me," replied Benjamin Isaacs. "I finished the business that took me
there,--that of arranging and getting into order the curiosities and
gems at the Hall. My patron, Sir Lacy Barton, is dead, and his heir
knows nothing about me. I would never go to Colme to be a burden upon
the kindness of Ned Franks and his wife,--better enter a poor-house, or
starve!" There was an independence of character in the Jew which he
carried almost to a fault; Benoni knew that his father would suffer the
extremity of want rather than beg or borrow from a friend.
"It is long, very long, since we have heard either from the Frankses,
or from my dear friend Norah," said Sophy.
"They know not where a letter would find us, my daughter; I have twice
changed our lodgings since last I wrote, which I did when returning
money most kindly offered. Franks has his own family to care for; I
accept nothing but from those who are my relations by blood."
"Or by adoption," added Benoni, glancing kindly at Sophy, and then at
her basket of knitted goods.
"You and Sophy are alike my children," said Isaacs; "our purse shall
always be one; our good or bad fortune we share together. So," he added
more cheerfully, "take yon loaf, my boy, and divide it between your
sister, yourself, and me. 'Better the dinner of herbs where love is,
than the stalled ox and hatred therewith.' We'll thank God for the
bread which he gives to-day, and trust him to send more on the morrow."
XXVI.
A Scrap of News.
Heavy and joyless, Sophy on the following morning arose from her bed,
which was little better than a heap of rags, in a kind of cupboard off
the kitchen. Heavy and joyless she groped her way into the room where
Isaacs and his son were waiting for her coming to offer their daily
morning sacrifice of prayer and of praise. Sophy joined them in the
former, but when she attempted to sing
"Praise God, from whom all blessings flow,"
her voice faltered, and she broke down; tears came instead of music.
The remains of the loaf were shared for breakfast, and taken with some
almost colorless tea. Then Isaacs and Benoni quitted the kitchen, the
one to seek again for work, the other,--with the basket on his arm,--to
try to sell Sophy's knitting. When they had left her, the poor girl
seated herself on the box. She had no materials for work, even if she
had had the spirit to labor. She gave herself up to sad thought,
with her elbow on her knee, and her brow on her hand. "I wonder where
Norah is now, and whether she ever thinks of me! When she and I were
merry young girls together, singing, and laughing, and building all
kinds of castles in the air, how we used to promise each other that
our friendship should last as long as our lives! She will have new
friends now,--better friends than I ever was, who will not fill her
head with follies and her spirit with pride. If she ever thinks of me,
it will be with---- But I do not believe that she ever _does_ think of
me," continued Sophy, in bitterness of soul; "she is happy, earning
her living honestly and cheerfully; she is not dependent, despised,
despairing,--a poor, blind wretch, like me!"
Surely the ice of mistrust was growing very thick around Sophy, making
her doubt, not only the care of her heavenly Father, but the love of
her earthly friend!
And on that very day, Norah Peele was not only thinking of Sophy,
but thinking of scarcely anything else. One of those strange little
incidents which sometimes occur, small in themselves, but hinges on
which great events may turn, had brought poor Sophy on that morning
forcibly before the mind of her friend.
Norah was on her knees, lighting the kitchen fire at the vicarage, with
a bit of the advertisement sheet of the _Times_, which was used as
waste paper in her master's house, when her eye chanced to fall on the
following notice:--
"NEXT OF KIN. _If the nearest relative of the late Tabitha Turtle
apply to Messrs. Grant, Bold, & Co., ---- Lincoln's Inn, he will hear
of something to his advantage._"
"Tabitha Turtle! surely I know that name!" exclaimed Norah, pausing
with the lighted match in her hand. "Yes, to be sure, that is the
name of poor Sophy's aunt, who lived somewhere near Portman Square.
I remember how we two silly young things used to laugh and joke at
the name, and wonder whether she who had it was like a turtle-dove or
a tortoise! _Something to his advantage--nearest of kin!_ Why, what
if Sophy herself should be nearest of kin,--if there should be money
waiting for her,--she who is living now upon the charity of the Jew
who has adopted her, and who, I fear, has but little for himself! Oh,
that would be delightful, delightful!" and Norah threw down the match,
and tore off the little scrap from the paper, as eagerly as if it had
contained the greatest piece of good news for herself. She could hardly
settle to her work, so impatient was she to go and ask her mistress's
leave to run over to the school-house, to consult her uncle Ned
Franks as to what could be done for Sophy. However, it was clear that
the harder Norah worked, the sooner her business would be over. She
therefore plied her fingers so diligently, that, before eleven o'clock
had struck, she received leave to go, "just for a quarter of an hour,"
to speak to her uncle on something of great importance.
There was no time for Norah to change her working-dress, scarcely
time to wash her hands. On ordinary days there would have been no use
in going to Ned Franks before school-hours were over; but this was
hay-making time, and a week's holiday had been given to his pupils.
Carrying her precious little scrap of paper in her hand, Norah hurried
along the path to the school-house, where she found Ned Franks, with
Persis carrying her baby, just starting to pay a visit to Nancy Sands,
who had, on the previous day, returned from the hospital to her home.
"Why, here comes Norah!" exclaimed Ned Franks, gayly, "scudding along
like a yacht in a race!" and as he spoke, his niece came up breathless
alike in eagerness and the pace at which she had been going, for her
walk had quickened into a run.
"I've not more than five minutes," she began, and stopped to pant, her
eyes sparkling and her cheeks glowing with excitement.
"Come in, then, and take breath, and tell us what news you have to
bring us. What's this?" as Norah thrust the scrap of soiled paper into
his hand,--"what have we to do with Tabitha Turtle? She was certainly
none of our kith or kin."
As they returned into the school-house, Norah hastily informed
her uncle of her reasons for thinking that the notice might be of
importance to her poor blind friend. Franks and Persis listened with
interest.
"Certainly Sophy should know of this," said Ned Franks; "but she's
blind, and Isaacs is scarcely likely to see the _Times_, and if he did,
it's a thousand chances to one that he should connect his adopted
daughter with the name of an aunt whom she appears never to have seen,
and may never even have mentioned."
"We must write to Sophy at once!" cried Norah.
"But how can we write," asked Persis, "when we do not know her address?
Ned has not heard from Isaacs for months, and then our friend mentioned
that he was about to leave his lodgings, without saying where the next
one would be."
Ned Franks passed his hand through his thick curly hair, as if, by so
doing, he could draw out some bright idea. "I've half a mind," he said,
"as it's holiday-time, to be off to London myself, see the lawyers, and
find out if it's likely that there's really any money left to Sophy,
and then hunt her out, if I can; though looking for any one in London
is like searching for a needle in a haystack."
"Oh, if you will only go!" exclaimed Norah, eagerly, "I'll pay the
expense so gladly, as soon as I get my quarter's wages!"
"No, no, lass," said the school-master, laughing; "I've enough shot
in my locker to manage without your little store. Only"--Ned glanced
at his wife; he knew that Persis had been looking forward with the
pleasure of a child to his holiday-time; for him to go to London would
spoil a pleasant plan which the Frankses had talked over for months.
They were to have gone on that very afternoon on a short pleasure-trip
to the sea-side; for Franks longed, as he owned, "to smell salt water
again," which he had not done since he had left the profession of a
sailor.
"What do you say, sweetheart?" asked Franks of his wife. "I leave the
decision to you."
Persis stooped down and kissed her baby, probably to get a moment for
thought, and then raising her head, said, with a smile which cost her
some effort,--
"I think that you'd better be off to London."
Franks glanced at the clock, Nancy Sands's cuckoo-clock, which hung in
his little parlor. "I might be off by the 12-30 train if I hoisted all
sail," he cried. "I'll get my kit ready in no time. If I'm early in
town I may see the lawyers to-day. I must stay over Sunday in London,
but if I've a prosperous cruise, I hope to be back upon Monday."
Persis was too busy helping her husband, and putting up his dinner of
cold meat, to have time to think of her own disappointment, till Ned
Franks, quick and prompt in everything, had started off for the station
at almost a running pace, with his little bundle fastened to a stick
hanging over his shoulder. Norah had at once returned to the vicarage,
full of hope for her friend, having perfect confidence that whatever
business her uncle undertook he would do, and do well. Persis gave a
little sigh as her husband disappeared in the distance, and with him
all her prospect of a holiday-trip; yet she was glad that she had made
the sacrifice of her own inclination; and, taking up her baby from the
cradle in which she had placed him, at a slow pace she proceeded along
the dusty road towards the cottage of her neighbor.
XXVII.
Nancy's Return.
With very mingled feelings had Nancy Sands returned to her home. It was
in the twilight that she entered her native village. "I do not care,"
she said, "to have the gossips staring at me, or stopping me to talk."
John Sands would have hired a conveyance for his wife, as the walk
from the town was a long one for an invalid just discharged from an
hospital; but his wife, in her short, determined way, declined his
proposal to get one.
"I've two feet if I've only one arm," she said, almost sharply. "If
I've walked that road once, I've walked it a hundred times; the fresh
air will do me good."
Mrs. Sands set out briskly at her husband's side; but before they
had gone a mile she felt that she was no longer what she had once
been,--that the sufferings and confinement which she had undergone had
greatly told on her strength. Her pace very sensibly slackened.
"My dear, would you take my arm?" suggested the clerk, timidly, for he
was still afraid of a rebuff from his hot-tempered wife.
But this time there was no rebuff; Nancy thankfully took the proffered
arm, and leaned on it as she had never done since the first week after
her marriage. Whether it were that these old days were brought back
to her mind, or whether the very necessity for _leaning_ made her
realize the position of a wife in regard to her husband, who should be,
according to Scripture, her "head" and her "lord," we need not decide;
but never had Nancy Sands felt her wilful, wayward heart so drawn
towards her spouse as on that homeward walk in the twilight. As for
John Sands, his spirit was full of tenderness towards the wife of his
youth.
Very few words were spoken by either of the two as they slowly
proceeded on their way. Nancy was too weary for much conversation, and
so perhaps was her husband; but as they passed the carpenter's shop,
she observed,--
"So poor Stone is ill and not likely to live? He and I were the two
strongest people in the parish."
Very much tired was Nancy when she re-entered her home. She wearily
sank on a chair; exhausted nature craved the support of a stimulant.
An intense desire arose for a glass of spirits or a tumbler of ale;
but she had taken the pledge, and neither she nor her husband liked to
mention what was in the minds of both.
John Sands went to the cupboard and brought out of it the supper which
he had provided for his wife, and himself arranged it on the table.
There were little luxuries, in which the poor clerk had never thought
of indulging during her absence. Pickled salmon,--Nancy had a weakness
for pickled salmon,--Bath chop, fresh butter, and white rolls. Nancy
noticed the consideration shown for her tastes, and drew her chair to
the table, well disposed to do justice to the dainties before her.
Sands filled her plate, and then shyly--for he was afraid of hurting
his wife by showing that he remembered that she had no longer a right
hand--he cut up the viands into small pieces, and quietly pushed the
plate to its place, avoiding looking at Nancy as he did so. "It must
pain her, poor dear, to be so helpless, though I'm sure it's a pleasure
to me to help her," thought the indulgent husband.
Nancy had scarcely begun her meal when she stopped short, and fixed her
eyes upon a tumbler of water at the right hand of the clerk, where she
never before had missed at supper the pint of beer. "Where's your beer,
John?" she asked, abruptly.
"Well, my dear, I thought--I did not want"--stammered forth the clerk,
nervously.
"You do want it; it does you good; _you_ have not taken the pledge."
"No, but"--there was a look of perplexity on John Sands's sallow face;
he did not know how to finish his sentence.
"The truth is, you can't trust me even to _see_ it," observed Nancy,
gloomily.
"I thought that I should not like to be different from you, my dear,"
said Sands, in a deprecatory tone. He would have made any other
sacrifice of his own comfort, as he made this, for the sake of rescuing
his wife from her fearful vice.
"Different,--you can't help being different," murmured Nancy, "you who
never in all your born days took one drop too much. It's hard for
you to be kept from your beer. But perhaps you're right, John," she
added, looking her husband full in the face; "at least just at the
first. I suspect that if I saw any strong drink it would not end with
the _seeing_; I'd give the world at this moment for a draught of good
double stout."
Nancy rose on the following morning much the better for a calm night's
rest, and the breakfast was decidedly more cheerful than the supper had
been. The clerk had afterwards to attend a christening, but his wife
was not long left alone, for a succession of visitors came to see her,
some from curiosity, some from kindness.
One of the first to appear was Stone's wife, the former motive being
that which moved her, though she deceived herself into thinking that
she was performing a charitable deed by going to see "that wretched
creature Nancy, who must be ashamed to show her face."
"I hope that this will be a warning to you, Mrs. Sands, a solemn
warning," said Mrs. Stone, after the first greetings and inquiries had
been exchanged. "You've lost an arm, but you might have lost your life;
if you'd been taken _then_"--Bell paused, for there was something in
Nancy's face which told her that the temper of the old tigress might
be lurking in her still, and that it might be dangerous to rouse it.
It was hardly to be expected that Mrs. Sands would endure that any
officious bungler should, as it were, tear off the bandage and probe
the yet unhealed wound in her spirit. Had John Sands plied his wife
with reproaches and admonitions after the fashion of Bell Stone, it
is probable that Nancy would have returned to his dwelling, not as a
penitent, but as a savage-hardened offender.
The entrance of Mrs. Fuddles put a stop to what might have ended
in what she would have called a "flare up." Mrs. Stone suddenly
recollected that she could not stop long away from her poor dear
patient, and hurried away, shrugging her shoulders and saying to
herself, as she left the place, that it was clear, from the company
kept by Nancy, that in spite of all that had happened, she'd be as bad
as ever again.
Mrs. Fuddles's manner was an utter contrast to that of the visitor just
before her. She was excited and flurried in her greeting; she declared
that she was delighted to see her dear old friend again, and looking
well, wonderfully well, all things considered; only she'd need to take
plenty of good nourishing stuff to get up her strength again, after
such a terrible illness. "A little drop of something, taken hot, just
the first thing in the morning, my dear; I've known it work wonders,"
said the publican's wife, who doubtless spoke from personal experience.
"You forget I've taken the pledge," replied Nancy, who needed no
explanation as to the nature of the "drop" recommended.
"Now, really, I heard something about it, but I could not believe it.
A sensible woman like you! But people do get round sick folks, and
wheedle, and coax, and frighten them so!"
"No one ever wheedled, or coaxed, or frightened _me_," replied Nancy,
sternly; "what I did, I did of my own free will, and I'll hold to it
too."
"To be sure, quite right; I'd be the last to try to persuade you
against your wishes," cried Mrs. Fuddles, instantly changing her
ground; "you don't know how I've been cut up about you,--and to think
of its having happened after your leaving my house, though I said,
and always will say, _that_ had nothing to do with a slip of the foot;
any one might have a slip of the foot; the parson himself might have
tumbled into the mill-stream! But you won't keep away from the old
house, Nancy, my dear," continued the publican's wife in a fawning
tone, edging her chair nearer to that on which Mrs. Sands was seated;
"you and I won't give up our pleasant chats over a--a cup of tea, if
you like it; I won't press you to anything to put your husband out, or
to offend the young parson; I'll offer you nothing stronger than tea,
unless, of course, it was good for your health?"
Mrs. Fuddles thought that she saw symptoms of yielding in her of whom
she dared to call herself a _friend_. The woman, doing the work of the
tempter of souls, knew well enough that there was something within poor
Nancy which was making her only too willing to be persuaded against
her better judgment, and that if she crossed the threshold of the
"Chequers," that craving for stimulant, which had been like a disease,
would become altogether irresistible. Mrs. Fuddles, eager to press her
point, was annoyed by the interruption caused by another visitor.
"Why, if here ben't Mrs. Franks!" she exclaimed, rising from her chair
with ill-concealed vexation; a feeling which was increased by the very
cordial manner in which Nancy received the wife of her brave preserver.
It almost seemed as if the gentle, pure-minded mother, bearing her
innocent babe on her bosom, had come as a guardian angel to the aid
of a tempted soul. A purer atmosphere was breathed around Persis; the
fragrance of the roses, which she had brought from her garden as a
gift to Nancy did not contrast more strongly with the odor of brandy
which clung to the publican's wife, than did the meek dignity of the
Christian matron contrast with the fawning vulgarity of the mistress of
the "Chequers."
"My game's up for this time," thought Mrs. Fuddles, as she soon after
took her bustling leave. The cottage seemed a holier as well as a
quieter place when rid of her presence.
"I am so glad to see you back here," said Persis, looking with kindly
interest at Nancy, as one who had so narrowly escaped a terrible death.
"I know that you are, Persis Franks; you have always been a true friend
to me," replied Mrs. Sands; and the ear of Ned's wife caught with
pleasure the emphasis on the word _you_.
Then the baby was duly exhibited and admired; the heart of poor Nancy
always warmed towards a baby. How he had grown,--how much he was
improved,--how like he was to his father, especially when the little
one laughed and crowed, and showed the dimple on his cheek! Persis was
always a patient, smiling listener to the praises of either her husband
or her child.
The conversation, however, took before long an abrupt turn. Nancy had
something on her mind which, as was usual with her, soon found its way
to her tongue.
"Do you think I shall be _able_ to keep the pledge?" she asked
suddenly, though Persis had made no allusion to the subject. Mrs.
Franks, however, easily connected the abrupt question with the visit of
Mrs. Fuddles. Nancy repeated it rather impatiently, as Persis hesitated
before giving a reply.
"I think that depends upon two things," she answered, looking down as
she spoke, perhaps to avoid meeting the gaze of the keen black eyes
fixed upon her.
"What are these two things, Persis Franks? You need not mind speaking
out boldly; you are not one to force your advice where it's not asked,
nor to set yourself up, like Bell Stone, for being a deal better than
your neighbors. I want to keep the pledge if I can, if only for the
sake of poor John; but how am I to do it?"
"The first thing, at least so it seems to me," replied Persis, "is to
keep out of all way of temptation."
"You don't mean to say I'm to cut an old friend," said Nancy, who was
longing to renew her dangerous visits to Mrs. Fuddles.
"If I were you I would never venture near the 'Chequers;' at least, not
without my husband," replied Persis.
Nancy flushed, and muttered something that sounded like "with a
keeper;" but her good sense approved of that which had offended her
pride; and, after a short struggle with herself, she said, "Yes, yes,
I'll never more enter the 'Chequers' without John, and that's next
thing to saying that I'll never go there again. What's the second thing
that you meant, Persis Franks?"
Persis lifted up her heart for a moment in supplication for wisdom
before she ventured to reply. "I think that your next,--your _best_
safeguard, Mrs. Sands, must be earnest, daily prayer to Him who alone
can keep you,--or any of us, from falling. While we shun temptation, we
must also _watch and pray_."
Nancy made no reply, and Persis, after a pause, went on. "I feel
myself, Mrs. Sands, that I am no more able to stand firm without the
help of God's Holy Spirit, than my babe is able to support himself
without a parent's embracing arms. I come to God, just as a little
child, for the daily grace which I need. I have no strength to hold
him fast, but he will hold _me_ fast, if--with all my weakness and
sinfulness--I give myself up entirely to him."
Tears rose to Persis's eyes as she spoke, and tears were also
glistening in those of Nancy. "Shun temptation,--watch and pray," she
repeated, as if to impress the words on her memory; then, looking
fixedly at Mrs. Franks, and speaking in the measured tone of one who
has made up her mind, Nancy said, "I will never forget your advice. I
believe that I shall one day bless you for it in heaven."
And from that time forth Nancy Sands was never seen at the "Chequers,"
and not a morning or evening passed without the voice of simple,
earnest prayer arising from what had been once the home of the drunkard.
XXVIII.
A Search.
With all the speed which he had made, Ned Franks was scarcely in time
to catch the train for London. The journey was without incident, and
the village school-master ere long found himself in the centre of the
noise, glare, heat, and bustle of the great city in the dog-days.
"Difficult navigation this," said the former sailor to himself, as he
made his way across roads crowded almost to blockade. "I suppose it's
because I'm not used to the thing; but I can't understand how children
or old folks can manage this steering behind and before and between
omnibuses, carts, cabs, and vans, dodging right under horses' noses,
and all in the midst of such confusion and noise! I'd not bide in such
a rackety place as this to be made Lord Mayor of London!"
Ned's first care was to visit the office of Messrs. Grant, Bold, &
Co. He there obtained more precise information regarding the object
of the advertisement in the _Times_. Mrs. Tabitha Turtle having died
intestate, her little savings, amounting to something above two hundred
pounds, would of course revert to her next of kin. She had had no
brother, and but one sister, who, as the lawyer informed Ned Franks,
had been married more than twenty years before to a man of the name of
Peter Claymore; but whether Mrs. Claymore were living, or whether she
had had any children, had not as yet been ascertained. No answer had
been made from any quarter to repeated advertisements in the _Times_.