AN ANGEL OF MERCY

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Apr 14, 1881

AN ANGEL OF MERCY.

“It’s such a pity,” said Mrs. Lee, and she turned her eyes from the window. Kate, her little daughter, a small, blue-eyed, cherub-like creature, stood near her, looking out upon the road. A man had just passed, and it was of him that the lady said, “It’s such a pity.”

“A greater pity for his wife and children,” said Mrs. Lee’s sister.

“Oh dear! It’s a pity for all of them,” said Mrs. Lee, in quite a troubled voice. “Why doesn’t the man drink cold water when he is dry, and not pour burning liquor down his throat? I’ve thought more than once of meeting him with a glass of cool water as he came by, hoping he would turn back to his shop, and not keep on to Huber’s tavern.”

“That would be too pointed,” said the sister.

“It might do good,” Mrs. Lee went on. “Suppose he did feel a little annoyed, he would hardly refuse the cool drink, and he might not feel so strongly drawn toward Huber’s tavern. The next time I saw him coming I’d offer the drink again, and with a pleasant word. I could ask about his wife and children, and show that I felt interested. I’m sure, sister, good would come of it.”

The sister did not feel so hopeful. “It will take more than a glass of water to satisfy his fiery thirst, and then, you know Barclay is easily offended. He would understand just what you meant, I fear, and grow angry and abusive.”

“I don’t believe it would make him angry to offer him a cool drink of water.” The child, who had been listening to her mother and aunt, said this quite earnestly.

The two women looked at each other, but did not answer.

Mr. Barclay was a carpenter. He had been very well off but would take a glass of liquor now and then. This led him into the company of those who visit taverns, and by them he was often drawn away from shop and home. So neglect of business was added to the vice of drinking, and the carpenter’s way in the world turned downward.

Mr. Barclay had several children. The youngest was named Fanny, and she was just four years old. He was very fond of her, and often struggled with his appetite on her account. Many times had he gone backward and forward before the tavern door, love for Fanny pleading against love for rum, and urging him to spend the few pennies in his pocket for a toy, or some candies, instead of for beer. But the dreadful thirst for beer had always gained the mastery. Poor man!

On the morning after Mrs. Lee and her sister were talking about him, it happened that Mr. Barclay was without a penny in his pocket. What was he to do? Not a single glass of liquor could be had at Huber’s tavern, for he was in debt there, and they had refused to trust him until the old score was paid. But how was he to go through all that day without drink? The very thought quickened his craving thirst.

He opened a bureau drawer to get a handkerchief, when something met his eyes that made him pause with a strange expression of face. He stood gazing with an irresolute air, and then, shutting the drawer quickly, turned away to the other side of the room. For some time he remained there, his back to the drawer. A bitter struggle was going on in his mind. Alas! he was not strong enough for this conflict.

Slowly, step by step, listening, looking just like a thief, Mr. Barclay returned to the bureau, and opened the drawer.

What did he bring forth? It was a little wooden box, only a few inches square; he had made it himself, of fine, dark wood, for his dear little Fanny. The pennies were few, but all she had received for many months were in this box. She was saving them to buy a present for her father, Christmas.

A desperate look was in Mr. Barclay’s face as he clutched the box. Hurriedly he took from his pocket a small screw driver, and in a minute the lid was off. Half the pennies were emptied into his pocket, and then the lid replaced and the box returned to the drawer.

He had scarcely taken breath while the box was in his hand. Now he sat down, like one suddenly robbed of strength, and panted. The dark flush went off his face, and he looked pale and guilty.

“Papa!” It was Fanny herself. The loving child came in and put her arms around his neck. It was as much as he could do to keep from pushing her with strong arms away.

“Are you sick, papa?” The child had caught a glimpse of his pale, disturbed countenance.

“I don’t feel very well,” he answered. His voice had so strange a sound to his own ears that it seemed as if some one else were speaking.

“I’m so sorry,” and Fanny drew her arms tighter around his neck, kissing him.

This was more than the wretched man could bear. Rising hurriedly, and almost shaking off his child, he left the house and started for the shop. He did not go to work immediately, but sat down on his bench. He had no heart to work just then.

“Oh, Jim Barclay!” he cried out at last, in a tone of mingled shame and anguish, “that you should come to this.”

He got up and walked about like one bewildered. Just then a man rode up to his shop. “Is that shutter ready for me?” he asked.

“It will be done to-morrow,” answered the carpenter, hardly noticing what was said to him.

“Just what you told me yesterday,” said the man roughly. “The fact is, Jim Barclay,” the man added, “there’s no dependence in you any longer, and I shall take my work somewhere else.”

He was in no mood to bear patiently a hard speech from any one; so he replied as roughly, and the customer rode off in anger. Barclay stood looking after him, his excitement gradually cooling until the blindness of passion was gone.

“Foolish every way,” he muttered, turning slowly to his work bench and taking his plane. “It wasn’t so once. No dependence in Jim Barclay.”

He was hurt by the accusation. The time was when no mechanic in the neighborhood could be more depended upon. If Barclay promised a piece of work, it was sure to be ready. Alas! how changed! He was just as fair in promise now—just as sincere, perhaps, when his word was given—but in performance how slow! He would start in earnest every day, and get on very well until the desire for liquor grew strong enough to tempt him off to Huber’s tavern for a drink. After that no one could count on him.

Some panels of the unfinished shutter lay on Barclay’s bench. He began to grow worried just as it had been with him so many times. But where to begin his day’s work, which of his customers to serve first, he did not know. His hands were unsteady; a sense of heaviness weighed down his limbs; in body and mind he felt wretched. He thought of Huber’s tavern and a refreshing glass. Just one glass, and his shattered nerves would be steadier for the day’s work. Then he thought of the pennies in his pocket, the treasure of his dear little Fanny, stolen from her that morning; and such shame fell upon his heart that he sat down upon his work bench and groaned in pain.

“I’ll get one glass,” he said, starting up, “for I must have something to put life into me. The pennies are only borrowed, and I’ll return them

two for one. Just one glass to make me all right,” and off he started for the tavern.

Between the shop and the tavern was a pleasant cottage. Mr. Barclay was nearly opposite this cottage, when out ran a child, holding in her hands a small glass pitcher of water, her golden hair tossing in the wind. She was about Fanny’s age, and beautiful as a cherub.

“Won’t you have a cool drink, Mr. Barclay?” said the child, stopping before him and offering her pitcher, while her earnest, tender eyes, blue as violets, were lifted to his face.

Surprised and startled by this sudden vision of innocence and beauty, Mr. Barclay did not hesitate for an instant, but took the pitcher and drank almost at a single draught every drop of the pure, cold water.

“Thank you, my dear,” dropped from his lips as he handed back the empty vessel, and then he stooped and kissed the child. She did not turn from him and go back into the house, but stood between him and the little tavern, gazing up into his face. He took a step forward. The child caught his hand. “Oh don’t, Mr. Barclay!” she cried eagerly, and in such a pleading voice that her tones went further down into his heart than human tones had gone for a long time.

“Don’t what, little darling?” he asked, bending toward her in a new surprise.

“Don’t go to Huber’s any more,” answered the child.

Mr. Barclay drew himself up and stood as still as a statue. The child looked at him with a half scared expression, but she kept firmly hold of his hand. Suddenly catching his breath, he stooped quickly and touched the child’s fair forehead with his lips. He said not a word, turned resolutely, and went striding down the road in the direction of his shop.

From the window of the cottage, mother and aunt looked on the scene with surprise. The act was her own. They had no hint of her purpose until they saw her cross the road with the pitcher of water in her hand. Her own act, did I say? Let me lift your thoughts higher. God’s love and pity for the poor drunkard had flowed into the child’s heart and moved her to do just what she did. So it was God acting through her just as he acts through every one of us when we try to do good to others. Think of this. God working mercy through us, and making us angels of mercy.

Mr. Barclay returned to the shop, took off his coat and went to work. The cool water, but more the good resolution the child had awakened in his heart, gave tone and refreshment to body and mind. His nerves, all unstrung when he started to the tavern, were steady now. No tremor ran through his hand as he grasped the mallet, chisel, or plane. He worked with a pleasure not felt for a long time.

After an hour this feeling began to wear off, and the old heaviness and thirst for liquor returned. His thoughts went to Huber’s tavern and the tempting liquor there. But there was something in the way that he could not pass; no fierce lions, but a pure and innocent child. He felt sure that when she saw him coming along the road she would meet him with her sweet, pleading face, and pitcher of water, and to pass by would be impossible. “Go around by the old mill,” said the tempter, “and the child will not see you.”

He hearkened a moment, then with an almost angry tone, he said:

“No, no, no! God’s angel met me in an evil path and turned me back. I will not go around by any other way.”

There was a spring not far from his shop. He drank freely at this, and then, refreshed, took up his work again. How clear his mind was—clearer than it had been for a long time. Like a beautiful picture, was the image of that beautiful child meeting him in the road and offering her pitcher of water. It was always before him, and the longer he looked upon it the softer his heart became, and the stronger his good resolutions.

For the first time in months, Mr. Barclay came home that evening sober and in his right mind. What throbs of joy his pulse gave as he saw the look of happy surprise in his poor wife’s face, and felt the delight of dear little Fanny’s heart as she sprang into his arms and hugged him in a way that told what a new gladness was in her soul. Not until he had returned the pennies to her box did the red spot of shame fade from his manly face.

Mr. Barclay was never seen in Huber’s tavern again, nor any other tavern.

“If,” he said to a friend, years afterward, “the old desire came back, and my thoughts went off to Huber’s tavern, it never got past the white cottage, for out from its porch I would always see coming to meet me, pitcher in hand, that heaven-sent child, and to have passed her would have been impossible.”