Part 13

"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_.

"I can pilot you a little lower down, sir," said Ned Franks to his 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?"