XXXI The Baronet’s Return
Ned Franks had an exceedingly pleasant journey home. He arrived at Colme in high spirits, and received a joyful welcome from Persis; to whom he gave a very amusing account of all his adventures in London, and of their happy conclusion.
Persis, on her part, had a good deal to tell, though, like a sensible wife, she let her husband first have out his say. She told of her visit to Nancy Sands. Franks listened to her account with interest and pleasure; and, when he heard that the poor woman had attended church upon Sunday, his honest blue eyes lighted up with an expression of joy.
“It’s a real pleasure,” he cried, “to see a fellow-creature lifted out of poverty, and given a good start in life, like Benjamin Isaacs; but it’s a still greater pleasure to see a poor sinner that was going to ruin raised out of the mire, and turning her face towards Zion. O Persis! I trust that there’s many a one that man would have rooted up as worthless tares that will be found in the heavenly garner at last!”
“And poor Ben Stone is, I hear, far more anxious about his soul than he ever was before,” said Persis. “I do trust that he is now resting on sure ground; that he is giving up all vain hopes of being saved by anything but living faith in the one great Sacrifice for sin.”
“You and I are exchanging good tidings, my Persis,” said Franks. “All seems bright sunshine now, within as well as without, in this glorious month of June.”
“I cannot quite say that, dear Ned. We had something of a cloud sweeping over Colme yesterday in the shape of a carriage and four, with postilion and post-horn, dashing through the village during church-time, on the way to the Hall.”
“You don’t mean to tell me that young Sir Lacy Barton has come to take possession of his property!” exclaimed Ned Franks, looking startled at the news. “I had hoped with all my heart and soul that he would have kept away for years. You know that I had but too good an opportunity of judging of the character of that young man when I was a sailor on board the same man-of-war in which he was serving. I don’t like to think ill, still less to speak ill, of any one who has served under the dear old Union-jack of England; but I should be sorry to think that the queen has another officer to match that young scapegrace, Barton. I wish that the old baronet had lived till he was a hundred years old; it might have saved our village from the mischief which must be brought by the influence and example of such a man as his son.”
Ned Franks, who had been doing all in his power to train the village boys under his charge to be not only good scholars but good Christians, felt like a shepherd who hears that a bear has been let loose in the midst of his flock. The lord of the manor would be like a little king at Colme amongst his tenants, and his influence for good or for evil would be very extensive indeed.
“The new baronet did indeed drive to the Hall yesterday,” said Persis, “and he took good care that all the village should know of his arrival; for, as he dashed past the church where we were listening to Mr. Leyton’s sermon, the post-boy blew a loud flourish on his horn. The church doors were open on account of the heat, so you may imagine the effect of the trampling of horses, and the sudden loud blast upon our little congregation. Every one turned his head round, half the people rose from their seats, some of the children ran out of church to see the great man drive past! One could hardly blame them, poor little things. It was strange in Sir Lacy to return thus to the home of his poor dead father.”
“Just like him, just like him,” muttered Franks.
“You should have seen how our young curate flushed up to his forehead, and for a moment or two could hardly go on with his sermon,” said Persis.
“It was a personal insult to Mr. Leyton for Sir Lacy Barton to have the horn blown at the very door of his church,” cried Franks. “It is the more strange that the baronet should behave thus, as our curate is his own cousin, and, I’ve heard, the heir to his title and property.”
“Sir Lacy might not like him the better for that,” observed the school-master’s wife, with a smile. “Mr. Sands told me yesterday that he believed that the noise was made on purpose to spite the young preacher; for Sands, as clerk, had had to carry a message to the curate just before service began, asking him to have the church-bells rung for the next hour in honor of the baronet’s arrival in Colme.”
“Did you ever hear of such a thing!” exclaimed the indignant Franks. “What answer did our young curate return?”
“Oh, a courteous one, you may be sure! I don’t think that Mr. Leyton could be rude to any one if he tried; but I believe that he proposed to Sir Lacy a little delay. Of course bell-ringing during church-service was out of the question, so the baronet gave us horn-blowing instead.”
“Mean, sneaking spite!” muttered Franks. “We are likely to have a stormy time of it if Sir Lacy stays long at the Hall.”
“You and he are not likely to have anything to do with each other, I trust,” said Persis. “Do you think that Sir Lacy will remember having seen you on board of his ship?”
“I don’t know,—I was nothing to him,—he was not likely to take much notice of a common sailor, and it is nigh four years now since we trod the same planks. But if Sir Lacy does chance to remember me, he will not care to have any one in Colme who knows so much of his pranks at sea as I do. I doubt he’ll let me stay here long.”
“I don’t know what he has to do with your going or staying,” said Persis, speaking, however, with a little nervous hesitation, for she was aware that the lord of the manor must be a powerful enemy.
“Do you not know,” asked Franks, quickly, “have you lived here so long without hearing, that this school was founded and endowed by a Barton ages ago, and that the family have a right to appoint the master of it?”
“I thought,” replied Persis, turning rather pale, “that you had been appointed by our good vicar, Mr. Curtis.”
“Oh! the last old baronet let our vicar appoint whom he would, thinking, I suppose, that Mr. Curtis knew more about schools and school-masters than he did himself. But the patronage of the place goes along with the property.”
“Then you must walk warily, Ned.”
“That’s not a thing I can do!” exclaimed the late sailor. “When I see an unprincipled fellow trying to corrupt others, and making use of wealth and position only to do the more mischief, I feel a kind of game-cock spirit stirring within me; it seems as if I must have a dash at him, come what may.” Ned Franks’s blue eyes sparkled with animation; he looked as one of the soldiers at Waterloo might have looked at the call, “Up, guards, and at them!”
Persis was fondling in her arms her little babe, that smiled up at her, unconscious of the shade of anxious care passing over the mother’s face. She gazed wistfully first at Ned, then at their boy, as she said, “Oh, do not forget that you are a husband and father now.”
“No,” replied Franks, more quietly; “it is wonderful what a difference that makes in a man. It’s well that tars are not allowed to take a wife or children to sea, or they’d think twice before they ran a ship within range of the enemy’s guns. I could bear a pinch of poverty well enough myself, but I’m a bit of a coward when it comes to seeing you or the baby in want. Bless him!” the father stooped forward and kissed the soft lips of his child. “But I can’t answer for my own self-command, if I’ve much to do with that worthless Barton. I detest him more than any other man in the world.”
“Now, Ned, darling, will you let me say a little thing to you?” asked Persis, with a shy, tender glance at her husband, as she laid her hand on his shoulder. “Do you think that our blessed religion allows us to detest any being on earth?”
“It makes us hate sin!” exclaimed Franks.
“But surely not sinners, my love.”
“The truth is,” said the sailor school-master, “that I’m by nature of an impatient, fiery spirit. I’m one of those of whom it is said that they make good lovers and good haters.”
“A good lover, if you will,” observed the wife with a pleasant smile; “but it always seems to me that the expression, ‘a good hater,’ can never describe a Christian, who is bound by the Lord’s command, not only not to detest but to love his enemies.”
“That’s a most difficult command to obey.”
“I am sure that it is,” observed Persis. “But He who gave the command, can also give grace to keep it. It seems to me, as if hatred, revenge, and all the fierce passions so natural to man, are like Satan’s fire-ships that he sends against even those who are going on the straightest course towards heaven—”
“And you would have me ‘sheer off,’” cried Franks, gayly, “as soon as I see one bearing down on me, because I carry a dangerous quantity of gunpowder down in my hold! You’re afraid of an explosion, wifie, and you’re right. I dare say now that there’s something of pride in my very contempt for a fellow like Barton (he really is not a gentleman); I despise him too much in the spirit of Stand by, I am holier than thou.”
“And should we not remember,” said Persis, softly, “that those whom we cannot respect are our fellow-creatures still; they, like ourselves, have souls, precious souls, that must live forever? If they, through rejecting mercy, will have at last to share the misery of the rich man in the parable, should not our deep, deep pity swallow up every feeling of dislike? And if, on the contrary, they are to be found in the end amongst those whose sins have been forgiven, can we not bear with them a while in patience, even as God has borne so long with them, and with us?”
Ned Franks answered the question by giving his wife a hearty kiss, in return, as he said, for her lecture. He promised to keep on his guard, less against Sir Lacy Barton than against his own fiery temper, and to “sheer off” as fast as he might, whenever he found that Satan’s fire-ships of hatred, malice, or revenge, were drifting on the current towards him.