Wrecked and Saved

Part I. Chapter

I. Peter Sands stood, as to relations, alone in the world ; but he had had many friends raised up for him. He had been saved from a wreck. On the south-west coast of this island he had been washed on shore in a storm, tied by a silk handkerchief to a hen-coop ; and besides this child, who, apparently, was about two years old, only two sailors were saved. They, on recovering their strength, were questioned about the boy. They could not give any account of him. They belonged to a Portuguese vessel laden with fruit. Passengers had been on board who were believed to be friends of their captain. One of the sailors said he had seen a child in some one's arms; they had had plenty of work to do, and no time for observation. So the B child, whose young flesh was bruised, and whose life was at first despaired of, remained unowned.

He had been thrown on the beach of a sea-coast which bounded a property, on which there was a prosperous village, skirting the sea, and running up a sheltered valley to the mansion of the proprietor, who was Colonel Penwarne. The mansion stood high above the village, on a fine lawn surrounded by mag nificent trees. A man who was a gardener, and who will be called James Gardener in this story, found the boy. He declared his desire to adopt him • he was a widower who had one child of his own, a girl called Mary, of twelve years old. But Colonel Penwarne had himself determined to bring up this boy, and bring him up in the Catholic faith. James Gardener was of no religion. A clever man, but one who, having no faith, still was said to lead a moral life and give no bad example. His wife had been a Catholic, and his daughter, Mary Gardener, was of her mother's faith.

James had a widowed sister to live with him called Mrs. Mills. Mrs. Mills took in washing, and she was bringing up her niece to the same work. They were glad to have the care of the shipwrecked child, and Colonel Penwarne paid for his maintenance. The boy grew up, and showed a decided taste for machinery. There were mines not far off, and on any holiday Peter was sure to be where the great water-wheels were going round, and the stamping mills were at work. He was a good boy, sweet tempered, and docile. He grew up well-looking, with large, soft, dark eyes. He was fond of learning, and his friends encouraged him to work with his slate and copy-book ; and they always made him speak plainly, and observe good manners. Colonel Penwarne took constant care of Peter. The boy had been conditionally baptised by Father Joseph, the priest who lived in the village, and he had then received the name of Peter Sands.

As he grew up, there was something about him which every one remarked. It was a visible superiority in mind and manner. Colonel Penwarne never passed him without stopping, and frequently inquired about his learning. He would sometimes stop his horse when the boy touched his hat, and put him through a sort of catechism. • Now, Peter, you may put your hat on. Tell me, if you please, how old are you ?' Peter, who loved the Colonel, and knew him well enough to reply quite boldly, would answer, ' I don't know, sir.' Then the Colonel would laugh, and hold up his riding-whip in a threatening way ; but Peter could only smile, for he knew it was done in joke. ■If you don't know, do you think you could guess V ■ Yes, sir. I guess I am fourteen years old ; for it is over twelve years since Mr. Gardener took me off the rocks, and they then supposed I might be two years old.' ' Ah, that was sad, very sad, my boy !' So said Colonel Penwarne one well-remembered day. 'Very sad, my boy.

But Almighty God gave you your life, and so remember to make a good use of it. Never let it be said of you, Peter, that it would have been better for you to have died upon the rocks, beat by the waves of the sea even to death. Now, Peter' — then this lad of fourteen looked up into the Colonel's face — 'now, Peter, remember this : we ought every one of us to die rather than commit a mortal sin ; and we are, as Catholics, bound never to follow in those foolish ways which end in sin. We are all bound to this obedience. But I consider you as doubly bound. Why was your life given to you when you were born of the poor mother you know nothing about ? Why were you born, I ask ?' ' To love God, and to serve Him in this world, and to be happy with Him for ever in the next.' So Peter answered in the words of his Catechism. ■ Yes,' Colonel Penwarne said on that memorable day ; ' yes.

And if you had died in your innocence, a poor baby, on the rocks, what would have been your state ?' ' Believing that I had been baptised, I say that I should have been at this moment among the saints in heaven.' ' Right, Peter. And do you think that God gave you life and not death for a good or a bad purpose ?' ' 0 Colonel, how could a bad purpose belong to the intentions of God ?' 'Again right, quite right, Peter. But to what good end were you reserved ?' ' To win, by a good life, the reward of a good soldier of the Cross,' said Peter, remembering that he was speaking to one of the bravest soldiers who had ever served his country. ' To do good, and to be good.' 'Very well. You are instructed. And where will you get the strength to be and to do as you say?' ' All the children of Holy Church find safety in the Church, knowledge in her teaching, and strength in the Sacraments.' ' And whose name do you bear ?' ' Your own name, Colonel Penwarne ; and it is the name of the first of the Apostles.

The Holy Father the Pope is also known as Peter in the Church, as being in Peter's place, and acting with his power.' ' And who gave him that power ?' ' God Himself.' ' And who gave us the Church ?' ' Our Lord Jesus Christ, the great Head of the Church, true God and true Man, to keep us all to gether as one family, and to teach us all truth.' ' And how many Sacraments have you received ?' ' Four,' said Peter ; ' Baptism, Penance, Holy Eucharist, and Confirmation.' ' And who gives these Sacraments ?' ' Priests ; and Confirmation is given by a bishop ; and Baptism can be given by a lay person if a priest can't be had. And priests are made by bishops, who govern the Church; and our bishops have come down straight from the Apostles, and the Apostles were made by God the Holy Ghost, who came down on them visibly on the day of Pentecost ; and the Pope is the successor of St. Peter.' The boy had got very animated by this time, and Colonel Penwarne was smiling. ' And how many Sacraments have I had ?' asked the Colonel. ' Baptism, Penance, Holy Eucharist, Confirma tion, and Matrimony,' said Peter, as fast as he could speak; and the Colonel smiled again. ' And what Sacrament is that which I shall never have ?' ' Orders,' said Peter. ' Tell me something about " Orders." ' By that Sacrament priests are made. ' And what can priests do which I can't do ?' ' They say Mass and give absolution.' ' And what is Mass ?' asked Colonel Penwarne, It seemed to Peter at that moment as a very solemn question.

He had often been asked this question in the Catechism, and answered it very often also. He had answered it, with a heart full of holy fear, and with knowledge and thankfulness, in many places, many times — at home, at school, and in church ; but now, as he stood under the spreading blue of the summer sky, at the top of the rocky lane leading down to the village, and on to the sea — now, when he gazed up at Colonel Penwarne's face as he sat his horse so well, and looked so grand and yet so kind — now, Peter felt that the great truth he was to utter would never come more solemnly from his lips than at that moment. He said, ' The Mass is the unbloody sacrifice of the Body and Blood of Christ.' Colonel Penwarne took his hat from his head, and Peter uncovered his head also. ' Tell me more,' said the Colonel ; and Peter went on readily, 'The Blessed Eucharist is the true Body and Blood of Christ, under the appearances of bread and wine.

The change is made when the words of con secration ordained by Jesus Christ are pronounced by the priest in the Mass. Thus our Lord gives Himself to us in this Sacrament.' ' And when were you last present at this ?' ' This very morning, Colonel, when you and Mrs. Penwarne were at Holy Communion together, when I served Mass, and said the Confiteor for our Com munion.' ' Peter,' said this brave good soldier, with a sweet smile, and putting his hat on his head again, ' take this.' He dropped a rosary, with a silver crucifix attached to it, into Peter's hand. ' Think of us sometimes when you say us. Pray for us now, and at the hour of our death. Keep holy. Lead an industrious, prudent life. Do good to souls when you can for the love of our Lord. Do a little labour for His dear sake. Now, how do you get on with Mr. Breward ?' ' Pretty well, I hope.' ' He has just been speaking well of you.

He says you have a wise head for your age, and a skilled hand. He will get you on, Peter, if he can. Good day — good-bye.' And Colonel Penwarne rode on. But he did not move twenty yards from the spot where Peter stood watching him. The horse fell as if shot, and lay for a moment like a dead thing. He rose, but Peter was by Colonel Penwarne's side, as he lay with his head against a heap of stones. The horse rushed violently to the foot of the hill. People in the nearest cottages heard the sound of the runaway creature, and came in alarm and astonish ment to see what was happening. Some seized the horse; others ran up the hilly road. They saw Peter, who had pulled off his jacket to roll up for a pillow and place under Colonel Penwarne's head, and when Peter saw them he beckoned anxiously for them to come yet more speedily.

When the first got up to him — he was a sailor called Roper — Peter said, ' He has spoken twice. He said, " The priest," and then, " Home." I'll run now. 0 Roper !' And then Peter burst into an agony of tears. ' Ah, yes ; you've lost your best friend. Here, stay here ; I'll run for Father Joseph.' ' No,' said Peter ; ' others are coming. Some, I hope, have gone for the doctor. I'll go ; I'll obey him all my life.' So he ran, going over the hedges and across the fields, till he reached the priest's house, and found that he was gone three miles off, on a sick call. But he and the priest's boy took blankets and a shutter ; and as they fell in with some people to help them, they were as quickly as possible by the Colonel's side. 'He is dead !' said a gray -haired old man. 'He has never spoken.

He gave one stifling sort of sigh, and that was death.' By this time the doctor had arrived. And then a sad procession was formed, and they went back up the hill into the wood, and among the flowers and shrubs that made the ornamental ground around Penwarne. They stopped under the shadow of a group of chestnuts. The doctor had gone on and entered the house. Servants came out, running towards them ; and then once more the villagers went forward with the solemn burden of a good man's corpse.

Chapter II

Peter followed the bearers of Colonel Penwarne's body up to his house. He had often been there before. But now there seemed to be an almost awful sadness about it.. Round the door and on each side of it there was a sorrowing assemblage of servants, and coming forth from the porch was seen an elderly lady, with quick, short, trembling steps, and by her side a girl, of about twenty years of age, and as they met the body the bearers stopped, and they both dropped weeping on their knees. Peter knew them. They were Mrs. Penwarne and her niece, Lady Edith May; for Mrs. Pen warne's sister having married Lord Greening and died, her only daughter, Lady Edith, was living at Penwarne during the time of her father's absence in the East Indies. Peter did not wait to see any more. He went away noiselessly and got into the entrance-drive ; then across the farmland, where the unconscious cattle were standing knee-deep in the great pool, round by the group of elms that cast a dark shadow on the quiet water, and on to a stile, on the other side of which was the public road.

Peter sat on the top bar of the stile, and there, sheltered from the sun by the branches of a huge holly-tree, he gave way to his grief; covering his face with his hands, he sobbed and wept as if his heart were broken. But he had not come to the stile without a mo tive. He knew that the priest would pass that way on his return to the village, and he waited to ask him to go straight to Penwarne. Soon a man came up the road. ' Have you seen Father Joseph ?' asked Peter. ' No. He went to Stonemoor this morning.' ' I know that. I am waiting to see him pass. But I thought that, if he had passed already, you would have met him.' ' True. But I have not met him. However, you may have to sit there half the day. What's the matter ?' ' Mrs. Penwarne wants Father Joseph,' said Peter. He could not bring his courage up to the point required to speak of Colonel Penwarne's death to a stranger.

Then the man went on his way ; and when Peter saw that he was alone he jumped down from the stile, and on his knees began the prayers for the dead. Father Joseph came soon after this, and to him Peter could speak, and tell all that had happened. He told it speedily, and Father Joseph listened. ' Can you take my pony home, Peter? I will go to Penwarne across the fields.' So Peter mounted the stout pony, and Father Joseph got over the stile and was quickly out of sight. He had hardly said a word to Peter, and yet his lips had been moving and the boy had heard his voice. And now Peter was alone again, going down the dusty road slowly, which was just what the tired pony seemed to like. He got to the chapel-house safely, and took the good little beast to its stable. Finding no one there, he gave the pony its hay and water, loosened its girths, and began to do the groom's work, in which he had been instructed ; for he was fond of horses, and the coachman at Pen warne used to teach him in leisure hours, telling him that he liked a man to be able to ride and drive, groom a horse, and handle harness, saddle, and bridle as one who had a knowledge of most things.

Peter was one of those people who can learn and do learn. He knew, what we ought all of us to know, that the seeds of knowledge grow to their perfection in the ground of humility. He had a teachable spirit ; and he never thought that he knew everything when, in truth, he had only begun to learn something. Peter was neither vain nor self-conceited; and, so far, he had succeeded very well in life. In fact he was just the boy to succeed, for he was willing to learn and humble enough to listen ; he was quick to understand and wise to remember; then, too, he was diligent in the practice of what he had learnt, and faithful to do well what he had undertaken to do. He was clever, methodical, thoughtful, industrious, and faithful. It may be said that it was his nature to persevere and to conquer. But there are many things which learners find in the path of persever ance which are by no means pleasant ; and to con quer and overcome, and put a law on one's actions and a curb on one's tongue — never to give way to cowardice, never to turn aside with the discontented — all that is more than Peter's nature could have done without help, and that help he got by keeping God in all his thoughts ; and the grace so to live in the presence of God he got by prayer, and by going to Mass and the Sacraments.

When people said, looking at Peter, ' There goes a clever boy,' they would have been nearer the real truth if they had said, ' There goes one who is good.' This boy was in many things very different from other boys. Other boys had fathers and mothers — they were members of a family, whom they loved, and they loved again. They had parents to honour and to obey ; friends and relations to listen to and to respect. But Peter was alone. The waves of the sea had cast him on the sands of the shore. He had never seen a relation of any kind in all his life. He had, however, a good strong loving heart, and he loved God. He thanked God for all the mercies that had happened to him, and for all the friendship and kindness he had found in the world; for the mercy that had taken care of him in infancy, brought him up as a child, and kept and taught him.

He heartily loved those who had made a home for him. But had not all been the gift of God ? A father and mother have duties towards their offspring, but the kind people who had cared for Peter had had no duties to fulfil towards him. Their heavenly Father had put it into their hearts to be kind to Peter, and they had fulfilled their hearts' desire. Peter was grateful to them, and he loved them. But when he thought of father, mother, and friends, he looked to the Church, and found the father and mother and friends there. All this was present in a wonderful way to Peter's mind as he groomed the priest's pony on that memor able day; for had not Colonel Penwarne been his best friend, and had he not left the earth and appeared before his God ? Peter prayed. What could he do but pray ? Had not this friend paid for his maintenance, sent him to school, inquired as to his tastes and disposition, and put him in the way of making the most of such talents as had been given to him ?

All this was true, and young and lonely as Peter was he felt that there had been about him the sun shine of prosperity. The question very naturally rose in his heart as he stood there at his work, What will happen to me now 1 But as soon as the question came the answer followed upon it. The ivill of God. Yes ; that had come, and would come, and whatever it was he must be willing to accept it. Then he remembered the rosary he had had given to him by his friend and benefactor, and he took it quickly from his pocket. He kissed the cross, and recollected those last words that desired him to pray for his friends as well as for himself. ' Pray for us,' he sobbed forth, resting his hot forehead on the mane of the patiently standing pony. ' Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us; for the friend who, since these words had been spoken, had gone forth from this earth to join the holy dead, and for himself, who had to stay and work out his salvation according to God's will.

These thoughts brought the use of prayer, and the certainty of death, and the great responsibility of life very close to Peter's mind. The truths which belong to religion seemed to have suddenly got so full of life, that all smaller things were lost in the contemplation of them. What does it profit a man if he gain the world and lose his own soul ? He had said it often, and learnt it in his Cate chism ; but what had happened now had made him know, and feel for a fact, that life is indeed given to us for the purpose of loving and serving God in this world, and living with Him for ever in the next. So Peter there and then made a strong resolution to live as a Christian ought to live, so that death could never take him unprepared. And he prayed a strong prayer, and a very sincere one, that God would help him to keep his resolution, and that our Lady, like a mother, and St. Joseph, like a true friend and protector, would have a merciful care over him in life and death.

Just as he had got so far in his pious thoughts he was interrupted. Some one came to the stable-door, and Peter heard a voice he knew very well say, ' Ah, good lad ; thank you. I was wondering who was here with the pony. Ah, I see. We have one more friend gone into eternity with a heart full of faith and prayer, and a life of good works. Now mind what I say — trouble seems to plough up the heart. And what good is this ploughing ? It prepares the place it passes over for the growing osgood seed. The seed springs fast. The dew of heaven and the gracious rain falls, and are quickly drunk up by the prepared soil ; so will the seed spring in your heart all the quicker for this great grief. Mind — yes, mind this, Peter : that you bring the seed safely to the well-grown ear, and keep it sound for the great harvest, which is the judgment day of God.

A great deal of trouble we must take with our hearts,' said this kind-voiced person; 'we have got to do the daily care for ourselves, keeping our hearts clear from evil thoughts, and from the dangers of our froward wills, just as we should keep our grounds and gardens clear of weeds, and protected from evil accidents ; and we never need be afraid of failing strength, for we know where to go for the Bread of life ; and the cleansing fountain is open to us in the Church — the one Holy Catholic Church.' Then the person who thus spoke stepped forward to the boy's side, and put the key of the corn-bin into his hand. ' Tbere, take out the right measure, and don't keep the good little beast waiting for his food. I see you have got the water; and then, if your duties allow of your helping me, I shall be glad of your services in the sacristy.' ' I can come, Mrs. Beauchamp,' said Peter. ' No one will expect me to-day.

Is there anybody with you?' ' No, I am quite by myself. I gave Millicent a holiday, and she went off to Treddington at five o'clock in the morning.' Mrs. Beauchamp was Father Joseph's sister. She was several years older, and she acted as his housekeeper. Millicent was her servant, a wise hearted woman, who had lived with her fifteen years, ever since her thirteenth birthday. So Peter finished his stable-work and followed Mrs. Beauchamp into the priest's house.

Chapter III

From the house Mrs. Beauchamp led the way into the sacristy ; and there Peter saw that work had to be done in preparation for Benediction, the hour for which was four in the afternoon. It was not the first time that Peter had helped in this work, and he now began to do his part with out a word being said or a single direction given. In the years that followed Peter often thought of that hour. It would come back to his mind like a picture, and his thoughts would rest upon it. For memory will often bring back a time which, when it was passing, we never tried to remember. Back it comes, often after many years, with many little par ticulars — the hour, the sunlight, the very shadows on the wall. And so this hour in the sacristy, on this solemn day of Colonel Penwarne's death, in after years came back to Peter with a comforting sense of a holy time — a time of solemn considera tion of the last things and the last hours of life.

Mrs. Beauchamp never spoke ; neither did Peter speak. He had not been brought up to be a selfish chatterer, fond of hearing his own voice : he seldom spoke to his elders or his superiors till he was spoken to ; but he could talk very well for his years, and no boy living could give a more straightforward answer, or tell the truth, and the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, better than he could. But now in the sacristy he worked on silently, knowing what Mrs. Beauchamp wanted, and doing for her all he could. They draped the altar and placed the lights. The fine summer weather had covered the earth with flowers, and never had the chapel looked more bright or shown a more joyful aspect than on this memorable day. Peter seemed to see it all, as has been said, when memory reproduced this day in after years.

The roses — some stiff and upright, and dark damask red; others white as driven snow; others, again, trailing their small-leaved branches, covered with the bright golden buds of the yellow brier ; and some blushing a pale pink of the most delicate beauty. Before St. Joseph were white lilies, and geraniums blossomed at our Lady's feet. Then, in the midst of all, a tall young figure wrapped in a long gray cloak, the face hidden by a veil, walked quickly, with noiseless steps, up the centre alley of the little church ; and Peter knew it was Lady Edith May. She stopped by the bench which the family from the mansion always occupied, and she knelt down where Colonel Penwarne had been in the habit of kneeling. Then she dropped her face on her hands, and her whole figure shook with emotion. She rose in a few minutes, and came on with the same rapid step to where Mrs. Beauchamp was standing.

Then Mrs. Beauchamp pointed to the sacristy-door ; and Peter went on before her, while she waited for Lady Edith. When Peter saw those two enter the room, he was going to leave it by the outer door; but Mrs. Beauchamp made a sign for him to stop. ' You may be wanted,' she whispered. Lady Edith turned quickly to Mrs. Beauchamp ; and Peter saw such a sad face, it brought the tears into his own eyes to see hers. She laid her head on Mrs. Beauchamp's shoulder, and gasped forth these words, with choking sobs between : ' I came to say that I think — this afternoon — I can't play.' It was Lady Edith who always played the organ on Thursday afternoons : an organist from Tredding ton, a town six miles off, came every Sunday. 'Yes, I understand. We can do without you,' answered Mrs. Beauchamp, in a soothing voice. ' I was afraid there might be a difficulty, because Miss Appleton is from home.' Miss Appleton sang very well, and was able to lead the choir without the help of music, and she always played the organ when Lady Edith was away. ' 0, we can do,' said Mrs. Beauchamp. ' I'll see to it.

We have many faithful hearts among our singers, and the soul that is faithful can always do what is expected of it.' This was not the first wise sentence that Peter had heard from this good woman's lips that day, and he never forgot it. When memory brought back the bright flower-decked altar, and the sorrowing figure of Lady Edith May, there always came the words, as in a whisper, ' A soul that is faithful can always do what is expected of it;' and he would treasure the thought up as a strong truth, to be a help to him in an hour of need. Lady Edith went into the organ-loft, and Peter put the sacristy quite tidy. Mrs. Beauchamp after this sent him into the priest's house, remaining behind to speak to Lady Edith. When she entered the kitchen she found that Peter had been wiping knives and getting the dinner -tray ready, remembering that Millicent had been away ever since five o'clock in the morning, and that Mrs. Beauchamp had undertaken the arrangement of all household things.