something like scorn or contempt on the Rothwells'. However, both the
young ladies at "The Firs" and Mrs Franklin expressed their wish to
engage Mr Randolph's services, and so it was arranged.
CHAPTER SIX.
HEARTLESS WORK.
Music certainly flourished at "The Firs" and "The Shrubbery" under the
able instructions of Mr John Randolph. The young man's manner was
puzzling to his pupils at both houses. With the Misses Rothwell (who
gave _themselves_ airs, besides practising those which were given them
by their master), he was quietly civil and deferential, and yet made
them sensible of his superiority to them in a way which they could not
help feeling, and yet equally could not resent. With Mary Franklin his
respectful manner was mingled with an almost tenderness, ever kept in
check by a cautious self-restraint. What did it mean? It made her feel
embarrassed and almost unhappy. She had no wish to entangle the young
musician's affections, and indeed felt that her own were getting
entangled with Mark Rothwell. Mark contrived to throw himself a good
deal in her way at this time, far more than her mother liked, but Mr
Rothwell himself seemed bent on promoting the intimacy, and his son laid
himself out to please. There was, moreover, rankling in Mary's heart
the impression that Mark was being harshly judged by her mother; this
helped to draw her closer to him. He was, besides, an excellent
performer on the flute, and would sometimes come over on lesson mornings
and accompany her, much to the annoyance of her instructor.
On one of these occasions, a little more than a year after the party at
his house, Mr Tankardew was present, having made an unusually early
call. Mark wished him gone, and when the music lesson was over, and Mr
Randolph had retired, hoped that the old man would take his leave; but
nothing seemed farther from that gentleman's thoughts, so that Mark was
obliged to bottle up his wrath (the only spirit, alas! That he ever did
bottle up), and to leave Mr Tankardew in possession. When he was gone,
the old man looked keenly at mother and daughter. Mrs Franklin
coloured and sighed. Mary turned very red and then very pale, and took
an earnest passing interest in the pattern of the hearthrug.
"A very musical young gentleman, Mr Mark Rothwell," said their visitor
dryly. "I wish he'd breathe as much harmony into his home as he
breathes melody out of his flute." Neither mother nor daughter spoke,
but Mary's heart beat very fast. "Hem! I see," continued the other,
"you don't believe it! Only slander, malice, lies. Well, take my word
for it, the love that comes out of the brandy flask will never get into
the teapot. I wish you both a very good morning; ay, better one than
this, a great deal;" and with a sternness of manner quite unusual, the
old man took his leave.
"How cruel! How unjust!" exclaimed Mary, when Mr Tankardew was gone.
"Poor Mark! Every one strikes at him."
But _was_ it cruel? _was_ it unjust? Let us go with Mark Rothwell
himself, as he leaves his house that very night, sneaking out at the
backdoor like a felon.
A few hundred yards to the rear of the outbuildings stood a neat and
roomy cottage; this was occupied by John Gubbins, the coachman, a man
bound to Mark by unlimited donations of beer, and equally bound to a
gang of swindlers who had floated their way to his pocket and privacy on
the waves of strong drink. John had been gambling with these men, and
had of course lost his money to them, and somebody else's too: the hard-
earned savings of one of the maids who had trusted him to put them in
the bank: of course he meant to repay them, with interest; that is to
say, when the luck turned in his favour; but luck, like fortune, is
blind, and tramples on those who court her most. It was very dark
outside, as Mark groped his way along; but a muffled light showed him
where the cottage window was. Three times he gave a long, low whistle,
and then knocked four distinct raps on the door, which was cautiously
opened by a man with a profusion of hair, beard and whiskers, which
looked as though they did not belong to him, as was probably the case,
not only with his hair, but with everything else that he wore, including
some tarnished ornaments.
"All right, sir, come in," he said, and Mark entered.
What a scene for a young man brought up as he had been! Could he really
find any satisfaction in it? Yes, birds that love carrion flock
together, and there was plenty of moral carrion here. A long deal table
occupied the middle of the room, a smaller round one stood under the
window and supported a tray loaded with glasses and pipes, with a tall
black bottle in the midst of them. The glasses were turned upside down
for the present, a pity it should not have been for the future too; they
looked with the bottle in the centre like a little congregation
surrounding a preacher. Oh! What a sermon of woe that bottle might
have preached to them! But it didn't speak; it was to set on fire the
tongues of other speakers. There was a coloured print over the
mantelpiece of Moses smiting the rock. What a solemn contrast to the
streams of fire-water soon about to flow! John Gubbins sat at the top
of the table, looking fat and anxious, half shy and half foolish; the
man with the false hair and ornaments placed himself next to him. Three
other strangers were present, a mixture of sham gentility and swagger,
of whom it would be difficult to say which had descended into the lowest
depths of blackguardism. And now business was begun; the glasses were
transferred to the larger table, the bottle uncorked, lemons and sugar
produced, and the poor kettle, made for better things, forced to defile
its healthful contents by mixture with liquid madness, in the shape of
whisky; then out came cards and dice. But what sound was that? Three
very faint trembling whistles, followed by four equally feeble taps at
the door? Another madman, who was he? Could it really be Jim Forbes,
the footman, that respectable, steady-looking young man, who waited
daily at the dining tables? Alas! It was indeed. Jim was the son of a
poor widow, whose husband, a small farmer, had died of fever, leaving
behind him a large family, a small cottage, smaller savings, and a good
character; Jim was the eldest sort, and next to him was a poor crippled
sister, whose patient hands added a little to the common stock by
sewing; Jim, however, had been his widowed mother's mainstay since his
father's death, and a willing, loving helper he was: ay, he _had_ been,
but was he still? Jim had got a place at "The Firs"; first of all as a
general helper, then as a footman, in which latter capacity he enjoyed
the very questionable privilege of waiting at table, and hearing what
was said at meals by Mr and Mrs Rothwell, their children, and guests.
What Jim learnt on these occasions was this, that money and strong drink
were the chief things worth living for. He didn't believe it at first,
for he saw in his mother's cottage real happiness where there was little
money and less alcohol; he saw, too, on his suffering sister's brow a
gilding of heaven's sunshine more lovely than burnished gold, and a
smile on her thin pale lips, which grace and love made sweeter than the
most sparkling laugh of unsanctified beauty. Still, what he heard so
constantly on the lips of those better educated than himself left its
mark; he began to long for things out of his reach, and to pilfer a
little and then a little more of what _was_ in his reach, not money, but
drink. Indeed he heard so much about betting and gambling, his master's
guests seemed to find the cards and the dice box so convenient a way of
slipping a few pounds out of a friend's pocket into their own without
the trouble of giving an equivalent, that poor Jim got confused. True,
he had learnt in the eighth commandment, when a boy, the words, "Thou
shalt not steal"; but these better-informed guests at Mr Rothwell's
seemed able to take a flying leap over this scriptural barrier without
any trouble, so he swallowed his scruples and his master's wine at the
same time, and thought he should like to have an opportunity of turning
a snug little legacy of a hundred pounds, left him by an uncle, into
something handsomer by a lucky venture or two. Conscience was not
satisfied at first, but he silenced it by telling himself that he was
going to enrich his poor mother, and make a lady of his crippled sister.
Somehow or other there is a strange attraction that draws together
kindred spirits in evil. Mark Rothwell found out what was going on in
Jim's mind, and determined to make use of him; only, of course, so as to
get himself out of a little difficulty. Oh! No! He meant the poor lad
no harm; nay, he intended to put him in the way of making his fortune.
So one day after dinner Mark and the young man were closeted together
for an hour in the butler's pantry; wine flowed freely, and Jim was
given to understand that his young master was quite willing to admit his
humble companion into a choice little society of friends who were to
meet at the coachman's cottage on certain evenings, and play games of
chance, in which, after due instruction from Mark, a person of Jim's
intelligence would be sure to win a golden harvest without the tedious
process of tilling and sowing. The instructions commenced there and
then in the pantry; several games were played, nearly all of which Jim
won to his great delight. They only played "for love" this time, Mark
said, but it was difficult to see where the "love" was, except for the
drink, and there was plenty of that. One little favour, however, was
required by the young master, for initiating Jim into the mysteries and
miseries of gambling, and that was that he should lend his instructor
what money he could spare, as Mark happened to be rather short just at
this time. So Jim drew out a part of his legacy from the bank, and
deposited half in Mark's hands; the other half he took with him to the
coachman's cottage. Oh! It was a grand thing to be allowed to sit with
such company, and to hear the wonderful stories of the gentlemen who
condescended to come and place their stores of gold and silver within a
poor footman's reach. What with the tales, and the songs, and the
whisky punch, Jim thought himself the happiest fellow alive the first
night he joined the party, especially when he found himself the winner
of three or four bright sovereigns, which had become his own for the
mere throwing down of a few cards, and a rattle or two of the dice box.
But all was not so pleasant the next morning. Jim awoke with a sick
headache and a sore heart. And what should he do with his winnings? He
would take them to his mother: nay, the very thought stung him like a
serpent. His mother would want to know how he got the gold; or, when he
threw it into her lap, she would say, "The Lord bless you, Jimmy, and
give it you back a hundredfold"; and his sister would clasp her wasted
hands in thankfulness, and he could not bear to think of a mother's
blessing and a sister's prayers over gains that were tainted with the
leprosy of sin. So he kept the money, and the next night of meeting he
lost it, and more besides; and then another night he was a gainer; and
the gambler's thirst grew strong in him. But loss soon followed loss.
His legacy was slipping surely down into the pockets of his new friends.
Cruel! Cruel! Heartless Mark! And oh! The cursed drink! What
meanness is there to which it will not lead its slaves?
And now the night came we have before referred to. John Gubbins sat at
the top of the table; Jim Forbes took his place near him. The spirits
went round; the cards and dice were busy. John Gubbins lost, and Mark
won. Jim Forbes lost; and his cheeks flushed, and his eyes glittered
with excitement, and he ground his teeth together. The strangers
affected to be surprised at his ill luck; really they couldn't
understand it, they said; they were quite sorry for him; but, "nothing
venture, nothing win"; _his_ turn would come next. But it did not come
that night. Jim had now drawn the whole of his legacy from the bank.
The last sovereign was staked; it was lost. He sprang to his feet,
seized the uncut pack of cards, and hurled it to the further end of the
room; then he shook his fist at his new companions, calling them cheats
and villains. Up darted the man with the exuberant hair, and up rose
Mark and Gubbins. But what was _that_? A strange noise outside. The
dog in the kennel muttered a low growl, and then began to bark
furiously; then the approach of footsteps was plain; a deathlike
stillness fell on the whole party; the strangers caught up the cards and
dice, and looked this way and that, pale and aghast. And now there came
a loud and peremptory knocking at the door, as of men who were
determined to find entrance.
"Who's there?" asked Gubbins, in quivering tones.
"Open the door," was the reply from a deep, loud voice.
"I can't, by no means, do nothing of the sort, at this unseasonable
hour," said the coachman, a little more boldly.
"Open the door, or I'll force it," said the same voice.
Poor Mark! And poor, wretched Jim! How utterly guilty and crestfallen
they looked! As for the gamblers, they cowered together, in abject
terror, not daring to attempt a retreat by the back, lest the enemy
should be lurking for them there.
"Will you open the door, or will you not?"
No answer from within.
Then came a tremendous blow; then a foot was seen forcing its way over
the doorsill, another moment, and the barrier to the entrance of the
invaders gave way with a rattling crash.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
BITTER FRUIT.
No sooner was the door burst open, than in rushed several stout men, who
proceeded to seize and handcuff the four strangers, who made but the
faintest show of resistance. John Gubbins shook with abject terror, as
he tried in vain to double up his fat person into a small compass in a
corner. Jim Forbes stood speechless for a moment, and then darted out
through the open doorway. As for Mark Rothwell, what with shame and
dismay, and semi-intoxication from whisky punch, his position and
appearance were anything but enviable. He recovered himself, however,
in a few minutes, and turned fiercely on the intruders.
"By what right, and by whose authority," he cried, "do you dare to break
into my coachman's house, and to lay violent hands on these gentlemen?"
"By this warrant, young sir," said the chief of the invading party,
producing a parchment. "I'm a detective; I've been looking after these
_gentlemen_ a long time; they are part of a regular gang of pickpockets
and swindlers, and we've a case or two against 'em as 'll keep 'em at
home, under lock and key, for a bit. I'm sorry we've been so rough, but
I was afraid of losing 'em. I didn't think to find 'em in such company,
and I hope, young gent, if you'll let me give you a word of advice, that
you'll keep clear of such as these for the future for your own sake."
Alas! Poor Mark! Crestfallen and wretched, he slunk away home.
And what had become of Jim Forbes? Nobody knew at "The Firs." He was
missing that night and the next day. Mr Rothwell asked for him at
breakfast, and was told that he had not slept in the house the night
before, and was nowhere to be found. The day passed away, but Jim did
not make his appearance.
It was a dark November evening: a dim light twinkled through the
casement of Mrs Forbes' cottage: the wind was whistling and sighing
mournfully, sometimes lulling for a while, and then rising and rushing
through crack and crevice with a wild complaining moan. Inside that
little dwelling were weeping eyes and aching hearts. Upstairs all was
peace; four little children lay fast asleep in the inner chamber, twined
in each other's ruddy arms, their regular breathing contrasting, in its
deep peace, with the fitful sighings of the wind; yet on the long
eyelashes of one of the little sleepers there stood a glistening tear,
and from the parted lips there came, now and again, the words, "Brother
Jim."
But ah! No blessed sleep stilled the throbbing hearts of those who
cowered over the scanty fire in the kitchen below; Jim's mother and
crippled sister. Was it poverty that made them sad? No. Poverty was
there, but it was very neat and cleanly poverty. No, it was not poverty
that wrung the bitter tears from the eyes of those heart-sick watchers;
they were rich in faith; they could trust God; they could afford to
wait. It wasn't _that_. Jim! Poor Jim! Poor erring Jim! How changed
he had been of late; none of his old brightness; none of his old love.
It wasn't so much that he brought his mother no welcome help now; it was
hard to miss it, but she could battle on without. It wasn't that
crippled Sally's cheek grew paler because she was forced to do without
the little comforts supplied so long by a brother's thoughtful love,
though it was harder still to miss these. No, but it was that mother
and daughter both saw, too plainly, that Jim was going down-hill, and
that too with quickening steps. They saw that he was getting the slave
of the drink, and they feared that there was worse behind; and, of
course, there was: for when did ever the drink-fiend get an immortal
being into his grasp without bringing a companion demon along with him?
And now, this very day, Jim was reported to them as being missing from
"The Firs," and dark suspicions and terrible rumours were afloat, and
John Gubbins' name and the young master's name were mixed up with them.
Mother and daughter sat there together by the dying embers, and
shuddered closer to one another at each moaning of the blast.
"Oh, mother! I'm heartbroke," at last burst out from the poor girl's
lips: "to think of our Jim, so kind, so good, 'ticed away by that
miserable drink, and gone nobody knows where."
"Hush! Hush! Child, ye mustn't fret; I've faith to believe as the Lord
'll not forsake us: He'll bring our Jim back again: He'll hear a
mother's prayer: He'll--"
But here a sudden sound of uneven footsteps made the poor widow start to
her feet, and Sally to cry out. The next moment the door was rudely
shaken, and then Jim staggered into the room, haggard, blear-eyed,
muttering to himself savagely. The sight of his mother and sister
seemed partially to sober him, for the spirit within him bowed
instinctively before the beauty of holiness, which neither poverty nor
terror could obliterate from the face of those whom he used to love so
dearly. But the spell was soon broken.
"I say," he exclaimed, "what's to do here? I want my supper; I haven't
scarce tasted to-day, and nobody cares for me no more nor a dog. I say,
mother, stir yourself, and get me my supper." He flung himself into a
chair, with an oath, as he almost lost his balance.
Oh! Misery! Misery! Every word was a separate stab, but Mrs Forbes
restrained herself.
"Jim, dear," she said, soothingly, "we've nothing in the house for
supper: we didn't expect you: we hoped you'd gone back to your
master's."
"Ah! There it is! Didn't expect me! No supper! This is all I'm to
get after spending all my wages on them as don't care to give me a
mouthful of meat and a drop of drink when I want 'em!"
"Jim! Jim! Don't," exclaimed his poor sister, "oh! Don't! For the
Lord's sake! You'll repent it bitterly by-and-by! Oh! It can't be our
dear, kind Jim, as God sent to help and comfort us! We'd give you meat
and drink, if we had them, but the last crumb's gone, and mother's never
bitten to-day!"
"Nonsense! Don't tell _me_! None of your humbug and cant with me! If
I can't get supper where I ought, I'll get it where I can! I'll not
darken this door again as sure as my name's Jim Forbes!"
With a scowl, and a curse, and a slam of the door that startled the
little ones from their sleep, the miserable son flung himself out of his
home. The next day he enlisted; the day following he was gone
altogether.
Weep! Weep! Ye holy angels! Howl with savage glee, ye mocking fiends!
See what the drink can do! And yet, O wondrous strange! There are
thinking men, loving men, Christian men, who tell us we are wrong, we
are mad in trying to pluck the intoxicating cup away from men and women,
and to keep it wholly out of the hands of little children and upgrowing
boys and girls. Mad are we? Be it so; but there's method, there's holy
love, there's heavenly wisdom in our madness.
A month had passed away, but no tidings of Jim Forbes; no letter telling
of penitence or love. Oh! If he would only write: only just a word:
only to say, "Mother, sister, I love you still." But no; hearts must
wither, hearts must break, as the idol car of intemperance holds on its
way, crushing out life temporal and eternal from thousands and tens of
thousands who throw themselves madly under its wheels. But must it be
so for ever?--No! It cannot, it shall not be, God helping us; for their
rises up a cry to heaven against the unholy traffic in strong drink; a
cry that _must_ be heard.
The snow was falling fast, but not faster nor more softly than the tears
of the widowed mother and the crippled daughter, as they bowed
themselves down before the cold bars, which ought to have enclosed a
mass of glowing coals on that pitiless December day; but only a dull red
spark or two, amid a heap of dust, just twinkled in the grate, and
seemed to mock their wretchedness. Cold! Cold! Everything was cold
there but faith and love. Food there was none! But on the little table
lay the open Bible; and just beneath those weary, swollen _eyes_, were
the words, "They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more, neither
shall the sun light on them nor any heat; for the Lamb which is in the
midst of the throne shall feed them, and lead them to living fountains
of waters, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." But what
were those voices? Were they the voices of angels? Poor, shivering,
weary watchers! They might almost seem so to you. Anyhow, they were
very gentle, loving voices; and now they ask admittance. Mrs Franklin
and Mary entered; and, though not angels, they were come to do angels'
work, as messengers of love and mercy. Tea, and bread and butter, and
eggs, and divers other comforts came suddenly to light from under the
wide folds of the ladies' cloaks, and then the visitors sat down, and
stopped the outburst of tearful thanks by bright loving words of pity
and interest.
"Oh, ma'am! It is true, but I never knowed afore how true it was that
God will never forsake His own. I'd well nigh given up all for lost."
"Nay, mother," said Sally; "it wasn't you, it was me; _your_ faith held
out still."
"I was very, very sorry to hear of your troubles," said Mrs Franklin
after a pause; "but you mustn't despair; God will bring your poor son
back again."
"Oh! I believe it, ma'am, but it is hard not to doubt when one's cold
and hunger-bitten; he was such a good lad to us afore he took to that
miserable drink."
"Well, we must pray for him, and I daresay Mr and Mrs Rothwell will
stand your friends."