Part 14

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.

Persis, on her part, had a good deal to tell, though, like a sensible wife, she let her husband first have out his say. She told of her visit to Nancy Sands. Franks listened to her account with interest and pleasure; and, when he heard that the poor woman had attended church upon Sunday, his honest blue eyes lighted up with an expression of joy.

"It's a real pleasure," he cried, "to see a fellow-creature lifted out of poverty, and given a good start in life, like Benjamin Isaacs; but it's a still greater pleasure to see a poor sinner that was going to ruin raised out of the mire, and turning her face towards Zion. O Persis! I trust that there's many a one that man would have rooted up as worthless tares that will be found in the heavenly garner at last!"

"And poor Ben Stone is, I hear, far more anxious about his soul than he ever was before," said Persis. "I do trust that he is now resting on sure ground; that he is giving up all vain hopes of being saved by anything but living faith in the one great Sacrifice for sin."

"You and I are exchanging good tidings, my Persis," said Franks. "All seems bright sunshine now, within as well as without, in this glorious month of June."

"I cannot quite say that, dear Ned. We had something of a cloud sweeping over Colme yesterday in the shape of a carriage and four, with postilion and post-horn, dashing through the village during church-time, on the way to the Hall."

"You don't mean to tell me that young Sir Lacy Barton has come to take possession of his property!" exclaimed Ned Franks, looking startled at the news. "I had hoped with all my heart and soul that he would have kept away for years. You know that I had but too good an opportunity of judging of the character of that young man when I was a sailor on board the same man-of-war in which he was serving. I don't like to think ill, still less to speak ill, of any one who has served under the dear old Union-jack of England; but I should be sorry to think that the queen has another officer to match that young scapegrace, Barton. I wish that the old baronet had lived till he was a hundred years old; it might have saved our village from the mischief which must be brought by the influence and example of such a man as his son."

Ned Franks, who had been doing all in his power to train the village boys under his charge to be not only good scholars but good Christians, felt like a shepherd who hears that a bear has been let loose in the midst of his flock. The lord of the manor would be like a little king at Colme amongst his tenants, and his influence for good or for evil would be very extensive indeed.

"The new baronet did indeed drive to the Hall yesterday," said Persis, "and he took good care that all the village should know of his arrival; for, as he dashed past the church where we were listening to Mr. Leyton's sermon, the post-boy blew a loud flourish on his horn. The church doors were open on account of the heat, so you may imagine the effect of the trampling of horses, and the sudden loud blast upon our little congregation. Every one turned his head round, half the people rose from their seats, some of the children ran out of church to see the great man drive past! One could hardly blame them, poor little things. It was strange in Sir Lacy to return thus to the home of his poor dead father."

"Just like him, just like him," muttered Franks.

"You should have seen how our young curate flushed up to his forehead, and for a moment or two could hardly go on with his sermon," said Persis.

"It was a personal insult to Mr. Leyton for Sir Lacy Barton to have the horn blown at the very door of his church," cried Franks. "It is the more strange that the baronet should behave thus, as our curate is his own cousin, and, I've heard, the heir to his title and property."

"Sir Lacy might not like him the better for that," observed the school-master's wife, with a smile. "Mr. Sands told me yesterday that he believed that the noise was made on purpose to spite the young preacher; for Sands, as clerk, had had to carry a message to the curate just before service began, asking him to have the church-bells rung for the next hour in honor of the baronet's arrival in Colme."

"Did you ever hear of such a thing!" exclaimed the indignant Franks. "What answer did our young curate return?"

"Oh, a courteous one, you may be sure! I don't think that Mr. Leyton could be rude to any one if he tried; but I believe that he proposed to Sir Lacy a little delay. Of course bell-ringing during church-service was out of the question, so the baronet gave us horn-blowing instead."

"Mean, sneaking spite!" muttered Franks. "We are likely to have a stormy time of it if Sir Lacy stays long at the Hall."

"You and he are not likely to have anything to do with each other, I trust," said Persis. "Do you think that Sir Lacy will remember having seen you on board of his ship?"

"I don't know,--I was nothing to him,--he was not likely to take much notice of a common sailor, and it is nigh four years now since we trod the same planks. But if Sir Lacy _does_ chance to remember me, he will not care to have any one in Colme who knows so much of his pranks at sea as I do. I doubt he'll let me stay here long."

"I don't know what he has to do with your going or staying," said Persis, speaking, however, with a little nervous hesitation, for she was aware that the lord of the manor must be a powerful enemy.

"Do you not know," asked Franks, quickly, "have you lived here so long without hearing, that this school was founded and endowed by a Barton ages ago, and that the family have a right to appoint the master of it?"

"I thought," replied Persis, turning rather pale, "that you had been appointed by our good vicar, Mr. Curtis."

"Oh! the last old baronet let our vicar appoint whom he would, thinking, I suppose, that Mr. Curtis knew more about schools and school-masters than he did himself. But the patronage of the place goes along with the property."

"Then you must walk warily, Ned."

"That's not a thing I can do!" exclaimed the late sailor. "When I see an unprincipled fellow trying to corrupt others, and making use of wealth and position only to do the more mischief, I feel a kind of game-cock spirit stirring within me; it seems as if I must have a dash at him, come what may." Ned Franks's blue eyes sparkled with animation; he looked as one of the soldiers at Waterloo might have looked at the call, "Up, guards, and at them!"

Persis was fondling in her arms her little babe, that smiled up at her, unconscious of the shade of anxious care passing over the mother's face. She gazed wistfully first at Ned, then at their boy, as she said, "Oh, do not forget that you are a husband and father now."

"No," replied Franks, more quietly; "it is wonderful what a difference that makes in a man. It's well that tars are not allowed to take a wife or children to sea, or they'd think twice before they ran a ship within range of the enemy's guns. I could bear a pinch of poverty well enough myself, but I'm a bit of a coward when it comes to seeing you or the baby in want. Bless him!" the father stooped forward and kissed the soft lips of his child. "But I can't answer for my own self-command, if I've much to do with that worthless Barton. I detest him more than any other man in the world."

"Now, Ned, darling, will you let me say a little thing to you?" asked Persis, with a shy, tender glance at her husband, as she laid her hand on his shoulder. "Do you think that our blessed religion allows us to detest any being on earth?"

"It makes us hate sin!" exclaimed Franks.

"But surely _not_ sinners, my love."

"The truth is," said the sailor school-master, "that I'm by nature of an impatient, fiery spirit. I'm one of those of whom it is said that they make good lovers and good haters."

"A good lover, if you will," observed the wife with a pleasant smile; "but it always seems to me that the expression, 'a good hater,' can never describe a Christian, who is bound by the Lord's command, not only not to detest but to love his enemies."

"That's a most difficult command to obey."

"I am sure that it is," observed Persis. "But He who gave the command, can also give grace to keep it. It seems to me, as if hatred, revenge, and all the fierce passions so natural to man, are like Satan's fire-ships that he sends against even those who are going on the straightest course towards heaven--"

"And you would have me 'sheer off,'" cried Franks, gayly, "as soon as I see one bearing down on me, because I carry a dangerous quantity of gunpowder down in my hold! You're afraid of an explosion, wifie, and you're right. I dare say now that there's something of pride in my very contempt for a fellow like Barton (he really is _not_ a gentleman); I despise him too much in the spirit of _Stand by, I am holier than thou_."

"And should we not remember," said Persis, softly, "that those whom we cannot respect are our fellow-creatures still; they, like ourselves, have souls, precious souls, that must live forever? If they, through rejecting mercy, will have at last to share the misery of the rich man in the parable, should not our deep, deep pity swallow up every feeling of dislike? And if, on the contrary, they are to be found in the end amongst those whose sins have been forgiven, can we not bear with them a while in patience, even as God has borne so long with them, and with us?"

Ned Franks answered the question by giving his wife a hearty kiss, in return, as he said, for her lecture. He promised to keep on his guard, less against Sir Lacy Barton than against his own fiery temper, and to "sheer off" as fast as he might, whenever he found that Satan's fire-ships of hatred, malice, or revenge, were drifting on the current towards him.

XXXII.

The Bonfire.

The holidays given on account of the hay-making season were soon over, and with their daily lessons at school, the boys of Colme resumed their cheerful labors in Wild Rose Hollow. Already there was a pleasant change in the aspect of two of the cottages, which, through the combined efforts of workmen and boys, were declared by Franks to be "quite weather-tight and seaworthy." The third was now "to be laid up in dock, and well overhauled." Franks was ambitious to make the almshouses pretty as well as comfortable. He set the boys to gathering a large quantity of tough boughs which, tastefully interlaced, and painted to preserve them from decay, were to form seven rustic porches, round which creepers should be trained to climb.

"They'll be like cool, pretty bowers for the old folks to sit in during the hot summer days," said Franks; and he took especial pleasure in the gradually increasing pile of collected branches stripped of their leaves, which formed one of the most conspicuous objects in what Ned called "the building yard" in Wild Rose Hollow.

Cheerfully, on the day when work was resumed, the one-armed teacher led his jovial crew of noisy young workers along the familiar road which led to the scene of their labors. As Ned passed the cottage of Sands, Nancy came forth to greet him with a good-humored smile on her face, which, if it looked paler and older than when he last had seen it, had certainly gained in pleasantness of expression since her accident in the stream.

"A good-day to you, Ned Franks!" she cried, as she leaned over the little gate of her garden. "I wonder if you and your good wife could just step in and pass a quiet evening with me and John Sands? I can promise you a good cup of _tea_," she added, with an emphasis on the last word which was meant to assure the hearer that she had faithfully kept the pledge.

"I shall be happy to come, if Persis can manage it; but the ladies settle these matters," replied Ned, gayly; "and there's a little troublesome fellow, you know, who will have a voice, though he is not quite up to talking."

"Oh, you must bring the baby of course!" cried Nancy. "The days are so long, and the evenings so warm, that he can't now take any harm."

The invitation frankly given was frankly accepted, and Nancy returned into her cottage saying to herself, "How strangely things do change, and people change as strangely! It's not three months since I used to call Ned Franks that canting Jack with the wooden arm. I hated him,--I hated his ways,--I'd have done him a mischief if I could. And now I've lost an arm as well as himself,--I'm crippled far worse than he, and yet I believe that I'm better off and happier now than I was when I mocked and jeered at him. And, as for these pious ways of his, which made me so mad against him, I only wish I could follow them myself, and have the same lookout for another world as honest Ned Franks and his wife."