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.
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