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.
[Illustration: THE END.]