FALSE FRIENDS.
“Thorns and snares are in the way of the froward.”—PROV. xxii. 5.
“Philip, your conduct has distressed me exceedingly,” said Lady Grange,
laying her hand on the arm of her son, as they entered together the
elegant apartment which had been fitted up as her boudoir. “You could
not but know my feelings towards those two men, I will not call them
gentlemen, whose company you have again forced upon me. You must be
aware that your father has shut the doors of this house against them.”
“My father has shut the door against better men than they are,” said the
youth, carelessly; “witness my own uncles Henry and George.”
The lip of the lady quivered, the indignant colour rose even to her
temples; she attempted to speak, but her voice failed her, and she
turned aside to hide her emotion.
“Well, mother, I did not mean to vex you,” said Philip, who was rather
weak in purpose than hardened in evil; “it _was_ a shame to bring Jones
and Wildrake here, but—but you see I couldn’t help it:” and he played
uneasily with his gold-headed riding-whip, while his eye avoided meeting
that of his mother.
“They have acquired some strange influence, some mysterious hold over
you,” answered the lady. “It cannot be,” she added anxiously, “that you
have broken your promise—that they have drawn you again to the
gaming-table—that you are involved in debt to these men?”
Philip whistled an air and sauntered up to the window.
Lady Grange pressed her hand over her eyes, and a sigh, a very heavy
sigh, burst from her bosom. Philip heard, and turned impatiently round.
“There’s no use in making the worst of matters,” said he; “what’s done
can’t be helped, and my debts, such as they are, won’t ruin a rich man
like my father.”
“It is not that which I fear,” said the mother faintly, with a terrible
consciousness that her son—her hope, her pride, the delight of her
heart, had entered on a course which, if persevered in, must end in his
ruin both of body and soul. “I tremble at the thought of the misery
which you are bringing on yourself. These men are making you their
victim: they are blinding your eyes; they are throwing a net around you,
and you have not the resolution to break from the snare.”
“They are very pleasant, jovial fellows!” cried Philip, trying to hide
under an appearance of careless gaiety the real annoyance which he felt
at the words of his mother. “I’ve asked them to dine here to-day, and—”
“_I_ shall not appear at the table,” said Lady Grange, drawing herself
up with dignity; “and if your father should arrive—”
“Oh! he won’t arrive to-night; he never travels so late.”
“But Philip,” said the lady earnestly, again laying her cold hand on his
arm—she was interrupted by her wayward and undutiful son.
“Mother, there’s no use in saying anything more on the subject; it only
worries you, and puts me out of temper. I can’t, and I won’t, be uncivil
to my friends;” and turning hastily round, Philip quitted the apartment.
“Friends!” faintly echoed Lady Grange, as she saw the door close behind
her misguided son. “Oh!” she exclaimed, throwing herself on a sofa, and
burying her face, “was there ever a mother—ever a woman so unhappy as I
am!”
Her cup was indeed very bitter; it was one which the luxuries which
surrounded her had not the least power to sweeten. Her husband was a man
possessing many noble qualities both of head and heart; but the fatal
love of gold, like those petrifying springs which change living twigs to
dead stone, had made him hardened, quarrelsome, and worldly. It had
drawn him away from the worship of his God; for there is deep truth in
the declaration of the apostle, that the covetous man is _an idolater_.
It was this miserable love of gold which had induced Sir Gilbert to
break with the family of his wife, and separate her from those to whom
her loving heart still clung with the fondest affection. Lady Grange
yearned for a sight of her early home; but gold had raised a barrier
between her and the companions of her childhood. And what had the
possession of gold done for the man who made it his idol? It had put
snares in the path of his only son; it had made the weakminded but
headstrong youth be entrapped by the wicked for the sake of his wealth,
as the ermine is hunted down for its rich fur. It had given to himself
heavy responsibilities, for which he would have to answer at the bar of
Heaven; for from him unto whom much has been given, much at the last day
will be required.
Yes, Lady Grange was very miserable. And how did she endeavour to
lighten the burden of her misery? Was it by counting over her
jewels—looking at the costly and beautiful things which adorned her
dwelling—thinking of her carriages and horses and glittering plate, or
the number of her rich and titled friends? No; she sought comfort where
widow Green had sought it, when her child lay dangerously ill, and there
was neither a loaf on her shelf nor a penny in her purse. The rich lady
did what the poor one had done—she fell on her knees and with tears
poured out her heart to the merciful Father of all. She told Him her
sorrows, she told Him her fears; she asked Him for that help which she
so much required. Her case was a harder one than the widow’s. A visit
from the clergyman, a present from a benevolent friend, God’s blessing
on a simple remedy, had soon changed Mrs. Green’s sorrow into joy. The
anguish of Lady Grange lay deeper; her faith was more sorely tried; her
fears were not for the bodies, but the souls of those whom she
loved;—and where is the mortal who can give us a cure for the disease of
sin?
While his mother was weeping and praying, Philip was revelling and
drinking. Fast were the bottles pushed round, and often were the glasses
refilled. The stately banqueting-room resounded with laughter and
merriment; and as the evening advanced, with boisterous song. It was
late before the young men quitted the table, and then, heated with wine,
they threw the window wide open, to let the freshness of the night air
cool their fevered temples.
Beautiful looked the park in the calm moonlight. Not a breath stirred
the branches of the trees, their dark shadows lay motionless on the
green-sward: perfect silence and stillness reigned around. But the holy
quietness of nature was rudely disturbed by the voices of the revellers.
With the conversation that passed I shall not soil my pages. The window
opened into a broad stone balcony, and seating themselves upon its
parapet, the young men exchanged stories and jests. After many sallies
of so-called wit, Wildrake rallied Philip on the quantity of wine which
he had taken, and betted that he could not walk steadily from the one
end of the balcony to the other. Philip, with that insane pride which
can plume itself on being _mighty to mingle strong drink_, maintained
that his head was as clear, and his faculties as perfect, as though he
had tasted nothing but water; and declared that he could walk round the
edge of the parapet with as steady a step as he would tread the
gravel-path in the morning!
Wildrake laughed, and dared him to do it; Jones betted ten to one that
he could not.
“Done!” cried Philip, and sprang up on the parapet in a moment!
“Come down again!” called out Wildrake, who had enough of sense left to
perceive the folly and danger of the wager.
Philip did not appear to hear him. Attempting to balance himself by his
arms, with a slow and unsteady step he began to make his way along the
lofty and narrow edge.
The two young men held their breath. To one who with unsteady feet walks
the slippery margin of temptation the higher his position, the greater
his danger; the loftier his elevation, the more perilous a fall!
“He will never get to the end!” said Jones, watching with some anxiety
the movements of his companion.
The words had scarcely escaped his lips when they received a startling
fulfilment. Philip had not proceeded half way along the parapet when a
slight sound in the garden below him attracted his attention. He glanced
down for a moment: and there, in the cold, clear moonlight, gazing
sternly upon him, he beheld his father! The sudden start of surprise
which he gave threw the youth off his balance—he staggered back, lost
his footing, stretched out his hands wildly to save himself, and fell
with a loud cry to the ground!
All was now confusion and terror. There were the rushing of footsteps
hither and thither, voices calling, bells loudly ringing—and, above all,
the voice of a mother’s anguish, piercing to the soul! Jones and
Wildrake hurried off to the stables, saddled their horses themselves,
and dashed off at full speed to summon a surgeon, glad of any excuse to
make their escape from the place.
The unfortunate Philip was raised from the ground, and carried into the
house. His groans showed the severity of his sufferings. The slightest
motion was to him torture, and an hour of intense suspense ensued,
before the arrival of the surgeon. Lady Grange made a painful effort to
be calm. She thought of everything, did all that she could do for the
relief of her son, and even strove to speak words of comfort and hope to
her husband, who appeared almost stupified by his sorrow. Prayer was
still her support—prayer, silent, but almost unceasing.
The surgeon arrived—the injuries received by the sufferer were examined,
though it was long before Philip, unaccustomed to pain and incapable of
self-control, would permit necessary measures to be taken. His
resistance greatly added to his sufferings. He had sustained a compound
fracture of his leg, besides numerous bruises and contusions. The broken
bone had to be set, and the pale mother stood by, longing, in the
fervour of her unselfish love, that she could endure the agony in the
place of her son. The pampered child of luxury shrank sensitively from
pain, and the thought that he had brought all his misery upon himself by
his folly and disobedience rendered it yet more intolerable. When the
surgeon had at length done his work, Lady Grange retired with him to
another apartment, and, struggling to command her choking voice, asked
him the question on the reply to which all her earthly happiness seemed
to hang—whether he had hope that the life of her boy might be spared.
“I have every hope,” said the surgeon, cheerfully, “if we can keep down
the fever.” Then, for the first time since she had seen her son lie
bleeding before her, the mother found the relief of tears.
Through the long night she quitted not the sufferer’s pillow, bathing
his fevered brow, relieving his thirst, whispering comfort to his
troubled spirit. Soon after daybreak Philip sank into a quiet,
refreshing sleep; and Lady Grange, feeling as if a mountain’s weight had
been lifted from her heart, hurried to carry the good news to her
husband.
She found him in the spacious saloon, pacing restlessly to and fro. His
brow was knit, his lips compressed; his disordered dress and haggard
countenance showed that he, too, had watched the live-long night.
“He sleeps at last, Gilbert, thank God!” Her face brightened as she
spoke; but there was no corresponding look of joy on that of her
husband.
“Gilbert, the doctor assures me that there is every prospect of our dear
boy’s restoration!”
“And to what is he to be restored?” said the father gloomily; “to
poverty—misery—ruin?”
Lady Grange stood mute with surprise, scarcely believing the evidence of
her senses, almost deeming that the words must have been uttered in a
dream. But it was no dream, but one of those strange, stern realities
which we meet with in life. Her husband indeed stood before her a ruined
man! A commercial crash, like those which have so often reduced the rich
to poverty, coming almost as suddenly as the earthquake which shakes the
natural world, had overthrown all his fortune! The riches in which he
had trusted had taken to themselves wings and flown away!
Here was another startling shock; but Lady Grange felt it far less than
the first. It seemed to her that if her son were only spared to her, she
could bear cheerfully any other trial. When riches had increased she had
not set her heart upon them; she had endeavoured to spend them as a good
steward of God, and to lay up treasure in that blessed place where there
is no danger of its ever being lost. Sir Gilbert was far more crushed
than his wife was by this misfortune. He saw his idol broken before his
eyes, and where was he to turn for comfort? Everything upon which his
eye rested was a source of pain to him; for must he not part with all,
leave all in which his heart had delighted, all in which his soul had
taken pride? He forgot that poverty was only forestalling by a few years
the inevitable work of death!
The day passed wearily away. Philip suffered much pain, was weak and
low, and bitterly conscious how well he had earned the misery which he
was called on to endure. It was a mercy that he was experiencing, before
it was too late, _that thorns and snares are in the way of the froward_.
He liked his mother to read the Bible to him, just a few verses at a
time, as he had strength to bear it; and in this occupation she herself
found the comfort which she needed. Sir Gilbert, full of his own
troubles, scarcely ever entered the apartment of his son.
Towards evening a servant came softly into the sickroom, bringing a
sealed letter for her lady. There was no post-mark upon it, and the girl
informed her mistress that the gentleman who had brought it was waiting
in the garden for a reply. The first glance at the hand-writing, at the
well-known seal, brought colour to the cheek of the lady. But it was a
hand-writing which she had been forbidden to read! it was a seal which
she must not break! She motioned to the maid to take her place beside
the invalid, who happened at that moment to be sleeping, and with a
quick step and a throbbing heart she hurried away to find her husband.
He was in his study, his arms resting on his open desk, and his head
bowed down upon them. Bills and papers, scattered in profusion on the
table, showed what had been the nature of the occupation which he had
not had the courage to finish. He started from his posture of despair as
his wife laid a gentle touch on his shoulder, and, without uttering a
word, she placed the unopened letter in his hand.
My reader shall have the privilege of looking over Sir Gilbert’s
shoulder, and perusing the contents of that letter:—
“DEAREST SISTER,—We have heard of your trials, and warmly sympathize
in your sorrow. Let Sir Gilbert know that we have placed at his
banker’s, after having settled it upon you, double the sum which
caused our unhappy differences. Let the past be forgotten; let us
again meet as those should meet who have gathered together round the
same hearth, mourned over the same grave, and shared joys and
sorrows together, as it is our anxious desire to do now. I shall be
my own messenger, and shall wait in person to receive your
reply.—Your ever attached brother,
HENRY LATOUR.”
A few minutes more and Lady Grange was in the arms of her brother; while
Sir Gilbert was silently grasping the hand of one whom, but for
misfortune, he would never have known as a friend.
All the neighbourhood pitied the gentle lady, the benefactress of the
poor, when she dismissed her servants, sold her jewels, and quitted her
beautiful home to seek a humbler shelter. Amongst the hundreds who
crowded to the public auction of the magnificent furniture and plate,
which had been the admiration of all who had seen them, many thought
with compassion of the late owners, reduced to such sudden poverty,
though the generosity of the lady’s family had saved them from want or
dependence.
And yet truly, never since her marriage had Lady Grange been less an
object of compassion.
Her son was slowly but surely recovering, and his preservation from
meeting sudden death unprepared, was to her a source of unutterable
thankfulness. Her own family appeared to regard her with even more
tender affection than if no coldness had ever arisen between them; and
their love was to her beyond price. Even Sir Gilbert’s harsh, worldly
character was somewhat softened by trials, and by the unmerited kindness
which he met with from those whom, in his prosperity, he had slighted
and shunned. Lady Grange felt that her prayers had been answered indeed,
though in a way very different from what she had hoped or expected. The
chain by which her son had been gradually drawn down towards ruin, by
those who sought his company for the sake of his money, had been
suddenly snapped by the loss of his fortune. The weak youth was left to
the guidance of those to whom his welfare was really dear. Philip,
obliged to rouse himself from his indolence, and exert himself to earn
his living, became a far wiser and more estimable man than he would ever
have been as the heir to a fortune; and he never forgot the lesson which
pain, weakness, and shame had taught him—that the way of evil is also
the way of sorrow: _Thorns and snares are in the way of the froward._
Who Wisdom’s path forsakes,
Leaves all true joy behind:
He who the peace of others breaks,
No peace himself shall find.
Flowers above and thorns below,
Little pleasure, lasting woe—
Such is the fate that sinners know!
The drunkard gaily sings
Above his foaming glass
But shame and pain the revel brings,
Ere many hours can pass.
Flowers above and thorns below,
Little pleasure, lasting woe—
Such is the fate that sinners know!
The thief may count his gains;—
If he the sum could see
Of future punishment and pains,
Sad would his reckoning be!
Flowers above and thorns below,
Little pleasure, lasting woe—
Such is the fate that sinners know!
The Sabbath-breaker spurns
What Wisdom did ordain:
God’s rest to Satan’s use he turns—
A blessing to a bane.
Flowers above and thorns below,
Little pleasure, lasting woe—
Such is the fate that sinners know!
O Lord, to Thee we pray;
Do Thou our faith increase!
Help us to walk in Wisdom’s way—
The only way of peace!
For flowers above and thorns below,
Little pleasure, lasting woe—
Such is the fate that sinners know!