CONSULTATION.
ON the evening of that day, Ned Franks, the one-armed sailor, came, as
he often did after his work of teaching was over at the school, to take
tea with his sister, Bessy Peele, and her son.
A blazing fire threw its red glow round the cottage kitchen, and the
kettle sang merrily on the hob.
"Any news, Bessy?" asked the sailor in a cheerful tone, as he hung up
his straw hat on a peg on the wall.
"News, why yes," answered Bessy, tossing a note to her brother across
the deal-table at which she was cutting the loaf. "The carrier brought
this to-day from the town. There's Norah all agog to go to the
workhouse!"
"To the workhouse," repeated Ned, with a merry laugh. "She's not likely
to go there, I hope, while she has two hands and I have one that can
work to keep her out of it."
"Just read her note—oh! that's not the one—but you'd better read both;
the matron's will show you the whole matter. It's the most ridiculous
notion as ever I heard of in all my born days." And with an angry toss
of the head, Bessy went off to the kettle to fill her black tea-pot,
while Ned read to himself Norah's note.
"Dear Mother,—Mistress says I may have the time, and she will pay
herself for my coach, if you, or some other respectable woman, will go
to the workhouse with me on Friday, but I must not go by miself. Do, do
agree, dear mother. I cannot be happy till I have seen poor Sophy. Your
dutiful child, Norah." And there was added, on a blotted line below,
"if you can't go with me, p'raps my dear teacher wood."
"Well, Bessy, are you going?" quietly asked Ned Franks as he laid down
the note.
"Going!" repeated Bessy, in her shrillest tone. "I must come to a
pretty pass indeed afore I darken the door of a workhouse. I think the
girl's gone crazed. As if I could give up half-a-day to go dancing over
the country, and in middle of winter too. If it had been for a summer
treat, a pic-nic, or fair, or something like that, 'twould have been a
different matter. But to visit a pauper in a workhouse!" Bessy banged
down the kettle on the hob, and carried the steaming tea-pot to the
table.
"Now to my mind," said Ned, "'tis better to visit a messmate in
trouble, whether in palace or poorhouse, whether weather be fair or
foul, than to go on any mere pleasure cruise. She's a true-hearted
lass, little Norah, not to turn her back on a friend."
"Why, uncle," exclaimed Dan, speaking with his mouth full, and that
twinkle in his small black eyes, which gave a weasel-like slyness to
his face, "to think of you, of all men living, standing up for Sophy
Puller. Why the very first thing that you said when you heard of her
doings was, that she was no true friend to our Norah."
"A sly, deceitful, dishonest, good-for-nothing minx," exclaimed Bessy,
"who would have got my girl into all sorts of mischief. A workhouse is
too good for the like of her, a great deal too good say I;" and Mrs.
Peele poured out the tea with an air of virtuous indignation.
Ned Franks could not help thinking of the proverb, "they who live in
glass-houses should not throw stones." His half-sister's own notions
of truth and honesty were little more strict than those of poor
Sophy, while she had not had the excuse of having been brought up by
a worthless parent. How far more easy it is to condemn sin in others,
than to subdue it in ourselves! Ned Franks was very silent during the
meal. The idea of a young, misguided creature, suffering and blind in
a workhouse, filled his kindly heart with such compassion as the good
Samaritan felt for the wounded man by the way-side. Franks wished with
all his soul that he could carry comfort to the poor girl, but felt
that the task was not a suitable one for a young man like himself.
"Uncle Ned, what are you thinking of? you're as dumb as a fish," cried
Dan at last, missing the usual lively flow of the sailor's conversation.
Ned took no notice of the remark, but said, turning towards Bessy
Peele; "who is the teacher whom Norah mentions in her note?"
"Oh! don't you know?" cried Dan; "'tis Persis Meade, who goes every
Sunday to teach the Bible-class of girls."
"I know her by name and sight," said the sailor, "but I do not know
where she lives."
"In the little dell, near the mill-stream," cried Dan, "taking care of
her silly old grand-dad, the old man who goes tottering to church with
a crutch, and who has lived so long that he's lost all his hair, his
teeth, and his wits." Dan laughed, as if the infirmities of age were
any subject for laughter, till silenced by the stern glance of his
uncle's reproving eye.
"Persis Meade was nursery governess at Mrs. Lane's," said Bessy, "and
a deal they thought of her there; I wonder she ever left them to slave
away as sick-nurse to a doited old man, as had never been partic'lar
kind to her. But when her aunt Lizzy married, and old Meade was left
all alone, Persis came to his cottage, and set up as needlewoman,
though I don't know as how she had any special turn that way. The
gentry about here employ her. She makes all the dresses for the Lanes;
but if I'd been she, I'd have stayed where I was, and let the silly old
man go to the workhouse. He needs as much looking after as a baby, and
his childish babble is worse than the clack of a mill. Persis Meade was
a deal better off at the Lanes; I say 'twas folly to leave them."
"Maybe 'twill not prove so in the end," observed Franks; "there's a
blessing in the wake of the command, honour thy father and mother. Do
you think," he added, "that Miss Meade would take care of our Norah on
Friday?"
"I'll not ask her," cried Bessy, with something like a snort.
"If you don't mind it, I will," said the sailor. "I'll walk over early
before school opens, and send Norah a line by post; she'll get it on
Friday morning in time to walk over and join Miss Meade at the end of
the lane, where the coach would pick them both up."
"'Tis not very likely that a woman as has two mouths to feed with her
needle will give up half-a-day, and take a coach to B— to go hunting
out a blind pauper."
"I'll make the coach easy for the matter of that," observed Franks,
with a smile. "Norah shall have enough of ready rhino to pay for both."
"I'm sure that you might do something better with your money,"
exclaimed Bessy, who always thought that she had first claim to
whatever her brother could spare.
"I hope you remember, uncle, that to-morrow is New-year's day," cried
Dan, with a knowing wink of the eye.
"That there awkward boy broke my clothes' horse yesterday," sighed
Bessy, "and I'm sure I don't know which way to turn for money to buy a
new one."
"If Dan broke it yesterday, let him mend it to-day," laughed Ned, who
understood the hint well, but did not choose to take it, "He and I,
we can muster three hands between us. No need of money when a little
labour will serve the turn. I'll give you a lesson, Dan, in the
carpentering line; take that as a New-year's gift if you will."