Chapter VI: "the Thin End of the Wedge."

ADAM LIVESEY'S story was not told all at once and straight forward as it is here put down, but jerked out at intervals in a spasmodic fashion, and a few words at a time, in response to much kindly questioning. Then the man seemed half ashamed of having been drawn out, and shrank into himself again.

But Mr. Drummond had taken a liking to Adam. He felt strongly for the man, with his cravings after a higher and better life, his ignorance of the greatest yet simplest truths. He was profoundly touched at the wealth of fatherly tenderness that lay deep down in his heart, at his painful sense of wrong done to the pretty bright-eyed girl who had so sadly changed since she had linked her fate with his, at the manifest hopelessness which weighed down his whole nature.

Moreover, the manager had observed Adam at his work, and noticed how faithfully it was performed. He had found out that while many laughed at his grave, silent ways, all respected "the poor chap," as they called him, even while they pitied him for having "no pluck to help him to stand up for himself."

Mr. Drummond, in his own mind, compared Adam to those Gentiles of whom St. Paul wrote in the Epistle to the Romans. "This man," he thought, "is living in the heart of a great city and in the midst of a Christian nation. And yet, while he is as ignorant as a heathen, he has been doing by nature the things contained in the law. He has a tender, though not an enlightened conscience, and has obeyed its dictates and been a law unto himself. If only the gospel message could be brought home, first to his ears, and then by the blessed influence of the Holy Spirit to his soul, what a different life would Adam Livesey's become! Oh that into his heart might shine the light of the glory of God, in the face of Jesus Christ.

"And," he added the silent but heartfelt prayer, "oh that I might be made the instrument in leading him to the one and only Saviour!"

If the baby had waked up in a very short time, all this talk would have been impossible, but the words which take long to write are quickly spoken.

"I cannot help thinking, Adam, that it is not too late for you to better your position. I know you can in one sense, if not in another."

"It's no good talking, sir. What's done is done. I'm forty years old, and I'm just where I was at twenty-five, as far as wages go. I had two to feed then. I've eight now. Things are past mending for me. I'm o' no account in the world, and I shall never be of any."

"Of no account! I cannot agree with you there. You are of account, as a workman. What would become of Rutherford's if all such as you were withdrawn? There are many idle, useless people in the world, who could be better spared in a batch, than one man who does as honest a day's work as Adam Livesey."

In spite of himself, Adam's deep set eyes were kindled into an expression of pleasure, but he did not speak.

"Are you of no account to the wife and little woman at home? To the playing children, whose voices sound very full of music to me, as the breeze wafts them this way? Are you of no account to that sweet little sleeper who rests so trustfully and safely in her father's arms? Adam, your heart must tell you that there are many by whom you could be ill spared."

"Yes," he answered, simply. "They would want me."

"And though poor Maggie may not have cheeks as round and rosy, and her voice may not often be raised in song, I daresay she has a warm heart at the bottom. Depend on it, Adam Livesey, she keeps the best corner of it for you, though many cares prevent her saying much about it. Would she let anybody call you names behind your back?"

The striker's face assumed a look of positive amusement, as he said, "It wouldn't be good for 'em to try that game on with Maggie."

"Does she ever keep the best bit for your dinner, and try to go without any of it herself? I say 'try,' Adam, because I know you would not let her."

"To be sure she does. That's just Maggie. Why, sir, you might have seen for yourself."

"And do you think, if it could be possible for any one to say, 'Mrs. Livesey, if you would like to go back twelve years, you can. You shall be the girl Maggie again, only you must say "good-bye" to Adam and these six little plagues who make you so much work, and are so full of wants. Say the word, take back your youth and your roses, on condition that you part with husband and children.' Would she say the word, Adam?"

The man was strangely moved. The rugged features worked again, and showed the effect of Mr. Drummond's questioning. "No, no," he cried, "Maggie may scold a bit and say sharp words, then wish she hadn't, but nobody would drag that word out of her."

"Here's a nice man to say he's of no account. Why, Adam, you are a regular fraud, to set up as a person that nobody would miss."

Mr. Drummond laughed cheerily, and his hearer caught the infection. "I'm afraid I haven't come out very well in this line," he said. "I shall be getting conceited just now, and forget to give up."

This was the effect the manager wished to produce. He wanted Adam to take a higher and more just view of his calling and responsibilities. He wanted first to raise his self-estimate, to encourage efforts at self-improvement; above all, to lead him to a knowledge of his spiritual need, and the all-sufficiency of Christ to meet it. But this last part of the subject would have to be carefully approached. There must be no plunging recklessly into it. He must prove his good-will to Adam, and thus secure his confidence, and he was a good deal astonished at the progress already made.

The manager had no thought of meeting Adam when he did, but he had been longing for such an opportunity, and was thankful for such a fulfilment of one of the desires of his heart.

"You think, then, I did not do wrong by marrying Maggie?" said Adam, interrupting Mr. Drummond's thoughts by the inquiry.

"I imagined that question had been settled a few minutes ago."

"I'm glad you think so, sir. It has troubled me for a long time, ever since her mother went away to live beside her elder daughter. She used to be next door to us, but the children began to run in and out too often, and Maggie was p'raps a bit too having, seeing her mother was independent like. Maggie will have a matter of three hundred pound when the old lady dies, so I may well wonder she married me."

Adam was relapsing, and would be o' no account again directly.

"No doubt she was, and is, very fond of you, Adam. You have proved this by your own evidence, and I was sure of it almost without that. I do not think I durst have felt certain if you had been like some of the men whose wives are waiting for them at pay time. You do the best you know how to do, and Maggie must respect you."

At this instant the baby opened her dark eyes, then looked into Adam's face, and began to laugh and struggle to be on her feet. Just then, too, the other four children, tired of the swings and wanting a change, approached the bench on which they had left their father.

The sight of the gentleman checked their rapid advance, and they hung shyly back. But Mr. Drummond encouraged them, saying that he wanted to see Adam's flock, and at the father's call they came to be inspected.

The manager congratulated Adam on their healthy looks, and the signs of a mother's care to be seen in their neatly mended clothing. Then he asked, "What school do you go to on Sundays?"

Adam answered for the children. "They don't go anywhere, sir. They get schooling enough on week days, when they must go. I'm glad for them to learn, but they want their little heads to rest one day in the seven."

It was a good thing that baby became obstreperous, and insisted on joining her elders on the ground. So they formed themselves into a bodyguard for the youngest darling, and led her to the soft grass on the other side of the walk, where they enticed her to join in gambols contrived for her special benefit.

"We fathers like to look on such pictures," said Mr. Drummond, still lingering by Adam's side, and pointing to the children.

"We do, sir."

Mr. Drummond, by coupling his own interests with those of Adam, had forged another connecting link between them.

"By the way, Livesey, where do you and your family go on Sundays?"

The man's first inclination was purposely to misunderstand the question and say, "Sometimes to this place, but mostly we stop about home." But the striker's nature was a true one, and he hated himself for thinking of such a paltry subterfuge. So he replied,—

"To say the truth, sir, we don't go to church or chapel any more than the children go to school. I never was in a religious way myself, and Maggie, though she had been used to go to a place of worship when she was in service, never had much heart for it. She liked better to take a walk with me, and show her pretty face beside my ugly one. She wore pretty bonnets too, in those days. If we did not trouble about church before, we weren't likely to put ourselves out when there was a baby to mind. So we keep to a church with a chimney, though by that we don't mean what your public-house men do. It's just our own little place you would find us in, mostly."

"I wish you would go for a time or two to hear a gentleman I know something about," said the manager.

"I don't know why you should trouble about where we go, sir," said Adam, with the least pleasant manner Mr. Drummond had noticed. "What matter does it make whether a poor chap like me spends his Sunday at home or in the streets, so long as he isn't doing any harm, or drinking himself into a—"

"Do not say 'beast,'" remarked Mr. Drummond, with a good-humoured smile.

"I won't. I was stuck for a word, and didn't like to say that, seeing it isn't fair on the beasts, that only drink when they're thirsty, and know nothing about reeling zig-zag to their kennels. Maybe I might ha' said drinking till they have to stay from work on Monday, to sleep themselves sober. I reckon I've a right to spend my Sunday as I like, so long as I'm always up to time at Rutherford's."

It would have been strange if there had not been a spice of doggedness somewhere in Adam Livesey's composition. The man who had all his life manifested such firmness in resisting the temptations to self-indulgence, such steadiness and industry in his humble calling, such patient consideration for mother and wife in turns, was almost certain to carry some of these excellencies to the extreme. His very firmness was sure to have a stubborn side, and Mr. Drummond detected its whereabouts.

Adam held strong views with regard to outside interference from his employers, and, to use a homely phrase, "his back was up" the moment the manager made an allusion to the mode in which he and his family spent their Sabbaths. His tone was alike resentful and expressive of injury received, and the conversation had reached this point when Adam uttered almost the identical words with which this account of his life begins.

"I am never a minute behind my time, and I work as long as any man does in all the place. I never stopped a job by being off a single day when there was anything to do, and for what need this new man be poking and prying into what I do on Sundays? I've a right to do as I like, and I shall too, for all his meddling."

These were Adam's thoughts, and Mr. Drummond had little difficulty in reading them, though he answered only the words.

"It does not matter to me, in one sense," he said, "but it does in another. We have had a very pleasant talk together, and you have been kind enough to tell me a good deal about yourself and those at home. I know you are not reckoned a great talker, and so I felt your frankness the more. I cannot help seeing what a life of constant toil it has been, and, as a man who feels for and sympathises with his brother man, I thank God you have not made worse of things, either for yourself or those who depend on you for bread. I honour you for your patience, steadiness and industry, but you must not be offended if I wish for you something better still. Do not think me a meddler for speaking of what is outside Rutherford's."

Adam felt a little ashamed. Mr. Drummond's politeness rebuked his ungracious manner and dogged utterance. He seemed to have read his thoughts too, and answered them, for had he not felt very angry with him for interfering with his freedom of action outside the works? He was, however, too confused to reply, and the manager added, "Once I was like you. I thought it was enough to give six days' work to my employers, and to be just in all my dealings, doing harm to no one. But I was led to see that I had to answer for more than my six days' work, that there were duties to God, my neighbour, and my own soul, that called for my urgent attention. I was very proud of the work done, but I forgot to be humble on account of what I left undone, or did amiss. There were calls which I had not answered, opportunities neglected, privileges despised, gifts received without thankfulness, and Sabbaths misused. Perhaps I turned them to more account than you do, for I was restless and eager to get on in the world. I often spent them in calculations and plans for bettering myself. I did not even rest, but I brought all the anxieties of the other six days into the Sunday. Then I was led to think and act differently."

Adam's dogged manner was all gone, charmed away he hardly knew how, and he was eager to hear more. But the children were coming, and the boom of a great clock was borne to their ears by a favourable breeze. This told the striker that Maggie would be expecting their return, and there was a good mile between the park and home.

Mr. Drummond rose from the bench also. "No time now to tell you what brought new life and light and joy to my life, Adam. But it was through a message which God was pleased to send me. And it is because my whole being has been changed and made glad by it, that I want everybody else to have the same joy. The man who brought me the message is in Millborough now, holding some mission services. I wish you would go and hear him, Livesey. His name is Kennedy, and the room is in Aqueduct Street. Good-bye."

Mr. Drummond held out his hand. Adam was so astonished that at first he did not hold out his own, though not from unwillingness.

"Will you not shake hands, though I have been stepping on forbidden ground? I am not 'the manager' here, but with you as man to man."

If Mr. Drummond had after cause for fault-finding, it was certainly not on account of want of heartiness. The effects of Adam's grip, made his fingers tingle for some time. Then, after a farewell pat to the baby, and an acknowledgment of the striker's lifted cap, the manager walked rapidly away.