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For Woman’s Work.
ADVERSITY.
What would our lives be worth if we
Ne'er struggled with adversity—
Nor felt the cold, wild blasts of pain
Shake every nerve and chill each vein,
Yet feel that we must struggle on
And brave the storm till life is done?
Therefore heed not the toil and sighs,
But up, and onward to the skies,
For he who gives up in the race
Must wear the stigma of disgrace,
And faltering souls must ever be
Like stranded ships, on life’s great sea,
Dee Max.
For Woman’■ Work.
THE VILLAGE “NE’ER-DO
WEEL.”
tN the rugged coast of Scotland, in
the little town of Errol on the Firth
of Tay, dwelt nay hero, “The Village
Ne’er-do-weel.” It was the year 1328,
the 24th day of July, and the fourteenth
anniversary of the battle of Bannockburn.
The Treaty of Northampton had just been
signed, securing the independence of
Scotland and Bruce’s right to the throne.
There was great rejoicing throughout the
land. Every village, hamlet and city of
bonnie Scotland was decked out in Na
tion a! colors, and celebrated with a right
good will the greatest achievement of
King Bruce. In Errol the festivities were
as enthusiastically participated in as in
the large cities of Edinburgh, Glasgow
and Dundee. At high noon, public meet
ings were held in the “Laird’s Hall,” the
intermissions between the speeches being
filled up with various numbers of pibrochs,
very hideous music indeed, to cultured
ears. The sound emitted from the Scot
tish bagpipe being equal in discord to the
voice of Jubal when he first struck the
gamut. A chance observer from a for
eign land would have found it intensely
fascinating to view the picturesque surg
ing throng of hardy Norsemen gathered in
Errol’s chief hall, all shouting praises to
their Scottish hero.
One gazing critically over that vast as
semblage in search of a perfect type of
clansmen—of an ideal hero, to be chosen
as the model of a companion character to
Roderick Dhu—would have found the re
quirements of fastidious fancy realized in
the person of Gordon Durrell, as he stood
leaning with folded arms against a sup
porting column at the principal entrance
of Laird’s Hall. He seemed a figure
carved in bronze —so still, so motionless
he stood. His fair, flowing locks waved
back from a brow as lofty and as massive
as St. Paul’s. A smile, mysterious and
passionate, hovered about his finely carved
lipa—a smile eloquent with sadness, mock
ery, bitterness, sweetness and despair.
“The heroic, sovereign glance which shot
at intervals from the fathomless depths of
his deep blue eyes, reminded one of an
archangel.” A great ambition, a mighty
inspiration burned in that glance, and yet
—in that whole assemblage of his native
people, there was not one who would have
sanctioned your choice of hero.
They would have laughed in your face,
most likely, and probably have told you
his history, which runs thus: “What!
that lad noble looking? The blue blood
of Wallace flows in hit veins? Why, it
was said that ‘Satan smiled at his birth’—
he had been born in sin.” This, and much
more the villagers would tell you. He
was thriftless, reckless, and read books—
considered a very unprofitable occupation
in Scotland at that period. Your inform
ant was perfectly honest in telling you
this—he knew nothing of young Durreli’s
virtues. Proud and haughty, unaccus
tomed to sympathy or approbation, Gor
don had never paraded his acts of human
ity ; he had rather sought to conceal them.
The all-seeing eye of the public—which
prided itself on discovering everything
about a man’s life, and meting out justice
to deserving virtue—was at fault here.
The community of Errol had forgotten
that a man never falls so low as utterly to
lose the outlines of that divine image in
which the ancient parents of the race
were created. To be sure they had tried
systematic reformation. The ministers of
God had hurled rebukes and threats and
warnings of eternal punishment indeli
cately and insolently at Gordon Durrell,
which he resented and defied by plunging
deeper into debaucheries. No eye but
Goa’s had witnessed how tenderly the
Village-ne’er-do-weel had sheltered and
protected a poor old mendicant whom the
city had stoned from her limits on suspi
cion of witchcraft. This was only one in
stance of many greater and lesser deeds of
philanthropy performed by Gordon Dur
rell. Ah, there are so many kinds of no
bil.ty—so many heroes serving outside the
pale of reward—so many Christians toil
ing on without the hope of a cross—so
many kings uncrowned. This lad sinned
often against himself—against others,
never. His education was self-gained.
He was well read in the history of Scot
land—had gloried in her victories, wept
for her shame.
To-day he listened in scorn to the un
worthy tributes his countrymen lavished
on Robert Bruce. The last speaker on
the programme failed to answer when his
name was read, and the chairman an
nounced the meeting adjourned unless
some one volunteered to fill the absent or
ator’s place. Here the chairman paused,
for, ere his words had died away,, a quick,
firm tread sounded on the bare floor, and
a young man with compressed lips and
flashing eyes, mounted the polished stairs
and stood proudly before the people. A
low hiss ran through the astonished audi
ence, when they realized who the young
adventurer was.. The President arose and
sternly admonished the mu titude, but
young Darrell was already master of the
situation. His majestic figure was drawn
up to its full height,his broad chest heaved
passionately, one solemn hand was uplift
ed heavenward.
Those who heard him speak that day,
never forgot in life the strange thrill that
stirred their hearts, and the poweriul
spell which held their spirits captive when
that rich, magnetic voice rang out in de
fense of justice. A rapt and subdued ex
pression crept into every face. A stillness
like the hush of death fell over the spell
bound audience. His genius enchanted,
convinced. He held every soul in that
house under his influence before he uttered
one word.
At last he spoke. The words fell softly,
musically from his lips :
“I stand here to-day, my countrymen,
in the determination to perform a strange
mission—the selfish mission of vindicating
my own character, which has submitted so
long to be buffeted about by the hand—
the merciless hand—of public opinion’;
patiently have I waited the intervention
of Providence. She has failed me thus
far, and I have no option but to speak in
self-defense. Voluntarily I have entered
the tribunal of Justice, and constitute you
my judges in the absence of a jury. Ten
years ago, this day, I came among you, a
bairn of nine summers; ’twas a cold, piti
less night in December, when I left my
mother’s home. For seven months I had
wandered, driven from village to village
like a dog, at times almost starving.
“When I crossed the limits of this low
land town, an old man took me by the
hand, and bade me remain. I did so.
There were three months of happiness for
me—the first I ever knew—and then my
benefactor, the saintly Kinnaird, passed
to his eternal rest. Since then I have
served a continuous term in the prison
house of Injustice. I knew nothing of my
shame, and you taught your children to
taunt me with it. I would have worked,
but you refused me honest labor. Ven
geance is sweet to those who have hunger
ed for it. I, in spite of Kinnaird’s godly
teachings, have wished for it at times.
Last night I would have said to you that
if I had disgraced the pharisaical village
of Errol, I was glad. To-day I will not re
proach; you shall only hear truth from my
lips. I have genius ; you who could have
fostered it, refused—denied the encourage
ment which Christians might easily have
given without hurt to moral rectitude,
or fear of contamination. I know that
Charity is a hard lesson to learn, but I
have mastered the difficult task, and am
therefore better than you who have abused
me} I have enough of Charity to cover
the sins which you have committed. I
can pray as Jesus of Nazareth did on the
cross—‘Forgive them, Father, for they
know not what they do.’ This magna
nimity of soul was not developed without
a bitter and a mighty struggle. You,
who worship in Christian churches, had
almost lost me my soul. Think of it,
friends, a human soul—that Christ died to
save just as surely as he did yours. I
was growing bitter, dissipation had un
dermined the strength of my character; a
few more months, and your work of de
struction would have been completed—the
damnation of my soul would have been
written to your credit by the Recording
Angel. Nemesis, who had dogged your
footsteps thus far, stood appalled at the
enormity of her work, and vanished fear
fully into the darkness, routed by the au
gust hand of Providence, which barely
saved us both from an ignominious crime.
‘ Let me show you my savior.” Gordon
drew from his breast a letter with the roy
al seal conspicuously visible. As he un
folded it leisurely, he let his tranquil geze
pass wonderingly over the faces of the
listening company. Men sat with bowed
heads, their eyes seeking the floor; women
wept. A queer light glittered for an in
stant in his starry eyes, then steadily and
remorselessly he continued:
“Bruce, of Bannockburn, requests that
the unfortunate sons of Scotland who re
quire assistance, encouragement or ad
vice, apply to him in person at his resi
dence —Cardross Castle. They will not
WOMAN’S WORK.
supplicate in vain. I considered myself
one of the ‘unfortunates’ and His Majesty
received me most flatteringly. You may
remember this incident to give to History
when the world demands the name of an
unknown hero, whose unparallelled ex
ploits have become the marvel of this
country.
“King Bruce honored me with a secret
and important mission; I leave you to ful
fill it. The sun which sinks yonder in the
golden west, sets for the last time above
my head in Errol.
“Ere morn with rosy fingers hath un
barred the gates of light, I shall be many
leagues distant; my weary journey will
be begun without God speed. So be it. I
consent to die to the world now—all the
more glorious will be my resurrection.
Gordon Durrell is no more. He will rise
under a new name, laurel crowned, and
defy even the sanctimonious children of
St. Columba to point the finger of scorn at
him. You, who have already attained
the acme of perfection, will be competent
to appreciate merit when it appears be
fore you. One favor 1 would ask ; ’tis the
first and last, atid though it add to my
burden of gratitude, I would still insist
that when tbe world proclaims my fame,
that Errol—poor, mistaken Errol—will not
establish a claim on the unworthy ‘Ne’er
do-weel,’ whom they would have allowed
to perish rather than cast the mantle of
pity about his weaknesses and errors.
Farewell then, until my predictions are
verified. I wish you all—my generous
benefactors—a thousand rich blessings in
reward for your beneficence. At some
future day, I trust my debt of gratitude
may be cancelled in the sight of man, and
that your well-meant serenity will be for
given and expiated in the eyes of God.
Adieu 1”
With a gracious courtesy, he passed out
from among them, unhindered and alone.
The crowd dispersed silently, with a sick
ening sense of their own cruelty gnawing
at their hearts. The subject was never
alluded to; each and every one under
stood that guilt equal to that of his broth
er, lay on his own soul. Slowly, but
surely, they all set about working out?
their own pardon. Expiation is always
accepted by the outraged god of justice—
and remorse spurred reparation on to an
exquisite accomplishment.
Ten years later the tranquil village of
Errol on the Firth of Tay, was startled by
the martial tread of a thousand mounted
cavalry. The inhabitants hastily donned
their most gorgeous tartans and flocked to
the Hardninge Heath. The chiefs were
gathered about a grand, imposing person
age, who was superbly mounted on a coal
black horse. The Secretary for Scotland,
the Lord Keeper for the Privy Seal, the
Lord Justice Clerk, and the Lord Advo
cate, all paid homage to that noble pres
ence. Errol had heard of the great chief
tain who was considered the peer of Bruce
in heroism, who had endeavored to guide
the ship of government smoothly through
the troubled sea of civic warfare, and of
his military miracles on the shores of the
Dan. The people wondered vaguely if
they had ever beheld this stranger; there
seemed something strangely familiar in
the graceful poise of his Adonis-like head.
They implored his name, and listened awe
struck, as the well known tones of a still
remembered voice broke the silence. “I
bear three names, good people. First, is
that which my country has bestowed upon
me in recognition of duty performed on
her glorified battlefield—Prince Roderic.
Another name, less glorious perhaps than
this, but no less dear, was won at Clyde-
St. Vincences’ Savior of Mooray is enough
—you have heard the story of the Siege.
But last, and more glorious still, I have
the honor to be, your most humble ser
vant, Gordon Durrell, the Village Ne’er
do-weel.
Ruby Beryl Kyle.
“BEADIE.”
[ Continued from page 3.]
riage, and it was a great trial to her moth
er, also, but Mrs. Blisshorn was willing to
make any sacrifice for Beadle’s good.
Beadie was much changed. She was
more thoughtful and womanly; but was
bright and cheerful, without a sign of the
consciousness of Having done wrong. I
was not qualified to give advice, so I sug
gested that Beadie consult Professor
Teachum. He was a man of experience,
was her sincere friend, and she was under
heavy obligations to him. All the family
agreed to this suggestion. I could not im
agine myself going to Professor Teachum
with a love story, but Beadie could be
brave when occasion demanded, and she
did not shrink from the task. She return
ed with me, and went alone to interview
the president.
Beadie was gone two hours. I seaiched
her face the moment she entered our room,
but there was calm content without un-
usual excitement there. She took a low
chair and laid ner crutch on the floor more
quietly than usual, while I put my book
aside and said: “Well, Beadie ?”
“It is well, I suppose,” she replied in the
clear, silvery voice peculiar to her. Pro
fessor Teachum agrees with Mamma. He
says if I quite know my mind and am fully
decided to marry Joyce Harwood, that it
is best for me to marry and not return to
school. The dear old fellow feels disap
pointed in me, I know, as well as Mam
ma, and thinks that God never intended
me for a wife, but he was too kind to say
so. I will go home to-morrow; then the
day after—let me see, that will be Friday.
We will be married on Friday in Joyce’s
bedroom. We must make Friday a lucky
day whether it is or not.”
“Oh, no, Beadie I” I cried in amaze
ment. “Wait until Mr. Harwood is well,
and marry decently—do I Pray don’t
make yourself appear ridiculous. Wait a
few months—one month, at least.”
“No,” she said, “a relapse would kill
him now. My prospective mother-in-law
gives way too easily and lets Joyce eat too
much. I will marry him and nurse him
back to health. He is not willing to wait,
and in that he is right.”
There was such decision in her tone that
I said no more against her plans. They
were married, and I saw Beadie no more
for six years, although we kept up a regu
lar correspondence. When 1 went to visit
her, tnere were two sunny-haired, blue
eyed children at her knee. A more beau
tiful home-life I never saw. Beadie was
merry and frolicsome as ever, and could
run on her crutch as fast as tbe children
could run : but when she had played
enough there was a decided “That will do,
darling,” or “There now, dearie,” which
never was questioned. It was the same in
all that concerned the children; when the
word came they never seemed to hesitate,
yet it was all so cheerful, so happy.
Beadie seemed to have imbibed Mr.
Harwood’s firmness and method, while he
seemed to have caught her spirit of frank
ness and cheerfulness, making delightful
harmony. He could frolic with the chil
dren, equal to Beadie herself; then, in five
minutes all would be in an attitude of
reverence for evening prayers. The home
less women and children, the unemployed
and helpless men who came to them for
help and advice were always sure of a po
lite hearing, a cheerful word of sympathy
and advice, and the beflt assistance that
the case and the circumstances permitted.
These were always received in the sitting
room, and the absent husband or wife
called in; what impressed me most was
the oneness of mind and spirit in the lit
tle family, which was brought out so clear
ly at these interviews. Two years later I
was called there by a telegram. The
lovely young mother was dying. The
friends and neighbors were gathered in an
adjoining room. Mother, husband and
children were by the bed. She was per
fectly conscious. A smile played on her
face as I softly kissed her brow and sat
down at her side. There was no review
ofher life. Cheerfully as she had lived it,
she gave it up. There was no terribly
trying scene; we all understood one an
other too well for that to be necessary. A
loving message for the absent brother,
then she turned to me.
“I love you as well in my last hour, my
friend, as when we were school girls to
gether. You have been true: that is the
best that can be said of a friend. You
will be true to those that are mine, also.
I’ll see you again.”
“Mamma, I leave my children to you
until Joyce wishes to keep them with him.
You have been such a dear, good mother,
you will be just as good a grandmother.
“Bliss, Nellie, Mamma is going up to
Heaven to-day, to live with the angels.
Papa and grandmother will bring you up
there after a while.
“Joyce, my last thought is of you, dear.
I know what your life will be—just as it
has been. I ask no more. I give my life—
whatever it has been—to God. I have no
fear for any of you, not even for my chil
dren, for I know they are in good hands.
What a privilege to have my last hour so
free from care I”
A few instructions more, then she smiled
back a hopeful good-bye as she went away.
Mr. Harwood still lives at the same
place. Mrs. Blisshorn and Beadie’s chil
dren spend part of the time there. Once
each year he visits me. When he is here
he often says: “Do you think Beadie
would like for the children to learn”—thus
and so? Or, “I thought Beadie would
want me to do that.” Strangers who meet
him at my house say “he is so peculiar.”
Yes. perhaps so, but he is Beadie’s hus
band.
No soul is desolate so long as there is a
human being for whom it can feel, trust
and reverence.—Georye Eliot
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