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.