Part 16

"While he remains here, the motto of the school had better be, 'Where ignorance is bliss 'tis folly to be wise,'" observed the medical student.

"It was a shame for Mr. Curtis to recommend such a fellow to my father," said Sir Lacy. "You see how unfit he is for the place."

"Utterly unfit!" cried the lawyer.

"Disgracefully incompetent!" chimed in the student.

"I suppose," said Sir Lacy, in his insolent manner, "that school-masters, like footmen, expect their masters to give a month's warning. What day is this?--the sixth of July. Well, on the sixth of August you will bundle yourself off, my fine fellow, and I'll take precious good care not to consult the old parson as to whom your successor should be. He might, in his wisdom, recommend some saint from the Idiot Asylum!" and with another laugh at this brilliant joke, which was echoed by his two companions, but by none of the boys, who stood aghast at the sudden dismissal of their master, Sir Lacy sauntered out of the school-room, accompanied by the lawyer and medical student.

There were a few moments of silence after they had left, during which the ticking of the large school-clock sounded almost painfully loud. It was broken by Ned Franks himself, who, turning towards his class, resumed the interrupted thread of the morning studies by asking Sims for the third time the question, "What was the text of yesterday's sermon?"

XXXV.

Village Talk.

Very uneasy had Persis felt while Sir Lacy was in the school-room; very anxiously she watched the porch, in hopes of seeing him and his visitors quit it. She could hear from beneath the sound of laughter; but it was laughter which raised in her soul a very opposite feeling to that of mirth. She listened intently; but her baby was fretful from cutting teeth, and his crying soon drowned every other noise. Persis fondled him in her arms, and hushed him on her bosom, and just as she had succeeded in quieting the child, saw, to her relief, the three strangers issue from under the porch. She did not, however, like their looks, still less the laughter which followed words of which she could not catch the exact meaning, but which she was certain had none which was good. Persis watched the three men till they disappeared down a turn in the road, and then heaved a long, anxious sigh. Lessons were evidently going on as usual below,--Persis knew _that_ from the hum of voices from the school-room. She had to wait in restless expectation till the school broke up for an hour's recess, and she saw the stream of boys come issuing forth from the porch.

Their grave yet excited looks frightened the wife yet more. That something remarkable had happened was written on every young face, as the boys thronged together in knots of three or four, all seeming far more eager to speak than to listen. But Persis was not much longer to be kept in suspense; she knew the step of her husband; she saw him enter, looking paler than she had ever seen him before. Franks seated himself beside his wife, put his arm round her, and drew her tenderly towards him, unwilling to inflict pain, scarcely knowing how to break the news that he was a ruined man. Persis had guessed the truth before Franks said, in a tone which he vainly tried to make cheerful, "Well, sweetheart, you and I will have to set out on our travels together."

But when Ned gave his wife a more detailed account of what had occurred; when he told of the absurd questions, the mocking laughter, the insolent taunts which had made his blood boil, even natural anxiety concerning his future prospects was swallowed up for the time in passionate indignation. "I longed to strike him," exclaimed the late sailor, "and I had to chain even my tongue! Wife--wife--it is no easy matter to endure, or to forgive insults and injuries such as that man has heaped upon me! To hold me up to the contempt of my own boys,--that was the most intolerable wrong of all! I actually heard Sam Barker and Peter Core tittering behind me, the little sneaking--But your fire-ships are bearing down upon me full sail; I must not trust myself to speak on these matters,--I must try not to let my mind brood over them,--would that I could drive the whole scene out of my memory forever!"

Persis did not, as most wives would have done, stir up her husband's wrath to a blaze, and heap on it the fuel of her own grief, fears, and regrets. She tried in her gentle, loving way to make him look beyond second causes, to see that the trial--bitter as it was--was sent in wisdom and love, and that man could inflict no real injury except by drawing into sin. Persis did not say much, but she looked bright and hopeful, to keep up the spirits of her husband. If they were to leave their happy home at Colme, their pleasant occupation in the village, it might be because God had provided for them something better still, some wider field of usefulness in which they might humbly serve him. They were spared to one another, and their darling was left to them still. "Whilst I have you and our boy," cried Persis, as she rested her head on her husband's shoulder, "I feel that I could be contented in a hovel, or in a prison."

The news that Ned Franks, the one-armed school-master, had been dismissed by Sir Lacy, spread like wildfire through Colme. The tidings were received with almost universal regret and indignation, for both Ned and Persis were great favorites in the village. Mrs. Fuddles of the "Chequers," indeed, observed, as she wiped the dust from a bottle of whiskey, "I guess that Sir Lacy knows what he's about. It aint likely that a sailor that's been spending his life in mopping up decks should know much about hedication." But the publican's wife was almost the only person who did not regret the disgrace of the Frankses. Bat Bell, the miller, declared that to send off an honest fellow like Franks from the school was like damming up a mill-stream; and that everything would come to a dead lock,--while his little girl cried as if her heart would break, and wished that that wicked Sir Lacy never had come to make every one unhappy. Ben Stone the carpenter, on his bed of sickness, heard the news with less than his usual placid calmness.

"Sir Lacy," he observed to his wife, "is like the idiot who sawed at the branch on which he was seated. If he goes on with this kind of work he'll come down with a crash one of these days, though I shan't live to see it," added the invalid, whose increasing weakness warned him that his hours were numbered.

I will not say that the Clerk of Colme looked grave and solemn when he carried the tidings to his wife, for he never looked otherwise, except on the very rarest occasions; but his solemnity and melancholy were of a shade so much more intensely black than usual, that his Nancy exclaimed, as soon as she saw him, "Why, John Sands, has any one been murdered to-day?"

But when she heard that Ned Franks had been dismissed,--dismissed in disgrace as incompetent and ignorant,--the wrath of the clerk's wife blazed up with a sudden fierceness that showed that the old shrewish spirit was not quite dead in her yet. As her torrent of indignation poured forth like lava-streams from a volcano, John Sands scarcely knew whether he was glad or sorry to be so forcibly reminded of the Nancy of former days. Nancy was certain that the school would go to rack and ruin; they would never, never again see the like of Ned Franks and his wife!

But perhaps in no place did the news cause deeper regret than in the vicarage. Norah was almost overwhelmed by the sudden blow, and her letter to Sophy Claymore, informing her of what had happened, was wet with the young girl's tears. Mr. Curtis lay awake half the night, meditating over a second letter to Sir Lacy (which was--when written and sent--to meet with just the same fate as the first), and the invalid had, in consequence, a relapse of fever in the morning. Claudius Leyton, the young curate, broke through his resolution,--never again to enter the Hall, and, like a man on a forlorn hope, set out to endeavor to move and persuade his cousin to recall his hasty words. The nervous shyness of the curate was not lessened by his being handed into a room full of rollicking revellers; a room which in ancient days had been used as a chapel, but which was reeking, even at that early hour, with the fumes of tobacco and the odor of spirits. It need scarcely be added that the visit of the young clergyman was as unsuccessful as regarded its object, as it was to himself painful and disgusting. The baronet, laughing, said to his cousin, "My dear fellow, you have come a day too late for the fair. I have already written up to my friend, Dick Sharpey,--you know Dick,--all the world knows him as the luckiest card-player in London. I've bid him look out for a cute fellow who can teach the clods in the day, and be my billiard-marker at night. That's what I call killing two birds with one stone, ha! ha! ha!"

It was with a heavy heart that the curate again turned his back on the Hall, not surprised, though grieved, at the utter failure of his mission.

Mrs. Curtis, a very practical as well as kind woman, directed her efforts to writing to friends in various quarters to try by their means to procure some other situation for Franks before he should quit the one which at present he held. As Ned would have nothing to fall back upon except his very trifling pension as a disabled sailor, Mrs. Curtis knew that, unless he could procure some work, he and his family would be reduced to absolute want. She also quietly set on foot a subscription to raise a little fund to supply his immediate need and the expenses of removal to some new home, perhaps at a distance. "It is only right," said the vicar's wife, and her husband warmly seconded her proposal, "that a testimonial should be given, on his departure from Colme, to a school-master who has for years so faithfully performed his duties, and who has won the good will and respect of all whose approbation is worth having." Ned Franks and his wife knew nothing of this secret subscription. The most active agent in collecting it was Nancy Sands, who went from cottage to cottage gathering the pence given with willing hearts by the children, and the little offerings freely bestowed even by the old tenants of the almshouses in Wild Rose Hollow. Had the power of the villagers to give been equal to their will, Ned would have been the wealthiest man in Colme; but it needs a great weight in copper to make up a single sovereign's worth, and even the vicar, whose charity never left him a full purse, was unable to contribute largely, though he gave with all his heart.

XXXVI.

A Struggle.

Two, three, almost four weeks passed, every week bringing fresh disappointments to Franks and his wife. The vicar sent over to them every morning the advertisement sheet of the _Times_; and anxiously were the columns of the paper searched and searched over again each day, and many were the letters written by Ned, or by Persis to his dictation, to take advantage of what they fondly hoped might be openings to some new sphere of work. But few of these letters brought any reply, and there was not one of an encouraging nature. Ned always frankly stated the facts that he had passed no regular examination, and that he had lost his left arm; and one or other of these disqualifications seemed ever to bar his way to obtaining any employment.

Isaacs had exerted himself greatly in his friend's behalf in London, but hitherto without any success. He thought that the chance of Ned's making his way would be greater were he himself on the spot, and sent a pressing invitation in the name of Sophy to the family of the Frankses. It was arranged that Ned, Persis, and their baby should travel up to London on the succeeding Thursday, the day on which their dear home must be given up to a stranger.

The new school-master had already arrived at the Hall, and was constantly showing himself in the village. He even made his appearance at church, where, on the first Sunday in August, the vicar had come to return thanks for recovery after his long and dangerous illness. The irreverent manner of the school-master-elect, who looked like--what he was--a low sharper, likely to teach the boys little but how to play, or to cheat at cards, made a very painful impression, not only on the vicar and curate, but upon all who cared for religion or morality in the parish.

A very sad Sunday was that to Ned and Persis. Even under happier 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!"