Ned Taylor's misspent life came to an end a few weeks after his
confession to Thomas Bradly of his connection with the awful death of
Joe Wright. His internal injuries could not be healed; and, after many
days and nights of terrible suffering, meekly and patiently borne, he
passed away from a world on which he had left no other mark but the scar
of a wasted life. Alas that beings to whom God has given faculties, by
the right use of which they might glorify him on the earth, should pass
away from it, as thousands do, to be remembered only as a warning and a
shame! Not but that there was a little fringe of light on the skirts of
the dark cloud of Ned Taylor's career. There was, indeed, no joy nor
triumphant confidence at the last, but there was humble and penitent
hope.
Bradly and Foster were among those who followed him to the grave, and
listened with awe to the sublime words of the burial service. As they
turned to go home, Bradly noticed a female among the by-standers, whose
face he felt sure he knew, though it was nearly concealed from him by
her handkerchief, and the pains she manifestly took to avoid observation
as much as possible. She was one, if she was the person he supposed her
to be, whom he would least have expected to meet on the present
occasion; but he might, of course, be mistaken. That same evening,
while he was sitting in his surgery about nine o'clock, he heard a timid
knock at the outer door. He was used to all sorts of knocks, bold and
timid, loud and gentle, so he at once said, "Come in," and was not
surprised to see a woman enter, with her face muffled up in a shawl.
"Take a seat, missus," he said in a kind voice, "and tell me what I can
do for you."--His visitor sat down and uncovered her face without
speaking a word. It was Lydia Philips, the publican's daughter. She
was simply dressed; her face was very pale and sad, and she had
evidently been weeping, for the tears were still on her cheeks.
"Mr Bradly," she said, "will you give a word of advice and a helping
hand to a poor heart-broken girl? You and I don't know much of each
other, but at any rate you won't quite despise me, though you know who I
am, when I tell you my trouble, if you'll be good enough to listen to
it."
"Despise you, Miss Philips! No, indeed; I know too much of my own evil
heart to be despising any poor fellow-sinner."
"Ah, that's just what I am and have been," she exclaimed vehemently; "a
vile, miserable sinner.--You saw me to-day at poor Ned Taylor's
funeral?" she added abruptly.
"I did, miss; and I own it took me by surprise."
"Well, Mr Bradly, I want to tell you to-night what brought me there. I
know that Ned Taylor told you all about the bag, and the bracelet, and
poor Joe Wright's death, because once when I called upon him in his
illness, and found him alone, he said that he had confessed it all to
you to ease his conscience, and that I had nothing to fear, for you were
a prudent man, and would keep the story to yourself. I told him I was
not afraid about that; and then we had a very serious talk together, and
he begged me with many tears to forgive him for all the wicked words he
had said in our house, and the bad example he had shown there; and he
finished by begging and praying me to get out of the public-house and
the business, where there were so many snares, and to care for my soul
and a better world.
"O Mr Bradly, I can never forget his words. But they were not the
first that touched me, and brought me to a sense of sin. That night
when poor Wright was killed, when Ned turned that bag upside down which
he told you about, a little book fell out of it under the table; but the
men were so eager with their plan, and so frightened about the bracelet,
that they never remembered or thought anything about the book; but I
found it under the table when they were gone, for I had noticed that
some of the papers out of the bag had not been put back, and I was
curious to see if there was any writing on any of them, but there was
not; they were only bits of silver paper and other waste paper. As I
stooped to pick them up I noticed the little book, and took it up from
under the table. It was an old-fashioned Bible, very faded and worn.
As I carelessly turned over a leaf or two, I noticed that a red-ink line
was drawn under some of the words. Not understanding why this was done,
my curiosity was a little excited, and I read a few of the verses.
There was one which seemed to have been very much read, for the Bible
opened of its own accord at the place; the words were these,--`Thou wilt
keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he
trusteth in thee.' My heart sank within me as I read them. I felt that
I knew nothing of this peace, nor, indeed, of any peace at all. I
hastily turned to another part, and my eye caught the words, which were
underlined with the red mark, `Fear not, little flock; for it is your
Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom.' I _did_ fear, and I
knew I was not one of `the little flock.'
"We used to read the Bible every day at the boarding-school I went to,
and the mistress explained it, and we used to get verses by heart, and a
whole chapter or part of one on Sundays; and we had to write out on
Sunday evenings what we could remember of one of the sermons. But this
was only task-work; and I remember agreeing with my special friend at
school what a happiness it would be when we were not forced to learn any
more verses. But the words of the little book were quite a different
thing to me--they seemed as if they came to me from another world. They
made me miserable: for they showed me what I hadn't got, which was
peace; and what I was not, which was one of Christ's little flock. I
had _heard_ all about it before, but I had never _felt_ about it till
then. And it made me wretched as I read. So I threw down the book on
the table in a pet; but somehow I couldn't let it be. So I carried it
off to my bedroom, and kept reading one marked verse after another till
mother called for me. But I was thinking about the little Bible all the
time; and yet I didn't want to think about it, for it made me more and
more unhappy.
"So I determined to get rid of it; for every time I looked at one of
those red-ink lines, the words above it seemed as though they were put
there to condemn me. And, besides, I was afraid that any one should see
me with that Bible, and want to know where I got it; for if the owner of
the bag, who was of course the owner of the Bible too, should make a
noise about the loss in the town, and it were to come round to him that
I'd got the Bible, he'd be wanting me to tell him what had become of the
bag and the bracelet. So I resolved to get rid of the little book; but
something in my heart or conscience wouldn't let me burn it, or pull it
to pieces and destroy it. Then, all of a sudden, it came into my mind--
it may be that God put it there--that I would try to drop it somewhere
about William Foster's house, where he or his wife would find it. I
used to know Kate Foster well before I went to the boarding-school, as
we were schoolfellows when we were little girls. I thought that perhaps
the marked verses might do one or other of them good: for I felt how
much they both needed it, and if the little book made me unhappy,
possibly it might make them happy; and, at any rate, I should feel that
I had done better than destroy it, and Foster's house would be the last
place any one would be thinking of tracing a Bible to.
"So, late on in the evening, about ten o'clock, I crept round to the
back of William Foster's house, and intended to have lifted the latch of
the outer door softly, and placed the Bible on the window-sill inside.
But just then I heard Kate's voice. I could hardly believe my ears--
yes--she was praying and crying; pouring out her heart to God with
tears. Oh, I was cut to the very soul; and then it rushed into my mind,
`Drop the Bible into the room,' for I had seen that the casement was a
little open. I felt pretty sure that her husband could not be in;
indeed I satisfied myself that he was not in that room by cautiously
peeping in. Kate's head was bowed down over the cradle, so that I was
not observed. So I drew the casement open a little further, and let the
Bible fall inside. But in so doing, a ring for which I had a particular
value slipped off my finger, and of course I could not recover it
without making myself known."
Here Thomas Bradly took a little box out of one of his drawers, and
handed it to his visitor without a word.
"Yes," she said, having opened the box, "this is the very ring; thank
you very much for keeping it for me and now restoring it to me. I heard
that it had got into your daughter's hands, though I didn't know how. I
know I've done very wrong in telling stories about it and denying that
it was mine; but I was afraid of getting myself and our house into
trouble if I owned to it."
"Good," said Bradly, when she had finished her story; "the next best
thing to not doing wrong is an honest confession that you've done it,
and then you're on the road to doing right. I see exactly how things
has gone; and now, my poor friend, what can I do for you?"
"Why, Mr Bradly, two or three things. In the first place, you won't
mention what I've been telling you to the neighbours, I'm sure."
"Yes, miss, you _may_ be sure; gossiping ain't in my line at all. But,
after all, there's nothing to fear so far as you're concerned, for the
Bible and the ring have both got to their rightful owners."
"The Bible, Mr Bradly?"
"Yes; it's been a blessed worker, has that little book. It belongs to
my sister Jane. It were she as made them red-ink marks in it. Only
this is to be a secret at present, if you please. And I'm persuaded as
bag, and bracelet, and all 'll turn up afore long, and then there'll be
no blame to nobody.--But what's the next thing you want with me?"
"Why, I want to sign the pledge in your book; for, please God, I'll
never touch strong drink again."
"Eh! The Lord be praised for this!" exclaimed Bradly; "you shall sign,
with all the pleasure in life.--But do your parents give their consent?"
"Yes, mother does. I've had a long talk with her, and, though we keep a
public-house, she has seen so much of the misery and ruin that have come
from the drink, that she says she'll never stand in the way of her child
being an abstainer."
"Bless her for that; she'll never regret it," said Thomas.
So the book was brought out, and the signature taken; and then both
knelt, while Bradly commended his young friend to that grace and
protection which could alone secure her stability.
"And what else can I do for you?" he asked, when they had risen from
prayer.
"Please, Mr Bradly, I want you to help me get some situation at a
distance from Crossbourne, where I can earn my own living as a teacher.
Mother is quite agreeable to my doing so; indeed, she sees that our
house is not a safe and proper place for me now, and she'll be very
thankful if I can get a situation where I shall be out of the reach of
so much evil as goes on more or less in a place like ours."
"I'll do that too, with all my heart," said the other, "as far as in me
lies. I'll speak to the vicar, and I know he'll do his best to get you
suited. You've had a good education, so he'll be able to find you
summat as'll fit, I've no doubt.--And now I'm going to ask you, miss,
just to accept a little Bible from me, instead of that one which you've
helped to send back to its right owner; and I want you to make it your
daily guide." So saying, he took from a shelf, where he kept a little
store of Scriptures, a new Bible, and sitting down, wrote Lydia
Philips's name within the cover, and his own beneath it as the giver;
and then, below all, the two texts, "Thou wilt keep him in perfect
peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee;" and,
"Fear not, little flock; for it is your Father's good pleasure to give
you the kingdom." These he underlined with red-ink. "Now," he said,
"you'll keep this little book, I'm sure, to remind you of our meeting
to-night. Read it with prayer, and you'll soon find peace, if you
haven't begun to find it already."
The young woman received the little gift most gratefully, and said, "I
will keep it, and read it daily, Mr Bradly; and I do think that I am
beginning to see my way to peace. Poor Ned Taylor's words have not been
in vain; and what you have said to-night has helped me on the way. I
know I am not worthy to be called God's child, but I think, nay, I feel
sure, he will not cast me out. I have wandered far, very far, from the
fold; but now I really feel and understand the love of Jesus, and that
he has come to seek and to save that which was lost."
When his visitor was gone, Bradly spent a few minutes alone in earnest
prayer and thanksgiving, and then, with a bright face, entered his cozy
kitchen, and drew his chair close to Jane's.
"Another little link," he said, "or, perhaps, one of the old ones made a
little stronger." She looked smilingly at him, but did not speak. Then
he told her of Lydia Philips's visit and conversation with himself.
"You see," he continued, "Lydia fully confirms poor Ned Taylor's story;
but then she brings us no nearer the bag. However, the Lord can find it
for us, or show us as there's something better for us than finding it,
if that be his will."
"True, Thomas," said his sister; "and now `the next thing' is for you to
see the vicar about Lydia Philips and her situation."
"Just so, dear Jane; I'll do so, if I'm spared to-morrow."