CHAPTER X.
A SON THAT CAUSETH SHAME.
REUBEN felt like a new creature when he started for Ashworth, and, leaving the smoky town behind, saw again the green fields and the clear blue sky. The trees were still bare, but here and there were tokens of spring's approach, the yellow catkins drooping from the willows, a touch of vivid green amidst the brown twigs, a shy primrose or two-peeping from beneath a hedge.
But if spring did not yet possess the outer world, it was full springtide in the heart of Reuben Roy. Not till now that it was lifted from his spirit had he fully realized what a crushing burden was the sense of unmerited disgrace. It was delightful to feel that he was free from it at last, that his character was cleared from every imputation, and that no one now could point to him in scorn as one who should be in prison if he had his deserts.
And as he rejoiced with a glad sense of freedom and renewed life, it struck Reuben what a dreadful thing, since the mere shadow of such evil was so hard to bear, must the sense of actual guilt be. It was bad enough to know that others regarded you as a wrong-doer, but how much sorer shame must he feel who knew himself to be a criminal, and who could never again look his fellow-man frankly in the face, feeling himself worthy of respect.
"There is therefore no condemnation to them that are in Christ Jesus."
The words flashed suddenly upon Reuben's mind with a new vivid revelation of their truth. He had known before that all men are sinners, and that Jesus Christ is the Saviour from sin, but now his recent experience gave him a keen sense of the misery that sin works.
He saw sin as the most appalling fact in human life, the universal shadow clouding the beauty and joy of earth; saw how unforgiven sin inevitably involves a sense of guilt and separation from God, and how the gospel, with its glad proclamation of no condemnation through faith in the Divine Atonement, absolves the conscience of the sinner and sets his spirit free.
And Reuben knew that even the best of men can be kept from sin only by the grace of God. If his long trial of unjust suspicion and undeserved scorn had bred any self-righteousness in the heart of Reuben Roy, it was all swept away now, and he knew himself a weak, sinful lad, needing every moment that Divine grace which God has promised to all who seek it, and in the strength of which alone can temptations be successfully resisted.
Reuben's mother was dismayed to see her son looking so white and thin. And she questioned him so closely as to the cause of his altered looks that he soon had to tell her the whole history of the trial he had undergone. She listened with deep interest, and an emotion she could not conceal.
"I was sure there was something wrong," she said; "I could tell it by your letters, lad. But you should have told your mother. I would rather have known all about it, even if it should worry me. It wouldn't have given me the worst trouble. You'd have had no word of reproach from me, Reuben. I know my lad, and if all the folks in Birmingham had called you a thief, it would have made no difference to me; I should know that you were not."
Reuben was very pleased to hear his mother say that.
"I am glad you can trust me, mother," he said.
"I should hope I could trust my own son," she said proudly; "you've never deceived me and your father yet, and I know you never will. Ah, how I pity those parents whose children deceive them, and who find out when it is too late what their real character is."
"Mother," said Reuben quickly, "have you heard anything of Owen Grant? Is he at home now?"
"Yes, alas! I have heard of Owen," said Mrs. Roy gravely, "but it's no good news, Reuben."
"What is wrong?" he asked. "I know that Owen has left the business he was in."
"He was dismissed for a shameful reason, Reuben. It was discovered that he had been stealing his employer's money."
"Mother!" exclaimed Reuben. Then he added quickly, "Perhaps there is some mistake. He may have been falsely accused, as I was."
"No, it is not so, unhappily," said Mrs. Roy. "His crime was brought home to him in such a way that he could not deny it. They say he managed it very cleverly—he was always so sharp, poor Owen! He kept the accounts, I believe, and for weeks he managed to take considerable sums of money, and yet, according to the books, all seemed right. But it was found out at last, of course. It seems that he had fallen into bad company, and he wanted the money for gambling debts and the like."
"Ah," said Reuben, "I was afraid from what I saw of him that he was going wrong, but I never dreamed of anything so bad as this. Oh, his poor old parents, how will they bear it? It's enough to break their hearts."
"Their hearts are just broken, I believe. The poor old man looks as if he'd never lift up his head again. They say that when he'd read the letter that brought the ill news, he opened the old family Bible and took a pen and scored out Owen's name and all he had written about him."
"Did he really? Poor old man! He was always so proud of Owen."
"To tell the truth they were both almost foolish about him. It was just as if they thought he could not do wrong, like everybody else's child."
"Did Owen write himself?" asked Reuben.
"No. It would have been better if he had," said Mrs. Roy. "His employer wrote. He has behaved very kindly. He had such a respect for Owen's parents that he would not prosecute him. He advised Owen to come home, but he has not done so, and they do not know where he is, which is an added grief to his mother, though his father does not seem to care. Poor old David has always been proud of his good name, and he feels the disgrace sorely. He is determined to pay back every penny which Owen took, and is going to sell his house and land in order to do so."
"Oh, what a pity! That dear old house, where he has lived all his life! Ah, mother, that is real trouble. Mine was nothing compared with it. How can Owen bear to think of the sorrow he has brought upon his father and mother?"
The news saddened Reuben greatly, and, despite the brightness of his home-coming, and the joyous welcome he had from every one, he could not soon shake off its sombre influence. It was another instance of the misery that sin works. Fair, peaceful, Ashworth had seemed to Reuben, when he thought of it amid the din and gloom of Birmingham, far removed from the evils of the city. But here, too, were homes darkened by sin, and innocent sufferers sharing the punishment of the guilty. The fact that the bitter consequences of sin are rarely confined to the sinner seemed to Reuben a fresh reason why every true man should gird himself for a lifelong resistance to temptation.
The sale of David Grant's house and land took place in the following week. He had hurried it on, impatient apparently to get it over. The picturesque old cottage, the oaken furniture, the rare china, the fine linen, all came to the hammer. He would let his wife retain only the barest necessaries to furnish the tiny one-roomed cottage which was now to shelter their grey heads.
"What does it matter about us?" he asked. "Let us but pay the money, let us clear our name of the disgrace 'he' has brought on it, and then the sooner the grave closes over us the better."
But his wife was of another mind. She was not ready to die until she had seen her child again. His sin, deeply as she grieved for it, did not make him less her son. Sometimes it seemed to her that she loved Owen more now than before he went astray.
Most of the neighbours came to the sale at David Grant's. It was their way of showing sympathy with the poor old people, upon whom such a heavy burden of shame and grief had fallen. Every one hoped that the sale would go off well and realize a good sum. It was a surprise to them that David Grant himself was present, seated near the auctioneer. The old man looked sadly bent and aged. He sat leaning forward, his hands clasped upon his stout walking-stick, and his eyes upon the ground. He gave neither word nor glance to any one. Nor did he betray any sign of emotion, as one after another his household goods and the relics of his ancestry, which he had prized so much, were put up for sale.
When all was over and the people were dispersing, his attitude remained unchanged. Few of the neighbours had the courage to go and shake him by the hand. There was that in the old man's heartbroken, hopeless air which inspired awe. Those who did venture to address him received no response to their words, only a vacant, scarce-conscious gaze.
At last the auctioneer, touched by the old man's helpless, dazed condition, offered to lock up the house and take him round to the cottage now his home. But David would not have it so.
"Nay, nay," he said; "I'm not ready yet. I'll lock the door by-and-by. But first I must bide here a while by myself. I shall never cross the threshold of my old house again."
So they left him. But as the evening wore on, his wife, who had not had the heart to show her face to the neighbours that day, but had busied herself with trying to make the little cottage look home-like, grew anxious, and went in search of him.
The sun had set, and it was twilight as she passed up the well-worn garden path. She could see the form of her husband seated beneath the porch about which the roses bloomed so plenteously in the summer. She went up to him and laid her hand upon his arm.
"Come, David," she said, striving to speak cheerfully; "come away now. It's of no use to sit in the gloom and fret. Come away, and let us pray God to have mercy on our poor lost lad."
But another voice had called David Grant away, and he would never respond to words of hers again. The desire of his heart was not disappointed. He had breathed his last in the old home of his family.
When the funeral was over and David Grant had been laid to rest with others of his name in the old churchyard at Ashworth, the widow sent for Reuben Roy. He obeyed the summons promptly, wondering what she could want with him. He found her quite calm; indeed, the way she was bearing up under her heavy sorrows was a marvel to every one. But the face she raised as Reuben entered the cottage seemed to him only the more mournful because it showed no trace of tears.
"Sit down, Reuben," she said gently; "I want to have a few words with you."
Reuben sat down.
She did not speak for some moments, and he had time to observe that on the table lay several things which he recognised as belonging to Owen. Amongst them was the handsome Bible which Owen had received as a prize in the Ashworth Sunday-school. How vividly the sight of it recalled to Reuben's mind the day when Owen had received it, and Mr. Howe's parting words to the scholars whom he loved! Poor Owen! If only he had heeded those words! As he thought of Owen's cleverness and the high opinion Mr. Howe and his teacher had formed of him, and the proud hopes for his future cherished by his fond parents, Reuben felt a choking sensation, and it was only by a strong effort that he could keep the tears from rising in his eyes.
"You are looking at that Bible," said Mrs. Grant, in low, quavering tones; "they have sent it to me with other things that Owen left behind at the place of business. Ah, my poor lad! If he had but made that Book his guide! And we were proud to think how well he knew it! But it was only head knowledge, and that will not save any one. There was our mistake. Ah, poor lad! It were better he had not been so clever."
"He'll come to himself some day, Mrs. Grant," said Reuben. "I can't help thinking he'll come to himself some day, like the Prodigal Son, and turn his face homeward."
"God grant he may," she said fervently. "Reuben, I've sent for you because you and Owen were boys together, and I believe you'd have been a good friend to him if he had been willing. God only knows where my boy is now. Sometimes I think he has gone a long way off; sometimes I fancy he may be still in Birmingham. I've had thoughts of going in search of him, for I've little heart to live on at Ashworth by myself now everything is changed. But as like as not I should miss him if I did that, so I think I had better bide here till he comes, as I pray God he may."
"I am sure that will be best," said Reuben earnestly. "You must not go away."
"Oh, as for that, all places are alike to me now. But, Reuben, I want you to promise me that if you come across my lad in town, as maybe you will, you will speak kindly to him, and tell him that his mother is here, waiting for him and longing for him to come. Send him home to me if you can, Reuben Roy."
"Ay, that I will," said Reuben; and having given this promise, he took his leave of her.
CHAPTER XI.
A CHANGE FOR KATE.
REUBEN ROY went back to his work in Birmingham looking "like himself," as his mother fondly said. With fresh hopes and a renewed determination to acquit himself well, he presented himself the next morning at the works. The hearty greeting and warm congratulations he received from old Samuel were but a sample of what awaited him from most of the "hands." Those who had looked coldly and even scornfully on him in the time of his trouble were now anxious to atone for their mistake.
Reuben was touched by the kind words which reached him from all sides, and the universal pleasure which his return with restored character seemed to give. But his satisfaction was still greater when Mr. Akenside told him that he was not to return to his former work, but was in future to fill a post at the works which involved considerable responsibility.
"It has never before been given to one so young as yourself," the master said. "But I know that I can trust 'you,' Reuben Roy."
It was too late when he left the works that evening to go to the hospital. But the next day being Saturday, Reuben availed himself of his leisure in the afternoon to visit Kate Barnaby. He was very anxious to see her, for his mother had entrusted him with a message for the poor girl, which he believed would give her pleasure.
He found that Kate had made great advances during his absence. She had left her bed, and was sitting in a pleasant room adjoining the ward with some other convalescents, to whom she was chatting with somewhat of her old brightness. But the change of position and dress only made more apparent the traces of suffering. Kate looked weak and worn. The scars on her neck showed plainly, and her head seemed slightly drawn on one side by them. But she told Reuben with a wistful look that she was now almost well, and was to leave the hospital early in the following week.
"Have you thought where you will go?" he asked.
She shook her head. "To the old place, I suppose. P'raps you'd be so kind, Reuben, as to speak to the foreman about my coming back to the works."
"You'll not be fit for work yet, Kate."
"I 'must' be fit soon," she said impatiently; "though, thanks to Mr. Akenside, I need not trouble about it at once."
"How would you like to go and stay with my mother at Ashworth, Kate?"
"Oh, Reuben," she said, drawing a deep breath, "how I would like it! I haven't seen the country for ever so long. And I've never spent more than a day in the country at a time. But what can make you say such a thing?"
"It's my mother's own thought, Kate. She told me to ask you if you would like to come to her for a bit."
"How good of her! Oh, I should like it. But, Reuben, there are so many of you at home, and your mother's always so busy. I should be a trouble to her, I'm afraid."
"You don't know my mother if you say that. She never makes a trouble of anything. She gets through more in a day than most women, I'll be bold to say, and yet she never seems cross or driven. I think it is because she has a knack of taking hold of things by the smooth handle."
"She must be a good woman," said Kate thoughtfully. "But, Reuben, I don't know about going. You've made the best of me to your mother, I guess. But when she sees the kind of girl I am, she'll not like me. You see, I never had no chance of being different."
"Maybe this is your chance, Kate."
"Ay, I've thought of that. Do you know, Reuben, I've prayed God many a time since I've been ill to help me to be different when I got about again."
"Then this is the answer to your prayer. Mother 'll help you. She'll love you, Kate."
"Love me!" repeated the girl incredulously. "I like that. If she's the kind of woman I take her to be, she's more likely to look down on me, I should think."
"Well, she's not that kind of woman, anyway. And you said just now that she was a good woman, Kate."
"But don't the good people always look down on the bad? I should, I know, if I were good."
"You wouldn't be good if you felt so. And, indeed, no one is good, if you come to that. No one ever was good save Jesus Christ. But some of us are trying to follow in His steps, and to be good and true and loving as He was."
"And didn't He look down upon wicked people?"
"Oh no, Kate. You know better than that. Don't you remember how kind and good He was to many a poor outcast—how He forgave them and helped them to become better? Why, that was one of the things that made the Scribes and Pharisees so angry with Him. 'This Man receiveth sinners,' they said."
"All religious folk are not like that," said Kate. "I've known them that 'd shrink away from me as though I was something poisonous."
"Then they did not show the spirit of Christ," said Reuben. "A Christian is one who calls Jesus Christ his Master, and is bound to obey Him. Now one of the chief commands of Jesus to His servants is that they should love others."
"You do that," said Kate, "and I suppose your mother's like you. I thank her kindly, Reuben, and I'll go if she's sure she can do with me. Maybe I'll get religion whilst I'm there."
"I hope you'll learn to know Him whom to know is life everlasting," said Reuben, reverently; "that is the only true religion, Kate."
A few days later Reuben had the pleasure of seeing Kate off by rail for Ashworth.
With mingled hopes and fears, the girl set out to begin what was to be for her in deepest verity a new life.
CHAPTER XII.
A RETURN.
WE must pass over five years of Reuben Roy's life—years marked by steady toil and earnest purpose. The toil was not unrewarded, nor the purpose vain. It is by no means the rule in this life that merit meets with its just recompense. There are good men and true, who toil all their lives with unwearying industry, and yet, and apparently through no fault of their own, never win more than a bare subsistence. And there are cunning, base, guileful souls who by crooked ways seem with ease to gain success.
It is not by its outward results that the worth of a man's life can be estimated. Yet the Divine justice will not fail. God will surely crown the victor who, fighting the good fight of faith, overcomes the world and its manifold temptations, though it may be that in this life his brows will wear no crown save such as his Master wore—a crown of thorns. Yet is it better to share the shame and want and suffering of the Son of man, than the triumph of those who gain the whole world, it may be at the cost of the life that is life indeed.
But with Reuben Roy it was otherwise. He had not to withstand the temptations of failure and poverty, but those that attend success. His fellow-workers wondered to see how quickly he rose from one responsible position to another. Some few grumbled and sneered, and various attempts were made to explain the marvel, none perhaps perceiving that with Reuben, as with Joseph of old, the "Lord was with him, and made all that he did to prosper." Grand secret of a blessed life, whether or not it be crowned with outward prosperity!
The years had passed happily with others besides Reuben Roy. They were the happiest years Kate Barnaby had ever known, for she had spent them all at peaceful, pretty Ashworth. To such a length had the projected visit of a week or two been spun out!
Kate was now like one of the family at Reuben's home, for his mother had not failed to make good his promise that she would love the poor friendless, ill-trained girl, who appealed so powerfully to her motherly sympathies. And Kate, rather to the astonishment of the good country-woman, had proved so eager to learn, and so quick to imitate her "ways," that it was quite a pleasure to Mrs. Roy to initiate her into the mysteries of household management. Kate developed such skill in the laundry work that Mrs. Roy felt that it would be no charity, but a positive gain to herself, if she could persuade Kate to share her home and her toil for the future.
The offered home was gladly accepted by the girl. She felt strongly drawn to the happy home life, which was so far removed from all her former experience. The children took to her, and she to them. An atmosphere of love seemed to pervade the cottage home. The fair scenes, the sweet calm of rural life, delighted her. No one would have expected that the charms of quiet, perhaps sleepy, Ashworth could have long attracted a rough factory girl, accustomed to the noisy bustling life of town. But again the unexpected happened. Kate made her decision without the least hesitation, and it was one she never regretted.
Reuben was surprised at the change he discerned in Kate at each visit he made to his home. The girl was rapidly losing her rough, coarse ways. Her movements, her look, her voice, were all more gentle than they had been. She had abandoned the frizzled, untidy mop in which she had delighted, and wore her hair brushed smoothly from her forehead, a change which Reuben thought a wonderful improvement to her appearance.
The fresh pure air was making her strong, and the hue of health glowed in her cheek. A womanly comeliness distinguished her now which she had lacked before. But her bright and kind expression was her chief attraction, and the secret of that Reuben knew. For Kate had "got religion," or, in other words, she had heard the Saviour's "Come unto Me," and was learning of the meek and lowly One.
David Grant's old house had stood empty ever since his death. It had been bought with the land, but the purchaser did not wish to live there, and he could not let it. There was talk of its being pulled down and a modern house erected on the spot. But after five years had passed, it still stood there.
It had not lost its picturesque appearance. The ivy hung in thick clusters from its walls; the untrained clematis festooned the old porch, strangling the branches of the rose tree; but the garden was a wilderness, and a nearer inspection of the house showed it to be sadly dilapidated. Nothing had been done to secure it from the ravages of time, and it was now little better than a ruin, a melancholy symbol of the desolation sin had brought upon the home life once so full of gladness.
Mrs. Grant still dwelt in the tiny cottage to which she had removed. From year to year she grew more feeble and infirm, till it seemed as if only the constant hope of her son's return kept her in life. But it was a hope long deferred. Reuben Roy never failed to visit the old woman when he came to Ashworth, but he grew to dread meeting the wistful, longing gaze which he was unable to satisfy. For he could bring her no tidings of Owen. Reuben was ever on the watch for him, but without result. Owen had taken himself out of the way of all his old associates.
A time came when Reuben was sent to London to transact some business for Mr. Akenside. He was pleased to go. It was a fresh proof of the confidence his master reposed in him, and he was glad to know that he was so trusted. Besides, he had never before been in London, and he had a young man's eager curiosity to see the great city. His business transacted, he had leisure for sight-seeing.
It was late autumn, and the nights were raw and cold. As he was crossing one of the bridges late in the evening on his return to his lodging, Reuben was struck by the forlorn appearance of a man who stood leaning over the parapet, gazing with an air of melancholy fascination at the dark river below. He looked so gaunt and haggard, his attitude was so hopeless, his clothes so shabby, whilst yet there was a certain air of respectability about him, that Reuben, having passed him, halted and looked back.
"Some poor fellow," he thought, "in the grasp of despair. Is he tempted, I wonder, to end his misery by a plunge in the river?"
As he watched him, the idea that the man harboured such an intention took possession of Reuben's mind so forcibly that he felt it impossible to pass on and leave him to his fate.
"At least I will speak to him," he said to himself, "and see if I can do anything. He shall not perish for want of a helping hand if it is in my power to aid him."
He turned back. The bridge was almost deserted at that hour. The man suddenly raised his head, and looked furtively round, then, seeing Reuben, he slunk back into his former attitude.
That instant's glance caused Reuben a shock of surprise. Could it be, or was he deceived by a fancied resemblance? He strode forward and grasped the man by the arm.
He started violently and turned upon Reuben a frightened face.
"Owen Grant!"
"Reuben Roy!"
For a few moments each gazed at the other ere another word was said. Then Owen tried to wrench himself from Reuben's grasp.
"Let me go, Reuben Roy. Leave me to myself. I have nothing to do with you now."
"But I have with you." Reuben's tone was kind, but firm. "Owen, we were friends as boys, and you must let me be your friend now. Tell me, where are you going to sleep to-night?"
"Sleep? I? Anywhere, nowhere; there, perhaps." He pointed to the dark, shining surface of the water flowing beneath the bridge.
"You must share my room to-night, and to-morrow I will take you home to your mother."
"Home! To Ashworth!" his voice rose almost to a scream. "Never! I would rather die than face the old people."
"You can never again face your father in this life, Owen, and your mother lives only in the hope of seeing you," said Reuben gravely.
The news of his father's death quieted Owen. He struggled no more, but suffered Reuben to lead him where he would.
And on the following day, after long, earnest talk, he accompanied Reuben back to Birmingham.
Reuben had many sad thoughts as he watched him, and mentally contrasted him with the gay, smart young fellow who had left Ashworth some years ago to seek his fortune in town. Owen had now a crushed, hopeless air, a furtive, shrinking gaze which told of inward shame; he looked many years older than he was, and all his buoyancy and brightness were gone.
Reuben had far more hope for him than he had for himself. It was difficult to persuade him that there was yet a chance for him in life, a chance of regaining self-respect and the esteem of others, a chance—nay, more than a chance, a blessed certainty—that a new life was possible for him through faith in Christ Jesus.
Owen said little as they sat together in the railway carriage. But once he looked across at his friend, and said half bitterly,—
"There is no need to ask the question, Reuben. You've done well for yourself during these years, I can see."
"Yes, I've got on better than I could have expected," said Reuben simply; "I've much to be thankful for. But I had my trials at first, though. Real temptations some of them were, too."
"You're still at Akenside's works?"
"Yes; I hope I may never serve another master. I'm very happy in my life at Birmingham now."
"You're not married?"
"No, but I hope soon to be. I'm just arranging a little home of my own," replied Reuben, his face breaking into a smile.
"Ah! Is it one of the Ashworth girls?"
"Not exactly; but she has lived with my mother at Ashworth for the last five years."
"Well, I hope you'll be happy," said Owen, not over cordially.
Then a heavy sigh escaped him. He was thinking of his own youth, and how superior his prospects had seemed to those of Reuben, who had appeared dull and slow as a lad, and little likely to rise in the world. His bitter experience was teaching Owen the truth, so often forgotten, that we reap as we sow.
The next day, Owen yielded to Reuben's persuasions, and went on to Ashworth. Reuben would fain have gone with him, but he could not spare the time, work having accumulated for him during his absence.
So Owen alighted alone at the little station, and passed up the village street with a dreary sense that none of the old neighbours recognised him, and that some were even regarding him with suspicion. Scarce consciously, he took the familiar path across the fields to his old home. He reached the gate. Some mischievous hand had torn it from its hinges, and it lay back against the hedge. At a glance he saw all the desolation which had come upon the spot once so fair—the grass-grown path, the tall, flaunting weeds that were choking the few flowers that yet remained, the rotten thatch, the broken windows of the old house.
And he had caused it all! He had brought this ruin upon the home which had been his father's pride! He had brought shame and sorrow upon his father's grey hairs, and hurried him to his grave! The thought smote him with a bitter pang. He leaned against the hedge, and a sob escaped him.
The next moment a hand was laid upon his arm, and a voice said in tender, broken accents,—
"My son! My own dear son come back to me again!"
It was his mother. She stood beside him, a woman prematurely aged, leaning upon a stick, but her wan, worn features radiant with joy.
"Thank God you are come!" she said again—for he could not speak—whilst she clasped him about the neck and kissed him with a mother's fervent love.
"Yes, I've come," he said brokenly at last; "but—it is too late."
"Nay, lad," she said, the tears rolling down her cheeks, "it is never too late with God. By His grace, you'll win back your good name yet. And the money's paid, every penny of it. Your father would have it so before he died. But now, come home."
Thank God, there is ever an open door for the returning sinner. Thank God for Him who has paid the debt we have incurred through sin, and through faith in whom alone, by the influence of His Spirit, our souls can be set free from the crushing load of guilt.
THE END.