Part 26 (1/2)

”He is coming!--He is coming!--Surely, husband, that is Mr. Wilson on his nag?”

For a few minutes all thought this; but Agnes suddenly gave a little cry, and exclaimed:

[Ill.u.s.tration: Bunyan looked down at her with rather a grim smile upon his face.

_Page 283._]

”It is not Mr. Wilson--it is Mr. John Bunyan himself!”

”Then he shall carry you, Agnes!” cried her sister, ”and you will have the pleasure of his G.o.dly conversation on the road.”

The heart of Agnes was full of joy at the bare thought of such an honour; but when her brother ran out to the gate to make the request, they heard Mr. Bunyan's voice say quite roughly:

”No; I will not take her.”

Sudden tears rushed to the eyes of Agnes; she hid behind her sister that he might not see her weep, and again she heard the tones of his voice--the voice she had come to love so well.

”If I do, her father will be grievously angry. I have heard how he has changed towards me. I will not set a man at variance with his children.

Children are an heritage from the Lord.”

At that Agnes ran forward, and told him what had happened, and how her father had consented that she should go to the preaching. Bunyan looked down at her with rather a grim smile upon his face.

”Ay, child; but did he say you might ride pillion behind the preacher?”

Agnes made no reply; but her sister pleaded for her, and in the end Bunyan consented to carry her, though he told her plainly:

”If I were you, maiden, I would go home to my old father, and seek to soften his heart by childlike obedience and submission, rather than urge him vehemently to gain mine own way.”

They had not proceeded far on the road before they met a man on horseback riding in an opposite direction. To her dismay and annoyance Agnes saw that it was Lawyer Farry, and she felt certain he was on his way to her father's house. She knew well how he would stir up the old man against the preacher, and it could not be but that her father would be very angry to hear that she had been seen riding behind Mr. Bunyan to the preaching. Probably he would think this thing had been arranged beforehand, and no doubt Farry would do his best to encourage that idea.

Bunyan, however, not knowing the lawyer, paid no heed to the stranger, though he continued to give Agnes much good advice as to her relations with her father, advice that the girl promised faithfully to follow.

”For, indeed, I have always loved him dutifully; and till lately he has been a tender father to me. But he has been embittered against those things which I hold so needful for my soul's salvation, and I am torn in twain betwixt my duty to him and to G.o.d.”

”Ay, ay, my child, thy path may be sometimes a difficult one; but remember that faith in Christ is enough for salvation, and thou wilt never imperil thy soul by abstaining from hearing some G.o.dly preaching, albeit such preaching may strengthen and sustain thee. G.o.d gave thee thy father and bade thee reverence and obey him. There is no doubt about that duty, so look to it in the future.”

This gentle counsel set Agnes thinking deeply; and since it came from Mr. Bunyan himself, she could not but believe it good. Greatly as she delighted in the preaching and meeting which she had made so great a point of attending, she was possessed by a longing to be at home again, to ask her father's pardon if she had thought too little of his wishes, and to show him in the future a greater patience and affection than had been possible of late.

At the close of the meeting she was in some perplexity how to get home, since Mr. Bunyan was not going back that way; but at last she found a young woman who gave her a mount behind her on her horse, and in this way she reached her father's house, although it was now late, and her sister counselled her to come home with her for the night.

But Agnes thought her duty was to go home, as perhaps her father would be waiting for her. When she saw the house all dark and closed, her heart sank somewhat; but she would not be daunted. Going up she knocked at the door and then called aloud under the window of her father's room, asking him to throw her down the key, which he always took up to bed with him.

Suddenly a fierce voice came thundering from the lattice:

”Thou shalt never enter my house again. Thou art no daughter of mine.

Where thou hast been all day thou mayest go at night.”

”But, father, father, you did give me leave to go,” she pleaded.