Part 2 (1/2)
”G.o.d.” The word embodied the great new idea which had entered Toyner's soul, the idea of the love that had power to help him.
”I want to get hold of G.o.d,” he said; ”but it isn't any use, for I shall just go and get drunk again.”
”Dear, dear fellow,” said the young preacher, his arm drawing closer round Bart, ”He is able and willing to keep you; all you have to do is to take Him for your Master, and He will come to you and make a new man of you. He will take the drink crave away. He knows as well as you do that you can't fight it.”
”I don't believe it,” said Toyner.
Then the young preacher turned his beautiful face toward the blue above the trees and whispered a prayer: ”Open the eyes of our souls that we may see Thee, and then we shall know that Thou canst not lie. Thy honour is pledged to give Thy servants all they need, and this man needs to have the craving for drink taken out of his body. He has come at Thy call, willing to be Thy slave; Thou canst not go back on Thy promises.
We know Thou hast accepted him, because he has come to Thee. We know that Thou wilt give him what he needs,”--so the short sentences of the whispered prayer went on in quick transition from entreaty to thanksgiving for a gift received. Suddenly, before the conclusion had come, Bart stood up upon his feet.
”What is it, my brother?” asked the preacher. He too had risen and stood with his hand on Toyner's shoulder.
They were alone together, these two. The great crowd of the congregation had already gone away; those that remained were each one so intensely occupied with prayer or adoration that they paid no heed to others.
”I feel--light,” said Toyner.
”Dear fellow,” said the preacher, ”the devil has gone out of you. You are free now because you are the slave of Christ. Begin your service to him by praising G.o.d!”
Toyner stayed a week longer in the place, lodging with the young preacher. Day and night they were close together. A change had come to Toyner. It was a miracle. The young preacher believed in such miracles, and because he believed he saw them often.
Toyner trembled and hoped, and at length he too believed. He believed that as long as he willingly obeyed G.o.d his old habits would not triumph over him. The physical health which so often comes like a flood and replaces disease at the shrines of idol temples, of Romish saints, or, at the many Protestant homes for faith-healing, had undoubtedly come to Bart Toyner. The stomach that had been inflamed and almost useless, now produced in him a regular appet.i.te for simple nouris.h.i.+ng food. The craving for strong drink had pa.s.sed away, and with his whole mind and heart he threw himself into such service as he believed to be acceptable to G.o.d and the condition upon which he held his health and his freedom.
At the end of the week Toyner went home to face the old life again with no safe-guard but the new inward strength. No one there believed in his reformation. He had lost money for his father in his last debauch; the man who was virtually a partner would not trust him again. He had a nominal business of his own, an agency which he had heretofore neglected, and now he worked hard, living frugally, and for the first time in his life earned his own living. The rules of conduct which the preacher had laid down for him were simple and broad. He was to see G.o.d in everything, accepting all events joyfully from His hand; he was so to preach Him in life and word that others would love Him; he was to do all his work as unto a G.o.d who beheld and cared for the minutest things of earth; he was to abstain, not only from all sin, but from all things that might lead to evil. At first he saw no contradiction in this rule of life; it seemed a plain path, and he walked, nay ran, upon it for a long distance.
Between Toyner and his old friends the change of his life and thoughts had made the widest breach. That outward show of companions.h.i.+p remained was due only to patient persistence on his part and the endurance of the pain and shame of being in society where he was not wanted and where he felt nothing congenial. There was a Scotch minister who, with the people of his congregation, had received and befriended the reformed man; but because of Toyner's desire to follow the most divine example, and also because of his love to Ann Markham, he chose the other companions.h.i.+p. It was a high ideal; something warred against it which he could not understand, and his patience brought forth no mutual love.
When six months had pa.s.sed away, Toyner had gained with his neighbours a character for austerity in his personal habits and constant companions.h.i.+p with the rough and the poor. The post of constable fell vacant; Toyner's father had been constable in his youth; Toyner was offered the post now, and he took it.
The constable in such villages as Fentown was merely a respectable man who could be called upon on rare occasions to arrest a criminal. Crime was seldom perpetrated in Fentown, except when it was of a nature that could be winked at. Toyner had no uniform; he was put in possession of a pair of hand-cuffs, which no one expected him to use; he was given a nominal income; and the name of ”constable” was a public recognition that he was reformed.
Toyner had had many scruples of mind before he took this office. The considerations which induced him to accept it were various. The austere demand of law and the service of G.o.d were very near together in his mind; nor are they in any strong mind ever separated except in parable.
Bart Toyner, who had for years appeared so weak and witless, possessed in reality that fine quality of brain and heart which is so often a prey to the temptation of intoxicants. He was now working out all the theory of the new life in a mind that would not flinch before, or s.h.i.+rk the gleams of truth struck from, sharp contact of fact with fact as the days and hours knocked them together. For this reason it could not be that his path would remain that plain path in which a man could run seeing far before him. Soon he only saw his way step by step, around there was darkness; but through that darkness, except in one black hour, he always saw the mount of transfiguration and the light of heaven.
CHAPTER IV.
Another six months pa.s.sed, and an event occurred which gave a great shock to the little community and gave Toyner a pain of heart such as almost nothing else could have given. Ann's father, John Markham, had a deadly dispute with a man by the name of Walker. Walker was a comparatively new comer to the town, or he would have known better than to gamble with Markham as he did and arouse his enmity. The feud lasted for a week, and then Markham shot his enemy with a borrowed fire-arm.
Walker was discovered wounded, and cared for, but with little hope of his recovery. From all around the men a.s.sembled to seize Markham, but half a night had elapsed, and it was found that he had made good his escape. When the others had gone, Toyner stood alone before Ann Markham.
I have often heard what Toyner looked like in those days. Slight as his theological knowledge might be, he was quite convinced that if religion was anything it must be everything, personal appearance included. As he stood before Ann, he appeared to be a dapper, rather dandified man, for he had dressed himself just as well as he could. Everything that he did was done just as well as he could in those days; that was the reason he did not s.h.i.+rk the inexpressibly painful duty which now devolved on him.
You may picture him. His clothes were black, his linen good. He wore a large white tie, which was the fas.h.i.+onable thing in that time and place.
His long moustache, which was fine rather than heavy, hung down to his chin on either side of his mouth. He did not look like a man who would chance upon any strong situation in life, for the strength of circ.u.mstances is the strength of the soul that opposes them, and we are childishly given to estimating the strength of souls by certain outward tests, although they fail us daily.
”I have always been your friend, Ann,” said Toyner sadly.
Ann tossed her head. ”Not with my leave.”
”No,” he a.s.sented; ”but I want to tell you now that if we can't get on Markham's track I shall have to spy on you. You'll help him if you can, of course.”