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Title: The convict's child;or, the helmet of hope.
Author: A. L. O. E.
Release date: August 2, 2023 [eBook #71321]
Language: English
Original publication: United Kingdom: Gall & Inglis, 1875
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CONVICT'S CHILD; ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: Then suddenly drawing herself back from Norah, with a
passionate gesture of anguish, the unhappy Sophy exclaimed, "Oh!
if you but knew my misery—the darkness here—everywhere; no hope!
no hope!" She threw herself down on her bed, and covered her face
with her hands.]
THE CONVICT'S CHILD;
OR,
The Helmet of Hope.
BY
A. L. O. E.
AUTHORESS OF THE CLAREMONT TALES, THE YOUNG PILGRIM,
THE COTTAGE BY THE STREAM, HARRY DANGERFIELD,
GLIMPSES OF THE UNSEEN, ETC. ETC.
GALL & INGLIS.
London: Edinburgh:
30 PATERNOSTER ROW. 6 GEORGE STREET.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I. NORAH'S DIFFICULTY
II. CONSULTATION
III. THE COTTAGE IN THE DELL
IV. THE WORKHOUSE
V. SOPHY'S TALE
VI. HOPE
VII. THE RETURN
VIII. SUCCESS
The Convict's Child;
OR,
THE HELMET OF HOPE.
CHAPTER I.
NORAH'S DIFFICULTY.
"ANY one of this name live here?" asked the postman, as he held out
a letter to Norah, the little maid-of-all-work, who was on her knees
cleaning the door-step on a wintry morning at the close of the year.
"'Miss Peele,' why, that must mean me!" cried the young girl, with
naive surprise. It was the first time in her life that Norah had ever
received a letter, and it was with feelings of wonder and curiosity
that she took from the postman the note so strangely addressed to
herself. She looked at every part of the envelope, post-mark, address,
fancy-wafer and all, to prolong the novel pleasure by guessing who
could have sent it, and what the contents could be.
"It can't be from mother,—she never writes but her name at the bottom
of the washing bills; and as for Dan—he's not out of round text. Could
it be from Uncle Ned? It is not like a man's handwriting, and I'm sure
he would, never put 'Miss' for a little servant like me. I must just
peep in and see, I was never so curious in all my life!"
Norah wiped her wet cold hands on her apron, and then, taking care to
save the pretty wafer, opened the envelope, and took out the note.
She raised her eyebrows with surprise at the first word, "Madam," and
almost burst out laughing at the notion of being thus addressed; but
Norah's mirth changed to grave perplexity, as she turned hastily over
to the signature at the end.
"'E. Cupper, Matron of the B— Workhouse.' It must be some mistake,—I
am sure there is some mistake—this letter can never be meant for me."
Norah examined the envelope again, but the address was perfectly clear.
Rather awed by receiving a letter from that great prison-like building
which she had passed when on a little journey with her mistress, a
letter that looked so formal and neat, and actually began with "Madam,"
Norah set herself to read, from beginning to end, the contents, which
were as follows;—
"Madam,—I have been requested by an inmate of this house of the name of
Sophy Puller to inform you of her being here, and to beg that you will
come as soon as possible to see her. Visitors are admitted on Fridays
from two till four. The girl is almost blind from the effects of
rheumatic fever, and is in great distress of mind." Here followed name
and date.
The letter dropped from the little maid's hand. It might have been a
study to have watched the changes in her soft round face as she read it
slowly, tracing each line with her finger. At the name "Sophy Puller,"
an expression of interest, first mixed with pleasure, then with pain,
flitted over her features—succeeded by one of shocked surprise at the
terrible words "almost blind." This was the first time for almost four
months that Norah had heard of one who had once been her favourite
companion and friend. Norah knew that Sophy's father had been taken
up for uttering false money, that he had been tried, condemned, and
transported; Norah knew that on the day of his arrest Sophy had
disappeared from the county town in which she had been working as a
milliner's girl,—but here her information ended. Often had Norah longed
and prayed to find out what had become of her hapless companion, bereft
of an only parent by what was far worse than death. The name of Sophy
had never been forgotten in the prayers of the little maid. But to hear
of her thus,—sick, blind, and unhappy, in a parish Union, such news
were more sad than ignorance; and as Norah read the note once again,
the tears gushed fast from her eyes.
"Oh, Sophy, my poor, poor Sophy! You who were so lightsome and gay,
so full of frolic and fun, to think of your coming to this!" And as
Norah's tears dropped on the note, whose contents she could hardly
believe, her mind recurred to the first day of her meeting with the
milliner's girl, and a hundred little circumstances connected with
their acquaintance. Norah could not help remembering how the society of
Sophy Puller had been her own greatest temptation; how her companion
had tried to make her think lightly of sin, had fostered the love of
fine dress, had laughed at her scruples, had lent her bad books, had
almost persuaded her to go out at night without the knowledge of her
mistress! Norah tried to forget all this; she would gladly have felt
nothing but pity and love for the afflicted Sophy, but such painful
recollections would force themselves on her mind. Norah could not help
thinking, "Oh! how doubly dreadful sickness and blindness must be to
one who has such things to look back on! When all that Sophy once
delighted in is shut out from her thus, what can she have to comfort
her, and keep her poor heart from breaking?"
But young general servants have little time to give to reading letters
or crying over them. The step must be cleaned, the breakfast prepared,
before the clock should strike nine. Norah thrust her letter into
her pocket, dried her eyes, and went on with her work. But while she
was scrubbing the stone with her red little hands, she was painfully
turning over in her mind the contents of the note.
"I must go and see my poor Sophy, but oh how shall I ever manage to get
to the workhouse! Mistress is so much put about to let me pay my visits
to my mother, who lives only three miles off while the workhouse must
be full ten; and even if I get leave—how could I ever dare to go alone
to that great gloomy place?"
Norah had led a very quiet life; she had never ventured by herself
farther than Colme, her native village, and her longest journey had
been a twenty miles' drive in a stage-coach with her mistress. Besides
the difficulty of travelling so far, Norah Peele had formed a terrible
idea of a workhouse. Instead of looking on it as a refuge mercifully
provided for the homeless and helpless, she fancied it to be a huge
prison, where miserable creatures were shut up, the doors guarded by
terrible porters, whom the timid young girl felt that she would never
have courage to face by herself. Norah scrubbed her step very hard
indeed, clenching her teeth as she did so, as if she were trying to rub
down the many difficulties which had suddenly risen in her path. The
reader may smile at the fears and perplexities of the poor little maid;
but let it be remembered that Norah was still little more than a child,
was of a tender, timid nature, and utterly ignorant of the world. To go
ten miles to visit an inmate of a workhouse seemed to her as formidable
a task, as it would appear to some to push their way into the Queen's
own presence, through her surrounding guards.
"Sophy can never have told the matron that I am nothing but a poor
little servant; Mrs. Cupper takes me for some grand lady who will drive
to the door in her carriage, or else she would never have called me
'Madam.'" So said Norah to herself as she rose from her knees and went
into the house, more chilled by her fears than by the weather. "And yet
I must go—oh, I will go—if I have to walk the whole way there and back!
I cannot desert poor Sophy now that she is in such terrible trouble.
It is a dreadful difficulty to me, but God will help me through it. I
will tell all to my dear kind mistress, who is always ready to give me
advice and help."
CHAPTER II.
CONSULTATION.
ON the evening of that day, Ned Franks, the one-armed sailor, came, as
he often did after his work of teaching was over at the school, to take
tea with his sister, Bessy Peele, and her son.
A blazing fire threw its red glow round the cottage kitchen, and the
kettle sang merrily on the hob.
"Any news, Bessy?" asked the sailor in a cheerful tone, as he hung up
his straw hat on a peg on the wall.
"News, why yes," answered Bessy, tossing a note to her brother across
the deal-table at which she was cutting the loaf. "The carrier brought
this to-day from the town. There's Norah all agog to go to the
workhouse!"
"To the workhouse," repeated Ned, with a merry laugh. "She's not likely
to go there, I hope, while she has two hands and I have one that can
work to keep her out of it."
"Just read her note—oh! that's not the one—but you'd better read both;
the matron's will show you the whole matter. It's the most ridiculous
notion as ever I heard of in all my born days." And with an angry toss
of the head, Bessy went off to the kettle to fill her black tea-pot,
while Ned read to himself Norah's note.
"Dear Mother,—Mistress says I may have the time, and she will pay
herself for my coach, if you, or some other respectable woman, will go
to the workhouse with me on Friday, but I must not go by miself. Do, do
agree, dear mother. I cannot be happy till I have seen poor Sophy. Your
dutiful child, Norah." And there was added, on a blotted line below,
"if you can't go with me, p'raps my dear teacher wood."
"Well, Bessy, are you going?" quietly asked Ned Franks as he laid down
the note.
"Going!" repeated Bessy, in her shrillest tone. "I must come to a
pretty pass indeed afore I darken the door of a workhouse. I think the
girl's gone crazed. As if I could give up half-a-day to go dancing over
the country, and in middle of winter too. If it had been for a summer
treat, a pic-nic, or fair, or something like that, 'twould have been a
different matter. But to visit a pauper in a workhouse!" Bessy banged
down the kettle on the hob, and carried the steaming tea-pot to the
table.
"Now to my mind," said Ned, "'tis better to visit a messmate in
trouble, whether in palace or poorhouse, whether weather be fair or
foul, than to go on any mere pleasure cruise. She's a true-hearted
lass, little Norah, not to turn her back on a friend."
"Why, uncle," exclaimed Dan, speaking with his mouth full, and that
twinkle in his small black eyes, which gave a weasel-like slyness to
his face, "to think of you, of all men living, standing up for Sophy
Puller. Why the very first thing that you said when you heard of her
doings was, that she was no true friend to our Norah."
"A sly, deceitful, dishonest, good-for-nothing minx," exclaimed Bessy,
"who would have got my girl into all sorts of mischief. A workhouse is
too good for the like of her, a great deal too good say I;" and Mrs.
Peele poured out the tea with an air of virtuous indignation.
Ned Franks could not help thinking of the proverb, "they who live in
glass-houses should not throw stones." His half-sister's own notions
of truth and honesty were little more strict than those of poor
Sophy, while she had not had the excuse of having been brought up by
a worthless parent. How far more easy it is to condemn sin in others,
than to subdue it in ourselves! Ned Franks was very silent during the
meal. The idea of a young, misguided creature, suffering and blind in
a workhouse, filled his kindly heart with such compassion as the good
Samaritan felt for the wounded man by the way-side. Franks wished with
all his soul that he could carry comfort to the poor girl, but felt
that the task was not a suitable one for a young man like himself.
"Uncle Ned, what are you thinking of? you're as dumb as a fish," cried
Dan at last, missing the usual lively flow of the sailor's conversation.
Ned took no notice of the remark, but said, turning towards Bessy
Peele; "who is the teacher whom Norah mentions in her note?"
"Oh! don't you know?" cried Dan; "'tis Persis Meade, who goes every
Sunday to teach the Bible-class of girls."
"I know her by name and sight," said the sailor, "but I do not know
where she lives."
"In the little dell, near the mill-stream," cried Dan, "taking care of
her silly old grand-dad, the old man who goes tottering to church with
a crutch, and who has lived so long that he's lost all his hair, his
teeth, and his wits." Dan laughed, as if the infirmities of age were
any subject for laughter, till silenced by the stern glance of his
uncle's reproving eye.
"Persis Meade was nursery governess at Mrs. Lane's," said Bessy, "and
a deal they thought of her there; I wonder she ever left them to slave
away as sick-nurse to a doited old man, as had never been partic'lar
kind to her. But when her aunt Lizzy married, and old Meade was left
all alone, Persis came to his cottage, and set up as needlewoman,
though I don't know as how she had any special turn that way. The
gentry about here employ her. She makes all the dresses for the Lanes;
but if I'd been she, I'd have stayed where I was, and let the silly old
man go to the workhouse. He needs as much looking after as a baby, and
his childish babble is worse than the clack of a mill. Persis Meade was
a deal better off at the Lanes; I say 'twas folly to leave them."
"Maybe 'twill not prove so in the end," observed Franks; "there's a
blessing in the wake of the command, honour thy father and mother. Do
you think," he added, "that Miss Meade would take care of our Norah on
Friday?"
"I'll not ask her," cried Bessy, with something like a snort.
"If you don't mind it, I will," said the sailor. "I'll walk over early
before school opens, and send Norah a line by post; she'll get it on
Friday morning in time to walk over and join Miss Meade at the end of
the lane, where the coach would pick them both up."
"'Tis not very likely that a woman as has two mouths to feed with her
needle will give up half-a-day, and take a coach to B— to go hunting
out a blind pauper."
"I'll make the coach easy for the matter of that," observed Franks,
with a smile. "Norah shall have enough of ready rhino to pay for both."
"I'm sure that you might do something better with your money,"
exclaimed Bessy, who always thought that she had first claim to
whatever her brother could spare.
"I hope you remember, uncle, that to-morrow is New-year's day," cried
Dan, with a knowing wink of the eye.
"That there awkward boy broke my clothes' horse yesterday," sighed
Bessy, "and I'm sure I don't know which way to turn for money to buy a
new one."
"If Dan broke it yesterday, let him mend it to-day," laughed Ned, who
understood the hint well, but did not choose to take it, "He and I,
we can muster three hands between us. No need of money when a little
labour will serve the turn. I'll give you a lesson, Dan, in the
carpentering line; take that as a New-year's gift if you will."
CHAPTER III.
THE COTTAGE IN THE DELL.
THE sun had scarcely shown his red globe over the hill when Ned Franks,
whistling as he went, walked down the path into the little wooded dell
where Persis Meade resided. The January air was keen and sharp, the
snow felt crisp under the sailor's tread. Every branch in the trees,
every twig in the hedges, was cased in silvery frost; the prickly
leaves of the holly, the withered fern by the path, every blade of
grass was edged, as if by fairy art, with glittering crystals. Franks
looked around with admiring eyes, doubting whether winter, in such a
garb, were not as fair as the spring.
"How strange it is to look back on one year," reflected Ned, "when
we're just stepping on board another, and the old hulk, with all the
hopes and fears that freighted it, is sinking down into the ocean of
the past! Last New-year's day I spent on the blue waters, amongst my
jovial messmates, little dreaming then what a twelvemonth's cruise
was before me. 'Twould not have mended my mirth to have known that I
should have a terrible fall, smash my arm, have it taken off by the
surgeon, lie for weeks in my hammock, and then leave the service maimed
and disabled, come to a comfortless home, and find Bessy—well, I won't
be hard on her, but she was not just what I had expected her to be.
Here was a cargo of troubles indeed. And yet at the end of that year's
cruise I can say, 'surely goodness and mercy have followed me all the
days of my life!' God has given me a home of my own, pleasant work in
the school, kind friends to help me on; He has restored my health, and
made me again able to enjoy the blessings of life. And better things
are behind. What are earthly comforts compared to 'the means of grace
and the hope of glory'?"
"Ay," said the sailor half aloud, as he gazed on the red rising sun,
"as we look for each day now to be longer and brighter, till we bask
in the full beams of summer, so is it with the Christian! With him
the best is ever to come; he has heavenly hope to crown every earthly
joy. This is the 'helmet, the hope of salvation,'* which the Christian
soldier is to wear. A glittering helmet it is," pursued Franks, whose
fancy delighted in following out the Scriptural image, "and the crest
upon it is joy! In life's hard struggle that plume may be reft away,
even the faithful in this world cannot always rejoice; but the helmet
of hope remains, never to be parted with but with life, and only put
off in death to make way for the conqueror's crown! Hope, glorious
hope, will be changed for happiness then!"
* I Thess. v. 8.
Such thoughts as these made the heart of Ned Franks bound with a sense
of enjoyment such as monarchs might have envied. And yet he was a
poor man, a maimed man, one who had been cut off in his prime from a
profession that he loved! Save his niece, little Norah, of whom he
was very fond, there was not one of his family living who sympathised
with Ned Franks, or gave him any real pleasure. Many would have said
that the teacher at Colme had not much to render him happy; and yet no
stranger could have looked on that buoyant step and beaming eye without
seeing that something within was throwing a charm over life, like the
hoar frost encrusting with beauty the dull twig and the leafless tree!
The cottage of Persis Meade looked very pretty, with its gable-end
overhung with frosted ivy, and sparkling icicles drooping from the
eaves. It was so retired in its little dell, that to the sailor it
suggested the idea of a bird's nest hidden in a bush. The door stood
open, for Persis had just been fetching water from the well, so Franks
could see into the cottage as he strode up the narrow path. An old
man, very feeble and almost bent double, clad in a thick white flannel
wrapper, was tottering towards an arm-chair placed for him by the fire,
tenderly supported by a young woman of very pleasing appearance. Persis
was so intent on her dutiful office, that she did not hear Ned's tap at
the door, and was a little surprised at seeing him enter. The teacher
was no stranger to her, however, as Franks' name and character were
known through the village; and though somewhat wondering at so early a
visit, Persis received the maimed sailor kindly.
"Who's he? What has he done with his hand?" said the old man in a
feeble, quavering voice, pointing with his trembling finger to the book
which appeared from under the sailor's almost empty sleeve.
"It is Mr. Franks, the teacher at the school, dear grandfather," said
Persis, raising her voice and bending towards the deaf man's ear.
"What has he done with his hand?" repeated old Meade.
"I lost it in a lubberly way—had a tumble in the dark," replied Ned,
who never liked the question, both because it reminded him of what he
was tempted to think a provoking accident, and because he knew that
slander had reported that he must have been drunk at the time.
"Will you not take a seat, Sir?" said Persis.
Franks had taken off his hat on coming in, with the same respect that
he would have shown on entering a lady's drawing-room. Before he sat
down he assisted Persis in arranging pillows behind her grandfather's
head, and in changing the position of his chair, for old Meade was
fidgety and restless, and it did not seem easy to please him.
"What have you done with your hand?" he asked again, as Ned Franks at
last took a seat.
The sailor glanced at Persis, and her gentle eye seemed to ask
indulgence for the infirmities of age, the failing memory which could
retain no new thing for two minutes. Ned replied in a loud, cheerful
tone to the question, and then without further delay drew out the two
notes, and told in few words the errand on which he had come. He was
encouraged by watching the sympathizing expression on the face of
Persis as she read.
"Dear Norah! I should so much like to go with her to-morrow!" said
Persis.
"I'm afraid, though, that you could not be spared," observed Franks,
glancing at the old man, who, restless at having been silent for nearly
five minutes, broke out again with his tiresome question, this time
addressed to his grand-daughter.
"Mr. Franks had a sad fall," she replied, without giving the slightest
sign of impatience; and then, turning to Ned, she said, speaking fast,
because certain to be soon interrupted, "I think that I could manage
to go, indeed I'm certain that I could. We have at present two quiet
lodgers, Mr. Isaacs, a working jeweller, and Benoni, his dear little
boy; one or both of them, I am sure, would kindly watch my grandfather
during the few hours of—"
"What have you done with your hand?" asked the poor old man, who would
have interrupted the conversation had it been one of life-or-death
importance.
Taking example by Persis, Ned answered at once, without suffering
either a smile to rise to his lips, or a frown of impatience to his
brow. Persis felt obliged by the sailor's forbearance, and seeing
his eyes rest for a moment on an old-fashioned drawing hung over the
fire-place, representing a tall young farmer in top-boots, she said,
"that is a likeness of my grandfather."
Nothing could have presented a greater contrast to the shrivelled,
wrinkled old man in the arm-chair, than the picture of the jovial
rosy-cheeked swain. It seemed to preach this lesson to youth, "show
indulgence to imbecile age; for if you are now strong and hearty as he
was once, as he is now you may be." Such at least was the thought which
arose in the mind of Ned Franks; but he had to pay for his lesson. Old
Meade, seeing them looking at the picture, began at once a mumbled
story which promised to be endless, of something that had happened
at the time that picture was taken, rambling into an account of all
that he had done or could have done when he was a gay young fellow,
till Franks was obliged to rise, fearing to be late for the opening of
school. The sailor could scarcely manage to get in a few hurried words
of arrangements for the following day, and had scarcely time to thank
Persis for her ready compliance with Norah's wish.
"Well," thought Franks, as he rapidly strode up the dell, "the life
that maiden has chosen for herself is one that requires the patience
of a saint! Chosen for herself! Is it not rather that which she deems
appointed for her by God? What she does, she does unto Him, and this
doubtless makes her able to bear and forbear, and watch with such
tender care over one who, as Bessy said, had never shown her particular
kindness. It does seem to me that it would be easier to be martyred
at once, than to have for ever to take in tow such a water-logged old
barge as that! I do believe that God counts as martyrs those who, for
His sake, lead a life of quiet, patient self-denial, seeking not to do
their own will, but the will of their Heavenly Master. Persis Meade
looks like one who has God's sunshine around her!"
Ned Franks often repeated his visits to the ivy-covered cottage in the
dell; but for weeks he never saw old Meade, without having to shout out
an answer to the question, "What have you done with your hand?"
CHAPTER IV.
THE WORKHOUSE.
"Oh! I am so glad, so thankful to have you with me!" cried Norah, as,
after leaving the coach, she walked with Persis Meade up the road which
led to the workhouse of B—. "It is not only that I should have been
afraid, that I could not have come without a companion, but you know—"
Norah dropped her voice, and spoke in a hesitating tone—"you know poor
Sophy may want some one to give comfort to her, religious comfort I
mean, and to tell her all the things that you used to tell me on Sunday
before I went into service. I never could speak of religion to Sophy. I
am often so grieved and ashamed when I think how much we were together,
and there was never, never a word said that could help her to Heaven!
All such foolish talk!" sighed Norah. "Once I had resolved to say
something, it was after my Uncle Ned had shown me how dishonest it was
for us to feast together in the kitchen at my mistress's expense. Oh
how I had turned the matter over and over in my mind, and thought of
reasons to give, and found texts! But as soon as I saw Sophy's laughing
eyes, and heard her merry voice, all that I had prepared seemed at
once to go out of my head, I could scarcely utter a word! I find it so
dreadfully hard to speak about religion to those who don't feel as I
do!"
"Yes, it is very hard indeed," said Persis.
"Do you think it so?" exclaimed Norah with surprise and something like
pleasure; "I fancied that was only the case with stupid little cowards
like me!"
"To speak of the Blessed Saviour to one of my own age and position,
who is not likely to feel on such a subject like myself, is to me an
effort which I dare never undertake without secret prayer. It is very
different," continued Persis Meade, "from teaching a Bible-class on
Sundays, where one sees one's self surrounded by dear little pupils.
I have often, like you, dear Norah, bitterly reproached myself for
silence, from the fear of man that bringeth a snare." *
* Prov. xxix. 25.
By this time Persis and Norah had reached the door of that great
brick building, which to the younger, perhaps to both, appeared such
a formidable place! Norah's heart beat faster as the stout porter
gave them admittance, and she followed Persis into a paved courtyard,
surrounded by buildings, in which, in their pauper dresses, several of
the inmates were lounging about in the sunshine, talking to the friends
who at that special time had permission to come and see them. Persis
courteously addressed an old woman, and asked her if she happened to
know where they could find Sophy Puller.
"Sophy Puller!" echoed the woman; "that's the girl as has cried herself
blind! Why, she's of our ward, No. 5—you can see the number there on
yon door;" and she pointed across the courtyard.
"Let's come to her quickly," said Norah, drawing on her companion with
nervous haste. The little maid was relieved at having found her friend
with so much less difficulty than she had expected, and was anxious
to escape out of the yard, where there were too many strangers to let
her feel at her ease, especially as some of them stared at her as
she passed. Persis tapped softly at the dark green door on which was
painted the No. 5, then lifted the latch and entered for the first time
a ward in a workhouse.
The room was whitewashed, perfectly clean and neat, and a fire that
burned brightly gave to it a certain look of comfort. There were six
beds, perfectly alike, three on the right hand, three on the left, a
deal-table between, with some medicine bottles upon it. There were but
two inmates in the ward when the visitors entered; an old bed-ridden
woman lying asleep in the farthest corner, and Sophy Puller, who,
dressed in the workhouse garb of striped white and blue print, was
seated on a bed near the door.
Norah Peele was shocked to see the change which a few months had
wrought in her once gay young companion. Could this be she who used
to walk down the street with so jaunty a step, and so flaunting an
air, with pink roses in her bonnet, and flounces on her wide-spreading
dress? Could this pale drooping girl, with her thin fingers clenched
together, and her pinched features rigid with unutterable woe, be
the gay giddy creature who had laughed at care, and only lived
for pleasure? Could this blind, sickly pauper, be the same as the
milliner's lively young girl, whose ambition was to be thought a lady,
to attract notice, and win admiration?
"Oh, Sophy! my poor Sophy!" exclaimed Norah, bursting into tears, as
she ran up to her unhappy friend, and threw her arms around her.
Sophy Puller shed no tear, though her bosom heaved with sob-like gasps
as she returned Norah's embrace. The poor girl could not speak for
several moments, and then she faultered forth in a broken voice, "It
is so kind—so like you, Norah, to come and see me here!" Then suddenly
drawing herself back from Norah, with a passionate gesture of anguish,
the unhappy Sophy exclaimed, "Oh, if you but knew my misery—the
darkness here—everywhere—no hope! no hope!" She threw herself down on
her bed, and covered her face with her hands.
Norah could not reply, she was weeping; but soft and low sounded the
voice of Persis, repeating one verse from the Psalm, "Why art thou cast
down, Oh, my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? Hope thou in
God: for I shall yet praise Him, who is the health of my countenance,
and my God!" *
* Psalm xlii. 11.
"Who is that speaking?" asked Sophy, hastily, but without withdrawing
her hands.
"My friend, Miss Meade—I have spoken to you of her—she was my
Sunday-class teacher," replied Norah.
"She need not come here, speaking of hope to me; I've none—never will
have!" cried Sophy, speaking rapidly, and in a tone of despair. "I
know all she can say—I was at school once—I was confirmed—I cared
nothing for that at the time; but I remember well enough now what was
said to me then; such thoughts come, I can't keep them out, to make me
more wretched in the darkness!" Sophy started up again to her former
position, and her dimmed eyes seemed staring wildly into vacancy as
she went on, rather as if muttering to herself than as if addressing
her companions. "I was told of two paths, one narrow, and leading to
Heaven, the other broad, and leading to destruction; I took the broad,
and now 'tis too late to return! I chose mirth and folly, I chose
selfishness and sin, I turned my back upon all that I knew to be right,
I led others astray, I forgot my God, and now there's but one text in
all the Bible that I can recall to mind, and it haunts me night and
day;" and in a tone that thrilled through the listeners, Sophy repeated
the Saviour's most solemn question—"What is a man profited if he shall
gain the whole world and lose his own soul, or what shall a man gave in
exchange for his soul?" *
* Matt. xvi. 26.
Persis saw that the miserable Sophy was at that moment in too excited a
state to receive religious instruction; the gentle, sympathising woman
could only silently pray for wisdom to be given to herself, that she
might direct the sufferer to the one Hope provided for sinners, and
that grace might be given to Sophy, so that her bitter remorse might
be changed into true repentance. Norah was the first to break silence;
seating herself on the bed close to Sophy, and taking her hand tenderly
between both of her own, she said, "Tell me, if it will not make you
more sad, something of what has happened since you and I last saw each
other on that night in September."
The sudden turn in the conversation roused Sophy from her despair.
Painful as were her recollections, it was a relief to her to pour out
her sorrows into a sympathising ear, and even the past, sad, as it
was, appeared less gloomy than the present, less terrible than the
future! Persis quietly seated herself on the bed next to Sophy's and it
is probable that the poor girl altogether forgot the presence of the
stranger, as, leaning her head on Norah's shoulder, she began her tale
of woe.
CHAPTER V.
SOPHY'S TALE.
"You remember that night, I can never forget it, when you refused to
go with me to the entertainment, as I had tempted you to do? When you
closed your mistress's door, and I found myself alone in the street,
oh! How angry I felt, how I vowed to make you repent having dared to
think of your duty instead of my pleasure and your own! I hastily
joined my other companions, and we went together to the conjuror's
show. We were very merry, I remember, we were full of joking and
nonsense; only my father—he too was there—looked more fidgety and
uneasy than I had ever seen him before. I thought that maybe he was not
well; I did not guess what cause he had to be restless. Presently my
father rose from his seat,—we were closely packed on the benches, and
I was sitting beside him. He muttered something about the heat; and
indeed what with the gas and the crowding, I didn't wonder if he felt a
bit faint. He pushed his way out as well as he could, and as I looked
after him I caught sight, just at the door, of a man who'd come from
London, and who had had business with my father, what business I could
not tell, but you know it all came out at the trial. He'd led my poor
father into the trouble which, which—" The convict's daughter could not
finish the sentence, a hot flush overspread her face, and Norah felt
almost as uncomfortable as if the shame had been her own.
"I believe," continued Sophy, "that that man had made some sign to my
father that the police were on the scent, and that was the reason why
he left the place in such haste. You know," she lowered her voice,
"that my poor father was taken up that night, and I never saw him
again!"
"And you?" asked Norah, anxious to break the painful pause which
followed.
"I went home when all was over, quite merry and jolly, to the lodging
where you know that we used to live, my father and I; for though I
worked for Miss Cobb, I never slept at her house. I went to sleep
as light-hearted as could be, never dreaming what a terrible waking
was a-coming. Wasn't I startled and frightened when Mrs. Smith—she
was our landlady you know—burst suddenly into my little room in
the morning, all full of excitement, and talking so loud and fast,
that I could hardly make out her meaning at first. 'Twas a shameful
thing, she cried, a disgraceful thing, that a respectable house like
hers should be a harbour for thieves and forgers; the like had never
happened afore, and she'd take precious care, she would, that it
never should happen again. To think of the police a-coming to her
door, and searching for false money on her premises! She bade me get
up and dress, as she might have spoken to a dog, and set me all in a
tremble by what she told me had happened to my father. Then there was
a search—oh, dear! oh, dear!" Sophy shuddered at the recollection; "my
boxes turned inside out, and the drawers—"
"But there was nothing against you?" interrupted Norah.
"Not bad money, but—but—lots of scraps of silk that I had cribbed from
Miss Cobb; I always took such trifles as I could lay hands on, bits of
gimp, and ribbon, and lace, and there were two pocket handkerchiefs of
Mrs. Smith's—oh! wasn't she in a rage when she saw them; she called me
such names—I can't repeat them—and threatened to give me over to the
police!"
"How dreadful, how very dreadful!" exclaimed Norah, remembering with
shame and remorse the time when she herself had hardly thought it wrong
to take such trifles as she hoped would never be missed.
"I wonder I didn't go mad!" cried Sophy; "I think I was almost crazy,
Mrs. Smith frightened me so! I didn't know what to do, or where to go,
when I was left at last to myself. My father he was in prison; I'd not
another relation in the town who could help me. I dared not go to Miss
Cobb's, after what had been found in my box, I'd rather have died than
go there! And I could not stay where I was, Mrs. Smith had said plain
enough that she'd turn me out into the street!"
"Oh! Why did you not come to me?" cried Norah.
"As if your mistress would have let you have anything to do with—with
one like me!" exclaimed Sophy. "'No,' thinks I, as soon as I could
think at all, for my brain was whirling, 'I'll make a little bundle
of my clothes, and I'll be off afore the whole town is astir, I can't
bear to meet any faces I know!' So I made up my bundle, and crept down
the stairs, and I was glad—oh, so glad—not to meet Mrs. Smith on the
way. I opened the street-door and went out; I felt as if I were making
an escape, I hurried down the street as fast as I could walk; I met
none that I knew but the baker's boy, and I brushed past him without
speaking a word. It seemed as if I could not breathe freely till I'd
left the town behind, and got right out into the country."
"But where were you going?" asked Norah.
"I thought I would go to London. I knew that I had an aunt there in
service, who lived somewhere in Portman Square; I fancied that I might
find her out. Then I said to myself, 'how many make their fortunes
in London, why should not I have luck too? And then there are such
crowds of people in London, and they lead such bustling lives, that my
father's troubles won't be the talk of the place, as they are here in a
country town.'"
"But London is forty miles off!" cried Norah.
"I thought that I could walk the distance in two or three days," said
Sophy, "or perhaps sell some of my pretty things, and get a lift on the
way. It was a worry to me that I had no money; I had spent the last
half-sovereign which my father had given me on a pair of new ear-rings.
I walked on, and on, and on, passing one mile-stone after another,
sitting down sometimes to rest myself by the way-side, till I was both
hungry and tired. I had had no breakfast or dinner, you know. I stopped
at last at a village. 'Here they won't know me,' thought I. I went up
to a little inn; I'd opened my bundle and taken out something—I forget
what—that I thought to exchange for food. There were two men by the
door talking together, and they talked so loud that I could not help
catching my poor father's name. They were talking of the two who had
been taken up that morning for passing false coin, and were laughing
over the dodges by which they had tried to escape the police! Oh,"
cried Sophy, clenching her hands, "I could not bear to hear more of
that; I hurried out of the village as if the pavement burnt my feet!
And then a dreadful fear shot into my mind; I had twice bought things
with gold given to me by my father; I might have passed bad money
unawares, and the police might be hunting after me. I had no peace
after I thought of that danger! I was afraid of every man that I met,
lest he should be a policeman in disguise! So I went on till the sun
was beginning to set."
"Oh! Sophy," exclaimed Norah, "had you eaten nothing all that long
time?"
"There were blackberries on the hedges, and I drank from a brook that
I passed, but still I was very hungry and faint, and a chill drizzle
was beginning to fall; I had determined that when I got into any place
large enough to have a pawnbroker's shop in it, I'd sell or pledge my
ear-rings, and get food and shelter for the night. Just as dusk was
coming on, I got into a county town, and glad enough was I to see the
three gilt balls hanging over a shop. I walked in with as bold an air
as I could, but my knees were trembling under me, and I could not help
a burning flush of shame spreading over my face, I was so dreadfully
tired, you know. The pawnbroker looked hard at me, as he held the
ear-rings in his hand. 'Where did you get these?' said he. I thought
that he somehow knew me, and was going to give me up to justice. I was
beginning to stammer out something, when another customer came in in
a hurry, and took off his attention for a minute. Would you believe
it, Norah? as soon as the pawnbroker's head was turned, I took the
opportunity of slipping out of the shop, and hastening away as if for
my life!"
"What? leaving the ear-rings!" cried Norah.
"I scarcely knew what I was doing, there was such a dizziness in
my head, and such a ringing sound in my ears. I felt like a hunted
creature, sure that some one must be in pursuit. Now that the sun had
gone down," continued Sophy, "I grew more frightened than ever at the
thought of being out alone in the dark. I saw large iron gates wide
open, and a beautiful shrubbery beyond, surrounding a splendid white
house, that looked to me like a palace. There were many lights in the
windows, and I heard the gay sound of music from within. 'I'll go
and ask shelter there,' thought I, 'for the rain is coming on heavy,
and if I stay out on a wet night like this, I'll never live till the
morning.' So I crept in at the gate, and along the shrubbery drive; but
my heart failed me when I thought of going up to the large grand door,
up the flight of broad steps, that had an awning over them. I sat, or
rather sank down, under the shelter of a large laurel bush, and watched
carriage after carriage driving up, and bright, merry children getting
out, hurrying up the steps lest the rain should spoil their white
muslin dresses. I had such strange, strange thoughts, like dreams, as
I looked on the happy little creatures going into the palace, to the
light, and the warmth, and the music, and the joy, while I crouched
there, hungry, wet, and wretched, shut out from them all. The noise in
my ears grew louder, it dulled the sound of the music; my eyes were
heavy, my brain confused; I don't know whether I slept or fainted.
"I was roused by the sound of voices, kind voices, that spoke in a
pitying tone. 'Help me to raise the poor girl,' said a gentleman,
who, as I afterwards found, was the master of the grand house. I was
so cramped and stiff that I could not have walked a step had my life
depended upon it. The gentleman himself helped to lift me up, and
carry me gently into the house, for motion hurt me so that I could
not help crying out with the pain. I was taken to a nice warm room,
where I was put into a bed, and food and drink were brought. I had no
power to eat, but I drank with feverish thirst. I scarcely know what
happened after that. I believe that a doctor saw me, and felt my pulse,
and said that I was in for a long illness, and had better be taken to
a hospital at once. I know that I was removed there, and had every
comfort that I needed during a terrible attack of rheumatic fever. Oh,
Norah! What I suffered. But all the pain was not so bad as the dreadful
after-effects. My eyes, oh! My poor eyes. When I was dismissed from the
hospital as cured, though so weak that I scarcely could stand, where
was I, poor blind creature, to go? There was no place but the workhouse
for me. And here I am, for life, the most wretched being on earth, with
nothing to cheer me, nothing to hope for, either in this world, or the
next."
CHAPTER VI.
HOPE.
"ALAS!" sighed Norah, "what a grievous pity it was that you had not
gone up to the house at once. The good, kind gentleman would have
helped you; you might never have had your fever, never have lost your
sight."
"Don't you think that has come to my mind a thousand times?" cried
Sophy, with a passionate burst of grief. "There was something which
that gentleman said as he carried me into the house, that, whenever I
think of it now, is like vinegar poured on a wound. 'Why did you not
come to me?' he asked. I could not answer him then, I can't now answer
that question even to myself. I must have been mad to have stayed out
there in the darkness and rain, without so much as trying whether there
might not be some one who would have mercy even on me."
Persis could keep silence no longer. "Oh, my poor young friend!" she
exclaimed, "are you not doing the same thing now?—are you not remaining
broken-hearted in the outer gloom of despair, when there is One waiting
to be gracious—One stretching out His pierced hands with the invitation
of love, 'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I
will give you rest.'" *
* Matthew xi. 28.
"It is too late to come," replied Sophy; "I had my day of hope, and it
is past."
"Oh, say not so!" cried Persis, with trembling earnestness, while Norah
wept in silence. "It is Satan who, having led you into evil, would now
drive you to despair; it is Satan who first bids us put off repentance,
and then tells us that repentance is too late. Was it too late for
the thief who hung beside our Lord on the cross? Conscience upbraided
him, man despised him, his own fellow-creatures judged him unfit to
live; he had lost his character, he had forfeited his life, he was
suffering the agonies of the cross; but even amid those agonies the
dying thief turned towards the Saviour, whose 'blood cleanseth from all
sin,' * he threw himself on the mercy of Christ; he confessed his own
utter vileness; he believed, repented, and was saved. The gates of a
blessed paradise, which opened for the Lord of Glory, received also the
penitent thief. If he found mercy, who shall despair? Oh come, come to
the Saviour!"
* 2 Cor. vi. 17, 18. 1 John i. 7.
"Will He take me from this hateful place?" said Sophy, bitterly; "will
He give me back my sight and my father?"
"The Lord will do far more," replied Persis, "for those who love and
trust Him. He will take them 'from the bondage of corruption into the
glorious liberty of the children of God'; * He will open their eyes
to see His love, and will fulfil to them His gracious promise—'I will
receive you, and will be a Father unto you, and ye shall be my sons and
daughters, saith the Lord Almighty.'" †
"That promise is not for me," said Sophy Puller, with a sigh of despair.
"And why not for you?" cried Persis, in her earnestness pressing the
hand of the miserable girl between both her own. "You have tried the
broad path, you have found it to be a path of disappointment and
anguish; the Lord is pleading with you now, 'turn ye, turn ye, why will
ye die?'‡ You have served Satan, and found him to be a hard master;
the Lord is able, willing to redeem you, and set you free! 'The wages
of sin is death, but the gift of God'—Oh! Mark the word, the GIFT, not
purchased, not earned, not deserved—'the gift of God is eternal life,
through Jesus Christ our Lord.'" §
* Rom. viii. 2, 21. † 2 Cor. vi. 17, 18.
‡ Ezekiel xxxiii. 11. § Rom. vi. 23.
"Do you mean to say," asked Sophy, abruptly, "that the good and the bad
all go to Heaven alike?"
"Who are 'the good?'" asked Persis; "'there is none good but One, that
is God.' * If our 'hope of salvation' rested on any merit of our own,
it would be a hope indeed built on a trembling quicksand."
"Then what is our hope?" cried Sophy.
"Our hope is simply this," answered Persis; "'Christ died for the
ungodly' † The greatest saint has no other plea, the greatest sinner
may use it. Salvation is the purchase of Christ's blood; it is freely
offered to all; they alone perish who reject it, and choose to continue
in sin, rather than cast themselves, in humble faith, on the mercy of a
pardoning Saviour!"
Sophy's bosom heaved convulsively; large drops rose in her dim eyes;
she did not speak for some moments, and then it was between broken
gasps, most painful to hear.
"I cannot believe that heaven can ever be opened to me! No—I shall be
shut out, when those who love God pass in; when Norah and those I have
known pass in to the light, and the glory, and the joy, I shall be
lying in outer darkness, as I did by that rich man's door!"
* Matt. xix. 17. † Rom. v. 6.
"Oh! No, no!" exclaimed Norah, in a voice broken by sobs, "you will
knock now—now—it is not too late! Did not the Lord Himself say—'Him
that cometh unto Me I will in no wise cast out?'" *
"Yes, knock by prayer," joined in Persis, "cry, 'God be merciful to
me—a sinner!' Lay yourself with all your sins and your sorrows at the
foot of the cross, 'looking unto Jesus' † in whom alone we can have
forgiveness, who is our Salvation and our only Hope!"
Sophy Puller could not reply, but she sank on her knees and sobbed
while her friends prayed beside her. The first faint dawn of comfort
had risen upon her deep darkness. Persis hoped that she was weeping as
the penitent wept who washed our Lord's feet with her tears. But who
can look into the heart of another? How often are we deceived even by
our own! It is only the after-life that shows whether repentance has
been really deep and sincere, or whether it has been like the morning
cloud, and the dew that passes away.
* John vi. 37. † Heb. xii. 2.
Persis and Norah remained with Sophy as long as the rules of the
workhouse permitted, and the short winter's day was already ending
before they took their departure.
As Norah bade her poor friend farewell, she whispered, pressing Sophy's
hand as she spoke, "You will not despair now, dear one? You have hope,
oh! Say that you have hope! It is not all darkness now?"
Sophy drew a deep sigh. "If I had only you beside me to teach me to
pray—"
"There is One who can teach you better, far better than any mortal
can," said Persis, whose ear had caught the last words; "say, as the
disciples said—'Lord, teach me to pray;' and with David, 'create in me
a clean heart, oh God! and renew a right spirit within me!' * It is
the Holy Spirit who guides back our wandering feet, who leads us to
the merciful Saviour, who bids us look up to Him who was wounded for
our transgressions, and in the thought of His perfect sacrifice, His
boundless pity and love, find rest for our aching hearts, hope for our
trembling souls."
* Psalm li.10.
CHAPTER VII.
THE RETURN.
"I am very thankful that I have seen my poor Sophy," said Norah Peele,
as she stood with Persis by the high road, waiting for the coach which
would take them back to the village. "But oh! Miss Meade, even if Sophy
have the comfort of religion, if she have hope in the forgiveness
and loving-kindness of God, what a dreary, dreary look out she has
as regards this life! Why," continued Norah, quite appalled at the
prospect, "she may have forty, fifty, sixty years of blindness in the
workhouse before her, she who was so blithe and so busy. How dreadfully
dull she will be! How heavily time will hang on her hands!"
"I have been thinking of that," replied Persis, while the two walked
briskly up and down to keep themselves warm. "I remember that Mrs. Lane
(I taught her children, you know), took great interest in a London
asylum for the blind. In this asylum they are taught many useful arts
by which they can earn an honest livelihood, notwithstanding their sad
affliction."
"Oh! If we could but get Sophy there!" cried Norah. "She is so quick,
so clever, so neat-fingered, she would learn if any one could!"
"I will go to Mrs. Lane to-morrow," said Persis, "and see if she be
able to help us. I believe that Mr. Lane is a liberal subscriber, and I
can answer for the kindness of his lady."
"How delightful it would be!" exclaimed Norah. "Why, why did you not
cheer poor Sophy with the hope?"
"Because it is a very uncertain one," replied Persis, "and I feared to
cause disappointment. Do you sleep at your mother's cottage to-night,
dear Norah?"
"Oh, no! I never sleep away from Mrs. Martin's; I must be back to-night
without fail."
"But the coach does not go on to your town, you'll have a three miles'
walk in the dark."
"Oh! Uncle has arranged all so nicely. He is to meet us at the turn of
the lane where the coach sets us down, first see you home, it is but a
step, and then walk with me back to my mistress's house. I am afraid of
nothing when he is beside me; he is a sailor you know, and has fought
for the Queen."
"I hope that he will not fail you," said Persis, with a little anxiety
for her youthful companion; "there is no moon, and the nights are so
dark."
"Uncle Ned fail me!" repeated Norah, with indignant surprise. "Why, he
promised to come, and he never breaks his word; I would not doubt him
for a moment!"
"Would that we," thought Persis, "had the same perfect, fearless
confidence in a Heavenly Friend that this dear girl has in an earthly!
Her mind is at rest, for she trusts his promise; she has no fear, for
she is sure that he will not fail her; while we, alas! are too apt to
receive God's promises in a faithless, doubting spirit, as if He who is
the Truth could deceive, or He who is Love could forsake!"
The tramping of horses feet was now heard, and two coach lamps, which
to Norah looked like great red eyes in the darkness, came towards them
along the high road. Persis and Norah were soon in the vehicle, which
landed them at the end of the lane leading down to the wooded little
dell.
"There's Uncle Ned—don't you see him by the light of the lamp? I knew
he would be waiting for us!" cried Norah.
"Glad to hail you back from your cruise Norah," said the sailor, as
the young girl with the help of his hand, sprang lightly down from the
coach. "And hearty thanks to you for your kindness in convoying her,"
he added, holding out his arm to assist Persis Meade to alight.
The home of Persis was not many yards distant; Ned and his niece
escorted her to the porch, where they parted, after Norah had expressed
her grateful thanks to her friend.
"You will come to your mother's now, my girl," said Franks, "and warm
yourself with a good cup of tea before we start on our walk to the
town?"
"I should be so glad," replied Norah, whose feet and hands were numbed
with the cold, and who dearly loved a visit to her own humble home;
"but is not our cottage out of the way?"
"Ay, it lies a good bit to the south," answered Ned, "'twill take us
nigh a mile round."
"Then I don't know—I'm not sure whether I ought to go there," said the
hesitating girl. "Mistress only gave me leave to visit the workhouse,
she bade me be back as soon as possible; and though Mrs. Cobb (she's
the charwoman, you know), can make the tea, and clear away, she cannot
read in the evening, and my lady will be all alone."
"That's right, Norah, think first of duty; always show yourself worthy
of your mistress's trust."
"But if my mother should expect me—"
"You gave her no reason to do so," said Ned, "and three days will bring
round the first Monday in the month, when you always get leave to come
home. So let's sheer off at once, my girl, and try if brisk walking
will not warm you as well as a cup of hot tea."
"I may look out for squalls for this, when next I see Bessy," thought
the sailor; "but no matter, all will have blown over before Norah comes
home on Monday."
Notwithstanding the darkness and the cold, North did not find her walk
tedious as she tripped by her uncle's side. Her heart was very full
of the sorrows of Sophy, and she was glad to speak of her to one who
listened with interest, and who did not break out into abuse of the
miserable girl, as it was more than probable that Bessy and Dan would
have done. It was not in the nature of Franks to spurn the fallen; and
he knew the evil of his nature too well to cast the first stone at
others.
"Oh! Uncle, it made my heart bleed to see Sophy sitting there so
wretched, so hopeless; she who had always been so full of bright
expectations! She used to build such castles in the air when she and I
sat gossipping together. Oh I to think of those days!" sighed Norah.
"Poor Sophy seemed really to hope that she would be a lady at last;
she delighted to fancy what she would do, and how she would dress, and
where she would go, and what grand friends she would have! It was so
amusing to hear her, and she talked of such things till I almost think
that she began to believe that all would really come true. Alas! What
an end to her hopes!"
"A very common end to such hopes," observed Franks; "they are like
the garlands which such young lasses twine for their heads in May;
gay enough in the morning, withered and dying in the evening, flung
away at night. We need something stronger and more lasting, Norah, to
cover the head in the long, hard battle of life. We want 'a hope' that
'maketh not ashamed.' * It is only religion that can give it; it is the
Christian alone that can wear 'for a helmet the hope of salvation.'"
* Rom. v. 5.
CHAPTER VIII.
SUCCESS.
Norah was surprised on answering the door-bell on the morning of the
following Sunday to find her uncle standing without.
"Why, uncle, who would have thought to have seen you so early? and your
face looks so bright, as if you were bringing good news!" cried the
girl.
"Maybe my face speaks the truth," answered the sailor, gaily, stamping
to free his boots from the snow which had gathered upon them. "I
thought that my little lass would go to church with a lighter heart, if
I stepped over early to tell her what I heard yesterday evening when I
looked in at old Meade's."
"Something about Sophy," cried the eager Norah.
"Ay, ay; what your friend Miss Persis told me, as well as she could
spin her yarn between the good old gentleman's kind inquiries about
my hand," replied Ned Franks with a laugh: "She kept her promise of
speaking to Mrs. Lane about poor blind Sophy, and the lady took quite
an interest in the story which, I'll be bound, was not marred in the
telling. The long and short of it is, that the lady is able to put your
poor young friend into the asylum, and she took Persis, I mean Miss
Meade, in her own carriage to the workhouse, that she might carry the
good news to Sophy herself."
"Oh, I am so glad! I wish I could have been there," cried Norah,
clapping her hands.
"It was all along of you that Miss Persis ever knew Sophy Puller," said
Franks, looking fondly at his young niece; "'twas you that fixed the
end of the cable, whoever else may tow her along."
"Was not Sophy charmed with the news? Tell me all about it," cried
Norah.
"You shall hear all to-morrow," replied Franks, "when you come home
to see your mother. I must not keep you long now, lest your lady's
breakfast should suffer. Persis said that poor Sophy's eyes filled with
tears when she heard that she might be taken from the workhouse next
week, and given a chance in London of earning some honest trade. She
didn't say much in the way of thanks, but, I take it, she felt none the
less grateful, because tears would come in the place of words. But when
the lady was speaking to the matron at the other end of the room, the
poor girl got a little quiet talk with your friend. Sophy squeezed her
hand very tightly, and whispered, 'Tell my dear Norah that I have been
praying, I have been knocking, and I do hope that God has heard me, and
that His door of mercy will be opened even to me.'"
"Did she send me that message?" exclaimed Norah, her blue eyes
sparkling with joy.
"Ay, ay, word for word, as I took them down from the lips of your
friend. She seemed as glad to repeat as you are to hear them, Norah; I
take it that Persis Meade is one as shares the joy of the angels when a
sinner's poor broken heart first feels the comfort of heavenly hope."
"Persis is more like an angel herself than any one else that I know,"
cried Norah. "I can't think how I did not profit more by all that she
told me when I went to her Bible-class on Sundays."
"She sowed in hope," observed Franks, "and God gives the increase
at last. No doubt she trusted in the word, 'let us not be weary in
well-doing, for in due season we shall reap if we faint not.' * And
now, goodbye, and God bless you, Norah;" Ned wrung his niece's hand
as he spoke. "I'll be sure to drop in at your mother's and see you
to-morrow, and walk back with you in the evening. You've done a kind
act, my girl; you and your friend have made a good beginning to the
year; may it be full of blessings to you and to her, both as regards
heavenly things and earthly."
* Gal. vi. 9.
With a sweet sense of peace and joy, Norah Peele went to church on
that first Sunday of the New-year. She was a very different girl from
what she had been when the last year had opened upon her. Then, her
first thought had been her own pleasure; Norah had been almost as apt
as poor Sophy herself to build up fanciful hopes that must crumble
at last into dust; but since she had come under the influence of her
uncle, new feelings, new wishes, new hopes had arisen in Norah's soul.
She had begun to realise that she was a redeemed, an immortal being,
bound to glorify God in her body and her soul; and looking forward to
the blessed time when she should inherit a crown of life, Norah was
learning, in weal or woe, to "rejoice in hope of the glory of God." *
* Rom. v. 2.
Further results were to arise from Norah's wish to visit her poor
friend at the workhouse, of which she had never dreamed when she had
pondered over Mrs. Cupper's note with such perplexity and pain. Ned
Franks, after his first visit to Persis Meade, very often found his way
to the little cottage in the dell. As it was scarcely to be supposed
that the magnet which drew him there was either the Jew who lodged
in the upper room, or the poor old man who lived below, it was soon
rumoured in the village that the teacher in Colme school was likely
soon to bring home a bride.
"Is all true what folk say about your brother, eh?" asked Ben Stone,
the jovial carpenter, of Bessy, who, with Norah at her side, had come
to his workshop one bright day in the early spring to speak about the
broken leg of a table.
"How can I tell what nonsense folk may say?" answered Bessy, peevishly.
"I guess yon little maid is in the secret," laughed Stone, as he looked
at Norah's bright conscious face; "I guess she could tell us when her
uncle's going to be married, and who's to be bridesmaid, and who's to
be bride? I've only this to say," added the carpenter, bringing down
his hammer with force on a nail, as if to give emphasis to his words,
"Ned Franks, take him as he is, wooden arm and all, is the finest
fellow in these parts, and the only one that I know of who would be a
fit partner for such a woman as Persis."
"Well," said Bessy, shrugging her shoulders, "I don't see, for my
part, what there's in her to take his fancy. I suppose that he thinks
that her quick needle will serve as a portion, and that she'll earn
something with that to help to keep the pot boiling."
"She has a right pretty face," observed Stone; "that goes a good way, I
guess."
"Oh, it is not that!" exclaimed Norah; "Uncle Ned does not care for
money, and values something better than beauty. He told me himself that
he has long felt that it is the good Christian that makes the good
wife, and that a marriage can be truly happy only when they who are to
share an earthly home, also share heavenly hopes together."
THE END.
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