not come and take tea with us this evening? You will not wish to stay
all alone."
"Oh! I'll not be alone anyhow," said Nancy, also rising from her seat;
"I thought I'd look in on Mrs. Fuddles."
This made Persis press her invitation. "You've never passed an evening
with me since my marriage," she said; "I'd take it so kind if you'd
come."
"Humph!" said Nancy, doubtfully. An evening at the public-house was
more suited to her degraded taste than one at the school-house; but she
felt the advantage of being able to say to her neighbors that she had
taken tea at Mrs. Franks's.
"I want you to see more of my husband," pleaded Persis.
A suspicion flashed across Nancy that there might be some design to
convert her. Suddenly and almost fiercely she asked, "Franks won't be
after preaching goodness and that sort of thing?"
"No, he'll not preach," answered Persis, quietly, "but he will
_practise_," she added to herself. "My husband has many amusing
sea-stories," said Persis aloud. "Did you ever hear of his crocodile
adventure in Madagascar?"
"Well, I'll come; seven is your hour, I think, that you told me."
"Yes, we take our meal later now, as Ned goes after lessons, with his
boys, to work in Wild Rose Hollow."
The invitation being accepted, Persis was about to leave the place,
when her eye fell on the bottle which Nancy had taken out of the
cupboard. The scent which pervaded the room told that its contents must
be gin.
"What avails it to keep her from the public-house," thought Persis, "if
she has the poison with her at home?" Mrs. Franks's foot was on the
threshold, but she suddenly turned and came back; her heart fluttered
and her cheek flushed, but her resolution was taken.
"Mrs. Sands," she said rather nervously, "I see that you have a bottle
of spirits in the house. Poor Walter Baynes, who is almost sinking,
has been ordered strong stimulant by the doctor; it is almost necessary
to keep him alive. As you happen to have gin at hand, will you, to do
me a favor, let me carry that bottle to him?"
Persis was astonished at the boldness of her own request, and Nancy was
scarcely less so.
"He can get it elsewhere," she said sharply.
"I should like so much, so very much, to take it to him now from you. I
pass his cottage on my way."
Mrs. Sands put her stout arms a-kimbo, and Persis was alarmed at the
savage expression which came over her features as she said, "Don't you
think I don't guess what you're after. Some one has been slandering me
to you. You think that that bottle is safer in your hands than mine."
Franks's wife, trembling, pressed her baby closer to her heart, but she
did not utter any denial of the truth.
"You'd be a-wanting to get me to give up the drink, not just for
to-day, but always."
"And if I could do so," said Persis, speaking with agitation, for she
was nervous and frightened, "if I could persuade you to give it up for
your own sake, your husband's, the father of your poor boy, should I be
acting the part of an enemy or of a friend?"
Nancy Sands was silent for some moments, painful moments to Persis. She
could not read that woman's heart; she did not venture to glance into
her face, or she might have seen in the heart the pang of remorse, in
the face the sullenness of shame. Mrs. Sands knew, felt, that she was
being drawn into misery and degradation, and that Persis, the gentle,
pure-minded wife, was only acting as a guardian angel might act,
seeking to save a perishing soul. Anything like stern rebuke Nancy's
proud spirit would not have borne; but Persis, trembling while she
pleaded, with moisture glistening on her downcast lashes, did not stir
up all the fierce wrath and resentment that would in a moment have
silenced conscience. Suddenly, half fiercely, Nancy cried, "Take the
bottle; I don't care; I can get more; the poor fellow is welcome to the
gin."
Persis did not let the opportunity slip. In a minute she had possessed
herself of the dangerous bottle, and after stammering thanks, to which
Nancy would not listen, Mrs. Franks hurried away from the place.
"Oh, I'm so thankful that visit is over!" she exclaimed half aloud as
she passed through the garden gate; "and I shall be thankful when the
evening also is over. I hope, oh, I do hope, that she'll come to us
sober!"
X.
A Happy Home.
Nancy did come perfectly sober, and Ned Franks kept his engagement made
for him by his wife. Not a word was uttered which even the irritable
Mrs. Sands, conscious of her own evil habit, could possibly twist into
a reproach. On the contrary, Persis took care to thank her guest for
her kindness in sending what had been valuable medicine to Baynes, and
let her know how the poor sinking sufferer had seemed to revive under
its effect.
Everything was done by the Frankses to make the evening pass pleasantly
to their guest. Their parlor with its jars of fresh flowers,
the snow-white cloth spread on the table covered with the pretty
tea-service, which had been a wedding-gift to Persis, tempting bread
and butter and the home-made cake for which the school-master's wife
was famous,--all formed a picture of neatness and comfort. Mrs. Sands
could not help contrasting Franks's cottage with her own. How different
the home where holiness and love went hand in hand, from the untidy,
comfortless dwelling of the drunkard!
Ned made himself exceedingly amusing; he told some of his very best
stories, and Nancy, under the genial influence of pleasant society,
brought out some of her own, which she related with a good deal of
spirit. Persis was surprised to find that her guest could be really
agreeable, and Franks, for the first time, was able to guess what could
possibly have made poor John Sands take a fancy to Nancy. There was
nothing to ruffle Mrs. Sands's temper, much to amuse and please her,
and the buoyant cheerfulness of the one-armed sailor was infectious to
every one near him.
So passed the evening till a quarter before nine, when Persis glanced
at her husband. It was the time when they always had prayer and
Bible-reading together.
"Mrs. Sands," said the sailor, "I don't think you'll mind our going on
in our own old way; we have a little reading and prayer at this hour,
and perhaps you'll like to join us."
The clerk's wife expressed no objection, though Persis fancied that her
face clouded over a little. "He'll be reading at me, or praying at me,"
was the unspoken thought of the conscious guest.
But Nancy Sands was mistaken. The short portion of Scripture,
impressively read by Franks, was about the joys of the blessed, the
exquisite description of the white-robed ones rejoicing before the
throne. And when the Frankses and their guest knelt down to pray, there
was nothing in the words of the sailor that might not have been uttered
had Nancy Sands been as lowly and pure-hearted and meek a Christian as
Persis herself.
The proud sinner felt humbled and subdued. She felt as if she had been
nearer to heaven on that evening than she had ever been before in
her life, and yet that there was some terrible, impassable barrier
shutting her out from closer approach.
"Now I must go home," she remarked in a tone of regret.
"But you will come again and take tea with us to-morrow," said Persis,
after asking Ned's consent with a glance, and receiving it in a smile.
"Mr. Sands will not be back till Thursday."
"Yes, I'll come; you're very kind," replied Nancy, wondering what could
make her company desired by one like Franks, to whom she had shown
so much rudeness, or by his wife, who was herself such a pattern of
sobriety and quiet behavior.
"I'll convoy you home," said Ned Franks, taking down his cap from its
peg.
"Oh, dear, no. I could find my way blindfold, and there's clear
moonlight to-night."
"I'll see you safe in port," said the sailor, with quiet firmness. He
remembered that the "Blue Boar" must be passed on the road.
It was a night of exquisite beauty. The softness of the breeze, the
silvery light of the moon, seemed in perfect harmony with the holier
feelings which had been wakened in Nancy's breast by the sight of a
Christian home.
"You are very happy," she abruptly observed, as she walked by the
sailor's side.
"We _are_ happy," was the brief but fervent reply.
"Perhaps clocks do go better with weights after all," muttered Nancy;
a remark which to Ned sounded so odd, and so utterly foreign to their
subject, that, had he not known that Nancy had had nothing stronger
than his wife's good tea, he would have suspected that she had taken "a
drop too much."
As Franks and his companion passed the church, the soft moonlight lay
like a silvery robe on the graveyard, throwing deep shadows from the
tombstones over the mossy mounds. Nancy heaved a low sigh;--in that
quiet spot lay the remains of her only son.
"Life is a bitter thing," she murmured.
"It would be if this life were our all," said Franks.
The sentence was short but suggestive; Nancy knew that the world had
been _her_ all; that she had thought little of, and cared less for,
anything beyond the cares and pleasures of this life. She knew that
what shed radiance on the home of Persis was not merely the domestic
love and peace within it, but the hope of a better home beyond earth,
and that such hope, like the moon, could beautify and brighten, not
only the cheerful cottage, but even the silent grave.
Franks was more pleased with the quiet, subdued manner in which Nancy
bade him good-night at the door of her dwelling, than he had been with
her lively conversation in his own. Never had Mrs. Sands felt more
disgusted with the untidy aspect of her parlor than when she entered it
on that night. How unlike it was to that which she had quitted! What
a different wife she had been from Persis! Nancy thought of what she
heard at church about a broad way and a narrow way. She had a terrible
consciousness that the broad was that which she herself was pursuing;
she knew that it must--not only according to Scripture, but the natural
course of events--end in destruction, and she felt more keenly than
ever that _the way of transgressors is hard_.
Nancy Sands was very low in spirits,--a reaction after excitement,--and
she also, no doubt, missed the stimulant to which she had been
accustomed. But for Persis having carried away the gin, which had not
been replaced, the clerk's unhappy wife would certainly have all at
once drowned uneasy thoughts by indulging in her fatal habit. Happily,
however, on this night no supply of spirits was at hand, and perfectly
sober, but deeply sad, Nancy Sands retired to rest.
But the enemy, who _goeth about as a lion seeking whom he may devour_,
will not lightly leave hold of a victim on whom his deadly gripe has
once been laid. While the Frankses were thankful for success of their
first attempt to win Nancy from her course of misery and sin, they
felt how utterly unable they were in themselves to work any effectual
change. Fervent were their prayers to Him who willeth not that any
should perish, that he, by the might of his Spirit, would rescue the
tempted one from Satan and from herself.
XI.
Temptation.
"Well, Franks, you're an odd chap," exclaimed Ben Stone, the jovial
carpenter, as Ned, on the following afternoon, was passing his shop,
going with a party of young volunteers to work in Wild Rose Hollow.
"Why, what's in the wind?" asked Ned.
"To think of your having the tigress to tea with your wife! I wonder
she hasn't left marks of her teeth and claws!" The carpenter gave his
merry chuckle. "But, joking apart, I don't think that Nancy is fit
company for Mrs. Franks. I can't think why you should ask her; it's
really encouraging vice."
Ned Franks attempted no explanation. The easy-going, self-satisfied
Ben would not have understood the motives of one who, like his Master,
could show kindness to sinners whilst abhorring their sin.
"If you've any idea of _converting_ Nancy," the carpenter continued,
laughing at the idea as utterly absurd, "you might as well try to turn
my old lathe into a lady's piano-forte! Why the woman's just passed
this on her way to the 'Chequers,'"--he pointed with his thumb towards
the dell,--"and if she come back sober, why, I'm a Dutchman, that's
all!"
Franks was more vexed than surprised at the news. He quickened his
steps, and overtook Nancy when she had almost reached the door of the
"Chequers." "On with you, my lads," cried Ned to his boys, "I'll be
after you in a twinkling; see if you can be sharp enough as to finish
that bit of clearing before I join you." He then walked up to Nancy,
and laid his hand on her arm.
"Mrs. Sands, just you come on with us, and see me and my crew at work."
There was nothing in the words, but much in the manner, that conveyed
an earnest warning.
"I will, presently; I must just step in here first," said Nancy,
looking restless and annoyed.
"Mrs. Sands, you joined us last night in the prayer, _lead us not into
temptation_; are you not steering right into the middle of it now?"
Nancy's face flushed very red; there was anger, but also some
irresolution. She stood for a moment as if she could not make up
her mind, when a shrill voice was heard from the open window of the
tap-room, "I say, Nancy Sands, I've been wondering what has become of
you. I thought as how you must have jogged up to Lunnon on a spree!"
That call from Mrs. Fuddles decided the hesitating woman. Nancy roughly
pulled away her arm from Franks, and hurried up the path to the
"Chequers."
"Can't save her against her will," said the sailor, sadly, as he went
on his way. "I've no more power to keep her back from the whirlpool,
than I have to stop that great mill-wheel with a touch of my wooden
arm." Even the scene of cheerful activity into which the sailor soon
entered did not entirely remove the painful impression left by the
conduct of Nancy. Ned was, however, too busy to attend much to anything
but what lay directly before him. The almshouses in Wild Rose Hollow
were, one by one, to be put into perfect repair, gardens, buildings,
and all. The funds subscribed had not been nearly sufficient to cover
the expense; so but few skilled workmen could be employed; but under
them, with energy and great zeal, labored the village boys, whom
their one-armed teacher had enlisted to help in the work. To these
young volunteers fell the simpler part of the business,--fetching and
carrying, levelling ground, clearing off rubbish, and digging drains.
But they needed an overseer, or, with all their good will, the merry
crew might rather have marred than helped on the work. Ned's energies
were therefore fully employed, and it was not till working time was
over, and the little laborers had begun to scatter on their way to
their various homes, that he had much time to think about Nancy.
[Illustration: "To these young volunteers fell the simpler part of the
business--fetching and carrying, leveling ground, clearing off rubbish,
and digging drains." p. 105.]
Ned was sauntering slowly and wearily along the road, and had nearly
reached the water-mill, where the clack, clack of the revolving wheel
showed that the miller's day of labor did not close at sunset, when he
was startled by a loud and piercing cry. It was succeeded by another
and another! The first idea of the sailor was, that one of his boys, in
careless play, had fallen into the mill-stream. He darted forwards, and
in half a minute was in the centre of a group of lads, who, with alarm
and horror, were gazing into the water, and shouting out frantically,
"Stop the wheel! stop the wheel! She'll be under it; she'll be torn
into pieces!"
Franks saw a form struggling under the water, and one red hand raised
above it. He had no time to distinguish more, not even an instant to
pull off his coat, before plunging into the stream, lest the poor
wretch, dragged on by the force of the current, should be crushed by
the ponderous wheel. Ned was a bold and skilful swimmer, but he was a
maimed man, and encumbered with his clothes; and, though he had not
paused to reckon chances before dashing in to the aid of a drowning
woman, he felt, when he was once in the water, that he was quite as
likely to share an awful fate as to succeed in saving her from it. The
rush of the stream was terrible. Never had the struggling swimmer found
himself in greater danger. The cries and shouts of the boys on the
bank, who were far more anxious for the safety of their beloved teacher
than for that of the intoxicated Nancy, the terrible clack of that
merciless wheel, for weeks afterwards haunted the memory of Ned Franks.
He reached the woman, he entangled his iron hook in her clothes,--for
his right hand, his only hand, could not be spared from swimming,--and
wrenched her back by main force from her awful position close under
the wheel. By desperate efforts Franks succeeded in struggling back
near enough to the bank to be caught by a dozen eager young hands, and,
gasping, choking, almost exhausted, he and his still shrieking burden
were drawn up to a place of safety. Ned could scarcely distinguish,
through the dull, booming sound in his ears, the exclamations of horror
around him, "Her arm! oh, it's smashed, smashed to bits!"
A fearful appearance was indeed presented by Nancy; her dripping,
clotted, tangled black hair hung over a face now pale as that of a
corpse, and the sight of her arm, mangled and crushed, shocked and
sickened the bystanders. "What shall we do,--where shall we take her?"
was the question passed around, for her hurts were evidently too
fearful for village treatment. Nancy herself answered the question,
for, though she had fallen intoxicated into the stream, the sudden
plunge, the terrible shock, had effectually sobered the miserable woman.
"The hospital,--the hospital!" she gasped.
Every one knew that there was one in the town but a few miles distant.
There was a cry of "Bring a shutter from the 'Chequers,'" when the
sound of wheels was heard, and Mr. Leyton, the curate, in a small
open carriage, drove rapidly down the dell. The clergyman knew from
the cries and shouts of the crowd, that something terrible must have
occurred.
"Lift her in here, gently,--gently. I'll take her to the hospital
at once," exclaimed the kind-hearted curate. A blanket brought from
the "Chequers" was hastily wrapped round the dripping woman, and the
carriage was driven off at speed, that its fainting occupant might be
placed as quickly as possible under a surgeon's skilful hands.
It was not till the chaise had disappeared from his view, that Ned
Franks had leisure to think of himself. He felt sick and faint, and
thankfully took the glass of hot brandy and water that was brought to
him by one of his boys, but he declined the offer of the miller to
come in and warm and dry himself at his fire, and change his dripping
clothes.
"Thanks to you all the same, Bat Bell, but a quick walk home will heat
my blood, and Persis will soon set all to rights with me," said the
sailor, as he shook the drops from his curly brown hair. "I've got no
real hurt, thank God! I wish we could say as much for poor Nancy. Sands
will have a sad coming home to-morrow when he hears of this dreadful
accident."
"No man can say but that it serves her right," was the observation
of Ben Stone, when he heard of what had happened to Nancy. "She was
walking into something worse than a mill-stream with her eyes wide
open; Providence stopped her, when man could not stop her. There are
worse evils than a plunge into a mill-stream, or even a broken arm."
Franks rose the next morning before sunrise, that he might have time to
go to the town for news of Nancy before his scholars met. All during
the night the frightful scene of the preceding evening had disturbed
him in his sleep, and he had repeatedly awoke with a start, fancying
that he was dragging the shrieking Nancy from under the wheel.
Persis anxiously awaited her husband's return from the hospital. "Have
you seen Nancy?" she eagerly asked, as, tired and heated with his long
walk, Ned re-entered the school-house.
Franks shook his head sadly. "The poor arm has been taken off," he
replied; "they could not save it. She has passed a very bad night, but
there are good hopes that she may recover. Poor Sands,--poor fellow!
'twill be a terrible blow to him!"
"And yet, dear Ned, who knows but that a blessing may come even out of
this grievous trial? In the hospital poor Nancy may be broken of her
sad habit; she will have time for thought, for prayer. Oh, how can we
be thankful enough that she was not suddenly summoned, when in a state
of intoxication, to appear in the presence of her God!"
XII.
Ice Below.
Sincere and strong as was the pity felt by the Frankses for the
sufferings of Nancy, a letter, which came by the post a few minutes
after Ned's return from his visit to the hospital, diverted their
attention to a subject of still closer interest to themselves.
"Why, Ned, here's a letter to you from our Norah!" cried Persis to her
husband, who, wearied with his long, early walk, was snatching a hasty
breakfast.
"That will be something pleasant; Norah's letters are always pleasant,"
said Ned Franks, as he broke open the envelope with the help of his
hook. "It's come to cheer us a bit, for I don't feel up to much this
morning."
"You're not looking well, Ned," said the wife, glancing anxiously at
his pale and haggard face. "That plunge into the mill-stream yesterday
to save poor drowning Nancy has, I fear, given you a chill, and all
your extra work to repair the almshouses after school-hours are over is
too much for your strength."
"Yes, if one is to be kept awake half the night with a squalling baby,"
added Franks. "Our little man seemed determined that we should have
enough of his music. I suppose that one will get used to it some time,
just as one gets used at sea to the noise of the winds and the waves.
Why, there he's at it again!"
The baby, which Persis held in her arms, began crying loudly, as he had
been doing at intervals all the night through.
"I'm afraid that the darling has something the matter with him," said
Persis, rocking the child gently to and fro to hush his cries.
"Nothing the matter with his lungs, anyhow," observed the sailor, who,
though fondly loving his boy, had become somewhat weary of his roaring,
and who had awoke with a headache,--a bad preparation for playing
school-master to a swarm of noisy young rustics. "But let's see what
Norah has to say for herself; dear girl, her letters are always like
sunshine!" and the sailor began reading to himself the note from his
young orphan niece.
"I fear there is not much sunshine in that letter," thought Persis, as
she saw a cloud gathering on her husband's brow, usually so open and
clear.
"I don't know what to make of this!" exclaimed Ned, in a tone of
irritation, starting up from the table on which lay his unfinished
breakfast. "Just listen to this, Persis. Oh, can't you stop the child's
crying for a minute? It's enough to drive a fellow distracted!" and
the sailor read aloud the letter from Norah, with the accompaniment of
little Ned's squalling.
"DEAR UNCLE,--I am so grieved, but mistress has given me
warning, and I'm to go to-morrow. I hope you won't be very angry,
after all you've taught me, and all my resolutions. I can't stop
in London just now, as I would not know where to go to; so I'm
coming down to you by the train that arrives at half-past three.
I hope that you won't mind; that it won't put auntie out much. My
love to her and the baby. Your sorrowful niece,
"NORAH PEELE."
"When we thought her so comfortably settled in a good situation, doing
so well," muttered Franks. "What can Mrs. Lowndes mean by cutting the
poor lass adrift at a day's notice!"
"Norah must have got into some scrape," observed Persis.
"Ay, that's plain as a flag-staff. She might have given us a notion
of what the scrape is, instead of writing about my teaching and her
own resolutions, which we knew all about before. But poor Bessy's
motherless girl must always find a home under our roof."
"Oh, yes," said Persis, cheerfully. "While you are busy with the boys,
I'll see to clearing out the little room, and having all right and
tight for our Norah. I think that she is as dear to me as to you, and
that is saying a good deal."