"STAR" TALES.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 7414, 28 May 1902, Page 4

"STAR" TALES.

M MICHAEL HOPE. (Methodist Mogaxint.) **■ *___-_ yon, Mr Derrick," said Michael (Hope quietly; "bufc you can't do anything. I knew how it would be when I prayed at the foundation-stone laying that he might gain the peace of God that was better than silver or gold. And I asked the Lord to sanctify him. Of course ifc was like telling him downright thafc he was a> sinner. And a* rich man doesn't care to hear it said that there's anything money can't buy ; rbufc it seemed as if the Master put these words on my lips, and I wasn't going to deny Him for the sake of keeping on John Barstow's smooth side. They all expected me to give thanks, because we had such a- wealthy man ooming to lay the stone, and open the bazaar ; but I couldn't do it, Mr Derrick ! ' I've known him all bis life. I cut out boats for bim when he was a tiny lad ; his father and I went to scbool together. He'll always be like a lad to me, though he's near fifty; and I can't see him hardening his heart, year affcer year, and behave as if all were going well with him! He's borne with me when Tve spoken about the unhealthy conditions the mem work nnder and the need_of new machinery ; but he's been longing to gefc rid of me for years, • and would have done ifc if he could, have found another foreman as good. I think he never liked to feel, thafc I was praying for him, as I did morning and night. But , that prayer in public was tbe climax; I seemed to know as, l spoke that he'd dis-. miss me the first chance he got — and to-day •he gave me a month's warning. It couldn't! have happened if Mr Rowland had been here ; but now he's left sole manager.They say he's headed so manj subscriptionlists lately, he'll be" getting a handle to his name ; but what's the use of a handle to a door that opens nothing?" "Whafc reason did he give?" said Charles Derrick. He was the young minister, and a great favourite with old Michael Hope, the veteran Methodist, who, by virtue of his long connection with the chapel, and the reverence in which mosfc members of the society held him, had been asked to offer a word of prayer at the foundation-stone laying, and had proceeded to pray for John Barstow, "as if," said a scandalised member of the congregation, "he had been a fellow-work-man." "He hadn't "any, Mr Derrick," replied Michael peacefully. "He couldn't truthfully say I was unfit for the work, when I've served there forty years and no complaint made. So he said the work was too heavy for me, and I must have laid by a bit, and I must get something lighter. It seemed quite smooth on the top. Mt Derrick, almost as if he were doing me a kindness. I looked at bim, but I hardly spoke ; I saw he'd made up his mind. And he knows well enough I've never laid by a penny since my wife and child died. Folks have urged me to do it, aginst at rainy day.' But it was always someone's rainy day, and I didn't have a chance." He paused, then went on . in a sadder voice : "I'm right down sorry about it, Mr Derrick. It was to his father I turned for help when I was left alone in the world, and it f-eeinedi for -awhile as if I couldn't bear my life. He was such _ a bright, generous "laid, too; and here he is, and I can do nothing to help him. Bit there's one comfort, the Lord can help bim. though I can't." Derrick noticed that Michael was looking upon his dismissal merely as it affected John Barstow's character. " But what will you do — I mean for yourself?" he said. "Me?" returned Michael. "Oh, I shall be all right, Mr Derrick. I'm seventy, and whatever comes it won't be for very long. I'll look out for some light work, as he suid; but if that falls through, I've come to the age — besides what I've done at times to keep others oufc of it — that I should feel I was defrauding no one by going into the workhouse." "We won't let you do that," said Derrick hotly. Michael smiled. I "I'd like it well," he said calmly. "I'd be able to work there, as well as out-. . side, and I'd have no anxiety about the rent. And I know the inmates ; I've conducted many a prayer-meeting on the Sunday for "them and the casuals, and they'd' be glad to see me there. It might fret me at first to feel that I couldn't get out; but it's always 'open at tbe top!' And when my time come. I could go home just as easy 'from the workhouse as from my own cottage. It would be far pleasanter to me than depending on friends who could maybe ill spa-re it. And I'd be far, far happier than. Jack Barstow in his big hall, that, it always seems to me, would look as cheerless as a vault if it wasn't for Miss Ruth and her bright face. Ah, she hasn't taken after, him, Mr Derrick ! She's taken after her dea'd' mother. And there's many poor in Milbury who forgive him for her sake." He had quickened his pace as he spoke, to suit Derrick's, who had unconsciously begun to walk a gocd deal faster. . "You have met her often, Mr Der- , rick?" he said; but -he did not look at his companion as he asked the question. " I have," replied Derrick, vividly recalling, as he spoke, his first meeting with Ruth Barstow. He had heard agreait deal of her from the poor of Milbury before he saw her, and she had heard inuch of him. A common passion for humanity breaks the ice, like a mutual friend, and, when the two met at- last, by the couch of a sick child, one is inclined to think that the mischief was) half done already. Ruth was playing snap with little Maggie West, and Charges Derrick stayed to have a game, which Maggie won. She told Michael Hope, who came to f2e her in the evenings (for all children loved Michael), that Mr Derrick and Miss Barstow played "snap" very badly; but she could not un- , derstand Michael's evident amusement JU their failure ; and her mother, whom she

pressed for a solution of the mystery, only answered, with a broad smile, that still tongues made wise heads. 'In short, the poor of Milbury had seen the issue of the matter, and had made innumerable conjectures, chiefly gloomy ones, as to Mr Barstow's probable behaviour, 'before Charles Derrick had so much ara asked himself if there was any chance for him. But Mr Barstow took to Charles. The wealthy manufacturer himself was of coarser fibre ; •but he recognised that the young man. was, as he said,' a gentleman, and he respected gentlemen. He envied Charles the tranquil sincerity of 'his, manner, which seemed to be unconscious of the station of /those he I addressed, only of their common humanity ; he envied- him the lovable and sympathetic nature which made him friends everywhere, among rich or poor. It is probable, however, that he never even thought of him as j a possible claimant for Ruth's ■ hand— the idea would have seemed too ridiculous. And he did not realise how,' apart from Derrick's occasional visits to the Hall, the young people wore continually meeting each other in what they called- "the district." "There's no good- in your appealing to him again, is there?" said Charles Derrick heavily, after a long pause, during which hia brain had conjured up many images of Ruth Barstow. T , 7 "'Not a bit, sir! He knows how I feel well enough. He knows there's no anger in my heart- against- him. and I'm afraid that only makes him the harder.. It's a queer thing, is the love of -money, Mr Derrick ; it seems to make a. mam dead to everything but the jingle of his money bags'! But vet there's no knowing. Sometimes, just before -a. thaw, the frost seems to have got the strongest grip ; and it's like that often. I fancy, with huinran beings. And there's manv waiting for him, arid striving for him, in earth 'ahd heaven," concluded Michael, who, as Der-rick had- frequently observed, never seemed to draw distinction between this world and the next. "I must- leave you now," said Derrick suddenlv. "I've something* to do. I needn't tell you to h-ive faith, '•Michael; I wish I had half as much." '.•_._ "I don't know that." replied Michael. "I'm thinking ii I had a- bigger faith in God, Mr Derrick, I'd feel as trustful for John Barstow as. I do for myself! You'll be looking in soon? Good-bye." The hands of the two men met in a firm •grip, and they parted. Michael went to his own home ; Derrick, not to his rooms, sis he had intended, but straight toward Mr Barstow's residence. His mind was made up. Whatever , came of it, even if the step entailed .complete alienation from Ruth, he would plead Michael's cause with his employer. To do "him justice, he. never remembered till vi couple of hours later- that his orthodox course would have been to consult his colleagues, and either secure their approval or give up his scheme. Hiis mind was divided between John Barstow. Michael and Ruth, and all notions of expediency had faded from it completely. But as he neared the gate his hea^t grew verv heavy. If he learned nothing else in the" course* of the walk, he learned that he loved Ruth Barstow. The thought of her, in a curious way, seemed both to hold him back and spur him on. His hsind w?"s shaking as he rang the bell, at the mere I rht of givin up the familiar, friendly inb.. use that had become as the light of liie to hini ; and yet her sad, beautiful eyes seemed to meet his with one continual message in them.andhekr.cw that her love was for no coward, though he turned coward for her snke. Then the' door opened, and in another moment he had been admitted to' Mr Barstow's private study. "Mr Barstow," he began, without pre- ! amble, "I have come to plead for Michael Hope. He did not ask ine to do so — no one asked me. I came of my own accord to beg you to recall your dismissal." t "On what grounds?" said* Mr Barstow serenely. But "his tone was not a pleasant one, nor was the expression of hii? face. "On these grounds. He is still an able workman, though an old man. He tells me that ycu have never complained of any shortcoming on his part. He is hale and vigorous, and he is a good man, whose very presence is a blessing to the place. If you dismiss him, he will be reduced to either beggary or the workhouse. Can't you possibly think better of it, Mr Br.rstow?" Derrick spoke pleadingly, but there was no gleam of sympathy on the face of the elder man. "We are not likely to agree on this subject." he said blandly, "t have my own opinion of Michael Hope' Shall we change the topic of conversation?" " But — — " began Derrick. "Michael Hope i-s dismissed," said Mr

Barstow, with a peculiar change in his voice that his workmen had learned to fear. " Is there anything else you wished to ask me?" "No," said Derrick, rising. "Mr Barstow, I am personally grateful to you for the kindness you have shown mc. And my gratitude helps me to say what many people arc afraid to say to you, hecause you are prosperous and wealthy. You arc playing a losing game. In the course of my work I can't but know, what you may be unconscious of, tliat you arc alienating the sympathies of both your workpeople • and your tenants, and now you are sending from you the noblest fellow in Mil bury, the man who could best serve as a link between you and your subordinates. 'Money can never requite you for that loss." Derrick had spoken quietly, but with intense earnestness, and John Barstow had listened to the end. His answer was as quiet and as definite : " There is the door, Mr Derrick." . And Derrick bowed and left him. He had found the interview, after all, a more simple matter than he expected, and his white-hot excitement had in it a curious element of composure. But that composure was scattered to the four winds when, at the first turn of the road, he met Ruth herself. He bared his head and held out his hand — perhaps for the last time, he thought, with a pang. But it was no easy matter to deceive Ruth's eyes. "What is the matter?" she asked in her sweet, frank voice — you must remember that they had seen a great deal of each other, and had a right to friendly familiarity. " You look as if — as if " — the truth" flashed on her—" you had been talking to my father about Michael Hope." "How do you know?" asked Derrick, amazed. " From your face," answered Ruth. "Oh,. I can't tell you how grieved I am about it. Mr Derrick, do believe that it isn't my father's real self that has turned Michael away! I did all I could— but I im glad vou' have done all you can, too. Was he— did he ?" She paused in some embarrassment. "If yob mean have I vexed him," said "Derrick, smiling, "I fear I have. lam afraid that I must keep away for tbe future." Ruth's face altered. "I am sorry," she said quietly. There was *a dangerous pause. When Derrick broke it, he spoke somewhat rapidly. *'You are not so sorry as I am," he said. "But I hope I may see you again, i' only at rare intervals .. Atd if not — may I still. think of you as. a friend?" > "Yes, always." said Ruth, meeting his eyes at last with her own loyal ones. "I don't forget my friends, Mr Derrick. Good-bye." They grasped hands. The words- had been those of friendship: but- it is possible that the look exchanged between them meant .something more, or why did Ruth enter her own gate blushing- vividly, while Derrick walked on for the first five minutes, at the -rate of five miles an hour, and then suddenly came to a complete standstill, and for a matter of two minutes gazed reverently at the elms which surrounded the huge red-brick abode of Mr Barstow, generally known, as the Hall? He did not gaze at them any longer, for he was a hardworking yoiing man. and almost morbidly conscientious, and his conscience told him that he bad a number of sick people to visit. But one if* inclined to think that Ruth went with him in his ministrations for" the rest of that day. She also sat down with him when, late in the evening, he began to write a new sermon, for at first he found himself rather frequentlv consultins* her.' But as he went on the text ipok hold of him, and he forgot even Ruth. . That sermon required a- good deal ot labour, and it was not ready for. next Sundav. Derrick preached it the Sunday after next, at .Tude Street Chapel. The text was: "Whosoever doth not bear his cross, and come after Me, cannot- be My disciple.'' And the sermon was one which none of .those who listened to it ever forgot. Yet it was not a revival sermon In the popular sense. Tt dealt- with no dogmas, but with the burning principles that lie at the root of all dogmas and all creeds. It was a singularly simple ' sermon, yet Dr Roberts, who had read many English and German metaphysicians, and "whojn a_ number of people called an infidel— though the poor loved him well— found no fault with it on the score of, logic. He was rarely seen in church or chapel ; but he had taken a fancy to Derrick, whose pastoraii visits, he found, had a bracing influence on' his poor patients. As" for certain members of the congregation who were always on the lookout for doctrinal lapses, they went home with a puzzled conviction that religion, after all, might be something better than they had ever dreamed, and that whatever his views were about plenary inspiration and certain other subjects, Mr Derrick was "a good man." He-spoke -from the depth of an intense spiritual faith that carried all before it. John Barstow was not at the service; but Ruth was there, and she listened with flashing eyes as the man she loved spoke out his whole heart. The sermon did not offend the congregation, as Derrick had half expected it would 5 rather, it seemed to touch, even in the idle and selfish and luxurious', hidden springs of justice and compassion, of which they themselves were hardly conscious. A wave of spiritual life passed over Milbury, which many dated

from that night — showing itself, among the poor by a strange uplifting of spirit, among the rich by an increased desire to labour or to help. It was a change nofc easy to define, but unmistakable and practical. " Michael," said Mrs Petch, the greengrocer, in a nervous manner, "you'd think that sermon had naught to do' with me, for it was about rich folk/ and them that had no crosses. And with my man lame, and Johnny ailing, I've trouble enough. But all the while I was thinking I must mark the last apples I got in damaged ; for they're frost-bitten though it don't show." Brother Waterhouse, somewhat reluctantly, doubled his quarterly subscription ; ami the junior circuit steward and his wife, who never talked much about wh.lt they dijd or did not do, quietly gave up the new carpet they meant to get for the drawing-room, and sent the money to the Children's Home. As for Ruth, she already gave away or lent all that it was possible for her to lend or give, without incurring her father's serious anger; but she spent herself more freely than ever. s So did Micha«l, if that could be. Ab his last day drew near, a positive gloom fell over . the whole factory. There was not a man r who, at one time or another, had not had cause to love and reverence him for isome cheering v^ord or kindly act. If it had not been for Michael himself, the bitt-er' murmurs against Mr Barstow would have broken out into open rebellion ; but the old man's perfect loyalty, held the most reckless" in check. Derrick went to see him nearly every day; but he could rouse in Michael little interest in his own small tragedy. The more serious tragedy, " of John Barstow and his soul, was always before him. And something else troubled him. "Mr Derrick," he said one evening, looking up with an anxious face, " when I leave ■". "Yes," said Derrick, thinking that he meant, at last, to consider his prospects seriously. "There'll he nobody to look after the new wheel. He had it put up cheap, and my own conviction is the iron's unsound. Mr derrick, I told him of it, and he said it was my fancy. But it's no fancy. I've lived among the wheels these forty years, and I know when the iron's wrong, as well as your clever doctors know when a man's heart is wrong from, the sound of the beat. I'm afraid, one day, when everything's in full swing, that wheel will" burrt, and I shan't be near to- do the best I can — and there will be lives lost, maybe. It- troubles me sadly, and he seems like a man in a dream, and can't! realise the danger." Derrick comforted him as best he could. But Michael's habitual serenity seemed to have deserted ham. "I've been trying to shake it off," he said, and still it clings to me, a curious kind of foreboding. Good nigfct, Mr Derrick. You'll remember him in your prayers to-night?" " And you too," said Derrick, marvelling at the perfect self-forgetfulness of the man. "Yes. thank you. But more particularly him!" replied Michael, earnestly. "I will do as you wish." said Derrick, and went home. He slept little that night, I howpver, and was up early. The workmen I going to the factory passed his rooms, and among them he caught a glimpse of Michael. The cloud had left his face, it wore a look of perfect tranquillity, and Derrick's heart was glad for his dear old friend. But Michael's forebodings had affected his nerves, perhaps, for he still felt as if there were trouble in the air. It was nearly noon when he heard a sudden, violent ring at the door. He never knew why he sprang up and went himself to open it, outstripping his easygoing landlady. But- it hardly surprised him "to see Mr Barstow standing there, thousfh he. could not repress an exclamation at the sight of his changed face. Itwas colourless, all the haughty bearing of the man had deserted him, and he looked like one stricken old. ; "Come with me," he said. Michael Hope is dying. There has been an accident. It is my fault — I have lulled him." Derrick clasped his hand with a sudden rush of pity. "It is a dark day for us," he said unI steadily, as ho followed him. "But it will be the brightest dav of Michael's | life." "John Barstow looked at him. uncomi pretending, with only a dumb terror in his | face. In a few minutes they were at j Michael's side. He had been carried into I one of the nearest cottages, and laid on the