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Title: The sailor's home
Or, the girdle of truth
Author: A. L. O. E.
Release date: March 19, 2024 [eBook #73200]
Language: English
Original publication: United Kingdom: Gall & Inglis, 1875
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SAILOR'S HOME ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: "You seem to be weary, my friend," said Mr. Curtis,
the vicar of Colme, stopping courteously to speak to a sailor,
who was seated on the stump of a tree at the side of the pathway.]
THE SAILOR'S HOME;
OR,
The Girdle of Truth.
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. COMING HOME
II. SPEAKING OUT
III. THINKING IT OVER
IV. PUT TO THE QUESTION
V. THE LAME SQUIRREL
VI. A STORM
VII. THE FOOTPRINT
VIII. THE SCHOOL-ROOM ADDRESS
IX. CLEARING UP
The Sailor's Home;
OR,
THE GIRDLE OF TRUTH.
CHAPTER I.
COMING HOME.
"You seem to be weary, my friend," said Mr. Curtis, the vicar of Colme,
stopping courteously to speak to a sailor, who was seated on the stump
of a tree at the side of the pathway. It was a glowing day in August;
the air was hot and sultry, and dust lay thick on the road.
Ned Franks, the sailor, rose on being addressed, and touched his glazed
hat, on which appeared the badge of the anchor, surmounted by a crown,
which showed that he had belonged to the Royal Navy. He was a fine
stalwart-looking young man, scarcely thirty years of age, with sunburnt
cheek, and thick curling hair; and as Mr. Curtis met the glance of his
clear blue eye, the clergyman thought that he had never looked upon a
face more manly or pleasant.
"I've walked twenty miles, sir, since sunrise," said Franks, glancing
at the bundle which he had been carrying on a stick across his
shoulder, and which was now resting against the stump from which he had
risen. "But I'm nigh port now, I take it, if yonder's the village of
Colme."
"Are you going to visit it?" asked the vicar.
"I'm going to drop anchor there for good, sir," answered the tar. "I've
a sister—a step-sister I should say, living yonder; she and I are all
that are left of the family now, and I'll make my home with her, please
God."
"Surely you are too young to give up the navy, my friend. Idleness
would be no blessing to a fine strong lad such as you seem to be; you
may have many years before you yet of good service to the Queen."
"I shall never serve the Queen again, bless her!" replied the young
sailor, with a touch of sadness.
And Mr. Curtis then, for the first time, remarked that the left sleeve
of Ned's blue jacket hung empty.
"But I don't look to be idle, sir," continued Franks, in a tone more
cheerful, "Bessy will have my bit of a pension for the mess and the
berth, and I'll see if I can't make myself useful in some way or
other—go errands, or maybe try the teaching tack; anything would be
better than lying like a log on the shore."
"Teaching?" repeated the clergyman. "What are you able to teach?"
"Not many things," replied the sailor, with a smile, "reading, 'riting,
'rithmetic, and not much of them neither; but I like a book when I can
overhaul one, and I usually make good way with the younkers."
"I well believe that," said Mr. Curtis; "I doubt not that you've many
a good sea story to tell, and stirring adventure to relate. I see,"
he continued, "from the badge on your hat that you've served in the
'Queen;' I daresay that you lost your arm by a Russian ball from a
Sebastopol battery," and the vicar looked with interest at the young
seaman, picturing him at the post of duty amidst the smoke and din of a
fight.
"No, sir," replied Ned, frankly; "I smashed my arm on shore, stumbling
down an open cellar on a starless night."
Mr. Curtis slightly raised his eyebrows, and there was a little less
interest in his manner as he inquired, "And who is the sister with whom
you are to live?"
"Bessy Peele, sir; she's a widow in these parts."
"I know her," said Mr. Curtis, rather drily; "she lives in the thatched
cottage yonder, whose chimney you can just see over these trees. I hope
that she may make you comfortable," he added.
"It's not much, sir, that I want," said the sailor: "a dry berth,
a wholesome mess, and a welcome, he who gets that may be thankful,
whether on sea or on shore."
"I shall call and see you," said the clergyman, kindly, "and have a
little talk with you on other matters than those which concern but this
passing life."
"I shall be heartily glad, sir," replied Ned, again touching his glazed
hat; "it's well to have some one to teach us how to steer 'twixt the
rocks and the shoals."
"I hope that we have both the same port in view," said the clergyman.
"I hope so," answered Ned Franks, cheerfully; and as the vicar bade him
good day, he turned in the direction of his new home.
Mrs. Peele's cottage stood a little retired from the dusty high road,
being divided from it by a bit of waste ground, on which some pigs were
feeding. The ground was overgrown with nettles and straggling briars:
the dwelling was of mud, with a roof of thatch, green with lichen and
moss, under which, as under heavy overhanging brows, peeped two dots of
windows like eyes. The door stood open, and within Ned caught sight of
his sister engaged in washing.
Mrs. Peele was a tall bony woman, with a habitual stoop, clad in a
rusty black dress, with a cap which was rustier still. Broad lines of
grey streaked her hair, and Ned's first feeling was that of painful
surprise at the change which years had made. He did not stop, however,
to dwell on the past.
"Holloa, Bessy! Don't you know me?" he exclaimed, as he quickened his
pace, and the next minute Mrs. Peele had run out, with her bare arms
covered with soap-suds, to welcome her younger brother.
She was followed by a lad about ten or eleven years of age; a sharp,
wiry boy, whose pointed upturned nose, quick little black eyes, and
restless manner, somehow suggested to the sailor's mind the idea of a
weasel. Ned shook him heartily by the hand on hearing that this was his
nephew Dan; and, with a heart glowing with pleasure at being once more
in a home, the seaman entered the cottage accompanied by the Peeles.
"Now, Dan, you take your uncle, and show him his room, while I wring
these out, and get a bit of something ready for dinner," said Bessy. "I
hardly looked for you so early, Ned," she added, addressing herself to
her brother.
"I was up with the lark," answered the sailor.
Dan, looking up with curiosity in his keen small eyes towards the
stranger, whom he scarcely yet ventured to call "uncle," led the way to
the back of the cottage, where was a kind of garden—if a place could
deserve that name where nothing but sickly cabbages seemed to grow,
with a full crop of chickweed and groundsel between. A small wood-house
adjoined the cottage, and over this was a little loft, to be reached by
a rough sort of ladder.
"We're to go up the hatchway, are we?" said Ned, mounting the ladder
with a lightness and rapidity which surprised his nephew. He had to
stoop his curly head low as he passed through the entrance, the door of
which appeared never to have been intended to fit, since even when shut
it admitted as much light as the small one-paned window of greenish
glass, with a thick knob in the middle. The loft was very small, with
walls unpapered, and rafters uncovered; a dirty mattress lay on the
dirtier floor, and a musty scent pervaded the place.
"I can't say much for the berth," thought Ned; "it's not big enough
to swing a cat in, and doesn't look as if the planks had ever been
holystoned. I must set things a little ship-shape. Bessy, poor soul,
has enough to keep her busy with her washing; I must try if I can't
make my one hand do the business of two."
The man-of-war's seaman, accustomed to spotless cleanliness and
neatness, looked around on the miserable den with a mixture of disgust
and good humour.
"I'll rub up the bull's eye," he said, "and get that door to fasten
with something better than a piece of old rope; and I'll try to knock
up a bit of a shelf in that corner, for I've a few books in that bundle
of mine. We'll soon have all right and trim as a captain's cabin!"
Ned Franks was to find that other things in his new home required
setting to rights as well as his loft, and that there are spots and
stains harder to rub out than those on his walls and floor.
"Why don't you keep that garden in trimmer order?" asked the sailor,
as he descended the ladder, followed by Dan. "You might grow enough of
potatoes and cabbages in yon slip to supply your mother half the year."
"I've not a minute's time," answered Dan; "I look after Sir Lacy
Barton's cows."
"Lacy Barton!" repeated Ned. "Why that's the name of one of our
middies."
"Sir Lacy has a son in the 'Queen' as I've heard."
"What are you saying about Sir Lacy?" asked Bessy Peele, catching the
sound of the name, as her brother and Dan re-entered the kitchen.
"That he has a son aboard my old vessel the 'Queen.'"
"That's a piece of luck for us!" cried Bessy, pausing in her occupation
of cutting rashers from a fine large piece of bacon. "He's our
landlord, is Sir Lacy Barton, and he's thinking of pulling down our
cottage to build the new school in its place, and I'm mighty anxious to
be in his favour. 'Tis a lucky chance that you've come, and can tell
him all about his son."
"That depends on what I've to tell," answered Ned, with a smile; "in
some cases, it's 'least said soonest mended.' I hope that none of the
family will come to question me about young Mr. Barton—" and the frank
face of the sailor expressed more than his words, as he remembered the
doings of the most worthless youth on board of the man-of-war.
"Well, if you was asked, you'd say something pleasant I hope," observed
Bessy.
"I could not say what was false," answered Ned.
The words were simple enough, but the decided tone in which they were
uttered, made Bessy exchange glances with her son. The boy shrugged his
shoulders slightly, and something like a smile rose to the corners of
his lips. The very straightforwardness of the sailor made him appear
strange to those who had long mistaken cunning for wisdom, and low
deceit for sharpness.
CHAPTER II.
SPEAKING OUT.
The table was spread with food, homely but abundant, steaming bacon and
greens.
"A twenty miles' walk must have made you ready for your dinner, Ned,"
said Bessy, as she seated herself at the table, and a well-filled plate
was soon before each of the party.
"Why, uncle, what are you waiting for?" asked Dan, surprised that the
hungry sailor did not at once begin his meal.
"Bessy," said Ned, quietly, "do you say grace, or shall I?"
Again mother and son exchanged glances. As no answer was given, Ned,
in few words, thanked God for His mercies through Christ. This was no
mere form with the weather-beaten sailor, who found himself in haven at
last, after the tempest and the fight, the hardships and perils of a
sea life, and was thankful to God for mercies greater than preservation
through all these.
"I'm afraid," said Ned, looking with a good-humoured smile at his
plate, "that a maimed Jack-tar such as I am, must signal for assistance
even at the mess."
Bessy had for the moment forgotten her brother's condition; she had not
realised the constant inconvenience which must follow the loss of an
arm. Ned's misfortune did not, however, appear in the least to weigh
down his spirits, and he chatted merrily through dinner-time, talking
over old days, and then making inquiries as to what hope there might be
of his getting such employment as might suit a one-armed man.
"I've heard as how Mr. Curtis, our vicar, is looking out for some one
to help with his school," said Dan.
"I think that it must have been your parson who hailed me on my course
here," observed Ned.
"He's rather an oldish man, bald, with a little limp in his walk," said
Dan.
"That's he!" cried the sailor. "He talked to me friendly enough, and
asked me how I had lost my arm."
"And what said you?" inquired Bessy.
"The truth, of course, that I was lubber enough to stumble down into a
cellar at night."
"Oh! Ned, he would think that you were drunk," exclaimed Bessy.
"I'm afraid that he did," said Ned. "I could see in his face that I'd
let myself down a peg in his good opinion."
"Oh! Uncle, what a chance you lost!" cried Dan, his black eyes
twinkling slily under his shock of rough hair. "If I'd been you, I'd
have told such a tale, how I lost that arm boarding a thundering big
ship, or saving an officer's life, or doing some desperate deed!
You'd have been a reg'lar hero in Colme; they'd have been getting up
a subscription for you, and Mr. Curtis would have clapped you into
the place of teacher at once! 'Twould have been the making of you, it
would!"
"Dan," said Ned, laying down his fork, and looking steadily at his
nephew across the table, "do you know what a lie is?"
The boy was taken aback by the sudden question, and his eyes sunk under
the gaze that was fixed upon him.
Receiving no answer, the sailor went on—"A lie is a mean thing—a
senseless, a wicked: a habitual liar is a sneak, a coward, and a fool!"
"A fool! I don't see how you can make that out," muttered Dan, who was
secretly not a little proud of his cunning, and who thought the name of
fool a great deal worse than that of knave.
"It's easy enough to make out," said Ned; "a liar is a fool as regards
this life; for, look ye, he's sure to be found out afore long, and
a good character is worth more than anything that he could get in
exchange for it. Is it nothing to be trusted, is it nothing to be able
to look any man in the face?"
Dan was at the moment uneasily peering down at the crumbs on the floor.
"Would a man not be called a fool who should put to sea in a vessel
whose timbers were all rotten, however gaily painted she might be, or
however fine a figure-head she might carry? She must be stove in when
the first storm came, she must soon show that she was not seaworthy."
Ned had spoken with the fiery energy of one who, as he often owned,
carried "too much gunpowder in his cargo;" but his tone softened to
quiet earnestness as he went on.
"And if we come to speak of another world, my lad, what shall we say
of the folly of lying, whatever the temptation to do so may be? Was it
without reason, think you, that St. Paul, when telling how a Christian
man should be armed to fight against the devil, bade him first be
'girt about with truth.' * Why, we couldn't so much as set a foot in
the golden city without it; you've heard what's said in God's Word of
that matter; outside, shut out of glory, in company with murderers and
idolaters will be 'whosoever loveth and maketh a lie'! † The devil
himself is the father of lies, ‡ such as make them, follow him; and
they who choose their portion with him are fools, whatever the world
may give, or whatever the world may call them!"
* Eph. vi. 14. † Rev. xxii. 15. ‡ John viii. 44.
There was silence in the cottage for several minutes after Ned had
ceased speaking.
Dan attempted no reply, but finished his dinner in somewhat sulky
reserve; then appearing suddenly to remember that he had to look
after the cows, the boy rose and slunk out of the place. Dan did not,
however, go in the direction of the fields, but into the village to
play at pitch-and-toss with Tom and Jack Mullins, and to tell them
wonderful stories of his sailor uncle, who was, he said, a first-rate
fellow for fighting, and polished off Russians as fast as they might
knock down ninepins, but who had a ticklish temper to deal with,
flaring up like fire at a word.
CHAPTER III.
THINKING IT OVER.
"You took Dan up sharp, brother," said Bessy, as her son quitted the
cottage.
"Maybe I did," answered Ned, frankly. "I'm trying to keep down that
hot temper of mine, but there's nothing stirs it up like anything of
deceit, and it gets in a blaze afore I'm aware. There was something
in the lad's looks more than his words, that made me fancy him one of
those who don't see clearly the difference atween truth and falsehood,
and who get amongst the shoals almost without knowing it. I wanted to
show him the beacon lights set in the Bible to warn us off them, that's
all."
"Ah! Dan's quick enough at lying," said Bessy, with a sigh. "I can't
believe a word that he says. Many and many's the time I tells him,
'Dan, with all those fine stories of yours, you'll get into trouble at
last.'"
"And don't you tell him," said Ned, "that God hears, and marks down,
and that 'every idle word that men shall speak, they shall give account
thereof in the Day of Judgment'?" *
* Matt. xii. 36.
"Oh! I'm not one of your saints that likes religion brought in at every
turn," said Bessy, peevishly. "'Tis all well enough to go decently to
church on Sundays: and dear me!" she exclaimed, suddenly interrupting
herself, and starting up from her seat. "If that is not Mrs. Curtis
coming over the green! That woman is always taking one unawares."
And, with a quickness which astonished the sailor, Bessy whisked off
the dish from the table, flung an old shawl over the large piece of
bacon from which the rashers had been cut, and stowed away a heap of
damp linen which she had been washing into a cupboard.
"She's in a mighty hurry to tidy the room for the lady," thought Ned,
"but it doesn't look a bit neater than before."
Just as Bessy had finished her hasty preparations, Mrs. Curtis, a
small, delicate lady, very simply but neatly dressed, tapped at the
door of the cottage, and entered. Bessy was all smiles and curtsies;
she dusted a chair and placed it for her guest, hoped that she had
not been troubled by the heat of the day, and asked after "the young
masters and misses," like one who took an affectionate interest in the
well-being of the family.
"I am glad to see your brother here," said Mrs. Curtis, courteously
bending her head as the sailor respectfully rose at her entrance.
"Ah! Yes, poor fellow!" exclaimed Bessy. "He's my only brother living,
and as long as I have a crust, he shall be welcome to share it. We must
all care for one another, ma'am, as our good minister told us last
Sunday in his beautiful sermon."
"It would be but fair," thought Ned, "if Bessy gave the lady a notion
that I pay for this half-crust with the whole of my pension."
"It's but a poor home that my brother has come to," continued Bessy,
whose voice, in addressing the clergyman's wife, had a plaintive
drawling tone, quite unlike that in which she usually spoke. "I have
been wanting much, ma'am, to speak a word or two to you or to Mr.
Curtis."
"My husband told me that he intended to call here soon," said the lady.
"Ah! How glad I am even to see his blessed face. Ah! What I owe him,"
cried Bessy, heaving a long sigh, as if to express by it gratitude
too deep for words. "But what I was a-going to say, ma'am, was, that
I hopes as how Mr. Curtis will be good enough to put me again on the
widows' list for the loaves. I've really such a hard pull to live,
I don't know how we can get on without it;" and there was another
long-drawn sigh.
"Ha!" thought the indignant sailor. "The gratitude was for favours to
come."
"I don't see how my husband can put you on the needy widows' list,"
said the clergyman's quiet little wife; "your daughter is in service,
your son gets work, you take in washing—"
"Please, ma'am, begging pardon for interrupting you," said Bessy, again
dropping a curtsey, "the trifle Dan earns would not keep him in bread
(and it's little but bread as ever we tastes), and I've not had all
this blessed week more than tenpence worth of washing, and—" here Bessy
Poole's eyes chanced to meet those of her brother, flashing on her a
glance of such fiery indignation, that, quite confused, she stopped
short, stammered, and could not finish what she was saying.
Mrs. Curtis naturally turned to see the cause of the cottager's evident
embarrassment, and was much struck by the stern countenance of the
young man, who stood tightly pressing his lips together, as if to keep
in some indignant burst. Finding that he had attracted notice, Ned, who
had no wish to expose his sister, and who had difficulty in commanding
himself, thought it safest to quit the cottage without uttering a word.
"Is anything the matter with your brother?" asked the lady, after Ned's
abrupt departure.
"He has an odd temper, ma'am, very odd; I know that we shall have
a good deal to put up with, but, as our good minister told us last
Sunday—" and the woman went on with a string of what were meant as
pious phrases, but which, being only lip-deep, made far less impression
on her visitor than the speaker wished and intended.
"She talk to her son about truth," exclaimed the indignant Ned Franks,
as he strode into the back-garden, forgetful, in the storm of his
spirit, of the twenty miles which he had walked in the morning. "An
acted lie is as bad as a spoken one, and her way of going on was all
one wretched piece of acting from beginning to end. If there's one
thing I scorn, despise, and detest more than another, it's hypocrisy
like that."
Ned struck the nailed heel of his boot violently against one of the
weeds, and uprooted it from the ground; perhaps he connected the
worthless plant in his mind with the more hateful weed of deceit, or he
wanted something on which to vent the angry feelings within him.
"All weeds!" he muttered to himself, "I've a great mind to hoist sail
at once and sheer off, and find some other home where all will be open
and above board, at least where there will be no hoisting of false
colours, or hanging out of false lights, saying one thing and thinking
another."
Ned took one or two rapid turns up and down the garden; then gradually
slackened his pace as his anger began to cool down.
"Who am I that I should judge another?" thought the frank-hearted
seaman. "Are we not all of an evil nature, our souls as full of
wickedness as this wretched garden of weeds? There's nothing good grows
of itself, it's all God's grace as plants it. Am I—wilful wayward
sinner as I have been—am I to throw my own sister overboard, because
she has not yet been led to see things as I see them, and to know that
the straight course is the shortest course, and the only course that
can land us in a safe haven at last? Maybe, with prayer and pains,
we'll get the better both of her weeds and mine; I master my impatience
and bad temper, she, and that lad of hers, learn that 'a lying tongue
is an abomination unto the Lord', * and that all who serve a God of
Truth must speak the truth from the heart."
* Proverbs vi. 17.
Ned took another turn up and down, stooping down now and then to pull
up and throw away some straggling weed, till he found his spirit calm
enough for prayer. The sailor looked up at the sky, so blue, and clear,
and transparent above him, and his heart rose, in what was earnest
supplication, though he could not have put it into a regular form of
prayer. He wished that his deeds, and his sayings, and those of his
family, might be pure, and clear, and open as heaven's sunlight; that
they might be in the sight of God what they wanted to appear in the
sight of men, and be honest and true in all things, like faithful
servants of the Lord.
Ned's meditations were broken in upon by Bessy Peele, who came running
up towards him, with a bustling, excited air.
"What's in the wind?" cried Ned.
"You must come in directly," answered Bessy. "Who do you think is in my
kitchen—I knew she'd be here—but I'm sure—for Lady Barton herself to
walk all the way from the Hall!"
"What has she come for?" asked Ned, knitting his brow from an uneasy
apprehension of what was likely to follow.
"To hear about her son, to be sure! Lady Barton thinks no end of her
son—a pretty scapegrace though he be! When he left her, she lay crying
in her bed for a week—there was never a mother so fond—or so blind!"
"But what can I say?" exclaimed Ned. "I can tell nothing good of the
lad!"
"You must invent something good then!" cried Bessy, in an irritated
tone. "I can't have you, with your stupid bluntness, setting my
landlord's wife against me, and getting my home pulled down over my
head at Michaelmas, and my boy turned off, and my washing taken away!"
"I'd better not see Lady Barton," said Ned.
"Shall I hurry back and say I couldn't find you? You could get over yon
hedge and be off, without coming in front of the cottage."
"No—no sneaking," said the sailor, quickly. "I'll face out the matter
at once!"
"And you'll say the best you can!" cried Bessy, changing her tone and
tactics with a perception that her best chance with Ned lay in working
upon his affection. "You wouldn't injure your poor widowed sister, as
looks to you for comfort and kindness?"
"I'll do no harm—if I can help it!" muttered the tar, feeling far more
uneasy as he followed his sister than he would have done had he been
led up to an enemy's battery.
CHAPTER IV.
PUT TO THE QUESTION.
LADY BARTON sat in the old wooden arm-chair, which formed the chief
article of furniture in Mrs. Peele's kitchen, the flounces of her rich
blue silk dress filling up the space between the red brick fireplace
and the deal table, which was still scattered over with the crumbs of
the recent repast. Lady Barton was a stately and elegant woman, with
an air of fashion and dignity, which contrasted with the simple attire
and manner of Mrs. Curtis, with whom she was conversing before Ned and
Bessy re-entered the cottage.
As they came in, Lady Barton was just returning into her pocket a
purse, from which she had taken a half sovereign, with what intent both
the sailor and Bessy could not but guess as they caught sight of the
glittering beads of the purse as it was replaced within the silk dress.
"Ah!" exclaimed Lady Barton, with a queenly graciousness of manner to
the sailor, "I am glad to have an opportunity of speaking with one of
the gallant men who have served in the same ship with my son. You can
give me late accounts of Mr. Lacy Barton."
With a bright smile on her lips, the lady awaited Ned's reply.
"I was aboard the same vessel as Mr. Barton for more than a year," said
the tar, with the respectful manner with which he would have spoken to
any lady.
"You must have seen much of him then?"
Ned only bowed, thinking to himself "a good deal too much."
As he did not seem inclined to be communicative, the partial mother
tried to draw him out by an observation! "My son usually makes himself
a great favourite wherever he goes."
Bessy nudged her brother's arm, but Ned did not speak at the hint.
Lady Barton's gloved hand closed more tightly over the little piece
of gold which it hid; rather less graciously she inquired whether Mr.
Barton had been quite well when the sailor had seen him last.
Ned paused for a moment before he replied. "There was nothing much the
matter with his health."
The tender mother took alarm from his hesitation as well as his words.
"Not much the matter?" she anxiously repeated. "Was Mr. Barton not
well, was he obliged to keep his cabin?"
"Only for a few days, lady," said Ned, sincerely desirous to relieve
her.
"What ailed him?" asked Lady Barton. "Was he laid up with fever?" Her
voice betrayed her emotion.
"No, not fever," answered the sailor, wishing himself up to his neck in
water rather than standing there to answer the lady's questions.
"It was not his chest—not his lungs?" said the anxious mother, dropping
her voice. "He was so subject to coughs as a boy!"
"His lungs are as sound as can be, I'll answer for that!" replied Ned,
with a clear recollection of the strength of a voice which, raised in
an oath or a curse, might be heard above the roar of a storm.
"Then what was the matter with him?" repeated Lady Barton, in the tone
of one who must, and will, have a reply.
Ned's honest face was suffused with a flush, as if he himself had been
the culprit as he answered—"He'd had a bit of a spree on shore, and
been knocked about a little; these things will sometimes happen, but a
few bruises don't do much harm."
Lady Barton asked no more questions; she knew enough of her son's
former habits to enable her to guess but too well what the sailor had
left unsaid. Sorrow taking the form of mortified pride, the lady drew
herself up, and the delicate kid-gloved hand slid something back into
her pocket, a movement which did not escape the covetous eyes of Bessy.
Without condescending to say another word to Ned Franks, Lady Barton
rose from her seat, and, turning to address Mrs. Curtis, plunged at
once into a different subject of conversation. She asked the vicar's
wife about her scholars, said that Sir Lacy had resolved on beginning
to build the new school at Michaelmas, and observed that somewhere
about this spot would be the best possible place for the site.
Bessy clenched her teeth, and scowled at her brother, but the
expression of anger on her face was instantly changed to one of
obsequious mildness, as she caught the eye of the stately Lady Barton.
If Bessy had been gratified by the visit of the vicar's wife, she was
overwhelmed by the honour of one from a titled lady, and with a double
number of curtsies and thanks, she shewed her two guests to the door,
sending blessings after them as long as they remained within hearing.
And then!—
"You heartless good-for-nothing, unfeeling, ill-mannered dolt!" she
exclaimed, turning towards her brother with a gesture of her clenched
fist, as though she could have found it in her heart to have struck
him, had she dared. "What ill luck brought you here to bring trouble,
and ill-will, and ruin, on a poor lone widow as never did you any harm!"
"I'm as vexed as you can be, Bessy," said the sailor, passing his hand
through his thick curly hair.
"You'd better have bit off that foolish tongue of yours, than have let
it provoke such a lady!"
"It was grieving the mother, that I felt," said Ned Franks, "it was
seeing her so anxious and troubled. 'Twas a stiff gale to weather, and
I was never in my life more nigh dragging my anchor. But I'm glad," he
added to himself, "I'm glad that I held fast by the truth."
Ned was to have little peace during the remainder of that day. He had
to endure the "continual dropping" that made him bitterly remember
Solomon's proverb—"It is better to dwell in a corner of the housetop,
than with a brawling woman in a wide house." *
* Proverbs xxi. 9.
On Dan's return home in the evening, the storm which Ned had lulled a
little, broke forth anew with fresh fury.
"What do you think, Dan, that this hero uncle of yours has been
a-doing!" exclaimed Bessy to her son, banging down the kettle on the
bar of the grate, as if it too had grievously wronged her. "Lady Barton
herself, in her grand sweeping gown, came down from the Hall; I'd never
but once afore seen her enter my cottage, and that was when your poor
father lay a-dying!"
"What could she come for?" asked Dan, curiosity gleaming in his keen
little eyes.
"What for but to hear about her son, to be sure, and to talk to this
bear's cub about him, and to tip him with what would have bought me
a Sunday gown, I'll be bound, for I saw the lady thrusting back her
purse into her pocket. And there was he—" Bessy pointed at Ned with her
thumb—"first standing dumb as a stock-fish, looking as if he couldn't
utter a word, and then bounce out with such a fine tale, how Mr. Lacy
had got himself smashed in a drunken row, how he had to lie in his bed
for days all covered with bruises, how he was the most swaggering,
quarrelsome—"
Ned felt the hot blood mounting to his face, and the fiery passion
to his heart: there was nothing for it but to beat a retreat, before
he should utter as an angry man what as a Christian he might have
regretted. Weary as the sailor was, there was something which he felt
to be worse than fatigue, and he walked out into the cool fresh evening
air, once more to quiet his fevered spirit under the light of the pale
young moon.
CHAPTER V.
THE LAME SQUIRREL.
REFRESHED by a good night's rest, notwithstanding the discomforts
of his new abode, Ned Franks rose on the following morning with a
cheerful, thankful heart. He awoke with the verse on his lips—
"I bless the Lord who safe hath kept,
Who did protect me while I slept.
Lord! Grant when I from death awake,
I may of endless life partake!"
Up sprang Ned from his rough bed, ready to forget and to forgive the
"breeze" of the preceding day, and to set about his work in the spirit
of the command, "whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy
might."
After his morning prayer, and Bible reading, Ned begun in earnest to
set things "ship-shape" in what he called his "little cabin." The loss
of his left hand greatly increased the difficulty of labouring, but Ned
Franks worked with a will, and therefore with good success. His only
interruptions were from the little attentions required by a poor lame
squirrel that the sailor had picked up on the previous evening, and
which he nursed with the tenderness which seems peculiar to seamen.
Ned carried it down with him when he went to breakfast in the kitchen,
where he found his sister scarcely yet recovered from her fit of
displeasure; but her sulkiness could not stand against the influence of
his sunny good-humour.
"Come, Bessy, lass," cried the sailor, "let bygones be bygones, we'll
have smooth water to-day. After I've set my cabin to rights, I'll see
what's to be done in your garden; if we could only get the ground clear
of weeds, it's a fine crop we might look for next year."
Bessy Peele grew so gracious that she not only filled her brother's
wooden bowl almost to overflowing with hot bread and milk, but she
examined his squirrel with interest, prescribed for its wounded leg,
and filled an old basket with hay to make a bed for the sailor's new
pet. The poor little creature seemed already to know its master—did not
flinch from his hand, and let him warm it within his rough jacket.
"One could never harm a creature that trusted one," said Ned. "I'll
nurse the squirrel till its leg is all right, and then give it its
freedom again. 'Twould be hard to keep it in limbo, when it might enjoy
itself in the woods."
Back went Ned Franks to his work; nor did he stop till he had wrought a
wondrous change in the appearance of his dull little loft, by the help
of a pail of whitewash which he had procured from the village.
"It's beginning to look all taut and trim," said the light-hearted tar,
stepping back with the big whitened brush in his hand, to survey and
admire his work. "When I've earned a little more ready rhino, I'll have
a bit of bunting of the Union-Jack pattern over my bed, and stick a few
pictures round the wall, to make the cabin quite smart. And I'll have
my books up there aloft."
In default of a shelf, Ned had carefully ranged along the floor what
he deemed his best earthly treasures, his Bible, and such works as the
"Pilgrim's Progress" and "Saint's Rest," with a few other little books
of a useful kind, from which the sailor had gleaned more knowledge than
is usually possessed by one in his station of life.
Ned had made such good use of his time, that before dinner he had an
hour to spare for the garden.
Bessy Peele, as she ironed out her linens, could hear Ned's manly voice
behind the cottage singing blithely as a bird such sea-songs as "Poor
Jack" and "The Arethusa." Ned Franks felt perfectly happy at his work;
its very nature cheered him, for every weed that he pulled up, seemed
to his mind like an emblem of some evil habit rooted out.
"God is ready to give us His sunshine and his dew," thought the sailor,
"but He will have us to labour all the while; and though ours be but
one-handed work as it were, He'll never refuse his blessing if He knows
that we're doing our best. I did ill yesterday to be so angry with
Bessy and her boy, because of their sly sneaking ways, just as I looked
with scorn on the dirty loft and the weedy garden. 'One fault-mender
is worth fifty fault-finders;' says the proverb. Maybe the great Pilot
has guided me hither that I may take Dan Peele in tow, and get him out
of the shoals of deceit, and show him that it's better to sail with the
wind of truth right in our canvass, than to lose way by tacking about,
and split on the rocks at last."
Dan, on coming home to the cottage for dinner, found the sailor sitting
by the table, with the crippled squirrel on his knee.
"Ah! I say, where did you get that?" asked the boy.
"In the woods, yester evening," answered Ned.
"In the woods—what woods?" inquired Bessy, turning round from the
fire-place, where she was stirring something in the saucepan.
"Those woods yonder, at t'other side of the road," said the sailor.
"Why, that's Sir Lacy's park!" exclaimed Dan. "Didn't you see the board
up about trespassers being prosecuted?"
"I noticed no board," answered Franks; "it was getting dark, and I
minded nothing but the squirrel. As I was cruising about on the road, I
saw the little creature limping on the footway. Thinks I, 'the village
boys will hunt it to death, or 'twill fall a prey to the weasels, so
I'll catch it to save its life.' Easier said than done; lame as it was,
the little squirrel nearly managed to get off, squeezing itself through
a hole in the fence, and so getting into the wood, or park as you call
it. But I was over, and after it in a minute."
"I don't know how you, managed to get over, maimed as you are,"
observed Bessy.
Ned Franks burst into a merry laugh. "A Jack-tar who is used to go
aloft when 'tis blowing great guns, is not likely to make much of a bit
of oak-fence," said he. "It was easy enough to climb over, but it was
not easy to catch the squirrel; he led me a good long dance before I
could clap my hand upon him."
"Then he did say right," exclaimed Dan thumping his fist on the table.
"He! What do you mean?" cried the sailor, looking at the boy with
surprise.
"The gamekeeper did say right when he declared that he caught a glimpse
of a sailor in the wood."
"Likely enough," said Ned Franks, "I hope that no one thinks that I was
poaching."
"Something worse may be thought," cried Dan, winking mysteriously, like
one in the possession of an important secret. "Maybe you don't know
what all the village is talking of, that just after dark, half the
panes in Lady Barton's hothouse were smashed, a lot of them coloured
panes too, and that the constable's on the look out to catch whoever
has done the mischief."
"I've heard nothing about it," said Ned Franks, as he stroked quietly
the reddish brown coat of his little squirrel.
"But you're like to hear a great deal about it, a great deal more
than you'd like to hear," cried Dan. "'Tis said all about that you've
some bitter ill-will 'gainst the young master aboard the 'Queen,' and
all his family too, and that you was angry at something that the lady
said or did yesterday, and the gamekeeper saw you in the wood—and, of
course, you was there for no good—and there's not a soul as doubts as
you went there and smashed the glass out of spite."
"Some one has got up a fine story about me," said Ned, who more than
suspected that the whole was his nephew's invention.
Bessy Peele looked alarmed. "I hope—I hope," she exclaimed, "that we're
not agoing to get into another scrape with Lady Barton! Sir Lacy is a
hard man, and never lets any one off; 'twould be a dreadful business,
Ned, if you was to be sent to prison!"
Franks flushed indignantly, as if the very thought were an insult; but
he only said, "There's little danger of that, Bessy, I never hove in
sight of the house."
"How unlucky it was that you were in the park at all," began Dan, but
his mother cut him short.
"What's the use, you simpleton, of saying a word about the park? Who
need know that your uncle was there at all?"
"But the gamekeeper—"
"What of him?" interrupted Mrs. Peele. "He only guessed that he saw
something like a sailor in the dusk, and even had he seen Ned as
plainly as I do now, he's only one, and there's us three, you, I, and
your uncle, as can say—and hold by it too, that he never stirred from
that there chimney-corner from sunset to midnight!"
"Bessy!" exclaimed her brother, sternly.
"You don't mean to say," cried Bessy, "that with your ridiculous
notions about truth, you'll run into a trap with your eyes wide open,
and get yourself disgraced, and locked up in jail! What's the use, I
should like to know, of your telling the world that you were in the
woods hunting a lame squirrel like a boy!"
"I shall say nothing about the matter," answered Ned, "unless—"
"Hist! Hist!" exclaimed Dan, starting up. "If there ben't Sir Lacy
himself, and the vicar, the constable, gamekeeper, and all! And they're
coming here!" he added, in alarm.
"Oh, Ned, Ned!" exclaimed Bessy, "Whatever you do, don't own that you
ever got in them woods."
CHAPTER VI.
A STORM.
NED rose from his seat on the entrance of the two gentlemen; the
constable and gamekeeper remained at the door. Conscious of innocence,
the sailor confronted the knight with a quiet composure which
astonished his sister and Dan.
Sir Lacy was a short, thickly-built man, with bushy white whiskers, and
white hair, round a face whose usually pink hue was now flushed to a
deeper tint. His round, grey, prominent eyes, with their expression of
proud domineering insolence, disagreeably reminded Ned Franks of those
of the knight's namesake and son.
"Your name is Ned Franks," said Sir Lacy at once, without deigning to
take any notice of Mrs. Peele and her low curtsies.
"At your service, sir," answered Ned.
"You were trespassing in my park last evening?"
"No, indeed, he never left this cottage," began Bessy, but her brother
silenced her by a glance.
"I am sorry that I trespassed, sir," he said, respectfully, "I did not
see the board, and I was after this little creature."
He drew out the squirrel which, frightened by the entrance of
strangers, had taken refuge within his blue jacket.
"You were after something else," said Sir Lacy, roughly. "Do you
mean to say that you did not wilfully smash some twenty panes in my
conservatory last evening?"
Ned looked steadily into the face of the rude questioner as he replied,
"I was never in sight of your conservatory, sir; and as for smashing
your windows, I know no more who did the mischief than Mr. Curtis
himself." And as if to appeal to his sense of justice, Ned Franks
turned towards the clergyman.
"Perhaps you'll say that you know nothing about this," cried Sir Lacy,
holding out a large leaden ball on which was roughly scratched the word
"Sebastopol."
Ned Franks looked surprised, and, for a moment perplexed, and passed
his hand through his hair, as was his wont when in any difficulty.
"Can you deny that it is yours?" asked the knight.
"It is mine," said the sailor, frankly. "'Tis a ball which struck me
when we lay off the Crimea; but which—being spent—did not wound me at
all, and I kept it in remembrance of a preservation from death. I lost
it yesterday, I cannot tell where."
"I can tell where," exclaimed Sir Lacy, in a tone that rang through
the cottage, and reached the group of village boys, whom curiosity
had led to follow at a little distance the steps of the knight and
the constable. "I can tell where you lost it! It was picked up in my
conservatory this morning, having escaped notice last night when a
dozen stones were found, which, like it, had been used in breaking my
glass!"
Ned Franks with an effort kept down his temper, and replied calmly but
firmly, "How the ball came there I know not; it was certainly never
thrown by my hand."
"That's a falsehood!" cried the furious knight.
Then, indeed, the gunpowder blazed up in the breast of the young
sailor; he struck his hand on the table, and, with flashing eyes, he
exclaimed, "I never told a falsehood in my life, and you are the first
man who ever spoke such a word of Ned Franks."
Mr. Curtis laid his hand on the arm of Sir Lacy, and whispered
something to him in a low, earnest tone, while Bessy stood wringing her
hands, and Ned remained with his form drawn up to more than its usual
height, looking as a man might look who was facing desperate odds, but
with unflinching resolution.
"Don't tell me!" exclaimed Sir Lacy, shaking off the hand of the
clergyman. "He shall go to the lock-up at once, and answer for himself
before the magistrate to-morrow. The fellow shall pay for my broken
glass with a couple of months in jail! Here, Masson!"
And at the call, the constable entered, and Ned Franks was given to him
in charge.
Surprise, indignation, anguish, struggled in the breast of the seaman;
his first strong impulse was to knock the constable down! But even in
the sudden gust of passion Ned, whose leading principle was love and
faith towards God, was like a ship that still obeys the helm, even when
tost on a raging sea.
"The God of Truth will make my truth clear one day!" Ned exclaimed, and
with that appeal to One who could never be unjust, and who had Himself
endured the anguish of reproach and false accusation, the sharpest
pang of the seaman's trial passed away. He remembered that he was
drinking of his Master's cup, and would submit to do so for the sake
of that Master. With more composure than Ned but an hour before would
have believed himself capable of showing under such circumstances—for
disgrace to the seaman was worse than death—he gave a few needful
directions to his sister, commended his lame squirrel to her care, and
bade her and Dan good-bye.
"Cheer up," were the sailor's words, as he wrung Bessy's hand at
parting, "the blackest cloud will blow over, and we can't be driven
from our moorings while the cable of truth holds fast."
CHAPTER VII.
THE FOOTPRINT.
"I don't believe that he did it," said Mr. Curtis, thoughtfully, as he
stood with his back to the mantelpiece in his own little study, with
his hands behind him.
"I am convinced that he did not!" exclaimed Mrs. Curtis, from her seat
by the table, where she was preparing some work for her girls' school.
"And on what do you found that conviction, my love?" asked the vicar.
"If the sailor had broken the windows, he would have said so at once,"
answered the lady. "That man could no more stoop to a falsehood than
that pine—" she glanced out of the window—"could stoop to crawl on the
ground like bindweed! Ned Franks has a soul above lying!"
"You speak very positively upon a very short acquaintance, my dear,"
said the vicar With a smile, for he had seldom seen his gentle wife
roused to give an opinion with such animation.
"What were you yourself just telling Henry? Did you not say that you
were struck by the singular frankness with which the sailor owned
that he had been trespassing in the park, and that the ball was his,
and with the dignity of truth with which he asserted his innocence
concerning the glass? And I also have seen him tried, and bearing the
trial in a manner that would make me take the sailor's word against
that of a dozen other men. Was I not by when Lady Barton questioned
Franks hard about her son? Did I not see the pain which her questions
gave him! How he flushed and bit his lip, and yet from those lips an
untruth could no more come than if they had been of marble! Oh, Henry,
I am as sure of that young man's innocence as I am of my own."
"I'm afraid that we shall find it difficult to prove it, my dear."
"The way will be to find out who really did break the glass," said the
lady. "I think it very likely that the mischief was done by one of the
boys of our school."
"Nothing more probable," said the vicar, "but I see no way at present
of discovering the real offender."
"I'll go to the park myself," exclaimed Mrs. Curtis, beginning
hurriedly to put up her work. "I'll search all about the spot from
which the stones must have been thrown, and see if I can pick up
nothing, if I can find no clue to the secret. And you, dear Henry,"
Mrs. Curtis laid her hand on the arm of her husband, "you have a
Bible-class with the boys this evening, let your subject be truth. You
have such a power to convince, to persuade, you may lead the culprit to
confess."
"I fear that you hope too much, Eliza," said the vicar, shaking his
head.
"I cannot hope too much," cried the lady, "when my hope is in the mercy
and justice of God, who can make all dark things light, and who will
clear the guiltless. I'll go at once for my bonnet and shawl."
"The sun is very hot, still—"
"Oh! Never mind the heat," said Mrs. Curtis, as she hurried out of the
room, first to pray for success, and then to take what other means she
could to ensure it.
In about an hour the gentle little lady returned, looking heated and
tired, but with an eager expression on her face as she reentered the
study, where her husband was busy at his desk.
"Have you found anything, Eliza?" he asked, glancing up from his
writing.
"Very, very little, but something," she said, taking out of her bag a
bit of whity-brown paper, roughly cut into shape.
"What may this be?" asked the vicar, taking it up in his fingers.
"It is the size, the exact size, as well as I could manage to make it
out, of a footprint which I found on one spot where the ground was a
little less dry than in other places. It was just about a stone's throw
from the conservatory of Sir Lacy."
"A single footprint!" exclaimed the vicar.
"And so faint that I passed the place thrice before I saw it all," said
the lady. "But two things at least were clear; there were nails in the
boot which made the mark, as in those which our village boys wear, and
the foot that wore it, was a good deal smaller than that of a tall man
like Ned Franks."
"There's something in that," observed the vicar, fixing his eyes
thoughtfully on the paper. "But it by no means follows that the
footprint was left by the person who broke the glass."
"Then you think the paper of no use," said the lady, in a tone of
disappointment.
"I never said so; I trust that it may be of great use, my dear, and I
thank you, not only for bringing it, but for the hint which you gave
me in regard to my lecture this evening. I have been thinking over the
subject."
"And praying, I am sure," said his wife.
"Ay," replied the vicar of Colme; "we can do nothing without God's
blessing, and we can do everything if it be ours."
CHAPTER VIII.
THE SCHOOL-ROOM ADDRESS.
MR. CURTIS looked unusually thoughtful and grave as he walked up the
schoolroom. The boys missed the kindly smile and familiar nod, and the
inquiries after sick relatives, which were wont to make his greeting
resemble that of a father. All felt that the vicar had something on
his mind, as he stood behind the reading-desk, with the sunset glow on
his bald head, looking down on the throng of boys clustering in the
closely-filled benches.
Instead of going on with the history of St Paul, which he had been
explaining in a course of lectures, the vicar turned to the fifth
chapter of Acts. Before beginning to read, with his hand on the open
Bible, Mr. Curtis said a few words to the boys, who listened in the
deep silence of expectation.
"You see me anxious and disturbed—I am so. You all know, I doubt not,
what has happened in our village to-day. A sailor who, after serving
his country through hardships and dangers, had come here but yesterday
to enjoy rest and peace in a cottage-home, has been sent to the
lock-up, accused of an offence, which I believe from my soul that he
never committed."
Mr. Curtis paused, and the silence was so profound in the room, that
the murmur of a little neighbouring brook was distinctly heard.
"My belief of his innocence," continued the vicar, "is chiefly founded
on his character for truth. I believe Franks to be incapable of the
meanness and sin of telling a lie. But if the sailor be innocent, some
one else must be guilty, and I have chosen the history of Ananias and
Sapphira for our reading this evening, that we may all learn from it
how Almighty God sees, knows, and can bring to light these things that
we believe to be hidden for ever from the eyes of all men."
Mr. Curtis then went on to read aloud the awful story recorded in the
Word of God, of the man and woman whose characters had stood fair
before the world, who had been counted amongst the flock of faithful
Christians, but who had been struck down dead, with falsehood upon
their tongues! Fearful warning to all who think lightly of the guilt of
untruth!
Mr. Curtis closed the Bible. "Such a history as that which I have just
read," he remarked, "needs no comment of mine. We see in it written, as
with letters of fire, what falsehood is in the sight of the Lord! Now,
to return to the subject on which I was speaking, I wish all here to
know that a clue, though a slight one, has been discovered as to the
real author of the mischief done. The footprint of a boy has been left
on the sod!"
A thrill at the words ran through the assembly; the scholars looked
one at another, and then fixed their eager eyes on the speaker, gazing
open-mouthed, as if they expected that the next moment his finger would
be stretched forth to point out the offender.
"A boy!" repeated the vicar, emphatically. "Perhaps one of these now
before me! A fac-simile of the footprint has been carefully taken on
paper, and I intend tomorrow to compare it with the boots of each
one here present, unless—as I hope and trust—he who broke the glass
will earn the respect and confidence of all who know him by frankly,
honestly, nobly, confessing the truth at once."
Again there was that kind of electric thrill through the throng, again
the boys turned inquiring looks one upon another.
"In such case," continued the clergyman, "I shall do everything in my
power to shield that boy from the punishment which his mischievous act
has deserved, I shall use my influence to procure his full pardon from
Sir Lacy. But even if he have something to bear, it will be more than
made up to him by the satisfaction of feeling that, in confessing, he
has done what is manly and right; that he has saved an innocent man
from distress; that he himself has no sudden shameful disclosure to
fear; that he has earned a character for honour, the respect of his
comrades, the approval of conscience; and that he has put on that
Girdle of Truth without which whatever he may call himself, or think
himself, he can be a Christian only in name."
Mr. Curtis knelt down, and all the scholars followed his example.
Very fervent was the vicar's prayer to God, that He might give to all
present grace and courage ever to speak the truth, to conceal nothing
that ought to be confessed, remembering that a great Day is coming
when, before assembled myriads of angels and men, the most secret
things shall be manifest, when we shall know even as we are known!
There was some encouragement to the clergyman in the earnest "amen"
from the boys, which followed his prayer.
"I hope that your words have made an impression, Henry," said Mrs.
Curtis to her husband, as they sat together that night in the little
study.
The vicar had been reading aloud to his wife, but the minds of both had
wandered from the book.
"Why, we have no evidence beyond your little slip of paper, my love,
and—" Mr. Curtis was interrupted by the sound of a timid ring at the
door-bell: faint as it was, both the vicar and his wife instinctively
turned to listen, and nothing was said by either till the maid opened
the study-door with:
"The glazier's little boy says that he wishes to speak with you, sir."
Mrs. Curtis knew Stephen White to be one of the scholars, and her heart
beat fast with expectation.
"Ask him to step in here," said the vicar.
A thin, sly, slouching boy soon stood at the entrance, and then, after
being twice desired to come forward, moved one or two steps into the
room. He hung his head, fumbled with the buttons of his jacket, and
looked the picture of confusion and shyness.
"I am glad to see you here, Stephen," said Mr. Curtis, encouragingly;
"speak out freely, and tell me what you have come for to-night."
"Please, sir-" stammered forth the boy, "you said as how you would try
to get me off."
Mrs. Curtis could hardly refrain from an exclamation of pleasure, as
she dropped her work on her knee.
"I will keep my promise to an honest, truthful boy, who, having done
a wrong and a foolish action, is going to make what amends are in his
power."
Stephen White looked ready to cry, and put the back of his hand up to
his face.
"Why did you break the glass?" asked the vicar, seeing that in this
case silence was clearly consent.
"I thought as how it would give father a job," faintly stuttered forth
the boy.
"And how came you to have the ball, the leaden ball, that was found in
the hothouse?"
"I picked it up on the road yesterday," said Stephen, "and put it in
my pocket along with the stones. I didn't think, indeed I didn't, of
getting the sailor into trouble."
"I do not doubt you, my boy," cried the vicar.
Then, turning to his wife, he added, "Eliza, my love, just write down
his words; you and I will sign the paper as witnesses, and I'll carry
it myself to Sir Lacy Bar-ton's this very night."
"But oh! Sir," cried Stephen in alarm, "you will, you will get me out
of this scrape!"
"I'll do my best," answered the vicar, "and I've little doubt but that
I shall succeed."
Mrs. Curtis, with a hand that trembled with joyful excitement, had
already dipped a pen into ink, and a clear brief statement of the whole
truth was soon drawn up and signed, first by Stephen in round text,
very shaky and uneven, then by the pastor and his lady as witnesses.
"I am so glad," said the vicar's wife, as she brought to her husband
his hat and stick, and a comforter to protect him from the night air.
"I am so thankful that the character of that gallant tar is now cleared
from all suspicion."
"And I am as glad and thankful," said the vicar, looking at Stephen
White as he spoke, "that one of my boys, resolving not to add sin unto
sin, has come forward with a brave confession, and that I shall always
be able henceforth to trust his honour and his word."
Stephen gave a great sigh of relief; a weight was lifted off from the
heart of the boy; he felt that now he could bear even the risk of being
sent to prison.
CHAPTER IX.
CLEARING UP.
"A PRECIOUS scrape Uncle Ned has got himself into!" exclaimed Dan on
the following morning, as he blew the steam from his bowl of hot milk
and bread. "He'll be had up afore the magistrate to-day, and then
clapped into jail for I don't know how long!"
"If he'd only had the wit to say that he'd never entered them woods!"
exclaimed Bessy.
"Ah! He won't be atwitting me again for what he calls 'a mean thing,
a senseless, a wicked'—we shan't be hearing no more that a liar is 'a
sneak, a coward, a fool!'"
"Don't make too sure of that, my lad!" cried a loud cheery voice at the
door.
Bessy and Dan both started up in surprise, as Mr. Curtis and the sailor
entered the cottage.
"Well, if ever! Is he cleared?" exclaimed Bessy, reading an answer at
once in the beaming face of her brother.
"Yes, cleared, come off with flying colours," said the vicar; "truth
has ever the victory at last."
"Why," exclaimed the wondering Dan, "here comes Sir Lacy himself, at
this hour of the day!"
In bustled the knight with his flushed face and his bushy white
whiskers, but looking a different man from what he had done on the
previous day. Notwithstanding a violent temper, which led often to
passion, and not unfrequently to injustice, there was something kindly
and generous still in the character of Sir Lacy.
"I could not rest," he said, as to the utter amazement of the Peeles,
he held out his hand to the sailor, "I could not rest till I had
told you how much I regret yesterday's mistake. But you'll own that
appearances were against you."
"Ay, ay, sir, things looked ill," replied Ned.
"I should wish—I should like," began the knight, half pulling a
sovereign out of his waistcoat pocket, but Ned instinctively drew back,
with a feeling utterly incomprehensible to Mrs. Peele and her son.
"No, sir; if you do me a favour, please kindly to let off the little
chap who bravely spoke out the truth and cleared me."
"I've done that already, at the request of my good friend the vicar,"
said the knight. "I want to do something else, my fine fellow, to show
my feeling towards yourself."
"Then, sir, if you'd have the kindness not to send my sister here
adrift at Michaelmas: she has a love for her little cabin, and is sore
loath to leave it."
"As long as you remain here," said the knight, "I give you my word that
the cottage shall stand."
Bessy poured out a torrent of thanks and blessings to which no one gave
heed, while Ned Franks simply replied, "I thank you, sir, kindly."
Then, turning towards the vicar, he expressed in few but heartfelt
words his gratitude towards him and his lady.
"Depend upon it, Ned Franks," said Mr. Curtis, "a man who will not
speak an untruth either for fear or for favour, is never likely to
want a friend. He only can walk on the straight path freely, firmly,
fearlessly, who keeps the Master's command in mind and wears the Girdle
of Truth."
THE END.
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