circumstances, the thought that it would be their last at Colme would
have sufficed to throw a shade over the brightest prospects. All their
happy wedded life had been spent in the place. There seemed to be dear
associations connected with every cottage, nay, almost with every
tree. The friends who were dearest to them, the children whom they had
taught, the pastor whom they revered, all, all must be left behind.
Would they ever see them again? And what darkness hung over the future!
Would Franks, a one-armed man, succeed in earning enough to support a
wife and child? And if not, what distress might be before them! And
all this wrecking of peace, this breaking up of one of the happiest of
homes, was the work of the wanton malice of one unprincipled man!
On the Sunday evening, Ned Franks, usually so cheerful and brave
in spirit, was overpowered by deeper depression than he had ever
experienced since he had first met with Persis. He sat gloomy and
silent in the darkening twilight, with his hand pressed over his eyes.
Persis had just placed her babe in his cradle, and drawing forward a
footstool, she now seated herself upon it, at the feet of her husband.
She longed to give comfort, yet scarcely ventured to speak, and at
last, feeling that the words of the Lord were far more likely to soothe
a troubled spirit than any of her own, she repeated very softly,
"_Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you_."
"If I had only that," said Franks, sadly, as he removed his hand from
his eyes, "I should care less for the troubles that have come upon
us thus. Do you know me so little, Persis, as to think that I'm so
downhearted just because we're in a few days to be turned out of our
home, or because we've been disappointed in these letters from London?
I do not say that I do not feel these things, but I should be a coward
if I could not bear them, and a fool if I'd expected that troubles
never would come." Then, suddenly appearing to change the subject of
conversation, Ned abruptly asked, "Did you hear what Mr. Leyton said
to me this afternoon when we had just come out of church?"
"No, I was speaking to Nancy Sands."
"He said, 'Poor Stone is now sinking fast. The vicar himself is going
to administer the communion to him--I fear for the last time--to-morrow
evening at six. Stone told me that he hoped that you and your wife
would come over and partake of the Lord's Supper with him, as he owes
more to you than to any one else upon earth!'"
"And what did you reply, Ned?" asked Persis.
"Nothing. Mr. Leyton noticed Nancy Sands at that moment, and turned to
ask her a question, and, as you know, you and I then walked home."
"Surely," observed Persis, "it will be a satisfaction to us both--once
more--in this dear, dear place--to"--She dared not go on, lest her
voice should betray her distress at leaving the village.
"How can I share the feast of love," exclaimed Ned Franks, bitterly,
"when my heart is full of hatred! I've been searching and examining
myself ever since Mr. Leyton spoke, and I _dare not_ go to the Lord's
table!" The school-master rose from his seat, and began pacing up and
down the room while continuing to speak. "'To be in charity with all
men,'--that is absolutely needful; without that I should but profane
the holiest service. I can't shut my eyes to the truth, I can't deceive
my own heart,--I do hate and detest Sir Lacy, more for what he _is_
than for what he has done! So I must keep away--like an outcast--from
the feast to which I am so lovingly invited; I must not share it with
my poor dying friend, or the pastor whom I reverence, though, by
keeping away, I shall own before all the village that I know myself
to be unworthy to join in Christian communion. And if I am unfit to
partake of the holy supper, I am also unfit to die, unfit to appear
in the presence of my God! O Persis!" exclaimed the agitated man,
throwing himself again on his chair, "people talk well of me, think
well of me--much too well; tell me that I've helped them on their way
to heaven; but what will it profit me if, after preaching to others, I
myself should be a castaway!"
"God forbid!" exclaimed Persis. "But, Ned dearest, surely it is not the
entrance of sin into the soul, but the harboring it there, that makes
us unfit for heaven, or unworthy to receive the means of grace."
"I _do_ harbor malice and hatred," muttered Franks.
"But you would turn them out this moment if you could."
"I can't; whenever I think of Sir Lacy"--
"Oh, think of him only when you're on your knees!" cried Persis. "Ned,
I share your temptation, I feel what you feel,--not quite so warmly
perhaps, but just as deeply. Let us kneel down together now; let us
confess our sin, our heart sin, to our heavenly Father; let us together
ask of him that Holy Spirit that can cast out the 'strong man armed,'
and keep him out; and make us ready to forgive even as we have been
forgiven!"
The husband and wife knelt down side by side, and silently poured out
their confession of sin and prayer for help unto Him who could himself
pardon his murderers. Night darkened around as they prayed; and with
the night came a rush of refreshing rain after the fervent heat of the
long summer day.
When Franks arose from his knees his manner was calmer and more subdued.
"Persis," he said, after he had resumed his seat, "God has been showing
me my weakness. I cannot by myself subdue the fierce passions within;
but he can, and he will send his Spirit, even as he sends his rain from
heaven to quench the fire, and calm the proud, resentful spirit! I
have made one resolution,--and may God help me to keep it!--never, if
possible, even to name Sir Lacy, except in my prayers. Yes, Persis, you
and I will not harbor malice and hatred as guests, but resist them as
foes; and, to gain strength for the struggle, you and I will to-morrow
seek the Lord in his own ordinance by the bedside of our poor dying
friend."
XXXVII.
The Sudden Summons.
On the following morning Franks started before breakfast for a spot
called Cliff Farm, to make arrangements with the owner of the place
for the loan of his cart to carry the school-master's family, and
what little luggage they possessed, to the station on the succeeding
Thursday. The errand was not a pleasant one, but Franks had no longer
the heavy weight on his heart which had oppressed him so long as he
felt that, not being in charity with man, he could not be at peace with
his God. Franks could now look calmly up at the clear blue sky, flecked
with rosy morning clouds, with a spirit in harmony with the tranquil,
holy beauty of nature.
Cliff Farm owed its name to its position. It stood on very high ground,
and was approached by a road steep enough to try the breath and mettle
of any horse drawing a conveyance. On one side, not a hundred yards to
the right of the farm-house, there was an abrupt fall of the ground,
forming a sheer perpendicular descent of some fifty or sixty feet,
down which tumbled a light sparkling cascade. It was the joyous leap
of the young stream which, not a mile lower down, turned the wheel of
the mill, after winding its way past the village of Colme. The brook,
rushing with a pleasant gurgling sound over its rocky bed, added to
the charm of the spot, which was one of the loveliest in the county.
Franks had often bent his steps towards Cliff Farm, and stood on the
edge of that steep, rocky bank, to enjoy the extensive view which it
commanded.
And there the school-master now lingered to gaze, perhaps for the
last time, from that point on the beautiful landscape before him.
There lay beneath him the village of Colme, the ivy-mantled church in
which he had been married to Persis, and to which they had brought
their first-born babe to offer him unto the Lord. There was the dear
little school-house, at once the scene of Franks's earliest labors,
and the home in which he had known more of pure happiness than falls
to the lot of most men, even during the longest life. The eye of
the school-master wandered along the high road leading towards the
town; his gaze lingered on the cottage of Nancy Sands; never would he
remember that dwelling and its inmates but with feelings of thankful
joy. Then the glance of Franks fell on the chimneys of Stone's house;
trees intervening hid the rest of the building from his view; there
the one-armed sailor had sought faithfully, and not unsuccessfully,
to open blinded eyes to the truth. Farther on--how well Franks knew
its position!--lay the wooded dell in which Persis had dwelt when he
wooed her, and where he had first met with Isaacs, then an unconverted
Jew,--now, partly through his words, his prayers, his example, a
consistent Christian believer. The little stream plunging over the
cliff, which was almost at the feet of Ned Franks, was the same from
which--by the mill in that same wooded dell--he had drawn the drowning
Nancy at the imminent peril of his life. The pines on yon eastern hill
looked down, as the school-master well knew, on the almshouses nestling
in Wild Rose Hollow. How greatly would he be missed there! If that
thought was sad, it also was sweet. There would be many a tear shed by
aged eyes in those cottages which he had labored so hard to repair. Ned
sighed to think that his work there must be left unfinished.
Still farther on roved the eye of Franks. On another hill, girdled with
woods, stood the Hall; he could see its upper windows glancing in the
light of the morning sun.
"O God! Thy blessing may yet rest on that dark place--as it seems to
us," said the school-master half aloud. "Thou sendest thy sunshine to
all, so may none be shut out from thy grace. It seems to me at this
moment as if I could forgive from my soul even Sir Lacy Barton."
As Ned pursued his meditations, suddenly he was startled by a cry of
"Stop him! stop him!" from behind, with the sound of the clattering
hoofs of a horse rushing on in wild, frantic career down the steep
slope just above the spot on which Franks was standing. Turning quickly
round, he beheld a black hunter dashing towards him at a furious speed,
which its rider, tugging at the rein, tried in vein to check, as his
horse was carrying him direct towards the cliff and--unless it were
possible to stop his career--to inevitable destruction! Franks had but
an instant to calculate chances, to recognize the rider, to resolve
to try to save him by catching at the rein as the maddened hunter
rushed like a whirlwind by! Franks made the attempt, but failed, and
was struck to the earth with violence! The hand of no single man would
have sufficed to stop the furious and powerful animal which the baronet
rode. Ned instantly sprang to his feet, and, as he did so, saw the
fearful plunge over the cliff, and heard the wild cry for help from
one beyond all human help. Then followed a terrible crash below!
"He's lost!" exclaimed the owner of Cliff Farm, who came panting up
to the spot, followed by one of his men, who had also witnessed the
frightful catastrophe, and Ned's gallant though fruitless effort to
avert it.
"Let's make our way down without a moment's delay!" cried Ned; "he may
be living still!"
The three men, Franks the foremost of the party, with all speed
clambered to the bottom of the cliff, at a place where a little
roughness in the ground, and a few bushes to hold by, enabled them to
manage the descent. I will not dwell on the fearful sight which awaited
them. The black horse lay dead, the rider apparently dying. Franks
took the lead in doing all that could be done for the sufferer. One
messenger was sent off to the Hall, another to the town for a surgeon.
There was no difficulty in finding messengers, for country people, who
had seen the horse when it first started off, now came running to the
scene of the disaster.
With all the tenderness that he could have shown to his dearest
friend, Ned helped to place the crushed and senseless Sir Lacy upon
a shutter, and to carry him by a steep path which wound up the cliff
at a little distance from the cascade, to the shelter of Cliff Farm.
Franks did not quit him till his own people, summoned hastily from the
Hall, were around him, and amongst them the school-master-elect. Then,
as he could be of no farther use, Ned Franks, thoughtful and grave,
returned to his home. He found his pupils already assembled. Of course
the tidings of the accident to Sir Lacy Barton were on every one's
lips, and the boys awaited from their master an account of all that had
happened, perhaps with such comments as what they deemed a judgment
upon a wicked man might call forth from their teacher.
But Franks was not one to condemn a poor sinner already under the
chastening of Heaven, nor to gratify private malice under the pretence
of enforcing a lesson. He was much more grave and serious than usual,
but avoided making any allusion to the fate of his persecutor, though
the awful scene which he had witnessed was the uppermost thought in
his mind. It was a relief to Franks, when, study-time being over, his
pupils dispersed, and he was able to go to his own quiet room, where
Persis was anxiously awaiting him. She, of course, like every one else
in Colme, knew what had occurred, and knew, also, that the baronet had
by this time been conveyed to the Hall, where he lay in a very critical
state.
"Persis, how thankful I am that God had enabled me to forgive that
man," said Ned Franks to his wife as they met. "Poor fellow! poor
fellow! had he wronged me far more than he has done, I could feel
nothing but pity for him now. Let us pray that God may spare him yet
for a new and a better life."
The day wore on, and Franks and Persis did not fail at the appointed
time to go to the cottage of Stone; a neighbor taking care of their
baby during the short time of their absence. Glorious was that evening
in August! The fields were dotted with golden sheaves, where the summer
harvest of joy was following the early sowing in tears. Mr. Curtis,
the venerable vicar, himself raised from what had been likely to prove
a death-bed, came to administer the Holy Supper to a dying, penitent
man. While the pastor had been a prisoner to his own room, as had for
many months been the case, he had been constantly visiting in thought
the dwellings of his flock; if he could not preach to them, he could
pray for them. There were two of his parishioners whose cases had
then lain particularly heavy on the mind of the good old man, Nancy
Sands and Ben Stone. At the beginning of the year they had been the
two in all the village who might have been pointed out, from their
appearance, as giving promise of long life; the brawny carpenter,
jovial and hearty, and the clerk's wife with her strongly built form,
muscular arms, and loud voice. They were also the two about whose
spiritual state their pastor had felt most concern. Nancy, a slave to
violent passions, furious temper, and a craving for drink. Stone, free
from all these vices, yet, in his self-righteousness and blindness of
heart, almost as far from the kingdom of heaven as the neighbor whom he
despised. Almost at the same time the two had been stricken down, the
one by a terrible accident, the other by sudden illness. Affliction had
come to both the Pharisee and the publican. One had been raised and
restored, though maimed, to her home; the other was never to quit his
cottage till carried forth in his coffin. But mercy had visited each,
and, as they met to attend the solemn service together, both penitents
could say in the words of the Psalmist, _It is good for me that I have
been afflicted_.
This was the first time that Nancy had been a communicant; she had never
before dared to approach the table of the Lord. Stone, on the contrary,
had attended regularly, at stated times in the year; but with him, until
now, the service had been but an empty form, only tending to increase
the blindness of his conscience, by leading him to think that he had
fulfilled all righteousness, when he made thus open profession of faith,
without one spark of its living reality. At that time Ben Stone would
have scouted the idea of Nancy Sands, whom he deemed the worst woman in
Colme, being permitted to enter his cottage on an occasion so solemn, to
show that she shared his faith and his hopes, and might share his
happiness in the mansions above. Yet there they were now together,
Pharisee and publican, both brought to the foot of the cross; the once
despised drunkard meekly giving God thanks that she was not what she
once had been, and the Pharisee, not raising up so much as his eyes unto
heaven, but silently uttering the prayer, _God be merciful to me a
sinner_!
Often had Persis and her husband joined in the holy service, but never
had they felt heaven nearer to them, and the Christian's hope sweeter,
than they did in Stone's cottage on that bright August eve. They saw
the saving power of the gospel in the two penitents before them, the
one rescued from the rock of self-righteousness, the other from the
whirlpool of intemperance. The little flock gathered together in that
peaceful home seemed an emblem of that blessed band, who, through God's
mercy and grace, shall, after life's troubles and tossings, reach in
safety the heavenly shore.
As the Frankses returned, after the solemn meeting by the sick-bed of
Stone, a rich, golden glow was over the sky, and a deep stillness in
the air; heaven seemed to be all brightness, and earth all peace. Then
came a sound, solemn at all times, but especially so at that hour, the
measured tolling of the church-bells for a departed soul. It was the
first announcement to those who had met in Stone's cottage that the
unhappy Sir Lacy had been called to his last account.
Yes, the bells that had been silent on his arrival at his ancestral
home, now, with slow and mournful peal, announced his departure. Soon
would a dark and narrow home receive the mortal remains of the late
possessor of thousands of acres. Had power, wealth, and high station
been a blessing or a curse to him who had not indeed _buried_ his
talents, but made them an instrument of evil? The profane tongue was
now silenced; the hand that had rattled the dice, the brain once so
busy with evil designs, the heart that had been a den of wickedness,
now lay lifeless and cold. The baronet's spirit had passed from earth,
and left no sweet memories behind. Another and a far better man would
now bear his title and rule in his Hall, and dispense happiness as
widely as the late lord of the manor had tried to spread the contagion
of evil. Every toll of the solemn bell, which pealed through the calm
evening air, seemed, with a voice more impressive than that of man, to
repeat the warning, _He that being often reproved, hardeneth his neck,
shall suddenly be destroyed, and that without remedy_.
XXXVIII.
Conclusion.
Franks and his wife received a message from Mr. Curtis, on the
following morning, to desire them to come to the vicarage at one.
At their accustomed time of assembling for study, the boys of Colme
flocked to their school-house, full of expectation and excitement,
the congratulations beaming in their eyes which their lips did not
venture to utter; for something in their master's manner told them
that they must not speak to him of any change in his prospects likely
to be caused by the baronet's death. The boys, who were rejoicing in
the assurance that they would keep their "dear old Ned Franks," since
there was a new baronet now, could hardly settle to business or attend
to their tasks. Had not their teacher found it quite as difficult to
do so himself, he would have had to reprove or correct half his pupils
for the most ridiculous blunders. There was also an unusual amount
of nodding, whispering, and smiling, which Ned Franks for once tried
in vain to repress. The boys had never seemed to care so little for
addition or multiplication, or found it so impossible to master a
column of spelling. "He'll never leave us, not he;" "Won't the curate
be glad to keep him!" "That fellow with the sly look, who was to have
been our master, will have to take himself off sharp, like a beaten
dog!" "Won't we have jolly days now, and won't we work double hard at
Wild Rose Hollow!" Such were the eager whispers which passed from mouth
to mouth. It must be owned that Franks seemed to be an inefficient
school-master on that day, and had very inattentive pupils.
Lesson time was over at last, and punctual to their appointment, the
Frankses appeared at the vicarage just as the church clock struck one.
The boys, instead of dispersing as usual, had followed them, like an
escort, as far as the garden gate. Norah, with a beaming countenance,
was waiting at the door to usher them in. The young maiden had double
cause for her joy, for her mistress had received a letter that morning
from Mrs. Lowndes, mentioning that the confession of Martha, her late
housemaid, that she had taken the lost sovereign which had accidentally
dropped on the floor, had entirely cleared Norah from all suspicion of
theft. Mrs. Lowndes expressed her satisfaction that Norah had succeeded
in getting a place, and gave her testimony that, except in one unhappy
act of deception into which she had been drawn, a more truthful and
faithful servant than Norah she never had known. Norah had not at
this moment time to tell the Frankses of this letter, which had been
a great relief to her affectionate heart, but her pleasure was seen
in her looks. She ushered her uncle and his wife into the study, and
then would herself have retired, but her mistress, with a kindly smile,
beckoned her to remain. Never had she been more readily obeyed.
In the vicar's study were collected several of the villagers of Colme,
looking on with curiosity and interest. Sands, the clerk, unusually
placid and serene in his mien, stood by the side of his wife, whose
dark eyes expressed pleasure mingled with something like triumph. The
sturdy miller was also present, holding by the hand his little Bessie,
who looked brimming over with joy.
Mr. Curtis, who was seated in his large arm-chair, shook hands with
the school-master, and then Persis received first from her pastor,
and then from his wife, the same kindly greeting. Had there been any
doubt before on the subject, the manner of Mr. and Mrs. Curtis, and
the smiles of the villagers present, would have assured the Frankses
that they were summoned to hear good news. The pastor when he spoke was
listened to in respectful silence.
"I have been requested, Franks, by Mr.--I mean Sir Claudius--to express
to you his hope that you will continue, and _long_ continue," there
was a strong emphasis on the word long, "to instruct the boys of our
village school. He has had, during the time that he has been curate at
Colme (as I have had during a much longer period), the opportunity of
seeing how faithfully, zealously, and successfully you have performed
the duties of your office. To no one could we more gladly, more
confidently, entrust the charge of our boys."
Ned Franks bowed and colored at the praise; Persis exchanged a glance
of pleasure with Norah.
"And I have another pleasant office to perform," continued the old
vicar, turning to receive from the hand of his wife a well filled
crimson purse which had lain on the study table. "When we were afraid
that we were going to lose you, that you and your good wife were about
to leave Colme, a little subscription was set on foot, to procure
a testimonial to be given at parting to those who have earned the
respect--I may say the affection--of those amongst whom they have
dwelt."
"They have--they have," murmured Nancy, and little Bessie squeezed
tightly the hand of her father to express _her_ silent assent.
"We are happily to keep you with us in Colme," continued the vicar;
"but our friends"--here he turned smilingly towards the parishioners
who represented the subscribers,--"our friends will not lose the
opportunity of offering the _present_, though we all unite in hoping
that the _parting_ may be very far off."
Ned Franks, by whom this tribute of regard from his neighbors had been
altogether unexpected, was taken by surprise, and looked more confused
and embarrassed than if he had been receiving a reproof instead of a
present.
"No--indeed, sir--I am very thankful--grateful to you--to all--but I
could not,"--he stammered forth, shrinking from touching the proffered
purse. "Pray, let the money be returned to the subscribers. I feel,
from my heart I feel, their great kindness all the same as if I availed
myself of it."