Stephen Grattan had been a drunkard, and was now a reformed man. John
Morely had been a drunkard, and was trying to reform. His father,
though not a total abstainer, had lived and died a temperate man. But
John Morely was not like his father. He had in him, the neighbours
said, "the makings" of a better or a worse man than ever his father had
been; and when, after his mother's death, the young builder brought home
the pretty and good Alice Lambton as his wife, a "better man" they all
declared he was to be; for they believed that now he would not be in
danger from his one temptation. But as his business increased, his
temptation increased. He was an intelligent man, and a good fellow
besides; and his society was much sought after by men who were lovers of
pleasure. Some of them were men who occupied a higher position than
his; and, flattered by their notice, he yielded to the temptations which
they placed before him.
He did not yield without a struggle. He sinned, and repented, and
promised amendment often and often; but still he went away again, "like
an ox to the slaughter; like a fool to the correction of the stocks."
Of course ruin and disgrace were the only ending to such a life as this.
There was but one chance for him, they told his wife, who, through
poverty, neglect, and shame, had still hoped against hope. If he could
be made to break away from his old companions, if he could begin anew,
and start fair in life again, he might retrieve the past.
It almost broke her heart to think of leaving their native land--of
leaving behind all hope of ever seeing again her father or her mother,
or the home among the hills where her happy girlhood had passed. But,
for _his_ sake, for the sake of the hope that gleamed in the future, she
could do it. So, with their six little children, they removed from the
States to Montreal in Canada, to begin again.
At first he struggled bravely with his temptation, though it everywhere
met him; but, added to the old wretched craving for strong drink, was
the misery of finding himself in a strange land without friends or a
good name. If some kind hand had been held out to him at this time it
might have been different with him. He might, with help, have stood
firm against temptation. But, before work came, he had yielded to his
old enemy; and his acknowledged skill as a workman availed him little,
when, after days of absence, he would come to his work with a pallid
face and trembling hands.
I have no heart to enter into the sad details of the family life at this
time. It is enough to say that the miseries of Alice Morely's former
home were renewed and deepened now. Here she was friendless. Here she
could not fall back on the farm-house, as a home to some of her little
ones "when the worst should come to the worst" with them. She struggled
through some unhappy months, and then they moved again and came to
Littleton, and there the same tale was told over again, with even more
bitter emphasis, and then something happened.
It was something very terrible. Their child most tenderly cared for,
the dearest one of all to his father's-heart,--a sickly little lad of
seven,--was injured severely, fatally injured, in one of his fits of
drunkenness. It was quite by accident. John would have given his own
life gladly to save the little moaning creature; but the child never
recovered. He died with his little wasted cheek laid close against his
father's, and his arms clasped round his neck. There was not much said
about it. No one but Stephen Grattan and his wife, who were very kind
to them in their troubles, ever knew that any accident had happened to
the child.
Things went better with them for a while. John got work, and took his
family to a little log-house a mile or two from the village; and Alice
began to hope that the better days so much longed for were coming now.
But then came sickness, and then work failed, and--there was no help for
it--the husband must go in search of it, that he might get bread for his
starving family. So, with heavy hearts, they bade one another good-bye.
The wife stayed with her children in the little log-house on the hill,
while the husband went away alone.
He was very wretched. The thirst for strong drink, which he had begun
to think was allayed, came upon him in all its strength, in the double
misery of parting with his family, and going away knowing that he left
his wife with more fear than hope in her heart with regard to him. How
could she hope that he would resist temptation,--he who had yielded to
it so many times? Physically and morally he felt himself unfit for the
battle that lay before him; and there was no one to help him--no one who
cared to help him--he said bitterly to himself, as one after another
passed by him without word or look.
It did not help him to know that the fault was altogether his own. It
was all the worse to bear for that. He had had his chance in life, and
lost it. What was the use of struggling for what could never be
regained? If it were not for the wife and babies at home! And yet
might it not be better even for them if they never were to see him more?
He had come down from his log-house on the hill with a few articles of
wearing apparel made up into a bundle, had bought and paid for a cask of
flour to be sent up to his family, and was now wandering about in a sad
desponding state of mind when Stephen Grattan met him. Stephen spoke a
few cheery words of comfort and courage to the poor broken-spirited
fellow, begged him to be steadfast in his newly-begun purpose of
reformation, and told him of the loving Saviour who would give him all
needful help; who, if he looked to Him, would give him the grace of His
Holy Spirit to enable him to overcome in the hour of temptation. Morely
having thanked him heartily for his kindness, asked him to see that
Smith at the provision shop sent up the flour to his wife next day, or
the family would be in want of food. This Stephen readily promised to
do, and added that he would look after them whilst he was away. The
cheery words of his friend gave him a ray of hope and courage for a
while.
But when Stephen left him at the corner of the street, it was with a
heavy heart that he took his way to the hotel from which the stage was
to start. The public room into which Morely stepped was large and lofty
and brilliantly lighted. There were plenty of respectable people there
at that moment. There was not the same temptation here as at the low
tavern at which he had so often degraded himself below the level of the
beast.
There was the bar, to be sure, with its shining array of decanters and
glasses. But the respectable landlord, the gentlemanly bar-keeper,
would never put the cup to his lips, or taunt him into treating others,
for the sake of the "fool's pence," as Bigby, the low tavern-keeper,
would have done. There were here no hidden corners where the night's
debauch might be slept off, no secret chambers where deeds of iniquity
might be planned and executed. No; it was a bright, clean, respectable
house--altogether too respectable for such a shrinking, shivering
figure, in such shabby garments as his, Morely thought. And the
landlord evidently thought so too; for when he had told him that the
stage had not yet arrived, and that it was quite uncertain when it might
come, he looked so much as if he expected him to go, that Morely took up
his bundle and went without a word.
So Morely was turned out to wander up and down the street with his
bundle in his hand; for he had nowhere else to go. It was not very
cold, fortunately, he said to himself; but the snow was moist and
penetrating, and his threadbare garments were but an insufficient
protection against it. He went back once or twice within the hour to
see if the stage had come. He watched at the door another hour, and
then he was told that there had been an accident on the railway, and
that if the stage came it would go no farther that night, so he had
better not wait longer for it. But he did wait a little. He was
chilled to the bone by this time, and he trembled and crouched over the
fireplace, wondering vaguely what he should do next.
The landlord was a kind-hearted man. He could not but pity the
shivering wretch. He stirred up the fire and set him a chair, and would
gladly have given him a mug of hot drink to revive him, but he dared
not. It would be like putting fire to a heap of flax, he knew. John
Morely might be a madman or a frozen corpse to-morrow if he drank a
single glass to-night. Let him taste it once, and his power of
refraining was gone.
It was a pity, the landlord thought, and it made him uncomfortable for
the moment; and in his discomfort he scolded and frowned, and walked
about the room, till John Morely fancied he was the cause of it all, and
again he took up his bundle to go.
Where was he to go? Utterly faint and weary and sick at heart, he asked
himself the question as he took his way down the encumbered street. The
snow was still falling heavily, and he toiled slowly and painfully
through it. Where could he go? Should he try to get to the station on
foot? It would be madness to think of it. He could never reach home
through the storm. With cold and weariness and want of food, he was
ready to faint. He could not even get home.
There were bright lights streaming from many a window along the village
street; and no doubt there was warmth and plenty within. But there were
no places open to him save those where the devil lay in wait for him;
and he had not courage to face the devil then. He would be too much for
him, weak and miserable as he was; and, for Alice's sake and the
children's, he must keep out of harm's way. He looked about for a
sheltered place, where he might sit down and rest a little. He thought
of Grattan, and struggled on to his gate; but they were either at
meeting, or they had come home and gone to bed; for the house was dark.
There were few lights along the village street now. The snow was
deeper, and he stumbled on blindly, not knowing whither.
All at once a bright light flashed upon his dazzled eyes. It came from
a low, wide door beyond the side-walk. He put out his hands blindly,
feeling his way towards it, not daring to think where his wanderings had
brought him, till mocking laughter startled him into the knowledge that
he was once more at the mouth of that hell. He turned as though he
would have fled; but he suffered himself to be drawn into the wretched
tavern.
I cannot tell what happened there that night. Just what happens, I
suppose, to many a poor lost wretch every night in the year, in the dark
places hidden away in lanes and back streets of our cities and towns.
When Stephen Grattan went next morning to fulfil his promise to Morely
he did not see Mr Smith; but the clerk told him it was all right--for
he had himself helped to lift the barrel of flour onto the sled which
was to take it away. No doubt it was all right.
He did not tell Stephen--perhaps he did not know--that the barrel of
flour had been taken away by the tavern-keeper in payment for drink, and
that there was no chance of its ever reaching the little log-house on
the hill. Stephen would have liked to go up to the cottage; but the
storm still continued. The snow lay deep and unbroken on the road, and
it would have been a dangerous walk.
"Besides, I could not tell her truly that his courage was good--poor
soul!--and without that I might as well stay at home." That worse news
awaited them Stephen himself did not know as yet.