scarcely dared to indulge.
"But," continued the lady, (what a terrible word was that _but_!) "I
cannot offer you a situation without a clear knowledge of the cause of
your leaving your last one. The information which has reached me may or
may not be correct. Many innocent persons are hardly judged; some are
the victims of a slander. A mistress may be injudicious, or she may be
unjust to her servants."
"Oh, no, Mrs. Lowndes was not unjust, at least not in sending me away,"
said Norah, the large tears gathering in her downcast eyes. "She was
kind and generous, and good to me, till--till"--a smothered sob closed
the sentence.
"Norah, you must feel that no idle curiosity leads me to question
you thus. I would give no needless pain. But will you tell me, as a
friend who has your best interests much at heart, the simple truth
regarding the circumstances which led to your leaving London? I cannot
know how to serve you, I cannot know how to advise, without that full
information which can only really satisfy me when given by yourself."
"Have I not suffered enough yet?" was the silent thought of poor Norah.
"Must I tell to her, whose good opinion I prize so much, that which
will make me lose that good opinion forever, and prevent her from
thinking of taking such a deceitful girl into her service?" And then
came the strong temptation to soften and gloss over her own fault,
to lay the chief blame upon Milly, or to avoid telling of any direct
falsehood, or long-carried-on scheme of deceit. Again the bark was in
danger of striking against the iceberg. Again rose the silent prayer,
followed by the brave resolve to be honest and truthful now, at however
painful a cost.
The happy bees were humming amongst the blossoming limes, but Norah did
not hear them; she did not notice how richly perfumed came the breeze
from the hawthorn full in flower; there was that on her mind which shut
out surrounding objects. Briefly, but as clearly and truthfully as she
had told her tale to Ned Franks, she now confessed all to Mrs. Curtis,
without attempting to make the slightest excuse for her fault. Norah
closed her account with a deep sigh, and stood as if awaiting with
humble submission the rebuke which she knew must follow.
But Mrs. Curtis uttered no word of reproach; her voice when she spoke
was more kindly and cheering than it had been when she had first
addressed Norah Peele on that bright evening in May.
"I am very thankful, my child, that you have made a statement so frank
and truthful, one which so perfectly accords with what your last
mistress has written." Mrs. Curtis drew a note from her pocket, and
Norah at once recognized the familiar handwriting of Mrs. Lowndes.
"Before speaking to you of the situation in my household, I thought it
well to write to London, to ascertain facts from the lady whom you had
served. Her reply, I own, startled me a little; I thought at first that
I must give up all idea of engaging you in my service. But I consulted
the vicar, and he took a different view of the question. 'The young
girl,' he said, 'has no doubt committed a serious fault, but she may
at this moment be sincerely repenting it; if so, let us give her an
opportunity of retrieving her character here.'"
"Kind, merciful!" murmured Norah.
"'But how,' I asked, 'can we know whether she sincerely regrets her
fault?' 'The surest sign of true repentance,' replied my husband, 'is
_amendment_. Go and question Norah Peele; see if she now makes any
fresh attempt to deceive. If she be candid and open with you, we may
take it as a proof that no habits of falsehood are formed, and that,
warned by the past, she is likely to become as truthful and trustworthy
as her sailor uncle himself.' I have done as the vicar advised; I have
tried you, Norah Peele, and you have well stood the trial. I am quite
willing, if you wish to come to me, to engage you from this day week."
Then, indeed, Norah could hear how merrily the bees were humming, and
feel how delicious was the scented breath of May on her cheek, and
admire the glorious glow of the sinking sun! All nature seemed to
brighten around her, and she thought that life might be to her again
a peaceful and happy thing. Eagerly she closed with the offer of Mrs.
Curtis. With a heart and a step how much lighter than what they had
been an hour before, Norah retraced that gravel walk along which she
had passed so sadly, and, after showing her new mistress to the gate,
ran into the house to carry to her uncle and aunt her good tidings,
sure of their ready sympathy in her joy as well as in her sorrow!
XX.
The Momentous Question.
"Ah! glad to see ye, Ned Franks, always glad to see ye!" cried Ben
Stone, holding out both his hands to the school-master of Colme. "I
sent my Bell off to afternoon church, for I said, says I, there will be
Ned Franks sure to drop in and give me a bit of the news. There, take a
chair, my good fellow, you're always heartily welcome."
Stone himself was reclining on a bed, and well propped up with soft
cushions; a flannel dressing-gown wrapped round his large form, and a
scarlet shawl over that, with a red nightcap on his head. There was
an air of comfort and of neatness visible in the partly darkened room.
Stone liked, as he said, "to have things look respectable-like" about
him. The appearance of the sick man would have conveyed to none but a
practised eye the idea of serious illness. There was no wasted cheek,
no hollow eye, to tell the insidious fatal disease within. Even the
voice of Ben Stone, though not perhaps as strong, sounded as jovial as
ever. Franks could hardly realize, as he drew his chair near to the
bed, that he who rested upon it was actually dying by inches. Ned made
inquiries how the patient was feeling that afternoon.
"Not just up to felling an oak-tree, or splitting it up into planks,"
said the carpenter, gayly; "the doctor says I can't last till winter;
but who knows? 'the greatest clerks are not always the wisest men,' as
good Queen Bess once said."
"No one can indeed know whether you or I will be taken first," observed
Ned; "but it's well to be prepared for the end, whether it comes sooner
or later than we have been led to expect."
"Yes, yes, I'm not one of those as is afraid of hearing the worst,"
said Stone, still in the same easy manner. "Death must come one day or
another to all, and it's no such great odds when we go."
"The question is certainly not _when_, but _whither_ we go," remarked
Franks.
"There's the comfort of religion," said the carpenter, complacently
folding his hands. "Don't we all hope to go to heaven when we die?"
"Yes, heaven's the port we all hope to land in," replied Ned Franks;
"but I should just like, neighbor, for us to talk the matter over a
little together; to see if you and I have embarked in the same boat,
since we wish our cruise to end in the same harbor. Would you mind now
telling an old friend what reason you have for thinking that you're
bound for heaven?"
Ben Stone looked half perplexed, half amused, at the question. "It's
not for a man to speak up for himself," he said good-humoredly; "but
you and all the village know that I've not wandered far astray. I don't
pretend to be such an out-and-out saint as you are," he added with a
smile; "but I'm not worse than my neighbors, and I don't doubt but
that we'll both land in heaven at last."
"And do you suppose that _I_ dare start in the voyage to eternity
in such a cockle-shell as my own merits, all leaky and worthless!"
exclaimed Ned Franks. "No, no, neighbor; I know too well that if I
did so, I must go to the bottom. As when the flood was coming upon
the world, there was but _one_ safe vessel, and that was the ark,
so there is now but _one_ means of salvation, which God himself has
provided,--_faith in the Lord Jesus Christ_. Can we fancy that in those
old days of the flood there were no boats and no sailors,--that none
could row, and none could swim? It's likely that there were men who
had vessels, and trusted in them, and were proud of them, too,--who
believed that these vessels could ride through the fiercest storm that
ever blew; and that may have been the very reason why, despite of
warning, these men would not fly to the ark; and so, when the flood
came, they perished. _My_ only hope of heaven is in the merits and
death of my Lord. I don't fear death, because I know that I've already
taken refuge in the ark of salvation, which is faith in Christ, the
Saviour of sinners."
"These things are too deep for me," said the carpenter. "I'm a simple,
plain man, and don't puzzle my head with matters of doctrine. I never
can make out what you thorough-going people consider yourselves to be.
There are saints and sinners in the world, that's clear. Nancy Sands
is a sinner, and you are a saint,--nay, don't stop me, I must have out
my say. Now, I don't count myself much either of a saint or a sinner;
I'm a plain, honest man, who don't like extremes, and I dare say that
I shall do just as well as others in the end. But what puzzles me,"
continued the carpenter, "is that the saints will insist upon it that
they are the sinners; they flare up, as you did now, at the very notion
of being taken to heaven because they are good, and seem to think
that they can't be safe unless they declare that they are sinful!"
The invalid would have laughed aloud, had there not been a grave
earnestness in the face of Franks, which checked any such unseemly
mirth.
"And is not the prayer in the Litany, Have mercy upon us miserable
sinners, put into every mouth?" observed Franks, who had a clear
recollection of the very audible tone in which Ben had joined in that
prayer when attending church-service.
"Yes, to be sure. I could say half the Litany by heart."
"What a wide difference there is," thought Ned Franks, "between saying
it _by_ heart, or _from_ the heart! Do you think," he asked aloud,
"that that prayer is suited for _every one_ who repeats it?"
Ben Stone hummed a little before he replied. "Well, I should say,
suited better for some than for others; but there's no harm in any one
saying it."
"There would be harm in any one calling himself a sinner before God if
he did not _believe_ himself to be one," observed Franks. "But I've
no doubt, neighbor, that if St. Paul and St. Peter had lived in these
days, they'd have been able to cry from the bottom of the heart, 'Have
mercy upon us, miserable sinners.'"
Ben Stone gave a look which seemed to say that he neither understood
nor cared to understand how that could be. Ned Franks's feelings
were much like what Mr. Curtis had described as his own. It seemed
a hopeless matter to try to make any real impression upon that mass
of quiet, self-complacent, good-humored insensibility. Ned had to
repeat to himself, "He's a dying man, and dying without looking to the
Saviour," in order to overcome his own strong inclination to give up in
despair all attempt to convince or to move.
"I suppose that you'll agree," said the school-master aloud, "that Job
was a saint if there ever lived one in this world; God himself declared
that there was none upon earth like him; and yet, what were the words
of Job? _I abhor myself, and repent in dust and ashes._"
"I never can make out why Job should feel that," observed Stone; "there
was nothing in what the Almighty had said to him to bring him to such a
confession."
"I believe that it was not so much what God had _said_, as what he had
found God to _be_, that so humbled Job as to make him confess himself
to be a miserable sinner. The truth is, neighbor, we think so little
of our own sinfulness, because we think so little of God's holiness.
The clear light of his purity does not stream into our souls, and
therefore we don't mark the spots and the stains in those souls. We
think sins small and trifling which in the Lord's eyes are hateful and
deadly. Eve plucks a forbidden fruit, Moses loses his temper, a man of
God lets himself be drawn into what we might deem a small excusable
act of disobedience: it is clear enough from the punishments which
followed, that a holy God did not regard these things as _trifles_,
though man in his blindness might do so."
"Ah! all these examples are from the Old Testament," said Ben Stone;
"as for me, I hold by the New. There's none of that terrible strictness
now."
"The God of the New Testament is the God of the Old," observed Franks;
"the same just and holy Being who hath declared, _The soul that
sinneth, it shall die_."
"You talk like a Jew," said Stone; "yet you know as well, and better
than I do, that we've the gospel to look to now, and that's all mercy
and love."
"The New Testament rests on the Old; it has grown out of it; it forms
with it a complete whole. We cannot really accept the one without the
other," replied Franks, with an animation of manner which strongly
contrasted with the carpenter's stolid composure.
Ben Stone shook his tasselled cap, and half smiling observed, "The New
is enough for me."
Ned Franks glanced around for something that might serve to illustrate
the important truth which his companion could not, or would not,
understand. He took up a cut flower which had been placed in a glass of
water on the table.
"The Old Testament is the bud of the New; or rather as the green sheath
enclosed the bud, so in the Old-Testament Scriptures is the precious
gospel held and enclosed," he said, looking down on the flower.
"Granted, if you wish it," said the carpenter; "but now we've done with
the sheath, and only the flower is left."
"Not so," cried the school-master eagerly; "look here, this is the
green sheath of the bud, the green cup or calyx, as they call it, still
holding and supporting the flower; less noticed, certainly, under the
bright petals, but keeping them all together. What would happen, Ben
Stone, were we to tear that green part away?"
"Why, the flower would of course fall to pieces."
"And if it were possible to separate New-Testament truth entirely
from that contained in the Old Testament,--but it is _not_ possible,"
exclaimed Franks, interrupting himself in the midst of his sentence.
"_The word of the Lord endureth forever!_ The Old Testament is the
very support and foundation of the gospel. If we would know _who_
the Lord Jesus is, we learn, from the Old Testament, that he is _the
mighty God_,[C] _whose goings forth have been from everlasting_;[D]
_the man that is my fellow, saith the Lord God of Hosts_.[E] If we
should know _why_ he died, again we find the gospel enclosed in the
ancient Scriptures, like the bud in the sheath: _He was wounded for our
transgressions; the Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all_."[F]
"Still, there's ever so much in the Old Testament that does not concern
us Christians at all," said the carpenter; "and though I don't pretend
to have the Bible at my finger-ends, as you have, I can show you
that in a moment. We have no concern whatever with all those endless
sacrifices of bullocks and lambs, which the Jews were perpetually
making; you might cut out of the Bible every chapter about them, and we
should never miss them at all."
Franks's expressive face showed surprise at the utter ignorance
betrayed by such a remark. "Why, the very _keystone_ of Gospel truth
rests on the doctrine taught by those very sacrifices!" he exclaimed,
bending forward in his eager earnestness. "There were two mighty
lessons taught by those sacrifices, which were ordained by God
himself; these lessons were, that _without shedding of blood there is
no remission_,[G] and that justice would accept of one life as given
_instead_ of another. No Israelite, no, not even the holy Moses, could
be forgiven and accepted without a _sacrifice_ for sin, the sprinkled
blood of atonement; no Christian, not even a St. Paul, can be forgiven
and accepted, without a sacrifice for sin; and ours, in One of which
all the burnt-offerings made by the Jews was but a type, the sacrifice,
once and forever, made on the cross by Him who is _the Lamb of God
that taketh away the sins of the world_! O Ben Stone, my friend,"
continued the sailor, with emotion, "I believe, from my soul I believe,
that _there is none other name under heaven given among men whereby we
must be saved_,[H] but the name of Him who died for sinners; that there
is nothing that can make the soul pure, but _the blood of Christ which
cleanseth from all sin_.[I] Faith in that name is the ark in which
alone I dare hope for salvation, and through that blood shed for me,
I have the blessed assurance of being received after death into that
heaven which the Lord hath prepared for them that love him!"
Ned Franks rose hastily from his seat as he concluded the last
sentence; for, after what had been uttered on a subject so solemn,
he could enter on no common theme. He pressed the hand of the sick
man, and, with no other form of taking leave, quitted the carpenter's
cottage. The sailor sighed heavily as he passed from the darkened
sick-room into the glowing sunshine without.
"How weakly I have spoken, how little have I said of what I wished
to say!" he murmured to himself. "The words of my Persis are true
indeed: it is only the Holy Spirit that can convince of sin. Then I
know that my manner is too impetuous. I am always running the chance
of offending, rather than persuading; and I don't know how to put into
words the thoughts that are swelling within me like a stream that is
bursting its bounds. I cannot restrain myself, when any one would
put aside (as if they could be worn out by time) those Old-Testament
Scriptures which our Lord himself bade us search, as testifying of
him; when any look upon the faith of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, as
quite a distinct thing from that required of us; when, like poor Stone,
they seem to conclude that justice and holiness are confined to the
Old Testament, mercy and love to the New! Ah! the truth is"--Franks
quickened his steps, as if to keep pace with the current of his
thoughts--"the truth is, that Satan knows that he has a terrible
advantage over us, if he can but persuade us to try any way but God's
way to reach the kingdom of heaven. Satan is willing that we should
look on the Lord as a great example, or a great teacher, or even as a
great king, if he can only keep us from acknowledging Christ as also
a great sacrifice for sins, for _our_ sins; and so prevent us from
throwing ourselves entirely upon his mercy and merits. To draw us back
from the ark, that is Satan's chief aim; to make us believe that we
do not require a Saviour. As if the Son of God would have died, had
there been any less costly means of purchasing heaven for his people;
as if we did not see most clearly, in his sufferings on the cross, the
_holiness_ of God that abhors sin, the _justice_ of God in punishing
it, joined with the boundless _mercy_ and _love_, which made God not
spare even his Son, but give him freely for our salvation!"
[C] Isaiah ix. 6.
[D] Micah v. 2.
[E] Zechariah xiii. 7.
[F] Isaiah liii. 5, 6.
[G] Hebrews ix. 22.
[H] Acts iv. 12.
[I] 1 John ii. 7.
XXI.
An Old Letter.
"Well, Bell, my dear," said the carpenter, as his wife returned from
afternoon service, "tell me what you've heard to-day, and I'll tell you
what I've heard."
"Mr. Leyton preached as usual," replied Mrs. Stone, as she unloosed
the red strings of her bonnet. "I think he's getting less shy, and
more earnest. His text was, '_If we say that we have no sin, we deceive
ourselves, and the truth is not in us._'"
"Why, that would ha' done for the text of the sermon I've had all to
myself," said Ben Stone.
"Sermon,--what do you mean?" asked his wife, pausing in the act of
taking off her shawl.
"There's Ned Franks been here, and--talk of earnestness--he's earnest
with a vengeance! There was nothing would content him but that I should
own myself to be a downright, miserable sinner; and he threw out
something more than a hint, that I'm like to come to the same end as
those who wouldn't go into the ark, and so were drowned in the flood."
"I wish that Ned Franks would mind his own business," exclaimed Mrs.
Stone, indignantly. "I'm sure that he, and every one knows that there's
not a better man in the parish than you are; it would be well if, with
all his fine talking, Mr. Franks were but half so good!"
"Softly, softly, my dear," said Ben Stone, amused and pleased at her
warm defence. "Ned Franks is a capital fellow; a brave, noble-hearted
man."
"Let him be what he likes," exclaimed Mrs. Stone, angrily pulling off
her boots. "If he comes here a worritting and lecturing you, I shall
shut the door upon him!"
"His visit was certainly very unlike that which the young curate paid
me. Mr. Leyton, with his gentle way and soft voice, spoke of my trials
and my hope; and said that a true Christian is not afraid even of
death. Then says I, 'Sir, I'm never afraid of death;' so, of course,
he takes it for granted that I'm a true Christian, and all right, and
goes away quite pleased and happy. But as for Ned Franks,"--Ben Stone
gave his little chuckling laugh, though it sounded less merry than
usual,--"he'll take nothing for granted, except that I _must_ be a
sinner. He leans forward and looks right into your eyes, as if he meant
to read you through and through, and let you see right into his soul
also. I can just fancy," continued the sick carpenter, laughing again,
"what sort of a sailor he was when he served the queen,--how he'd stick
by his colors, and go slap-bang at an enemy!"
"But you're no enemy," cried Mrs. Stone, "neither his nor any one
else's, and I'll not let him go slap-bang at you! Let him preach away
as much as he likes to that wretched Nancy Sands whom he pulled out of
the mill-stream!"
"There's not much chance of _her_ deceiving herself, and saying that
she has no sin," observed Stone.
"It was small kindness to her husband to save her," continued the
carpenter's wife; "Sands has little cause to thank Ned. The poor clerk
is growing thinner every day, and looked at church this afternoon as
if he was going to be hanged. He knows that when Nancy comes out of
hospital she'll be at her old tricks again, drinking him out of house
and home; far better for _him_ if all had been over at once! I couldn't
help giving her a bit o' my mind about that, when I went to see her
yesterday!"
"You did!" exclaimed Stone, in amused surprise; "how did she take it?
If Nancy returned you a bit o' _her_ mind," he continued, with a laugh,
"I guess you'd the worst of the exchange. You never were a match for
Nancy, my dear."
"She said nothing, but looked as if she could have eaten me," replied
Mrs. Stone.
"Her accident must have pulled her down a bit, if she'd not something
sharper than a look to fling at you," observed Ben. "You and she used
to go at it like poker and tongs, but Nancy could hit hardest and
longest; she'd a tongue like a mill-wheel if once you set it a-going.
But put the kettle on the fire, my dear, and lets have a drop of good
tea. In the evening I'll do what I've been intending to do for these
many years past,--look over that box of old things belonging to my poor
mother, whom I lost when I was a little chap but nine years of age. I
want to sort 'em,--put by what I mean to keep, and burn what's of use
to no one. Ned Franks himself would say it was right for a sick man to
put his house in order."
The task of looking over the contents of that old box, which had been
stowed away in a cupboard for a great length of time, was one which
the carpenter had put off from day to day, and year to year, perhaps
because--till illness came--he had led a busy, active life, or more
probably because his cheerful, easy nature disliked any occupation that
might awaken melancholy thoughts. And who but is saddened by turning
over memorials of one loved and lost, even though, as in the case of
Stone, forty or fifty years may have elapsed since the friend departed.
This Sunday evening, as twilight came on, Ben Stone fulfilled the
long-deferred task. His wife brought the old box,--a deal one covered
with faded paper,--and placed it on a chair close to his bed, that he
might examine its contents with ease. She lighted a candle and put it
on the table beside her husband, and then sat down with some little
curiosity to see her mother-in-law's hoarded treasures, but a secret
conviction that the box would hold nothing but "old-fashioned rubbish."