The new school-master had already arrived at the Hall, and was constantly showing himself in the village. He even made his appearance at church, where, on the first Sunday in August, the vicar had come to return thanks for recovery after his long and dangerous illness. The irreverent manner of the school-master-elect, who looked like—what he was—a low sharper, likely to teach the boys little but how to play, or to cheat at cards, made a very painful impression, not only on the vicar and curate, but upon all who cared for religion or morality in the parish.
A very sad Sunday was that to Ned and Persis. Even under happier circumstances, the thought that it would be their last at Colme would have sufficed to throw a shade over the brightest prospects. All their happy wedded life had been spent in the place. There seemed to be dear associations connected with every cottage, nay, almost with every tree. The friends who were dearest to them, the children whom they had taught, the pastor whom they revered, all, all must be left behind. Would they ever see them again? And what darkness hung over the future! Would Franks, a one-armed man, succeed in earning enough to support a wife and child? And if not, what distress might be before them! And all this wrecking of peace, this breaking up of one of the happiest of homes, was the work of the wanton malice of one unprincipled man!
On the Sunday evening, Ned Franks, usually so cheerful and brave in spirit, was overpowered by deeper depression than he had ever experienced since he had first met with Persis. He sat gloomy and silent in the darkening twilight, with his hand pressed over his eyes. Persis had just placed her babe in his cradle, and drawing forward a footstool, she now seated herself upon it, at the feet of her husband. She longed to give comfort, yet scarcely ventured to speak, and at last, feeling that the words of the Lord were far more likely to soothe a troubled spirit than any of her own, she repeated very softly, "Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you."
"If I had only that," said Franks, sadly, as he removed his hand from his eyes, "I should care less for the troubles that have come upon us thus. Do you know me so little, Persis, as to think that I'm so downhearted just because we're in a few days to be turned out of our home, or because we've been disappointed in these letters from London? I do not say that I do not feel these things, but I should be a coward if I could not bear them, and a fool if I'd expected that troubles never would come." Then, suddenly appearing to change the subject of conversation, Ned abruptly asked, "Did you hear what Mr. Leyton said to me this afternoon when we had just come out of church?"
"No, I was speaking to Nancy Sands."
"He said, 'Poor Stone is now sinking fast. The vicar himself is going to administer the communion to him—I fear for the last time—to-morrow evening at six. Stone told me that he hoped that you and your wife would come over and partake of the Lord's Supper with him, as he owes more to you than to any one else upon earth!'"
"And what did you reply, Ned?" asked Persis.
"Nothing. Mr. Leyton noticed Nancy Sands at that moment, and turned to ask her a question, and, as you know, you and I then walked home."
"Surely," observed Persis, "it will be a satisfaction to us both—once more—in this dear, dear place—to"—She dared not go on, lest her voice should betray her distress at leaving the village.
"How can I share the feast of love," exclaimed Ned Franks, bitterly, "when my heart is full of hatred! I've been searching and examining myself ever since Mr. Leyton spoke, and I dare not go to the Lord's table!" The school-master rose from his seat, and began pacing up and down the room while continuing to speak. "'To be in charity with all men,'—that is absolutely needful; without that I should but profane the holiest service. I can't shut my eyes to the truth, I can't deceive my own heart,—I do hate and detest Sir Lacy, more for what he is than for what he has done! So I must keep away—like an outcast—from the feast to which I am so lovingly invited; I must not share it with my poor dying friend, or the pastor whom I reverence, though, by keeping away, I shall own before all the village that I know myself to be unworthy to join in Christian communion. And if I am unfit to partake of the holy supper, I am also unfit to die, unfit to appear in the presence of my God! O Persis!" exclaimed the agitated man, throwing himself again on his chair, "people talk well of me, think well of me—much too well; tell me that I've helped them on their way to heaven; but what will it profit me if, after preaching to others, I myself should be a castaway!"