Robert Michael Ballantyne
The Lonely Island: The Refuge of the Mutineers
Chapter Thirty
Adams and the Girls
Great was the interest aroused on board the Topaz when Jack Brace narrated his experiences among the islanders, and Captain Folger resolved to pay them a visit. He did so next day, accompanied by the Englishman and some of the other men, the sight of whom gladdened the eyes and hearts of Adams and his large family.
Besides assuring himself of the truth of Brace’s statements, the Captain obtained additional proof of the truth of Adams’s account of himself and his community in the form of the chronometer and azimuth compass of the Bounty.
“How many did you say your colony consists of?” asked Folger.
“Thirty-five all told, sir,” answered Adams; “but I fear we shall be only thirty-four soon.”
“How so?”
“One of our lads, a dear boy of about eight years of age, is dying, I fear,” returned Adams, sadly.
“I’m sorry to hear it, and still more sorry that I have no doctor in my ship,” said Folger, “but I have a smatterin’ of doctors’ work myself. Let me see him.”
Adams led the way to the hut where poor James Young lay, tenderly nursed by Mary Christian. The boy was lying on his bed as they entered, gazing wistfully out at the little window which opened from the side of it like the port-lights or bull’s-eyes of a ship’s berth. His young nurse sat beside him with the Bounty Bible open on her knees. She shut it and rose as the strangers entered.
The poor invalid was too weak to take much interest in them. He was extremely thin, and breathed with great difficulty. Nevertheless his face flushed, and a gleam of surprise shot from his eyes as he turned languidly towards the Captain.
“My poor boy,” said Folger, taking his hand and gently feeling his pulse, “do you suffer much?”
“Yes,—very much,” said little James, with a sickly smile.
“Can you rest at all?” asked the Captain.
“I am—always—resting,” he replied, with a pause between each word; “resting—on Jesus.”
The Captain was evidently surprised by the answer.
“Who told you about Jesus?” he asked.
“God’s book—and—the Holy—Spirit.”
It was obvious that the exertion of thinking and talking was not good for poor little James. Captain Folger therefore, after smoothing the hair on his forehead once or twice very tenderly, bade him good-bye, and went out.
“Doctors could do nothing for the child,” he said, while returning with Adams to his house; “but he is rather to be envied than pitied. I would give much for the rest which he apparently has found.”
“Give much!” exclaimed Adams, with an earnest look. “Rest in the Lord is not to be purchased by gifts. Itself is the grand free gift of God to man, to be had for the asking.”
“I know it,” was the Captain’s curt reply, as he entered Adams’s house. “Where got you the chronometer and azimuth compass?” he said, on observing these instruments.
“They belonged to the Bounty. You are heartily welcome to both of them if you choose; they are of no use to me.” (See Note.)
Folger accepted the gift, and promised to write to England and acquaint the Government with his discovery of the colony.
“You see, sir,” said Adams, with a grave look, while hospitably entertaining his visitor that afternoon, “we are increasing at a great rate, and although they may perhaps take me home and swing me up to the yard-arm, I think it better to run the risk o’ that than to leave all these poor young things here unprotected. Why, just think what might happen if one o’ them traders which are little better than pirates were to come an’ find us here.”
He looked at the Captain earnestly.
“Now, if we were under the protection o’ the British flag—only just recognised, as it were,—that would go a long way to help us, and prevent mischief.”
At this point the importunities of some of the young people to hear about the outside world prevailed, and Folger began, as Jack Brace had done the day before, to tell them some of the most stirring events in the history of his own land.
But he soon found out that the mental capacity of the Pitcairners was like a bottomless pit. However much they got, they wanted more. Anecdote after anecdote, story after story, fact after fact, was thrown into the gulf, and still the cry was, “More! more!”
At last he tore himself away.
“Good-bye, and God bless you all,” he said, while stepping into the canoe which was to carry him off. “I won’t forget my promise.”
“And tell ’em to send us story-books,” shouted Daniel McCoy, as the canoe rose on the back of the breakers.
The Captain waved his hand. Most of the women and children wiped their eyes, and then they all ran to the heights to watch the Topaz as she sailed away. They watched her till she vanished over that mysterious horizon which seemed to the Pitcairners the utmost boundary of the world, and some of them continued to gaze until the stars came out, and the gulls retired to bed, and the soft black mantle of night descended like a blessing of tranquillity on land and sea.
Before bidding the Topaz farewell, we may remark that Captain Folger faithfully fulfilled his promise. He wrote a letter to England giving a full account of his discovery of the retreat of the mutineers, which aroused much interest all over the land; but at that time the stirring events of warfare filled the minds of men in Europe so exclusively, that the lonely island and its inhabitants were soon forgotten—at least no action was taken by the Government—and six years elapsed before another vessel sailed out of the great world into the circle of vision around Pitcairn.
Meanwhile the Pitcairners, knowing that, even at the shortest, a long, long time must pass before Folger could communicate with the “old country,” continued the even tenor of their innocent lives.
The school prospered and became a vigorous institution. The church not less so. More children were born to Thursday October, insomuch that he at last had one for every working-day in the week; more yam-fields were cultivated, and more marriages took place—but hold, this is anticipating.
We have said that the school prospered. The entire community went to it, male and female, old and young. John Adams not only taught his pupils all he knew, but set himself laboriously to acquire all the knowledge that was to be obtained by severe study of the Bible, the Prayer-book. Carteret’s Voyages, and by original meditation. From the first mine he gathered and taught the grand, plain, and blessed truths about salvation through Jesus, together with a few tares of error resulting from misconception and imperfect reasoning. From the second he adopted the forms of worship of the Church of England. From the third he gleaned and amplified a modicum of nautical, geographical, and general information; and from the fourth he extracted a flood of miscellaneous, incomplete, and disjointed facts, fancies, and fallacies, which at all events served the good purpose of interesting his pupils and exercising their mental powers.
But into the midst of all this life death stepped and claimed a victim. The great destroyer came not, however, as an enemy but as a friend, to raise little James Young to that perfect rest of which he had already had a foretaste on the island.
It was the first death among the second generation, and naturally had a deeply solemnising effect on the young people. This occurred soon after the departure of the Topaz. The little grave was made under the shade of a palm-grove, where wild-flowers grew in abundance, and openings in the leafy canopy let in the glance of heaven’s blue eye.
One evening, about six months after this event, Adams went up the hill to an eminence to which he was fond of retiring when a knotty problem in arithmetic had to be tackled. Arithmetic was his chief difficulty. The soliloquy which he uttered on reaching his place of meditation will explain his perplexities.
“That ’rithmetic do bother me, an’ no mistake,” he said, with a grave shake of the head at a lively lizard which was looking up in his face. “You see, history is easy. What I knows I knows an’ can teach, an’ what I don’t know I let alone, an there’s an end on’t. There’s no makin’ a better o’ that. Then, as to writin’, though my hand is crabbed enough, and my pot-hooks are shaky and sprawly, still I know the shapes o’ things, an’ the youngsters are so quick that they can most of ’em write better than myself; but in regard to that ’rithmetic, it’s a heartbreak altogether, for I’ve only just got enough of it to puzzle me. Wi’ the use o’ my fingers I can do simple addition pretty well, an’ I can screw round subtraction, but multiplication’s a terrible business. Unfort’nitely my edication has carried me only the length o’ the fourth line, an’ that ain’t enough.”
He paused, and the lively lizard, ready to fly at a moment’s notice, put its head on one side as if interested in the man’s difficulty.
“Seven times eight, now,” continued Adams. “I’ve no more notion what that is than the man in the moon. An’ I’ve no table to tell me, an’ no way o’ findin’ it out—eh? Why, yes I have. I’ll mark ’em down one at a time an’ count ’em up.”
He gave his thigh a slap, which sent the lively lizard into his hole, horrified.
“Poor thing, I didn’t mean that,” he said to the absent animal. “Hows’ever, I’ll try it. Why, I’ll make a multiplication-table for myself. Strange that that way never struck me before.”
As he went on muttering he busied himself in rubbing clean a flat surface of rock, on which, with a piece of reddish stone, he made a row of eight marks, one below another. Alongside of that he made another row of eight marks, and so on till he had put down seven rows, when he counted them up, and found the result to be fifty-six. This piece of acquired knowledge he jotted down in a little notebook, which, with a quantity of other stationery, had originally belonged to that great fountain of wealth, the Bounty.
“Why, I’ll make out the whole table in this way,” he said, quite heartily, as he sat down again on the flat rock and went to work.
Of course he found the process laborious, especially when he got among the higher numbers; but Adams was not a man to be turned from his purpose by trifles. He persevered until his efforts were crowned with success.
While he was engaged with the multiplication problem on that day, he was interrupted by the sound of merry voices, and soon Otaheitan Sally, Bessy Mills, May Christian, Sarah Quintal, and his own daughter Dinah, came tripping up the hill towards him.
These five, ranging from fifteen to nineteen, were fond of rambling through the woods in company, being not only the older members of the young flock, but like-minded in many things. Sally was looked up to by the other four as being the eldest and wisest, as well as the most beautiful; and truly, the fine clear complexion of the pretty brunette contrasted well with their fairer skins and golden or light-brown locks.
“We came up to have a chat with you, father,” said Sally, as they drew near. “Are you too busy to be bothered with us?”
“Never too busy to chat with such dear girls,” said the gallant seaman, throwing down his piece of red chalk, and taking one of Sally’s hands in his. “Sit down, Sall; sit down, May, on the other side—there. Now, what have you come to chat about?”
“About that dear Topaz, of course, and that darling Captain Folger, and Jack Brace, and all the rest of them,” answered Sarah Quintal, with sparkling eyes.
“Hallo, Sarah! you’ve sent your heart away with them, I fear,” said Adams.
“Not quite, but nearly,” returned Sarah. “I would give anything if the whole crew would only have stayed with us altogether.”
“Oh! how charming! delightful! so nice!” exclaimed three of the others. Sally said nothing, but gave a little smile, which sent a sparkle from her pearly teeth that harmonised well with the gleam of her laughter-loving eyes.
“No doubt,” said Adams, with a peculiar laugh; “but, I say, girls, you must not go on thinking for ever about that ship. Why, it is six months or more since it left us, and you are all as full of it as if it had sailed but yesterday.”
“How can we help it, father?” said Sally. “It is about the most wonderful thing that has happened since we were born, and you can’t expect us to get it out of our heads easily.”
“And how can we help thinking, and talking too,” said Bessy Mills, “about all the new and strange things that Jack Brace related to us?”
“Besides, father,” said Dinah, “you are quite as bad as we are, for you talk about nothing else now, almost, except Lord Nelson and the battles of the Nile and Trafalgar.”
“Come, come, Di; don’t be hard on me. I don’t say much about them battles now.”
“Indeed you do,” cried May Christian, “and it is only last night that I heard you muttering something about Trafalgar in your sleep, and you suddenly broke out with a half-muttered shout like this: ‘Englan’ ’specs every man’ll do’s dooty!’”
May was not a bad mimic. This was received with a shout of laughter by the other girls.
While they were conversing thus two tall and slim but broad-shouldered youths were seen climbing the hill towards them, engaged in very earnest conversation. And this reference to conversation reminds us of the curious fact that the language of the young Pitcairners had greatly improved of late. As they had no other living model to improve upon than John Adams, this must have been entirely the result of reading. Although the books they had were few, they proved to be sufficient not only to fill their minds with higher thoughts, but their mouths with purer English than that nautical type which had been peculiar to the mutineers.
The tall striplings who now approached were Daniel McCoy and Charlie Christian. These two were great friends and confidants. We will not reveal the subject of their remarkably earnest conversation, but merely give the concluding sentences.
“Well, Charlie,” said Dan, as they came in view of the knoll on which Adams and the girls were seated, “we will pluck up courage and make a dash at it together.”
“Ye-es,” said Charlie, with hesitation.
“And shall we break the ice by referring to Toc’s condition, eh?” said Dan.
“Well, it seems to me the easiest plan; perhaps I should say the least difficult,” returned Charlie, with a faint smile.
“Come, don’t lose heart, Charlie,” said Dan, with an attempt to look humorous, which signally failed.
“Hallo, lads! where away?” said Adams, as they came up.
“Just bin havin’ a walk and a talk, father,” answered Dan. “We saw you up here, and came to walk back with you.”
“I’m not so sure that we’ll let you. The girls and I have been having a pleasant confab, an’ p’r’aps they don’t want to be interrupted.”
“Oh, we don’t mind; they may come,” said Di Adams, with a laugh.
So the youths joined the party, and they all descended the mountain in company.
A footnote in Lady Belcher’s book tells us that this chronometer had been twice carried out by Captain Cook on his voyages of discovery. It was afterwards supplied to the Bounty when she was fitted out for what was to be her last voyage, and carried by the mutineers to Pitcairn Island. Captain Folger brought it away, but it was taken from him the same year by the governor of Juan Fernandez, and sold in Chili to A Caldeleugh, Esquire, of Valparaiso, from whom it was purchased by Captain, (afterwards Admiral), Sir T. Herbert for fifty guineas. That officer took it to China, and in 1843 brought it to England and transmitted it to the Admiralty, by which department it was presented to the United Service Museum, in Great Scotland Yard, where the writer saw it only a few days ago, and was told that it keeps excellent time still.
Chapter Thirty One
Treats of Interesting Matters
Of course Charlie Christian gravitated towards Sally, and these two, falling slowly behind the rest, soon turned aside, and descended by another of the numerous paths which traversed that part of the mountain.
Of course, also, Daniel McCoy drew near to Sarah Quintal, and these two, falling slowly behind, sought another of the mountain-paths. It will be seen that these young people were charmingly unsophisticated.
For a considerable time Charlie walked beside Sally without uttering a word, and Sally, seeing that there was something on his mind, kept silence. At last Charlie lifted his eyes from the ground, and with the same innocent gaze with which, as an infant, he had been wont to look up to his guardian, he now looked down at her, and said, “Sally.”
“Well, Charlie?”
There was a little smile lurking about the corners of the girl’s mouth, which seemed to play hide-and-seek with the twinkle in her downcast eyes.
“Well, Charlie, what are you going to tell me?”
“Isn’t Toc—very—happy?”
He blushed to the roots of his hair when he said this, and dropped his eyes again on the ground.
“Of course he is,” replied Sally, with a touch of surprise.
“But—but—I mean, as—”
“Well, why don’t you go on, Charlie?”
“I mean as a—a married man.”
“Every one sees and knows that, Charlie.” There was another silence, during which the timid youth cleared his throat several times. At last he became desperate.
“And—and—Sally, don’t you think that other people might be happy too if they were married?”
“To be sure they might,” said the girl, with provoking coolness. “There’s Dan McCoy, now, and Sarah Quintal, they will be very happy when—”
“Why, how do you know?”—Charlie spoke with a look of surprise and stopped short.
The girl laughed in a low tone, but did not reply, and the youth, becoming still more desperate, said—
“But I—I didn’t mean Dan and Sarah, when I—Oh, Sally, don’t you know that I love you?”
“Yes, I know that,” replied the girl, with a blush and a little tremulous smile. “I couldn’t help knowing that.”
“Have I made it so plain, then?” he asked, in surprise.
“Haven’t you followed me ever since you were a staggerer?” asked Sally, with a simple look.
“O yes, of course—but—but I love you far far more now. In short, I want to marry you, Sally.”
He had reached the culminating point at last. “Well, Charlie, why don’t you ask father’s leave?” said the maiden.
“And you agree?” he exclaimed, timidly taking her hand.
“Oh, Charlie,” returned Sally, looking up in his face, with an arch smile, “how stupid you are! Nothing goes into your dear head without such a deal of hammering. Will you never become wise, and—”
Charlie became wise at last, and stopped her impudent mouth effectively; but she broke from him and ran into the woods, while he went down to the village to tell Adams.
Meanwhile Daniel McCoy led Sarah Quintal by a round-about path to the cliffs above Pitcairn.
Pretty little Sarah was timid, and had a vague suspicion of something that caused her heart to flutter.
“I say, Sarah,” said the bold and stalwart Dan, “did you ever see such a jolly couple as Toc and his wife before?”
“I never saw any couple before, you know,” replied the girl, simply, “except father Adams and his wife.”
“Well, they are an oldish couple,” returned Dan, with a laugh; “but it’s my opinion that before long you’ll see a good many more couples—young ones, too.”
“Indeed,” said Sarah, becoming much interested, for this was the first time that any young man had ventured to refer to such a subject, though she and her female companions had often canvassed the possibilities that surrounded them.
“Yes, indeed,” returned Dan. “Let me see, now. There’s Charlie Christian and Otaheitan Sally—”
“Why, how did you come to know that?” asked Sarah, in genuine surprise.
Dan laughed heartily. “Come to know what?” he asked.
“That—that he is fond of Sally,” stammered Sarah.
“Why, everybody knows that,” returned Dan; “the very gulls must be aware of it by this time, unless they are geese.”
“Yes, of course,” said the poor girl, blushing crimson at the thought of having been led almost to betray her friend’s confidences.
“Well, then,” continued Dan, “Charlie and Sall bein’ so fond o’ one another—”
“I did not say that Sally was fond of Charlie,” interrupted Sarah, quickly.
“Oh dear no!” said Dan, with deep solemnity; “of course you didn’t; nevertheless I know it, and it wouldn’t surprise me much if something came of it—a wedding, for instance.”
Sarah, being afraid to commit herself in some way if she opened her lips, said nothing, but gazed intently at the ground as they walked slowly among the sweet-scented shrubs.
“But there’s one o’ the boys that wants to marry you, Sarah Quintal, and it is for him I want to put in a good word to-day.”
A flutter of surprise, mingled with dismay at her heart, tended still further to confuse the poor girl. Not knowing what to say, she stammered, “Indeed! Who can it—it—” and stopped short.
“They sometimes call him Dan,” said the youth, suddenly grasping Sarah’s hand and passing an arm round her waist, “but his full name is Daniel McCoy.”
Sarah Quintal became as suddenly pale now as she had formerly become red, and struggled to get free.
“Oh, Dan, Dan, don’t!” she cried, earnestly; “do let me go, if you love me!”
“Well, I will, if you say I may speak to Father Adams about it.”
Sarah’s answer was quite inaudible to ordinary ears, but it caused Dan to loosen his hold; and the girl, bounding away like a frightened gazelle, disappeared among the palm-groves.
“Well,” exclaimed Dan, thrusting both hands into his trousers-pockets as he walked smartly down the hill, “you are the dearest girl in all the world. There can’t be two opinions on that point.”
Dan’s world was a remarkably small one, as worlds go, but it was quite large enough to fill his heart to overflowing at that time.
In turning into another path he almost ran against Charlie Christian.
“Well?” exclaimed Charlie, with a brilliant smile. “Well?” repeated Dan, with a beaming countenance.
“All right,” said Charlie.
“Ditto,” said Dan, as he took his friend’s arm, and hastened to the abode of John Adams, the great referee in all important matters.
They found him seated at his table, with the big Bible open before him.
“Well, my lads,” he said, with a kindly smile as they entered, “you find me meditatin’ over a verse that seems to me full o’ suggestive thoughts.”
“Yes, father, what is it?” asked Dan.
“‘A prudent wife is from the Lord.’ You’ll find it in the nineteenth chapter o’ Proverbs.”
The youths looked at each other in great surprise. “It is very strange,” said Charlie, “that you should hit upon that text to-day.”
“Why so, Charlie?”
“Because—because—we came to—that is to say, we want to—”
“Get spliced, Charlie; out with it, man. You keep shuffling about the edge like a timid boy goin’ to dive into deep water for the first time.”
“Well, and so it is deep water,” replied Charlie; “so deep that we can’t fathom it easily; and this is the first time too.”
“The fact is, you’ve come to tell me,” said Adams, looking at Charlie, “that you want to marry Otaheitan Sally, and that Dan there wants to marry Sarah Quintal. Is it not so?”
“I think, father, you must be a wizard,” said Dan, with a surprised look. “How did you come to guess it?”
“I didn’t guess it, lad; I saw it as plain as the nose on your own face. Anybody could see it with half an eye. Why, I’ve seen it for years past; but that’s not the point. The first question is, Are you able to feed your wives without requirin’ them to work too hard in the fields?”
“Yes, father,” answered Dan, promptly. “Charlie helped me, and I helped him, and so we’ve both got enough of land enclosed and stocked to keep our—our—wives comfortably,” (even Dan looked modest here!) “without requiring them to work at all, for a long time at least.”
“Well. I don’t want ’em not to work at all—that’s good for neither man, nor woman, nor beast. Even child’n work hard, poor things, while playin’ at pretendin’ to work. However, I’m glad to hear you are ready. Of course I knew what you were up to all along. Now, you’ll want to borrow a few odds an’ ends from the general stock, therefore go an’ make out lists of what you require, and I’ll see about it. Is it long since you arranged it wi’ the girls?”
“About half-an-hour,” returned Dan.
“H’m! sharp practice. You’ll be the better of meditation for a week or two. Now, get along with you, lads, and think of the word I have given you from God’s book about marriage. I’ll not keep you waitin’ longer than I think right.”
So Dan and Charlie left the presence-chamber of their nautical ruler, quite content to wait for a couple of weeks, having plenty to keep them employed, body and mind, in labouring in their gardens, perfecting the arrangements of their respective cottages, and making out lists of the various things they required to borrow. In all of which operations they were lovingly assisted by their intended wives, with a matter-of-fact gravity that would have been quite touching if it had not been half ridiculous.
The list of things to be borrowed was made out in accordance with a system of barter, exchange, and loan, which had begun in necessity, and was afterwards conducted on regular principles by Adams, who kept a systematic journal and record of accounts, in which he entered the nature and quantity of work performed by each family, what each had received, and what each was due on account. The exchanges also were made in a systematic manner. Thus, when one family had too many salt fish, and another had too much fruit or vegetables, a fair exchange restored the equilibrium to the satisfaction of both parties; and when the stores of one family were exhausted, a fresh supply was raised for it from the general possessions of all the rest, to be repaid, however, in exact measure when the suffering family should be again in affluence, through good harvests and hard work. All details were minutely noted down by Adams, so that injustice to individuals or to the community at large was avoided.
It is interesting to trace, in this well-conducted colony, the great root-principles on which the colossal system of the world’s commerce and trade has been reared, and to recognise in John Adams the germs of those principles of equity and method which have raised England to her high commercial position. But still more interesting is it to recognise in him that good seed, the love of God and His truth, spiritual, intellectual, and material, which, originated by the Holy Spirit, and founded in Jesus Christ, produces the “righteousness that exalteth a nation.”
When the short period of probation was past, Charlie Christian became the happy husband of the girl whom he had all but worshipped from the earliest rememberable days of infancy, and Dan McCoy was united to Sarah Quintal. As in the first case of marriage, Otaheitan Sall was older than her husband; but in her case the difference was so slight as scarcely to be worth mentioning. As to appearance, tall, serious, strapping Charlie looked old enough to have been Sally’s father.
The wedding-day was a day of great rejoicing, considerable solemnity, and not a little fun; for the religion of the Pitcairners, being drawn direct from the inspired Word, was the reverse of dolorous. Indeed, the simplicity of their faith was extreme, for it consisted in merely asking the question, “What does God wish me to do?” and doing it.
Of course the simplicity of this rule was, in Pitcairn as elsewhere, unrecognised by ignorance, or rendered hazy and involved by stupidity. Adams had his own difficulties in combating the effects of evil in the hearts of his children, for, as we have said before, they were by no means perfect, though unusually good.
For instance, one day one of those boys who was passing into the hobbledehoy stage of life, came with a perplexed air, and said—
“Didn’t you tell us in school yesterday, father, that if we were good Jesus would save us?”
“No, Jack Mills, I told you just the reverse. I told you that if Jesus saved you you would be good.”
“Then why doesn’t He save me and make me good?” asked Jack, anxious to cast the blame of his indecision about his salvation off his own shoulders.
“Because you refuse to be saved,” said Adams, pointedly.
Jack Mills felt and looked somewhat hurt at this. He was one of the steadiest boys at the school, always learned his tasks well, and was generally pretty well behaved; but there was in him an ugly, half-hidden root of selfishness, which he did not himself perceive.
“Do you remember going to the shore yesterday?” asked Adams, replying to the look,—for the boy did not speak.
“Yes, father.”
“And you remember that two little boys had just got into a canoe, and were pushing off to enjoy themselves, when you ran down, turned them out, and took the canoe to yourself?”
Jack did not reply; but his flushed face told that he had not forgotten the incident.
“That’s right, dear boy,” continued Adam, “Your blood tells the truth for you, and your tongue don’t contradict it. So long’s you keep the unruly member straight you’ll get along. Well, now, Jack, that was a sin of unkindness, and a sort of robbery, too, for the canoe belonged to the boys while they had possession. Did you want to be saved from that sin, my boy?”
Jack was still silent. He knew that he had not wished to be saved at the time, because, if he had, he would have at once returned to the shore and restored the canoe, with an apology for having taken it by force.
“But I was sorry afterwards, father,” pleaded the boy.
“I know you were, Jack, and your guilty conscience longed for forgiveness. But Jesus did not come to this world to forgive us. He came to save us—to save this people from their sins; His people,—forgiven people, my boy,—from their sins. If you had looked to Jesus, He would have sent His Spirit into you, and brought His Word to your mind, ‘Be ye kind one to another,’ or, ‘Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them:’ or in some way or other He would have turned you back and saved you from sin, but you did not look to Jesus; in short, you refused to be saved just then, and thought to make up for it by being sorry afterwards. Isn’t that the way of it, Jack?”
“Yes, father,” said Jack, with downcast but no longer hurt looks, for Adams’s tone and manner were very kind.
“Then you know now, Jack Mills, why you’re not yet saved, and you can’t be good till you are saved, any more than you can fly till you’ve got wings. But don’t be cast down, my lad; He will save you yet. All you’ve got to do is to cease your opposition, and let Him take you in hand.”
