Allison Bain; Or, By a Way She Knew Not. Margaret M. Robertson
have been anywhere at this time of her life.
Mr. Hume belonged to the little band of remarkable men, to whom, on their first coming North, was given the name of “Missioners.” Some people say the name was given because these men were among the first to advocate the scheme of sending missionaries to the heathen. Others say they were so named because they themselves came, or were sent, to preach the Gospel of Christ to those who were becoming content to hear what the new-comers believed and declared to be “another Gospel.” In course of time the name given to the leaders fell also to those who followed—an honourable name surely, but in those days it was spoken contemptuously enough sometimes, by both the wise and the foolish, and Mr. Hume, during the first years of his ministry in Nethermuir, had his share of contumely to meet or to ignore as well as the rest.
But all that had been long past before Allison Bain came with her spoiled life, and her heavy heart, to seek shelter under his roof. By that time, to no minister—to no man in all the countryside—was a truer respect, a fuller confidence given, by those whose good word was of any value.
He had not been over-eager to win the good word of any one. The courage and hopefulness of youth and an enthusiastic devotion to the work to which he had been set apart, carried him happily through the first troubled years, and when youthful courage and hopefulness had abated somewhat, then natural patience, and strength daily renewed, stood him in good stead. He loved his work not less, but more as time went on, and it prospered in his hands. His flock was only “a little flock” still; but the gathering in of these wanderers to the fold had given him, as one by one they came, a taste of such perfect satisfaction, as few of the great ones of the world—be they heroes or sages—have claimed to be theirs, even in the moment of their highest triumphs.
This kind of success and his satisfaction in it might not be appreciated by those who looked on from the outside of his circle of influence; but there was another kind, both of success and of satisfaction in it, which they could appreciate, and at which they might well wonder.
By means of the pennies and sixpences and shillings slowly gathered among themselves, though few among them had many pennies to spare, and with the help of occasional pounds, which by one hand and another found their way into the treasury from abroad, first the kirk had been built and then the manse. They were humble structures enough, but sufficient for their purpose, and indeed admirable in all respects in the eyes of those who had a part in them.
Then out of a low stretch of barren clay, which was a slimy pool, with a green, unhealthy margin for some months of the year, the minister had made such a garden as few in the town could boast. The hawthorn hedge around it, as well as every tree and bush in it, was planted by the minister’s own hand, or under his own eye. It might not have seemed a very fine garden to some people. There were only common flowers and fruits in it, and still more common vegetables; but the courage, the skill, the patience which had made it out of nothing, must have been appreciated anywhere. To the moderately intelligent and immoderately critical community of Nethermuir, the visible facts of kirk and manse, of glebe and garden, appealed more clearly and directly than did the building up of “lively stones into a spiritual house,” which was his true work, or the flourishing of “trees of righteousness” in their midst, which was his true joy.
And, perhaps, this was not so much to be wondered at, considering all things. For some of the “trees” looked to be little other than “crooked sticks” to their eyes; and of some of the “stones” it might well be said, that they “caused many to stumble.” And since it was halting, and shortcoming, and inconsistency that some of their critical neighbours were looking for among “folk that set themselves up to be better than their neebors,” it is not surprising that it was these that they should most readily see.
Even the minister himself saw these things only too often. But then, he saw more. He saw the frequent struggle and resistance, as well as the rare yielding to temptation, and he saw also, sometimes, the soul’s humiliation, the repentance, the return.
And even the “crooked sticks” were now and then acknowledged to be not altogether without life. Saunners Crombie might be sour and dour and crabbed whiles, readier with reproof and rebuke than with consolation or the mantle of charity. But even Saunners, judged by deeds rather than by words, did not altogether fall short of fruit-bearing, as many a poor soul, to whose wants, both temporal and spiritual, he ministered in secret, could gladly testify.
And on many of the folk who had “ta’en up wi’ the little kirk,” a change had passed, a change which might be questioned and cavilled at, but which could not be denied. In more than one household, where strife and discontent had once ruled, the fear of God and peace and good-will had come to dwell. To another, long wretched with the poverty which comes of ill-doing, and the neglect which follows hopeless struggle, had come comfort, and at most times plenty, or contentment with little when plenty failed.
There were lads and lassies among them, of whom in former days, evil things had been prophesied, who were now growing into men and women, earnest, patient, aspiring—into such men and women as have made the name of Scotland known and honoured in all lands. They were not spared a sneer now and then. They were laughed at, or railed at, as “unco gude,” or as “prood, upsettin’ creatures, with their meetings, and classes, and library books,” and the names which in the Scotch of that time and place stood for “prig” and “prude,” were freely bestowed upon them. But, all the same, it could not be denied that they were not “living to themselves,” that they were doing their duty in all the relations of life, and of some of them it was said that “they might be heard o’ yet” in wider spheres than their native town afforded.
Neither could it be denied that some who had set out with them in life, with far fairer promise than they, had “gaen the wrang gait,” with an ever-lessening chance of turning back again. And what made the difference?
Was it just the minister’s personal influence teaching, guiding, restraining, encouraging? Or was it that a change had really passed upon them—the change in which, at least, the minister believed, and which he preached—which, according to him, must pass on each man for himself, before true safety or happiness, either in this world or the next, could be assured—the change which can be wrought by the Power of God alone?
Converted! The word had long been a scoff on the lips of some in Nethermuir, but even the scoffers had to confess that, to some of the missioners at least, something had happened.
There was Peter Gilchrist. If an entire change of heart, and mind, and manner of life meant conversion, then Peter was converted. And that not through the slow process of reading the Bible on the Sabbath-day, or by learning the catechism, or by a decent attendance upon appointed ordinances—not even “under the rod”—the chastising hand of Him who smites the sinner for his good—which would have been reasonable enough. It had happened to others.
But Peter had been converted by one sermon, it was said, a sermon preached at the house-end of Langbarns in the next parish. No great sermon, either. At least many a one had heard it without heeding it. But it had “done” for Peter.
The very last thing that Peter had been thinking about was listening to the sermon. He, with some of his chosen friends, had gone to the meeting—held out of doors, because there was no other place in which to hold it—for the help and encouragement of the constable, who, it was said, had a warrant to seize and carry before a magistrate “the missioner minister” for a breach of the law, in holding a preaching meeting at Langbarns without the consent of the parish minister. The presumption was that the sight of the constable, and the announcement of his errand, would be enough to silence the minister and disperse the meeting. But that did not follow. If he were to be meddled with, “it should not be for nothing,” the minister declared to a rather timid friend and adviser. And his courage stood him in good stead. He gave the folk assembled such a sermon as probably few of them had ever heard before. The constable had not, he acknowledged, nor Peter; and the worst of it—or the best of it—for Peter was, that having heard it, he could not forget it.
When the meeting was over, Mr. Hume went silently and swiftly away with the departing crowd, and he never would have been quite sure that anything serious had been