"

"What is my greatest joy now? Is it not that in proclaiming the love of God in Christ Jesus, I proclaim what I believe and know by blessed experience?"

Arthur's face was fairly glowing with happiness as he spoke, and his mother's reflected the holy joy which stirred both hearts.

"I thank God that it is so, Arthur," said Mrs. Glyn. "My chief prayer for my children has ever been that those so dear to me should be dear to Him, for Christ's sake. May you be abundantly blessed in your ministry! But you will be. You have 'Christ in you, the hope of glory.' With Him you will surely have all things needful for soul and body."

The mother's words and the mother's blessing lingered in the memory of Arthur Glyn, and cheered him onward. But though Hilda and Gertrude were both in remunerative situations, and seven years of hard work had passed over Arthur's head, his task was not yet finished. His health had so far broken down, that a total change of scene and occupation became absolutely necessary.

He was compelled to give up teaching. His income would be very small during the coming year, for the Fellowship would be his but for three months longer, and he was now only curate of Little Cray, with a salary of a hundred and thirty pounds a year and a house. Further, after all the hard work and the self-denial of seven past years, more than three hundred pounds of debt still remained unpaid.

To the man of thirty, depending on his stipend as curate, it seemed as if his task were just beginning. At three-and-twenty, flushed with scholarly victories, with an assured income and unimpaired health, the greater work had been boldly undertaken. Now it was different. The sum still owing was but a remnant of the really important whole, yet it weighed the man down. Not that the load itself was so heavy comparatively, but the back was less strong, the spirits were less buoyant, and the health was somewhat impaired by severe mental labour. Not seriously. Arthur's constitution was sound; he only wanted rest to make him more vigorous than ever.

Still, after all that had been done and was yet to be accomplished, it can hardly be wondered at, if the curate's heart sank within him as he paced up and down his room, asking himself the question, "Shall I be able to fulfil my promise to my dead father, repeated to the dear mother on the last day of her life? Or shall I, after having accomplished so much, sink under the remainder?"

The thought had hardly shaped itself into a question when Arthur reproached himself for it. "Hitherto hath the Lord helped me," he thought. "I have trusted thus far; I will trust Him still."

CHAPTER II.

LITTLE CRAY is one of the quaintest and quietest of English villages, but is only three miles from a large market town. It is made up, with two exceptions, of farmhouses and labourers' cottages. The latter, somewhat rude in construction, with thatched roofs and whitewashed walls, are picturesque to look upon, and exquisitely clean; a little bare-looking in winter, but in summer every cottage garden teems with old-fashioned flowers. Roses, honeysuckle, white-starred jasmine, canary and Virginia creepers, and the humbler nasturtium vie in throwing veils across the little porches, or spreading along the gables, or clambering over the thatch itself. And from amongst the trees that have stood for centuries the massive square tower of Little Cray Church can be seen for many a mile.