informant. "Mrs. Claymore died long ago, her husband about a year
back,--in a penal settlement; he had changed his name more than once,
I believe. They have left but one daughter, whose name is Sophy. She
is now blind, and, having been adopted by Benjamin Isaacs, a Christian
Jew, is probably called by his name, which may make it harder to find
her. But it is worth any trouble to do the poor orphan right, for she
has not a farthing in the world, and I fear that the generous Jew is
scarcely able to support her and his son."
"Can you give me any clue to her present place of abode?" asked Mr.
Grant, with a languid air of indifference.
"I'll give you what was Isaacs' address when he last wrote to me, sir,"
replied Franks; "but that was some months back, and he was about to
change his lodging. I've not had a line from him since, but I'll be off
to Islington at once, and try if I can't hunt him out. Poor Sophy shall
not miss such a chance for want of a friend who will take a little
trouble to find her."
Ned Franks took more than a little trouble; not feeling rich enough
to afford hiring a cab, he, a perfect stranger to London, was puzzled
beyond measure how to find his way through its endless labyrinth of
streets. "I'm like a blind man steering amongst shoals," muttered the
one-armed sailor. Twenty times had he to ask his way, "veering about
and tacking to half the points in the compass," as he afterwards
laughingly told his wife, and it was not till after the lapse of
several hours that Ned found himself, much heated, tired, and with a
racking headache, at the door of Isaacs' old lodging at last.
Here little comfort was to be obtained. The shrewish-looking landlady
who had unwittingly quitted her supper to answer the sailor's impatient
and repeated summons, seemed half-inclined to shut the door in his
face, and told him that she knowed nothing, not she, of Benjamin
Isaacs. A working jeweller with a boy and a blind girl had lived there
once, she owned, when more closely questioned by Ned; but they had gone
long since, she could not tell whither; if they were alive or if they
were dead, she didn't know and she didn't care! Slamming the door, the
woman went back to her supper, grumbling at being "bothered by impudent
fellows like that coming to hunt up old lodgers."
"Where am I to turn up now?" thought poor Franks, almost knocked up,
and a little discouraged by the result of his search. The street lamps
were lighted, the public houses flaring, night was coming on; but it
seemed as if to London and its suburbs night would bring no interval of
quiet or repose. The village school-master longed for food, sleep, and
rest.
"But I won't give up my chase yet," Ned said to himself. "Knowing
Sophy and Isaacs by sight, I'm much more likely to find them out than
a stranger would be; besides, I put more heart into the business than
that grand, sleepy-looking gentleman in black, who seemed not to care
the turning of a straw whether the money found its way into Sophy's
pocket or into the sea."
A thought occurred to Ned Franks as he stood in perplexity leaning
against a lamp-post. "I'll step into one of the post-offices, and
ask for a sight of one of the big red books that hold all kinds of
addresses. Though Isaacs' will not be put down there, I may light upon
some relation of his; and if I can but get hold of one end of the line,
I may manage to follow out the clue."
After a little more of inquiring his way along those noisy streets,
where no one seemed at leisure to answer a question, Franks found a
post-office, which he entered. The shopman was putting up the shutters,
and at first desired the sailor to wait till Monday; but, perhaps
struck by the worn, weary looks of the inquirer, he good-naturedly let
him have a sight of the directory, which he took down from a shelf,
bidding the sailor, however, make haste.
Franks hurriedly turned over the leaves by gas-light, and came to the
name of "Isaacs." It was perplexing to him to see how many persons in
London bore it; how should he choose between them? Ned ran his finger
down the closely printed column till he came to the name of "Reuben,"
and uttered an exclamation of satisfaction as his eye fell upon the
word.
"Ah! that's a Jew's name, anyhow; and now I remember Isaacs telling
me that he had in London a cousin called Reuben, who was to him as a
brother. I'm on the right tack at last! but 'Lisson Grove;' where's
Lisson Grove?" asked the weary stranger of the good-natured shopman.
"I hope that it's hard by, though I have not seen anything hereabouts
like a grove."
The Londoner smiled at the observation. "You must not look for trees
there," he said, "but a lot of low, dirty, narrow streets; and, as for
the distance from here, I should say at a guess, four miles."
"Four miles!" repeated poor Ned to himself, as, after thanking his
informant, he quitted the shop. "Tired as I am, I'd rather walk forty
miles on a country road than four miles through this labyrinth of
London. I could scarcely steer my course while I'd daylight; at night
I'd not have a chance. I must hail a cab, and to pay for it I'll do
without supper to-night, and maybe without dinner to-morrow, for I must
keep enough of the ready rhino to pay for my journey back."
A cab was hailed, and in due course of time Ned Franks, at the cost of
a half crown, found himself standing in front of a pawnbroker's shop,
where the blaze of gas-light fell on a crowd of the poor, thronging
around the door, some to pledge and some to redeem articles of
clothing, blankets, or plate.
"I'm glad he's not shut up yet, though the hour's so late," thought
Franks, as, with a little difficulty, he made his way through the
throng. The moment that he caught sight of the pawnbroker, the strong
likeness borne to his cousin by Reuben made Franks feel certain that
he had "hit upon the right Isaacs." He had to wait, however, which he
did with no small impatience, till the pawnbroker had leisure to attend
to his business, and then Franks knew that he must put it into as few
words as might be, as the night was now far advanced.
"Pray, sir, haven't you a cousin of the name of Benjamin Isaacs, who
has adopted a blind girl as his daughter?" asked Ned, in a rapid tone.
"Ay, more fool he!" muttered Reuben.
"That mayn't prove the case in the long run, my friend," said the
warm-hearted sailor. "No one's the worse in the end for helping widow
or orphan. The girl's just come in for some money. Can you tell me
where to find her, or your cousin?"
Little did Franks, himself the soul of candor and truth, suspect the
perfidy and malice that prompted the pawnbroker's reply.
"If you're seeking them out to tell them of such a bit of good luck,
you're a day too late for the fair. Benjamin, his boy, and the girl,
the whole lot of them, sailed last week for Australia!"
"Are you certain of that?" inquired Ned, anxiously.
"As sure as I am that my name's Reuben Isaacs. I saw them to the docks
myself;" and the man turned suddenly round to a customer, perhaps to
hide the smile of gratified malice which rose to his lips.
"Then my work is done!" exclaimed Franks, leaving the place with a
sense of bitter disappointment. "Nothing remains for me now but to find
some berth for the night."
And it was close upon midnight before the weary man found one.
XXIX.
Pleasure or Principle?
Ned Franks had wished to combine cheapness and comfort in his lodging,
but this appearing to be an impossible arrangement, he gave up the
second for the sake of the first, and passed in a dirty boarding-house
one of the most uncomfortable nights that he had ever known. Accustomed
as he had been when a sailor to "roughing it," Ned Franks could have
slept soundly in an open boat or under a hedge; but the suffocating
atmosphere of an almost air-tight room, shared with a dirty Portuguese,
made him, weary as he was, unable to snatch more than a few minutes
of broken, feverish slumber, to which the name of repose could not be
given. Franks was glad when morning broke, and he was able to rise and
go forth into the air from what he considered to be "as bad as any
black-hole."
"I wish that I were back again amongst our own green fields, or that
I'd never had the folly to come on such a wild cruise as this,"
muttered Franks to himself, he being in a somewhat irritable mood.
"Persis and I might have been now,--but there is no use regretting
what's done. I believe that the search, useless as it has turned out,
was the right thing to be attempted. It's our part in life to try
and do our duty; and then, if it seems that we've worked in vain, we
must remember that all is in God's hands, and that he has always some
wise, good, kind reason for sending us disappointment or trouble." If
there was one sin more than another, from which Franks was resolved
always to "sheer off" at once, it was _mistrust_,--that gathering
shoal-ice. He had been working hard; exerting all his energies, and
giving up his pleasures, not so much for the sake of a girl in whom
he had no particular interest (for Sophy had never been a favorite of
Franks), but from obedience to Him who commends to us the cause of
the fatherless and poor. What is done unto the Lord can never be done
altogether in vain. When he bids us work for him, he bids us do so in
a cheerful, trustful spirit, looking to him for a blessing, thanking
him for success when success is granted; and, if it seem to be denied,
never daring to doubt for a moment that _he hath done all things well_.
"Now, if this were any day but Sunday," thought Franks, as he walked
through the street where, even at an early hour, the cries of the
water-cress seller and the hawker unpleasantly broke on the comparative
stillness, "if this were any day but Sunday, I'd be off by the first
train, and not spend another hour in this hot, close city. And why
should I _not_ go to-day, although it is Sunday? Would there be any
harm? I should be in plenty of time for afternoon service at least, and
should pass a much holier, as well as happier, Sabbath in Colme than in
London. I should be with my Persis and my boy, and those who love and
serve God, and not tossing about here like a stray bit of sea-weed on
the waves. Why, in the midst of crowds here, I've not a single being to
speak to; and I feel as lonely in a city as Crusoe did in his island! I
think that I'd better go back at once to my home!"
Franks quickened his steps as he heard the shrill whistle from a
railway station near, which reminded him that there are plenty of
travellers from London, every Sunday, bound on errands of business or
pleasure. The temptation to Franks was strong; so many excuses offered
themselves to his mind for breaking the fourth commandment only _this
once_. Health, convenience, economy, the pleasure of giving a joyful
surprise to his wife, from whom he had never before been separated for
a single day since their marriage,--all combined to draw Franks to the
conclusion, that a journey on Sunday was excusable in his case, if not
perfectly lawful.
As the struggle was going on in the mind of the one-armed school-master
of Colme, a woman, with a basket filled with pottles of strawberries,
stopped him with the question, "Buy any nice strawberries, sir, this
morning?"
"I never buy or sell on the Lord's day, and I am sorry to see you doing
either," replied Franks, gravely but kindly.
"Sir, I can't help it," said the woman, with a sigh. "If I don't sell,
my children can't eat."
"Obey God's command, and trust his promise, my friend. His command is,
_Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy_. His promise is, _Trust in
the Lord, and verily thou shalt be fed_. God, who has all things in
his power, will return unto his servants a hundred-fold in the end,
whatever they lose upon earth by faithfully doing his will."
Franks walked on; but the whole current of his thoughts had been
changed by the little incident; he felt that in reproving another he
had condemned himself.
"Shame on me," he muttered, "that I, who know so well a Christian's
duty, should be so slack in performing it! I can see the mote in my
brother's eye, indeed; let me pull the beam out of my own! There is no
necessity for my travelling to Colme to-day; no one would be really
the better for my doing so; nay, my pupils might be injured by seeing
the inconsistency of one to whom they look for an example. I must take
heed that I _offend not one of these little ones_, by making them
think lightly of the sin of breaking the fourth commandment. As for
my passing a holier Sunday in Colme than in London, the day or the
place is holy to us, whenever the presence of the Saviour is with us.
Nothing but sin can divide us from him. I will stay, and take my meals
quietly or unquietly, as the case my be, at the boarding-house which
I've entered; and if I lack comfort for the body, there's many a church
in this great city in which I can get pure and wholesome food for
the soul. There are the church-bells ringing for early service,--the
sweetest sound I've heard in London! And there goes the railway whistle
again! The two calls seem, on this Sunday morn, like God's invitation
and the world's. How could I doubt which to accept?"
XXX.
Found at Last.
Saturday had been to Sophy one of the darkest days of her life. Isaacs
and his son had been absent during the greater part of it, and the
blind girl had been left to her loneliness and pain, the former only
broken by a visit from an angry landlord demanding rent which Isaacs
had been unable to pay. Isaacs, on his return, had found Sophy in
tears, and he was little able to cheer her, for again had the convert
been unsuccessful in his anxious attempt to get work. He seated himself
wearily, folded his arms, and, drooping his head, sat silent as one
who feels that life is full of trials. But who "can suffer and be
still,"--submissive and uncomplaining?
"If I had but a little capital to start with," he began, speaking
rather to himself than to Sophy; but he cut himself short by the
remark, "If God had thought it good for me to have it, he would not
have withheld it; I am content that my portion should not be in this
life. _Better the reproach of Christ, than all the riches of Egypt!_"
"Success, success! see what I've brought!" cried the cheerful voice
of Benoni at the door. Benjamin raised his head,--Sophy turned her
sightless eyes in the direction of the welcome sound.
"I've sold all; emptied your basket, emptied and filled it again!"
cried Benoni. "Here's bread, and delicious bacon, and a nice bit of
butcher's meat too! It's Saturday evening, so I got it for five-pence.
Have I not made a good bargain?" The boy turned with an appealing smile
to his father.
"How did you contrive to sell everything in the basket?" asked Isaacs.
"And how much did it all bring?" inquired Sophy.
"I'll tell you all about it. I had been wandering about for five or
six hours, and had sold but three kettle-holders for a penny apiece,
when I thought I'd try a woman who was standing at the door of a shop
where things just like yours are sold. I begged her to buy; she looked
doubtful. I told her she might have everything that was left for a
shilling, and so she cleared off all that was in the basket at once!"
Isaacs shook his head with a rather sad smile. "You are no great hand
at making a bargain in the selling line, whatever you may be in the
buying," said he.
"A shilling would not pay for the wool!" murmured Sophy, in a tone of
bitter disappointment.
Little Benoni looked mortified and distressed. "You told me to sell
the things for what they would bring," he said, sadly. "Yesterday they
brought nothing at all. I dare say I've done very foolishly, but I
wanted to bring home plenty of nice food for Sunday."
"And you have brought plenty; and we have to thank Sophy for feeding us
all by the work of her hands," said Isaacs, kindly. "I wish that I had
earned as much to-day as you and she have, my boy."
Benoni looked gratefully at his father, but the cloud did not pass from
the brow of Sophy. What hopes she had built on that basket of work!
How she had counted on the proceeds of its sale, not only to supply
present need, but to buy materials for future labors! She had probably
over-estimated the value of her little store as much as Benoni had
done the contrary, and now all that it had been sold for would be
consumed in two or three meals, and nothing be left with which she
might start afresh! Sophy, hungry as she was, scarcely cared to touch
the supper, purchased at what seemed to her at so very costly a price.
We know that severe cold is apt to benumb those who are exposed to
it, to make them dislike making efforts, even when life may depend on
their doing so, and that they are in danger of sinking into a sleep
from which they waken no more. The ice of mistrust brings to the soul
a peril much like this. A chill of despair often comes over sufferers
who doubt the love of their God. They are not inclined to struggle
against its benumbing effects, to wrestle in earnest, or to press
onwards with resolute faith. Thus it was with Sophy Claymore. When,
on the Sunday morning, Isaacs asked her if she were going with him to
church, she shook her head, and said that she was not well enough to
go. Her sickness was more of the soul than the body,--it came from the
tempter's whisper, "Where is thy God? He heareth thee not."
"If Sophy can't go with us, Benoni," said Isaacs, "I'll do as I once
promised,--take you to attend service in Westminster Abbey. Now bring
me the Bible; we'll have our morning reading, my son."
Isaacs read about the story of the woman of Canaan,--the touching
account of persevering pleading, of faith that would take no denial.
When the Bible was closed, Benoni, as was his wont, began to talk over
the passage to which he had just been listening.
"How happy that woman must have been!--so much happier than if the Lord
had granted her prayer directly!"
"I don't see why," said Sophy.
"Do you not?" cried Benoni. "Why, if the Lord had made her child well
at once, she would never have heard that delightful word, 'O woman,
great is thy faith!' I always fancy that the Lord smiled upon her as he
said that, but that he sighed when he said to Peter, 'O thou of little
faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?' I suppose," continued the boy, "that
both the woman and St. Peter really loved and served their Master, but
he spoke very differently to them. Sometimes I think--perhaps it is a
childish thought--that when God's people have no more troubles, and
they are welcomed up to glory, and see that what looked wrong really
was right, those who _trusted_ most will be those to _rejoice_ the
most. To some, then, the Saviour may say, 'Great was thy faith;' and
oh, the delight to hear him say _that_! But I'm afraid that to most he
will rather say, 'Thou of little faith, why didst thou doubt?'"
These words from the lips of a child were as a soft warm breeze from
the south, melting and stirring the ice round the heart. Sophy felt
that her sullen mistrust was dishonoring her Lord, and that, had _she_
been in the place of the woman of Canaan, the first discouragement
would have driven her away from the Saviour. The blind girl made no
reply, but a few minutes afterwards she said, "I'll go to church this
morning; there's really nothing to hinder me."
"Yes, yes, we will all go together!" cried Benoni, cheerfully giving
up at once, and without any apparent regret, the plan of going to
Westminster Abbey, a place too distant for Sophy to walk to. It was
agreed that the three should, as usual, attend service in their own
parish church.
And Sophy, like many other sorrowful ones, found the Saviour in the
temple of God. Her burden grew lighter as she listened to the numerous
voices around her joining in singing the praise of the Lord. She
thought of the multitudes clothed in white robes, come out of _great
tribulation_, and felt that those who will share such bliss _then_, may
learn _now_ to _glory in tribulations also_.
Sophy and the Isaacs were among the last to quit Marylebone church. As
the blind girl slowly walked down the steps under the portico, she was
almost startled by the joyful exclamation, "Hurrah! I've found them at
last!"
"Ned Franks!" cried Isaacs and Benoni in a breath. It would
be difficult to decide who was most delighted by a meeting so
unexpected,--Franks, or those whom he had so anxiously sought. Isaacs
invited his friend to go home with him; then almost repented having
done so, for he was ashamed of his miserable abode. Benoni was secretly
glad that for once there was something better than a crust to offer to
the guest.
Franks was so eager to tell his good news, that he could scarcely wait
till they had reached a more quiet place than the Marylebone Road.
His eagerness was greatly increased by the poverty betrayed by the
appearance of his friends. "Help has not come before it was needed,"
he thought, as he looked at their thin, sunken features, and their
shabby, though still decent, dress. "How thankful I am that I came on
this cruise! and doubly thankful that I did not start for Colme this
morning, and so lose the prize which was right ahead of me!"
Franks kept his great secret tolerably well, only letting the fact that
he had some good news ooze out a little, till the party had entered
together the gloomy lodging of Isaacs. Then, indeed, he enjoyed to the
full that feast to a kindly heart, the power of imparting glad tidings.
The very bareness of the kitchen seemed to make his message brighter,
like a dark background setting off a pattern of gold. Isaacs' grave
features relaxed into a smile; Benoni clapped his thin hands and could
hardly keep from shouting; Sophy looked at first as if she could hardly
believe what she heard, then clasped her hands and raised her sightless
eyes towards heaven.
"Father," cried Benoni, "you said that if you'd but a little capital
to start with, you could make your way"--Isaacs hurriedly stopped him
short by gesture and glance.
"I shall advise Sophy how to lay out her little property to the best
advantage for herself," said the Jew.
"And that is by your taking it, using it, doing what you will with it!"
cried Sophy with emotion. "O my father, have you not called me your
child; have you not said again and again that our purse should always
be one? Have you not shared your little with me, fed and clothed me
for years? What is mine is yours and my brother's; let it start you in
business, and we will all share together whatever your gains may be. I
would rather throw the money into the street, and myself go into the
workhouse, than have property and not enjoy it with you and my dear
Benoni!"
"The lass says well," observed Franks. "Her money can't be better laid
out than in giving you the power to support all three."
"I might take it as a loan, if Sophy would trust me," said Benjamin
Isaacs.
"_Trust you!_" exclaimed the blind girl, while joyful tears coursed
down her cheeks; "you to whom I owe so much, you who have been to
me as a father, from whom I deserved nothing, and yet have received
everything! It would be strange indeed if I could not trust you!"
Did conscience then whisper to Sophy that it had been stranger still
that she should mistrust One who _like as a father pitieth his
children_, who had loved and watched over her from her cradle, and
would love and bless her even to the end?
And so the long struggle with poverty came to a close with Benjamin
Isaacs. From that time he was to be as successful in business as he had
formerly been unfortunate. The working jeweller was to realize how true
is the Word of God, _The blessing of the Lord it maketh rich, and he
addeth no sorrow with it_. Sophy laid out her little property to very
good interest when she lent it to her father by adoption. The blind
girl never recovered her bodily sight, but the darkness had passed from
her soul; she had learned to _rejoice in the Lord_, and to wait with
trustful hope for the day when all clouds of sorrow and mists of doubts
shall be rolled away forever.
XXXI.
The Baronet's Return.
Ned Franks had an exceedingly pleasant journey home. He arrived at
Colme in high spirits, and received a joyful welcome from Persis; to
whom he gave a very amusing account of all his adventures in London,
and of their happy conclusion.