So, as they sat there in silence, Dolly was thinking with some anxiety
that they were making themselves responsible for all the food needed in
the little log-house for the next two months at least, and Stephen was
thinking the same. Dolly could see no possible way of doing this
without putting themselves in debt, and there were few things that Dolly
dreaded more. Stephen saw his way clear without the debt, but it was a
way almost as much to be regretted as the running up of a long bill at
Smith's would be. The little sum that he had collected with much
effort, and kept with much self-denial, which was to purchase a supply
of leather at the cheapest market in Montreal, must be appropriated to
another purpose, for nothing but ready money would do now. Morely's
expenses must be paid to Montreal, and, indeed, in Montreal till he
could get employment; and the children must in the meantime be cared for
as well; and therefore Stephen's leather must be purchased piece by
piece as before; and how could he ever compete with the cheap shoe-shops
that had taken away some of his customers already? His face took an
anxious look, and so did Dolly's, till she caught sight of the wrinkles
on her husband's forehead, and then she thought best to brighten up
immediately.
"It ain't best to worry about it," said she.
"No, worry never helped nobody yet." said Stephen; but his face did not
change.
"And there's nothing we can do about it, to-day, but wait," continued
his wife.
"Nothing but wait--and pray," said Stephen, quietly.
"If you could go to work now, you'd feel a sight better; but the
noise--" and her voice sank into a whisper.
"Yes; I promised young Clement that I should have little Teddy Lane's
boots ready for him to-night," said Stephen. "It's too late now, I'm
afraid; you'll have to keep all the doors shut for the noise," he added,
going; and then he turned back to say in a whisper:
"I wish I could have that Bigby in my hands for just two minutes? Eh,
Dolly?"
Dolly shook her head.
"You might do him good," said she, gravely. "But then, again, you might
not."
It never came into these people's minds that they could shirk this care
that had fallen on them. To keep Morely's fall a secret would save his
wife from terrible grief and pain, and would give the poor broken man a
better chance to retrieve the past; and kept from her it must be, at
whatever cost and trouble to them.
"For don't I remember how worse than death to me was my old man's
falling back after my hopes were raised? The poor creetur shan't have
this to bear, if I can help it," said Dolly to herself, as she went to
Morely's door.
"And don't I remember the hole of the pit from which I was drawn time
and again by God's mercy?" said Stephen, as he sat down on his bench.
"I'll do what I can; and when I can't do no more, then the Lord will put
His hand to it Himself, I expect."
It would not be well to enter the wretched man's room, or lift the
curtain which hid from all but these kind people the next few miserable
days. It was enough to say that, at their close, John Morely, weak as a
child in mind and body, found himself with the old battle before him
again. If he could have had his choice, he would have had it all end
there. There was nothing but shame in looking backward--nothing but
fear in looking forward. He was helpless and hopeless. Why had Stephen
Grattan troubled himself to save him from deeper sin and longer misery?
There was no help for him, he thought, in his utter despondency.
As for Stephen, if his faith did not hold out for his friend now, no one
would have guessed it from his prayers, or from his words of
encouragement to Morely. According to him, it was the helpless and
hopeless sort that the Lord came to save. He had done it before; He
could do it again; and He would do it.
"I've been a sight deeper down in this pit than ever you've been yet.
But, down or up, it's all the same to Him that's got the pulling of you
out. There's no up nor down, nor far nor near, to Him. `O ye of little
faith, wherefore do ye doubt?' He's a-saying this to you now; and He's
a-saying, too, `This kind goeth not out but by prayer and fasting.' But
_He_ drove that kind out by a word, just as He drove all the rest. Hang
onto His own word, John. He's said, time and again, that He'll save the
man that trusts in Him; and don't you let go of that. You've been
trying to be sober, and to get back your good name, for the wife's sake
and the babies. You would give all the world to know again how it feels
to be a free man. Just you give all that up. Seek to be the Lord's.
His grace is all-sufficient. His strength will be made perfect in your
weakness. If you're His, He'll keep you, and no mistake. Give all the
rest up, and hang on to the Lord in simple faith. You can never do this
thing of yourself; but the Lord'll give you the help of His grace, if
you ask Him. I _know_, because I've tried Him."
Whatever was said, it always ended thus: "You can do nothing of
yourself; but with the Lord's help you can do all things. Hold fast to
Him. Let your cry be, `Lord Jesus, save, or I perish.'"
Poor Morely listened, and tried to hope. If ever he was saved from the
power of his foe, the Lord must surely do it, he felt, for he could do
nothing; and, in a blind, weak way, he did strive to put his trust in
God.
When the time came that he was well enough to go away, Stephen would
fain have gone with him, to encourage him and stand by him till he could
get something to do. But this could not be. They lived by his daily
labour, and his business had been neglected of late, through his care
for his friend; and he could only write to a friend of his, praying him
to interest himself in Morely's behalf.
His letter, written out word for word, just as he sent it, would very
likely excite laughter. But it answered the end for which it was sent.
It awoke in another true heart sympathy for the poor desponding Morely;
it strengthened another kind hand to labour in his behalf. So he did
not find himself homeless and friendless in the streets of a great city,
as he had been before. In Montreal a welcome awaited him, and a home;
and something like hope once more sprang up in Morely's heart, as he
heard his new friend's cheerful words and responded to the warm grasp of
his hand.
Stephen and his wife saw hard times after Morely went away. And yet not
so very hard, either, seeing they were endured for a friend. They never
said to each other that the times were hard.
There were no more suppers or breakfasts of thin gruel at the little
log-house on the hill. In a few days after his first memorable visit,
Stephen Grattan was there again, and again Farmer Jackson's oxen called
forth the wonder and admiration of the little Morelys. For Stephen, as
he took great pains to explain to Mrs Morely, had taken advantage of
the opportunity afforded by the return of the farmer's empty sled, to
bring up the barrel of flour and the bag of meal that ought to have been
sent up the very night her husband went away. There were fish, too, and
meat, and some other things, and a piece of spare-rib, which, Stephen
acknowledged, his Dolly had been saving for some good purpose all
through the winter.
And Stephen brought something for which Mrs Morely was more grateful
than even for the spare-rib. He brought an offer of needle-work from a
lady in the town who had many little children. The lady, it seemed, had
a strange prejudice against sewing-machines, and in favour of skilful
fingers, for the doing of fine white work. This did much to restore the
mother's health and peace of mind; and a letter that came from her
husband about this time did more. Not that it was a very hopeful
letter. He said little, except that he had got work, and that he hoped
soon to be able to send much more than the trifle he enclosed. But,
though he did not say in words that he had withstood all temptation, yet
at the very end he said, "Pray for me, Alice, that I may be strong to
stand." And her heart leaped with joy, as she said to herself, "He did
not need to ask me to do that." And yet she was really more glad to be
asked that than for all the letter and the enclosure besides.