AS MANY AS TOUCHED HIM

BY

EGLANTON THORNE

Author of "It's All Real True," "The Old Worcester Jug," "The Two Crowns," etc.

London

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

56, PATERNOSTER ROW, AND 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. LOOKING FOR A LETTER

II. JERRY'S TRIAL

III. THE GREAT PHYSICIAN

IV. LEAVING HOME

V. IN THE WORK-ROOM

VI. SUFFERING FOR CONSCIENCE SAKE

VII. DREARY DAYS

VIII. A LONELY SUFFERER

IX. AN ALARMING INCIDENT

X. A CONVERSATION

XI. IN THE HOSPITAL

XII. SORROWFUL TIDINGS

XIII. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

XIV. JERRY'S FAITH HAS ITS REWARD

XV. TEN YEARS LATER

AS MANY AS TOUCHED HIM

CHAPTER I.

LOOKING FOR A LETTER.

"OH dear! I do wish the postman would make haste and come," said Ellen Mansfield to herself, as she stood at the farmyard gate, looking eagerly up the narrow lane into which it opened.

It was a bright July morning, and the sun was pouring its warm rays on her fair hair and rosy cheeks, as she waited bareheaded in the open air, having no fear of the effects of such exposure to its influence. She was so absorbed in her watch for the country letter-carrier, who was never very punctual to his time, as to give heed to naught besides. Wolf, the old sheep-dog, crept close to her side, and put his nose into her hand, but his mute expression of affection met with no response. The chickens gathered round her, and chirped in vain, with the hope of attracting her attention, and being rewarded with some bread-crumbs or grains of corn, such as she often bestowed on them.

Ellen's thoughts were all of the letter which she hoped would arrive that morning. But presently, she was roused by the sound of her mother's voice calling to her from within the house—

"Ellen, Ellen, where are you? I want you directly!"

Ellen looked annoyed, and her lip pouted.

"How tiresome!" she muttered to herself.

And instead of hastening to obey the summons, she went a few steps down the lane, so that the thick hedge might hide her from her mother's view, in case she came to the door to look for her.

Ellen was a tall, well-grown girl, about sixteen years of age, with a bright, intelligent face, having the fresh complexion and clear blue eyes which only country girls can boast. She was strong and active, and her mother naturally expected much help from this daughter, the eldest child of a family of ten. But Ellen hated house-work, and thought it a hardship that she should be expected to undertake such tasks, and was always glad when, as now, she managed to elude her mother's vigilance and enjoy some minutes of idleness.

The minutes were many this morning, for the postman did not come any the quicker because she was waiting for him. And her conscience told her more than once that she ought to return to the house, yet still she lingered. At last, she caught sight of the old man coming slowly down the lane, sorting some letters in his hand as he came.

"Oh dear! Why can't he walk a little faster?" thought Ellen, impatiently. "He moves like a snail. I am sure one of those letters must be from Aunt Matilda."

There was a house on the other side of the lane for which the postman was bound before he came to Ellen's home. Ellen watched him go in at the gate, and waited anxiously for his reappearance. But when he came out again, there were no letters in his hand.

"He must have one for us," said Ellen to herself; and she hurried forward to meet him.

"No letter for you this morning," he said, in reply to her questioning glance.

"No letter?" repeated Ellen, in dismay. "Are you quite sure? Have you not made a mistake?"

"No, indeed; I don't make mistakes so easily," he replied, smiling at the notion. "Bring you one to-morrow, perhaps."

So saying, he passed on his way, leaving Ellen overwhelmed with disappointment. She had counted so on the arrival of this letter, and had felt so sure that it would come, that she scarcely knew how to bear the delay.

The idea of waiting another whole day, only perhaps to be again disappointed, was disheartening. She stood still where she was, for she felt little inclination now to set about the domestic tasks which should have been commenced earlier.

As she stood idly leaning against the hedge, her face wearing a most discontented expression, the sound of approaching steps fell on her ear. A young man was walking quickly down the lane, looking about him with the air of one unacquainted with the locality, and in search of some particular place. Ellen observed him with curiosity, for he was to her a stranger, and the appearance of a stranger in that rural neighbourhood was a rare event. His demeanour was different from that of any of the country folk thereabout. He was dressed in a black suit, which showed a spotless shirt-front set off by a little black tie, and wore a "wide-awake" hat. His was a pleasant, honest face, with a kindliness of expression which conquered Ellen's usual shyness, as, to her surprise, he stopped short on seeing her, and addressed to her a question:

"Will you kindly tell me if this is the way to Farmer Holroyd's?"

"Yes, sir," replied Ellen. "But you must turn to the left when you get to the bottom of the lane, and take the path across the fields, which you will see. That will take you direct to the house."

"Thank you, thank you," said the stranger, standing still, however, and looking about him with an observant eye. "Do you live in that house?"

"Yes, sir," answered Ellen.

"Will you tell your parents, for perhaps they may not have heard of it, that there will be preaching this evening in Farmer Holroyd's barn at seven o'clock, and that I shall be very happy to see them there, if they are able to be present—and you also, if you can accompany them," he added, kindly.

"Thank you, sir," said Ellen, with some hesitation. "I'll tell them. But father and mother are mostly too busy to go anywhere."

"Are they? I'm sorry for that. But you are not too busy, I suppose?"

Ellen coloured, for she knew she must appear to him an idler. She felt no desire to attend the meeting in Farmer Holroyd's barn, yet was at a loss for an excuse for not doing so.

"No," she said, in answer to his remark. "But I do not know that I shall be able to come."

Her manner plainly said, "I do not care to come"; and so he understood it.

"I shall be glad to see you there, if you can manage it," he said, gently. "I should be sorry to think that your heart is indifferent to Him who is your best friend. Do not, I pray you, make the great mistake of finding time and inclination for everything save the 'one thing needful.'"

With these words he turned away, and Ellen, feeling rather disconcerted, and ashamed at having wasted so much of her morning, hastened back to the house.

"Where have you been all this time, Ellen?" asked her mother, who was engaged in hushing the baby to sleep. "I have been calling you for the last quarter of an hour. It is too bad of you to get out of the way when you know there is so much to be done. Here it is past nine o'clock, and the beds are not made nor the breakfast things washed. What have you been about?"

Mrs. Mansfield, a pale, anxious-looking woman, spoke in low, querulous accents, as though she did not expect her remonstrances to have much effect.

"I have been watching for the postman, mother," replied Ellen. "But he brought no letter. I can't think why Aunt Matilda does not write."

"She would need to think awhile before she answered my letter," returned her mother. "She is not one to do things in a hurry. I could have told you there would be no letter this morning. You'd much better have been about your work than loitering at the gate."

Ellen gave her head an impatient toss at this rebuke, and began, with much unnecessary bustle and clatter, to wash the cups and saucers which had been used for the morning meal.

"Where is Lucy?" she asked, presently.

"Upstairs, giving Jerry his breakfast," her mother answered; adding with a sigh, "The poor lad has had a bad night, and is sadly this morning."

Ellen said nothing, but her mother's words awakened within her some self-reproach, for in her eagerness to get the letter she had forgotten the wants of her favourite brother, to whom she generally attended.

She worked busily for some time, in the vain hope of making up for lost time, and the breakfast things were soon washed and replaced on the dresser. She did not forget to tell her mother of the stranger she had seen, and of the meeting to be held that evening in Farmer Holroyd's barn.

"Ah!" remarked Mrs. Mansfield. "It's all very well for those who have nothing else to do to go to those meetings, but it wouldn't do for me to think of it."

Yet she sighed as she spoke, for she remembered that in her young days she had attended such services with delight. And the recollection induced her to add, "You can go if you like, Ellen."

But Ellen was not sure that she would like to go.

CHAPTER II.

JERRY'S TRIAL.

WHEN Ellen went upstairs to make the beds, she went first of all to a little room at the head of the stairs, known as Jerry's room. She lifted the latch with a careful hand, and entered with a light step.

The young sufferer she feared to disturb was not asleep, however, but greeted her with the words:

"Oh, Ellen! at last! I began to think you were not coming to see me this morning."

"Oh, Jerry, you know I should not fail to come," replied Ellen, as she kissed her little brother, all the dearer on account of the affliction which made him a helpless invalid.

It was sad to look upon Jerry's tiny, wasted face, almost as white as the pillow upon which it rested, and wearing such a pathetic expression of suffering. The blue veins so plainly visible on his temples, the dark circles beneath the sad eyes, the tremulous movement of the mouth, all bore witness to the pain he had so frequently to endure. Yet the smile with which he welcomed his sister was very sweet, and his tones more cheerful than one could have expected.

He lay on a low couch drawn close to the open window, through which he could gaze at the green meadows and orchards which surrounded the house, and watch the cows going to and fro at milking-time, or the haymakers at their work, and catch many of the pleasant sights and sounds which a farm affords. It was a relief to him to be able thus to look upon the outer world, for he was seldom well enough to leave his couch, and there was little hope that he would ever move about like other children.

All had been done that could be done to alleviate the sadness of his life, and, in spite of its rough, uneven floor and sloping ceilings, his little room was a pleasant place. Any pictures that found their way to the house were nailed upon the walls to gladden Jerry's eyes. The rose-tree which grew luxuriantly outside was carefully trained about the window, that Jerry might enjoy the perfume of its blossoms. And a jar of flowers invariably stood beside his bed whenever there were any to be had.

Such books as the home could boast were always to be found in Jerry's room, for he was a great reader. And ever since the day, more than three years ago, when, in his seventh year, a sudden fall from the hay-loft had wrought terrible mischief to his spine, books had been his loved companions.

Not so dear, however, as his brothers and sisters, Ellen, Tom, and Lucy, older than himself, and the little ones that followed, who ever received a warm welcome from him, if he were well enough to see them.

Sometimes, however, on his bad days, when the paroxysms of pain were agonising, he could endure the presence of no one save his mother, whose sympathy was so true and tried.

Books were not the only means of diversion which Jerry possessed. When his head ached with reading, he could amuse himself with straw-plaiting. In the part of England in which the Mansfields lived, poor people used to devote their leisure to this employment, and found it remunerative. But of late years, for sundry reasons, this trade has declined, and although Jerry plaited many a yard of straw, he earned very little by it. That little, however, was acceptable, and supplied him with many comforts which he must otherwise have lacked. For Joseph Mansfield's family was longer than his purse, and he could not afford to keep any of his children in idleness.

He paid a heavy rent for the few acres of land which he farmed, and was frequently in arrears with it. When a bad season came, or any of the cattle died, his face grew long, and he talked about ruin, whilst his wife looked more pale and worried than ever.

The elder children knew that their parents expected them to work for themselves as soon as they were old enough to do so, and Ellen was especially anxious to be earning her own living. There was no need for her to leave home in search of employment, had she been willing to perform the work that lay to hand, for the management of the house and dairy, and the care of so many little ones, with all the washing and mending their clothes required, was more than Mrs. Mansfield could accomplish unaided.

But, as we have said, Ellen disliked these household tasks, and always gave her assistance grudgingly. Being handy with her needle, she had set her heart on becoming a dressmaker. And, after trying long to dissuade her from this purpose, her mother had, in compliance with her wishes, written to her aunt, who was a dressmaker at Charmouth, a large seaport about thirty miles distant from Ellen's home, to ask her to take her niece as an apprentice. It was the answer to this letter that Ellen was so eagerly expecting.

"What has kept you so long this morning, Nell?" her little brother inquired as she seated herself by his side.

"Nothing particular, Jerry. I wasted my time in watching for the postman. All in vain, however, for he brought no letter from Aunt Matilda."

Jerry's face clouded at these words.

"I can't bear to think of your going away from home, Nelly," he said.

"I shall be sorry to leave you all, but very glad for other reasons to go," replied Ellen.

"I can't think what mother will do without you," said Jerry. "She will miss you dreadfully. She is busy enough as it is, but she will have to work harder than ever when you are gone."

Ellen coloured, and bit her lip in momentary annoyance. She did not like to be reminded of such considerations as Jerry's words suggested.

"There is Lucy to help mother," she said.

"Oh yes. Lucy can do a good deal, I know," returned Jerry. "But not all that you can, I should think."

"I hope I shall get a holiday sometimes, and come home to see you all," remarked Ellen, anxious to change the conversation. "And when I've learnt my trade, Jerry, I'll settle somewhere near here, and you shall come and live with me. I'll take such good care of you, and buy you lots of books."

Jerry smiled rather sadly, and shook his head. "I'm afraid that will never be, Nelly. Sometimes I think I shall have to lie in this room the whole of my life; and, oh, I do begin to feel so tired of it!"

"I daresay you do," said his sister, tenderly, "and you feel worse than usual this morning after your bad night. But you'll be better in an hour or two's time, dear."

Jerry sighed deeply, and, hoping to divert his thoughts, Ellen began to tell him about the stranger who was to preach that evening in Farmer Holroyd's barn.

"Oh dear! How I wish I could go and hear him," he exclaimed.

"I wish you could," said Ellen, thinking with sorrow how impossible it was for him to do so.

"Shall you go, Nelly?" he asked.

"I don't know," answered Ellen.

"Oh, Ellen! I wish you would go," he said, "for then you would be able to tell me what he said. You can't think how I long to know about some things."

"What things, Jerry?" asked Ellen, in surprise.

"The things that I read of in the Bible, Nelly, about the Lord Jesus, and how He healed poor sick people. I often wonder if there was any one in the crowds that came to Him as helpless as I."

"There was the man with the palsy," suggested Ellen.

"Yes, he could not move any better than I can," the boy replied. "His friends carried him on his bed to Jesus. Oh, Nelly! how I wish Jesus were on the earth now, for then perhaps He would make me whole. Though I might not be able to get to Him, after all."

"We would carry you to Him, if we possibly could, Jerry," said his sister.

"Yes, I know you would," he replied, with a smile; "but it's of no use thinking of it. Yet when I feel so weary of lying here, I do wish I might be made whole as those people were. I suppose God could make me well now if He liked—couldn't He, Nelly? Do you think, if I prayed very hard to Him, He would?"

"I don't know," replied Ellen doubtfully; "but I think I should try if I were you, Jerry."

The boy lay silent for a while, his contracted brow showing that he was engaged in earnest thought.

Presently, he roused himself and said, "You will go to-night, Nelly?"

"Yes, Jerry," Ellen replied.

"And you will tell me all about it when you come back?"

"Yes, I'll be sure to, Jerry."

CHAPTER III.

THE GREAT PHYSICIAN.

ELLEN was as good as her word. In spite of her disinclination to go to the meeting, she left home a little before seven, and slowly made her way to Farmer Holroyd's barn. She was exceedingly fond of her little brother Jerry, and would have done anything even more disagreeable to her feelings to procure him gratification.

The air was so fresh and sweet on this July evening, and the way through the fields so pleasant, that Ellen did not feel disposed to hurry herself. She climbed to the top of a hedge to gather some dog-roses that grew there, then spying some wild strawberries on the other side, clambered down to refresh herself with them. She lost so much time thus, that when she reached the barn, she found that the service had already commenced, and every seat was taken except those in close proximity to the little table at which the preacher was stationed, a position which she would gladly have avoided.

There was no help for it, however, and she had to push her way to the vacant place through the midst of the little congregation, who were heartily singing the hymn with which the service opened.

Such meetings as this were welcomed by not a few in that country district, which lay several miles from any church, and whose scattered inhabitants depended entirely for religious instruction on the occasional visit of an evangelist such as the one about to address them. At a brief notice, many persons would gather together in a barn or cottage to hear the Word, some cheerfully coming a considerable distance for the purpose.

Ellen felt the preacher's eye rest upon her with a glance of recognition as she seated herself but a few feet in front of him. She had seldom been to such a meeting before, for Mrs. Mansfield, although brought up in a Christian home, had suffered the cares of this life to render her indifferent to all that concerned the eternal life beyond, and had allowed her family to grow up almost in ignorance of that Saviour who is peculiarly the friend of the poor and heavy laden.

Sundays passed much as other days in their home, and the Bible would have been unread had it not been for Jerry, who, having exhausted the contents of all the other books, took to reading it. And found so much therein to interest and soothe him, and at the same time so much to excite wonder, that he never tired of it, and was continually proposing to his mother questions concerning its truths which she found hard to answer.

In the hope of being able to understand his thoughts, and sympathise with them, she had lately begun to read the Scriptures again herself, and the sacred words awoke the echoes of a Christian father's voice, long since silenced by death, and stirred within her contrition and shame. She inwardly longed to accompany Ellen, and listen once more to the word of truth; but if she did so, who would attend to the dairy, or look after the baby, or soothe Jerry, if he had one of his bad attacks of pain? No, the busy mother's place was at home, and He who had laid these burdens upon her would not suffer them to hinder her approach unto Himself, but would draw nigh to her and help her to bear them, if she would only let Him.