at B----. Several times, at considerable inconvenience, Persis, with
her babe in her arms, found her way to the ward, cheering it by her
presence, like one of the rays of sunshine which streamed through the
window to brighten the couch of pain. And more often yet, Mr. Leyton
came to visit the poor afflicted member of his flock, who no longer
scorned to listen to his words. The shyness of the young curate wore
off in the presence of suffering and sin; he forgot himself in his
work. Nancy, at first a silent, gloomy listener, began at last to look
forward to the minister's visits. Mr. Leyton was wont to bring fruit to
the sufferer during her tedious illness, and flowers from the vicar's
gardens; but it was not this alone that made his visits welcome.
Nancy, during the long, sleepless days and wearisome nights, had much
time for thinking; her mind also was clear, for she had no longer the
power to procure the fatal stimulants which had so nearly been her
ruin. There was no sudden change in the violent, high-tempered woman;
but influences were at work upon her, which, like the morning shower
and the evening dew, were gradually softening the hardened soil so that
it might receive the word of truth.
And so passed the month of April, that month of mingled sunshine and
shower, when the fruit-trees burst into blossom, and the groves into
music. To Persis and Ned it was a very happy and very busy time. They
watched their own little blossom opening under the sunshine of their
love, and felt that for them life had a new interest and delight. Poor
Norah, who was in very low spirits, tried to hide her sadness, that she
might throw no shadow over the cheerful home of the Frankses.
And in the meantime work proceeded briskly in Wild Rose Hollow.
Never did nobleman, building a proud mansion for himself, watch the
progress of its erection with more pleasure than did Ned Franks the
repairing--with some almost rebuilding--of the old thatched dwellings.
He threw his heart and soul into the work, and infected even the
money-making miller with some of his own enthusiasm. We usually take
an interest in that which has cost us a sacrifice, and the more men do
for any cause the more they are apt to be ready to do. Pleasant to the
ears of Bat Bell were the sounds of labor from the direction of the
almshouses which his money was helping to restore. He sometimes would
take his little Bessy to the spot to see the one-armed sailor and his
boys hard at work,--and a goodly quantity of straw for thatching found
its way from the mill. Bat Bell had begun to taste the luxury of doing
good; he was realizing the truth of that divine declaration, _It is
more blessed to give than to receive_.
Ned Franks, on his way to Wild Rose Hollow, had daily to pass the
cottage of Sands and the workshop of Stone the carpenter. The door of
the first was always closed, and the place wore an air of desolation
and neglect, which often drew a sigh from the kind-hearted sailor. It
was equally sad to him to pass the empty shop, to hear no more from
it the sound of the hammer or saw, or the whizzing hum of the lathe,
mingled perhaps with snatches of jovial song. Ben Stone was so well
known in the village where he had spent all his days that his illness
could not but cause a blank there. The portly form, so familiar to all,
was missed from the accustomed place in church; the voice, rather loud
than tuneful, from the music of the hymns in which it had so constantly
joined. The responses of Ben Stone had been almost as clearly heard
as those of the clerk. Even the children of Colme missed the sight of
the carpenter in his Sunday clothes, with his wife, rather showily
dressed, resting on his strong arm, as with his big prayer-book in hand
he used to walk through the porch into the church-yard with a smile
or a nod, or a cheerful greeting to every one whom he met, all being
his neighbors, and many his friends. Ben Stone was a man who had known
very little of trouble, and even when trouble had come, it had no more
rested on his soul than rain on a sloping roof. He had hitherto been
prosperous, healthy, and strong; and though a kind husband to a wife
who often was sickly, Stone never let his easy serenity of soul be
disturbed by the pains and aches of his partner. Now, illness, serious
and sudden, had come upon himself, and the question was, how would he
bear it? The trial would not be sharpened by poverty, for Stone had,
as he was wont to say, laid by for a rainy day, and his wife had money
of her own. He was in no distress for the necessaries, nor even for
the comforts of life; but how would the carpenter bear to have his
working-days brought to so unexpected a close? Above all, how would
he look forward to the great change which was slowly and painlessly,
but not the less surely, approaching? Would not the current of a
life, lately so smooth and shallow, become both rougher and more deep
when near the point where the great final leap must be made, and the
small concerns, the petty interests of this life, be swept away into
eternity's ocean?
XVII.
Perilous Peace.
In a quiet and peaceful nook stands the vicarage of Colme, almost in
the village, yet entirely screened from it by extensive shrubberies.
High, green walls of luxuriant laurel, and rhododendra, with their
thick buds swelling into blossoms, border the winding drive, and girdle
the lawn, on whose smooth slope lies the shadow of a lofty cedar, the
pride of the place. The vicarage itself is not large, but exceedingly
pretty, with its rural porch and picturesque gables, and mullioned
windows overhung with honeysuckle and clematis. If we were to pass over
that velvet lawn, and glance in through the window at the right of the
porch, we should see the vicar himself resting in his arm-chair, very
pale and very thin from recent dangerous illness, but looking calm and
serene. Though this is Saturday, there is no sign of preparation for
the morrow's service; there is no desk open, no book on the table save
the well-worn Bible. The vicar has been called into the "wilderness"
of sickness to "rest for a while," and he may not yet venture to enter
the church even as a worshipper, far less as a preacher. It is only
to-day that his wife has been able to leave his side for a long round
of visits amongst his parishioners. Mr. Curtis is anxious to hear of
each and all of those amongst whom the good pastor has lived for twenty
years as a father among his children; so his wife has set out this
afternoon with a large basket on her arm, to visit half the cottages in
Colme.
Mr. Curtis is not sitting alone; his wife's nephew, the young curate,
Mr. Leyton, is beside him, giving him an account of his own work
on that day. Claudius Leyton is, as has been before mentioned, of
extremely youthful appearance; the smooth cheek, small features, and
slight, delicate frame of the curate might induce a stranger to guess
his age as scarcely beyond eighteen years. Summoned immediately after
his ordination to take entire charge of the parish of Mr. Curtis,
then alarmingly ill, the curate, whose life had been spent in London,
Eton, and Cambridge, and who had scarcely ever so much as entered a
cottage, had found himself at first almost overwhelmed by the sense
of responsibility. Mr. Leyton had felt somewhat as a landsman might
feel should he be called to take the command of a vessel on the very
first occasion on which he ever entered one. The curate lacked neither
talent nor devotion, but he had no experience in the peculiar work of
a village pastor, and with a tender sensitive disposition and natural
shyness, it seemed as if he had undertaken a task beyond his strength.
The change was great from the easy luxury of home and college life to
the position of a hard-working curate, with long church-services to
tax a weak voice, and the various needs of a parish, in which almost
every one was to him a stranger, to try his energies and test his
discretion. Mr. Leyton had prayerfully resolved to do his very best
to be a faithful minister to his flock, and overcome the difficulties
before him. He had, some time before his ordination, left off some of
his favorite pursuits, that he might devote himself to his duties;
he had given away his cigar-case, had parted with his books of light
literature, locked up his flute, and left his paint-box untouched for
months. Claudius Leyton had resolutely turned his thoughts to sermons
and schools, and other matters connected with parish business. But it
had been a great trial to the young clergyman to have, as it were, to
find his way almost alone in, to him, a new country. He was unable for
weeks to avail himself of the experience of the vicar, and but for the
information and help always cheerfully given him by Ned Franks, the
curate would often have felt utterly discouraged by the difficulties
attending his charge. It was no small relief to the young man to be
at last able to consult the vicar, receive his sympathy, and ask his
advice; for Claudius had none of the proud self-confidence which too
often accompanies inexperience and youth; he was not one of those who
need to be taught modesty by a number of failures.
"And where have you been this day, Claudius?" asked the vicar, as the
curate, tired with a long, hot walk, seated himself beside him, and
wiped his own heated brow, where the pressure of the hat had left a
reddened line on the smooth, fair skin.
"I have been to the hospital to see Mrs. Sands."
[Illustration: "And where have you been this day, Claudius?" asked
the vicar, as the curate, tired with a long, hot walk, seated himself
beside him. p. 170.]
"Ah! the poor creature who nearly lost her life by falling into the
mill-stream."
"When in a state of intoxication," gravely added the curate.
"And who has had to endure the loss of her right arm,--a terrible loss
to any one, especially to a working woman," said the vicar, in a tone
of compassion.
"It is a mercy that she did not lose her life," observed Claudius; "but
for the gallant conduct of Ned Franks, who risked his own to save it,
the unhappy creature must have perished, a victim to that horrible vice
of intemperance. Bad as it is in a man, it is doubly disgusting in a
woman."
"It seems almost like a possession by a devil," said the vicar; "but
we have the encouragement of knowing that our Master has power even to
cast out devils. Does poor Nancy seem conscious of her sin before God?
Does she show any sign of repentance?"
"I do not know what to think," replied the curate, undecidedly. "The
woman listens in silence to what I have to say; she does not fire up as
she would have done a short time since at anything like reproof; her
black eyes have lost their fierceness, but I fear that rather sullen
gloom than humble contrition has taken its place. I cannot tell what to
make of her manner; it is so difficult to read the human heart."
"Difficult, indeed," said the vicar; and he added, but not aloud,
"especially for those who have but lately mastered even its alphabet."
"I have suggested to her total abstinence," continued Claudius Leyton.
"I have read and heard that where there is a passion for strong drink,
the only chance of overcoming that passion is by never tasting a drop."
"You are right; there are cases where temperance is impracticable
without total abstinence from all intoxicating liquors. The enemy is
so determined to gain admission, that the door must be, as it were,
bolted and barred against him, for, if the smallest opening were left,
he would rush in with irresistible force. But how did Nancy take your
suggestions?"
"In sullen silence, as usual," replied Mr. Leyton. "She stares fixedly
at the wall before her, and I scarcely know whether she is listening or
not to what I say. I fear that it shows a want of charity in myself,"
continued the young clergyman, "but I own that that woman inspires me
with a feeling of repulsion."
"Hers is a case which needs much prayer and patience," observed the
vicar.
"I certainly should never go to see her but from a sense of duty," said
the young man, who had scarcely yet acquired the grace of patience,
and to whom a violent-tempered woman, addicted to intoxication, was
rather an object of disgust than of pity. "How different was my next
visit to a sick-bed! How refreshing to the spirit it was to sit by that
excellent man, Ben Stone, and see how calmly and cheerfully a Christian
can bear sickness, and look forward to death!"
"Ah! so you have been with our poor friend, the carpenter? How did you
find him?" asked the vicar, with interest.
"Perfectly peaceful, perfectly happy; not a cloud over his soul!"
replied Mr. Leyton.
The curate's fair young face brightened as he spoke, but its brightness
was not reflected in the countenance of the vicar. It was in a grave,
rather anxious tone, that he inquired, "Is he resting on the Rock? Has
he found true peace through Christ?"
"Surely, I should have no hesitation in saying so," answered Claudius
Leyton. "His manner, however, was not quite so decided as his words;
it seemed rather to convey an idea that an unpleasant doubt had been
unexpectedly suggested to his mind. Stone is evidently glad to receive
spiritual comfort; he listens, he agrees to everything."
"Agrees! yes, he always listens, always assents. How glad I should
often have been to have heard a question from him,--I had almost said
a contradiction; that would have served to show, at least, that some
interest in spiritual things had been aroused."
"You surprise me, my uncle," said the curate. "I thought that Stone was
a very good man; everybody speaks well of him; everybody seems to like
him."
"_I_ like him," replied the vicar, emphatically; "but it is because
I like him so much that I am the more anxious about him. If my only
desire for my flock was to have them moral, respectable, regular in
church-going, quiet citizens, kind neighbors, honest men, I should be
well pleased if all in the village were like the carpenter Stone. And
yet, during my twenty years of labor at Colme, there is not one of my
parishioners on whom those labors have, I fear, made less impression
than on him. Stone has not only heard thousands of sermons in church,
but I have repeatedly conversed with him in private on the concerns of
his soul, and I have always left him with the discouraging conviction
that he is not so much as grounded in the first principles of our
religion; that he has always the same assurance of going to heaven,
because such an honest, respectable, sober man as he is must by a kind
of necessity go there. Satisfied with this false assurance, he has
never been induced to make the slightest effort to examine whether it
have any safe ground to rest on. I have felt myself, when conversing
with Stone, like one firing cannon at a thick earthwork. There is no
strong resistance, such as is made by a stone wall, but the balls
sink into the soft mud and are lost, and the fortification, seemingly
so easy to be assailed, remains as firm and unmoved as if no efforts
at all had been made to shake it. I have found, in the course of my
long ministry," continued the vicar, "that it is easier to impress a
profligate or to convince an infidel, than to lead to true faith and
repentance a self-satisfied, self-sufficient soul like that of poor
Stone."
Claudius Leyton gave a sigh of disappointment. "I fear that I have been
doing harm, then, where I meant to do good," he observed, "saying,
_peace, peace, where there is no peace_. I took it for granted that
such a kind-hearted, respectable man as Stone must be a Christian
indeed."
"My dear boy," said the silver-haired vicar, kindly, "yours was a
most natural mistake, especially for one so young in the ministry. It
is extremely difficult to distinguish mere outward good conduct and
amiability from that which results from the hidden life of faith in the
heart. The sad thing is," continued the pastor, "that the individual
who misleads us is usually himself misled; while in danger he believes
himself to be perfectly safe, and may approach even the hour of death
without the slightest fear or misgiving. With him there is no cry for
mercy to the Saviour of sinners, no looking unto him who was lifted
up, as the brazen serpent in the wilderness, as the one only means of
salvation offered to the perishing sons of men."
The invalid had spoken with animation, and a sensation of exhaustion
immediately followed. He leaned wearily back on his pillow, and closed
his eyes. Claudius Leyton, aware that the interview had lasted too long
for his uncle's strength, quietly arose and quitted the study. The
young minister sought his own room, feeling more strongly than ever how
difficult it is to be a good physician to souls, and not give an opiate
to a conscience already too much inclined to sink into dangerous sleep.
Mr. Leyton unclosed his Bible with a sigh, but the promise on which his
eye rested came with comfort to his soul: _If any of you lack wisdom,
let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally and upbraideth
not. But let him ask in faith, nothing wavering._
XVIII.
Self-Reproach.
"Are you going to see poor Stone to-morrow?" said Persis Franks to her
husband on the evening of that same Saturday.
"Ay, Sunday is the only day when I can find time now to visit a sick
friend."
"I am sure that in this case it is 'the better day the better deed,'"
observed Persis, as her fingers briskly plied the needle, while the
pile of unmended stockings on her right hand was gradually growing
small, as pair after pair, neatly darned and folded, were transferred
to the left. "Mrs. Stone was saying to me to-day how much her husband
enjoys your calls. You will never regret these visits, Ned."
"Now it's odd enough, wife, that at the moment when you spoke to me I
was thinking of these same visits of mine to poor Stone, and thinking
of them _with_ regret. I might use a stronger word," continued Franks,
as his wife glanced up with mild surprise; "I've been taking myself to
task for these same Sunday visits."
"Surely, dearest, _it is lawful to do good on the Sabbath day_; that is
what our Lord himself has told us."
"Ay, _to do good_," repeated Franks; "but I'm not clear that I've not
rather done Ben Stone harm. You and I are alone, wifie, and I don't
mind saying to you what I wouldn't say to any one else." Franks lowered
his voice as he went on. "Stone's voyage through life has been a very
easy one; it seems almost as if his vessel had been one that could
guide itself without any pilot at all; he has never met a storm that
I've heard of,--all has been smooth sailing with him. And yet, wifie,
I fear that Stone has not had his eye fixed on the Pole-Star, nor his
finger tracing the right course on the Bible-chart. Self-righteousness
is a sunken rock, none the less dangerous for being sunken, and if a
poor bark go to pieces upon it, we know that it's just as surely lost
as if it had gone down in the whirlpool of drunkenness, or of any other
open vice."
"But I do not exactly see what _you_ have to reproach yourself with
if poor Stone think himself a better Christian than he actually is,"
observed Persis.
"Don't you see I've a kind of credit in the village for hanging out
my colors boldly, and trying at least to sail by the chart? When I go
Sunday after Sunday and sit with a sick, I fear a dying man, and join
with him in cheerful talk, as if I'd never an object but to make the
time pass pleasantly, I only cause him to think, 'There's Ned Franks,
a dreadfully strict and precise old tar; he must be sure that I'm
steering all right, for if he saw danger he'd be certain to bid me
_sheer off_.'"
"But I have no doubt that your conversation often takes a religious
turn," observed Persis.
"A religious turn!" repeated Franks, in a rather sarcastic tone; "ay,
a kind of sop to my conscience, and, perhaps, poor fellow, to his. We
talk, maybe, of the sermon, and the way in which busy hands are getting
on with repairing the almshouses, and what a good minister the vicar
is, and how glad we shall be if the Lord lets him fill the pulpit
again. There's a text put in here and there, and Stone says something
about being thankful for having no pain, and having been given a good
wife and a comfortable home, and such peace in his mind. But I know
that such conversations as these held with one who, in a few months,
will probably suffer that great change for which I cannot in charity
think him prepared, is but a kind of idle beating and tacking about;
it is not going to the heart of the matter; it never makes him ask
himself when I leave him, 'Am I in the right course? Is this peace of
which I talk the peace of a converted or of a dead soul? What shall
I plead when I stand, as I soon must, in the immediate presence of a
heart-searching God?'" Franks rose from his seat, and paced up and
down his little room, as he was wont to do when anything disturbed or
perplexed him.
"Do you intend then," asked Persis, laying down her work, "to speak
faithfully to our poor friend when you visit him to-morrow?"
Ned passed his hand through his curly hair; he looked perplexed and
undecided. "I wish I were fit for such speaking," said he. "If Mr.
Curtis were able to get about, he'd go right to the point with Stone
at once; but I don't think there's anything in life so hard as to
convince a self-righteous man that he's a sinner in need of a Saviour."
"Surely," said Persis, very softly, "it is the Holy Spirit alone that
can convince of sin; it is only God himself who can open the eyes of
the blind."
"Then to God we must turn for the blessing, wife, but we must not
neglect the means. I'll try to drop in a word of warning to-morrow,
though it's just such an office as I'd gladly make over to any one else
if I could; but I really care for poor Ben, and I can't help thinking
of the lines,--
"'Who speaks not needed truth lest he offend,
Hath spared himself--but sacrificed his friend.'
I hope that my visit to Stone to-morrow may not be as utterly
profitless as I fear that the three last have been."
XIX.
The Test.
While Persis and Ned Franks are conversing together in their little
parlor, we will turn for a short time to Norah, whom we shall find in
their little garden, with a full glow of the setting sun around her, as
she is stooping over a flower-bed busily engaged in weeding.
Even in the bright season of spring, even in the cheerful home of the
Frankses, since her return from London, the time had passed wearily
and anxiously to Norah. She shrank from notice, she dreaded questions,
and, though nothing was said to make her feel that it was so, she knew
that her maintenance must be a burden on the slender income of her
uncle. The accommodation in the school-house was small. Persis, at
some inconvenience, had given up her only store-closet to serve as a
sleeping-room for Norah; and if the good housewife cheerily laughed
over her own little difficulties in finding a place where she might
stow away jams and bacon, and Franks declared that the closer people
were packed together, the less danger there was of their chafing
one another, Norah felt that the little domestic circle had been
complete without her, and that her pale, sad face could not add to the
cheerfulness of a married pair. Even the food of which the orphan guest
was so kindly pressed to partake freely must make a sensible difference
in the household expenses of those who had so little to spare. Norah
longed for the means of earning her own bread; but employment in
needle-work, even had she been clever at sewing, could scarcely be
procured in the retired neighborhood of Colme. The young girl would
gladly have gone again into service; but to whom could she apply for a
character? How often, with bitter regret for the past, did Norah ask
herself that question? Her only resource was prayer. She entreated him
whose mercy, as she trusted and believed, had forgiven her sin, to open
for her some door of usefulness, to give her some means of honestly
earning a livelihood. Norah was ready to take the lowest place, the
hardest work, the smallest wages, if she might but struggle back to a
position in which she could again maintain herself by her labor.
As Norah rose from her stooping posture, she saw Mrs. Curtis, the
vicar's wife, approaching towards her. The lady, who was the general
counsellor and friend of the villagers of Colme, had always shown
kindness to Norah, and to be spoken to by her would, in former times,
have called up a beaming smile in the face of the girl; but Norah now
met the vicar's wife with a feeling of shame and fear.
"Good-evening to you, Norah Peele; I am glad to find you alone, for I
wish a little quiet talk with you," said Mrs. Curtis. "Let us go to yon
arbor at the end of the garden, where we shall be undisturbed."
Norah followed the lady along the narrow gravel path which Franks had
bordered with box. The poor girl dreaded the interview before her, but
silently prayed, as she walked along, that she might be enabled to
answer truthfully whatever painful questions might be asked her.
When the arbor was reached, Mrs. Curtis seated herself on the rustic
bench, which was the handiwork of the one-armed sailor. No one could
approach the spot unseen; the lady had chosen it in order that the
conversation between herself and Norah might not be interrupted or
overheard.
"Norah," said Mrs. Curtis, "my housemaid is about to leave me to be
married to Rob Gates, the nephew of the miller. I am therefore looking
out for a trustworthy girl to take her place. Knowing both you and your
family for so long as I have done, it is natural that my thoughts
should turn towards you."