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Christian Conquests.
Try Again.
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[Illustration: "Franks had but an instant to try to save him by
catching at the rein, as the maddened hunter rushed like a whirlwind
by." FRONTISPIECE.]
SHEER OFF.
A Tale.
BY
A. L. O. E.
AUTHOR OF "CLAREMONT TALES," "GIANT-KILLER, AND
SEQUEL," ETC.
NEW YORK:
ROBERT CARTER & BROTHERS,
530 BROADWAY.
1870.
CONTENTS.
I. THE FIRST-BORN, 7
II. THE FALLING ALMSHOUSES, 16
III. THE CURATE'S VISIT, 28
IV. JOYOUS AND FREE, 36
V. AN APPEAL, 45
VI. THE RETURN, 56
VII. BRIGHTNESS AND GLOOM, 64
VIII. PLEADING, 73
IX. THE INVITATION, 83
X. A HAPPY HOME, 99
XI. TEMPTATION, 105
XII. ICE BELOW, 114
XIII. THE RETURN HOME, 126
XIV. NORAH'S STORY, 134
XV. NORAH'S STORY CONTINUED, 147
XVI. PASSING EVENTS, 159
XVII. PERILOUS PEACE, 167
XVIII. SELF-REPROACH, 178
XIX. THE TEST, 182
XX. THE MOMENTOUS QUESTION, 190
XXI. AN OLD LETTER, 203
XXII. PEACE FROM ABOVE, 215
XXIII. THE WIFE'S RESOLVE, 222
XXIV. THE BLIND MAIDEN, 233
XXV. HONORABLE SCARS, 243
XXVI. A SCRAP OF NEWS, 255
XXVII. NANCY'S RETURN, 263
XXVIII. A SEARCH, 275
XXIX. PLEASURE OR PRINCIPLE? 283
XXX. FOUND AT LAST, 289
XXXI. THE BARONET'S RETURN, 299
XXXII. THE BONFIRE, 308
XXXIII. WATCHING FOR SOULS, 318
XXXIV. PUT TO THE QUESTION, 324
XXXV. VILLAGE TALK, 335
XXXVI. A STRUGGLE, 343
XXXVII. THE SUDDEN SUMMONS, 350
XXXVIII. CONCLUSION, 362
SHEER OFF.
I.
The First-Born.
"Why, there are the church-bells a-ringing! as if it wasn't enough
to have all the school-boys going in procession with their garlands,
and nosegays, and nonsense!" exclaimed Nancy Sands, the wife of the
Clerk of Colme, as she stood in the shop of Ben Stone the carpenter,
with her arms a-kimbo, and an expression anything but amiable upon her
flushed face. "One might fancy that our new young baronet was a-coming
home, or bringing a bride, or that the queen and all the royal family
were a-visiting Colme, instead of this fuss being for nothing but the
christening of a school-master's brat!"
"Ned Franks is a prime favorite with all the village," observed the
stout, good-humored carpenter, as he went on with his occupation of
planing a bit of mahogany, which his visitor wanted for a shelf in her
cottage.
"A broken-down sailor, with only one arm!" exclaimed Nancy, with a
snort of disdain.
"But with a good head and a better heart," observed the carpenter. "Ned
Franks manages so well to keep his lads in order without thrashing
them, that one arm is one too many for all that they need in that way.
Not but that the wooden affair which I knocked up for him myself, with
an iron hook for fingers and thumb, might serve well enough on a pinch
to knock a little wit into a blockhead, if that were Ned Franks's
fashion of teaching," added Ben Stone with a little chuckle.
"Teaching! he has no more learning in him than my mangle," muttered the
scornful Nancy.
"But, like your mangle, he has a wonderful knack of getting things
smooth and straight. I don't know what we'd have done in Colme without
him, now our poor vicar has been tied up so long; it's Ned as has kept
everything going like clockwork. Of course the young curate isn't just
at once up to the ways of the place, letting alone that he looks as
young as a boy, and as shy as a girl; he does his best, no doubt, but
he couldn't get on without Ned Franks showing him the ins and outs of
everything."
Nancy gave another contemptuous snort, but without specifying for
whom it was intended. Ben Stone went on with his planing of the shelf
and his praise of the school-master, his hand having a very different
effect from his tongue; for the more he planed, the smoother grew the
wood; while the more he praised, the rougher grew the temper of Nancy.
Ben Stone saw this, and took a little malicious pleasure in stirring
up the envy and jealousy of his customer; for, though he was not one
to break the peace himself, and had never been known to be either out
of spirits or out of temper, Ben Stone was certainly not a man to be
reckoned amongst the peacemakers. He rather enjoyed "poking the fire
in a neighbor's grate," as he once jestingly observed to his wife, and
there was always plenty of dry fuel in Nancy's.
But why should praise of Ned Franks be as gall and wormwood to the
clerk's wife, seeing that the one-armed sailor, now school-master at
Colme, had never willingly wronged a person in his life, but was, on
the contrary, ready to do a good turn for any one? Nancy had never
forgiven Ned for having been given the place of school-master, to which
she thought her own husband better entitled.
Ned's appointment was, in her eyes, a standing grievance, a shameful
injustice, a cause for quarrelling, not only with him, but with all the
world. "As if a fellow who has been accustomed to nothing but tarring
old ropes, and running like a cat up the rigging, could be compared
for one moment with a man like John Sands, who has been clerk for ten
years in the parish, next to a parson, one might say, and who can draw
out a certificate of baptism or marriage in the neatest and clearest
of hands." Not that Nancy had herself much veneration for her husband,
or, if report spoke truly, treated him with any kind of respect; but
she did not choose that any one should be put over his head, least of
all "that canting tar with a wooden arm," as she scornfully termed
Ned Franks. Whenever Nancy met the school-master, she scowled at him
under her black brows, as if he had done her a wrong. And she was never
tired of speaking against him whenever she could get a listener. Now
she spoke of the arts with which he had wheedled himself into the
favor of Mr. Curtis, the vicar, though every one knew that Ned was
simple and straightforward as a child; then she spoke of his violent
temper, pitied his wife, "poor unlucky soul!" from the bottom of her
heart, though all in the village were aware that Persis Franks was one
of the happiest wives in the world, and that if ever a young couple
deserved the famous Dunmow flitch, she and Ned might have claimed it.
The happiness of Persis was now as complete as earthly happiness can
be; for after nearly three years of wedded life, the desire and prayer
of her heart had been granted,--she had presented her first-born babe
to his father. But this seemed a new grievance to Nancy Sands. Had
not she, too, once had a son? and was he not lying under the shadow
of the church-yard wall? Why should these Franks be so happy when she
was childless? Why should all be sunshine with them when her sky was
clouded with gloom? Nancy did not attempt to answer the question, but
it soured her spirit; and the sound of the merry church-bells, chiming
for the baptism of Franks's little son made her feel as gloomy and
wretched as when she had heard the knell tolled at the funeral of her
own.
But we will not linger with Nancy Sands, but rather turn towards
him who is at once the object of her outward scorn and her secret
envy,--the one-armed school-master of Colme. A very gay scene meets
our eyes on the green in front of the school-house, which is full of
groups of village children seated on the grass, enjoying a simple feast
of oranges, nuts, and home-made cakes; for, on the occasion of the
christening of the first-born, Ned Franks entertains, in his homely
fashion, all his scholars and their little sisters; he feels in his joy
as if he should like to feast all the world. Every guest has a bunch
of wild flowers,--the violets, cowslips, and primroses of spring; and
merry is the sound of the prattle of nearly a hundred young voices,
the ringing laugh, the snatches of song. Persis Franks, quiet and
serene in her happiness, moves from group to group with her child in
her arms, receiving the congratulations of all, and, with a mother's
fond pride, drinking in the praises of her little treasure. Of course
there was never such a beauty, at least in her eyes, as her little
pink-faced babe, with his downy head and dimpled fingers. Ned is less
calm than his wife; being of a temperament naturally impetuous and
warm, with rather more of the sailor than of the school-master in his
manner, he shows the keen enjoyment of a boy. To the great amusement
of his scholars, Ned displays his skill, maimed as he is, in dandling
a baby three weeks old; and Persis, who, despite her confidence in her
husband, feels a little nervous on account of her fragile treasure,
is not sorry when the infant is once more resting upon her own gentle
breast.
But the buoyant mirth of the young father is calmed down, and his
sunburnt face, though still bright with happiness, wears a graver and
more earnest expression when he stands up to address a few words to his
guests. As he raises his right hand a little, all the murmur of merry
voices is hushed at once, and for some seconds there is no sound heard
but the soft breeze stirring the young leaves budding on the elms. Then
Franks speaks a few earnest words; for, whether in sorrow or in joy,
the teacher at Colme never forgets the office to which he has been
appointed by his heavenly Master,--that of feeding, as far as he has
power to do so, the lambs committed to his charge.
"My children," thus the sailor began, "this is a very joyful, a very
thankful, and also a very solemn day to me and my wife. We have seen,
as it were, a little boat freighted with an immortal soul, launched on
the wide sea, bound for the port of Heaven. If I did not trust that
He who gave it will guide it, I should have many fears when I think
of all the storms that it may meet on its course, the rocks and the
shoals on which many a poor bark has been wrecked. But I have given my
boy to God, and whether the voyage be a long or a short one, a rough
or a smooth one, I trust that the little boat will drop anchor in the
harbor of glory at last!" Ned paused a little, and Persis, as she bent
down and pressed a long, fond kiss on her sleeping infant, left a tear
on his soft cheek, but not a tear of sorrow; no feeling of misgiving
dimmed the bright hope of the mother's heart.
"And now," continued Franks to his pupils, "let me just add a few words
to yourselves. You also have all been launched on the great voyage,
and I trust that you all have Faith for your compass, the Bible for
your chart, and heaven for your port; but I must remind you that you
have need to keep a good lookout for breakers ahead, that you must
steer warily, and mind your soundings. There's danger of running on the
sandbank of the love of money, or of being drawn into the whirlpool of
intemperance; there's the iceberg of falsehood on the one hand, the
sunken rock of self-righteousness on the other. When temptation would,
like a strong current, draw you near any dangerous place, don't trust
your own seamanship, boys, to sail close under a rock and yet not
strike it; give it as wide a berth as you can; sheer off, I would say,
sheer off! And, above all, look straight up to Him whose wind alone can
fill your sails, and bear you onwards in your course; look to him in
storm and in calm, in gloom and in sunshine, praying that he may guide
you here by his grace, and afterwards receive you to glory!"
The address of Ned Franks was simple and homely, characteristic of
the speaker, and suited to the hearers, who were well accustomed to
his sea-phrases. Franks had once compared himself to a buoy anchored
down to warn vessels where navigation is dangerous; and not only his
pupils, but many a tempted one who came in his wandering course nigh
to the school-master of Colme, had cause to thank God for the buoy. If
the account of such a life of lowly usefulness as that of Ned Franks
have any attraction for the reader; if, in his own voyage over life's
perilous sea, while he blesses the beacon, he despises not the buoy;
while honoring God's gifted ministers, if he feels that there is
spiritual work also for those who have little eloquence but that of a
consistent Christian life,--he may find in these pages something to
interest him, and possibly, if God bless my humble labors, to help him
to "sheer off" from some of the dangerous points where hopes have too
often been wrecked, and promising barks have gone down.
II.
The Falling Almshouses.
"I'm afraid, Ned, that there were but poor collections in church
to-day," observed Persis to her husband, as they sat together by the
fire on the evening of the following Sunday.
"I'm not afraid, but I'm certain of it," replied Ned Franks. "Sands
told me this afternoon that the whole collections after the two sermons
only came up to four pound three, and when our poor vicar's bank-note
was added, there were not ten pounds altogether. What are ten pounds
to repair seven almshouses that have scarcely been touched for the
last hundred years, and to build up another that has fallen down
through sheer old age! The state of those cottages is a disgrace to
the village. I wish that Queen Anne's old counsellor, when he built
these eight almshouses for our poor, had left something for keeping
the places in repair. Those still standing are hardly safe, and as for
comfort--one would almost as lief live in an open boat as in one of
them; they let in the wind from all the four quarters of the compass,
and the rain too, for the matter of that."
"Poor old Mrs. Mills tells me that she is in fear every windy night
of her chimney coming down through the roof, or of her casement being
blown right in," observed Persis; "and Sarah Mason's wall leans over so
to one side, that if it is not propped up soon, the whole cottage will
be coming down with a crash, and burying the old dame under its ruins!"
"I must see to that propping myself to-morrow after lessons are over,"
said the school-master, rather to himself than to his wife; "Ben Stone
will give us a beam or two, like a good-natured fellow as he is; the
worthy old woman shall not be buried alive if we can hinder it."
Propping Mrs. Mason's tumble-down wall would not be the first piece
of work done by the one-armed school-master of Colme for the old
almshouses in Wild Rose Hollow. Many a time had Ned clambered up to
the top of one or other of the wretched dwellings, as actively as he
would have made his way up into the shrouds of a vessel, to replace
thatch blown away, or in winter to clear off the heavy masses of snow
that threatened to crush in the roofs by their weight. Scarcely a day
passed without some aged inmate of one of the almshouses hobbling to
the school to ask Ned Franks if nothing could be done to mend a chimney
that would smoke, or a window that would rattle, or whether there were
no way of keeping the rain from making little ponds in the floor. Ned,
with his one hand, was more clever at "stopping a leak" or "splicing
a brace" than most men with two hands, for he worked with a will; but
when he had done all that he could for the counsellor's tumble-down
almshouses, he was wont to say that no caulking of his could make such
crazy old hulks seaworthy. "They need to be hauled into a dry dock, and
rigged out new:" such was the one-armed sailor's oft expressed opinion,
and it was one which no one could contradict.
"Everything seemed against our having a good collection to-day,"
remarked Persis; "our old baronet dead, and his lady away, dear Mrs.
Lane absent in France, and, worst of all, our vicar still so ill, and
unable to preach the sermon himself. His nephew the curate is very
nice, but--but of course it is not the same thing."
"I'm afraid that half the people did not hear Mr. Leyton, and half of
those who did would not understand him," observed Ned Franks; "yet he
gave us true gospel sermons; there was nothing to find fault within the
matter, and one shouldn't be too nice about the manner."
"Mr. Leyton is so young and shy," said Persis, "he cannot speak with
authority like his uncle, and then he scarcely knows any of us yet; but
I dare say that when he gets courage--"
"I'll be bound you're talking of our young parson," exclaimed a
jovial voice, as the door of the school-master's little room was
thrown open, and Ben Stone, the stout carpenter, entered. Ben Stone
always considered himself a privileged person, and usually omitted
tapping for admittance. "I never care to knock," quoth the jovial
carpenter, "unless I've a hammer in my hand, and a nail to drive in,
and then there's a knocking and no mistake." Stone came in, nodded a
good-evening to Persis, and taking possession of a chair by the fire,
as if he felt perfectly at home, he stretched out his broad hands to
the cheerful blaze, for the weather was rather cold.
"You were talking of the young parson," he continued; "he's not one to
conjure money out of folks' pockets. Did you ever hear such a sermon?
What had all the silver and gold, and shittim wood, and precious
onyx-stones, that he talked of, to do with repairing a set of old
almshouses? Our people might open their eyes wide at his grand words,
but they kept their purses close shut, I take it."
"The sermon had plenty of meaning; there had been much study spent upon
it," observed Franks, who disliked criticism on preachers, and who had
besides a kindly feeling towards the young Curate of Colme.
"Meaning! Oh, I dare say, if one could get at it," laughed the
carpenter; "but when one wants to give a loaf of bread to a hungry
man, one does not generally stick it at the top of a pole; there's not
every one as can climb as you do, Ned Franks, or bring down onyx-stones
and shittim wood to patch up rotten deal timbers. Why, there was but
one little bit of gold to-day in the plate, and a scanty sprinkling
of silver, though one might have thought the state of those wretched
cottages would have preached loud enough of itself."
Persis and Ned could have told where that one little bit of gold had
come from, and why it was that a certain hearth-rug with a pattern of
lilies and roses which had taken the fancy of the school-master's wife,
and was to have been a present from her husband on the anniversary
of their wedding, still hung up in Grant's shop, while their old
one, faded and patched, still kept its place in front of their fire.
But these family matters were things which the Franks never cared to
talk of to others; they had given the gold with cheerful hearts, as
a joint-offering to the Lord; and though it was more from them than
a thousand pounds would have been from Sir Lacy Barton, they never
thought that there was any merit in the little sacrifice which they had
made.
"I dare say," continued Ben Stone, "that Mr. Claudius Leyton is a fine
scholar, but he's no more fitted for parish work than a gimlet is to
saw through a plank." While the carpenter was picking holes in the
curate's preaching, he was at the same time, unconsciously of course,
picking another with the end of his stick in Persis's unfortunate rug.
"Why, he's afraid of the sound of his own voice, and can't so much as
touch his hat to you, without blushing up to his eyes. It was rare fun
to see him yesterday. He came to my workshop in the morning, to ask me
where he could find Mrs. Sands, the wife of our clerk. 'Now,' thinks
I, 'I know well enough why you want to visit Nancy. She showed in the
face of half the village yesterday, that she had had a drop too much,
and you think that it's a parson's business to reprove as well as to
teach. But if you ever screw up your courage to rebuke Nancy Sands,
I'll give my new hatchet for a two-penny nail!' I told the young parson
where Sands's cottage lay, just in sight of my own, and I watched him
as he slowly walked towards it. I'd half a mind to go after him, and
see how such a lamb of a shepherd would manage such a vixen of a sheep.
I marked him shaking his head slightly as he walked, as if he were
conning over what he should say; and though I could only see his back,
I could just fancy the anxious, uneasy look on his smooth young face."
"Poor young clergyman!" said Persis. "He was about the most painful
of all a minister's duties. I should be very sorry myself to have to
rebuke Nancy Sands."
"Something like having to pull out a tigress's teeth!" laughed Ben
Stone, who had succeeded in making a large hole out of a very little
one in the old rug. "But Mr. Leyton never got so far as the pulling! I
watched him, would you believe it, walk three times up and down before
the gate of Nancy's little garden; it was clear he couldn't screw
up his courage to go in. Then she chanced to come out of her door.
Maybe she was wondering why the parson took that bit of road for his
quarter-deck walk, or she guessed what he was after, and thought she
would brave out the business."
"Do you know what passed between the two?" inquired Franks.
"I saw Mr. Leyton raise his hat a bit, in his very polite way, and
Nancy drop a little saucy bob of a courtesy, as who should say, 'What
have you come here for?' and almost immediately afterwards the parson
walked away a good deal quicker than he had walked to the place. I was
curious to know what had passed, so I put down my saw, and went up the
road to Nancy, who was still in her garden, pulling up groundsel; she
has a rare crop of it there, and little besides. 'What said the young
parson to you, Nancy?' says I. 'Oh!' says she, 'he hummed and hawed
a bit, and then told me--as if I didn't know it afore--that as his
uncle is ill he has come to this here place to do duty for him, and
that I must remember;' and at that he stuck and stammered and blushed,
so I took him up sharp, and I says,--says I (Ben Stone mimicked the
insolent toss of Nancy's head as he repeated her words), 'Yes, I
remember this aint the first time as you've been at Colme; your mother
brought you to the vicarage afore you was out of petticoats; that aint
so very long ago.'"
"How could she?" exclaimed Persis Franks; but Ben went on with his
story.
"'And so,' continued Nancy, 'he was put down in a moment and took
himself off. I guessed what he'd come after, and I wasn't going to be
lectured and preached to by a smooth-faced boy like that!'" Ben burst
into a hoarse laugh, as if he thought the discomfiture of the youthful
minister a very good jest; neither of his hearers joined in his mirth.
"Why, you don't seem to see the fun of it," cried Ben Stone; "but if
you'd heard Nancy Sands, you'd have laughed as I do. The old tigress is
more than a match for the shy young blushing boy of a parson."
Ben stopped suddenly short, for there was a knock at the outer door,
and he was aware that whoever gave it must have overheard his last
sentence, for Ben habitually spoke very loudly. Moreover, there was
something peculiar in the knock: it was unlike what would have been
given by the knuckles of any rustic. The three in the school-master's
parlor intuitively rose from their seats, even before the door was
opened, and Mr. Claudius Leyton appeared.
The curate did indeed look extremely youthful. A small frame, delicate
features, and a complexion like a maiden's, with smooth, fine, flaxen
hair parted down the middle, gave the impression that the curate might
be five or six years younger than he really was, and that a student's
cap and gown would have suited him better than the dress which he wore.
Notwithstanding his shy, nervous manner, however, Claudius Leyton was
thoroughly the gentleman, and Ben Stone felt more awkward than he would
have cared to own at his slighting observations having been overheard.
The burly carpenter first made matters worse by a muttered "Beg pardon,
didn't know who was there;" and suddenly becoming aware that an apology
was a blunder, he said something about his old woman wanting him at
home, and, in his hurry to make his escape, first dropped his stick,
then, in recovering it, stumbled over the cradle which was at the side
of Mrs. Franks, and awoke the baby.
The cry of the infant effected a seasonable diversion; it covered
the retreat of the carpenter, and gave Persis an opportunity of soon
quitting the room and carrying the child upstairs, that the curate
might have an undisturbed conversation with her husband. Franks placed
a chair for Mr. Leyton with more of courteous respect than he would
have shown to his cousin, Sir Lacy, the lord of the manor, while Ben
Stone went home and made his wife merry with the account of what had
occurred, wondering, between his explosive bursts of laughter, how the
curate had liked to hear himself called "a blushing boy of a parson."
No one knows how often Claudius Leyton had repeated to himself, as if
the words haunted him, the exhortation to Timothy, _Let no man despise
thy youth_; nor what a burden the want of self-confidence, added to
natural shyness, was to the Curate of Colme. Mr. Leyton lacked neither
talent nor zeal, but he was painfully aware that as yet he had not the
weight and influence with his flock which every faithful pastor should
have; and the young clergyman sometimes seriously contemplated wearing
spectacles, although his sight was perfect, in order to take away that
boyishness of appearance which marred his usefulness so much.
III.
The Curate's Visit
"I have many apologies to make, Mr. Franks, for calling so late, and on
a Sunday evening," said Mr. Leyton, after nervously motioning to the
school-master to take a seat opposite to him; "and I'm afraid that I've
disturbed Mrs. Franks."
"You are welcome, sir, at any hour, and on any day," replied Ned, "for
I am sure that you come on your Master's business. My noisy little man
will be better upstairs."
"I'm anxious to consult you, Mr. Franks," said the curate, sitting
forward in his chair, and speaking faintly, for his voice was weak, and
two full services had almost exhausted his powers. "The proceeds of the
collections to-day are, as you are probably aware, insufficient--sadly
insufficient for the purpose for which they are required. It is most
unfortunate that the illness of my uncle prevented his preaching
himself."
Franks could not speak a flattering untruth even to soothe the evident
mortification of the poor young clergyman, who had spared no pains in
preparing his unsuccessful appeals. There was a little pause, which was
broken by Mr. Leyton.
"My aunt, Mrs. Curtis, wrote last week about the state of the
almshouses to Mrs. Lane, and I sent a letter to Sir Lacy," (Mr. Leyton
was related on the mother's side to the lord of the manor, as he was on
the father's to the wife of the Vicar of Colme); "these are the only
large proprietors in the parish. Neither my aunt nor I have as yet
received any reply."
"You are never likely to get any from our new baronet," thought Franks,
who knew well that the money of Sir Lacy was far more likely to go on
the race-course, than in relieving the wants of the poor. He, however,
only remarked aloud, "The silver and the gold is the Lord's, sir;
and, as the need is great, I trust and believe that he will send the
supplies."
"The illness of Mr. Curtis prevents our being able to trouble him with
anything like business," continued Mr. Leyton, "and my aunt scarcely
quits his bedside. She and I have, however, been anxiously revolving
what can be done; for if the almshouses be not soon put under thorough
repair, not one of them will be standing next year, and their poor old
inmates will have no home but the Union."
"That would fall especially hard on one like Sarah Mason," remarked
Franks; "she has lived in her little cottage as wife and widow for
twenty years, and her one earthly wish is to die in it. 'Twould
well-nigh break her heart to be forced to turn out of the place."
"My aunt was suggesting to me that Bat Bell, the miller, is one to whom
an appeal might be made. He has given nothing as yet to the cause."
"Nor is likely to give, I fear," said the sailor.
"He is rich, as I hear," observed Mr. Leyton.
"He has a thriving business at the mill, sir, and some hundred acres of
land besides, which he lets to advantage. Bat Bell has but one child,
for whom it is supposed that he is saving; for, if reports be true, Bat
never spends one-half of what he gets, and must have put by enough of
money to rebuild all the almshouses, if he choose to do so. But it is
not always those who make most who are found most ready to part with
their cash. If the heavily freighted vessel runs on the sandbank, the
more she has in her the deeper she sinks; and if a man has passed half
his life in getting, without giving, it needs a strong cable indeed,
and a mighty power, to draw him off that sandbank,--the love of money."
"I have heard from my aunt something of the character of the
close-fisted miller," said the curate; "yet, in our necessity, she
thinks that a strong personal appeal ought to be made. The almshouses
of Wild Rose Hollow can be seen from the mill; the object for which we
plead is directly before the eyes of this Bell."
Franks smiled and shook his head: "Had mere pity been enough to draw
him out, the money would have been forthcoming long ere this, sir,"
said he. "Bat Bell has seen those cottages gradually falling to pieces
year after year, and has talked with the old folks in them; yet I've
good reason to know that not so much as a wisp of straw for thatching
has ever come from the mill. Pity isn't a cable strong enough to move a
nature like that of Bat Bell."
The young minister looked perplexed, and passed his hand across his
forehead.
"But, sir," continued Franks, "we know that the shortest road to every
man's heart is through Heaven, and it's not for us to give up any work
for God as hopeless. No doubt the lady is right; there had better be a
personal appeal."
A light flush suffused the countenance of the clergyman. He avoided
looking at Franks, and played uneasily with the light cane which he
held as he said, speaking with evident effort, "I came to consult you
about it. I am a comparative stranger here; the parishioners scarcely
yet know me, and--and it's a new thing to me to ask for money. I
thought that if you were to speak instead of me, Mr. Franks, the appeal
would have better chance of being successful."
Full before the mind of Claudius Leyton was his late encounter with
Nancy Sands, and perhaps it was also remembered by the sailor, as he
simply replied, "I can but try, sir."
An expression of relief passed over the face of the youthful clergyman.
His thanks were brief; but when he almost instantly rose to take leave,
he held out his hand to the school-master, and his fair small fingers
closed on Ned's strong sunburnt hand with a kindly pressure, which told
more than his words. When the door had closed behind Mr. Leyton, Ned
Franks thought, with a smile, "That poor, shy young minister will sleep
more soundly to-night from knowing that he is not to be the one to
board Bat Bell. A gentleman like that feels it so awkward to play the
beggar, even for the holiest cause."
On hearing the outer door close, Persis returned to her husband, and
the babe, who had again fallen asleep, was gently replaced in his
cradle.
"Persis," said the school-master, gayly, "I'm to go and try to draw
money from the miller. I believe I might as well try to draw money from
the millstone. I doubt whether Bell would put down half-a-crown to-day,
to save all the seven remaining almshouses from being pulled down
to-morrow. But I could not refuse speaking to him, Mr. Leyton was so
anxious about it."
"I wish you success," said Persis.
"Your wishes are stronger than your hopes, I take it. Bell is a
thoroughly selfish man, except as regards love for his child,--sunk in
the love of gold. It seems to me, wife, that we might almost divide
the world into two classes,--those whose motto is 'Get, get,' and the
other whose motto is 'Give, give;' those of the closed fist, and those
of the open palm. The one set make money their idol; the other make
money their servant. Now, we know that _the love of money is the root
of all evil_; that is written in the Word of Truth; and if one sees the
root in a man, what can one look for but evil fruits? Remember what our
Lord himself said, _How hardly shall they who trust in riches enter the
kingdom of God_!"
"But let us likewise remember what our Lord also said on the subject,
dear Ned: _With man it is impossible, but not with God, for with God
all things are possible._ Think of Zaccheus; he who had been covetous
and an extortioner,--the publican, who had clearly made money by false
accusation, or he would never have spoken of restoring it fourfold."
"Ay, ay," replied Ned Franks, thoughtfully; "there was a vessel sunk
over hulk--over bulwarks--deep in the sand, only the masts seen above
it; and yet it could be drawn out, and cleansed, and righted, and
floated, and sent on with a favoring breeze, as goodly and fair as if
it had never grounded upon that dangerous bank. But it was the power of
the Master that did this, and the love of Christ was the mighty chain
that drew the publican from his old habits and evil ways, and made the
covetous man give half of his goods to the poor."
"That power still can work--that love still can constrain," said Persis.
"So let us ask for a blessing on my visit," cried Franks. "I'll be up
to-morrow before sunrise, to see to the propping of old Sarah's wall,
and after the morning's lessons, I'll be off to the mill. Don't you
wait dinner for me, Persis; maybe I'll not manage to get back till the
boys meet for lessons again."
IV.
Joyous and Free.
Ned Franks took down his cap from its peg, as soon as his merry young
scholars, like a swarm of bees from the hive, had poured out from the
low-browed porch of the school-house. But before he had time to start
for the mill, Persis, baby in arms, was at his side, with a sandwich
neatly put up in paper for her husband to eat on his way.
"No fear of my being put on half rations while wifie has charge of the
stores," said Ned Franks.
He only lingered to kiss the soft little face of his babe, fragrant and
sweet as a rosebud, and then set off for his visit to Bat Bell, though
not very hopeful as to its result. The sun was shining brightly, the
trees bursting into leaf; the lark in the blue sky, the thrush from its
bough, were pouring forth songs of joy. Every sight, scent, and sound
was a source of pleasure to Ned Franks.
"Those merry little fellows are piping aloft," thought he, "to cheer
their mates in their nests. Well may my heart sing, too, for who has
such a home, and such a mate, and such a nestling as mine? The birds
carol merrily, for they cannot look forward, the pleasure of the day is
enough for them; but far more cause have I to sing, for I _can_ look
forward and think,--the spring-time is bright, but the harvest will
be brighter; there is joy now, but the _fulness of joy_ is to come!
Ay, I can look forward and upward, too, and see what the birds cannot
see,--the hand that scatters the blessings over my path, the Father's
hand that filleth all things with plenteousness! And even like his free
bounty should be that of his children; _freely ye have received, freely
give_!"
A thin, weary wayfarer was sitting on the side of the path; his
patched coat, his half-worn-out shoes, and sunken cheek told of need,
although the man was no beggar. Following simply the impulse of his
heart, Franks pulled out his sandwich and courteously offered it to the
stranger. The smile and hearty blessing with which it was received sent
the one-armed school-master on his way with a heart even more joyous
than it had been a few minutes before. To give is a godlike pleasure,
and he who does not know what it is to do so _with delight_ has missed
one of the richest luxuries which man can enjoy below.
As Ned Franks passed along the high road, he could see in a neighboring
field a man engaged in sowing.
"To bury seed is not to lose seed," thought Ned, "though it seem for a
while to disappear, like money which is given to the Lord, or to the
poor for his sake. A man who spends all that he has on himself or his
family alone seems to me like one who grinds and bakes and eats all
his seed-corn. He gains some present advantage, no doubt, but he will
find want and dearth in the end, for he has not sown for the future.
And the man who lays by and hoards what ought to be given in charity is
like one who locks up his seed-corn in a chest until it grows mouldy
and worthless. It neither feeds him nor grows for him; it is worse than
good for nothing. While _he that gives to the poor lends to the Lord_,
and the Lord will give him rich increase, not because of the man's
deserts, but because of our heavenly Father's own free bounty towards
those who seek to please him."
Ned, walking on with quick, active step, overtook Ben Stone, who,
carrying his basket of carpenter's tools, was proceeding at a more
leisurely pace in the same direction.
"Whither bound, messmate?" cried Franks, as he came up with the burly
carpenter.
"I've a job at the Hall," replied Stone; "the new baronet will be
coming down to the old house one of these days, and will want to find
everything right there. Where are you going, Ned Franks?"
"I'm going to see if Bat Bell won't add something to the collection
for the tumble-down cottages in Wild Rose Hollow. He was not at church
yesterday."
Ben Stone burst out laughing, as he had a habit of doing upon the
slightest occasion. "Going to ask Bat Bell for money! Going to try how
much meal you can scrape off an old knife-board! ha! ha! ha! I put
my shilling in the plate yesterday;"--the carpenter said this with
a self-satisfied air, as one who felt conscious of having done the
handsome thing;--"but I don't mind promising to double whatever you
manage to squeeze out of Bat Bell; only, of course he mustn't know that
I've said so."
"Don't make a rash engagement, messmate," said Ned Franks, with a
smile; "I may come down upon you for some ready rhino."
"Well, and if you do," answered the good-humored carpenter, "I'll not
flinch from my word. I've enough and to spare, and what one gives away,
as we all know, goes to our good account in the end."
"That depends on the spirit in which we give," said Franks, more
gravely, for he had good reason for suspecting that his companion
held very mistaken views on the subject. "One can't keep a debtor and
creditor account in heaven. We know from the Bible that a man might
give all his goods to feed the poor, and yet that it might profit him
nothing to do so."
"That's one of the texts as I never can make out the meaning of," said
the carpenter. "To give is to give, and money is money; and why, when
two men do exactly the same thing, one should have a blessing, and
another none, quite passes my poor understanding."
"If one could suppose that all money given in charity could be put to
a test, that only what is really offered for the Lord's sake should
remain money, and all the rest be turned into withered leaves, don't
you think we should have heaps of dry leaves, as in autumn, to be
scattered about by the wind? Consider all that's given for mere show,
all that's given from natural pity, all that's given because it would
be thought strange and mean to do less than others; _none_ of that
money is given to God, so we must not expect that God will accept it."
"Well, I grant ye this," said the carpenter, "if every man's almsgiving
could be known only to himself and to God, there's many a one as gives
now would keep his money snug in his pocket. But I'm not one of those,
my good friend. I know, as we can carry nothing out of the world, that
it's best to have something laid up in the bank above. But here your
way divides from my way,--you go down the dell, I keep to the road.
Good-day to you, Ned Franks, let me know what you get from Bat Bell;
I'll be bound 'twill be nothing to ruin me. I've not much to do at the
Hall to-day, but measuring and fitting, so maybe I'll be back before
you return; just drop in at my shop and tell me what's your success;"
and with a friendly nod and complacent smile, the carpenter went along
the high road, while the school-master turned down the little wooded
lane which led to the mill.
"I should have liked to have had a little longer talk with Ben Stone,"
thought Franks. "I'm afraid that he thinks that he is actually _buying_
God's favor, and _earning_ heaven, by the little kind acts that he
does! That's a kind of error which so many people run foul of. The
sunken rock of self-righteousness is, maybe, just as dangerous as
the sandbank of love of money. I must have a care that I don't take
to judging others, and so split on it myself. I spoke very hardly
yester-evening of Bat Bell the miller, yet, when I consider what a
poor wretched sinner I am, receiving so much from God, and showing
my gratitude in such a poor way, I'm scarce likely to run on that
rock. When one measures one's little drop of charity, and even that
not pure, with the great unfathomable ocean of love of Him who gave
his life-blood for us, one is far more inclined to ask forgiveness
for doing so little, than to expect reward for doing so much. There's
nothing that _can_ give the best of us any claim to the least of God's
mercies, but the merits of Christ. That is a truth that I see the
more plainly the longer I live. To attempt to hold by one's own merits
would be like trying to go to sea in a bark made of gossamer threads.
The gossamer web looks goodly enough when the sunbeams are glinting
upon it, and the dew-drops are nestling in it, but no man in his senses
would trust his life to its power to bear up his weight. It would be
a madder thing still for him to trust his soul's salvation to his own
merits. If any mortal had anything in himself to boast of or to trust
to, that mortal was St. Paul, who was ready to spend and to be spent;
who had _suffered the loss of all things_ for God,--a very different
kind of self-denial from what we dare to call by that name,--and yet
what was the feeling of St. Paul? Did he think thus he had earned
heaven? Did he not say, _God forbid that I should glory save in the
cross of our Lord Jesus Christ_? If we were to strip ourselves of all
that we have, if we were to give away health and time and life itself
for God's service, we should never get beyond that verse, we should
have nothing whereof to boast, nothing (out of Christ) whereon to rest."
Ned had now descended to the bottom of a beautiful little dell,
through which gushed a rapid stream of water, turning the large wheel
of Bell's mill. The wheel was, however, at this time still, and its
monotonous clack did not mingle with the gurgle of the brook and the
song of the birds. Franks had many delightful associations connected
with that wooded dell; for there stood the cottage in which Persis, as
a maiden, had dwelt with her aged grandfather; it was there that he
had wooed and won her; from that little ivy-mantled nest he had, three
years before, taken his bride to church. The cottage had now other
inhabitants, but Franks could not pass the spot without stooping to
pluck a violet to carry back to his wife.
"I'll give this to Persis," he said to himself; "she'll like a flower
from the old home, though, thank God, I believe that she has never
regretted leaving it for the new one. This much I can answer for,
leastways, that every day since that happy one on which God gave her to
me has made me prize his gift more dearly."
V.
An Appeal.
Bat Bell was a particular man, regular and precise in all his ways, who
had, as it were, stiffened into his own mould, especially since the
death of his wife, and who did not choose, as he often said, "to be put
out for nobody." Bell hated a visitor at work-time, and he was so keen
after making money that his work-time began early and ended late. He
hated a visitor at meal-time, probably because he did not wish any one
to share his meal. Franks was aware of this, and tried so to time his
visit to the mill that he should catch Bell in that half-hour of rest
which usually followed his early dinner.
"He'll be playing with his Bessy," thought Franks, "and there's
nothing on earth that softens and opens a man's heart like hearing the
voice of his own little child, or dancing it on his knee." Such was
the conclusion to which the school-master came after his four weeks'
experience of the feelings of a father.
Franks, however, found little Bessy, not with her parent, but amusing
herself in the lane close by the mill. She ran up to him with open
arms, and held up her little face for a kiss, for Ned was a prime
favorite with every child who knew him, and, during her mother's last
illness, Bessy had spent a week at a time under the care of the Franks.
She was a plump, rosy-cheeked, merry little girl, of about five years
of age.
"Is father at home, my little lass?" asked Ned.
"Yes; father's in there," replied Bessy, nodding in the direction of
the door of the cottage attached to the mill; "but he lets me be here
to look for the flowers."
"Mind you don't go near the water, little one," said Franks; "keep to
the primroses under the hedge;" and, smiling a good-by to the child, he
proceeded to the dwelling of her father.
Bat Bell was alone in his parlor, seated on his high-backed wooden
chair before the solid deal table, on which appeared the remains of
some bread and cheese, and the empty pewter pot which had held his
beer. Bell was a tall, bony man, naturally of rather a dark complexion,
but skin, hair, and dress were all powdered with the flour which
showed what was his daily occupation, his shaggy black brows especially
having formed a resting-place for the white dust, as the thatched eaves
of a dwelling for snow.
"Good-day to you, Ned Franks, glad to see you; what brings you this
way?" asked the miller, holding out his bony, whitened hand to his
visitor, with as much of a smile on his face as the stiffness of the
leathery skin would allow.
Franks was not one to approach any subject in a round about way; if
there was any difficulty before him, he usually took what he called "a
header" into the very middle of it. He did not say he had just looked
in to see an old friend, or to ask if little Bessy would come and look
at his baby, or utter any remark about the weather, or express any hope
that business was brisk; he said what he had come to say the moment
after he had taken a seat.
"I've called, neighbor, to talk to you about the almshouses yonder in
Wild Rose Hollow;" through the window towards which Ned glanced as he
spoke, the chimney of the nearest one could be seen. "I was up at
Sarah Mason's early this morning, to try what I could do for her wall;
but no patching of mine can make the place fit for a human being to
live in, let alone a rheumatic old woman. You know well the state of
the cottages; something must be done for them without much delay, or
the old hulks will soon fall to pieces."
Every symptom of a smile had disappeared from the hard face of Bat
Bell as soon as his visitor had mentioned Wild Rose Hollow; and when
Ned paused, the miller's only reply was a "humph," uttered in a very
discouraging tone.
"Don't you think that it would be a shame and disgrace to Colme, if
dwellings that have afforded shelter for two hundred and fifty years
to the aged respectable poor of our village were all suffered to go to
utter decay from neglect, as one of them already has done?"
"Why don't young Sir Lacy mend 'em? He has money enough," said the
miller, "and flings it away right and left, they say, in ways that are
little to his credit."
"If he does not come forward, is his backwardness an example to be
followed?" asked Franks.
"Let the clergy see to it; it's their business," said Bell, with a
little disagreeable twitch of the nostril, which with him was always a
sign that something was "putting him out."
"Mr. Leyton preached twice yesterday in aid of the work, but the
collections made were wretched,--not one tenth of what is absolutely
required."
"The parish overseers must do something."
"They refuse to stir a finger," said Franks; "they say it's no business
of theirs."
"Then I'm sure that it's no business of mine," interrupted the miller.
"Is it no business of ours," said the school-master, earnestly, "that
they whom we have known for years, they who have lived amongst us, and
hoped to die amongst us, should be deprived of the comfort, the quiet,
the independence which they so dearly prize?"
"I'm sorry for them," said the miller, carelessly; "the founder should
have left something to keep the wheel going."
"What is wanted is the full stream of Christian love," observed Franks.
"There are scores of charities in London kept constantly working by
nothing but that stream."