"I need scarcely have lost my dinner for it;" but he waited, with what
patience he could command, for the next slow sentence which might drop
from the lips of John Sands.
These two men, who had once been rival aspirants for the post
of school-master at Colme, formed a singular contrast to each
other,--Sands, with that primly-cut hair, which lay like a judge's
black cap on his head, and his face as grave as if he were that judge
pronouncing sentence; Franks, with light brown locks, which seemed
to curl themselves round with very good-humor, and bright blue eyes,
always ready to sparkle with fun, as well as to beam with kindness. No
one could wonder at the preference felt by the boys for the one-armed
sailor, though he had not half the learning of Sands. We know that
_he that hath a merry heart hath a continual feast_; and where such
a heart is possessed by a school-master, his boys enjoy, as it were,
the crumbs of that feast. Ned Franks's inspiriting "Now, my hearties,
let's to work," would set his scholars to their tasks with a cheerful
energy almost as great as that with which they rushed out to play. The
sailor felt that these young beings were entrusted to his care, not
merely that he might teach them to be wise, but help them to be happy;
and the influence which he thus gained over their affections greatly
aided Franks in reaching the very highest mark of education,--that of
training young immortals to be wise unto salvation, and happy because
serving the Lord.
VIII.
Pleading.
"Mr. Franks, you have a happy home," said the clerk, after a little
pause; and then he added, with a sigh, "so had I once."
Ned knew not what to reply; he thought that all England held no two
women more unlike each other than Nancy Sands and his own sweet Persis.
"You see, Mr. Franks," continued the clerk, drooping his head, and
looking on the carpet, "it was all sorrow that did it. There was not a
better manager in Colme than Mrs. Sands, till--till we buried our only
boy;" the poor man's voice faltered as he spoke; "and then she fancied
that there was comfort in a drop. I don't mean to say she was right,
but it's too common a mistake; I--I think the world's hard upon her,
Mr. Franks,--she has been tempted, grievously tempted; but there's very
good metal in her yet."
There was something touching to the sailor in the effort of the poor
injured husband to throw a veil of indulgence over the glaring fault
of his wife. Though her intemperance was ruining his comfort, and
disgracing his name, and might seriously injure his worldly position,
Sands's anxiety was to find some excuse for his wretched partner. For
the affections of the quiet, stiff, formal man still clung to the
choice of his youth.
John Sands had loved Nancy almost from his boyhood; often had he been
jested about his fancy for the boisterous black-eyed girl, who cared so
little for him. When Nancy had grown into a bold, self-willed woman,
ready enough to receive his attentions, but trifling with his feelings,
and not returning his love, Sands had seen, time after time, some
rival preferred to himself, and had heard, with silent anguish, that
the only girl that he had ever cared for was to be married to some one
else. Yet, somehow or other, every engagement of Nancy's was broken
off; perhaps few men, when it came to the point of decision, would
have wished to be linked for life to Bangham's termagant daughter. So,
after many long years of patient, sorrowful waiting, John at length
had the wish of his heart granted, and found, as too many find, that
he had chosen ill for his own peace of mind. Nancy might have made a
good, hard-working wife to a man who would have ruled as well as loved
her,--one who would have taught her to obey; but where she should have
had a master, she found a servant; she despised Sands for his very
anxiety to please her, and readiness to yield to her wishes. There was
no open rupture between them; the wife ruled and the husband obeyed
and never complained, till at length Nancy's indulgence in the vice
of intemperance made John's misery a thing which no longer could be
concealed from the world.
The clerk seemed to expect some reply. The sailor was puzzled what
to say; he feared to hurt Sands by expressing any pity, and he was
too sincere to express any hope. But as the dead silence became very
painful, Ned broke it by saying, "I wish with all my heart I could help
you."
"That's it, that's just it," said John Sands, raising his drooping
head a little; "you're the only man I could have asked. You see," he
continued, uneasily, "Mrs. Sands is always right, as she should be,
when I'm by; she has the best of hearts; the metal is good, very good;
but I can't be always beside her, and I'm called up to London to-morrow
on business, which I cannot put off. I thought that perhaps, somehow,
you'd look in a little, or--or take a sort of kind of care,"--the poor
man looked wistfully into the face of Ned Franks; he knew not how to
finish his sentence.
"Really, Mr. Sands," said the embarrassed sailor, "I do not see
what I could possibly do. I'm not in high favor with your wife; any
interference on my part she would certainly take amiss."
All the village knew that Nancy had done all in her power, by trying to
blacken Ned's character, to prevent his being appointed school-master
at Colme, and that she cordially disliked him.
"It was your wife's influence I was thinking of," said the clerk. "I
know that Mrs. Sands has a high opinion of Mrs. Franks. I have myself
heard her say"--He stopped short, for he could hardly have repeated the
compliment to the wife in the presence of the husband, as it was that
"Persis Meade was fifty times too good for that canting fellow with the
wooden arm."
"I am afraid that even my wife would be unable to do anything," replied
Ned.
"Oh! don't say that, Mr. Franks," cried the clerk piteously, as if his
last hope were being cut away. "It's wonderful what the influence of
a woman can do. Do we not all know that Mrs. Franks, and you helping
her, were able to convert even a hard-hearted, unbelieving Jew! Is not
the baptism of Benjamin Isaacs, and of Benoni his son, down in the
register there, and was it not all from the speaking of you and your
wife? If she could do so much for a Jew, don't say she can do nothing
for a Christian."
Franks was touched by the earnest appeal, but could not help thinking
in his heart that Benjamin Isaacs, with all his Jewish prejudices, had
been a more hopeful subject than Nancy Sands. He did not, however,
speak; he only shook his head to express a doubt.
"Mrs. Franks could make her way with Mrs. Sands, I feel certain of
it," said the clerk, after another painful silence. "Women know how to
speak to women. Could she not take the babe with her? Nancy is fond of
babies." Sands's voice dropped almost to a whisper, as he added, "She'd
have gone through fire and water for our boy; there was never a better
mother; it was sorrow that set her wrong."
Ned could hold out no longer. "I'll ask my wife to call upon Mrs. Sands
to-morrow, and to take the baby, and maybe she'll get her to return the
visit," said the sailor, cheerily. "Keep up a good heart, neighbor;
there may be better days in store for you yet."
There was a little sound in the clerk's throat, something between
a cough and sob, and he pulled his handkerchief hastily out of his
pocket, for his eyes were brimming over with tears. Franks, who hated
to see a man cry, made his departure rather abruptly. "It is getting
very late," he observed; "I must wish Mr. Sands good-day."
"I could not help it; I could not help striking my flag when he boarded
me like that," muttered the sailor to himself, as with long strides
he hurried towards his school-house. "But to think of my engaging my
poor Persis to tackle a tigress, who's too much for the parson himself!
But how could I say him nay? He's nigh broken-hearted, poor fellow!
Certainly, if any one in the world is likely to say a word to Nancy
that will help her to sheer off from the whirlpool that's drawing her
in, that one is my sweet cherub of a wife."
Franks found that he was even later than he had supposed himself to be;
the pupils were already thronging to school; and heated, hungry, and
tired as he was, the master had almost directly to set to work. He had
not even time to snatch a hasty meal. The benches were half filled
with their noisy young occupants before Ned Franks took his usual place
behind his high desk. He fancied that he heard a little tittering
amongst the boys, for at their very last meeting he had given them a
lecture upon punctuality.
"So, my lads, you think that you have caught me napping for once,"
cried Ned Franks, in his cheerful tone; "but I'll not be hard on any
one who is a minute and three-quarters beyond time," Franks glanced at
the large clock on the wall, "if he brings as good an excuse for delay
as I do now. Here," he cried, waving his bank-note triumphantly, "here
are five pounds given to the collection for Wild Rose Hollow, by our
friend, Bat Bell, the miller."
A deafening shout arose from the boys. The miller had so long been
regarded as a money-making, money-saving screw, that they cheered him
at the top of their voices in his new character of a money-giving man.
"I can match your piece of good news with another," said Persis Franks,
who had come into the school-room on purpose to tell her tidings to her
husband. "Mr. Leyton called while you were out, to let us know that
his aunt had this morning received a letter from Mrs. Lane, enclosing
for the same purpose a check for ten pounds."
There was a cheer for Mrs. Lane, but not quite so uproarious, because
the announcement excited less surprise.
"I'll top your story," said the smiling sailor, speaking so that all
the boys might hear. "Ben Stone, the carpenter, has kindly promised
to give five pounds' worth of his labor to repair the tumble-down
almshouses in Wild Rose Hollow."
A very loud hurrah followed this announcement, mingled with clapping of
hands. The young curate, who chanced to be passing the school at that
time, paused in some surprise on hearing such a shout, and thought that
the naval school-master must have a novel and curious way of educating
his pupils. But Ned Franks was teaching his boys a lesson quite as
important as even the multiplication-table.
"Now you see, my lads," said the sailor, raising his hands to enforce
attention, "that he who cannot give much money to a charity, may give
his own honest hard work. Now, I've lately read in a capital book[A]
of school-boys, who, when shown how to go about it, actually built
a house for themselves, that the purses of generous friends might be
spared as much as possible. Now, I think that there's no one here
present, but myself, that has not two hands, and on those hands ten
fingers and thumbs. If any one here present wants to help to set the
almshouses to rights, and is willing to give an odd hour of labor every
week-day till the job is done, let him now hold up his right hand."
Instantly, above the dark cluster of boys, a number of hands--white,
red, clean, and soiled--were held up.
"Or," continued Franks, "as the days are now long, if there be any
one who could and would give two hours daily to serving God, by thus
helping his poor, let that one now hold up both hands."
Up went all the left hands, to the sound of a cheer louder and more
joyous than the first; and then all the hands were employed in
clapping, as if, instead of an invitation to labor, the boys had
received an invitation to a feast.[B]
"Blessings on the noble-hearted little fellows!" thought the
school-master, as he looked down on that mass of bright young faces.
And Persis, as she fixed her proud eyes on her husband, thought, "Ned
can lead these boys wherever he will; for he never asks them to do a
brave, or kind, or generous thing, without first showing them how to do
it by his example!"
[A] Liefde's "Six Months amongst the Charities of Europe."
[B] I wish that the united energies of the children of every school
in Britain, whether for the rich or the poor, could thus be enlisted
in some good work. Masters and mistresses would find the beneficial
effect in the minds of their pupils. Even Ragged Schools might have
a collecting box for farthings; or children's sympathies might be
enlisted in behalf of some charity near them. Working _together_ for
God promotes union, and it is a blessed thing for the young to learn to
delight in such work.
IX.
The Invitation.
"Was it a shame in me, my darling, to bring you into this engagement
about Nancy Sands?" asked Ned at a later hour of the day, when, seated
at a comfortable meal, he made up for lost time by attacking the food
with a vigor which amused his wife, who did not know of his having
given away his sandwich to the wayfaring man.
"Nay, I think that it would have been a shame had we refused to do what
we could for poor Mr. Sands in his trouble. Besides there is nothing
very formidable in paying a morning visit to Nancy," added Persis, with
a smile; "she has always been rather civil to me. I remember that when
I lived in the dell, before my marriage, when my poor old grandfather
was ill, Nancy once brought me some broth of her own making, to keep up
his strength, as she said."
"Perhaps what her husband told me is true; there may be good metal in
her after all, though I own that I don't like the ring of it. He ought
to know her best; but I'm not very hopeful about Nancy Sands," said
Franks, pushing back his empty plate; "you see, wifie, when once a
_woman_ takes to the glass, they say that there's not a chance of her
ever getting rid of the habit."
"I never like to hear that said," observed Persis. "Why should a woman,
any more than a man, be beyond reach of God's mercy and grace? A
woman has often strong, deep affections, and especially shrinks from
dragging down her family to misery and ruin."
"But when she is once right in the middle of the whirlpool, can she
help being sucked in?" said the sailor, gravely. "Intemperance is like
a whirlpool, wifie. Round about it, at some distance from the centre,
it looks not much more than a ripple of the sea; the careless pilot
might venture upon it, and, unless he keep a sharp lookout at his
bearings, scarcely guesses what a strong current is drawing him in,
closer and closer, to the down-whirl of waters. Let him sheer off at
once, and he is safe; if he slacken sail, and let the vessel drift,
why, he's lost,--he comes to a point where he _can't_ get her off, let
him strain every muscle as he may. And it's just so with the drinking.
A man feels sick, or a woman feels sad; a drop of something will warm
and cheer them, they think; and I don't say but that it may often do
so, and that spirits may be used as medicine, and be found a good
gift of God. But when the 'drop' comes to be taken pretty often; when
there is less of water and more of spirits mixed together; when the
man (or woman) begins to relish the glass, and think that he can't
do without it,--then's the time to sheer off! Don't let him wait till
the habit begins to draw him in as with the grasp of a giant, till he
finds that the ship won't answer the helm, that he's getting into the
wild whirl and will soon be carried whither he would not; let him fix
his quantity, measure it, and not go one oar's breadth beyond it; or,
if he has not the firmness for that, let him, at any cost, give up
the drink altogether, neither taste, nor touch, nor look at it, lest
he be engulfed in the treacherous Maelstrom, and soul and body perish
together!"
"O Ned," exclaimed Persis, "how fearful it is to think what multitudes
are lost in that whirlpool! God grant that poor Nancy be rescued in
time!"
"We'll not forget her in our prayers," said Ned Franks.
On the following day John Sands started for London, with a heavy,
anxious heart, only lightened by the thought that the sailor was
certain to keep his word. Sands lingered at the door of his home, with
his carpet-bag in his hand, turning half round in a hesitating manner,
as if he fancied that something might have been forgotten.
"I suppose that you've left your papers behind, or maybe your purse,"
said Nancy, who stood on the threshold to see her husband start on his
journey.
"No, it's not that, my dear," half stammered the clerk; "it's that I'm
not just easy in mind leaving you here all alone."
"I don't care three farthings for being alone," cried the ungracious
wife; "I can find occupation enough, and amusement enough, if I choose."
"That's it, that's just it; I wanted you to promise, dear,--while I'm
away, just while I'm away, you understand,--that you--you won't step
over to the 'Chequers.'"
"I'll not promise that to you, nor to nobody," said Nancy, with a
toss of her head and a snort of disdain; "a pretty pass it's come to,
indeed, if I mayn't go and have a gossip with a friend. Mrs. Fuddles of
the 'Chequers,' was my school-fellow; you know that as well as I do."
John Sands drew a heavy sigh, and wished from the bottom of his heart
that Mrs. Fuddles and the "Chequers" were somewhere at the other side
of the world, instead of down in the dell, just beyond the mill. He
felt, however, that there was no use in his saying anything more; so
Sands set off on his walk to the nearest station, and Nancy stood at
the door watching him, as long as the prim figure dressed in black
remained within sight. Then she went back into her parlor and sat
down, resting her hands on her knees, and gazing with a fixed, dull,
joyless stare on the opposite wall. Nancy felt very desolate at that
moment, for she had parted with the only being in all the world who
really loved her. Mrs. Sands knew that she was already "the talk of
the village;" that her neighbors, who had once looked on her as "a
thriving, well-to-do woman," now regarded her with contempt; she knew
that she was lowered in the eyes of all; and, though she would not have
owned that she was so, Nancy was lowered in her own. She scorned, she
despised herself for the very vice to which she clung so strongly. She
could not bear to be alone with her thoughts; she must drown them in
the fiery poison which was already consuming her credit, her happiness,
and her peace. Nancy rose, walked up to the cupboard, and took out of
it a bottle and a glass. Just as she had pulled out the cork from the
former, she heard a soft tap at the door.
"Why, Mrs. Franks, who would have thought of seeing you! and you've
brought the baby!" exclaimed Nancy, her face relaxing into an
expression of something like pleasure; for she was gratified by the
unexpected visit of one whose character stood so high in the village,
at a time when her own had so grievously sunk.
Persis took the seat which was offered to her, and listened
complacently to the praise of her beautiful boy, and when she marked
the shade of sadness in Nancy's tone as she said, "Oh! I know what a
mother feels with her first-born babe in her arms," she was glad that
she had come on her errand of kindness to the lonely and tempted woman.
"I did not think as you'd have walked as far as this, Mrs. Franks,
leastways carrying the child, for you're not over strong," said Mrs.
Sands. "You've not been here for a long time; we met oftener when you
were Persis Meade."
"Yes, you came to see me in the dell. I remember well your kindness in
bringing broth to my poor old grandfather; excellent broth it was;
I've no doubt that it did him good."
This little acknowledgment of a single act of past kindness had more
effect in thawing the heart of Nancy Sands than Persis could have
expected. Nancy's pride would have rebelled at the idea of Franks's
wife conferring any favor upon her, but her owning herself to be the
obliged party set Mrs. Sands at once at her ease. She liked to talk
over past days, happy days as she now thought them, when her own poor
boy was living. No one who had only seen Nancy Sands on that morning,
sitting chatting with Persis Franks, would have thought of her as the
"tigress" whose temper, especially when she was under the influence of
drink, made her the terror of her neighbors.
"I'm glad of your visit," she observed after a while; "I was feeling a
bit dull all alone."
"I hope that you will return my visit," said Persis; "could you not
come over this evening at seven to tea?"
"I suppose your man's out?" said Nancy, shortly. "I warrant you he'd
not care to see me."
"Oh, no, my clear husband will be at home; he knew that I was going to
invite you. I never do anything without his consent."
"Humph!" grunted Nancy; "that's what I call slavery. I take it a wife's
not like a red Indian, tied to a stake."
"No," replied Persis, smiling; "rather like a vine fastened to a
supporting, sheltering wall."
"I'm none of your creepers!" cried Nancy, with a saucy toss of the
head. "I'm a standard for the matter of that, and don't want to lean
upon nobody;" and certainly she did not look like anything that needs
a prop, with those stout, strong arms, bared to the elbows, and a red
face which might once have been handsome, but which now looked only
coarse. "I suppose," continued Mrs. Sands, "that you're one of them
meek ones as have old-fashioned notions about wedlock and its duties."
"Very old ones," replied Persis, gently swaying herself to and fro, to
rock to slumber the soft little burden so tenderly folded in her arms;
"as old, or more so, as the days of Abraham and Sarah."
"I'm one as sticks up for woman's rights," said Nancy, and she drew
herself up proudly.
"So am I," observed Persis, looking down on her babe; "but I see them
in a different light, perhaps, from what you do. I fancy that it is the
husband's right to support, the wife's to lean; the husband's to guide,
the wife's to obey; _both_ to honor, to cherish, and to love; at least,
it's so with my Ned and me."
Nancy glanced at the happy wife and mother before her, and though she
might not choose to imitate, she could neither pity nor despise. She
only said, however, "There's no doubt but that wedlock's a yoke to
most. If I'd been fastened to one who chose to pull hard one way, why
I'd just have dragged the harder the t'other way, and--"
"And I am afraid that then no great progress would have been made
either way," said Persis, timidly yet playfully.
Mrs. Sands gave a short, harsh laugh. "I for one could never abide to
be dragged down by such clogs as what folks call duty and obedience.
Why do you smile, Mrs. Franks?"
"I smiled because your words reminded me of a little fable of a clock."
"What's that? I never heard the fable," said Nancy.
Persis bent down and kissed her baby two or three times, perhaps to
give herself time to collect her thoughts, and then began,--
"Once upon a time, all the upper parts of a great kitchen-clock
rebelled against the weights. 'Of what use in the world they can be
passes my understanding!' cried the wheel. 'Great, heavy, leaden clogs
as they are, always dragging down towards earth!'
"'I'm sure that I've nothing to thank them for,' exclaimed the
minute-hand, briskly; 'every one looks at me as I go travelling round
and round, but who would ever care to stoop to look at the weights
below?'
"'They're not fit to be seen!' added the hour-hand; 'if they could be
twitched off at once, I dare be bound that I'd go as fast as you do!'
"'I'm tired to death of them!' clicked the pendulum. 'I'm certain that
I don't need 'em to keep me swinging steadily backwards and forwards.
I'd get on much better without 'em!'
"'They're dumb as fish!' observed the little bell inside. 'I wonder
that any clock-maker in his senses ever burdened a clock with weights!'
"One day an idle boy in a fit of mischief pulled both the weights off
the clock. It was not long, as you may believe, ere the different parts
of the machine found out the effect of the loss.
"The wheel could not turn itself round; the pendulum grew feeble and
would not swing.
"'I've come to a dead lock!' cried the minute-hand.
"'I can't get on!' groaned the hour-hand.
"And though both were pointing to twelve, the little hammer could not
strike on the bell.
"'Ah,' said the key, that was hanging close by, 'I guess that the
clock-maker knew what he was about when he hung on those weights.'"
When Persis Franks stopped, Mrs. Sands laughed.
"I suppose," she said, "that the moral of your fable is that wives
get on better with the clogs of duty and obedience than they would do
without them! But I find that _my_ hands will move fast enough, and my
clapper strike readily enough without my bothering myself to please
my man, much less to obey him! But you're not going away yet, Mrs.
Franks?" Persis had risen as if to depart.