Bert Lloyd's Boyhood: A Story from Nova Scotia Read online

  CHAPTER VIII.

  TEMPTATION AND TRIUMPH.

  The one day in the week that Bert did not like at Maplebank was Sunday;and, indeed, under the circumstances, he was not without excuse. Athome, the Lord's Day was always made as bright and cheerful as possible.The toys and playthings of the week-days were of course put aside, andwading by the seashore or coasting down the lane was not to be thoughtof, but in their place Bert had his father's company, of which he neverhad enough, and Mr. Lloyd made it a point, whether he really felt ingood spirits himself or not, to appear to be so to Bert; and, inconsequence, the little chap never thought his father quite sodelightful as on the day of rest, that was so welcome to the lawyer,tired by a week's toil at his profession.

  Then mother had more leisure, too; and besides the pleasure of goingwith his parents to church, dressed in his best clothes, a privilegeBert fully appreciated, there was the enjoyment of having her read tohim wonderfully interesting stories from the Bible or Pilgrim'sProgress, and explaining to him whatever puzzled his brain.

  If the day was fine, Mary would take him with her to the Sunday school,where, with a number of youngsters like himself, the hour would passquickly enough, as Miss Brightley entertained them with song and story,and pictures bearing upon the lesson. And then, after Sunday school, insummer time, his father would lead him off to the old fort, where theywould sit on the grassy ramparts, watching the white sailed shipscleaving the blue waters, that never seemed more beautiful than onSunday afternoon.

  But at Maplebank it was all very different. Squire Stewart was aPresbyterian of the stern old Covenanter stock. To him the Lord's Daymeant a day to be spent in unsmiling strictness of conversation anddemeanour. No laughter, no bright talk, no semblance of joyousness wassanctioned; nor, indeed, could have existed within the range of hissolemn countenance. He was a grave and silent man at any time, but onSunday the gravity of his appearance was little short of appalling. Onemeeting him for the first time would certainly have thought that he hadjust been visited by some overwhelming affliction. Bert, on the morningof his first Sunday, coming out of his mother's room, after receivingthe finishing touches to his dress, and dancing along the hall, injoyous anticipation of the drive in the big carriage to the village, ranright into his grandfather. Laying a strong hand on the boy's shoulder,Squire Stewart looked down at him, with disapproval written on everyline of his stern face.

  "My boy," said he, in his deepest tones, "know you not that this is theSabbath day, and that you are to keep it holy, and not be dancing alongthe hall?"

  Poor Bert shrank away, with a trembling, "I didn't mean to, sir," andthenceforth avoided his grandfather as completely as though he were acriminal and the Squire was a policeman.

  Not only at the house, but at the church, did Bert find Sunday a day ofdreariness. And here again, who could blame him? He was only a boy and avery restless, active boy, at that, to whom one half-hour's sittingstill was about as much as he could endure. How, then, could he beexpected to be equal to four whole hours of stillness? Yet that was whathis grandfather required of him whenever he went to church.

  The order of the day was as follows:--Leaving the house about teno'clock in the big covered carriage, of which the Squire felt dulyproud, as being the only one in the county, they drove leisurely intothe village, where the horses were put up, and after the ladies haddropped in at a friend's to make sure their bonnets and dresses were asthey ought to be, they wended their way to the church, which, standingright in the centre of the village, was noisily summoning itsworshippers to its seats as the big bell swung to and fro high up in thesteeple.

  The church service began at eleven o'clock, and was of the mostold-fashioned orthodox type. No organ had yet profaned the sanctity ofthat holy place, but instead thereof, a quartette of singers, selectedseemingly more for the strength than the sweetness of their voices,occupied a large box right under the pulpit, and thence led thecongregation by a whole bar at least, in the rendering of Tate andBrady's metrical version of the Psalms. Very weird and sorrowful weremany of the tunes. None were bright and inspiring like those Bert waswont to hear at home, and as choir and congregation vied with oneanother in the vigour of their singing, the little fellow was sometimeshalf-frightened at the bewildering noise they made.

  A saintlier pastor than the Reverend Mr. Goodman, D.D., fewcongregations possessed; but only those members of his audience who wereof like age with himself thought him a good preacher. He had, indeed,some gifts in expounding the Bible, and even Bert would be interested ifthe lesson happened to be one of those stirring stories from the OldTestament which seem so full of life and truth. But when it came topreaching a sermon--well, it must be confessed there were then few dryerpreachers throughout the whole Province of Acadia. Bending low over hismanuscript, for his eyesight was poor, and lifting his head only nowand then to wipe his brow, or relieve his throat, with a dry, hardcough, Mr. Goodman pursued his way steadily and monotonously from"firstly" to "lastly" every Sunday.

  And not only once, but twice on every Sunday. For be it understood, thatalthough many of the congregation lived too far away from the church tomake two trips to it from their homes, they were not thereby going to bedeprived of two services. Accordingly, after the morning service--whichusually lasted until one o'clock--was over, a recess of one hour forlunch and fresh air followed, and at two o'clock a second service,precisely similar in character, was entered upon, which occupied twohours more. And then, having thus laid in a supply of sound theology forthe rest of the week, the good people of Calvin church, after indulgingin a little harmless gossiping at the church door--of which indulgence,by the way, Squire Stewart strongly disapproved, and would haveprohibited, had he been able--harnessed up their horses and drove awayhome.

  Four hours of church service of so unattractive a character, and that inmid-summer! Poor little Bert! He did not want to shock his grandfather,or bring his mother's discipline into condemnation; but really, howcould he be all that the Squire, who, if he ever had been a boy himself,must have quite forgotten about it, expected him to be? If he went tosleep, Aunt Sarah or Aunt Martha, in obedience to signals fromgrandfather, shook or pinched him awake again. If he stayed awake, hefelt that he must wriggle or die. Sometimes the temptation to scream outloud was so strong that it seemed little short of a miracle he did notyield to it. Mrs. Lloyd fully sympathised with her son's troubles, butaccustomed from infancy to obey her father unquestioningly, she wouldnot venture to do more than softly plead for Bert, now and then, when hewas more restless than usual. Her pleadings were not altogether vain,and frequently they had the result of securing for Bert a boon that hehighly appreciated.

  Squire Stewart was bothered by a troublesome chronic cough. He did notmind it very much when at home, but at church he felt it to be anuisance both to himself and his neighbours. To ease it somewhat healways carried to church with him a number of black currant lozenges, asupply of which he kept in his big mahogany desk at home. Occasionally,either as encouragement to him to try and be a better boy, or as a tokenof relenting for being over severe, he would pass Bert one of theselozenges, and Bert thought them the most delicious and desirablesweetmeat ever invented. Not that they were really anything wonderful,though they were very expensive; but the circumstances under which hereceived them gave them a peculiar relish; and it was in regard to themthat Bert fought and won the sharpest battle with the tempter of all hisearly boyhood. It happened in this way:

  As already mentioned, Squire Stewart kept a supply of these lozenges inhis big mahogany desk, that had a table to itself in the parlour. Thisdesk was always kept locked, and Bert had many a time, when alone in theroom, gone up to it, and passed his hand over its polished surface,thinking to himself how nice it would be if the package of lozenges wasin his pocket instead of shut up in there where nobody could get at it.

  One morning, as Bert was playing about the house, a message came thatthe Squire was wanted at once at the farthest barn, as one of the horseshad been hurt by another. He
went out hastily, and shortly after, Bert,going into the parlour, saw the desk wide open, his grandfather havingbeen looking for a paper when so suddenly called away. The moment hiseyes fell upon the open desk, a thought flashed into his mind that setevery nerve tingling. As though the old desk exerted some strange andsubtle fascination, he drew near it; slowly, hesitatingly, almost ontiptoe, yet steadily. His heart beat like a trip-hammer, and his earswere straining to catch the slightest sound of any one's approach. Thehouse was wonderfully quiet. He seemed to be quite alone in it; andpresently he found himself close beside the desk. Although open, theinner lids were still shut, and ere Bert put out his hand to lift theone under which he thought the package of lozenges lay, the thought ofthe wrong he was doing came upon him so strongly as well-nigh toconquer the temptation. For a moment he stood there irresolute; and thenagain the hand that had dropped to his side was stretched forth. As ittouched the desk lid a thrill shot through his heart; and again hehesitated and drew back.

  It was really a tremendous struggle, and one upon which great issueshung, so far as that boy, alone in that room with the tempter, wasconcerned. Bert fully realized how wrong it would be for him to touchthe lozenges; but, oh! what a wonderful fascination they had for him!

  Reaching forward again, he lifted up the desk lid, and there, fullyexposed to view, lay the package temptingly wide open, displaying itstoothsome contents. The crisis of the temptation had come. An instantmore, and Bert would have yielded; when suddenly his better nature gotthe upper hand, and with a quick resolution, the secret of which henever fully understood, he cried out:

  "No, I won't." And slamming down the desk lid, he tried to run out ofthe room, and ran right into the arms of his grandfather, who, unseenand unsuspected, had witnessed the whole transaction from the door.

  Overwhelmed with a sense of guilt and terror at having been detected bythe one person of all others whom he dreaded most, Bert sank down on thefloor, sobbing as though his heart would break. But, strange to say, thestern old man had no harsh words for him now. On the contrary, he bentdown and lifting the little fellow gently to his feet said, in tones ofdeepest tenderness:

  "No tears, laddie; no tears. You've fought a grand fight, and glad am Ithat I was there to see you win it. God grant you like success to theend of your days. I'm proud of you, Bert boy; I'm proud of you."

  Scarce able to believe his ears, Bert looked up through his tears intohis grandfather's face. But there was no mistaking the expression ofthat rugged old countenance. It fairly beamed with love and pride, andthrowing himself into his arms, Bert for the first time realised thathis grandfather loved him.

  He never forgot that scene. Many a time after it came back to him, andhelped him to decide for the right. And many a time, too, whengrandfather seemed unduly stern, did the remembrance of his face thatmorning in the parlour drive away the hard feelings that had begun toform against him.