the making of a very good girl in her, too, only she and her brother
had been brought up so badly, scarce knowing a lie from the truth. But
poor Bessy,--she's gone, and it's not for her brother to be diving down
to bring up her failings to the light. She loved her children, anyhow,
and couldn't teach them what she didn't know clearly herself. But who's
to meet Norah at the station?" added Ned Franks, abruptly. "You can't
go because of baby, and I can't go because of the boys."
"I am afraid that Norah must find her way home by herself," observed
Persis, "unless the miller is going to the town. I'll walk over to the
dell and ask him. But Norah knows the road so well that her coming
alone matters less."
"It matters a great deal," cried Franks, with impatience. "Here the
lass is returning with a wet sail and a heavy heart, I warrant ye, and
she finds no one to take her by the hand and welcome her to port, or to
carry her bundle for her. I'd not have minded it if she'd been coming
with colors flying to pay us a visit. Why on earth should she choose an
hour when she knows I'm always in the school-room?"
Persis did not know how to answer the question, and had no time to do
so had she known, for the sound of young voices, and the trampling of
heavy boots in the adjoining room, told that the boys were beginning to
assemble. Never had Franks been less inclined to begin his daily labor;
never had he met his scholars with less of kindly good-humor.
For Ned was no model of perfection. He was naturally of a hot and
hasty spirit; and though, from Christian principle, he usually held
his temper under such command that he had the reputation of possessing
a good one, it had cost him many a struggle to make it obey the rein.
On this particular morning, with an aching head, weary frame, and
worried mind, he felt irritable and impatient. He was angry with
the dull lad who could not remember that _seven times eight_ is not
_seventy-eight_; and when Bill Doyle, repeating his natural-history
lesson, said that horses ran wild on the _staircase_ in Russia,
instead of the _steppes_, Ned, who at another time might have smiled
at the blunder, which was probably made half in fun, muttered something
about "blockhead," and sent the boy to the bottom of the class.
Bill, the son of Sir Lacy Barton's groom, being a sharp, pert little
fellow, was not disposed to take his punishment quietly, or to be
called blockhead on any subject connected with horses. He whispered to
the boy who sat next him, "He don't know nothing about horses hisself."
"What's that?" exclaimed Ned Franks, whose sharp ear had caught the
whisper.
"Father says sailors have never no notion of riding," said the saucy
little urchin, "and when they mounts a horse, are as likely to get up
with their face to the tail as the head." At which observation a little
titter ran round the school.
It has been remarked that few things nettle a man so much as to doubt
his skill in riding; and Ned, who was always jealous for the honor of
his old profession, was in no humor to take as a jest the slight thus
cast on the whole of the navy.
"Then you may tell your father, when you go home," he said, angrily,
"that there are no better horsemen than some of our blue-jackets; and
as for riding,--when we were lying off Alexandria, every day that we
could get leave ashore, I and my messmates mounted and galloped at a
pace that would have made your jockeys stare."
As the word of the one-armed school-master was always implicitly
believed, Ned could see that he had raised himself not a little
in the eyes of his pupils, especially those of Bill Doyle, by the
accomplishment of horsemanship to which he had thus laid claim. But Ned
had hardly spoken the hasty sentence, when he was angry with himself
for having been betrayed by foolish pride into uttering it. He felt
that for once he had been guilty both of exaggeration, and of (without
actually speaking untruth) misleading the boys as to his meaning.
Any one of a soul less transparently candid than that of Ned Franks
might have thought it weak scrupulosity to let the mind dwell for
a moment on such a seeming trifle as this. There is a marvellous
difference between the consciences of men. Some have become hard as
the horny hoof of an ass; little short of a bullet (by which figure I
would represent some open act of wickedness) can make them feel pain
at all. Other consciences are tender and sensitive as the apple of the
human eye, and what to many would seem an almost invisible speck of
sin greatly disturbs and troubles them. This is one of the reasons why
holiness and humility are so often found together; while the hardened
offender, whose conscience is seared, seems almost past feeling
remorse. Franks knew that he had spoken very idle words, and though
he was inclined, as most people are, to make excuses for himself, his
honest soul could not rest at ease until he had openly repaired his
error as well as he could.
When lessons were over, and the boys were about to disperse, Ned
stopped their going out of the school-room by a gesture of his hand. He
stood up with his honest face a good deal more flushed than usual, for
the acknowledgment which he was forcing himself to make was humiliating
and painful.
"Boys," said he, in that clear voice which always commanded attention,
"there's something which I want to say to you before you go home.
There's nothing that I have more warned you against than the iceberg
of falsehood. A man who habitually lies will, we know from the Word of
God, be shut out from heaven. Now, an iceberg is a thing clear enough
to be seen, and, unless he come across it at night, one might say that
a pilot had no excuse for running a vessel upon one; but there's a part
of the mass which one can't see,--that's the part hidden beneath the
green waves, and as that may stretch out much wider than the white peak
glistening above, it is clear that a ship might strike on the sunken
ice while seeming to give a wide berth to the berg. Now, it's just the
same with falsehood. There's an upper part, easily seen, and I hope
that we all try to steer clear of it; that no boy here is so mean and
base as to tell a downright lie. Every boy here knows that _lying lips
are an abomination to the Lord_. But not all are on their guard against
the _sunken ice_ stretching below. We strike on it when we exaggerate,
or when in any way we deceive, though not a word may be spoken, or what
is spoken may be literal truth. My own keel grated against the sunken
ice to-day." Ned felt a good deal embarrassed as he went on, all the
more so from the profound silence of the listening boys. "I said that
there were no better riders than some of our own blue-jackets. Now,
that may be true, or it may not, but I certainly did not speak from
my knowledge, and I'm afraid that I ran foul of exaggeration. And I
said that when our ship was lying off Alexandria, we tars rode about
on shore as often as we'd a chance,--and that was true enough, though
the chance came but seldom; but I suppose that you fancied, from what I
said, that we galloped about upon horses?" There was a general murmur
of assent. "Now, I never mounted a horse in my life; the beasts which
we rode were _donkeys_." There was a laugh from some of the boys,
almost instantly suppressed, however, for Ned Franks looked unusually
grave. "Now, my lads, I've thought it best to say all this to you
openly, both for my own sake and for yours. I want you to feel how
hard it is to keep off altogether from that same smooth, slippery ice
of deceit,--to know how treacherously it lies under the surface; and
I want you to resolve, if ever you find yourselves touching it, be it
ever so slightly, to sheer off at once, like honest Christians, and let
no temptation draw you from the straight course of perfect truth."
The school-master's effort was over; painful as it had been, Ned
Franks was glad that he had made it. His frank confession of so small
a deviation from that straight course, had made a deeper impression
on the minds of his boys than hours of lecturing on the perils of
falsehood would have done.
"If our master said one thing, and half the village said another, I'd
take Ned Franks's word against all the rest," was the observation of
one of the lads as he left the school-house.
"I never knew any one so partic'lar about truth," said Bill Doyle.
"Franks has such a sharp eye for the least bit of deceit, that I guess
he'd catch sight of that there slippery ice that he talked of, if it
be'd fifty feet down under the waves!"
XIII.
The Return Home.
A sweet, pleasing-looking girl, of between seventeen and eighteen years
of age, occupied a place that day in a third-class carriage of the down
train from London. Norah Peele--for it was she--was on her way to her
native village of Colme; but she had none of the joyousness which she
would have felt, under other circumstances, in making a journey home.
All the brightness was gone from that young face, the drooping eyelids
were red with the traces of tears, and she looked rather embarrassed
than glad at finding that the Clerk of Colme chanced to be one of her
travelling companions.
Certainly, John Sands was not one to enliven any society, though he
served as a very good protector to the young maiden whom he had known
from her childhood. He made a few attempts at conversation, and gave
Norah the latest news of the village, casting--as was natural with
him--a melancholy hue over all. Mr. Curtis continued ill; the clerk
was sure that he would not recover, and that his wife would break down
with the nursing; the almshouses were rotting to pieces where they
stood, and the collection made for them at church had been smaller
than he had ever known one to be before. After these not very cheerful
communications, John Sands relapsed into silence, keeping his eyes
gravely fixed on the knob of his gingham umbrella, while a melancholy
train of thought was evidently flowing through his mind.
"Here we are," he said at last, slowly raising his head, as the shrill
whistle announced their approach to B----; "if you're going to the
village on foot, Norah Peele, we may as well walk there together."
John Sands, with stiff politeness, helped Norah out of the train. She
had hardly stepped on the platform, when they were met by Bat Bell, the
miller, whose hard, dry features wore a graver expression than usual.
"Mr. Sands," he said, addressing himself to the clerk, with merely a
nod of recognition to Norah, "as Ned Franks could not come here to-day,
and I had business in town, Persis asked me to wait here and tell
you"--the miller dropped his voice as he added the words--"about your
wife."
Painful anxiety agitated the sallow face of John Sands; no news of her
was likely to be good news. The clerk nervously clutched his umbrella;
his pale lips moved, but they framed no question.
"She'd an accident last evening; fell into my pond,--no, no, not
drowned; Ned Franks got her out; but her arm is badly hurt, and she's
in the hospital here."
The clerk waited to hear no more; turning round, without uttering a
word, he went off with long strides in the direction of the place where
his wretched wife lay on her bed of pain.
"Her arm is smashed, has been taken off," said the miller to Norah;
"but for your brave uncle, the poor, intoxicated wretch would have been
torn limb from limb by my wheel."
"And he--oh, is he hurt?" cried the shuddering girl.
"He'd a narrow shave for his life," said the miller, "but he got off
without even a scratch. He's a gallant fellow, is your uncle; but I
say it was folly in him, a husband and father, to risk his life for
a ranting vixen, who'll drink herself to death one of these days. But
you'll come with me now, Norah Peele; my cart's waiting near here, and
will carry you and your bundle; like a sensible girl, you don't sport
much luggage, I see."
As the miller's cart rattled on its way, Bell went on with his talking,
at every second sentence giving a cut with his whip to his horse; for
the miller liked rapid motion, to "get on" being a ceaseless impulse
with him.
"You'll find changes in Colme, Norah Peele. Misfortunes never come
single; there was Nancy Sands struggling in the mill-pond yesterday,
and to-day, Ben Stone the carpenter, as strong and hale a man as one
could find in the county, is struck down, just as he had finished
breakfast, with a kind of a fit. They say that something has given way
within him, and that though he may live weeks or months, he'll not last
to the end of the year. Now, there's a man who looked likely to see
ninety; only a little too full-blooded perhaps," added the miller, who
had not an ounce of superfluous flesh on his bones.
Tears came into the eyes of Norah. The carpenter was a popular man
in Colme; every one knew so well the portly form, the good-humored,
self-complacent smile, the loud voice, the jovial chuckle of Ben, it
was difficult to associate with him any idea of sickness or of death.
But Bell saw that his news had saddened his young companion, and as his
light cart rapidly wheeled round a corner of the road, he as rapidly
turned the current of conversation.
"You've chosen a pleasant time of the year for your visit to the
country, Norah. How long are you likely to stay with your uncle?"
"I don't know; I can't say,--I suppose till I get another place,"
answered the girl.
"Ah, you've tired of London, after a village life; I always thought
that you would. Noise, bustle, and bother! Talk of the clack of my
mill-wheel,--why, in London there are thousands of wheels perpetually
going, and streams of people perpetually flowing; there's something
always on the grind. I like you the better for getting away as fast as
you possibly can from London."
"I'd have stopped there if I could," said the young servant in a
scarcely audible voice.
"Then why did you give warning?" asked the miller.
"I did not give warning," replied poor Norah, blushing and hanging down
her head; "my mistress gave warning to me."
"There's simple truth, anyways," said the miller, a grim smile rising
to his lips. "You are just like your sailor uncle: Franks is his name,
and frank's his nature. I don't believe he ever told an untruth in his
life."
Norah turned her head, and gazed sadly on the meadows and groves, clad
in spring's fresh green, by which she was rapidly passing; but her
thoughts did not follow her eyes. The miller's remark had awakened a
train of painful reflections.
"Oh, that it had indeed been so with me!" thought poor Norah; "that
I had always kept my lips pure from falsehood; I would not then be
returning to be a burden upon my kind and generous uncle. I, whose
character stood so high, sent away in disgrace! I, whose word was at
once believed! I feel as if I could not bear to tell uncle all,--to
let him know of the direct falsehood, and the deceit carried on for
months, my mistress's trust so abused by his niece! Uncle will think
that all his care and kindness have been thrown away upon Norah; that
I am still the foolish, deceitful, bad girl that I was when he first
came to Colme, and tried to teach me to be honest and truthful, and
straightforward, as a Christian should be. It seems as if I could
endure anything rather than the loss of his good opinion, and that of
dear Aunt Persis! And yet,"--thus Norah pursued her reflections, to
which the miller now left her, his mind being occupied in reckoning up
the amount of his savings deposited in the county bank of B----,--"and
yet, the safest, the best course for me now, must be to be perfectly
frank and open. Alas! I cannot recall the past, but I can draw from
bitter experience a lesson for the future. I will confess everything
to my uncle, conceal nothing, make no excuses; and oh, may the God of
truth help me from this time forward indeed to _take heed to my ways,
that I offend not with my tongue_!"
I will not dwell on the kindly welcome given to Norah Peele by Persis
and Ned Franks. She was received as a daughter, no questions asked,
no painful inquiries made as to the cause of her leaving her place.
"Leave the lass to tell her own story when and how she likes,"
the one-armed sailor had said to his wife. So the baby now happily
sleeping, was shown and admired; topics of general interest were alone
spoken of at the evening meal which followed Franks's day of toil;
the state of the almshouses in Wild Rose Hollow, the progress made in
their repair, the accident to the clerk's wife, the sudden and serious
illness of Stone the carpenter, the good report of improvement in the
health of the vicar,--all these were made subjects of conversation,
everything being avoided which might possibly embarrass the guest.
All was done to make her feel at her ease. Norah, it was said, would
be so useful in helping to nurse the baby; Norah would look after the
flowers, now that her uncle was too busy all day to have time to work
in his garden. How delighted old Sarah Mason would be to have Norah to
read the Bible to her again!
The poor girl felt grateful for the kindness and consideration thus
shown her, and thankful that such a home was left to her still; but a
burden was weighing on her mind, and even while conversation was going
on, in which she appeared to join, a smothered sigh, or a sudden
moistening of her eyes, showed that her thoughts were wandering to
something painful. When the tea-things had been cleared away by the
active Persis, assisted by Norah, when cups and saucers had been washed
and replaced on the shelf, and the outer door closed for the night (it
never was bolted or barred), Norah sat down on a little wooden stool at
the feet of her aunt, and recounted, with simple truthfulness, all the
circumstances that had led to her hasty dismissal from the service of
Mrs. Lowndes. I shall give you the story, not in Norah's words, but my
own, beginning it by a short account of her early days in Colme.
XIV.
Norah's Story.
Norah and her brother were the only children of the half-sister of
Ned Franks, Bessy Peele, a woman who, in every important respect, had
been an utter contrast to her brother. While Ned's maxim was to do
everything in clear daylight, Bessy was one who, if possible, always
took an underground way. He considered the straight road always the
shortest; she wound and doubled like a fox. He was convinced that
honesty is the best policy; she looked upon cunning as wisdom. One of
the earliest lessons learned by Mrs. Peele's unfortunate children was
that the great thing in life is to pick up money by any _safe_ means;
by "safe" being meant whatever would not lead to the prison or the
gallows. There was no harm, she said, in telling a lie,--at least a
_white_ lie, that hurt no one, and helped one's self on in the world.
What need was there to be so very particular about a little slip of
the tongue? She was sure, for her part, that God would not notice such
trifles as these.
It is said that some Chinese parents are actually so inhuman as to
blind their children, that the poor, wretched creatures may earn more
money by begging. Mrs. Peele, a fond though a foolish parent, would
have been horrified at the idea of inflicting such an injury upon
her children, while actually doing them a wrong yet more cruel. For
was it not such to _blind their consciences_, to make them unable to
distinguish the wrong from the right, at the risk of their walking,
through the darkness of their souls, into everlasting destruction? And
this all for the sake of paltry gain, miserable profits of sin, more
dearly bought than the alms given to the poor blinded Chinese beggars!
The mischief done to the characters of Bessy Peele's children was very
serious as regarded her son, and had Norah long remained under the roof
of her mother, the principles of the young girl might, like his, have
been utterly ruined. Happily Norah went early into service, and became
the attendant of an aged Christian lady, who gave her every opportunity
of hearing the gospel faithfully preached, and made her read to her
the Bible and other religious books. Under her roof Norah received
religious impressions; her young and tender heart turned towards
Him of whose love and compassion she heard so much. But, alas! the
poison-seeds sown in childhood had left their evil roots in the soil.
Norah would one hour be listening in church with tearful eyes to the
account of Peter's sin and repentance, and the next hour be falling,
_without repentance_, into a similar sin of untruth! She was fearfully
inconsistent,--not because she was insincere, but because she had
actually no clear line drawn in her mind as to where innocence ended
and guilt began. Norah had been led to fancy that little sins were no
sins,--"white lies" no falsehood,--picking _not_ to be classed with
stealing. She wished to please a merciful God and go to heaven, but she
felt not that the God of Love is the God of Holiness also; that _all_
sin, if unforgiven, must end in death; that the _least_ can be washed
out in nothing less precious than the blood of the Saviour, and that
for every idle, untruthful _word_ the sinner must give account at the
judgment.
The return to England of her maimed uncle, the sailor, at this time
proved a great blessing to Norah. She met with one whose standard of
right was the Bible standard,--one who spake the truth as a man who
serves the God of Truth should speak, and who trampled on deceit as he
would have set his heel on a venomous serpent. Norah's eyes were opened
to see that religious profession is but a mask if it do not influence
the conduct; that to have prayer on the lips at one moment and untruth
at another is fearful mockery before God! Norah Peele asked the help of
the Holy Spirit to enable her to walk in the path of holiness, which
she now found to be so much more narrow than she had before believed
it to be. She became watchful over herself,--she set a guard over her
tongue; the little bark, with heaven's wind swelling its sails, did
"sheer off" from the treacherous iceberg of falsehood.
Mrs. Peele died rather suddenly after a few days' illness, and closed
her worse than useless life with little consciousness of sin, and
no sincere repentance. She had been a good mother, she said; God
was merciful; she was going to a better world. The habit of a life
continued to the end; and, having constantly tried to deceive others,
poor Bessy deceived herself at the last. She had built her house on the
sand; there was no solid foundation for her hope; she had heard the
word, and done it not; what could she plead, where would she stand, in
the last awful day?
Very different was it with Norah's aged mistress, when, about a year
afterwards, she gently sank to rest, in humble trust that He whom she
had loved and served would receive her unto himself. By that holy,
happy death-bed Norah learned a lesson which she never could forget.
She nursed her lady night and day, and, when her gentle spirit was
released from earthly suffering, the young servant mourned for her loss
with grief most sincere.
Norah would then have gone home to her uncle, Ned Franks, had not Mr.
Lowndes, the younger brother of her late mistress, at once offered to
take her into the service of his wife. He knew well, he said, the value
of such a servant as Norah, a really high-principled girl, who would be
found honest in word as well as in deed.
In entering the service of Mrs. Lowndes, Norah had made a great rise
in life. Instead of being the general servant of a clergyman's widow,
whose narrow life-income barely supplied her need, Norah became the
trusted attendant of the only child of wealthy parents, and earned
wages which nearly doubled what she had received before. The place
was one which offered many other advantages. Mrs. Lowndes was strict,
indeed, almost to severity, but never intentionally unjust. She was
extremely anxious that her Selina should be kept from all knowledge of
evil. The little girl was seldom allowed to mix with other children,
lest she should learn any harm from example. Mrs. Lowndes often
boasted to her friends, that her Selina was brought up in such a
habit of speaking the truth, that to her to utter a lie would be an
_impossible_ thing. The lady would not suffer any one to be near her
darling in whose scrupulous truthfulness she could not place perfect
trust. Truth, she would say, is the very foundation on which a
character must rest. She would never overlook or forgive in a servant
the smallest attempt to deceive.